by Abby Geni
40
THE FERRY IS late. When Captain Joe appears, I will glimpse his boat, a dark stain on a landscape of water. This will be deceptive, of course, an optical illusion; I will be able to see the ferry long before it is anywhere near the islands.
A few minutes ago, Galen and Forest left the cabin together. I watched them pass, gesticulating, engaged in one of their endless, circular arguments, never to be resolved. I kept my gaze on them as they headed toward East Landing. A single word floated to me on the breeze: Sisters. No sharks have yet been sighted, but it is only a matter of time. The Rat Pack must be in the neighborhood even now. The summer cycle is resetting itself, beginning anew. Galen and Forest were on their way to check the Billy Pugh, to make sure that the mechanism is in good shape for my departure. Forest will oversee my passage to the deck of the ferry. I will leave the islands as I came—suspended above the ocean inside a terrifying, pendulous cage.
Captain Joe has just appeared, like a soap bubble blown over the horizon. An empty sky one minute, a boat the next. Soon I will make my way to East Landing, where Forest will be waiting for me. I will pass through the gauntlet of gulls one final time. It will be my last moment to breathe in the salt air, to brave the guano and the bird lice, to remember where I have been and why I am leaving.
I have been thinking about Galen’s book—about the eggers and the lightkeepers. There was a whole chapter, too, on the Miwok Indians. Residents of California, they knew about the archipelago—though they were never foolish enough to voyage there. On clear days, the Farallon Islands were visible from the coast: a haunted silhouette, broken shards of stone. The Miwoks believed that the place was as much a spiritual locale as a physical one. They imagined it to be an earthly hell where the souls of the damned were sent to live in discomfort and loneliness.
After the past year, I must agree. In this place, loss is a geographical force rather than an emotional one. Loss is the magnetic pull of the islands. Long ago, Galen suffered a gut-wrenching tragedy. I am sure he will stay here until he dies—a lost soul dominated and defined by the death of his wife. Forest has gone through a similar bereavement. Lucy, too, has been widowed, in her way.
And I am more like the others here than I would ever have cared to admit. I remember the first time I saw the islands in a photograph. My response was a throb of recognition. I felt immediately that I knew the place somehow, as though from a past life or a dream. In that moment, it felt as though I’d been waiting forever to find the islands—as though, perhaps, they’d been waiting for me.
I understand now why I first voyaged here. It has taken me all year to come to terms with that choice. Since your death, I have been looking over my shoulder, looking backward. I have been stuck in time. I have been writing letters to you—letters to no one, a body in a cemetery, a woman I knew for only a small part of my life. Hundreds of notes, some sitting in the Dead Letter Office of various cities, others buried and burned and scattered on the wind. I have never once questioned whether writing them was sane or healthy. Now, though, I can see that it was neither. Each letter has been an anchor chain, dragging me back into the past.
I have distanced myself from my father. I have stayed away from the twins, my grandparents, my cousins. I have eschewed all the normal paths through life—no mortgage, no long-term relationships, no permanence, no love. I have kept only what could be carried on my back. I have slept in deserts, canyons, and jungles. I have lived like a vagabond. In a way, I have been looking for the archipelago since the day you died. Of course I recognized the Farallon Islands when I first saw them in that snapshot. This place is the final refuge for people like me.
Oddly enough, the baby has proven to be my salvation. The accidental baby. The baby who came out of the worst possible circumstances. Without that tiny, burgeoning creature, I might have decided to stay on the islands indefinitely. The idea has certainly crossed my mind. Despite the unceasing howl of the wind, the creeping cold, the meager food stores, the rodents, the falling-apart plumbing, the lack of reading material, the broken crockery—I have always felt at home here, more so than anywhere else. The wildness and isolation are mother’s milk to me.
I could easily have become a permanent resident. I could have begun the process of cobbling together more funding or applying for intern status, insinuating myself so completely into the ebb and flow that the others could not do without me. Lucy, Forest, Galen, and me—the saddest quartet in the universe. Eating our meals together. Tagging the birds together. Forgetting the bustle of the mainland, the toot of car horns, the murmur of strangers’ voices. I imagine the islands drifting farther and farther away from shore. The four of us would look askance at any visitors to our little lepers’ colony. Castaways by choice. All of us halved—all of us haunted.
Captain Joe is closer now. The ferry is no longer a smudge; it has taken on recognizable contours, a prow, a deckhouse. But it is still a miniature version of itself, a ship in a bottle. I can scarcely see the white tumble of the wake.
I am thinking about my father. Dad at dawn in his sweat suit, gearing up for his morning run. Dad in the evening in front of the TV, bowl of popcorn in the lap. I have never given him a fair shake. In life you were a bright figure, so fiery and intense that you threw him into shadow. After you died, he stayed there, on the outskirts, in the half light. I have never confided in him. I have never really considered him; he has been furniture, as much a part of the house I return to as the kitchen cabinets and the mahogany bookshelves. I wonder how much of this he has understood.
Today I will return to the mainland.
Then, of course, my son will come. I may feel my water break without warning; I will be drinking tea at the kitchen table, perhaps, or taking a stroll through the old neighborhood, and suddenly I will become a human fountain, damp thighs and soaked shoes. During labor—Mick has told me—I will be more or less insane. The pain will be unbearable, yet I will bear it. I will enter an altered, exalted state, during which my mind will be shelved, pushed to one side, as my body takes over, fulfilling its deepest animal functions without my consciousness or consent. The baby will travel downward through the birth canal on a wave of blood. He will burst into the open air like a shark shattering the surface of the sea. The cord that joins us will be cut, and in that moment, the baby will be transformed. He will become a full-fledged human being—independent, breathing his own air, consuming his own food.
I will be transformed as well. A mother, like you but not like you. A single mother. I will reach out to my aunts. I will reconnect, tentatively, with my family. I will accept all the help I am given. I will need it. There is nothing more astonishing than a new baby. I will nurse that tiny animal and change his diapers. I will look up the words of half-remembered lullabies. I can picture my son—almost. Pink skin and tufted hair. Starfish hands reaching. Dark, smeary eyes, not quite adjusted to the light outside the womb. A belly as round and warm as fresh-baked bread. Months will pass, during which I will once again be lost to the world, but this time with purpose, inhabiting a private realm of blankets, booties, and downy skin.
Yet that is not the end of the story. The narrative goes on. Eventually, I will become a normal person. That is what the baby has done for me—grounded me, permanently and for the first time, to the rest of the human race. I will never again experience the kind of deprivation I have known on the islands. No matter what sort of life I am able to create for my son and me, it will be filled with comparative luxury. All the while, that boy will be growing. A toddler in diapers. A sturdy, tow-headed three-year-old, mounting a bicycle with training wheels. A child on the swings, head thrown back, hair flying, legs extended, printed against the sky like a gull in flight. The possibilities are endless. The time spins out in front me, a golden tunnel of years. A thousand choices. Time like sunlight. Time like wealth.
In the future, there will come a day when I will pick up my son from school. I can see a long way down the line now; I can see everything. He will barrel outsid
e through the front door of a brick building, his backpack swinging off his shoulders. Maybe he will be the kind of child to plow into me, all arms and legs, an ecstatic hugger. Maybe he will be the kind who offers a little wave instead and falls into lockstep beside me, a miniature adult. I can see the rest of our day unfolding, an afternoon in spring, crisp and sweet. He and I will run errands together. We will visit the park. We will roam over the bridge. I imagine turning a corner, my son at my side. There, at the end of the block, will be our own house, the windows aglow, as inviting and warm as the beam of a lighthouse, calling the ships home.
In the end, I will be unrecognizable. I will have let you go.
IT IS TIME. The sea has flattened out, as smooth as paper, and the sky is sunny and clean. My knapsack is packed and ready to go. My mind, too, is packed and ready.
This will be the last letter I write to you.
I can hear Mick’s voice ringing in my head. The last time we ever spoke, he drew me aside in the kitchen and lectured me about my journey home. In that moment, I was impatient with him, but now it seems prescient—even vital. Mick warned me that the ferry ride would take several hours. He told me to stay inside the deckhouse, not to risk strolling along the railing. He made me promise to wear a hat. I remember him reaching out tenderly and fingering a lock of my hair. You’ll catch your death, he told me. Suddenly it seems imperative that I obey him. I have hidden all my stolen goods at the bottom of my bag. Beneath my collection of seashells, Mick’s T-shirt, my lucky puffin feather, and my four remaining cameras, I find what I’m searching for.
A crimson stocking cap. A phoenix insignia stitched in gold. I will wear it as I leave the islands for good. I am wearing it now to ward off the chill.
EPILOGUE
GALEN IS STANDING in the lighthouse. Through his binoculars, he watches the ferry cleaving a path through the fog. The mist is inconsistent, thickening and thinning. The boat seems illusory and ephemeral. Galen breathes in the salty air. He can see Miranda poised at the ferry’s stern. Her figure stands out clearly, at once diminutive and bulky, a tiny woman carrying a heavy burden at the midriff. She is wearing a red stocking cap. Galen knows that cap well. Crimson fabric. A gold phoenix embroidered on the side. Gradually the ferry fades into the mist, blurring against the ocean. Miranda’s shape is lost. But the cap is still visible. It remains after everything else is gone, a splotch of red in a bath of gray, burning like a warning light.
A cold wind picks up, circling the lighthouse. Galen is not bothered by the chill; like the line of lightkeepers before him, he has been on the islands too long to be affected. The breeze is such a constant force that he is more likely to notice its cessation than its presence. He adjusts the focus on his binoculars, gazing toward the sea.
The fog has swallowed up the ferry, Miranda, and even the afterglow of crimson. The sky is hung with low, damp clouds. The islands have a claustrophobic feel today, boxed in by shifting gray. Galen steps outside the lighthouse. The gulls are everywhere, dozing, heads beneath their wings. At his approach, a few beaks swivel. Galen adjusts his hard hat. He lifts the mask over his mouth and nose. He moves through a thicket of shifting feathers that rustle like a prairie in a breeze.
As he approaches the cabin, the wind swirls around him, bringing the scent of ammonia and mildew. He enters through the back door to avoid Kamikaze Pete. That poor bird is not long for this world. Like so many other living things on the islands, the gull has fought too much and fed too little. The coming migration will finish it off; it will never last the journey. Galen heads into the kitchen to make himself a soothing mug of tea. The house feels different now that Miranda has moved out. Her things are gone—her smell—her breath. He will never see her again. Galen has watched dozens of people come and go over the years. He has seen heartbreak and friendship and hilarity and pettiness. He has seen death, too, most of it violent. The steam from his tea rises against his face. The daily log is in its usual place on the tabletop—available and open for all to see. Galen glances through today’s entries. Four chicks hatched on Mirounga Beach. Cormorant found P.I.H. on Lighthouse Hill.
Then he reaches beneath the table. There is a special compartment hidden from view. Galen carved it himself. From inside, he withdraws his private notebook. The daily log is a public record, maintained by all the biologists, chronicling the lives of the animals. But Galen’s little green journal is another matter. It is a record of the human activity on the islands. He has been keeping it for years.
He has tracked the romantic entanglement of Mick and Forest—its inception, its increasing fervor, their midnight trysts in the coast guard house. He has reported the date and duration of each assignation. He has written about their coded interactions in public. Galen has kept watch over all of them. He has recorded the progression of Lucy’s grief after the death of her lover. He has transcribed the details of Mick’s friendship with Miranda, Miranda’s friendship with Charlene. As a scientist, he makes sure that his notes are businesslike. No conjecture or emotion. Only actions and behavior, which can be quantified and documented for posterity.
August 12: Miranda injured. Camera broken beyond repair.
August 28: Lucy scuba dives.
October 3: Mick and Forest in the coast guard house for four hours.
Galen is a biologist. His work is a sacred trust: the study of life in all its forms. On the islands, life flourishes in a unique way, untempered and unrestrained. This is true for the people as well as the animals. Galen does not differentiate between his fellow scientists and the creatures they study. Observation and noninterference are the biologist’s central creed. He chronicles the behavior of the sharks and whales, the birds and seals, the biologists and interns. He never intervenes.
But Miranda, the mouse girl—she was something different. Something new. She had a quality he had never before observed. Once he asked her, “What is your nature, Miranda?” He asked it in hopes of provoking or startling her. But there was nothing, no reaction. Her eyes remained as flat as seal stones.
Galen leafs back through the pages. His private notebook is a green jewel, leather-bound. The past year has seen a lot of activity. In his hands, the book falls open naturally to a well-worn date in November. Galen has turned to this page often over the last few weeks and months. Too often, perhaps.
November 5: Miranda raped by Andrew.
He frowns. He runs his finger over the line of his own script. Then he flips forward to the note printed just a few days afterward.
November 8: Andrew murdered by Miranda.
Galen leans back in his chair. He lets his eyes slip closed as the scene plays out in his mind again. He has often considered the night Andrew died. He saw it happen, of course. He sees everything that happens here.
It was a foggy evening. Galen awoke to the sound of the front door. First Miranda left the cabin. Then Andrew left the cabin. Galen watched as the confrontation occurred.
An altercation. An argument. Raised voices, carried away on the wind, lost in the clatter of the sea. The fog. The slippery coast. Observing them, Galen could not hear what was being said. He did not need to. Andrew wanted more. Galen could see this in the boy’s posture. Andrew reached for her, groping toward her. His expression was mocking. He thought Miranda would be vulnerable on her own.
But Galen knew better. A wounded animal is the most dangerous kind. Miranda had been attacked once already. Galen took in her stance—her shoulders back, her chin lifted. Andrew did not try to run. He did not see the impact coming. He was unaware of the seal stone in Miranda’s pocket, carried with her always, heavy and certain. He did not know what Galen knew.
A crack to the head. A spray of blood. A splash.
Galen remembers it all. He remembers it well. Andrew’s hat fell off when the blow was struck. His ankle was broken, his lungs filling with water. Miranda stood on the shore for a while, watching the corpse floating on the tide. The shock seemed to leave her immobile. She needed a few minutes to gather her wits. Eventu
ally she bent down and picked up the hat. She wrapped the bloody stone inside it. She took them both home and hid them, like a dog burying a bone. She tucked the evidence underneath her bed, a place she left infrequently over the ensuing weeks.
November 9: Andrew’s body discovered.
November 10: Corpse placed in cold storage in S.F., awaiting autopsy.
November 14: Mick and Forest in the coast guard house for two hours.
Galen sips his tea. The steam fills his lungs with a pleasant odor of cinnamon. Outside, the fog has begun to thin out. Rippling and pale, it seems delicate, like lace or cheesecloth. The air is different too—fresher, brighter, more awake. Galen can always feel it when the weather starts to change. In an hour or two, the sky will be clear, the sea smooth, the islands drenched in light.
After Andrew’s murder, Galen took no action. He waited. During the weeks that followed the boy’s death, he watched Miranda from a distance, in the manner of a hawk in flight, miles above the ground, unnoticed by its prey, peering down with telescopic vision. He tracked and recorded everything she did. He slept lightly, waking in the night, listening for her footfalls. He paid attention to her demeanor during meals, during conversations. He became aware of her constant letter-writing. He noticed the fact that these missives appeared to go unsent. Now, of course, after some investigation, he knows they were letters to a departed parent.
Gradually he began to understand Miranda’s behavior. She did not remember what she had done. The quarrel on the shore, the seal stone, the blow to Andrew’s head, the body in the black surf—all of it was gone.
Galen has had some experience with this phenomenon. The animal mind is one without memory. He has researched it. Most animals are able to recall the short term—the past few seconds or minutes—but anything further back is released from the brain like a balloon on the breeze. Animals retain impressions, rather than stories. They may avoid a dangerous place by instinct. They may shy away from an object that is associated with trauma. But they do not recall specific events. A shark, having devoured a seal, will swim away with a clean conscience, no echo of blood or pain. A gull might kill its own chick in a fit of fury, then mourn when discovering the little body later, unaware of its own guilt, lost in its own forgetting.
