by Abby Geni
Perhaps Miranda has a similar mind. Perhaps that is her nature.
Galen turns his gaze to the window. The horizon is rumpled by waves. A few birds circle Saddle Rock. In some ways, he is sorry that Miranda has left the islands. He is sorry to have lost such a unique and compelling specimen.
He remembers when he first began to perceive a change in her gait. It was just a few weeks into her pregnancy. The signs of the transformation were subtle then, but Galen was watching closely enough to notice them. Her stride slowed. There was a new sway in her hips. Her skin seemed different too—younger, tauter. She developed the occasional spate of acne along her jaw.
Galen digested this information. He made sure he was not imagining things. Miranda’s waistline had not yet changed, but she was already a bit weary, a bit unfocused. Her hair thickened. Her posture began to shift. The pigmentation of her face changed, a mask of freckled brown overtaking her cheeks. Miranda seemed as unaware of these changes as she had been of her violence toward Andrew. So Galen kept track of what she herself was incapable of seeing. As usual, it fell to him to serve as the observant eye, the dispassionate heart, the long memory of the islands.
December 15: Miranda demonstrating increased appetite.
January 1: Miranda having nausea. She asked at breakfast if there was a stomach bug going around. No one answered.
January 28: Miranda kept indoors by fatigue.
Galen takes a final sip of tea, draining the dregs. He heads to the window, looking out at the hazy sky. Clouds stream above the horizon in layers of uneven density. Their mismatched hues echo off the water, the reflection further complicated by the choppy surf. The seascape is a quilt made of a thousand scraps of blue. Galen draws in a deep, contented breath. In a few minutes he will summon Forest. They will board the Janus. They will head out on Shark Watch. He feels certain the Sisters are out there. He holds his private notebook against his chest.
Only once in the past year has his resolve faltered. It was Charlene, of course—so reminiscent of his late wife. The red hair. The round face. The upbeat temperament. He remembers the evening she took him aside. After dinner, she whispered that she needed to chat. The air was gelid, the windows coated with frost. In Charlene’s small bedroom, Galen sat on the mattress. Earnestly, she began to speak.
She told him what he already knew. She told him the story in a circuitous, overlapping manner, repeating herself and wringing her hands. It was all about Andrew. Charlene had heard him leaving the house the night he died. She had heard someone on the grounds with him. Two voices, though she could not identify the second speaker. It had been preying on her mind. Galen remembers how he soothed and murmured. He composed his features into an expression of appropriate surprise. Probably just a trick of the wind, he said. He was trying to put her off the scent. He did not want her to press the issue or interfere with his work. He left her room soon afterward, promising that he would consider the situation.
What followed was difficult for him. Surprisingly so. Even after all his years on the islands—after all his practice in the biologist’s habit of mind—he was not prepared for the sight of that girl unconscious on the surfboard. The memory of it still bothers him. Her brow bloodied. Her elbow dislocated. Her face blank.
But he stayed resolute. He observed and recorded. He did not intervene.
February 2: Charlene taken by helicopter to S.F. Dislocated elbow. Possible concussion.
February 3: Call from hospital. Charlene is recovering. No sign of brain damage.
February 5: Call from Charlene herself. She says her pain is much less, elbow healing. Seems to be in good spirits.
At last Galen leaves the window. He carries his mug of tea into the kitchen and rinses it out dutifully. He returns to the table, takes the pencil from his pocket, and splays the emerald notebook open to today’s date.
July 27: Miranda leaves the islands permanently. Still unaware of all that she has done. No memory.
He reads the words through once and nods in satisfaction.
There is one final detail to attend to. Limping a little, favoring his bad ankle, Galen climbs the stairs. Miranda’s room is as clean as a blown egg. An empty bureau. Nothing in the closets. He gropes beneath the bed, pushing aside boxes and dust bunnies, until his fingers locate a round object. As he suspected, Miranda left the stone behind. The blood has dried into paste, caked onto the granite. Standing there, he feels no sympathy, no sorrow. He rolls the sphere in his palm.
Then he strides down the hall. His room is filled with keepsakes. Over the past decade, he has accumulated a wealth of souvenirs. There is a bat wing, leathery and withered, pinned to the wall like the flag of a favorite sports team. Desiccated barnacles are lined up on the windowsill. A small wooden bowl holds shards of ceramic—the remains of a teacup flung in an argument, a testament to anger and violence. On the bureau, a jam jar brims with deceased beetles. A human rib bone, bleached and pitted by the sea, is wrapped in newspaper on the upper shelf of the closet. Throughout the years, Galen has amassed an array of feathers, pinning them to a length of twine that hangs above his window. They are arranged by size, from albatross to cormorant to sparrow. His paperweight is the skull of a dead seal pup. There is a drawer full of shark teeth. Galen casts his professional eye around the room.
His collection of seal stones sits in the corner, a bucket of moonlike orbs. Without ceremony, Galen drops Miranda’s stone into the pile. Camouflaged, gray against gray, it looks as innocent as anything. He dusts the dried blood off his hands. The murder weapon will fit in nicely among his mementos, surrounded by sand dollars, oyster shells, and bird bones. It will remain here forever, in his keeping.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
THANKS TO SCOTT and Milo, who are my home and heart. Thanks to my mother and father, who are nothing like the parents in any of my stories, because wonderful, loving families like mine just don’t make for good fiction. Thanks to Patsy, my dear friend and fairy godmother. Thanks to Laura Langlie, the best agent I could ever have asked for. Thanks to my editor, Dan Smetanka, the smartest person in the world. Thanks to all the brilliant and amazing folks at Counterpoint Press. Thanks to my splendid grandfather, my terrific and inimitable brother, and Bendix, my always friend. Thanks to Laurie, a light in dark places. Thanks to Gwynne Johnson, a lovely artist and fount of photographic insights. Thanks to Susan Casey, whose not-to-be-missed memoir, The Devil’s Teeth, allowed me to visit the Farallon Islands whenever I wanted. Thanks to my beloved Oklahoma family. Thanks to Keven and Steve, who are perfect in every way. Thanks to all the bright stars in my personal constellation. You know who you are.
