Both of Me

by Jonathan Friesen

  He was not at Laite Beach.

  He was not by Camden Harbour.

  He was not by the café.

  Night fell, and I wandered back to where the car had been parked, peering at the old carriage houses that lined the road.

  Finding Elias would be impossible.

  Or not.

  Lit up by a house light, and fluttering in the breeze, a single sheet of paper hung a few houses down from where I’d parked. I walked up the drive and removed the picture. A perfect self-portrait of Elias, above an arrow pointing to the carriage doors.

  I walked into the garage, and quietly shut the door behind me. Elias sat on a cot, near the Porsche and the aeroplane.

  I took my seat beside him.

  “It’s a strange world we live in, Elias.” I breathed heavily, trying to sort my surroundings, but caring very little. “To travel to the other side of the world and find all you’ve fled from is actually waiting for you. To think I was helping you, and now you’re my last hope.”

  “I know this town, Clarita.”

  “You’re not listening to me. I’m trying to tell you something important. Something really important. And if you don’t listen . . . I need you to listen.”

  “It started coming back at the beach —”

  “Shut it! Are you going to accept my apology or not?”

  Elias folded his hands.

  I did the same. “Do not . . . say . . . a word. Not until I’m finished. I do, I want to hear everything you found, but if I don’t get this out, I will explode.” I rubbed my face. “I need to tell you about my mum.”

  “I know all about the queen.” Elias sounded agitated. Definitely the Other One.

  “She’s not a queen! She’s not . . . a . . . queen . . . At least not when I was younger.” I swallowed hard. “At that time she was just a woman, with a husband, living in London on Marbury Street, with a ten-year-old girl and a three-year-old son named Teeter and another just born, Little Thomas. And I was the girl. It was me.”

  I paused, uncertain if Elias would interrupt, but he sat quietly, and I continued.

  “Dad brought Mum home on that day. She’d been at the doctor who was examining Little Thomas, Down’s baby that he was, with Teeter and I in tow. There was such a storm! So much wind. So much chill.

  “Dad wasn’t even supposed to be there — none of it would have happened had he stayed at work — but Mum fell ill in the waiting room. Suddenly, she was vomiting and so dizzy she could hardly stand. She always was weak that way. Someone called Dad, who left work early, arrived and helped her and Little T into the car, and drove us all home to our flat. ‘Help your mum get inside while I park.’ Those were his words. ‘I’ll bring Little T.’ But Mum insisted on carrying Thomas. She grabbed him from the car seat and I took hold of her, and we slowly navigated the ice patches on the walk. Dad hesitated and zoomed off, and we stumbled on, reaching the steps.”

  Now would be a good time to stop. I quieted beside Elias, who bumped me with his shoulder.

  “Keep going, Clarita.”

  One minute, and several deep breaths later, I obeyed.

  “I took my eyes off the ground and reached for the rail, and Mum . . . she slipped. It happened so fast. She was screaming and falling and reaching Little T toward me. I let go of her and grasped my brother. I felt him — my arms caught him — but he fell through. He fell through my arms and landed . . . and landed on his head on the pavement. Elias, the ice was thick, and I didn’t see it . . . I just didn’t see . . . Why couldn’t I hold on to him?”

  My tears returned, and I pleaded in silence for Elias to hold me, but he didn’t listen to the words I didn’t speak, and I rocked until I found my voice.

  “I led her right over the patch, and that’s where she fell. Mum screamed and crawled toward T. Dad’s shouts came nearer, and Teeter and I ran into the flat. I ran to my room and locked the door and looked out my window. Little T lay in a pool of blood and Dad draped his sobbing body over T’s tiny one and Mum hit Dad, and I blinked and the coppers were there, trying to pull Mum off Dad and Dad off T. But Dad wouldn’t go. He couldn’t let go of the son I dropped, and he slugged the copper, laid him right out, and just like that he was on his stomach, his wrists bound in darbies. Mum was hysterical, still screaming at Dad, that it was his fault, that all this was his fault, and all I had to do was run down and tell what happened. That it was me. It was all me and my carelessness and my weak arms. But I couldn’t move, and I watched my family splinter; Dad carried away by the cops and Mum and T whisked away in the ambulance. I heard Teeter wailing, and I became his new mum that night.” I paused. “Only Mum came back. And only half of her. Her mind, her body were never the same.”

  Elias touched my face, and then his own. He softly began to cry.

  “Clarita.” He drew his legs in and rocked. “You didn’t try to hurt him. Right? I mean, that was an accident.”

  “Of course it was.” I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand, and rubbed my tattoo.

  “But accident or not, the world changed. I destroyed them all, from when I dropped my brother to when I stood silent as they took Dad away.” I leaned over and caught his gaze. “I need to know. Only you can help . . . How do you deal with the guilt?”

  Elias did not speak. For weeks, he blabbed from morning until night, and now I needed from him one word, one word from this boy who knew the pain of it. The truth of it.

  One word to change my life.

  “Please.” I winced. “Haven’t you ever been part of an accident with huge implications? A large, life-changing variety of accident?”

  He paused mid-rock. “What do you know?”

  “Elias, I know that this Keeper, this quest, this is what remains of your father. He was a lightkeeper.”

  The carriage house light flickered, and in the glow, Elias’s face changed. He looked helpless, just as I felt, and I reached out to him.

  “You saw something, and there was an accident, and your father fell and hit his head. I know who you are looking for, but he’s gone. I know the lighthouse in your mind. I’ve been to Two Bush Island.”

  Elias stood, his body stiff and his hands clenched. His face showed no emotion.

  “It was no accident.”

  His words swirled about me. “What are you saying? You were eight. You were only eight. You had no intention . . . you couldn’t have.”

  He grabbed a small sketchbook and tossed it onto my lap. I slowly opened it.

  There it was. The man from the east wall of his room. A woman in undress. The two together. Across his father’s photo, a giant red X. Around the woman, a red circle.

  I dropped the sketchbook, slowly reached for my bag, and backed toward the door. “Why did we come, Elias? What are you looking for?”

  He did not flinch. “The woman. She may still be here.”

  “And if she is?” I fumbled with the door latch.

  Elias was silent.

  “Say something,” I stammered. “Elias . . . tell me we’re just following stars. Tell me this isn’t why you came.”

  He took a deep breath. “Fine. It isn’t why I came. It’s why we came. We’ll finish it. Together.”

  I turned and threw open the door and fled into the night.

  “Clara! Clara, it’s me! Clara, I’m just back! Don’t leave me.”

  A faint call reached my ears, but it meant nothing.

  God, what have I done?

  CHAPTER 28

  DAD: You’ve called his mother?

  ME: No, I just got out of there.

  DAD: The police? Do they know?

  ME: I don’t even know. I don’t know anything. I don’t know who he is.

  DAD: You, where are you?

  ME: Camden, Maine.

  DAD: Where in Camden, Maine?

  ME: Dad, what does it matter?

  DAD: Where?

  ME: Mount Battie. I climbed Mount Battie. There’s a little lookout up here, and I was hoping maybe he’d be here.

 
DAD: Elias?????

  ME: No. God. I know it sounds stupid, but I think I bumped into God on a mountain a few days back, and I didn’t know where to go, so I thought maybe . . .

  DAD: Is he there?

  I looked around. From where I sat, I could see mountains reaching into the sea, and islands floating in the glistening bays. Whitesailed ships caught the last hint of daylight, and a cool breeze blew.

  ME: I think so.

  DAD: Then stay right there. Elias Phinn. Minneapolis. I’ll take care of notifications. Clara, you can’t see him again. You know that, right?

  DAD: Right?

  ME: I’ll stay right here.

  “Right. Stay right here,” I repeated and shut my laptop. “You’re about to have Elias arrested. On this trip, half of me used him. Half of him used me. We’re not so different. Would you throw your own daughter in the slammer? If you knew I saw you out the window and let you take the blame, would you arrest me?”

  I took a deep breath. The lookout included a tall, circular monument, constructed of fitted stone. Four thin steps led up to the tower, and open arched doorways allowed you to walk right through it. It would provide shelter for me tonight.

  I opened my bag and threw on two more sweaters. I inflated the camping cot, and lay down in the monument.

  “Well then, God, here I am. It would be nice for you to make a more certain appearance, especially tonight. I have some items I need to discuss.”

  The wind rustled the leaves.

  “Fair enough. I shall consider that your entrance. I don’t know but that I should be furious and terrified of Elias, but I’m not, not right now.” I stood and paced the clearing. “Dad says I can’t see him, and that is likely best, it’s just . . . he alone explains my last weeks. I’m in the middle, not a crossroads-type middle, but a no roads-type middle, and the truth, the truth is I’m not frightened because I no longer know Elias. I’m frightened because I no longer know me. That’s it, I suppose.” I sighed. “That probably was not a very good prayer. Quite rambling, little focus. Oh, and I am presently taking orders from my father in London. It seems quite ridiculous, given my past months, but yet quite warming at the same time.” I thought. “All right, now I think I’m really done.”

  I remained with God on Mt. Battie for the remainder of the night, as well as the next day. Several hikers invaded my mountain, but none stayed long, and as night began to fall, not only was I famished, I also realised I couldn’t stay there forever.

  Elias’s last words replayed in my mind. They had not been the words of a madman, or a killer. They had not carried the cadence of the Other One.

  I plopped down beside my bag and removed Dad’s journal. Anything to rid my mind of Elias. I flipped to the last entry.

  Entry 300

  It’s been awhile since I’ve written in this old thing. I guess I thought my adventures were over. I thought that when I started a family, the excitement of the hunt would fade. But I’m looking at him, and I think my true search is just beginning. He is so different than Clara, a girl so much like me. He’s not like Teeter either. He’s not loud or demanding. He is my Little T, human and perfect. Does he see me? Does he know me like the others? Maybe not. Maybe he never will, if the doctors’ drivel means anything. Maybe he’ll struggle, struggle to understand, to connect, to learn. But I see him in my arms, his eyes looking everywhere but to me, and I know there is another part. A hidden part only I know, buried beneath. What the doctors don’t understand is none of T’s baseline measurements matter. Who doesn’t get emotionally stuck? Who doesn’t have a struggling half and a loving half? As for T, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always love both of him, and he’ll always love both of me.

  I slammed shut the journal.

  My Elias. The last words had been his. I had promised him I would not leave, but in my horror, I did. The only way to make it right was to break another promise.

  “Sorry, Dad, I need to find him.” I jumped to my feet. “You can blame yourself for this one.”

  What would I do when I did? It didn’t matter. It was time to stop running.

  I bid God farewell and began a slow descent, arriving back on Laite Beach around noon.

  It took some looking, given the wildness of my departure, but soon I located his last known location: the carriage house, its doors standing open, and the interior empty. I ran to the residence and pounded. Slowly, the door opened.

  “Salt?”

  He stepped out slowly. “You okay, lass? I did look for you. You went searching and he came just after. I let him park in the garage —”

  “Yes, I know. Where is Elias now?”

  “I’ll answer that, but what’s going on, Clara? Why were the authorities parked in Tenant’s Harbour?”

  Dad.

  “How would I know?”

  “Ayup.” Salt stepped out onto the porch. “So I’ll start over. Elias became more and more frantic here, and I hauled him and that plane to Rockland. Boy cares deeply about you, wouldn’t stop babbling about his Clara. But I reckon you know all that. Bottom line was he needed a space to work, and I thought Tenant’s boathouse was perfect. Plenty a room in there, and you knew the place. Wasn’t sure where you were and figured you might find your way back there. But as I said, the harbour was crammed with police, and Atticus was being questioned. I quietly took Elias to a less stressful spot to work.”

  “Work on what?”

  “That plane. Seems like a big hobby, but he was so tense. Talking about it calmed him. Didn’t see no harm in it, least until you showed up.”

  My heart slowed, as if it was beating in molasses, and I willed my breaths. “Is there an airport near there?”

  “Knox County Regional. Where I left the lad. I’ll go pick him up this evening.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be there this evening.” I grabbed his arm and tugged. “We need to go now.”

  Salt rolled his eyes. “Do I look like the ferry service?”

  “No, no you don’t.”

  “Come on, lass.”

  Minutes later, we entered the airport and the private hangar area.

  “He’s in this one here.” Salt tugged on a giant door. “Got a friend who works in aviation, and it seemed a good alternative —”

  It was, of course, empty.

  Atticus stood on the edge of the dock and stared out to sea.

  “It’s a round world. You live long enough, you see it, the coming round of things.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Elias wished you were with him.”

  I stopped, one foot on the dock, the other on the earth. “Where is he? What is going on?”

  Atticus turned. “Mine to show, though I take no pleasure in it. It’s gonna hurt.” He gestured toward the boat, and along with Salt we eased out toward Two Bush. Nobody spoke. Words weren’t needed. The sky was clear and stars shone above us, Orion bright in the eastern sky.

  The sea was a window, reflecting the lights but allowing me to glance below. It was empty. There was nothing beneath the surface. No life. No . . . life. When finally we lapped up in the shadows of Two Bush, I knew.

  The three of us climbed up the rocky crag and onto the flat that was the island. No tree or bush grew there; it had been razed flat, except for the lighthouse shining in the near distance, pointing safety to all who drew near.

  Almost all.

  I walked toward the far end of the island, toward a twisted sculpture, glistening in the beacon’s light. It was metal. It was cordoned off with police tape. I paused, and then I ran.

  “Elias! Elias!”

  And my foot struck it.

  The piece of the fuselage, the words written:

  Clara

  A Light in the Sky

  I lifted it and held it up to the moonlight. It was real. It felt real. It had been real.

  I spun around and raced back to Atticus. “Bring me to him! Where’d they take him?”

  “What do you see?” Atticus dropped his gaze. “Think a boy could survive this?”


  “Maybe!” I shoved the man, and marched toward Salt to shove him, but my arms, they didn’t work, and I paced. “Maybe, maybe he could, right?”

  “Clara.” Salt opened his mouth and let it fall shut, only to restart. “Okay. Maybe.”

  I staggered toward the wreckage, perched precariously near the cliff. “It’s not completely destroyed. It didn’t burn.” I spun around. “Have they found him?”

  Atticus slowly removed his handkerchief. “I did. By the lighthouse.”

  I wandered toward it, toward the entry, and my hand raised to my mouth.

  The door was covered with drawings.

  Of Elias and his father holding hands.

  Of Elias and his father looking through a telescope.

  Of a small Elias and his father locked in embrace.

  And in the center of the door, Elias and me. Holding hands, staring at each other.

  Oh God.

  “The police are thinking he crawled from the crash clear to the lighthouse. I watched a plane fly low right over the dock, go quiet near this island and I just knew. I chugged out and found him right where you stand, collapsed by the door, pushpins and blood everywhere on the ground,” Atticus continued. “There was a drawin’ book filled with more pictures beneath his head. But he stuck some up before he . . . Boy must’ve been bent on trying to hang the important ones.”

  I dropped to my knees and lay down. Salt lowered himself beside me and stroked my head. Tears flowed easily, as did time. I don’t know how long I cried.

  “He didn’t draw, Salt.” I sniffed and pushed myself up. “My Elias didn’t draw. Only the . . . only the Other One, and he wouldn’t have hung these. He hated the Keeper. He hated . . . his . . . dad. Unless, the two, in the end, unless the two became one.”

  He did.

  I stared up at Orion, and whispered. “We did it. Elias, you did it. In the end it was just you.”

  Atticus cleared his throat.

  “I . . . I need the other sketches,” I said. “The ones he didn’t put up. Please. Where’s the book now? Take me to it —”