by S. M. Parker
“Right.” I remove the casserole dishes and pass each one to Gram. I reach into the back and grab four bottles. I tuck the fifth deeper into the corner. It feels wrong to give the last of my father’s beer to garden pests.
Gram packs the casserole dishes into the freezer with impressive economy, then scans my outfit. “Looks like you’re dressed for buggin’.”
“Not today. The traps haven’t soaked long enough. I’ll haul tomorrow.”
Her side glance tells me she’s waiting for more.
“I just need to be on the water.”
She nods, covers my hand with hers. “You’re just like him, Rilla. Two seals always needing their ocean.”
I don’t tell her I’m headed for land.
* * *
It takes only minutes to reach the lee side of Malaga Island, the protected side. I tell myself that I’m here for a new perspective—to see my surroundings in a new light. And if I’m being honest, I need to put some distance between me and Reed and his choice to check out when I don’t have that luxury. And Hattie’s voice mails. I don’t know what to say to her yet, and I can’t hurt her more. But it’s when I idle my engine in front of the exact spot where I saw the girl two days ago that I know my motivations are singular: I’m looking for the singing girl.
The beach is empty, which should be zero surprise. Still, a part of me hoped she’d be here, waiting for me or something. It’s been impossible to shake the memory of her and her disappearing skiff, not to mention the tidal wave growing from Malaga’s shores. But I’m not willing to chalk these things up to hallucinations just yet. I refuse to let my brain slip into the space of madness that stole my mother.
I thrust my anchor overboard and the water swallows its weight. I strip off my layers and toss them into the tiny rowboat tied to Rilla’s stern. On another day, I would row the short distance to shore, but today I want the bite of water to wash over me. Through me. I climb onto the starboard ledge wearing only my bra and underwear. My toes hug the cool fiberglass rail as my eyes measure depth the way Dad taught me.
Black at the deep.
Green at the shallows.
The water before me swirls with a jeweled color that’s between black and green.
I jump.
The icy water swallows me as I plummet, feet first. Bubbles crowd around me, the water making room for my shape. I thrust my arms up, pressing deeper into the sea despite the shock to my lungs, the cold squeezing me. I open my eyes, the salt stinging as I stare at the black. In the depth of this water there is no loss. In the ice of this sea there is only numbness.
And a song.
I hear it over the weight of the water pushing against my ears.
Come here, come here, my dear, my dear.
I spin around, search the deep. Cold fear rips through me.
Come here, come here, my dear, my dear.
I hear the words too clearly. Here, underneath millions of years of ocean, I hear the song meet me. Come here, come here . . .
I bullet to the surface. My ears pop and then the voice of the ocean rushes all around me. The waves explode as they crash against the side of my boat. My mouth takes in seawater and I spit it free. The salt bites against my tongue. My fingers work to free the skiff rope from the Rilla Brae, but they are wet and fumbling. I kick my feet below the surface of the thrashing water, to stay upright, but also to push away the song rising from the deep. My fingers are cold and cramping as they rip at the knot, too clumsy. Too wet. Too slick. I look over my shoulder, into the sea of waves, my heart thundering for what I might see surface from the spraying waves.
When the knot opens, I slip the rope around my wrist and swim to shore. I scramble onto land, dress quickly.
The air on the island is still, quiet. The breeze holds its breath. I stumble back from the beach, waiting for something—someone—to rise. The singer. The girl? But the sea holds its secrets. The waves roil unfazed. I squeeze my palms to my temples, pressing them hard against my skull. Did I imagine the song? I shake my hands free. No. I heard the singing. Impossible, maybe. But I heard it. I take a few steps back, putting distance between me and the deep. When nothing emerges from the surf, I turn and quickly hike to the highest slab of granite. I sit against the rock’s heat, pulling my legs to my chest as if they are some kind of protection.
My breath steadies, but only some. There has never been a time when I feared the water. Any water. Is that what this is? Me, afraid of the sea in the wake of my father’s death? I shake the thought from my head. I hear the chanting verse in my memory, Come here, come here, my dear, my dear, and I know this isn’t about me being frightened of the sea; this is me fearing my brain could be too much like my mother’s. Because what if my mother didn’t just talk to the Water People? What if they answered her? What if they sang to her?
Come here, come here, my dear, my dear. The verse taunts me now, begs me to call it real or imagined. How is it the same song that soothed me when I heard it only days before? I tuck my chin to my knees and rock the way Gram rocked me for so many of my childhood years.
A shrill cry sounds from behind me and I whip around. Stand. Expecting the girl. But it is only an osprey calling from atop a high tree gray with death. Her massive nest is fat and round, crafted expertly with woven twigs and flotsam. Bits of bright yellow buoy rope and sun-dried seaweed jut out of the sides. My heart relaxes. I know this environment. The high-hanging sun. The surrounding saltwater blue. The silver-gray outcroppings of rock. I pull in a calming breath and let it fill me. Then another.
Then I hear the sound again.
This time it’s not a bird. The scream starts as a stutter until it builds into a deafening screech. The infant’s shrill cry packs my ears, forces every thought to evacuate my brain. I press my hands over my ears and crouch against the rising hopelessness in this baby’s scream. I fall to my knees just as I see a flash of the girl, the unmistakable black braids, her flowing dress. She darts into the trees, clutching a bundle to her chest. Her long yellowing dress sways out behind her, its skirt floating until it frays into strips of cloth that swim like tendrils before disappearing. No, fading. The hem of her dress dies away like the edges of smoke, undefinable and vaporous.
When the last pale wisps of the fabric disappear into the tree line, soundlessness fills the air.
I shake my head, clear my ears. The wailing has stopped. All is quiet until there’s the thrum of an engine announcing an approaching boat. I will it to be Reed, here to tell me that this is a normal island. That nothing is strange. But no. If Reed tells me everything is okay here, then I’m the strange thing on this island.
I focus only on the infant. The cry that carried too much fear. I push my own fear down and head into the stand of trees, darting under their dark canopy of shade. My heavy steps crack twigs, the sharp edges of wood tearing at my soles. Spruce pitch is everywhere, clinging to the bark of the trees, cramming the air with its Christmas scent. I search the forest for the girl and the infant, the pair that is somehow surviving in this cut-off place.
I call for them.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” The breeze answers me, combing through the high boughs with its whistle. I duck around the lowest branches. “Hello!” I yell this once or maybe a dozen times before the answer I both want and dread reaches me from beyond the woods.
“Hello?” It is a male voice, his tone deep and bellowing. His greeting a question.
I go still, a tickle of dread climbing my spine. Because I’m in the woods and I’m not alone, and for the first time since arriving on this uninhabited island, it occurs to me that this may not be a good thing.
I make my way beyond the tree line and see the Rilla Brae safely bobbing over her anchor. I walk toward the shore, wincing at the slicing cuts on my feet, trying to steady my fear.
“Hello!” the voice calls again, and now I see the dark-haired boy and his eager wave. I recognize the logo on the starboard side of his boat: UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN MAINE. The familiar instituti
on drives away some of my anxiety.
Some.
I return his wave with a small flick of my hand at my hip.
He bends over his rowboat, tugging it onto land, away from the hungry mouth of the ocean and over the spot where I first saw the girl laboring only days ago. I watch him. This visitor isn’t a seaman; he’s uneasy with his knots and he’s awkward in his command of the small boat that is white and spotless. Virgin fiberglass. So different from the weather-beaten wooden skiff I thought belonged to the girl.
By the time I reach the beach, the boy is all smiles and eager words. “Hey. I thought I might have company today.” He flicks his thumb in the Rilla Brae’s direction in explanation. He extends his hand. “I’m Sam.”
“Rilla.” I link my fingers behind my back. “What are you doing out here?”
His hand retreats. “Direct. I like that about Mainers.”
His words confirm that he’s “from away”—a transplant to our state.
Sam reaches into his skiff, pulls out a worn canvas bag that looks more appropriate for a safari. He maneuvers the bag’s strap over his shoulder in a way that tells me the satchel’s contents are heavy.
I take a quick glance at the forest’s edge and form an absurd question, choosing the words carefully. Or not. It’s hard to know what will sound mad. “Do you have a baby?”
His seal-dark eyes pop wide. “A baby.” It is not a question.
“I heard—” What did I hear? And what will I sound like if I admit it out loud? “I thought that was a baby’s seat.” I gesture to the inside of his University of Southern Maine boat, which even Gram’s failing eyes could see holds no gear for an infant.
He looks to his anchored craft, then back to me. “It’s just me.” He offers a half smile. “Sorry to disappoint.”
I wave him off. “No, that’s fine. None of my business anyway.” I take a step closer to the waterline. Now all I want is to comb through the water, return home.
“Going for another swim?” Sam scans my wet hair.
“Not today.” Maybe never.
He gestures toward my lobster boat. “Is that you? Rilla Brae?”
I nod.
“It’s a good name for a boat.”
“Thanks.” My father thought so. I cast my eyes to my boat, the ocean, all the things I never thought would bring me sadness. “I should be getting home.”
“Will you be out here again?”
I don’t know. “No.” And then, “You?”
“For the next few months. I’m researching the island for my summer internship.”
“This island?” I’m not sure it would be possible for me to sound any denser.
“This very island.” His gaze lifts toward the highest ridge of trees. “A lot of history here.”
I think he must be mistaken, that his professor gave him an errant assignment, but it’s not for me to say. I take two quick steps toward the shore before turning. I squint against the glare of the sun. “Is it just you out here?”
He laughs then. “I told you, I have come to the island sans baby.”
I’m surprised by the hint of a smile that plays on my lips. “I mean do you have a research assistant or something? Or does your professor ever come with you?”
“Nah. Just me. There’s no money in the budget for anyone else. Hell, they’re not even paying me.” His smile is so quick and easy it jumps like it’s a living thing.
“So you haven’t been here with a girl?”
His eyes narrow as his wide smile broadens. “No girl. No baby. Are you asking me if I’m single?”
Oh God. That’s the last thing I’m asking. “No, it’s just . . . I thought I saw a girl out here the other day.” And only moments ago.
He pats his satchel. “Just me and my tools.”
“Yeah. Okay . . . well, I should be getting home.”
“I don’t blame you. It can get pretty boring out here.” He gives me a short salute and sets off toward the center of the island.
I watch him put distance between us and know that “boring” is no longer a word I would use to describe Malaga Island.
I row out to the Rilla Brae, scanning the waves, waiting still for the keeper of the song to rise.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Rill?” Reed’s warm breath sweeps across the back of my neck, and I open my eyes to the settled dark of the pre-morning. “You awake?”
Reed is behind me, his torso snug against my back, his knees tucked into the bend of mine. His toes press against my underfoot, wordlessly reassuring me that everything is the way it used to be. In this early slip of time before dawn colors the sky, all I know is the softness of our shared sleep. But it is only a moment. Maybe not even a full minute before my grief awakens, ripping through me with its gale-force reminder that my father won’t be in this day. Or any other.
“I’m awake.”
“You okay?”
“I am.” Lie. Lie. Lie.
He rounds one hand over my hip, pulls my body tighter against his. His fingers play at my neck. They trail along the path to my shoulder. A familiar warmth spreads under and along my skin. I want to lose myself in Reed’s touch.
Except.
“Don’t. Please.” I pull the sheets around me as I turn to him. His eyes drop with sadness or confusion. Maybe both. The sharpness of his cheekbones will never stop amazing me; they are too beautiful to sit on a boy. I stroke his face, first one side, then the other.
“Don’t kiss you?”
“No, I like the kisses. It just can’t be . . . more.”
His body hardens, pulls away. It’s a fraction of movement that cuts a ravine between us.
“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure that’s the truth. “My head’s too messed up.” Full truth.
Reed props himself against my headboard made of forgotten picket fence. When he stuffs a pillow behind his back, a draft creeps into the space between our bodies. He stares out at the water, even though there’s nothing but blackness. “Whatever you need,” he tells me. Like always.
“I’m not sure what I need.” Full, full truth.
He gathers me to his chest, my ear coming to rest over the steady thump of his heart.
He whispers “It’s all good” into the tangle of my hair, kisses me through the curls. “You’re my moon, Rill.” My heart hitches, reminding me that there is still space in my chest for something other than grief and doubt.
The first time Reed told me that I was his moon, we were only months into hooking up. It was sophomore year, and a part of me was still convinced we were doing what we were doing as a kind of taunt against our families. Asserting our independence and all. We’d been watching the stars from the deck of his boat and he told me, “The way the moon pulls the tide, you know. I feel like that when I’m with you. And even when I’m not . . . it’s like I’m forever getting pulled to you.” It was the closest Reed ever came to poetry, and that was okay. Better than okay, if I’m being honest.
But sometimes the moon and her tides can fool you. When the sun and moon sit at right angles to each other, they bring a neap tide that will soothe the ocean, making it hard to tell the difference between high tide and low tide.
Like me now, having a hard time telling the difference between what’s real and what’s imagined.
I sit up, throw my legs over the side of the bed to stand. “You need to get going.” This is our deal. Reed sneaks out before sunrise, before Gram and Dad wake up—just Gram now.
He rises from my bed, slides his jeans onto his long leanness. How is it possible that his sun-blond hair can be so bright even when the day is still dark? Reed comes to me, nestles his lips against my neck. “Countin’ the minutes,” he says. His signature send-off.
“Love you,” I whisper.
“Love you more.” Then Reed is out the window, dropping spiderlike along the steps of the trellis. He disappears into the yard as morning pours across the sky in the distance, making Malaga’s trees look like a shadowy mountain and a mirage all
at once.
I slip on leggings and a tee and tiptoe down the hall. I want Gram to get the rest she needs, but it’s zero surprise to see her bedroom door already open; we’re a family used to waiting on the sun. My stomach rumbles, asking me if I think Gram might be making French toast with sliced hothouse tomatoes, but then I see the pool of electric light seeping from underneath the attic door where she paints. I leave Gram to her place of repair—her words—knowing that the attic door will be locked. It’s always locked. That was Gram’s request after I was born and my parents came to live in the house where my mother was raised. My family could call Fairtide home, but Gram needed the attic as her private place. I respect her privacy always, the way Dad taught me.
In the kitchen, I brew tea and test the powers of the lemon, still dubious about their mood-lifting capabilities. I fix two sandwiches while I eat an apple. I don’t see Gram’s note until I reach for my boat’s keys. She’s left me a spray of white heather. And a note:
For protection.
For making wishes come true.
Love, G
I lift the dried heather to my nose, breathe in the echo of its confident earthiness. I grab my keys and head to my boat, sputter past sleeping Malaga Island to my traps and wonder what my wishes are. Because the one, the big one—having my dad back, my family—is impossible. And it’s hard to want anything else. Except I do. A part of me hopes Gram’s heather will give me protection from that dark place that stole my mother. Because I can’t help fear that these visions make me too much like her.
* * *
The docks at Yankee Fishermen’s Co-op sway with activity by the time I arrive, my tanks filled with today’s catch. It’s the start of the busy season, when tourists cram around lighthouses and feast on lobsters. I wait on the Rilla Brae as lobstermen haul their catch to the scales, one by one in the order we arrive, fishermen forever loyal to fishing’s egalitarian principles.
When it’s my turn, I put the Rilla Brae in gear and coast her starboard side to the edge of the wharf.
Hoopah—Neal Hooper in any other part of the country—ties the dock lines to pull my boat in snug. “Ya got some bugs in there, Rilla?”
