Island of Bones

by Gaby Triana

  Syndia stared at me with those mistrustful eyes, saying nothing.

  “You don’t,” I said. “Because you didn’t spend your entire life hearing your grandma talk about a place she could never return to. You didn’t hear the pain in her voice over losing it. That name…Casa de los Cayos…I must’ve heard it a thousand times growing up. Do you know what it means to me to be here?”

  “You’re not entitled to anything on this property.”

  “I know that. For fuck’s sake, stop saying that.”

  “Spreading ashes takes a second. You’ve stayed longer than that. You’re curious. You’re snooping around my house. I need you to leave, Miss Whitaker.”

  Was she serious?

  I noted the grave expression on her face. She was damn serious and hella crazy too. However, she’d also just lost her mother. “Ms. Duarte, if you think I’m here to find your missing treasure, you need to know that I don’t care about your fictitious gold. What I care about is truth. I only want to know what happened to my family. What really happened.”

  “You’ll never know what happened,” Syndia said carefully. “None of us ever will. Our grandparents are gone, and with them…their secrets.”

  She was right about that.

  But if I left now, I’d never have the chance to find out.

  I came to connect and connect I would. Storm or no storm, I had to find out what happened here in 1951, why my grandmother carried so much hurt in her heart, why my mother felt a darkness here she couldn’t face. Why a bleeding, well-dressed man had been dragged through the trees before my very eyes.

  EIGHT

  One moment, short gusts of wind were pushing sheets of rain right onto the window panes, and the next, the sun shone brightly like your average happy day. This was the calm before the storm. Hurricane Mara was headed up Cuba in the next two days then would cut right up the middle of the Florida Keys.

  At least that was what the Cone of Death suggested on TV.

  I spent a good amount of time on my phone checking flights and the traffic situation, just so I could tell my mother that I’d tried. I also did a fair amount of research on the probability of surviving a Category 1 hurricane. According to the articles I read, very few locals ever evacuated the Keys unless a Category 3 or higher was on the way. Tropical storms and Cat 1 storms were playthings to most Florida folks.

  Part of me actually looked forward to bearing the brunt of the angry seas.

  Part of me also contained the DNA of a diehard sailor.

  And just for shits and grins, I researched whether or not Syndia Duarte could kick me out just because she wanted to. Apparently not, as this was my shelter from the storm but also a registered place of business and I’d done nothing to disrupt the peace.

  During one of the sunny breaks between rain bands, I heard a car engine outside and peeked through the blinds to see her leaving. It must’ve been difficult having to run a place of business and prepare for a storm while also dealing with your mother’s death. I exhaled, thankful I didn’t have to deal with her for at least a little while.

  A scratch at my door gave me pause. Slowly, I turned and stared at it. The noise did not repeat itself. Heading over, I opened it only to find a fallen dried palm frond on the ground getting whisked away by a sudden breeze. The new levels of humidity startled me. Moisture stuck to my skin like a thick layer of steam that wished to become a sweater.

  Just as I was about to close the door, Bacon meowed his presence and rubbed up against my legs. I could’ve kicked him out, but what would’ve been the point? He seemed to like me better than his owner and besides, I could’ve used the company.

  “Hey, buddy. I don’t have food.” I laughed. “I don’t have any bacon for you, Bacon.”

  The cat waited at the door while staring into the room with big golden eyes. I wondered if he could sense the native man who had appeared here yesterday. If he could, he certainly wasn’t afraid of him and strutted into the room anyway. After walking around nonchalantly, examining my bags, my shoes, and my towel on the floor, Bacon entered the bathroom nook and disappeared into a closet.

  I followed him.

  Behind a modern built-in strongbox, the kind that came with most hotel rooms, was a four-inch space. And behind that four-inch space in the wall was a hole. A carved out hole like someone had taken a crude little saw and made it by hand. Bacon squeezed into the space. A moment later, he curled up by the cat-sized mouse hole and began purring.

  This cat had a hideout in this room? “What are you doing in there, bud?” I got on my hands and knees. The cold terrazzo floors were dusty and dirtied my hands.

  I reached into the hole and ran my fingers through his thick fur. He purred even louder when my fingers connected with the space between his ears. Jealous that he could see where he was and I couldn’t, I grabbed my phone and fit it into his crawl space, snapping several shots in different directions.

  Most of the pics were too close and too muddy to show anything, but one showed a rectangular outline on the wall and right at the edge was a small golden lock. Bacon blinked his green eyes at me like a Mona Lisa smile.

  “What are you guarding, Bacon?”

  I reached into the hole until my fingertips were touching the lock. It was a small lock, like the kind used on suitcases long ago, and when I tugged on it, it didn’t budge.

  “Be right back,” I told the cat and left the room. I was pretty sure I was alone at La Concha Inn, that all the guests had left. Even Nottie was nowhere to be found. Nobody would care if I tested all the doors to see if any were used as a utility closet.

  I found what I was looking for by the dining room. A thin closet door revealed a storage unit for cleaning solutions, mops, packages of napkins, take-home containers, a long clear hose with dried brown gunk in it, and shelves holding several basic tools. Grabbing a hammer and pliers, not sure which would work best, I closed the closet and ran back to my room.

  Bacon was already outside, looking for me. La Concha Inn’s very own watch-cat. “What? I was coming back,” I told him. Reentering the room, he followed me inside and stood like a sentinel nearby as I laid down on the floor in the closet and reached into the hole as best as I could with the hammer.

  Smacking the lock a few times didn’t help, so I used the pliers to grip the tiny lock then twist and twist until the weak, old metal broke free. I pulled open the small compartment and hesitated. Using the camera on my phone again, I took a few photos of the inside of the space.

  A cold hand grabbed mine.

  I shrieked and yanked my hand back, smacking the phone against the wall. What the hell was that? I waited a few feet back, sweat pouring from my temples, stomach in my throat, waiting for the hand to come out of the hole. “Who is that?” I asked. “Who’s in there?”

  Nobody replied.

  My phone had a crack running through the middle of the screen now. Great. With the video camera on, I pushed it ever so slowly toward the hole again. Once it reached the edge of the hole, I lifted it and moved it side to side, scanning for any unseen presences, but it was hard to do with my hand trembling.

  “Somebody there?” I asked again.

  The air felt charged with energy. I wanted to lie down and peer into the hole with my naked eye but hesitated. Had the hand been real or another one of my visions?

  I pulled the phone back and saw I hadn’t captured any significant images of the wall’s interior space. Part of me warned to end this right here, but part of me—the stubborn part my mother knew well—needed to see what was in that locked space.

  Come on, Ellie. You can do this.

  Closing my eyes, I decided to risk it again. Hallucinations couldn’t hurt me, and if I kept my eyes closed, I didn’t have to see them. Hopefully, I wouldn’t feel them either. My fingers felt around the mustiness until they brushed against some papers.

  Reaching in, I pulled the stack of small papers out only to find that they weren’t papers at
all but photographs. Old black-and-white photos. Scrambling to my feet, I peered at them with shaking hands. What I saw, photo after photo, would’ve been considered risqué at the time. Hell, they were pretty risqué even now. Boudoir photos of a woman. A beautiful woman. On her knees, on the edge of a sofa, breasts bared, legs tightly fused together. I guessed one might call them tasteful.

  But the more I shuffled through them, the more I realized that the naked woman in black garter and stockings and heels and pearls, wearing a sexy smile and having a fun time was my very own grandmother.

  Those eyes, those cheekbones, that turned up smile.

  Bacon meowed.

  “No, you may not see these. Oh, whatever.” I crouched and showed the images to the cat who only wanted to rub his saliva-smeared cheek on them. I pulled them back before he could damage them. “You led me right to them,” I said. “More evidence of the woman I loved. Thank you, buddy.”

  On the back was old handwriting, the kind of cursive you never saw anymore. Angled, scripty, with long loops. Leanne, 1949. My nana would’ve been nineteen in these. On the opposite corner of the photo was my own grandmother’s handwriting: To my dearest Bill, so you’ll always have a thrill.

  Funny, Nana. Very cute.

  I smiled so hard, my cheeks hurt. Then, I cried. Because what were the chances of finding a face I loved hidden in these walls? Did the McCardles or Duartes know this was here?

  I ran back to the hole in the wall to see what else I could discover, even at the risk of another hand grabbing me, but found nothing. The rest of the space disappeared into emptiness. So, my grandfather had a hiding spot for his nudie pics. Of my grandmother! And the hiding spot was still there after all these years. In fact, this whole room vibrated with a special frequency altogether.

  Could this have been my grandparents’ bedroom? It would explain the secret hiding spot and maybe the mosaic table that wasn’t part of the usual hotel repertoire of furniture.

  My mind whirled with the possibilities. I wanted to call my mom right away and show her what I’d found, but I could already hear the incessant questions. I’d work better if she knew nothing.

  As I slid my hand back away from the secret compartment, my skin brushed against something taped to the back of the safe. I pulled at the masking tape. A tarnished brass key fell into my hand.

  It wouldn’t fit into the safe that was too modern. I checked the room to see if any of the furniture pieces required a key, but none did. Dropping it into my purse for safekeeping, I lay myself back against the pillow and stared at my grandmother’s photos again. I loved that she felt carefree enough to pose like this. I loved that they’d been done for her husband. My grandparents’ relationship was serious goals.

  No wonder she’d missed him so much. She’d never even remarried.

  It made me angry that Nana had to sell her home. Made me angry that other people moved in and took over. That someone else had found the treasure that my grandfather had tried so hard to find for himself and Nana.

  I closed my eyes and tried to see them again. Maybe they would come to me in another dream and I’d again wear a yellow sundress and see my life through Nana’s eyes. Instead, I listened to the next feeder band swish against the window panes and fell asleep from mental exhaustion.

  The native man tugged at my feet.

  He wanted me out of bed. I knew I was dreaming, but it felt real. Lucid. The wind outside picked up, but when I followed him past the door to Room 3, things were not the same. It was Florida alright, but Florida many years ago before it’d earned a Spanish name. No buildings, no cars, no palm trees.

  Just beach and palmetto plants and abodes made out of sticks and dry fronds. Chickees, the man told me. This was his village. These were his people.

  I looked around and saw many of them—men, women, children, old ones, babies.

  They worked together in harmony. The men speared their fish just a few feet into the water and the women cleaned the fish and prepared them for meals. The children helped too, though several of them chased each other around the beach, ignoring their responsibilities. Fire gave the air a scent of sweet smokiness, and I felt like I’d been here before a long time ago.

  This is my home, he told me. It wasn’t English.

  It wasn’t any language I recognized, yet I understood him without him uttering a word. It was my home too, many years ago, before the Europeans. His face sagged when he pointed this out to me, and my basic knowledge of this land’s history told me why. But this dream wasn’t about history, nor was it about what they were doing in his village.

  It was about the fire.

  He pointed to it and told me that the women were using it to send messages to the sky gods. They’d burn the herbs and cast their intentions, focusing clearly on what they wanted, releasing their wishes into the ether. I could do it, too, but my mind was focused on the mathematical. The logical.

  I didn’t know what to tell him.

  This wasn’t my world and these weren’t my practices.

  He told me they were and always had been.

  Then he disappeared, leaving me in the current day garden, feeling like my life had been empty until now but was ready to be filled.

  When I woke up, I had a hard time remembering where I was. Disorientation hit me like a box truck, but then I saw the shutters. They’d been blown open. Cigarette smoke filled my room, even though I wasn’t a smoker. Maybe one of the other guests were outside smoking?

  I was about to get up and close the windows when the sheets were suddenly torn off the bed. By themselves. Just flew and landed on the floor in a heap. I stood there, shaking, not knowing what the hell to do. Visions were one thing, but visions didn’t tear sheets off your bed. Fine, it was perhaps-maybe-possibly possible that ghosts existed. And I had an idea of who’d just been here, who’d come to harass me.

  The woman next door who smoked. My grandmother’s neighbor from long ago.

  NINE

  I spent the rest of the day trying to make sense of what was happening. Between my dreams, the photos I’d found, the visions, smells, and things I’d seen, plus Syndia’s crazy talk about treasure, I felt rationality slipping away from me.

  I also refreshed the National Hurricane Center’s website often trying to keep up with everything going on in the earthly world, too. Hurricane Mara headed this way but wouldn’t arrive for another day and a half or so. The on-and-off rain had turned into beautiful skies, which one weather lady on TV said was “God’s way of giving us time to prepare.”

  What if we didn’t believe in God?

  I’d forgotten all about the rental car. It’d probably been towed by now, and I’d have to face a fee. Reportedly, traffic out of the Keys was stop-and-go, and those staying behind were out buying supplies, clearing store shelves of water, milk, bread, and canned goods. Traffic along Roosevelt had increased, and trucks drove by hauling plywood and piles of sand. Everywhere, people helped each other, and it prompted me to go see Syndia, ask if she needed to do anything to prepare.

  I followed the garden path down to the main building and entered. The TV with the same weather station was on again, and I heard sniffling sounds coming from the front desk. Syndia sat there, head bowed at her desk.

  “Do you need help preparing or anything?” I asked, then realized I should’ve coughed before sneaking up on her. Not that she ever did the same when sneaking up on me.

  She looked up with tears in her eyes. “We’ve been bringing things in. You can help if you like.” I felt bad for her and her situation, but something told me I shouldn’t ask about it. I was sure I’d get blamed for it anyway.

  “What about shutters?” I looked around. “I don’t see any. Isn’t that of utmost importance?”

  “Utmost importance to me is if you could leave, Whitaker,” she sneered, a hard bite in her voice. Ouch. “It’s hard enough preparing for a storm with a guest like you here. I would kick you out, but by law, I have to prov
ide shelter.”

  “I’m sorry. I only want to learn more about my grandparents. It’s only fair, since they lived on half your property once.”

  “Well, you picked the wrong week to come. My mother is at a funeral home about to be embalmed, I’m trying to figure out how to pay for her funeral and bills if this storm hits…” Her voice built a crescendo as she went on. “And to make it all worse, you’re playing detective when my stress is through the roof!” Her jaw clenched tight.

  I swallowed. “I only asked if I could help.”

  “You could help by leaving.” She gritted through her yellowed teeth.

  “I don’t think I can do that.” When would I have another chance to come back? What if she sold the inn and turned it back into a private home? Then, I’d never have the same opportunity again.

  “Well, I’m fresh out of information to give you.” She scoffed, exasperated. “What more do you want from me?”

  “I want to know why my grandmother was forced to leave when she loved it here.”

  “She couldn’t pay her mortgage. Simple as that. Why can’t you let it lie?”

  “Because I don’t believe that,” I said to my own surprise. What was I saying? That I suspected foul play, and here I was telling the very descendant of those who may have caused my grandmother harm? I needed to quit while I was ahead.

  “What do you believe then?” A challenging look crossed her face.

  I didn’t have much to go on, only hunches, gut feelings, the sort of stuff I made fun of my own mother for having. No facts, only photos of my grandmother young, naked, and happy, and hallucinations by the dozens.

  “I believe the truth always comes out,” I said. “I’m sorry about your mother. It must be difficult what you’re going through.” And then I stepped out of the front desk and called a Lyft driver for one more trip downtown, hoping to find answers before it was time to hunker down for Mara.