There's No Place Like Home (The One Series Book 3)

by Jasinda Wilder

  The sound of the sea has always been a constant in my life. In St. Pete, in Miami, in Ft. Lauderdale. Always, always the sea, always near.

  Henry in my arms…god…it didn’t get any better than this.

  I woke, and my arms were empty, and my heart was empty. I sat up in my bunk and cradled the emptiness in my arms, and sobbed Henry’s name quietly, because the last thing I needed was to answer questions from the crew about why I was sobbing so hard.

  It was the silent, breathless sob, the kind where you can’t catch your breath because the grief is just so fucking razor sharp. And when you do catch a breath, it’s a shuddering, a quavering wail hidden in a pillow, and then more breathlessness, shaking, shoulders heaving.

  Thinking about Henry is too painful—I’ve been avoiding thinking about him as much as possible. Unhealthy, perhaps, I know: how am I to heal from his death if I can’t even think his name? But I just can’t. It’s too hard. It hurts too bad—almost as much even now as it did the day he died.

  Finally, I fell back into a fitful, restless sleep.

  Which became another dream.

  This one was about Christian.

  I think it was informed by the movie I watched last night, before falling asleep: The English Patient, one of a small number of DVDs on this boat.

  In my dream, Christian was sitting in a wheelchair, an old one with a wicker back and wide tarnished wheels and wooden handles. The footrests were too short to properly support his long legs. He was wearing loose blue scrub pants, and a dirty white T-shirt. He was unshaven, an unkempt, untrimmed beard obscuring his handsome jaw. There were palm trees waving in a constant breeze, and it seemed hot in the dream. I don’t know how to put it—there was just a feeling of heat, an awareness of it, rather than actually feeling it myself. His hair was too long, and his eyes were…vacant. He was staring into nothingness, but seeing something. His lips were moving—just his bottom lip, lifting, curling in, tucking into his upper teeth, and relaxing. Whispering something?

  My name—

  Ava…

  Ava…

  There was a flash, in the dream—a jump from one image to another. Suddenly Christian was above me, staring down at me. His eyes were full of love and he was whispering my name. Not just whispering it, though. It was…a benediction. A prayer. I was his goddess, and he was worshipping me.

  Another flash-jump and the dream went back to Christian in the wheelchair. He was hurt—injured, but healing. Casts on his left leg and left arm, covering the entirety of both limbs, and a smaller cast on his right arm from elbow to wrist, the casts dirty, aged, smudged.

  He had a notebook balanced on his right thigh, secured in place with his left hand. In his right hand he held a pen, a blue ballpoint. He stared into nothingness, whispering my name—I heard nothing, there was no sound, just a vision of him. In an old, rickety wheelchair, somewhere hot, with palm trees all around.

  It felt…real.

  So real.

  TOO real.

  It felt like I was seeing him, as he was, in that moment.

  I don’t believe in mystical, fairy tale, fantasy novel bullshit like clairvoyance or anything like that. It’s fun fodder for stories, but in reality? No. You can’t hear thoughts; you can’t see in your mind someone thousands of miles away. It’s fiction, stuff for stories.

  But in that dream? It was real. That was Christian. Evidence of him, alive. There was not a thought in my mind, no question in my heart, no doubt in my soul. That was him. My husband, my Christian. Alive. Real. Whispering my name, as he so often did when making love to me.

  Upon waking, I lost the surety.

  Could it be real? Could I truly have seen him in my dream as he was right now?

  I’ve never wanted to believe anything so desperately in my life; I did not want to doubt that it was real, that it was possible. But doubt, like rot seeping into wood, slow, subtle, almost unnoticeable, tainted the beauty of the dream.

  It had been a lovely dream—I remember very clearly the sense of love emanating from him as he whispered my name. I remember very clearly the relief I felt when I saw him in the dream: it was him! He was real, he was alive!

  Then I awoke and the love and the relief disappeared.

  A million thoughts coruscated through me as I woke, and pondered the dream.

  Where is he? Even injured, could he not come to me, could he not find me? Contact me in some way?

  But how? Our Ft. Lauderdale home is gone, and we never had a landline, and he hasn’t tried my cell phone, hasn’t tried my email. Delta, breaking out as a country music star, is away on a national tour and is unable to respond to communication frequently. How could he possibly find me?

  He could, if he wanted. He’s Christian: he has been all over the world, knows people everywhere, knows all the ports of call where ships with passengers are most likely to go. He knows how to find people.

  And then I doubt the dream. I chide myself for being ridiculous, to think a dream could bear any resemblance to reality. It was just a dream. It was my longing for my husband making itself known in my dreams. It was just a dream, and nothing but a dream.

  BUT…

  WHAT IF…

  The idea that Chris could still be alive plagues me.

  * * *

  [From Ava’s handwritten journal; November 12, 2016]

  I miss Darcy and Bennet, the puppy and kitten Christian gave me before he left on his sea journey. They went missing during the storm. I remember hearing Darcy yowling and barking, and Bennet meowing, and then the roof fell in on me as I took cover in the bathtub.

  When the storm started intensifying and I realized I had to take shelter, I tried to get them to get in the tub with me, and managed to get Bennet in with me for a few minutes, but he jumped out, and Darcy flat out refused to get in with me. After the roof caved in, I heard a bark, Darcy’s sweet voice, but it was distant. And I may have hallucinated it, or imagined it, but I thought I heard little paws ticking and scrabbling across the chunk of drywall imprisoning me in the tub.

  I like to imagine that Darcy and Bennet are still out there, somewhere in Ft. Lauderdale, safe and happy. Maybe they stuck together and found a family who adopted them. Like in…what’s that movie with the pug and the cat? Milo and Otis.

  I have an entire story made up in my head.

  They found each other in the storm and took shelter together under an overpass. Wet, shivering, and missing me, they huddled there until the storm blew out, and then they went out looking for me. But the way back to the condo was blocked, and by the time they found a way there, the building was mostly rubble. And in the process of looking for me, a kindly older man found them, and brought them home to feed them, and wash them, and he gave Bennet a saucer of warm milk—even though cats are lactose intolerant and shouldn’t have all that much, except as a rare treat—and he gave Darcy a rawhide bone. The old man, whose name would be Roger, and his wife, Tabitha, used to have a cat and a dog, but they both passed away from age, and now the couple have Darcy and Bennet to love and take care of, and though my kitty and pup miss me, they’re glad to have someone to cuddle with. And maybe Roger and Tabitha have grandchildren who come over and play with them, little ones to lick and snuggle.

  That’s what I like to imagine, anyway: my kitty and pup, alive and well and safe. Home, and loved.

  Everything I’m not. Well, I’m alive, I suppose.

  Sort of.

  Am I, though? Technically, I am alive. I draw breath, my heart beats. But life—LIFE—isn’t that something more than breathing, something different?

  I don’t know.

  Have I ever known what Life truly is? Is it just having a home and a husband? Is it accomplishments? Is it being a mother? Is it…I don’t know. Is it something I haven’t considered, something I don’t understand?

  Right now, life feels futile. Empty. Pointless.

  But the dream of Christian, fucking haunts me.

  HE haunts me.

  I wake up
thinking I’ve heard his voice, and that he’s whispering my name.

  I’m coming, Chris. I’m coming. I’m looking for you. I’ll find you. I swear, I’ll find you.

  Where or when, I don’t know. But I’ll find you. I promise.

  4

  [From a handwritten notebook; date unknown]

  A gladness sparks in me,

  A fragment of madness,

  A particulate of joy.

  It is a small thing, a tiny thing, elemental, wild, tremulous, and fragile.

  There is frost on my heart, a crackling coldness at the edges,

  spiderweb cracks reaching hungry fingers inward.

  The spark, it warms me, pushes at the edges of the ice.

  Whence comes this gladness?

  Whence, the mad fragment?

  Whence, the fractal iota of joy?

  I know not,

  I know only that it judders and shakes inside me,

  singing a nearly silent song,

  trembling in the shadows of my soul.

  Does it come from the cool breeze on my skin,

  which awakens some shiver of memory?

  Does it come from the shiver of memory itself,

  from the slither of knowing

  coiled deep in my fallow, fertile mind?

  If Memory slithers, it is a silent, sneaking serpent,

  Which craves to remain unfound.

  But the slither, I feel it,

  I feel the glide of scales,

  feel the smooth skin in hints,

  feel the questing hiss of the tongue.

  Memory is a serpent,

  And I seek it in the tall grasses,

  watch the grass as it moves against the wind,

  evidence of that which I seek.

  Is it thence from which comes the spark of gladness?

  I think no.

  Because it is a false joy.

  Think of the madman,

  clad in straitjacket and chains,

  howling in his padded cell.

  He laughs, does he not?

  He ululates, and drools, and gibbers.

  But through it all, he laughs.

  A wild cackle.

  A crazed guffaw.

  A manic chortle.

  Thus am I.

  Minute by minute,

  Hour by hour,

  Day by day,

  Week by week,

  Month by month,

  I sit in this be-damned imprisoning chair,

  rickety, ancient, and creaking,

  staring at the swaying palms,

  suffering the heat, batting at flies.

  Scribbling.

  Hoping my scribbles will form a net,

  which will ensnare that wily serpent:

  Memory.

  I cast my net wide.

  I weave it with strands of madness,

  Threads of fiction,

  Filaments of truth,

  All part of the warp and weft of my tapestry,

  Which is my net.

  Which is all that I am, all that I have of myself,

  whatever sense of self I possess

  in this mad, waiting time.

  So,

  This spark of gladness…

  What is it?

  It is momentary, at best.

  Easily devoured by the cold,

  Drowned in the shadows

  Which obscure my mind.

  I want to cup that spark in my hands,

  frame it with my palms,

  protect it, nurture it.

  Breathe gently upon it,

  catalyze the spark into a flame,

  Fan the flame into a blaze,

  Pour accelerant on the blaze,

  Make it a pyre,

  A wildfire,

  An inferno,

  Brighter than the sun, hotter than an African noon,

  So bright it sheds light upon me, banishing the shadows,

  Illuminating the serpent,

  Which is named Memory.

  I wish to be free of this place.

  Rise from this wheeled chair which is my prison,

  Free from the plaster binding my arms and my legs,

  Free from the pain in my ribs,

  Free from the throbbing emptiness of my knowledge of self,

  Free to venture forth,

  And find

  ME.

  Find the ruins of the life I led,

  And resurrect them.

  Rebuild them.

  Or, failing that,

  Build anew.

  5

  [From a handwritten notebook; date unknown]

  I see us in a million montages.

  My pen flies, scratching and scritching and scribbling fast and wild, and I have no control over the words that emerge. I feel them, a pent-up flood. They are dammed inside me, and they must spill out, must find vent—I am a steam engine under too much pressure, and if I do not vent, I will explode.

  I feel these words, the images and the sorcery that now trickle down to my pen. They are dark, and they are fraught with tragedy and tears, and they roil uneasily inside me, seeking a path outward.

  I cannot stop them, and so I write what I see in my mind—

  You and me, Ava, in a million vignettes. Visions of us.

  I am trying to weave them into a choate formation, a string of pearls each of which is laden with imagery, and memory, and truth.

  A memory, whole and yet incomplete, without context or frame:

  A sward of green, the hue so vibrant the eye begs relief from the intensity of it. Beneath us, a quilt—one of the very few childhood possessions which I treasure; this quilt was handmade by my great-grandmother, passed down and passed down and passed down, eventually to me. It is made from squares of flannel, patches from wool shirts, canvas coats, and calico dresses, scraps of rags and tatters of cloth, all pieced together in an abstract pattern, with a white rim around the edges, which family lore claims are the remnants of a sail from a ship a forebear once captained. This quilt upon which we lie is warm from the sun. On it, beside us, an empty bottle of Sangiovese, a closed pocketknife, a slivered remnant from a block of cheese, the butt end of a large summer sausage, and an empty sleeve which once held crackers.

  I am on my back, my head pillowed on my backpack, and you are lying beside me, curled up against me, your head on my chest. You have your phone in your hands, the bottom of it resting on my stomach. You are supposed to be studying notes from your literature class in preparation for an upcoming exam, but instead you are scrolling through social media, sniffing out gossip and commenting on it to me, which I only half hear. I am reading from a dog-eared paperback: Out of the Silent Planet, by C.S. Lewis—the second and third books in the trilogy are in my backpack, waiting to be reread for the dozenth time.

  We are replete, content, happy. We need not talk, and indeed, we have been lying here, silently, and I have nearly read a third of the book already.

  There is a strain of something running between us, a tension, a tremor of awareness: it is revealed in the way your hands, holding the phone, slowly creep toward my belt line, and in the way my hand, once resting easily on your arm, now slides to cup your side and hip to begin slow affectionate circles on your backside.

  We allow the tremor to grow, allow the tension room to breathe, space to grow. We are in no hurry to let that spark grow into flame; we know it will, and soon, and we enjoy the buildup as much as we do the event of mutual release.

  Another memory:

  You, beneath me, naked; I know your body intimately, every inch of it.

  You have a spray of freckles on the round of your left shoulder. A thin white line on your right hip, a scar from scaling a chain-link fence in pursuit of your sister. Another spray of freckles on the right globe of your ass—these are a favorite of mine. Afterward, in the delicate silent postcoital glow, you sometimes lie on your stomach, head pillowed on crossed arms, dozing, and I trace patterns between the freckles on your buttock, as if I am creating
new charts in the stars. You have dimples in the sides of each butt cheek. Fine hairs on your forearm, which you bemoan but which I find adorable. A mole on your back, low, on the right side. A single freckle on your right breast, on the inside, where your breast just begins to curve around underneath—I often lick and kiss this freckle on my way to your nipple, and you always gasp when I do so, in anticipation of my lips suckling around the erected, sensitive flesh.

  You are beneath me. You stare up at me. You gaze, lovingly, into my eyes, and you do not look away as you come apart. I see this moment, over and over and over again, the way your eyes widen even as your brows lower, and your mouth falls open, and your eyes betray your burgeoning ecstasy. Your legs are wrapped around my back, just above my tailbone, toes hooked around ankle. Your hands slide up my spine, furrow into my hair, and then claw downward once again as a silent scream shivers your mouth.

  You whisper something, as the shudders rack you—

  The words you whisper are lost to me.

  I want those words—they mean everything.

  What is it you whisper in the moment of our most intimate completion?

  My name, surely.

  Yet, I cannot hear you. My face is buried between your breasts and my chest heaves and my hips crash into yours and your name soars freely off of my lips, drowning out the syllables, which you whisper in the moment of your release.

  What is it you whisper, Ava?

  Please, tell me. Whisper those sounds to me again, even just once, I beg you.

  Come for me, and come with me: I will hear those sweet, dulcet syllables blooming from your lips and I will know myself, and I will know I am home.