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

by Jasinda Wilder

  It’s cathartic, for me.

  I don’t write.

  I try not to remember—or rather, I don’t try to remember. I let the memories come as they will, and they do come.

  I remember being at sea. I remember the snap of a sail, the wind slicing across the bow. Spray on my face. Joy in the journey. Nights at anchor, in the harbor of a tiny island somewhere remote, watching fish leap and the moon rise, watching bioluminescence wash ashore with a blue-green glow.

  I remember shopping with Ava, simple grocery shopping, grabbing cans of soup and testing fruit for ripeness and putting boxes of cereal and bags of bread and cases of beer into the cart, all done in easy synchronization.

  I remember Henry. Changing his diaper in the middle of the night. Playing with him on the floor of our condo. Pushing him in a stroller down a sidewalk, Ava at my side, smiling, bumping me with her shoulder, a coy smile on her lips.

  Sitting at a computer for hours, fingers flying.

  Signing a contract selling the film and merch rights to my book to a major production company.

  Buying a new car with Ava—a Range Rover Sport Supercharged, a sleek white powerful beast, a symbol of our new success.

  Ava, Ava, Ava in a million images, a thousand different emotions, hundreds of expressions on her beautiful face—laughing, crying, angry, drunk, sleepy, crawling across the bed with hunger for me in her eyes…

  I remember it all.

  But what is it still lurking underneath the surface, like a circling shark? It’s the reason I was found in the ocean, shipwrecked, it’s the reason I’m alone, the reason I’m crossing the ocean in search of her. What happened?

  I don’t want to know…God help me, I don’t want to remember.

  But I have to.

  I feel it at my teeth, pounding at my heart, throbbing against my skull, and I know I have to excise it.

  I retreat to the narrow cot I share in shifts with another man, prop my notebook on my thighs, and begin to write:

  [From Christian’s handwritten journal; November 26, 2016]

  The bottle is a silent judge, a sentinel reminding me of my sins.

  It is a tall bottle, square-sided instead of cylindrical. A label across the front—Johnnie Walker Black Label. It once contained 750ml of blended scotch—that scotch is now almost all gone, coursing through my bloodstream.

  Where am I? It’s hard to tell; the world spins, twists. Topples. Whirls. Blurs.

  Blackness, but woven through with blips and washes of silver; movement. What is it I am seeing?

  Stars. Waves.

  The sky and the sea.

  Where am I? I am not moving—the world is. Am I on a boat? I don’t think so.

  I hear a sound, a susurrus, a constant, soothing, shushing noise: the crash of waves on a shore. The waves are to my right, close.

  Something cold licks against my right side, licking, ceasing, licking, ceasing.

  Above, stars. Not a lot of them. A few, here and there. If I focus hard enough, I can see them. The brightest stars, brilliant silver specks.

  Beneath me, grit. Cold. Bitter. Sand? It makes a firm mattress beneath me, yet soft and shifting as well. Grit under my cheek. In my ear. Crunching between my molars. Coating my lips. Speckling and dancing in my nostrils as I gasp for breath. Fluttering under my eyelashes as I blink.

  I am on a beach. On my stomach in the sand, stars above, the sea to my right. The tide is coming in, the cold seawater lapping at me.

  I cannot move. My limbs are weak, full of jelly and lead. I try, however. Push my knees under me, dig my palms into the sand, until it covers them to my wrists. Make it to my hands and knees, but I’m off-kilter, and the world is spinning like a top, wobbling as in the moments before it loses momentum and topples over. Pause on my hands and knees for a moment, squinting—there, the condo building. Rows of orange-yellow squares, windows; light; home.

  Ava is in one of those squares. Which one? Bottom row, third from the left. Ground floor. She’ll be on the couch, and she’ll be in little better shape than me—on her back, head propped on a throw pillow, a bottle of wine dangling listlessly from one hand, empty. Another bottle or two on the coffee table, also empty. The TV will be on, reruns of some reality show flickering, faces and voices and occasional glimpses of cars and city scenes.

  I crawl a step. Two. Wobbly, like a newborn calf.

  I lurch, and topple forward, face-planting in the sand. I roll to my back, groaning, and spit out crunchy flecks of grit. Above, six or seven of the brightest stars coruscate and glint and wink, and then spin and twist and multiply. I plant my hand and elbow in the sand and try to roll back to my stomach, but only make it halfway before slamming back down.

  I lie there for who knows how long, counting the same few points of light—there is too much light pollution to truly see the stars, and as I lie there I half dream of being on a boat, out on the sea, the stars above countless in their millions.

  My stomach clenches, mimicking the crashing roll of the surf.

  I barely make it to my side before vomit slams against my teeth, and then I spew it into the sand, bitter and acidic and hot.

  Vomiting clarifies my mind, somewhat.

  But I don’t want clarification. I want the blurred nothingness. I want to drown in dizziness.

  Because with clarity comes memory.

  The flatline beep.

  A nurse in maroon scrubs solemnly silencing the monitor and removing wires and tubes. Ava sobbing, crumpled on the floor. My own tears, silent but sharper than razors. My inability to sob—I simply cannot. I want to, but cannot.

  Ava, her mind gone, her eyes vacant. A thousand questions, decisions to make. Casket choices. Burial plots. Which minister will perform the service? Will there be a memorial?

  Coming home from the hospital, finally, and seeing his bedroom. The blue binky on the floor, next to a stuffed lamb. A board book, and one of those things with the colorful rings of ascending size, for stacking. The trash can with dirty diapers still in it. The changing table, a drawer still open, a half-empty package of Huggies protruding, a diaper half out of the ripped-open hole. His closet, open, with a sailor suit and his first Halloween costume—the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man—and sweaters and little blazers from Old Navy and The Children’s Place. I had to close the door before I shattered into a million pieces.

  I don’t want these memories.

  I still see Henry gasping. I still see the green accordion bag squeezing and expanding ever so slowly.

  No, no, no. Please, no.

  I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want to see it.

  So I force myself to sit up, reach for the nearly empty bottle, and take another drink, glugging until the bottle is empty.

  Throw it aside—the bottle clunks into the sand with a dull hollow thud; wind blows, whistling across the mouth of the bottle.

  The sky and the sea move and rotate around me. The ground beneath me heaves.

  Shadows weave themselves around me, cling to me, reach up and drag me down. The sand welcomes me. The shadows play around my eyes, play ring-around-the-rosy games. Darkness is a constricting ring. I can’t stay awake.

  I have enough sense to roll to one side, until sand presses cold and gritty against my cheekbone.

  I welcome the darkness.

  The darkness swallows me, subsuming memory and pain…

  If only briefly, temporarily.

  And then I see you. You’re striding toward me. It’s the pink-gray-orange of just before true dawn. I’m in the sand, facedown, head twisted to one side, my body angled partly toward the sea. I see you blurrily, multiples of you twisting and rotating. But it’s you. You haven’t left the condo in weeks; you’re skeletally thin, frail, and delicate; you’ve just started eating again.

  You haven’t spoken to me in weeks.

  My eyes want to close, and I see you through the haze of my eyelashes. Do you know I’m awake? I don’t think so.

  You plop into the sand beside me. I can
not move, don’t even try; even breathing requires effort.

  I see the outside of your thigh, your knees drawn up against your chest, arms around your legs. Your chin rests on your knees.

  “I fucking hate you.” Your voice is a whisper, raspy from disuse; are you speaking to me? I don’t know. “He’s dead…he’s dead, and it’s your fault, and I fucking hate you for it.”

  Are you talking to me? To yourself? To God? I haven’t moved, I’m barely breathing, and my eyes are nearly shut, so it’s hard to believe you’d know I was awake.

  I don’t know anything, right then.

  I believe you hate me, though. I believe you blame me. I blame myself.

  You sit there for a while, and I drift in and out of consciousness. Eventually, you stand up, brush sand off your butt, and you walk away.

  I watch you go and I barely recognize you, as I barely recognized the hoarse rasp of your voice.

  Your words toll in my skull like a bell.

  I FUCKING HATE YOU.

  It’s all I hear, again and again.

  I see the grave, and his name etched into the stone. The dates of his birth and death, representing a tragically tiny fraction of life:

  * * *

  Henry Christopher Michael St. Pierre

  Beloved son, gone too soon.

  June 24, 2014—April 3, 2015

  * * *

  Your hatred of me was a palpable thing. It seethed in the air of our condo. Filled it like a cloud of poison. You never spoke it again, not after that moment on the beach—in which you may have been talking to yourself or to God.

  I know I said similar things to myself, and to God.

  I never said them or thought to you or about you, though. I never hated you.

  I still don’t hate you.

  Even as I write these words, on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic, in the middle of the night, I don’t hate you.

  If anything, I hate myself.

  All this is awful to remember.

  Your hatred.

  The ice between us.

  The silence which exuded from you was an arrow shot from a bow. It hit dead center, right in my heart. The silence struck me full force, and in many ways, killed me.

  I died. Not just in the ocean, eight months ago, but before that.

  I died the day I walked away from you.

  I remember that, too:

  I walked through the condo one last time. Paused at our bed, staring at it. I saw in my mind all the love we’d made in that bed. I wondered if I’d ever see you again. Wondered if I’d ever touch you again. Wondered if I’d ever peel away your clothes again and reveal that perfect creamy skin, your lovely curves, your perfect softness. I wondered, as I stared at our bed, if I’d ever have you in my hands again, if we’d ever move and breathe and whisper each other’s names in the silence of a lazy morning.

  That nearly broke me. Nearly cracked my resolve.

  Maybe…maybe if I try again, I thought, maybe if I try harder, I’ll reach her, finally. Maybe, just maybe, she’ll respond to me. Maybe she’ll love me again.

  I’d already written a goodbye note, already moved all my things to the boat; all that was left was to leave.

  I hadn’t really even needed to come back here.

  But I did.

  I came back to say goodbye.

  Because I knew nothing would change. I knew I’d never get you back. I knew I couldn’t take the hatred and the silence anymore.

  So I left our bedroom, and our bed, and all the memories tangled up in those sheets.

  Darcy, the puppy, was curled up at your feet, at the end of the couch. Bennet, the kitten, was prowling around, sniffing things, tail tip flicking. You were passed out. I knelt beside you; Darcy woke up and sniffed me, licked my hand as I reached for you.

  I brushed a lock of your hair aside, hoping the touch would wake you. I had a brief fantasy, in that moment, that you would open your eyes and I’d see that love there again and you’d kiss me and we would make it through together.

  But you didn’t. You didn’t even stir. I brushed the tendril of hair away, tucked it behind your ear. My throat clogged. My eyes burned, tears quavering at the corners, which I desperately fought to hold back.

  “Ava.” I whispered your name.

  Hoping you’d wake up and would love me again.

  “Ava.” Once more, a little louder, no longer sotto voce.

  It was a plea, from me to you—please wake up, please love me again.

  Nothing.

  Silence—as throughout the preceding three months…I received only silence from you.

  I stood up—waited, barely breathing, for you to move, to stir, to look at me sleepily, like you used to, blueblueblueblue eyes soft and sweet with love and affection.

  You didn’t.

  “Ava.” I tried one last time, my voice breaking. “Please—” this last word was broken, barely an audible, intelligible word.

  I choked.

  The silence was thick and stifling, the silence was a fist around my throat, choking the life out of me.

  No more—no more—no more. I couldn’t take any more.

  I backed away two steps, then three more, my eyes on you, asleep on the couch, too thin, an empty wine bottle on its side near to hand.

  The silence was profound, and total. There wasn’t even the ticking of a clock, only complete and utter silence.

  Emptiness.

  I stood there, holding the doorknob, watching you sleep, willing you to wake up and take it back, tell me you loved me.

  Finally, no breath left in my lungs, unshed tears hot in my eyes, my hands shaking, I twisted the knob. Opened the door. Darcy lifted his head and watched me, curious, as I turned and walked out.

  I left you, Ava.

  I sailed away.

  I knew you needed me, but I left anyway.

  I was too weak. Too broken. Too dead inside. Too heavy with my own grief and failure.

  I left you, Ava.

  I left you.

  God, I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry.

  16

  [Dakar, Senegal; December 1, 2016]

  Dominic is conversationally fluent in French; I guess it makes sense that someone who travels the world would know a smattering of languages. We arrived in Dakar around midday, which, according to Dominic, was something of a miracle, as it should have taken us much longer to get here, but the storm worked in our favor and pushed us east.

  He’s conversing with two men, using a complicated mixture of English, French, and gesticulation—one of the men is a translator who knows some English and French as well as the African dialect which is the only language the third man speaks.

  A long, convoluted conversation is taking place, the translator speaking alternately to Dominic and then to the tall, hard-eyed fisherman with skin the color of ebony. I’m not following any of the discussion but I’ve deduced that, somehow, the fisherman knows something about Christian. What exactly he knows I’m not sure. I’ve heard a few phrases here and there which I recognize, but nothing I can really follow.

  After ten minutes of chatter and a fifty-dollar bill to the sailor and another to the translator, Dominic leads me away from the wharf to a small hole-in-the-wall café. Dominic orders us coffee thicker and blacker than actual sludge which is served in tiny cups, along with several dishes of spicy-smelling food.

  “So.” Dominic sips his coffee, and digs into the food. “We’re in luck. We’ve got our first lead.”

  “You sound like a PI from a seventies cop show.”

  “I kinda feel like one,” Dominic says.

  “What did the guy say? Did he know Christian?”

  Dominic holds out a palm and waggles it side to side. “Not directly. He’s just in from Conakry, in Guinea, which is a few hundred miles south of here, and he heard a story being told by some other fisherman.”

  I dig into the food too, and sip the coffee with a lot of grimacing. “What was the gist of the story?”

/>   “Several months ago, some fishermen were lost in a crazy out-of-season hurricane, and they hauled a white guy out of the drink. He had no ID, no memory, no nothing. He was half-dead, just floating in the ocean miles from anything.”

  “Oh my god, that could be Christian!” I exclaim.

  “Exactly. So—according to the story our guy heard—these fishermen brought him to a hospital they knew of just outside Conakry, and they left the guy there and figured that was the end of it, right? Well, it doesn’t end there.

  “Fast forward to just a few days ago, and these same fishermen are getting ready to put out for a trip down the coast, trawling for whatever fish is in season over here. A doctor from the hospital where they’d taken the man comes aboard their boat and says the guy they fished out of the ocean is alive, has recovered his memory and is trying to get back to his life in the States, and he needs their help. Well, these are coastal fishermen, right? They don’t do transatlantic crossings. Yet, somehow, the doctor convinces them to make the trip, with the same guy they’d plucked out of the sea a few months ago, half-dead and without a memory.”

  I feel a thrill of excitement. “So he’s alive?”

  Dominic makes a face and holds up his hands palms out. “Well, I don’t want you to get too excited just yet. It COULD be him, but it may not be. I mean, there’s a lot of white males out there, sailing the world, right? And it’s entirely possible this is some other white guy who went missing at sea.”

  “But what are the odds?” I ask.

  Dominic nods. “I know, I know. I have a feeling it’s him. I just…I want you to keep a level head, okay? We gotta take this one step at a time.”

  “So, what’s the next step? Do we know where this hospital is? Where’d you say it was?”

  “Conakry. Or, just outside it, actually. It’ll take us a few days to get there, and then we just have to hope it was him, and that they know how to find him.”