by Lucy Clarke
If Jeanette hadn’t followed them to Dorset, Jackson would still be alive. If she hadn’t pushed him on the rocks, he’d still be alive. If the tackle box hadn’t been behind him . . . If the waves and current hadn’t been so fierce . . .
Her mind whirls and tips. Her scalp is too hot. She needs air. She lets go of the coat and rises unsteadily to her feet, Callie and Saul’s gazes moving with her as she crosses the room.
Jeanette stands in the doorway, her face white. “I never meant for it to happen. I loved him.”
As Eva passes her, she reaches out and grips Jeanette’s left hand, looking at her gold wedding band. “You don’t deserve to be wearing that.”
Then she lets go, and Jeanette’s arm drops in the space between them.
Leaving the room, Eva moves along the hallway where she’d once tiptoed around, stealing through doorways in search of Jackson. For months she’d been living with the feeling that something about Jackson’s death was being concealed. As she steps out into daylight, her body trembles with adrenaline and the relief of finally knowing the truth.
33
The journey back to Wattleboon Island takes six hours and it’s dark by the time they pull up in the lane behind the shack. Stepping from the car, Callie arches her back to loosen the tension knotted around her shoulder blades. She can feel a headache stirring, sharp needles behind her eyes.
Eva fetches her bag, then pushes the passenger door shut. The inside vehicle light goes out, and for a moment, Callie and Eva both stand in the darkness listening to the bay stirring ahead of them.
Eva’s barely spoken a word the entire journey, just gazed out of the window, her arms hugged tight to her middle. Callie tried talking to her, gently asking how she was feeling, but she’d shrugged off any answer.
Now, in the darkness beneath the trees, Eva speaks. “I’ve decided. I’m going back to England with you.”
“You are? Tomorrow?”
“If there are still seats available.”
“I’m sure there will be. I’ll call the airline to book.” Callie touches her brow. “Right. Wow. And what, you’ll go back to London? Take my spare room?”
“If that’s okay?”
“Of course.” Callie’s thoughts race ahead, thinking how she will look after Eva and help her start a new life, one where Tasmania is only a dot on a map on the other side of the world.
Yet she also feels herself hesitating because, despite how much she’d love Eva to come home, she wants something else for her, too. “What about Saul?”
“I’ll go over and tell him.”
“That’s it?”
Eva’s gaze drifts over the dark bay. “That’s it.”
Callie might have had her reservations about Eva’s relationship with Saul, but since returning to Wattleboon, she’s beginning to understand how deeply he cares about her. At Jeanette’s his eyes barely left Eva, and in the driveway outside he’d caught up with Callie, saying, “Please, don’t let her drive.” Up until now she’d felt it’d be cleaner if Eva walked away, as it all seemed too hard, too complicated. But then, isn’t anything worth having always hard? “I’m not sure this is the right decision.”
“What?” Eva says, turning to face her. “I thought you wanted me to go with you.”
“I do. I really do. But only if it’s the right thing for you.”
A wallaby or a possum shifts somewhere in the bush and a bird comes flying out, dipping low over Callie’s head. She feels the breeze from its wings reach her neck and she shivers.
Eva looks back at the black depths of the bush. Her voice is low as she says, “I’ve already stayed too long.”
Callie allows a pause. “Why have you?”
“I was looking for answers.”
“I don’t think that was the only reason.”
Eva says nothing and Callie can’t read her expression in the dark.
“I just don’t want you to leave because it’s the easiest route—or because you’re afraid of what staying might mean.” Callie pauses. “We haven’t even talked about what went on at Jeanette’s.”
Eva remains silent.
“Please, just tell me what you’re feeling. I want to help.”
“I feel like I’m being torn in two!” Eva says with a sudden force, like a door blown open by a sharp gust, before quickly slamming shut again.
After a few moments, she says more softly, “I’m shattered, okay? I just want to get on with packing up the shack. I know you’re trying to help by making sure I’ve thought this through, but I have. I’ve been sitting in the car for hours and hours thinking about it. I’m going home and you won’t change my mind.”
There’s not much Callie can say to that, so when Eva picks up her bag and walks toward the shack, she lets her.
IT IS EASIER TO do it without thinking, to keep moving and not pause. Eva piles her clothes into her case, only lingering a moment on Jackson’s checked shirt, her fingers caught in the tired and worn material. She still hasn’t recovered the photo of them at the jazz festival and wonders if it’ll turn up. She collects her shampoo, conditioner, soap, and face wash from the shower and zips them into her toiletries bag. She puts a few things aside for hand luggage: book, toothbrush, change of underwear, iPod, and headphones.
Next, she works through the shack emptying the fridge, sweeping out sand, wiping over surfaces with a damp cloth. She wants to keep up this motion—needs it in case she starts questioning her decision. But the plane seat is booked now. Callie made the call and Eva handed over her credit card.
She eats a slice of bread and a hunk of cheese while standing against the kitchen side. Then she pulls on a sweater and gathers the wetsuit, mask, and fins that Saul lent her. She leans in through Callie’s door. “I’m going to take this stuff back.”
Callie, who’s rolling a pile of dresses into her suitcase, looks up. She smiles at Eva, her face stained with regret. “Hope it goes okay.”
Outside, the air is cool, the sky clear and moonlit. Eva kicks off her sandals, wanting to feel the bay beneath her feet for a final time. She wanders close to the shoreline, where the sand is smooth and damp now that it’s low tide. It clings to her soles and she digs her toes into it as she moves.
The natural beauty of this island has settled deep within her; the salt has been on her skin, her lungs are filled with its air, the bay has carried her weight. She’s never experienced a connection to a place the way she has here and she feels the wrench of forcing herself free from it.
Eva pauses for a moment, tipping her head back to look at the night sky. She would love to free-dive one last time, kick deep beneath the layers of the ocean and simply hover among the fish, hear the fizz and whispers of the water. But she has run out of time. They are leaving first thing in the morning.
Instead she drops the wetsuit, mask, and fins on the shoreline and rolls up her jeans and wades into the bay. Cool water wraps around her ankles, sand shifting beneath her soles. Eva stirs the shallows with her toes. Moonlight catches on the ripples, painting them silver—the bay’s final attempt to seduce her.
Glancing up, she sees Saul’s house, the lights on. She thinks she catches his shape moving past the window. She doesn’t want to have to tell him she’s leaving, or have to look into his eyes knowing it is the last time she’ll see him.
But leaving is the only decision. She can’t stay because out here, surrounded by Jackson’s past, she feels herself slowly coming undone. Earlier, when she turned up at Jeanette’s and saw Saul’s truck parked outside, her gut reaction had been distrust. Maybe she would always see Saul as an extension of Jackson’s mistakes. And that wouldn’t be fair. Saul was worth more than that. Far more.
FROM THE LIVING ROOM, Saul can see the warm orange glow of light from Eva’s shack. She’s been back for an hour now but still hasn’t come to see him. He’s restless, unable to settle, fearing that she’s going to leave Tasmania.
He fetches a beer and drinks it, pacing around the house. His thoughts chur
n between Eva and Jackson and Jeanette. He stops by the window, looking through his reflection into the night as he thinks about everything Jeanette said. The guilt Jackson lived with over the bush fire must’ve been immense. The single decision not to phone the fire department shaped who he was to be ever after. Jackson must’ve seen the wreckage caused by that decision—their mother’s death, their father’s unraveling—and he would have blamed himself for it all.
Saul runs a hand over his jaw, trying to picture the morning Jackson died. His brother was fishing from the rocks when Jeanette came to him, threatening to destroy the only real piece of happiness he’d found. She had the power to break up his marriage, rip apart his family, and put Jackson in jail.
As Jackson stared into her eyes—the woman who had led him to believe Kyle was his son—he must’ve known she was about to ruin him. Saul imagines his brother’s anguish in those last few moments of his life and his heart caves with sympathy.
EVA REMAINS IN THE shallows, feeling her feet sinking deeper into the seabed, the cold numbing the small bones in her toes.
She recalls the bellowing fury of the waves that morning, smashing into the rocks in booming white explosions. She thinks of the current rolling and dragging Jackson, waves drawing back and sucking him under. And all the while Jeanette pacing the shoreline, desperate not to lose sight of her husband.
Of Eva’s husband.
Tears arrive, a warm stream spilling over her cheeks. She leans forward, burying her face in her hands as she weeps. Her shortened breath is warm against her palms; her shoulders quake. She wants to feel his arms around her one more time, to press her face against his neck and be held. She can’t bear that it is over.
She has no idea how long she stands there in the bay, but a movement on the shore breaks the rhythm of her sobs. There is a faint brush of fabric, the light sound of sand shifting beneath a shoe. She freezes, a cool shiver weaving down her spine as she realizes she’s not alone.
She knows Callie is in the shack and she thought she’d just seen Saul at his window. She removes her hands from her damp face, slowly looking up.
The dark shadow of a person stands on the shoreline, watching her. Then the person begins to turn, moving away from the water’s edge. There is something about the motion that is familiar.
She takes a step forward, her throat tightening. “Saul?”
The person pauses, his back to Eva.
Beneath her toes the seabed is sinking away. She thinks of the crabs stalking the shallows, black eyes searching. “Saul?” she says again.
And then, very slowly, the person turns.
She no longer hears the lapping of water against the shore, or the chorus of crickets in the bush. Every muscle in Eva’s body contracts and the force seems to push her outside herself, so she is hovering with the burning stars.
I want—so desperately—to make this better in any way I can.
I used to be the one who could soothe you. I would wrap my arms around you and whisper into your hair that everything would be okay, or squeeze your hand twice within mine, telling you: I’ve got you.
I want to do that now. I want to touch you, hold you, feel the warmth of your skin, breathe in the smell of your neck, trace the clavicle of your throat.
There is so much I need to tell you that would help you understand. I’ve been trying—moving the words around in the safe space of my thoughts. But it is no longer enough.
I need you to hear the truth.
I need to tell it.
“Eva,” I begin.
34
In the moonlight, Eva stares into a face that is so familiar, yet startlingly different. She doesn’t recognize the shaven head or the thick beard that hides his mouth. He wears dark trousers and a big jacket that overwhelms him so she can’t see his shape beneath it, can’t be sure.
But then he says her name—and it is his voice.
She steps backward, splashing into the shallows, her hands clasped to her mouth. The bay is around her ankles, the stars spinning in the sky. She needs to hold onto something, but there is only water and night.
“Eva,” he says again, that single word charged with emotion.
She stumbles back, but the seabed seems to slide out from beneath her and she falls, reaching out with her hands—but they slip through the water and her body follows. The bay closes around her, salt water shooting up her nostrils, filling her mouth.
She struggles to her feet, gasping, choking. Her clothes cling to her skin, weighing her down as if they’re pulling her back under. She staggers toward the shoreline—but he is rushing forward, toward her.
“No! No!”
He stops.
She stands up panting in the shallows, salt stinging her eyes.
“It’s me, Eva,” he is saying, but her hands are rising to her ears, covering them to block out what can’t be real.
She whispers to herself, “This isn’t real. It’s just in my mind . . .”
He takes a step forward until he is at the edge of the shoreline. The breeze carries his smell to her. The same earthy scent that had filled the shack and clung to the fabric of his checked shirt.
Jackson.
EVA’S HEAD IS FILLED with a rushing sound as if the sea is raging through her. She presses her fingers to her mouth, tries to speak, but no words come out. Everything seems to swirl and spin around her, the bay tilting behind her, the dark tree line ahead wavering. She tells herself to breathe. Breathe.
“I need to explain,” Jackson is saying. “There’s a lot . . . I don’t even know how to begin. I’ve imagined telling you this—telling you everything—for so long and now—fuck—I can’t think straight!” His hands move as he speaks—opening in front of him, touching the back of his head, scratching his jaw—the quick gestures dizzying her further. “I’ve been going through everything, explaining. Explaining it all. But now I’m here . . . saying it aloud, I don’t know . . . I can’t get the words . . .” He pauses, rolls back his shoulders, and takes a deep breath.
Eva hears the air being drawn into his lungs. Jackson is here. Breathing. On this beach. It is impossible. Yet he is here.
She looks down. She is still standing ankle-deep in the bay, her clothes are soaked, the sea dripping from her skin. Dark water moves around her feet but she does not feel the cold. She does not feel anything other than a looming, vertiginous sense of unreality.
Jackson steps forward again so he is now standing in the shallows right in front of her, no more than a couple of feet away. She is looking at his boots; they are heavy and dark, like workman’s boots. Her husband liked leather shoes that were well fitted and light to walk in.
“Eva?”
She lifts her head so her gaze meets his and she feels the familiarity of the angle her head has to adjust to. She is not mad. This is real. Real. A strangled gasp escapes her and she clamps a wet hand to her mouth.
“I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry, Eva. I didn’t drown that day. I thought I was going to . . . I really believed I would die.” Jackson shifts his weight from foot to foot. “The waves—they kept knocking me down . . . I got dragged right into the next bay.” There is a tremor to his voice and he snatches breaths as if he is not getting enough air. “I seized up with the cold—could barely swim. I got dragged as far as the harbor entrance.” He pauses. “That’s where I managed to scramble out.”
Eva feels as if the words are just skimming over her, not sinking in. Because all she is thinking is, You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead.
“I was so cold.” Then he shakes his head, saying, “No, cold’s not even the word for it. I’ve never felt anything like it. Maybe I was hypothermic. I couldn’t think straight. I crawled up the beach toward those boats—y’know, all the Lasers and rowing boats lined up on the sand?”
She stares. Water drips from her wet hair down her face. She feels salt stinging her eyes.
“I pulled off a tarp to wrap around me and beneath it there was an oilskin. I put it on and got i
n the boat to keep out the wind. I was exhausted, freezing. Maybe I passed out, I don’t know. Next thing, it was dusk. I saw the lifeboat and helicopter. I remember thinkin’, ‘A boat must’ve got into trouble.’ ” He swallows. “Then I realized that they were searching for me.”
He looks down, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I should’ve gone then, told someone I was okay. That’s what I should’ve done.”
In the darkness she stares at him, unblinking. “Only you didn’t.”
SAUL IS MOVING ALONG the beach toward the shack when he hears people talking. He slows, scanning the bay for Eva.
She is standing in the shallows, her arms hanging at her sides. The pale light of the moon illuminates her wet, glistening clothes. What? Saul thinks.
Then the second person comes into focus and his mind stalls as if it’s changed gear too quickly. It is Jackson—a ragged, older Jackson, with a heavy beard and worn clothing. Saul can’t believe what he’s seeing. “My God . . .”
Jackson talks quickly, saying something about a powerful current, a harbor entrance, a fishing jacket, but Saul does not follow the thread as he is turning away and looking again toward Eva. In the moonlight her skin looks bleached and she is shaking. He wades into the bay and places his hand on her back. Her cardigan is soaked and he feels her shivering. “Eva? Are you okay?” he asks, unable to register his brother’s presence.
She doesn’t answer.
“Here, come out of the water.”
He keeps a light pressure on her back and she slowly drifts with him, their feet splashing through the shallows.
