Heartbroken

by Lisa Unger

  Joe wanted to do that only to feed his ego. He loved for guests to see how he’d had the original structure remodeled into a modest guesthouse and then designed the main house himself. Everyone would know that he’d put his indelible stamp on her island. Ostensibly, it was his twentieth-anniversary gift to her. But by that point in their marriage, extravagant gifts had lost their meaning somewhat—not that she didn’t love the new house. At least until recently, it was free from the ghosts of memory.

  She found the book in the third box she opened. Caroline had desperately wanted it. She’d asked for it again and again over the years, especially after their mother’s passing. But Birdie, though she could barely stand the sight of the thing, had kept it from her, even as her sister lay dying. I’ve looked for it everywhere, Caroline. I’m sorry. I’ve no idea where it is. It was something she felt terribly guilty about when she allowed herself to think about it. It had been cruel and cold, a vicious act of withholding, proving her sister’s most furious, desperate recriminations true. But if that was what they thought of her, then why shouldn’t she be that?

  She lifted the album from its box, marked Memorabilia, and turned her head away from the powerful smell of mold and dust that lifted into the air. She issued a shuddering sneeze and then sank back onto the floor with the album in her lap.

  The story was that her mother had inherited the island from her uncle, who had won it in a poker match from its drunken owner. Whether that was true, Birdie didn’t know. But it was the story her mother told. She told of that and the island ghosts. Birdie had been thinking about it since the dock incident.

  There was a little girl her mother had seen playing naked near the rocky shore where Birdie always waded in to swim. The girl came when the fog was thick. A young woman stood at the highest point, which the children called Lookout Rock, and gazed back toward the mainland. She’s anxious, her mother would say. She’s waiting for someone who never comes. There was an old man who, forever restless, tirelessly walked the perimeter when the moon was full.

  Mother was delicate, prone to terrible headaches and spells that sent her to darkened rooms. The only other person who claimed to see the island spirits was Caroline. And no one believed her because she was Mother’s pet and would do or say anything to please her.

  Much as Birdie had never believed in Santa (Gene took care of that early) or the Easter Bunny, she had never believed in Mother’s ghosts. She’d never seen anything even vaguely resembling a spirit during her summers on the island.

  Sometimes the mournful call of an owl would scare her senseless late in the night. She’d climb into her sister’s bed, and Caroline would wrap her warm body around Birdie. Don’t be scared, Birdie, she’d say in her sweet voice. I won’t let anything hurt you. Birdie did believe that, even though Caroline was two years younger and much smaller. She had always been braver and fiercer. But until today, Birdie had never seen anything on Heart Island that she couldn’t understand or explain.

  In the main house, she could hear the phone ringing, a low chirping in the quiet. It could only be Kate, since Joe wouldn’t bother to call to check on her. Theo had already phoned to deliver his news. And no one else would call so late in the evening. But thinking of Caroline had Birdie feeling annoyed with Kate (Kate and Caroline had always been thick as thieves; even her own daughter preferred Caroline’s company). She didn’t bother to make the dash to the main house. Let Kate wait until morning with whatever she wanted to say. If she, too, was calling to abandon Birdie, that could wait until she was feeling less vulnerable.

  Birdie flipped through the thick pages separated by dusty vellum sheets. There they were, all skinny legs and mussed hair, wide smiles, funny shorts and vests for Gene, matching dresses for Birdie and Caroline. Were they ever so young and small? Gene was a beautiful boy, towheaded, with brown skin and flashing green eyes. He grew into a heartbreakingly handsome man, until he allowed wealth and success to make him fat. Even then, everyone always seemed to swoon around him.

  Caroline was a little porcelain doll of a child who grew into a pretty woman, if not a great beauty. And Birdie—well, was she frowning in every picture? Or wearing an expression that could only be read as antagonism? There were a few of her smiling, yes. But it was that forced photograph smile, stiff and wan, threatening to flee in a moment if the shutter didn’t snap quickly enough. Often her eyes were closed. Well into adulthood Caroline accused Birdie of doing it on purpose, of willfully ruining every family photo. I have sensitive eyes, Birdie explained. The flash makes me blink. But it wasn’t true. Birdie hated to be photographed, especially next to Caroline, who was always so pretty, forever younger and more joyful-looking. Beside her, Birdie looked like a hag. Can you give nothing, Birdie? It was one of the last things Caroline had ever asked her. She still wasn’t sure what Caroline had meant. Birdie had devoted her life to charitable causes.

  On the island, the falling of night was thick and total. When there was no cloud cover, there were more stars than sky, it seemed. For a city girl, the starry night was the most magnificent sight on earth. But tonight there were no stars and no moon, everything obscured by the thick cloud cover that had rolled in, threatening but so far dormant. Through the picture window, the other islands were points of light in the distance. A glow emanated over the mainland. Out here, night was black when the moon had waned. Flashlights seemed to cut through a velvet cloak that had settled over everything. Outside the smaller window that faced the main house, Birdie could see only the porch light. The guest cabin was totally dark.

  In the album, she found the picture she was looking for. Once upon a time, the old house was the sole structure on the island, except for the outhouse. (Gene always had to take the girls to the bathroom in the night, groggy and annoyed, carrying the flashlight. Hurry up, Birdie. I’m freezing.) There were three bedrooms. Their parents took the largest, of course. Birdie and Caroline shared the small one next door. And Gene slept, to his great pleasure, in the attic room, because he was the oldest. In the photo, Birdie was touching the old door. No matter how often it was oiled, it would issue a long squeal and bang loudly if you didn’t hold it as it closed, which Mother was always begging them to do. Even when you tried to make it close quietly, it seemed to have a way of pulling away from you and slamming anyway. Children, the door! Please!

  There were certain sounds in the night. Her father snored. The water knocked the boat against the dock. Caroline breathed deep and even, always in Birdie’s memory, soundly asleep. And then one night the sound of that door. It woke Birdie; she heard it echoing in her consciousness, though the house was silent. Who would be out and about in the night when everyone was sleeping?

  Birdie climbed from bed and slipped from the bedroom in her bare feet. There was a high full moon that night, and everything was cast in the silvery glow. She peeked in on her parents. Her father lay on his back with his arms flung wide, chest bare. Her mother was gone.

  Even as a child, she met her fear head-on. She stepped out into the chilly air, onto the splintery porch. She saw her mother making her way down to the dock, her white nightgown shimmering in the moonlight. She was ghostly and weightless. Birdie wanted to call out to her but couldn’t. She almost couldn’t imagine her voice slicing the darkness, carrying over the air, probably waking everyone in the process. So she followed behind.

  Her mother got into the boat, untied the lines, and soundlessly crossed the channel. A man waited on the shore of the island now occupied by John Cross and his wife; there was no dock back then. She threw him a line, and he pulled her boat to shore.

  As Birdie watched, her mother fell into the open arms of this strange man. She tilted her face up, pale and glowing in the moonlight. Birdie gasped, nearly shrieked in surprise, as this man—dark-haired, tall, and slim—pressed his mouth to hers. It looked to Birdie as though he were trying to devour her mother, to swallow her whole. Her mother seemed to give herself over, the white of her nightgown nearly enveloped by the black of his coat.
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  The stranger and her mother disappeared into the trees. Birdie thought that she’d never seen her parents kiss like that, not even close. There was the occasional chaste peck on the cheek or lips. Randomly, her father might pat her mother on the bottom. She might move the hair from his eyes. But a full kiss on the mouth—never. Birdie could hardly imagine her mother as that kind of creature, one who would be the object of such passion, one who would return it with equal fervor. Birdie found her way down to the dock. She would wait, shivering, until her mother returned. She found an old blanket in the dock box, sat in one of the Adirondack chairs they used to watch the sunset. She waited and waited, but her mother did not return.

  Birdie must have drifted off to sleep. When she woke, the sun was breaking the horizon. The boat was neatly tied off as though it had never left. Would her mother have passed her sleeping without seeing her? Or left her out there on the dock?

  “Birdie! Birdie!”

  She heard her mother calling and looked up at the house to see her standing on the porch. She was dressed in slim white pants and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, red Top-Siders.

  “Mama! I’m here.”

  “Birdie Heart!” her mother said, catching sight of her and jogging down the steps. “What on earth are you doing out there? I’ve been scared witless,” she added as they reached each other. Birdie let Lana take her in her arms and basked in that rare moment of her complete attention.

  “I’ve been looking all over the island for you,” Lana said, squeezing Birdie tight. “My goodness, Birdie, you’re frozen.”

  “I saw you with him, Mama,” said Birdie. She pressed her head into her mother’s shoulder. “You took the boat to the other island. He was kissing you. Who was he?”

  Her mother drew back, held Birdie’s face in her hands. She had a sweet, amused smile on her face. “Oh, Birdie,” she said. “No, darling, you were dreaming.”

  “I wasn’t,” she said. “I wasn’t dreaming.”

  “Of course you were, sweetie,” Lana said. She sounded so light and sure. She wrapped her arm around Birdie and led her up to the house. Birdie waited, even as she shivered with cold, for her mother to say something. But all the way, her mother was quiet. Inside, Lana moved quickly, wrapping Birdie in the blanket draped over the couch. Birdie watched carefully as her mother made her hot cocoa in the galley kitchen that was part of the main living space. The other children were still sleeping.

  “I saw you,” said Birdie. She realized her mother wasn’t going to say anything at all. Birdie needed to understand what she had seen.

  Her mother’s hair was dark and full. It fell about her shoulders as she shook her head. None of the children had inherited those luxurious tresses, all of them with baby-fine hair of gold. “There’s no one on that island,” said her mother. Her tone had gone a little more stern. “You know that.”

  Her father came out of the room, looking tousled and groggy. “What’s the matter?”

  “I found Birdie asleep on the dock,” said her mother. There was the faintest shadow of something across her face, then that famous smile. “Our daughter thinks I dashed across to the other island for a secret rendezvous.”

  Her father opened the cupboard, rubbing the crown of his head. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” her mother said. Birdie could see that her brightness was forced. “But, of course, she must have been dreaming.”

  Birdie’s father was silent a moment, and she was sure a slew of questions would follow. She knew her father to be a very curious man.

  “We’re out of powdered milk?” he asked. But was there something stiff and strange about him? Was his air of indifference put-on?

  This was not the type of reaction Birdie expected from her father. Not that he’d ever displayed much of a temper. But still. It took her a second to realize that he didn’t believe her. It did sound outlandish, since no one had ever inhabited that island. And back then, there were very few people in the area at all.

  But Birdie knew what she saw.

  “He kissed her,” Birdie said. “Not like you kiss her.” Her father raised his eyebrows at that. Then both her mother and father were staring at her, her father frowning. Her mother’s expression was unreadable, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “It was a movie kiss.” Birdie said, since the adults seemed at a loss for words. She thought they’d get angry, but both of them began to laugh. Birdie felt tears of anger and shame spring to her eyes.

  Her mother, giggling a little, walked over and offered her the cup of cocoa. “Well, Birdie,” she said. She sat on the sofa. “It seems to me that you’ve seen some of the island ghosts.”

  Birdie got up and ran to her room, slamming the door and waking Gene and Caroline. When Caroline wanted to know why she was crying, Birdie refused to answer. A while later, she heard them all laughing over breakfast. No one believed her. No one ever took her side.

  Even at seventy-five, she could feel the anger and shame as if it all had happened yesterday. To this day, the sound of laughter in another room made her feel annoyed, even when she knew it had nothing whatsoever to do with her.

  Why had she come up to the bunkhouse looking for the silly album? The light from the desk lamp was dim and flickering. Outside, the wind was picking up. The air felt like rain, had that clean, light scent. They’d had the bunkhouse built some years ago, with the idea that the children would sleep here during their visits. Once upon a time, Birdie had imagined that Chelsea and Brendan would feel the bunkhouse was an adventure, their very own place.

  “They’re children, Mother,” Kate had said in that annoyed, superior tone she always seemed to take with Birdie. “They aren’t sleeping in a separate house from us.”

  The children were young at the time, Birdie realized now. Chelsea was nine, so that meant Brendan was four or so. Maybe three.

  But she’d said, “What could happen to them here?”

  “Oh, Mother,” said Kate. She’d looked at Birdie as though she were depraved or idiotic. “Really.”

  Kate always did smother the children. Probably since she had nothing better to do than focus her attention on them. So the children hadn’t yet slept in the bunkhouse, preferring to stay with Sean and Kate in the guest cabin. The bunkhouse had become more of a storage depot for linens and spare supplies, old items that had belonged to her parents, framed photos that she could neither bear to look at nor discard. There were some old clothes that she, Caroline, and Gene had worn as children. They were threadbare and moth-eaten, not even suitable for donation. But they remained in the trunk they’d inhabited for decades.

  It was on the last page of the album that Birdie found the picture she was looking for. It had lingered in her memory, like so many things about her childhood that she tried not to think about. The events of the day brought it back to mind. Beside each of the photos were her mother’s meticulous notes: Gene and Birdie, first sailing lessons! Lana and Jack (Mommy and Daddy), renewing our vows! Caroline, our little flower! All but one of the pictures were in summer; they were never on the island in winter. It was Joe who had winterized the homes so they could come if they chose. But when the weather was cold, to Birdie, Heart Island was just a dream of summer, something unreachable, almost unimaginable, until the thaw.

  The picture was of her mother standing beside a tall, dark-haired man. He was lean with long, pale features. Lana sat on the rocker that Birdie remembered on their porch, and he stood beside her. He looked off, up and away from her. She stared at the lens. There was nothing intimate about it, nothing incriminating. Except. Except the small upturn of her mother’s lips. Her left hand gripped the armrest. Her right was lifted toward him. He was drawing his hand away. It was as if they’d been touching moments before the shutter had snapped. There was a thin line of snow on the windowsill. Lana was there in winter. When? Birdie didn’t remember her mother ever going away from them.

  Beside the photo, there was no note in her mother’s delicate, looping cursive. It was out of
place among the summery, happy pictures. There was something strange and unsettling about it. Birdie heard the first drops of rain start to fall. It started its tap-tap-tapping on the tin roof. Birdie lifted the photo from its place, and it came away with a slight crackle. She turned it over. Her mother had written there, It wasn’t a dream, darling. I’m so sorry.

  chapter fourteen

  Sean had been talking a lot all morning, which they both knew he did when he was feeling nervous or guilty. Today he was both. He was nervous (and excited) about the open house; he felt guilty and uneasy that the girls were going up north alone. Brendan was sulking and limping, in varying degrees of intensity depending on who was watching and to whom he could put the screws for the unfairness of the whole situation.

  Do you have the navigation computer? Is the address entered correctly? Do you have enough snacks? You’re really taking Lulu? Really? Don’t let your mother get to you. Seriously, we’re right behind you. We’ll be there tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. He was rambling like a crazy person. Every time he tried to be quiet, some other thought bubbled out of his mouth. I’m sorry. I’m talking too much.

  Kate was being quiet, which they both knew she did when she was nervous or feeling guilty. Sean knew that she was nervous about going to the island without him and feeling bad for leaving Brendan behind. Her silence only caused Sean to talk more, desperate to fill the void of quiet between them. It’s okay, honey. We’re fine. Don’t worry about it.

  Chelsea and Brendan were fighting over whether Chelsea should be able to take the iPad to watch movies on the trip, or whether it should stay with Brendan to play games.

  “You have the iPhone!” Brendan yelled suddenly, their argument reaching a crescendo. “You don’t need it. You get everything. She gets everything. She always gets everything.”