by Lisa Unger
“She’ll be back in a minute. Come cuddle with me,” she said. “Warm me up.”
They got into her mom’s bed and huddled together under the covers. Lulu’s hair smelled like strawberries. When they were younger, they’d often slept together in the same bed, and Chelsea was used to the feel of her friend’s body curled up against hers. They used to practice kissing on each other. But that was a long time ago. Neither of them ever talked about that anymore; it was unspoken. It was embarrassing to the point of being shameful. But then it had been warm and wonderful. Not sexual at all, Chelsea didn’t think. But even remembering it caused heat to come to her face.
“This place really sucks,” said Lulu. She sounded desolate, mournful.
Chelsea didn’t say anything. If you couldn’t see what was wonderful about Heart Island, then it did suck. She knew that. Plenty of people she loved—Sean, Uncle Theo, even her father in some ways—had similar feelings about the island. But no one hated it completely. It was just so fraught to spend time there. It’s like loving an addict, she’d overheard Uncle Theo say to her mother. You know how good it can be when it’s good, how truly beautiful it is. But the ugly stuff is just not worth it.
“We’re trapped here,” said Lulu.
“We’re not trapped.” Even as Chelsea said it, she wasn’t sure that was true. It seemed like a lot of people were trapped on Heart Island or in their idea of it.
“Your mother said the water was really rough,” said Lulu. “We can’t take the boat back to the mainland.”
Chelsea knew that was so. Although they’d left the island once during bad weather, when they knew a worse storm was coming and they felt they had no choice but to get off while they could. It was a frightening trip, with Sean white-knuckled at the helm, the water washing over the sides of the small boat. Chelsea and Brendan had clung to Kate as the cuddy pitched and rolled in the big water.
Birdie had stayed behind and weathered a storm that kept her trapped on the island for a week by herself. Chelsea had wept to leave Birdie. She wants it this way, Kate had told her. We have to respect that.
Chelsea hadn’t understood. She still didn’t understand why Birdie had wanted to be left behind. She loves Heart Island more than she loves us, Brendan had yelled over the weather. Neither Kate nor Sean had answered him.
“We’ll be able to leave eventually,” said Chelsea. “It’s okay. Nothing bad happens here. We’re safe.”
Lulu snorted. “Sure, except for the ghosts or the stranger lurking on the island.”
Chelsea didn’t say anything. Lulu’s fear was contagious. Maybe they were trapped. Maybe there was no way to call for help. The emergency radio needed to be kept charged. Maybe since everyone seemed to think there was cell service (even though there obviously wasn’t), it had sat neglected.
Chelsea lay listening for her mom to come back. Before Kate had given permission for Lulu to join them on the trip, she’d called Chelsea into her room. “Do you really want her to come? Or do you need a break?” she’d asked.
Kate had sat with her legs crossed on the big chair over by the fireplace. Chelsea had felt a rise of indignation, of defensiveness about Lulu. But it had dissipated quickly. Had she been looking forward to a week without her friend?
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I want her to come.”
“Why?”
“She’ll be lonely without me.”
Kate had pressed her lips together and looked at her with sad eyes. “It’s not your job to entertain Lulu,” she said. “Is she going to make the trip better or worse for you?”
“Better?” Chelsea said. It came off sounding like a question, and Kate frowned. “Better.” Chelsea firmed up her tone. “I want her to come.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t a lie. Well, it wasn’t a lie she told her mother. Maybe it was a lie she told herself. Because hadn’t she been a little disappointed when her mother told Lulu she could come? Hadn’t she, on some level, wanted her mother to say: Sorry, Lulu, this is a trip for family? Why hadn’t she just told her mother that? It wasn’t as if she weren’t free to speak her mind.
“Chaz?” Lulu was touching her hair, a soft, soothing, stroking movement.
“Yeah?”
“I have to tell you something.”
Lulu had that tone, that sheepish, too-cute tone that she used when she’d done something awful.
“What?” said Chelsea. She was bracing herself. She couldn’t imagine what Lulu had done. She’d used the same tone in telling Chelsea that she’d lost her virginity, and when she’d confessed to smoking a joint. What now?
“That guy? Adam McKee?”
“Yeah?” Oh, God. Chelsea felt a flowering of dread. What was she going to say—that she knew him, that she’d slept with him, that he was flirting with her online, too, and she’d decided that she liked him?
“He’s not real,” she said. “He’s not a real guy.”
“What are you talking about?”
Even as she said it, Chelsea knew it was true. Of course he wasn’t real. Smart and kind, sensitive, into art and music—boys like that didn’t exist. Someone who thought she was cool, different in a good way. She should have known.
“Conner made that page. It was Conner sending you those notes.”
That she hadn’t expected. She felt a boil of anger and shame. “Why?” The word barely squeaked out of her throat, which was constricting.
“He wanted me to sneak out last night from your place. We thought if you had someone you wanted to meet, you’d do it.”
Only Lulu could have known the exact kind of boy Chelsea would want to meet. Only Lulu would know all the right things to say. Chelsea, on the other hand, didn’t have any idea what to say. The anger, the disappointment, was too much. She didn’t trust herself to speak without crying.
“I’m sorry,” said Lulu. “Conner was going to bring a friend for you to meet, someone from another school. We thought you’d like him. We used his picture. You thought he was cute.”
Still, Chelsea couldn’t say anything. Her mind was racing back through everything she’d written. What had she revealed about herself? What had she shown Lulu and her asshole boyfriend about herself that they hadn’t known? Really, it was her own eagerness that embarrassed her more than anything else.
“Please don’t be mad,” said Lulu. “I didn’t think you’d really like him. I didn’t think you even cared about boys.”
Chelsea found her voice again. “I don’t care.”
She couldn’t believe her own level, easy tone. She had always been able to do this, hide her feelings, keep them locked tight inside. It was so much safer that way. No one could ever know the power they had to hurt her. She’d learned it when she was little, to never let anyone who’d proved untrustworthy see her cry.
“Chelsea.”
“I don’t. Really,” she said. She pushed out a laugh, but it sounded strangled and sorry. “I’d almost forgotten about the whole thing.” She knew that didn’t hold much weight, since they’d just been talking about it before they went to bed. She could hear Lulu breathing.
“Come on,” Lulu said. “I’m sorry.”
Some people knew her—Sean, her mother, Lulu. These were the people she couldn’t and didn’t want to hide from. That was why it hurt so badly that she now had to protect herself from her oldest friend.
She could feel Lulu looking at her in the dark. She could see the crown of her head, the round of her shoulder. Lulu put a hand on Chelsea’s arm. The gentleness of the touch made something go dark and angry inside Chelsea.
“Seriously,” Chelsea said. “It’s no big deal. I’m not like you. I’m not a slut for any cute boy who comes along.”
She wanted to take those words back. But they were out, shattering in the air all around them, slicing them both. Lulu didn’t say anything, just left the bed and the room. Chelsea had never felt so alone.
chapter twenty-three
Emily’s fatigue was like an unbearable weight she carried on her back, one she couldn’t put down. She’d never wanted to sleep so badly—just to rest her head on something soft and drift away for hours. But everything was different; nothing was as she remembered it. The island was dark and cold. There were three structures instead of one. And yes, there were people here. Was her father among them, sleeping peacefully somewhere? She looked from house to house, wondering where he might be. It was probably the biggest one, the one to their left. For a moment, she felt a vague sense of relief, as if she had arrived home after a long, tiring journey.
Open your eyes, Emily, her mother always said. See what’s right in front of you.
The weather had grown wild. They’d barely made it here, with Dean at the helm and Brad holding the gun to Dean’s back. There had been water washing in over the sides of the boat, the vessel bucking in the heavy chop. Emily had felt a terrible surge of nausea, but she’d managed to keep herself together.
As soon as they’d pulled away from the marina, she’d seen the dark, hulking shadow of Heart Island. Or maybe it was just her imagination. She knew it was the largest island and that it would lie straight ahead once they hit the open water. She sat quietly beside Dean, who hadn’t dared to look at her. But all her anger had drained. She just felt numb.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, they crashed the boat against a rock as they ran aground at the only place they could. The sound was so loud, the impact so jarring, that she was certain she’d see lights come on in the houses. But all was quiet. She wasn’t sure if the hull had been breached or if the water collecting in the bottom had rushed in over the sides. Now it was beached and tilting on the rocky area.
Brad climbed off the boat first, never turning his back on them. Dean and Emily followed.
Brad stowed the money on the boat, which she thought was idiotic, since it might sink or wash away. Five thousand dollars, she thought. She and Dean had ruined their lives for five thousand dollars. She thought about that college fund her father had set up for her. Emily’s mother controlled the money, so she had no idea what was in it.
There’s enough for school and a head start after you graduate, her mother had told her once. It’s what I didn’t have when I was your age. If I’d had a leg up, maybe I wouldn’t have made so many mistakes.
Emily didn’t know what those mistakes were and how they had affected the course of Martha’s life. Naturally, Emily had asked. Martha had said: I’ll tell you when you’re older. But that day had never come.
“What do we do now?” Dean said.
Brad didn’t answer right away, just looked at them with some unreadable expression. He’s wondering if he should just kill us both now, she thought. He’s wondering what use we are to him. Her numbness gave way to a feeling of desperation. She had to get them out of this. Not her and Dean—her and her baby.
Dean put his head in his hands. She hated him in that moment. What had she seen in him? What was it about him that had caused her to fall in love? He was like a drug she’d become addicted to, so good the first time. Every time after that was just a poor facsimile of that initial high. What had Carol said? They’re always nice at first, honey. That’s how they hook you.
She wrapped her arms around her belly. She’d missed her period last month, and a week ago, when the day came and went again, she’d taken a pregnancy test. Positive. She was pregnant at the same age her mother had been pregnant with her, in spite of Martha’s many warnings.
It didn’t feel real. She didn’t have a sense of connection to the life growing inside her. She’d always loved the look of pregnant women, so flushed and full-bodied, so aware of the passenger within. She loved the careful way they lowered themselves into chairs, how they rested possessive hands on their bellies. But she didn’t feel like one of them. It felt like a lie or a dream.
“Okay,” said Brad. Apparently, he had some reason why he still needed them. “This is how things are going to go.”
Birdie was sitting at the table with her tea service when Kate walked in. In the dark, she looked slight and stooped like a much older woman, as though the costume of the younger, more vital self she wore during the day had been cast aside.
“What are you doing, Mom?” Kate closed the door behind her.
“Remembering,” Birdie said.
It was a short answer, but it revealed more than Kate had come to expect from her mother. It was an invitation, wasn’t it? It seemed as though Birdie had been waiting for her, as if she’d known Kate would come, in the way that only mothers know what their daughters will do and when. There was some uncanny connection that way, in spite of the distance that always had been between them.
“I thought I saw something—someone,” said Kate. “I came to check on you.”
“You’re seeing things, too?”
“I don’t think so, no.” Maybe she was. She hadn’t seen anything on her walk down the lighted path. There had been only the rain, the wind bending the trees, and the sound of her footfalls on the rocky path. She’d beamed her flashlight between the trees, but she only frightened a rabbit who hopped away into the black. She’d felt the aloneness, the isolation. Whatever she’d seen, there was no sign of it as she made the trip from the guest cabin to the main house.
She told her mother all of this, but Birdie didn’t seem to be listening. Kate sat across from her mother, thinking not for the first time that the chairs at this table were hard—uncomfortable and unwelcoming.
“Remembering what?” Kate asked.
She left the flashlight on the table between them and placed the flare gun beside it. Birdie turned the light so it was facing away from them, as though its brightness pained her. The beam cast odd, ghoulish shadows on the far wall. The rain persisted, tapping on the roof and windows.
“What did she tell you about Richard Cameron and my mother?” Birdie asked.
The question sent a shock wave through Kate. It was both expected and unexpected. The answer was right on her tongue and, at the same time, buried deep.
“Who?” asked Kate. She was stalling; she already knew the answer.
“Caroline,” said Birdie. “You two were always thick as thieves.”
If anyone knew how to embed an insult, it was Birdie. Thieves. All they’d ever taken from Birdie were the things she’d already tossed aside. The truly sad part was that Birdie could have had them both—Kate and Caroline—had she ever put down her guard and opened her arms. They’d both been waiting all their lives to love and be loved by Birdie.
“We were close,” said Kate. “That’s true.”
Birdie let out a grunt. It sounded sad as much as disdainful. In front of Birdie was a photo album. It was the album that Caroline had wanted for years. Birdie had always claimed it was lost, but here it was. It probably had been in the bunkhouse all this time.
Her mother opened the book to its final page, spreading her jeweled fingers wide across the photographs. Kate had always admired Birdie’s hands, white and long-fingered, with delicate ropes of veins pressing against the translucent skin, always perfectly manicured. As she aged, Birdie’s hands only seemed more regal. Kate had gotten the Burke hands, wide and too thick, she’d always thought, to be attractive on a woman.
Your father’s people come from peasant stock, Birdie always said. So Kate thought of her hands as peasant hands, designed for hard labor. She imagined generations of thick-handed women beating laundry and diapering babies, milking cows, tending fields, cooking stew, serving meals. In another century, maybe she would have been one of them.
Birdie thinks that anyone who works for a living is a peasant, her father said. But our people built this country, carried it on their backs. You can be proud of that. Kate didn’t know if that was true. Her grandfather on her father’s side was a Wall Street man. Her great-grandfather was with the railroad. It seemed to her that the Burke family had always found ways to make money, peasant stock or not.
“A long time ago, when I w
as a child,” said Birdie, “I saw them together—Richard Cameron and your grandmother. My mother slipped away in the night and met him on that island where John Cross built his house. Until two nights ago, I thought it was a dream. That’s what my mother told me, that I was dreaming.”
Birdie flipped the photo over, and Kate saw what her grandmother had written there: It wasn’t a dream, darling. I’m so sorry.
“All these years, I remembered that morning with such shame,” said Birdie. “They all laughed at me, mocked me. But I did see her run away to him.”
Kate was startled by Birdie’s hand on hers. “What do you know?” her mother asked.
Kate took her hand away. There was a time when she craved contact from her mother. But now she could hardly stand it. “Does it really matter, Mother?”
“It matters,” said Birdie. “I need to know.”
In Kate’s mind, the story was a romantic one, tragic and violent but somehow beautiful. She knew it wouldn’t be that for her mother. It would be the story of betrayal and infidelity. Birdie could only find it ugly and wrong and would judge the players harshly. She would indict Lana and Richard and maybe even Jack.
But Kate didn’t have any choice now; she couldn’t control how others would view her grandmother’s affair with Richard Cameron.
“They were lovers,” said Kate. The words sounded weak and ordinary, not right for how she understood the relationship. “They met here, on these islands, when they were children. And they loved each other.”
It sounded so simple. In her journals, Lana had painted such a picture of the two of them swimming and climbing rocks, knowing even then that they were meant to be together. Kate, in this moment, did not feel up to the task of telling it. The journals she’d brought for her mother were tucked away in the upstairs bedroom. Kate had figured that if she didn’t have the nerve to talk to her mother before she left, she’d tell her about the journals once she was back home. Sometimes, when it came to Birdie, Kate felt like a coward.
