by Ashley Ream
“Un-freaking believable,” he said aloud and shoved it into his jacket pocket.
* * *
Tilda could feel it coming. She felt it in her bones as much as in the wild pitch and roll of the boat. The waves were coming up over the side and flooding the cockpit. She clung to the tiller, no longer steering but only hanging on. She knew she needed to get the bow of the boat pointed into the waves, but knowing and being able were not the same thing. It was so loud, the waves and the rain and the snapping of the sail, that she could not tell one from the other anymore. There were no lights, not from any land, not from the sky, not even a bolt of lightning. Blinded and deaf and unable to steer or even see the waves until she felt them hit her, she could barely keep herself upright, and it was hard to think of a good reason to try.
Another wave gathered. It sucked the boat down and then pushed her sideways. She went up and over, over and over. The wall of water smashed into her. Her head snapped on her neck. It was like a car accident, like being hit by a train. There was no time to recover, no time to find air. She felt herself rising up. She was riding the back of some giant creature. It pushed her portside. Farther and farther, the boat rolled and kept rolling. Tilda scrambled for purchase, for a handhold, for anything to keep from being thrown into the sea. The mast neared horizontal. Her body smashed into the hull. It felt as though her patella cracked in two, a problem so small she barely noticed.
Desperate, she clung to the boom, willing the world to right itself, willing gravity and the gods to allow the tiny vessel to drop back down toward the earth again. All around her rigging snapped and flew like cracking bullwhips. The ocean raged in the wind, and the hull groaned like a downed boxer, unknown bits splintering and cracking like bone. And then a whole sea’s worth of water broke over her. It came and came, and she thought she would drown. She was sure of it. And just then, just when she was blacking out and losing her grip, all the water that could flow over her had, and the boat dropped back down, falling from a great height and hitting the roiling surface as hard as concrete.
Crouched on the floor, the water up to her waist, her head pulled into her body, she had no sense of time other than it was short, and her heart pounded while her brain screamed “hurry, hurry, hurry!” With numb fingers, she grabbed at the old-fashioned orange life preserver around her neck, feeling for the straps, pulling it tighter. She reached into the pocket of her jacket, feeling for her phone. It seemed an insane thing to hope, a signal here between islands, but she had made calls on ferries before. Maybe, just maybe, she would get this one thing, this one lifeline. She pulled it from her pocket, her arm still wrapped around the boom, the sail snapping in her face. She felt for the On switch, but the small screen seemed too dim. Was it dying? Had it been too wet for too long? She pressed the emergency call button, but she could not hear if anyone was there, could not read the tiny symbols on the screen, not with the sail and the water and the terror that clouded in front of her eyes and behind them.
The ocean was coming up below her, rising again, pushing on the hull. There was no time. Her fingers were slipping. She could only yell, scream into her phone as though it were the marine radio she did not have, hoping some dispatcher somewhere was there.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Serendipity.” Tilda repeated the name of the boat two more times. “Mayday. This is Serendipity. Five miles south-southwest from Carpenter’s Island.” She choked on the tears, and her voice shook. “Sailboat taking on water. Capsize feared.”
Another wave came over the deck. The boat was going over. The outrigger was directly above her, straight up in the air, like the fin of a shark. The hull had become the floor. All around her it sounded like wood being splintered apart by giants.
Tilda continued to scream into the phone at anyone or no one. “One adult on board. Immediate rescue needed. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. This is Serendipity. Five miles south-southeast from Carpenter’s. Mayday.”
She would never know if anyone heard. The mast touched the sea. The water took it and snapped it. It had been as thick as the trunk of a small tree, and it had broken like a chopstick. And now there was nothing, nothing that could be done, no one and nothing that could help.
Tilda and the boom were loose. The roll would not stop. She was falling, falling, falling, and the world was coming down on top of her. It was as though she had jumped from the top of a building and the building had come with her. She hit the water, as solid as the earth, earth that split open and sucked her down, deeper, deeper, deeper.
39.
The only way Tilda knew she was not dead was that being dead would not hurt so much.
The cold was paralyzing. It gripped her and squeezed. It squeezed her arms and her legs and her lungs, which let out the last gasp of air she’d managed to rescue and left her without oxygen in less than a second. She was upside down in the Salish Sea. It was December. Tilda was wearing no protective clothing, no flashing beacon, nothing at all of any use but the orange life preserver. It was the upward pull of the floatation device that told her she was ass over tea kettle. There would have been no other way to know.
Down, down, down, and then, just as suddenly, up. Up more slowly but up. The life preserver pulled her, and she let it. It was impossible to have thoughts, to fight or to give up, to move or be still. There was only what happened, what the ocean allowed, what her body could do or did do. She felt things in the water, big things pass near her face, bits of the boat, maybe the mast or maybe a monster. She willed herself to move away from the debris, to protect what was left to protect, but it was impossible to know if she was succeeding.
Everything hurt, and what did not hurt was numb. Everything around her was black whether her eyes were open or closed. Her oxygen was gone, and Tilda knew that if she did not drown, the hypothermia would kill her.
She did not want to die. That was the only thought she had or could hold, a thought not so much in her head as in her limbs, in her muscles and lungs. The pieces of her, each of its own accord, did not want to give up.
Just like at the Y, she told herself, and with the last bit of strength she had, she pushed her arms and her legs. She let muscle memory carry her when her conscious mind could not, and she swam clear of the wreck, popping her head up to the surface, gasping.
Tilda’s teeth chattered so hard she could barely gulp in the air. She was losing control of her limbs and, in the cold, knew she would soon lose consciousness. She spun in place, her mind doing the same, looking for what to do next. A wave picked her up and dropped her down, putting more distance between her body and the upside-down Serendipity. Rain was still coming down hard, and the white wooden shape was the only thing she could see. There was no land in any direction. Another wave.
When it passed, she inhaled sharply and began to swim toward the boat, the life vest floating up around her face.
Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe.
* * *
“Dad! Dad!” Juno had his hands on Harry’s shoulders and was shaking him hard. “Dad, it’s me. It’s Juno.”
Harry’s cheeks were wet, but he couldn’t feel them. Not really. He had been shouting. He knew that. He hadn’t meant to wake Juno. It was the middle of the night. His own door had been closed, along with Juno’s and Tilda’s. Everyone had been closed up alone in their own cells. Except, of course, for Harry. Harry hadn’t been alone in some time.
He had tried to keep her out. He had put the simple wooden chair—the Shaker one that Tilda had bought years before—under the door handle. He wedged it there like he had seen people do on television, but it hadn’t done any good. Becca was on one side of the door, and then she was on the other, just like that. And now the chair was broken. Juno had broken it trying to get in. It had surprised Harry that he could do it. Juno had thrown himself against the door from the outside. Harry had heard him slamming his shoulder into the wood, which began to splinter and crack but did not give way, not until Juno put the sole of his shoe to it. The doorfra
me split, and kick after kick, the back of the chair made of beautiful old wood gave. Harry heard it all, but he did not get up from where he was, and he did not look. He was afraid to look.
Harry, fully clothed, had been curled up on his bed, his chin to his chest and both arms covering himself like someone was beating him. That was when Juno got him by the shoulders, but no amount of shaking could get Harry to uncover his face.
“Dad!”
The sobs racked Harry’s shoulders, and it was hard to form the words. They came out in wet bubbles, one or two at a time. “Don’t—hurt anyone—Please, don’t—hurt anyone.”
“I’m not going to hurt anyone,” Juno said. “Why would I hurt anyone?”
Harry opened his eyes and let his arms drop just a little. “Is she here?”
Juno reeled back at the sight of his father’s face. Harry knew why. He had seen it earlier in the evening—seen himself in the bathroom mirror, just a glimpse before he’d had to shut his eyes against the overhead light and feel frantically for the switch to turn it off. He was pale and drawn, but his eyes were terrifying. The pupils were enormous, so large they took over nearly all the iris. He looked like something that lived underground, something out of the tunnels and caves. He had begun to look on the outside the way that he felt on the inside.
“Is she here?” Harry repeated.
Juno was trying to rearrange his face into something less revolted. Harry could see the effort he was making as he answered. “No, Mom’s not here. I called her. She said she was coming. She should be here by now.”
“No, not Tilda,” Harry said. “Becca.”
“Becca?” Juno shook his head and leveled his voice, speaking slowly with exaggerated calm, as though Harry were quite elderly and demented. “Becca is dead, Dad. You mean Rachel, the scientist lady.”
Harry shook his head. “She’s not dead. She’s not.” Harry tried to see behind his son, to see into the corner where she had stood. Juno looked over his shoulder, too, not, Harry knew, for a ghost but for anyone he might hand this problem off to. Neither Harry nor Juno saw who they were looking for, and Juno’s eyes landed on the phone by Harry’s bed before coming back to him.
“Dad, Becca died a long time ago. She died when she was a little girl.”
“No.” Harry pushed himself up. “She came back. It’s because of the Miracle. I know it is.”
“Dad, you’re upset. Did you take the medicine Dr. Woo gave you?”
Harry shook his head. He shook it like he was trying to clear his mind, to make a fuzzy picture snap into focus, but really what he wanted was for Juno to see. He wanted to shake him as he had been shaken, but he didn’t have the strength.
“Did you take too much medicine? Did you forget you took it and take it again?” Juno was still speaking calmly. “I’m going to call Mom again, okay? And then maybe a doctor.”
Harry wrapped his hand around his son’s arm. “Listen to me,” Harry said. “The glow that they make, it’s the path of the spirits.” The more earnest Harry became the more frightened Juno’s face got. “Dr. Bell told me. She doesn’t believe it, but I’ve seen her. I’ve seen Becca. She came on the path, and now she’s here, and I don’t know if she can go back. I don’t … She’s angry. She’s angry, and I think she’s trying to trick people into following her.” Harry squeezed Juno’s arm as tightly as he could. “You have to help me protect everyone.”
Harry was looking into his son’s eyes, leaning forward and invading Juno’s space until Juno pulled his neck back, trying to get as much distance as he could while Harry was still gripping his arm harder and harder, hard enough to leave a handprint when Juno pried himself away.
Harry had to get out of bed. He pushed himself to the edge and reached for his cane.
“Dad, I think you should stay here. Get a little more rest until Mom comes home. I’m going to call her again. She’ll know what to do.”
Harry ignored him and used the cane for leverage, getting to his feet but not without struggle. He was weaker than he had been just the day before. His arm shook. It was hard to get his feet under himself, and it wasn’t until he was standing that he realized Juno had his arm around him, that it was Juno who had gotten him up.
“Dad?” Harry heard a waver in his son’s voice. “Dad, do you think maybe you’re having a stroke?”
Harry did not think that. He didn’t even make room for the possibility inside his mind. To do so would have meant worrying about himself, and Harry had given up worrying about himself. That was the one gift. He knew then that he was too far gone, and all that was left was to help the others.
“We have to lock all the doors and keep everyone inside,” Harry said, making for the hallway. “We have to keep the others safe.”
Juno followed behind him. “Okay, Dad. I’m going to do that. But you stay here.”
“I’m going to check the windows,” Harry said.
They were by the stairs. Juno reached for his father’s arm, and Harry leaned into his son as they started to descend. For Juno the climb was slow; for Harry it felt terrifyingly fast.
The doorbell rang, and Harry froze. “Do you think that’s her?”
“No, Dad. I don’t. I don’t know who it is. It’s late.”
“No,” Harry breathed, “you’re right. She doesn’t ring.”
They continued down and had just a quarter of the way to go. “When we get to the bottom,” Juno said, “I’m going to go answer the door.”
“We have to check the windows.”
“Right, and I’ll check the windows. You go in the library, and I’ll”—Juno fumbled for words—“report back.”
Harry nodded. “Where’s Tilda?” He knew Juno had mentioned her earlier, just recently, but he couldn’t fish out what he had said.
“I’m going to call her.”
“You have to tell her what’s happening. She’s going to be angry, but we have to tell her. Becca might set a trap.”
They made it to the bottom of the stairs. Juno didn’t bother stopping to look through the peephole but continued on, helping Harry to his study.
“Sure,” Juno said, “I’ll tell her.”
“She killed someone already. I saw her do it.”
“Becca killed someone?”
They were almost to the library.
Harry nodded, looking straight down the hall toward the sliding glass door and the glowing beach beyond it. It was sinister, that light. Harry didn’t know why he hadn’t seen the danger before. “At the symphony. She made me talk that woman off the balcony. I would never have—” He shook his head. “She tricked me.”
Harry could see his son thinking things that he did not say, things he was actively struggling to keep inside. Harry could see the thoughts, he could see them wiggling behind Juno’s lips.
“Okay, Dad. You just go in here and stay.”
The doorbell rang again.
“Be careful,” Harry said, “and come back when you’re done.”
Juno left the room and shut the door. Harry stood there in the center of the library, deciding. He didn’t turn a light on. He didn’t need to. His pupils, dilated beyond what should have been possible, had no need for artificial light. The little that came in through the naked window, the green shimmer of the Miracle, was enough for Harry to see anything he might need. He was thinking about that, drawing strength from the thought, when he heard the sound. It was a terrible scraping. Awful. Awful enough that Harry put his hands to his ears.
He could not imagine what had caused such a noise. Nothing in the room had changed. Nothing had moved. He was alone, and if he was alone inside, that meant Becca was out there. He should not have left Juno alone. Harry clomped with his cane to the door, moving as quickly as he could. He reached up, turned the handle, and pushed. The door moved three inches and stopped. Harry pushed harder then closed the door and opened it again. The wood banged into something.
Harry put his face to the crack and looked out. The console table, the one that h
ad sat for years in the hallway, was pushed in front of the library door.
Through the crack, he could hear voices coming from the front of the house. It was Juno’s voice first. Annoyed. Unhappy. And then another man. Harry couldn’t put his finger on the voice, but it wasn’t a stranger. It was getting harder to hold thoughts in his head, leaving him with the slippery sense that there had been a time, a recent time, when he would have been clearer about things. Harry tried to listen, to pick out words. He squinted with the effort, as though his vision and his hearing were related in ways you wouldn’t expect.
“It’s the middle of the damn night,” Harry heard Juno say.
The other man spoke. “This is an emergency.”
A memory floated by Harry. He was outside on the beach. The voice was there, a tattoo, but by the time Harry had it, most of it was gone. It was like turning on the radio and catching only the last few bars of a song. He shook his head. He had gotten distracted and missed part of the conversation. His son was speaking again.
“What kind of doctor? I mean, could you take care of a person if you really had to?”
The other man replied, but his voice was harder to hold on to, harder for Harry to catch and then to work over in his mind so that the sounds fitted themselves into words and the words into ideas that Harry could understand.
And then it was gone, replaced by Juno’s voice, which was not pleased. “I’ll take you up.”
It got quiet. Quiet enough that Harry’s ears were filled with the sound of the surf outside. It was louder than usual. There had been a storm. Harry thought that it was louder because of the storm, but then he wasn’t so certain. It only took two heartbeats not to be so certain. What had happened to the voices? Harry clenched. Had she done something to them?
He looked down at the three inches of table he could see in front of the door. The top was heavy marble. It had taken two men to lift that table into place. Juno might as well have thrown a bolt closed, Harry thought. But there was nothing for it, and so he opened his eyes, which he hadn’t realized he had closed, and with all the strength he had left, he started to push.
