Mistwalker

ELEVEN



Willa


The only reason I went to school was to get served. I waited until the last minute and walked there alone. I kinda hoped they’d find me before first period. Partly to get it over with, partly because I didn’t want people talking about it. Looking at me. Whispering about me. Vandenbrook was tiny and full of people I didn’t want to see.

They fell in and out of my orbit, Seth in my English class, Nick with his locker near mine. I kept catching flickers of gold hair, Denny Ouelette floating through the halls a split second ahead of me.

The only person I wasn’t avoiding was Bailey, and she caught up with me between classes. She had her hardheaded look on. Usually, she broke it out when something had to get done. I think in another life, she was probably a drill sergeant. I wondered what she thought she needed to do with me.

Pulling out the Milky Way bracelet I made, I offered it to her. “It’s done. You can have it.” I didn’t give her the chance to say anything. If I talked fast and talked first, she wouldn’t get to lecture me. I was about tired of getting corrected. I was tired of everything, to be honest. “Or give it to Cait. You know. Whatever.”

Bailey frowned, rubbing the beads between her fingers. “I’ll keep it. Thanks.”

“I’m going to sit out front for lunch. You want to come?”

She fell into step with me, still bothering the bracelet as she walked. It was an absent touch, the same way she rubbed the hems of her sleeves when she was thinking. I threw the door open, walking into the crisp cold. The wind tasted clean, and it swept the extra heat from my skin.

Best of all, I couldn’t see Jackson’s Rock. I’d almost convinced myself that the boat, that Grey, was a vivid dream and nothing else. Seeing the lighthouse would ruin that; it was too real to ignore.

Sitting on the top step, Bailey dug into her backpack for her lunch. “I texted you about a million times yesterday.”

I took my place next to her and stole a stick of her celery. I had my own lunch, but for some reason, Bailey’s always tasted better to me. “Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. It was a messed-up day.”

“Mine too,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

Cracking open a plastic container, Bailey stirred her pasta salad with a fork, then sighed. “You have enough going on.”

“So? Talk to me.”

She hesitated. And I realized she was fighting with herself about this. That she had something eating at her and she didn’t want to say. I felt bad, because she was my best friend. She needed somebody to talk to, too, and I’d blown her off completely. Twisting around, I nudged her. “Bay.”

“Cait’s up and decided she’s going to apply to USC,” she said. She stabbed her pasta, then put the container aside hard.

Surprised, I said, “I thought you guys had a plan.”

“Yeah, me too.” The bitterness in her voice clung to her. Eyes flashing, she picked up her lunch again just to abandon it. “She says it’s a better school for what she wants to do. And I’m, like, why didn’t you say something before?”

“Why didn’t she?”


“She didn’t want to hold me back.”

Slinging my arm around her, I slid in close. “So you broke up?”

“No, but we’re going to.” Bailey swiped a knuckle across her cheek, then looked into the distance. She was so far away in her eyes, and she looked painfully small. “I’m not stupid. Three thousand miles apart is too much.”

“That’s a year and a half away, though.”

“It’s an expiration date.”

Uselessly hopeful, I said, “Maybe she won’t get in.”

Bailey paid that about as much attention as it deserved: none. Waving her hand, she said, “I can’t . . . It’s like saying, okay, I’ll love you for exactly this long, but then it stops.”

I leaned my head against hers. It’s not like she wasn’t making sense. But I grasped for her anyway. If everything was over for me, then that’s just the way it was. For Bailey, I could be the one who punched at the moon and expected to hit it. “You guys are happily ever after. It’s gonna work out.”

“And then they never saw each other again, the end. Some fairy tale.” She wiped away another tear, then stiffened. In an instant, she put herself back together. “There’s somebody coming.”

She had ears like a bat; she must have heard footsteps on the stone walk, because there wasn’t anything to see just yet. Though I tightened with anticipation, I kept my attention on Bailey. Since we didn’t know who was coming, I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I’m not trying to talk you out of it, boo. I just hate it for you, you know?”

“You want to hear something stupid?” she whispered back.

“Always.”

Posed at attention, she watched the walk. “I wish you could talk me out of it. Stop everything at the bonfire, and stay there forever.”

That was the last place I wanted to spend my eternity, but I kept that to myself. The wind kicked up; it made the forest shiver around us. A dark figure finally appeared on the walk. A woman in a Statey uniform approached us, her hips heavy under her gun belt. I knew what she was after, so I stood up.

“What the . . . ?” Bailey murmured.

When the deputy saw us, she moved a little faster. She put a hand on her holster too. I wanted to snort because Bailey and I, we looked real dangerous with our backpacks and school books.

“Hey, ladies,” she said. “Know where I can find Willa Dixon?”

“That’s me.”

Without too much discussion, she checked my ID, then gave me a thick envelope. Since I knew what was inside, I shoved it in my back pocket. Like an idiot, I thanked her—like I was thrilled to get served and couldn’t wait to go to court. But inside, I felt empty, kind of a relief. The struggle was gone. Maybe it was shock, or maybe I was past caring.

“It’s just court stuff,” I told Bailey as the deputy disappeared down the path again.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” Reaching past her, I picked up her pasta salad and stole a couple of bites. “You wanna go sugar Cait’s tank?”

Bailey made a funny sound, amused and resigned. Shaking her head, she leaned back on her elbows instead of reclaiming her lunch. “I don’t know. Ask me after we break up.”

With a look over my shoulder, I asked, “You wanna let the air out of Seth’s tires, then?”

“No, dummy.” She kicked my foot. “Neither do you.”

“Yeah I do. Let’s see him go driving around with Denny on four flats.”

“He’ll just put her on the handles of his ten-speed.”

The mental picture that conjured actually made me laugh. The sound surprised me; it felt strange the way it echoed in my chest. We settled back. Cool wind washed over us again, and we sighed at the same time. We had an expiration date too, but we weren’t gonna discuss it.

Instead, after a long stretch of quiet, I said, “We could steal her brakes for your tru—”

“Shut it,” Bailey said, and squeezed my hand.





After school, I swung by the house to get my worm-digging gear. I tossed my copy of the summons on the table so Mom would know I got it, then headed right back out.

That junk heap in Milbridge was still for sale. It was gonna need a lot of expensive work. Rebuilding an engine wasn’t cheap. Neither was buying a new one outright.

The fog had lifted and the tide receded. Hunched backs lined the horizon, other diggers already at work. The mud closest to the shore was already raked to bits.

I had to hike out a ways to find a fresh patch, the mire doing its damnedest to pull off my boots. The cold cut right through the rubber, sending a chilled ache through my bones.

The lighthouse seemed to hover at the edge of my sight, but I refused to raise my head. It was finally a clear day, and I didn’t want to see Grey standing on the cliffs. If he was there without any mist in the air, I couldn’t call him a hallucination. I’d have to admit he was real. Somehow, it was easier to believe I was losing my mind.

A white boat drifted in the distance, probably my dad. I couldn’t make out the details that far away. I just had a feeling.

Lots of boats were white, but this one idled near where I dropped our pots when I was out. Someone moved on its deck, then ducked inside. The boat sped a little ways, stopping again.

That had to be him, fishing alone. Slowly, he disappeared into the island’s shadow.

I rubbed the knot out of my throat, then got to raking. Icy flecks of mud spattered me, stinking with decay and dead fish. It was harder than usual. Like I didn’t have my usual strength or stamina. Sure, the mud was cold, but except for the dead of summer, it always was.

My rake cut smooth but uncovered nothing. Sandworms, some mussels, but that was about it. I picked up my gear and moved farther out. Just as I bent to work another row, a man called out. “Hey, Gingham!”

Glancing at my apron, I straightened. The guy yelling at me was thin and gangly, his chin so narrow, his blond goatee hung from it like moss. I didn’t recognize him at all. “What?”

“How about you move on? Some of us are working for a living.”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

He pointed his rake at me. “You got a lobster license, dontcha?”

“Excuse me?”

“I seen you in the papers,” he said. Casually, like most people got their picture in the Bangor Daily. Holding a worm up to the light, he inspected its pale pink body before looking at me again. “Get real territorial when it comes to your money, am I right?”

Stiffening, I muttered, “Whatever.”

The tide only stayed out so long. The guy bent over again, back to work raking, but talking, too. “It ain’t right. I can’t go hop your boat and start pulling traps. So what are you doing down here in my kitchen, huh?”

My mouth was dry, and a sour taste came up in my throat. I wanted to throw things at him. Yell until my voice blew out, because what did he know? I wasn’t going to be lobstering for a long time.

All my confidence that a jury would let me keep my license was for nothing, because I was giving it up. Cutting off my own hands. So if I wanted to dig worms or clams or ghost shrimp, what was it to him, anyway?

“Got nothing to say for yourself?” he asked, pulling another worm as long as his forearm. “Not even a how-you-do?”

“Working, same as you.”

He snorted, dropping his bounty in his bucket.

I swung my rake hard. When it cut the mud, it sang. One high note, again and again. Grey turned black, turning heavily, revealing nothing. Moving down, I tried yet another spot. Every so often, that bigmouth would yell something at me.


The other diggers moved away from him, because he was breaking an unspoken agreement. This job, it was supposed to be quiet. Nobody telling you what to do. Heads down, rakes flying, worms adding up—if bait catching had a factory, it was the mud flats, and it wasn’t for socializing. Or being a dick.

“How many you got, Gingham?” he called.

Finally fed up, somebody else yelled at him to shut up.

Lapping back in, the tide washed around my ankles. It brought fog with it, the thin, hazy kind that swirled when you stepped through it. I wanted to lay down and let the mud swallow me, the water cover me. The mist would be a pale blanket; it might even be peaceful.

My bucket was mostly empty, and suddenly, I was too tired. I splashed back to shore, heavier with every step.





A hot shower washed the mud away, but not the rest. I opened my bedroom window to let in the cold, then fell into bed. Nobody moved downstairs, my father still on the water and my mother back on night shift.

I listened for the creak from the stairs. If Levi had been coming home, I’d have heard it. One long, drawn-out creak and then my doorknob rattling. I wanted it so badly. I wished it hard, throwing it to the wind like dandelion fluff.

A beam of light swept through my window. The lighthouse had kicked on; the lighthouse of impossible geometry, where Grey lived. Where he was waiting for me. Rolling off my bed, I went to the window and stared at Jackson’s Rock.

I couldn’t remember seeing it from my house before.

Before I thought too hard about it, I put on my coat and my boots and headed for the shore again. I twisted my wet hair into a messy knot and fixed it with a pencil from my pocket. The fog wasn’t heavy; the boats coming back to the wharf were clear enough. I saw bodies moving on the pier, the cut of gulls through the air.

But an alley still opened in it, and the boat with my name drifted to shore. I stepped inside and didn’t look back.





ELEVEN



Grey


I meet her when she lands.

This time, I felt the walk open from shore to shore. This time, I see the boat she thinks I sent for her. It bears her name, just as she claimed. A bit of unexpected magic; the curse working in my favor for once.

Offering her my hand, I say, “You’re in time for dinner.”

The shade where her eyes should be is brown. Now, there are shades of gold in there, hints of black, but mostly, brown. She’s still no more than a smear of colors. When she looks at me, I wonder what she sees.

When I set eyes on Susannah, I was wrecked. Every ethereal thing about her enchanted me. Nonetheless, feminine beauty is hardly the same as masculine appeal. I could be unnerving, to Willa. Perhaps terrifying. I squeeze her hand and tuck it in the crook of my elbow.

“I’m glad you came back.”

“I don’t even know if you’re real,” she says.

“In what sense?” I look to her as I lead her through the darkened forest. The leaves have started falling, promising the end of the season. They whisper as they flutter, and their bared trees arch above us, a skeletal canopy.

Willa digs her fingers into my arm. How could she doubt my existence? She’s touching me. And then I draw a half-hitched breath, because she’s touching me. It’s been a hundred years since anyone’s touched me.

There’s no chance she realizes the import of her hand on my arm. She doesn’t consider me, not even with a sideward glance. Her light wavers as she speaks. I wonder if she’s rolling her lips. If they’re full or chapped . . . if they’re in need of a kiss.

“In the sense of, you’re a ghost. You’re a story people tell. If you can get to the Grey Man, he’ll give you the best fishing you’ve had in your life.”

“You want me to help you fish?”

She barks with laughter. “I’m saying that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

It sounds vaguely familiar. But there are constraints to the wonders I can work. I wish for things to appear on my plate at breakfast; I call and dismiss the fog. I collect the souls of those few who die beneath the reach of my lamp. It is a limited palette, I admit. Mostly shadows and shade. Still, I’ve read her life, every bit that’s been recorded.

Covering her hand with mine, I say, “Let us agree to always tell each other the truth.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, frowning. “What?”

I move in front of her, stopping her just at the edge of the woods. There’s no moonlight to play on me here. I am as ghostly or as real as she wishes me to be, I suppose. “I won’t lie to you. From my lips, to your ears, I swear—it will always be the truth.” Perhaps it was too ardent a promise. She takes a step back, wary. I must do something to keep her. I must entice her, and she’s not so simple as I was. She wants more than a pretty siren on a cliff, promising her love.

“I know you’re suffering,” I say. More truthfully, I can guess that she is. She has to be; I read all the newspapers with her name in them. Until this summer, she was entirely ordinary. But this year, this summer, is a tapestry, and I alone see the threads in its weave. I understand more about her than she can possibly know. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

Her light hardens, the shades ceding to white as she becomes steel. “I don’t wanna talk about Levi.”

“Is that strictly true?”

The fog fills around us, capturing strange lights in its depth. It glows, draping the forest in its ephemeral shape. Willa turns, staring at the path behind her. It’s still clear. If she wishes to take to the boat again, to steer herself home, I won’t stop her.

I think it’s plain by now. If she’s a romantic, it’s the secret sort. I won’t win her by force or insistence. Instead, I ask again, an intimate murmur made for her alone.

“Is it, Willa?”

“I killed him, you know.”

Reaching out, I brush my fingers against her light, where her shoulders should be. My words I select with care—the sentiment she wants to hear, not the truth she may need to. That’s what her family and friends are for. It’s hardly my fault they’re failing.

I slip closer and say, “I know you did.”

Like frost, she melts.