FOURTEEN
Willa
I went to school. Not because I cared, but because I had nowhere else to go.
My mother had the day off. I’d missed the low tide. Somebody had bought the boat in Milbridge, and Daddy left before dawn. Landlocked, it was easier for me to avoid looking to the lighthouse. I could bury myself in make-up work.
The air was molasses, thick and hard for me to walk through. Usually, the halls at Vandenbrook echoed like crazy. If you turned the right way in the English room, you could hear math lessons drifting up from the first story. Since it was a mansion once, it only seemed right. Couldn’t have a gothic mystery in a house that was soundtight and echoproof.
But on the day before my court date, the halls sounded hollow. Voices wound around me, sounding like they’d been shouted down a pipe, miles and miles away.
“Where have you been?” Ashley Jewett asked. She peeled off the wall to walk with me.
With a shrug, I said, “Around.”
Eyes darting, Ashley leaned in close. “Have you talked to Seth lately? You know me. You know I don’t like to start drama. But . . .”
Though it wasn’t a lie in the standard way, it wasn’t true, either. Ashley loved drama. She got all the tabloids online, she had Oh No They Didn’t on permanent scroll. You could tell when it was a bad signal day for cells if Ashley was leaning out a window with her phone.
For twelve seconds in ninth grade, she tried to get a gossip site about Broken Tooth going. Everybody knew it was her, and it wasn’t like we didn’t catch most news as it happened. She shut it down and rededicated herself to going person-to-person instead. It was tradition, and it worked. Mostly. She seemed to have skipped a link on my personal chain.
“We broke up,” I told her.
Visibly deflating, Ashley pursed her lips. She was going to salvage something out of this. “For real, or just on a break?”
As if it was that neat. He still had my DVDs. I still had a bunch of his shirts. We hadn’t signed a contract. We hadn’t even really said it was over. I just knew it was, and so did he.
Rather than scent the water with blood, I caught Ashley’s hand and squeezed it gently. “If you saw him with somebody else, it’s all right.”
It wasn’t. My stomach soured; not that I wanted to go back, but I didn’t want to see him dating Denny. If he wanted to get his flirt on, he could go to Bangor. Hang out in front of a movie theatre, show off by throwing popcorn in the air to catch in his mouth. He got plenty of attention doing it when I was there. Without me, it would be a silver bullet.
Didn’t matter, though. Ashley shook her head. “No! Is he seeing someone else?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“So weird. Because I was just wondering why he got into it with your dad at the co-op. Do you know?”
Veering toward a wall, I backed against it, out of the way of traffic. The wall held me up as I pushed a hand through my hair. Twisting it tight, I suffered a strange, cold roll in my belly. It took me a minute to get my words together.
Seth didn’t have words with people, let alone my father. Daddy got mouthy when he needed to, but what would he need to go at Seth for? Mismatched emotions competed for my attention, confusion winning out.
“As a matter of fact,” I told Ashley, “I do not.”
Ashley flumped next to me. It was obvious she was disappointed. “Ohh. I thought you would.”
It made sense, didn’t it? My ex-boyfriend, my father—I should have known. Just another gap in my life. Another silence where sound would have served me better. Holding up my hands, I tried to set Ashley free. The best way to do that was to put her on another subject entirely.
“Sorry. I heard Nick was getting his student license, though. Maybe that’s got something to do with it?”
Brightening, Ashley nodded. “It might. That’s a good . . . I bet you’re right.”
“Glad to be of service.”
Before she pushed off the wall, she leaned her head on my shoulder. We knew each other; it was a small town and a small school. But we’d never been close, so it was kinda weird.
Then she made it a little less weird by patting me as she pulled away. “Sorry about you and Seth. I thought you guys were getting married for sure.”
I felt a twinge. “It happens. You know.”
As soon as she headed down the hall, I started for the far end of the building. First half hour, before school started, Seth used to hang out with me. My best guess was that now he was trying to get as much space between the two of us as he could. I wound through the halls, down to the servant’s entrance and the porch out back.
Fully expecting to find him on the other side of the door, I threw it open. But it revealed nothing but empty forest. The leaves were falling in earnest now. Bright gold and copper lights flickered down. When I held my breath, I heard them land. Little whispers that went on, deep into the shadows, and beyond my sight.
Summer was over. Now autumn. Winter loomed, and I couldn’t imagine spring. I thought there might be a murder trial then. Bailey’d get early admission somewhere. I wouldn’t be running new rope or knitting bait bags or scrubbing barnacles from traps—or if I was, it wasn’t because I’d be heading out to fish.
Come spring, unfathomable spring, the rest of my life in Broken Tooth would drift away.
Sitting on the porch, I bowed my head and just listened.
When Daddy banged into the kitchen, right after sunset, I sprang to my feet.
“What’s going on with you and Seth?”
With rolled eyes, he brushed past me. He was dirty and wearing new bandages. I could tell all he wanted to do was heat a can of soup and watch some football. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to me.
Still, I followed him. “Must have been some blowout. Ashley Jewett knew all about it.”
“Then why’re you asking me?”
It was the perfect question. Not to please or defuse me; to drive me rabid instead. There was logic, and then there was Daddy logic. The kind with teeth and sarcasm, and just enough reason to it that it made me feel stupid and furious at the same time.
Cutting in front of him, I leaned against the pantry. “Because I want to hear it from you.”
Daddy looked me over. Then, with a sigh, he reached past me and pried the pantry open. He slid me out of the way like I was a sack of potatoes. Mumbling as he ducked in after his can of soup, he said, “Sorry you’re gonna go away mad, then.”
Briefly, I considered closing the door on his head. Instead, I snatched up my coat and slammed the back door as I headed into first evening. When he talked down to me like that, it made me feel melodramatic. Worse, I hated that. I liked being even. Quiet. I liked things just so.
All this too-big raging gave me the adrenaline shakes. Raising my voice, slamming up stairs, that was about as dramatic as I got. Walking real hard into the night. Maybe if I had a soundtrack, it would have seemed like a montage or something.
No personal soundtrack, though. I heard my feet and my heartbeat and the sea calling me back. My court date waited in the morning. My father waited at home. Not for me, just to suck up all the air. So I walked to my real home. To the wharf. To the water.
And this time, I didn’t wait for some mystic boat to show up for me.
Nothing was in my control anymore, and I wanted just one thing. The water and me. The ocean. This place between land and heaven that had been my home as long as I could remember—I wanted to master it one more time. I told myself that after court, I’d stay off the Jenn-a-Lo for good.
Right then, though, I boarded her proudly.
The cabin stank of cigarettes, and I’m pretty sure of beer, too. The whole thing was sour, like somebody else’s sweat. There was a Post-it on the dash, slashed with Daddy’s familiar handwriting. 42 pounds. Not even enough lobster to pay the light bill.
Stroking my fingers beneath the dash, I pulled the extra key from its hidden place and started the engine. One last time, out on the boat that raised and made and ended me.
It purred, mechanics sending a velvet vibration through the hull. I turned a light on long enough to maneuver past the rest of the fleet. Then I cut it and sailed into the dark. The lighthouse warned me away from the shallows and the shoals. Sailing into the night, I put Broken Tooth and Jackson’s Rock behind me.
When I cut the engine, a perfect quiet came in. Waves whispered, but no one spoke. No birds cried. I stepped onto the deck and turned my face to the sky. A storm raged on open water, miles away from me. A delicate lace of lightning unfurled. It touched the water and the sky at once. It was electric, and I vibrated with it.
A heavy wave rolled in, raising the Jenn-a-Lo, then dropping her. It wasn’t much of a lurch, a kiss from the storm in the distance. Dark clouds pressed black against blue, but where I sat on the water, they parted for the moon. It was bright and hung low, wearing a faint halo. That meant rain or snow soon, a near-perfect prediction.
Another wave swelled against the horizon, a brush of moonlight gleaming on its peak. It wasn’t a storm wave, nothing like. It didn’t chop or crash. It rolled, like a giant had dropped a boulder into the ocean. The swell skimmed toward me. It was slow. It looked lazy. But it burrowed beneath the boat and tossed her.
The hauler bashed the cabin wall. I slid across the deck and nearly went over. All I saw was black water. Felt the spray of it on my skin as the Jenn-a-Lo righted herself.
Grabbing the rail, I held on tight through the next wave. My heart beat too fast, making up for breaths that were too shallow. When a boat rolls, everything you see is wrong. The ocean above you. The sky underneath. Water slapping on the deck, looking like it flowed backwards.
I reached for the EPIRB, then jerked my hand away. It was a new one. It would send a distress signal. But if the Coast Guard came, I’d have to leave the Jenn-a-Lo on the open water, lost to the tides.
I didn’t know why I was panicking. I’d been on plenty of rough seas. Rode out waves so high and white, we called them bed sheets. Survived any number of pop-up squalls. So I clung to the cabin door’s frame as the next swell hit.
Everything shifted again.
The stern raised against the sky. An awful cry filled the air, the hauler wrenching against its bolts. Our soda cooler tumbled down the deck, crashing into me. Ice fountained from it, frigid bullets against my skin. Even that was lucky. If there had been a full load of traps on deck, I’d have already been dead.
The boat crashed down. The cooler bounced up and out, flung into the sea. The hauler gouged the cabin wall again, right next to my head. It left a deep welt in the wood. Ice cubes skittered beneath my feet.
Slicked with sweat, I dragged myself into the cabin. Righting myself, I twisted the key. The engine growled, then caught. It didn’t make a difference. The next wave hit. Daddy’s hula girl, hanging from the radio, went horizontal.
I cracked my head against the windshield. A wave crashed inside my head, this one dark and full of sparks. A hot streak of blood spilled down my temple. I ignored it. Instead, I flipped all the lights on. The radio, too. I had to get my bearings.
The engine was running, but it would be dangerous to steer into the sea blind. There had to be other boats out, farther out. Daddy’s Girlfriend would have advice too.
As warning lights flashed, the bilge alarm went off. The radio whispered white noise. In the cacophony, I caught a snatch of an automated warning. Storm surge in conjunction with unexpectedly high tide causing three- to four-foot waves. Danger to small vessels, and no freaking kidding.
Alarms blared around me. Taking on water! Check engine! When I keyed the mic, the static went quiet. But no one answered my call. With the lights on, I saw the chaos clearly. Sharp, angry angles of waves ahead of me, peaked like meringue. Then, the slow rise of the Jenn-a-Lo’s bow, anticipating the strike to come.
It hit, and the boat lunged once more. More water spilled onto the deck. That wasn’t enough to sink the boat. The bilge pump was already on, pumping as fast as it could. The Jenn-a-Lo was made to stay dry. We hauled traps onto the deck all day long, draining them out the sides.
No, that wasn’t the problem.
Another wave struck. It came down like a fist. That was the problem.
The ocean, when it was riled, could drown a boat. Not sink it—drown it. Shove it beneath the surface and hold it there. It wasn’t sinking if you filled with water all at once. It was drowning, drifting. A graceful submission. Gliding to the bottom to lay with other boats and other sailors, all sacrificed to the great blue.
Trying to find my way up, I gagged on the acid of cigarette ash. Rubbing grit off my face, I lurched when the ocean punched the Jenn-a-Lo again. Cords hung everywhere. They dangled like innards, the guts of some black beast cut open. Everything stank: salt and ash, spilled bait, fear sweat. I was flashes of cold and hot at the same time, trying to find my feet.
The mic swung close. I scrambled to catch it and keyed the button. “Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is the vessel Jenn-a-Lo, call sign ZMG0415.”
The sea answered, groaning like it was possessed. Like it was alive. I dropped the radio and turned. A wall rolled toward me. Black, streaked with silver, it was its own constellation. Poseidon rampant. Neptune at war.
All at once, I was calm. I wasn’t going to have to explain what I was thinking when I took the boat out. I wasn’t going to have to plead guilty or let a defense attorney tear me up. I wouldn’t ever see Seth driving around with another girl.
A sharp touch of regret twisted in me: I wouldn’t see Bailey again. My mother. My father. One more sunset on the Atlantic.
Before that registered, the wall came down. I was swallowed by the sea.
FOURTEEN
Grey
I don’t know. Usually I don’t know.
I see one of the human lights floundering beneath my beacon, and I thrill. Who it is matters not. It’s a mystery I can’t solve, and I don’t try. I snatch a jar from the cabinet. These vessels whisper and rattle, so alive in my hand. Into the elements, I rush.
Though I stay there most of the time, I’m not bound to the lighthouse. It’s the island that contains me. Thus, I can run to the shore when it’s time to add to my collection. When someone breathes his last, his soul rises to the beacon road. I open my jar, and his essence coalesces in it.
The whole spark of a human being is a beautiful thing.
I tremble in anticipation as I take my jar and rush to the water. A storm and stars, lighting and a full moon. It’s an extraordinary night! One more silver, swirling vial of life to line the shelves. One more tick off my immortal clock.
But when I reach the shore, I see autumn colors instead of an indeterminate glow. Copper hair, dusky mouth, I see her. This time I know her name. The shape of her hand. I recognize the essential parts—this isn’t another light, this is Willa.
I drop the bottle. Its bulb shatters on the rocks, and I wade into the water. When I go too far, I peel apart. I’m red-hot strips of agony, then nothing in an infernal cold. Then I form again on the shore, whole. Complete. Watching her go under.
This can’t happen. One more out of a thousand is not enough: collecting her ruins everything. She’s my hope. My escape! She’s walking on the far shore this year instead of a millennium hence. She comes to me and touches my things. She’s real and alive; I need her to stay.
There are no mannerly waves tonight. They roll and crash, making walls of driftwood, pushing them ever closer to the wood that shadows my rock. I can’t get closer. My agonizing insubstantiality persists. There are borders to my curse, a gate through which I cannot pass.
So I call the mist. I wind it around the island, wool on a spindle. I hope that it will calm the seas, just enough to bring her to shore. Not just her soul, but the whole of her.
Since the curse has been so very accommodating, I wish. On my breakfast plate, I want proof that she’s well, that she more than survived the night. The curse will grant it; a wish like that couldn’t be more contrary to its desires.
The waves roar yet, now blanketed in haze—but I see her light. With each surge, it flows toward me. I hold out my hands. To catch her; perhaps to call her. As if I’m some saltwater god and not a monster in a tower.
She can’t be lost. I’ve waited too long. I’ve been too generous, too careful, too kind. Despite my strange-made flesh, I’ve been so very human, and it’s time. I deserve this. I deserve her, deserve the chance to kiss her. To make her love me enough to die for me. All these things should be mine.
I wade in again, the island sure beneath my feet in spite of the inundation. The next wave crashes through me. There’s a trembling, the curse threatening to shear me to pieces again. I’m almost too far out. My contradictory bones ache from the cold, but, oh, lucky hand! I catch a length of what must be her hair.
Winding my wrist in it, I drag her into the air. It’s brutish, but it works. Once I’ve pulled her from the surf, I can better grasp her. I can even be gentle—scooping my arms beneath her, hefting her sodden shape off the ground. Her edges trail like seaweed.
Suddenly, her edges sharpen. She’s less a haze of light and shape, and more a girl.
No, she’s a mermaid made real, cradled in my arms and breathing! Gloriously, wonderfully breathing. Her face is battered. Bruised and swollen. Her skin cast in faint shades of blue. A vicious shudder rolls through her, and though she’s stiff with cold, she curls toward me. Catching my shirt with one hand, she clings to it.
Usually I don’t know the names or faces that belong to the souls in my bottles. Like the lights on the shore, they’re no more than the flickering of fireflies, single keys to try in the lock of my cage.
But this time, I looked out and knew it was Willa, and I thrill at her exception. She’s special; it must be destiny.
My curse’s end must be near!