I realize I have not written about little Alice. Sometimes silent people go unnoticed, as if their lack of words makes them invisible. But being quiet and being invisible are not the same thing. She is on my mind much of the time. As much as I cannot fathom my own death, it is the potential of hers that haunts me the most.
Back when there were more of us, and we had the energy, we’d discussed where Alice could have come from. Lambert didn’t recognize her, but then he didn’t know many people on his own yacht, including me. Yannis said that on Friday afternoon, a rock band arrived on helicopters and he remembered seeing children. Maybe she was one of them.
We’ve asked her many times, “What’s your name?” and “What’s your mommy’s name?” and “Where do you live?” She seems incapable of communicating. Yet she is aware of everything. Her eyes move even faster than ours.
Speaking of her eyes, they are two different colors. One is pale blue and one is brown. I have heard of this condition—Geri knew the name of it, though I’ve forgotten—but it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it. The effect is that her stare is somewhat eerie.
Mostly that stare is reserved for the Lord. She stays by him, as if she knows he will protect her. I think of the lessons I learned in church, about Jesus and the children and the kingdom of Heaven belonging to them. The priest would often speak that verse, and my mother would rub my shoulders when he said it. I felt, in that moment, sheltered from all evil. There is no faith like the faith of a child. I haven’t got the heart to tell Alice it’s misplaced.
It is morning now. I’m sorry, Annabelle. I fell asleep with the notebook in my lap. I must be more careful. It could drop in the soggy bottom of the raft and become unreadable. Geri had a plastic bag in her backpack, and I have taken to storing the notebook inside that bag for extra protection. You never know when a wave will soak us. Or when I might not wake up at all.
It’s been three days since Jean Philippe left us. We have eaten all the meat from his fish. Geri has brought up more barnacles and weeds from the bottom of the raft, which contain tiny shrimp that we gobble down. They are morsels. Less than a bite in normal life. But we savor them like a meal, chewing slowly and not swallowing for as long as possible, if only to remind ourselves of what it is like to eat.
Fresh water remains the biggest problem. Geri has tried the solar still a hundred different ways. It will not hold. Without fresh water, we are withering to death. Last night, I opened my eyes to see Lambert’s large, meaty back bent over the side of the boat. At first I thought he was vomiting, although none of us have done that in a while. But then I saw his head tilt back and his arm lift up to his mouth. In my sleepy haze, I didn’t make much of it. But this morning, I told Geri, and she leaned over to where Lambert was now asleep as if searching for something. Finally, she tapped my arm and pointed. There, partially covered by his left leg, was the bailer.
“He’s drinking seawater,” Geri whispered.
News
ANCHOR: There’s breaking news tonight in one of the most tragic maritime accidents in recent memory. Tyler Brewer reports:
REPORTER: It was nearly a year ago that Jason Lambert’s Galaxy yacht sank in the North Atlantic Ocean, fifty miles off the coast of Cape Verde. Today, a report from the Caribbean island of Montserrat, some two thousand nautical miles away, claims a life raft from the Galaxy washed up on its shores. The raft itself was empty, but marine experts hired by Sextant Capital are examining it for clues as to who might have been in it, and whether it offers any information on what happened to the Galaxy that night.
Forty-four people were believed lost in that tragedy, including world leaders in politics, business, the arts, and technology. Today’s discovery has already renewed calls for a search of the waters where the Galaxy went down. Earlier attempts were blocked by Lambert’s firm, Sextant Capital, which called it “a fruitless endeavor that would only lead to more heartache.” There were also disputes over who held control of those international waters. It is unclear how today’s developments might change that.
ANCHOR: Tyler, do we know how the raft was discovered, or by whom?
REPORTER: Not at this time. Police will only say it was spotted on the north shore by someone who was on the beach.
ANCHOR: And what are the chances that a raft could make it all that way across the ocean?
REPORTER: Hard to say. One expert we spoke with said it was extremely unlikely, but that a raft’s chances were still much better than those of anyone who’d been inside it.
Sea
Death.
Two left now, Annabelle …
So much has happened. I wish—
Dear Annabelle …
Goodbye, Annabelle …
God is small
Land
“What do you want me to do, Lenny? I can’t make him appear out of thin air!”
LeFleur banged down the phone. Three days with no sign of Rom. I should have locked him in a damn motel. Reporters were clamoring for “the man who found the raft.” Short of that, they were swarming LeFleur. A few of them waited at his office every morning.
Sprague had been right about one thing. The interest in this story was crazy. In addition to a former American president and some big tech billionaires who were on the guest list, a rock band, a couple of famous actors, and a TV reporter had also died on the Galaxy. They’d all had fans and followers—rabid followers, LeFleur realized, based on the endless phone calls, social media posts, and shouted questions from the press, whose presence on the island increased every day.
LeFleur and his staff had spent many hours combing and recombing the other north-shore beaches for signs of anything else from the Galaxy—Sprague’s idea, strictly for show. What did they think? Because a raft miraculously made its way across the Atlantic, the rest of the boat would follow?
Of course, one thing had made it to the island that no one knew about. The notebook. LeFleur had hidden it in an old briefcase at home. It was too risky to bring to work. Each night, he would wait until after he and Patrice had finished dinner and got ready for bed. Once she was asleep, he would sneak downstairs and continue the story.
His knotted stomach confirmed that he was breaking the rules—the strict ones of police protocol, and the unwritten ones of a trusting marriage. But the notebook had narcotized him. He fell into a spell when he read it, and he needed to know how it ended. The pages were delicate, and deciphering the handwriting was tedious. Doing it after midnight made it that much more fatiguing. He had started taking notes, keeping charts for the actions of each of the eleven people on that raft. He searched old news articles about the Galaxy’s passengers, trying to match the names to the account and ensure that this wasn’t some crackpot fantasy that a delirious passenger had made up.
He justified that as the reason to keep it secret. The whole thing could be a hoax, and, if so, what would revealing it accomplish? Only confusion and heartache. This was the story he told himself, and the stories we tell ourselves long enough become our truths.
That night, LeFleur asked Katrina if she could drive him home. He wanted to get a drink, and the police jeep drew too much attention.
“OK,” she said, rising. “You coming?”
“Drive your car around back.”