There is one chest of drawers in the room. The top three drawers contain men’s clothes for a guy built much heavier than me. But then in the bottom drawer, I find another nightgown, this one made of indigo cotton, with cotton lace at the neckline. There are also jeans and long-sleeve shirts that would fit a girl like her.
So she does actually live here? Why would she stay behind? Where’s the dude? If it’s her father (because she looks like my age, maybe younger) why the hell hasn’t he come back to get her?
I shake the questions away. I want to know, and I don’t. And anyway, someone needs to change her into dry clothes, and I’m the only somebody around. My heart starts tap-dancing inside my chest as I peel off my own wet jacket and kick off my boots so I don’t feel so weighed down. After carrying her for so long, my hands tremble from her absence.
I pick up the dry nightgown.
“I swear to God, I have the best intentions,” I tell her, nervously clearing my throat. The wind thrashes against the wall, and the metal shutters outside tap a Morse code against the window panes. “Okay.” I swallow and pick up the dry nightgown. “Here goes.”
It’s hard to unsee what I see when I change her clothing. Unblemished skin, dabs of deep pink on bronze, and the softest curves I’ve ever seen in real life. She’s absolutely beautiful, and it’s not just because I’ve never seen a girl naked before.
There was Carla. We’d worked at Walmart together two summers in a row and messed around a few times in her car after work. Carla was plump and pretty, with smooth white skin, brown eyes, and harsh black bangs that knifed across her forehead. And she didn’t go to my high school, which meant my low-caste reputation was unknown to her. She actually didn’t care that I wore regular shorts instead of swim trunks when we went to the public pool once. She’d make me sandwiches when I’d brought nothing for lunch, or had no money to buy anything.
“Tell me about it,” she’d say. She didn’t elaborate on what. That was obvious. She wanted to know everything. About the scars, the rickety bicycle I rode to work, how I spoke to no one but her. In fact, we didn’t talk much at all. One day, she just took my hand and pulled me into her car after closing, and I let her. That was how it started.
Her questions at first didn’t seem like a demand; more like an open door. At first, I gave her what she wanted. I told her the scars were mine; that my mother was still in Korea and no, she never called or wrote. I hadn’t seen or heard from her since she put me on the plane when I was six, because she actually thought I’d be more accepted here. My dad wasn’t happy to have what he hadn’t wanted to begin with. And my uncle, well, he needed the extra cash.
But eventually, after I’d stopped answering Carla’s questions, she stopped asking. Summer ended, and she didn’t ask for my phone number.
I didn’t miss her. You can’t miss what you never really had, can you?
And I don’t blame her for walking away. It’s not like she was giving and I was taking all the time. I wasn’t giving and I wasn’t taking anything. Ever. You can’t date a brick wall. It stops being mysterious and ends up just being…a wall.
But this island girl. She’s different. She gives, but there is nothing expected in return, really. She’s not trying to fix me, or heal me, or new-age me to death. She asks no questions. And I’ve asked none, either. It’s such a relief, not having to unearth things you don’t want to.
And what’s more—anyone who stays stranded on Isle Royale in the winter, on purpose, has problems by definition. Seriously bad side effects from living. Somehow, I know hers are a tsunami compared to mine. Maybe part of me thanks her for the perspective. To be the least fucked-up person on a whole island—well, that’s a gift, too. Even if there are only the two of us.
Finally, the girl is dressed in her clean nightgown. I’ve sweated inside my clammy, sodden clothes. Inside the narrow hallway closet, there are fresh sheets and another blanket. I carry her to the sofa and peel off the damp sheets of the cot, then cover them with dry bedding before bringing her back.
Soon, she’s tucked in, dry, and sleeping soundly.
I should go back to my cabin, but I don’t want to. My evergreen wall has been destroyed, after all. And I need to make sure she wakes up okay. The wind and rain outside shake the shutters again, and the chimney moans. I’ve never been more glad to have a reason to stay in place.
As I sit on the sofa and stare at the ashes in the fireplace, I feel distinctly odd. Emptied out, but not in a bad way. Even though I almost saw a girl drown, even though I nearly drowned myself, I don’t feel freaked out like I should. Looking around at this tiny cottage with its strange, unconscious occupant in the next room—I don’t feel like tearing off my skin. I don’t feel like fleeing, for the first time in years.
Huh. Imagine that.
Chapter Fourteen
ANDA
I’ve never had a dream like this before.
I’m in a foreign city. Everyone is Asian and speaks a language I’ve never heard. It’s winter, and the cold air is ravenous, gnawing warmth away from people in their thick coats and scarves. Hurrying along the crowded sidewalk, there is a little boy—a toddler—and his mother. His skin is deeper, like aged oak, but hers is pale as parchment. They have the same dark eyes. Beautiful eyes.
The city street is busy and full of metal, wheels, voices, walls of steel. There are cabs and cars bumper to bumper. Steam from car exhaust and manholes rises here and there. Neon signs flash from the buildings above, and a constant din of honking horns, voices, and engines roar together in a garish cacophony.
The mother’s hair is tied in a messy black ponytail. She makes no eye contact with anyone as she pulls the boy’s mittened hand down the street. Her shoulders hunch over, burdened by the city air above. Two businessmen murmur to each other as they approach her. They are going to pass her and her son on the sidewalk.
One of them shouts at the mother, pushing out his chin to add punctuation.
Yanggalbo.
Somehow, I’m allowed to know what this means. Yankee prostitute.
He points to the boy, who cowers against his mother’s legs, but she isn’t enough shelter. Not from them; not from this.
The other businessman reaches out with his middle finger and presses it against the boy’s forehead. He pushes it firmly away, as he might a dirty object.
Gumdungee-ba.
Look at this black animal.
The boy reels from the finger-push as if it were a slap. The mother squeezes through them, trying to get by. Passersby stare rudely. No one says anything to help. Some of them wear the same expressions of disgust as the men; others’ eyes widen with pity and fear. The first businessman spits on the child, and his toddler eyes register shock as he recoils. His mother scoops him up and runs down the street.
The boy doesn’t cry.
Why isn’t he crying?
His eyes are wide open. They see everything, empty and accepting.
They see me. He blinks, and I open my mouth to say something. But nothing comes out, and I wake up with still no words on my tongue.
Dazedly, I take in my surroundings. I’m in my father’s room, in a clean nightgown. It’s night. My skin is dry and thirsty, and I’m air-hungry with panic.