“I’ll tell you one sometime. And you can tell me if you like it.”
Silence hangs between us for a few moments. And then a wave bumps the boat. More like the water pitches under us. We bobble unsteadily.
“What the—” I start saying. I have to hold on to the side of the rowboat to keep from tipping out of it. Anda’s eyes grow wide, and she bares her teeth like a dog. Waves seem to be rising straight out from under us. There are no other boats making a wake. I don’t understand what’s happening.
And then I do. Under the water, the America is moving. Metal groans and screeches against bedrock as it shifts, the bow rising steadily until the algae-covered metal breaks the surface of the water. It nearly hits the side of our little rowboat.
“What the fuck!” I yell.
Anda quickly unties the rope from the buoy that is now slack on its chain. She glares at the America, as if it were a misbehaving child. What good that will do, I don’t know, because some sort of earthquake must be happening. I shove the broken paddle into the water and start digging toward shore. Anda keeps glaring, and the earthquake or whatever must be over, because the boat sinks right back down. A sonorous thump jangles my bones as the wreck hits the lake bed, and the resulting huge wake nearly tips us over one last time. I’m covered in sweat, and my stomach is lurching. My heart thumps a frantic tattoo. “Holy shit, what was that?”
Anda doesn’t answer. She’s clenching her jaw and looks pissed as all hell, as if the seismic event was an insult of some sort.
“Did you see how the wreck rose up?” I need to calm down. I’m breathing really fast, but Anda still says nothing. Her lack of reaction dumbfounds me. “Anda? Are you okay?”
Her eyes swivel in a split second to meet mine. She could be made of marble but for the glistening eyes. “No.” Her voice is dead cold and her words, deliberate. “I’m not okay.”
I try to push down my fear and think. I’ve been keeping track of all the weird shit that’s been happening around her, but there’s been a million excuses to brush them away. I mean, look at her. She’s just a girl. She’s only human. A really weird human with a really messed-up dad.
I don’t know what to say, so I just row back to shore. This time, she sits in the bow of the boat and looks back toward where the wreck is. She gazes with that unnerving, unblinking stare. The reflection of morning light in her dark eyes moves, like oil on water. When we land, I toss the paddle firmly inland, so it won’t float away. My pants are wet from the splashing. Anda is still chewing on her fingertips and starts walking back toward home, as if she’s totally forgotten that I exist. The shipwreck and the quake have completely changed her mood. She doesn’t seem like the same person who was kissing me for hours only a little while ago, or tugging on my hand like an impatient child.
I pull the boat a little farther ashore so it’s solidly on land. That’s when I see the gash in the corner, near the stern.
There was a huge hole in the boat, and I’d never noticed.
My sweat feels like ice water now.
I always thought I’d be in danger on this island, because of the cold and the weather, and simple, natural problems, like finding food and water. But it’s the unnatural things here that are going to be the death of me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
ANDA
Seeing the America was not a good idea.
I did not expect Mother to threaten him in such a way, to threaten me through Hector. She’s angry. But I’m angrier. I only wish more than ever to safeguard this precious thing we have, that I have remade for myself. Inside, a ferocity has arisen that I didn’t know was there.
And I like it.
I think of Hector, and our kisses, and the scent of his skin that still rises from me, a perfume I’ve never worn before. I wanted to share with him something beyond beauty and time. Something near and dear to my faulty, human heart.
But there is a problem. The forlorn cries of the drowned ship did nothing but whet my appetite. It’s November 1 now. How could I have lost track of the date? The sinking of the St. Anne was already too long ago. I find that I’m famished again, and the emptiness is consuming me. And Mother’s actions have occupied my mind.
On the way back to the cabin, I forget several times that I’m with Hector. He calls out to me and clasps my hand. I remember for a moment who and where I am. He steals a kiss and I give it to him, but the haze of his presence is wearing thin—not from irritation, but from a larger presence grinding away at my existence. Like sand and grit against a boulder, it will eventually thin me out until I can’t resist any longer.
You knew this would happen. You can’t ignore what matters. You can’t ignore me.
Her voice is clearer now than before, and she’s attempting to sound dulcet, not angry. I’ve been trying not to listen, but there are other things that force me to notice them. The creeping juniper that ought to be evergreen is browning. The old man’s beard lichens, usually hanging aloft in the pines, have fallen in irregular tufts and blow along the trail closer to the cabin.
But then I think of how the America’s bones saddened Hector. How he sees death with an opposite polarity that I can’t understand. All I only know is that Hector nourishes a side of me that has slept since birth. And I don’t want Hector to hurt.
You can’t ignore me.
I’ll try and then some, I say savagely without speaking.
...
That week, Hector and I live at home. He’s quieter than before, warier. He looks out at the lake as if expecting a serpent to arise from the depths and swallow him whole. But when it lies there in peace, he relaxes ever so slowly. He spends a portion of every day fishing. Sometimes he brings home a fish, sometimes he doesn’t. But when he does, he fries it, alive only an hour ago, and presents it glistening on a plate for us to share.
This pleases me. I am so used to being the one who keeps everything nourished, or drags them back into the humus of the soil to disintegrate. Father used to try to care for me, and vaguely, I remember enjoying it when I was younger. But those needs had left me.
With Hector, he’s awoken what I didn’t realize I missed. Once, he feeds me with his fingertips, dripping with browned butter. I nearly tackle him to the ground, rewarding him with hour-long kisses.
I make things that might please him, like more rock cairns in the living room. He comes home and sees my creations, scratching his newly growing beard thoughtfully. He doesn’t read their words like I do, but that doesn’t bother me.
What does bother me is that I can sense his pulse from a mile away. It’s an inviting river of blood, and when he asks me to shave his beard again, I decline. It’s too much temptation. I try to feed myself with other things, but we are already running low on camp store candy bars and dry soup packets. I’m starting to notice that Hector doesn’t cook enough for two people—only enough for me.