Skin an even, light tan color. Hair shorn close to the head and lips pressed together in a frown. Broad shoulders expand beneath that old canvas jacket that smells like a bar. He belongs in that expanse of middle age where he’s still strong enough to pin me down, even though pure youth has long since abandoned him.
My uncle stands up and stares me down with grim eyes.
“Hello, Hector.”
Chapter Fifty
ANDA
I’ve never done this before—search the lake hoping for a person to be alive. But as he and Father travel farther and farther away, I find my mind has trouble remembering his face. His voice. The scent of his skin and the texture of his palms. The air scours my cheeks and swishes angrily against my ankles. It’s trying to remove him. My memories of him are dissolving all too quickly.
Forget it all, Anda. People fade away. But I’ll always be here for you.
I know. The best thing for me to do would be to sink into the lake and spill the contents of my memories. Wash out my thoughts and only keep what matters. This happens with my father, too. Come December when he returns, I often find myself staring at him for hours, because I’ve completely forgotten his face.
I stand on the shore and inhale the lake air. The rain slowly comes to a stop, as do my tears. I think of the clouds above and how they offer themselves to me. To become something larger, fiercer. But their call is distant, unlike in previous Novembers. And I want to give Hector safe passage. He deserves to have a life that doesn’t end as a skeleton at the bottom of the lake. I extend my fingers and resist the scrubbing of my thoughts and memories. I settle the clouds into softness, keeping the precipitation low.
Keep him safe. Bring him to land.
Yes. That is what I’ll do.
I walk to the lake and let it welcome me into the depths, forcing myself not to feel. It doesn’t matter, anyway. The water hugs my waist, a gentle caress. It’s cold, much colder than I expect. How utterly human of me to notice such things. How very interesting. I’ve changed since Hector arrived on the island. I wonder how long it will last, if at all.
I must concentrate on Hector while I can.
Outside the boundaries of the lake, he’s lost to me. He won’t be mine anymore.
Anda. He was never yours to keep.
Chapter Fifty-One
HECTOR
The Coast Guard officers stand behind me in the doorway, waiting. They don’t want to get between us. God, please. Let them come in. Or say something. Anything. They might crack the frozen air in the cabin.
“Don’t you have something to say to me, son?” my uncle says calmly, matter-of-fact. I can see that inside, he’s boiling. His eyes glitter at the sight of me.
“I’m not your son,” I say quietly. He takes a step forward and I flinch. The guards behind me move just a touch, ready to come between us.
Ha. It’s about six years too late for that.
They watch with tense anticipation as my uncle comes forward and hulks over me. He opens his arms and bear hugs me, hard. I almost fall over from the force of it, what with my wrists pinioned behind me and all. The officers behind us exhale in relief.
“Okay. Let’s go,” the captain says. My uncle leads me to the bench seat behind us. Someone offers us both life jackets. I stare at them with a what-the-fuck look.
“I’m cuffed. I can’t put that on.”
“Oh.” One guy fishes in his pockets for the keys and uncuffs me so I can put the jacket on. After, they motion to put the handcuffs back on.
“Really? Is it necessary? I’m here,” my uncle says. “He’s not going to jump in the lake.”
I close my eyes. Best idea he’s ever had.
...
Apparently, we’ll be heading back to Grand Portage. The police are already aware; they’re going to pick me up and question me. My social worker has been notified. The foster care agency has been notified. My father has been notified.
My mom…well. He never says anything about my mom, anyway.
The captain sets a comfortable cruising speed and glances up at the sky. It’s still gray, with clouds closer to the water, but no rain. Hardly any wind.
“The trip should take about three or four hours, depending on the weather.”
Depending on the weather.
That one phrase is a shot to the heart. It hurts just thinking about leaving Anda behind. I wonder how long it will take for her to get completely back to her normal self. A week? A month? A minute? With nothing but the lake nearby and no weird guys like me messing with her life, she could already be over me. Mr. Selkirk is probably dancing in his little boat all the way back to Menagerie Island, happy to be rid of me.
My uncle chats up the officers, like they’ve been poker buddies for ages. He thanks them for making an exception and allowing him to come to get me. Says he knew he’d help calm the situation. Secretly, I get the feeling that he doesn’t want me to be alone with law enforcement. I ignore them, trying not to hear his voice, but it’s impossible. Eventually, he sits back down next to me.
For half an hour, we don’t speak.
The officers glance at us and give my uncle looks of sympathy. They have kids, too. Their kids aren’t respectful, either. But they don’t complain out loud, because really, there’s no point comparing.
Ah, but you guys don’t leave roofies in the kitchen.
It’s so atrocious, it’s almost funny. So I laugh. My uncle turns to me quickly.
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
The officers disperse to the windows to talk over some schedule or other. I fight the urge to get up and bolt to the other side of the cabin.
My uncle clears his throat. “You know, your father is coming to the States.”
Shocking. I sneer at him. “Really? Why doesn’t he send a letter instead?”
My uncle throws me a dirty look, and I immediately quiet myself, staring instead at my boots. This is the way he likes me, after all. More docile. Controllable and caged. The officers make some respectful remarks about Dad being in the military, and isn’t my uncle such a swell guy for looking after a kid like me.
The conversation dies quickly, and the officers talk among themselves. For a full five minutes, my uncle sits next to me, wordless for a change. I steal a glance sideways at him. He looks sad. Something is preying on his mind. It can’t possibly be guilt. So what is it? I muster up the courage to say something.
“Do you think…he’s going to take me back with him to Germany?” I ask. I’m not even sure why I’m asking. Any answer is going to be bad. Living with Dad would just be another prison. No more letters, just him. He’ll squeeze in a lifetime of fatherisms and daddy guilt and I’ll hate him even more.
“I don’t know. He might.” My uncle rubs his hands before clasping them together. He hunches his shoulders over and studies his fists. The captain, with his back to us, straightens up just a little, turns his head just so. I know he’s listening to our conversation over the din of the boat motor and splashes. “He might not, though. Yeah. He might not.”