N 47°53’1.06”, W 89°28’1.79”
Down in the depths, the newly broken ship lays, grimacing and uncomfortable on her new bed. I touch the still-strong, smooth metal hull with my hand and enter the cabin, where the steering equipment is still perfectly intact. Trout and muskellunge swim through the broken glass and visit the glints of metal that have yet to be covered by summer algae. I sit down in the corner and hug my knees to my chest, staring across the cabin to the company I keep here.
The captain greets me with a fixed, morbid smile. His unmoving body lies crumpled at the bottom. His polyester clothes are still almost new-looking, but his body is succumbing to the elements, even with this heavy pressure and damning cold. I wait a long time. I am very patient. Eventually, he begins the conversation.
You’re sad.
“I am.”
You miss the boy?
“I do.”
Well. It’s not up to you, anymore, is it?
“But I’m not happy.”
You weren’t happy or sad before you met him. It’s a curse, isn’t it? To be even partly alive for once?
“Yes. It is.”
Are you ready? Do you really want that sort of tedium?
I nod, unsmiling.
There are hearts beating in boats on the water, but my hunger for them has lessened so much now. With the captain, I feel a roiling pain inside myself, too. Empathy is a new emotion I’ve only just met.
The captain recedes back into silence. I kiss the tattered flesh of his cheek and say my good-byes. He sighs and comforts his ship. She still mourns her own death, more than her own captain does. His soul will stay there until she’s sung her final song and is, at last, ready to fade.
He is a good captain.
...
December. January. February.
I begin preparing. I read all the books on Father’s shelves to squeeze in lessons on how to be. I practice phrases like, “Nice to meet you” and “As you know, dolphins are highly intelligent mammals.” I use the boat to steal supplies from the storerooms in Rock Harbor, because I’ve been living with a selfish companion who’s finally come to stay these days—hunger.
March. April.
The Isle has been awakening. The trees have long since sprouted their proud green leaves. The red-breasted mergansers and grebes have returned, as well as the humans who are working hard to get the park ready for new visitors. I study the Grand Portage ferry schedule for hours at a time.
May 3 arrives. A Wednesday.
I practice my story and walk into Windigo when the first ferry appears in the distance. One of the park workers is at the dock, and she looks at me with shock when I walk onto the pier in my boots, Father’s canvas jacket, and messy hair. No nightgown. I look like them. Sensible and work-worn, like I’ve been preparing for visitors. Like I belong here. When the woman won’t stop staring at me, I take a breath, forcing words out of my mouth.
“Hello. I’m Anda Selkirk.”
“You’re…are you related to Jakob?”
“Yes. I’m his niece. He told me to look after his cottage if anything ever happened. I arrived a few days ago with some of the park employees.”
The lines come out only a little bumpy. To my own ears, I sound like a foreigner. What shocks me more is not that I’m speaking them—it’s that the middle-aged woman with wiry auburn hair in two braids over her shoulders can see me without effort. I feel naked.
“I’m so sorry, Anda. We liked Jakob a lot. Welcome to Isle Royale.”
I nod and wipe away tears. Discreetly, I taste them on the back of my hand. It never fails to surprise that I weep seawater even though the lake runs in my veins.
It’s nine thirty in the morning. I’d rather hide behind the same tree as when I first saw Hector on the island, but the good sense that’s shakily taken root inside me says don’t. The ferry grows in size in the distance, and my skin flushes with nervousness when it finally touches the dock. Eager campers disembark with their stuffed, oversize backpacks, happy to be the first on the isle for the season. My eyes hungrily read each face, searching, searching. I look for tall bodies, for handsome brown skin, for forgiveness.
Finally, the captain exits, and the ship tells me what I already know.
Hector is not on board.
On Saturday, I do the same thing at nine thirty. And then on the next Wednesday again.
I’ve become obsessed with the ferry schedule. I want to discuss it endlessly with the house, with Mother. But no one answers my questions. Even down in the deep—if I could visit him—I know the dead captain would refrain from telling me anything at all. Even he would know how hopeless I’ve become.
The lady I met at the dock visits me once a week. Her name is Cecile. She thinks I’m lonely (she’s right) and brings me things to eat because she thinks I’m too thin (she’s right) and brings me tiny animals she’s knit of nubbly gray wool. I don’t know what they’re for. She asks if I would like to learn to knit. The idea of creating something not made of soil and air and chitin and microbes fascinates me. I grow calluses from the pressure of knitting needles and crochet hooks. I make an afghan in the shape of a walleye, and Cecile says it’s quite unique.
I believe she is called…a friend.
The island is bustling with the pitter-patter of hiking-booted feet. It’s strange to no longer need to hide as I walk around the island and take short hikes. Spending money (Father had something called “an account” at the Windigo store) for food, because I need to consume nourishment like a baby, every few hours. I am thankful that no one comments on the half dozen Hershey bars I occasionally take home with me from the camp store.
I blend in with visitors on the island. It used to be that they couldn’t see me, because I wouldn’t let them. Now they can’t see me because I share their common tale of existence.
I’m glad their glances pass me over. It would hurt too much to have any set of dark eyes on me that aren’t the ones I’m seeking.
...
June comes.
Then July. With its arrival comes air that is warm and marmalade sticky. The mosquitoes and black flies have woken up. The first Wednesday ferry has just left for McCargoe Cove on its trip around the island, but this time I did not go. I take a long hike to Feldtmann Lake instead. It never stops, that knifelike sensation that comes when the last person leaves the boat and he’s not there, so I experiment to see if the sensation happens even when I don’t watch—and the pain arrives anyway. The void inside my rib cage grows with time, marking its permanent residence within that tells me the truth.
Hector is not coming back. He’s forgotten me.