“He’s our fix-it man,” Jacob says.
Her husband strides over in a slightly bowlegged gait. He’s handsome in a rough way, all stubble and thick, dark hair. He’s in work boots and jeans and a flannel shirt. “Kyra,” he says in a deep voice, shaking my hand. As his fingers touch mine, I’m struck by a lightning bolt of recognition. He’s gazing into my eyes, offering me a glass of wine.
“You must be Van,” I say, letting go of his hand.
“Good to see you again,” he says. “Nancy says you won’t remember me.”
She gives me an apologetic look. “I had to tell him what happened, couldn’t have you pretending.”
“I’ll be pretending if I say I remember you,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing stayed with you, huh? Not a danged thing?” Van points at his right temple. “You hit your head, and now . . .?”
“Van,” Nancy warns him.
“Just sayin’. You got nothing of . . . how long?”
“Four years,” I say.
“Damn.” He lets out a low whistle.
Jacob pats my shoulder. “She knows how she felt about this place. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say. “I loved the island.” I feel silly and cold standing here in my pajamas.
Van steps closer to me. “Any chance it could all come back?”
“No,” Jacob says, while I say, “Yes.”
“Maybe a few moments could come back,” Jacob corrects himself. “But it’s highly unlikely.”
I bite back my response. Highly unlikely?
For a split second, the two men gaze at each other. The voices seem far away, traveling a great distance through the sludgy atmosphere.
“. . . better take a look,” Nancy is saying. “Van’s a whiz at fixing things.”
Jacob is suddenly jovial. “What’s the prognosis, Van?”
We’re all following Van to the solar panel. “Big one,” he’s saying. “Twenty-four-volt, two-hundred-watt . . . not sure.”
Jacob nods. “Can you fix the broken glass?”
Van kneels next to the panel and examines it closely. “I could use some UV-resistant plastic. I could seal it for you. You’re low on watts, but the voltage is okay.”
“That’ll work?” Jacob says. “You can’t replace the glass?”
“Hell no. That glass is bonded to the cells. Could damage the thing. I would use heavy-gauge plastic. I know of some good waterproof sealant. Used on roofs. Not strictly green, mind you.”
“That’s okay,” Jacob says.
“Got to make sure the panel is dry. There’s a trick to the repair. I’ve done it before. You don’t want to get wrinkles in the plastic, like—”
“No need to go into details,” Nancy says, but not in a cruel way. It’s a familiarity born of time and shared experiences.
“Go for it,” Jacob says. “Name your price.”
“We barter around here,” Van says, looking at me. I look away, out across the sea. The wind is kicking up whitecaps.
“Not sure what I can barter,” Jacob says. “I’ve got some oysters—”
“Van’s allergic to shellfish,” Nancy says.
“Wood,” Van says, pointing to the wood pile. “A cord?”
“You got it.”
Nancy pulls me aside. “How are you holding up?”
I watch Jacob and Van crouching over the solar panel, their backs to us. “I’m okay, but it’s day by day.”
“I told you I would help,” she says.
“You and I. Were we close? Before my accident?”
“We did talk some.” She squeezes my arm gently. “Give it time. And in the meantime, let Jacob take care of you. You’re lucky to have a husband like him.” She looks at him and tucks her hands into her jacket pockets.
“I worry he’s getting tired of all my questions.”
“I’m sure he’s okay with it. He says you still have an amazing memory for facts . . .”
“If he says so.”
“Have you given any thought to coming down to the school?”
“The school?”
“To talk to the kids, remember? Teach them about marine biology?”
“Oh, right,” I say faintly. I don’t recall this piece of our previous conversations.
“You could tell them about, say, the Portuguese man o’ war.”
It comes to me immediately. “The Portuguese man o’ war is an ancient, foot-long purple bladder in the phylum Cnidaria, existing virtually unchanged for six hundred fifty million years . . .”
“You do remember a few things,” she says, her brows rising.
When these facts come back to me so quickly, I surprise even myself, though I know I knew all of this years before the time I lost.
She gives me a peculiar look. “I bet you attracted Jacob with all those facts. He always liked smart women.”
“Always? What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, since we grew up together, I know Jacob’s taste in women. He must love your brilliant mind,” she says, smiling.
“I’m not sure I have much of a mind left,” I say.
“I’m sure you do. So, you’ll give it a whirl? Teaching? We have only twenty kids, all ages.”
A sleeping memory stirs inside me. “Yes, you teach in a one-room school. Now I remember being there, vaguely.”
“You talked about delicate ecosystems and the way the warming oceans are destroying the balance of nature. You motivated the kids to make a difference in the world.”