His Other Life

Chapter 3

THREE

ISLA

Present day

“What on earth happened here?” Mom stopped short in the doorway to the kitchen.

Seeing through another’s eyes, Isla took in the pile of dishes in the sink, the plastic produce bags discarded in a jumble among garlic peel, lemongrass stalks, scattered parsley leaves, and sticky bowls. The pan blackened with burned chicken pieces, the Band-Aid box, the open whiskey bottle.

“I was just… I wanted to…” Isla’s voice trailed off as the knot in her throat swelled.

In the other room, the wedding video had now reached the point where the guests had lined up to wave goodbye as the newlyweds left the party in a rented sports car. The cheers and whoops echoed into the silence between Isla and her mom.

“Oh, Birdie.” Nancy hurried into the living room and pressed a button on the remote.

The screen froze with Jonah looking back at the crowd, a jubilant grin on his face. Isla stared at him, at the face she knew so well. Two years she’d been without him. Two years more than was fair. She was the one who was supposed to be gone. She’d been the one behind the wheel.

“It’s our anniversary today,” she said before taking a deep breath. “I wanted to cook for him.” Then, at seeing again the state of the kitchen, she chuckled darkly. “Clearly, I can’t even get that right anymore.”

Nancy picked up a shot glass from the coffee table and joined Isla in the kitchen. “Not surprising if you were drinking.” Her voice wasn’t unkind, but the message was clear: She did not approve. After putting the glass in the dishwasher, she started tidying the counter. Vegetable scraps and bags went into the garbage, dishes in the sink.

“Don’t worry about it, Mom, I’ll do it.”

Nancy turned. “Will you now?” She reached out and pushed a strand of Isla’s wispy blond hair behind her ear.

Instinctively, Isla leaned her cheek toward her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Nancy regarded her at length. “Come here.” She pulled Isla into a hug. “I’m sorry too. I should have skipped book club tonight. I forgot what day it was.”

Isla allowed herself to go limp in the embrace. If she could stay forever in that warmth and silence…

But no sooner had the thought entered her mind than Nancy cleared her throat. “Now, let’s clean up this mess and have some tea, okay?”

They did, and soon the smell of burned chicken faded beneath that of a jasmine candle.

Isla wanted to go to bed. Her head was pounding, and the sooner this day was over, the better. But one of the downsides of having moved back in with her mother was that unescapable parent-and-child dynamic—as alive and well at thirty-five and sixty-eight as it had been at fifteen and forty-eight. If Nancy had things to say, Isla had better listen.

Nancy peered at her daughter over her glasses as Isla settled under a blanket. The TV was off now. Mom must have turned it off at some point. Isla stirred her tea, wishing it was something stronger.

Just as Nancy opened her mouth to speak, Isla’s phone chimed. She picked it up, ignoring her mom’s displeased expression. “One sec,” she said. “I have to check the auction.”

“What are you bidding on this time?”

“It’s a small porcelain hummingbird. Nana used to have one exactly like it, but it disappeared at some point. It’s a pair to the one she gave me.” Isla pulled up the site. Her bid was still at the top with only one other person bidding so far. She was determined to win this one.

“Not too expensive I hope.”

Isla looked up. It wasn’t like Mom to talk finances.

“I worry about you,” Nancy said as if reading the question on Isla’s face. “Whiskey on a Monday?”

“It was a hard day.”

“There’s been a lot of those lately. And that video…” She shook her head. “What good does it do, Birdie? Your life is here. Now. Your back has healed, you’re getting stronger. You can have your old life back.”

A pang shot through Isla. “I can never have my old life back, and you know that.” She’d raised her voice, heat flashing to her cheeks.

Her mom leaned forward to rest a hand on Isla’s calf. “That’s not how I meant it. But you’re wasting yourself looking for answers at the bottom of a bottle of Macallan. Aren’t you volunteering tomorrow? What are the people down at Meals on Wheels going to say when you show up smelling like a distillery?”

Isla pressed her lips together. Would she ever reach an age where her mother’s perception didn’t get under her skin?

“I want to help you, but you also have to help yourself. This”—Nancy gestured vaguely around the room—“has to stop.”

Isla’s phone chimed with another notification. Someone had posted a message in her collectors’ board group chat. She resisted the urge to look. It was probably Louise. She was always online at this hour.

“I am trying.” Isla forced herself to meet her mom’s eyes. “I went to the store today. I volunteer. I talk to people.”

“Online. Not sure that counts. What about your old friends? I’m sure they’d love to hear from you.”

And see the pity in their eyes? No thanks . What would be the point? “Maybe. Soon. I’m not ready yet.”

Mom sighed. “I just don’t think that Jonah—” She cut herself off. “Never mind.”

Isla knew what she’d intended to say. That Jonah wouldn’t want Isla to act like this. To drink, wallow, mourn. But what did Mom know? Maybe that’s exactly what Jonah wanted. Maybe that’s what Isla deserved.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” she said. “I’m tired, and like you said, I have work tomorrow.” She got up and kissed her mom on the cheek. “Thanks for the tea.”

Nancy patted her arm. “Any time. You sleep well.”

Aside from some night-time whiskey sweats, Isla did get a solid eight hours before her alarm blared her awake at seven thirty. She didn’t have to be at the community center until ten, but she preferred to have plenty of time to get in the right headspace before leaving the house.

She’d volunteered for the local Meals on Wheels for nine months now, and though she’d been plenty reluctant at first when her mom dragged her there, insisting not another day could go by with Isla tucked on the couch watching daytime soaps, she’d come around to it within only a few short weeks. Delivering meals to the town’s seniors wasn’t like going to the store or walking through a crowd where someone might recognize her. Strangers were fine, and these were lonely people with a history, like her. Besides, her mom had been right—it did give her some small purpose. Helping the old folks was a form of penance. Like Isla, they were islands in the sea of humanity, disconnected, isolated, on indefinite stand-by, but she liked to think her visits kept her clients’ spirits up by obscuring the permanence of that state. It didn’t work on her, but if it helped someone else, it was a worthy cause.

At nine forty sharp, Isla opened the garage and pulled out her bike and its small, attached trailer. She used the remote to close the door, put her purse in the handlebar basket, then turned her face skyward. It had stopped raining, but the clouds still hung heavy in the Pacific Northwest sky, and her breath billowed in front of her.

Suddenly, a fluttering movement up near the eaves of the house forced her attention. For a split second, she was convinced she’d seen the iridescent green of a hummingbird’s feathers, but that couldn’t be. It wasn’t the season.

She walked closer, but now everything was still. She blamed the ongoing auction of the hummingbird figurine for playing tricks on her imagination.

Damp earth and crisp cedar air mixed with hazelnut coffee on her tongue as she set off toward the community center where she would pick up today’s deliveries. The road was mostly uphill, but Isla didn’t mind—she relished the burn in her thighs and the sting in her lungs as not too long ago she’d been stuck in a back brace and limited to gentle physical therapy.

Out of breath and sweating in her fleece-lined parka, she opened the door to the center at exactly ten o’clock. It was a space forever imbued with the questionable scents of cooked carrots and latex paint, not too dissimilar from the cafeteria at her old high school, but she was never inside long. Only enough time to confirm her route and get her meals.

She made her way to Stan’s office. He was the coordinator for Port Townsend—a seventy-something veteran with true passion for the charity—and the only one here who knew a little bit about Isla’s background. Not that Isla had told him. No, that was all Mom. Isla had been incensed at the oversharing that first day, but Stan had never made a big deal about it—didn’t look at Isla like there was something wrong with her, didn’t coddle her. Consequently, most of the time, Isla could pretend he was as clueless as the rest of the people she ran into here.

A raised voice seeped into the hallway before Isla reached the half-open door.

“I’ll take any other route,” the woman said. “Or take me off that one stop and I’ll do an additional route. Anything.”

Stan answered in his equable voice. “We don’t choose who we help.”

Isla pushed open the door. “Sorry to interrupt—just letting you know I’m here.”

“I can switch with her,” the woman said. She was younger than Isla—mid-twenties maybe—with curly red hair and dark lipstick. “Please. He gives me the creeps. I’ve done this route for a month now. It’s someone else’s turn. I don’t even care if her route is on the other side of town.”

“What’s going on?” Isla asked.

Stan’s lips pressed into a tight line—a more emotional display than Isla had seen on him before—but then his features settled back into their normal composure. “Serene here has some… issues… with her route.”

“Not the whole route,” Serene added. “There’s just this old guy who?—”

“Gives you the creeps,” Isla filled in. “I heard. What does he do?”

Serene’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Well, nothing really. It’s more a vibe.”

“A vibe?”

“Yeah. Like he doesn’t say much, and he looks…”

Stan had followed their back-and-forth from behind his desk, but now he put a hand up. “Be that as it may, our clients all deserve our help. I’m not going to deny service on the basis of a quote unquote ‘vibe.’”

“I’ll quit then,” Serene said. “It’s either a new route or no route at all.”

Nancy’s words echoed in Isla’s ears. How she thought Isla was doing nothing to help herself; that she was irresponsible, lazy even.

“I’ll do it,” Isla said. “I’ll take both our routes.” That would show her mom.

“Oh no, that won’t be necessary,” Stan said. “Serene’s route is mainly outside of town, and since you don’t drive, I’m afraid that wouldn’t be ideal. But let’s have a gander.” He produced a God’s honest paper map from within the depths of one of his drawers. Then, using a pencil, he outlined first Serene’s route, then Isla’s. “If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Zuft lives right here.” He pointed to a spot north of Isla’s circle, near the memorial park. “If you’re willing to add one more stop, you could squeeze him in between Dolly and Mrs. Hauberman.”

Isla nodded. “Sure. Whatever you need.”

“Oh my God, thank you.” Serene slumped back in her chair.

“Yeah, no worries.” One more stop was nothing. It was the least she could do. Creepy vibes had nothing on Isla, and something told her Serene might be easily spooked. “You’ll call over to let the guys know I’ll need one more meal?” she asked Stan. “I’d like to get going.”

“Consider it done. And thank you.”

Isla raised her hand in acknowledgment and took her leave.

Once her bike trailer had been loaded up, she adjusted her scarf and set off. The sun was trying but failing to push through the clouds, so the temperature held steady right below forty, which was ideal for pulling a heavy load of food through the streets. By the time Isla reached her newest delivery client, she’d discarded her gloves and unzipped her coat. She’d worked up quite an appetite herself, so in addition to Mr. Zuft’s meal, she also brought her own lunch along as she approached his apartment building. She liked to take turns eating with different clients each day she worked. It meant so much to them, and it took Isla’s mind off the outside world. What better way to get to know her new “creepy” client than to break bread with him? On the off chance Serene had been right, Isla could leave.

“Weird vibes,” she muttered to herself as she reached the exterior door. If Serene made time to get to know her clients the way Isla did, chances were they’d all be spared snap judgments like that.

She had just gripped the handle when the door swung open from inside, which made her nearly collide with a tower of a man wrapped in a dark parka.

“Oh, pardon me,” he said, at the same time she said, “So sorry.”

She went to her right and he to his left in that little dance people do when trying to pass each other in a small space.

“Oop.” He shifted right then left again. “Maybe if one of us doesn’t move?”

“Right.” Isla clasped her parcels to her chest and stayed still. She’d never seen this guy about town before. He was so tall, she’d have remembered. Maybe he was new to the area. Nice smile , she thought, surprising herself. The unprompted assessment caused heat to rush to her face, so she looked down and allowed him to make a final dodge past her on the right. A pleasant whiff of clean wool trailed him.

“Have a good one,” he called, pulling his collar up as he set off down the street.

“You too,” she mumbled, the man already too far away to hear her, then she hurried to climb the stairs to the third floor. Once there, she shrugged off the awkward encounter, knocked on the door, and waited. It was a nice old building—tall ceilings, worn stone steps, two doors on each landing, a small elevator. The walls were painted a pale yellow with a graphic square pattern border near the ceiling.

There was no movement in the apartment.

She knocked again and stepped back. There—was that a shadow darkening the peephole?

“Meals on Wheels delivery,” she called, in case the client was the anxious kind.

The lock rattled and the handle turned, but as the door opened, Isla’s smile slid off her face and the greeting on her tongue disappeared like vapor.

Face to face with Mr. Zuft, Isla suddenly felt more generous in spirit toward Serene, because above the collar of his dapper shirt and cardigan, the old man before her leveled her with the piercing blue gaze of someone intent on laying bare your very soul, and the whole left side of his face was covered in intricate tattoos.