VIRTUAL REALITY
VIRTUAL REALITY
GRADY
The story of my life has unfolded in ways I could never have imagined.
“Hello, Grady! How are you today?” Cora asks as I step inside Christie’s Corner Shop. The little bell above the door tinkles as I close it and I smile.
“I’m very well. How are you?” I ask, taking a basket and heading off down the aisle.
“Mustn’t grumble, mustn’t complain—”
“Before a rainbow there is always rain,” I say, finishing her little rhyme. She laughs and so do I. I carry on down the aisle, grabbing the things I need, and when I get back to the checkout I look at the selection of newspapers. They’re a few days old—like everything else, they only get delivered to the island twice a week if and when the ferry sails—but I can see what I’m looking for—a three-day-old copy of The Sunday Times .
“Did you look already?” I ask Cora as I put one in my basket. Her smile gives her away.
“I’m afraid I did. I couldn’t wait.”
“And?”
“Don’t you want to look for yourself?”
I suppose I do. I open the newspaper, find the relevant page, and there it is— The Sunday Times bestseller list. I can’t help smiling when I see my name at the top of it next to Beautiful Ugly , which was published last week. Kitty will have known days ago, but she had no way of telling me. The phone line, once genuinely broken, never did get repaired.
“You must be so proud. I know we all are,” Cora says, smiling with all of her teeth.
“Thank you,” I say, folding the newspaper and paying for the rest of my things.
“It’s good for you and good for us.”
“It is indeed. There aren’t any letters for me are there?”
I sent Kitty a new book last week, and I haven’t heard back from her yet.
“Afraid not, but this came from the mainland for you,” Cora says, lifting a very expensive bottle of champagne wrapped in a red ribbon onto the counter.
Columbo is waiting outside the shop and greets me with a wagging tail. My boy is looking older, but he’s still the most affectionate dog in the world. I can’t imagine life without him. His shiny black fur has a few gray hairs these days, especially around his chin. I have a few more gray hairs of my own. Old age sneaks up on us all like an unwelcome thief.
Sandy strolls toward us, about to head inside the shop herself.
“How are you, Grady?”
“Can’t complain. How are you?”
“Never better,” she says. I’m not sure she’s ever forgiven me for leaving her in the cave, but I’m glad we’re on speaking terms. She leans down to stroke Columbo. “You know, I always wanted a black Labrador. If you ever need someone to take care of him, I’m your woman,” she adds before patting me on the shoulder and disappearing inside.
Columbo and I cross the immaculate village green and I glance over at the new church roof. It’s looking good. The Isle of Amberly Trust has taken care of a lot of community issues in the last few months, mainly because Beautiful Ugly got a big advance.
“Hello, Grady,” says Arabella coming out of The Stumble Inn. “Congratulations on the bestseller! The chef made fish-and-chips just for you,” she says, handing me a takeaway box.
They all know already. Of course they do.
“Thank you, that’s so kind. I couldn’t be happier!” I say.
Sometimes I think we are all the unreliable narrators of our own lives.
I climb into the old Land Rover and hear the crackle of a walkie-talkie, but it’s mine. I have my own these days. I’m officially a member of the community . I have learned a lot since I came here. A lot about myself and a lot about the world, as though this place has opened my eyes to all the things I couldn’t see before. No man is an island, but a woman can be if she needs to be.
My reflection in the rearview mirror startles me, but apart from the dark circles that have made themselves at home beneath my eyes, I look well enough. I still have trouble sleeping, and my head is often filled with unfinished thoughts and conversations I never had but should have, but Dr. Highsmith prescribed some very strong sedatives. They seem to do the trick at times like this; when I’m too exhausted to function but still can’t sleep. The new pills knock me out every time. I see the doctor every second Tuesday—if the weather permits the interisland ferry to sail—and she seems very keen to keep me in good health. They all do. Cora often adds green vegetables to my shopping basket when I’m not looking. I don’t even have to pay for them. So long as I keep writing, I think they’ll all take good enough care of me.
When Columbo and I get back to the cabin I light the wood-burning stove before slipping the pretty matchbox with a robin on the front inside my pocket. I think of that little robin as the only bird on this island, and I like to keep it close and safe. There are frequent power cuts here too, so I always keep the matches handy, and there’s only one match left, so I must remember to buy more next time I visit the shop.
I open the champagne and tuck into my fish-and-chips. It feels like a real treat and I savor every sip and every mouthful. I receive a modest salary, far less money than I know my books are generating, but that’s okay; it was never about the money. I just wanted to tell my stories. I’m published in forty countries these days and Beautiful Ugly has been made into a film. The premiere is in London next month. I was invited but won’t be attending. I pick up the Magic 8 Ball that I now know was Abby’s when she was a child, and ask it the question I’ve asked so many times before.
“Will I ever leave this island?”
DON’T COUNT ON IT , the screen tells me.
I make myself a cup of bog myrtle tea—I can’t get enough of the stuff—then I sit down at my desk and look at the bestseller list again. I sometimes wonder if my readers have noticed how inactive I am on social media. Or how I never do in-person book signings or attend festivals anymore. I’m so happy and humbled and grateful that my readers loved Beautiful Ugly , and that they understood the story I was trying to tell. I wish I could thank them. I might be trapped inside my own virtual reality, but my readers make it all worthwhile.
Books are a bit like children for authors, we’re not really allowed to have favorites, but this book was mine. Despite everything. It’s a story about an author who is trapped on an island. He wants to leave, but for various reasons, he can’t. So he asks his readers for help by hiding a secret message in the book. I did the same thing as my character in Beautiful Ugly and hid a message for my readers to find. The first word in the first fourteen chapters of the novel spells it out. Now that the book is published and out in the world, I wonder if any of my readers have discovered the secret message yet. Maybe someone will send help if they do. Kitty would have been furious if she had noticed, but luckily for me she never did.
I pick up the small, square silver frame that was here in the cabin when I arrived, and stare at the note Charles Whittaker wrote to himself. A note so important he decided to frame it:
The only way out is to write.
Kitty said she never really understood what it meant.
I do.
Columbo is on the bed and snoring already, and I’m jealous of how easy it is for him to sleep. Anywhere. Anytime. I took a couple of the new pills Dr. Highsmith prescribed and I can barely keep my eyes open, so I follow his lead. I lie down on the bed. Then I count backward from one hundred.
I dream of the sea.
And I dream of Abby.
Then I hear her whisper.
I hope you die in your sleep.
And I am so happy because those words mean that she still loves me. It’s what Abby and I used to say to each other every night. Despite everything, she is back by my side and I have been forgiven for the worst thing that I will ever do. Abby loves me again and all I want is to hold her and never let her go. I can hear Nina Simone singing in the distance “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood,” one of Abby’s favorites. She must have put the record on before coming to bed.
“I love you too,” I say, reaching for her, but she is not here.
She never was.
When I open my eyes, I realize that I am not where I thought I was either.
I can’t see anything. I am no longer on the bed. I’m not even in the cabin. I am somewhere unfamiliar, dark, and cold. I hear the crackle of a walkie-talkie and I try to move, but it feels as though I am surrounded by invisible walls. Almost as though I am inside a human-shaped box. Everything is still and silent and black.
Abby and I often talked about the things that scared us the most.
Her biggest fear was drowning.
She knew that mine was being buried alive.
I start to panic. I twist my body and there is just enough room to reach inside my pocket for the box of matches. I feel an overwhelming sense of relief when I discover that it is still there. That relief soon fades when I remember there is only one match left. With trembling fingers I light it.
The flickering flame confirms I am inside what looks like a coffin, and it has been lined with copies of my own books.
When I hear the muffled sound of a church bell it is hard to breathe.
The robin on the matchbox comes to life and flies away, leaving me completely alone, making me wonder what I’ve been drugged with. The match burns my fingers before everything fades to black.
I don’t scream. I don’t shout. But I do cry.
Silent tears dampen my face in the darkness.
Tears for the person I was and the person I could have been.
Then I hear the crackle of a walkie-talkie again, but I can’t reach it. It’s getting harder to breathe and I’m so tired. I close my eyes, part of me still wondering if this is just a bad dream. Deep down, I know that it isn’t. Life is a fairy tale that rarely hands out happy endings. Life is Beautiful Ugly; my wife taught me that. The walkie-talkie crackles again, it is her, and the last words I hear are the only ones I want to:
I hope you die in your sleep.