16. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Jackie
I ’m worried about Silas. His drinking is beyond just going overboard at weekend parties like a lot of kids I know. I think he legitimately drinks every single night. And I can’t talk about it with him because he gets all defensive anytime I bring it up, just like he does with any topic I broach that skirts around anything remotely personal. He is the most closed off person I’ve ever met. And it’s hard to reconcile this with the Silas of my pre-teen years, because he used to be an open book.
It scared me so much last night when there was a knock on the door at quarter to one, and I opened it to find two huge scary-looking middle-aged biker dudes propping Silas’ limp body up between their burly frames. He was barely coherent. Barely awake, actually.
They assumed Silas was my boyfriend and seemed genuinely confused when I explained the situation to them in a nutshell. Which, thinking about it now, makes sense. I’m still confused about our situation and what we are. Are we friends… or just ‘old friends’? Or something completely different—because even though I know what I want (to please please please be friends again…), I’m in the dark when it comes to Silas’ feelings, which he seems to keep caged behind barbed wire, floating in a moat of vodka.
They had to basically carry him over to his bed, which I pulled out in record time. The larger guy, who introduced himself as Steve, started asking questions after that. He saw the bruises on Silas’ torso, and I guess Silas muttered something about his uncle. Steve wanted to know if his assumptions were correct about how Silas got the crap beat out of him .
I filled in a few of the blanks for him, without getting into too much detail, knowing how fiercely Silas guards his privacy (understatement of the year). It turns out Steve is the guy who hired Silas—and then fired him when he showed up drunk to work last night. Honestly, I think he was just looking for information that would help redeem Silas, or at least excuse him for his erratic and stupid behavior. Which I guess is what I’ve been doing myself for the past five days.
That, and trying to get to know him again after all these years.
We pulled out of the festival grounds fifteen minutes ago and Silas has been quiet the entire drive so far; his nose buried in one of my Maine Guidebooks. His cheeks are the only blotches of color against his pale face, which I recognize now as his hangover complexion. It makes his dark lashes stand out even more against his marble-white skin. Meaning: he’s still beautiful. I’ve given up trying to pretend that he isn’t. Or that I don’t notice. I’m going to accept that it’s just one more new aspect about him that I need to get used to.
He managed to fit a shower in before we left, so his hair is still damp; and he keeps brushing it out of his eyes with his fingers. I know this because I keep stealing glances at him. Silas, however, hasn’t looked my way once since our conversation this morning. I don’t know if it’s because he’s annoyed or because he’s embarrassed. Could be he’s just oblivious, but I don’t think so.
Our first stop is the International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, which I’m less excited about than some of the other stops I’ve researched for my road trip, but it’s just so unique that I couldn’t pass it up knowing how close it was to my route.
Silas’ expression when we pull into the parking lot is curious more than dubious, the way it was during our first day of excursions together. So I take this as a positive sign, even though he still hasn’t said a word to me. He insists on paying his own six dollar entrance fee and I don’t put up too much resistance. I’ve learned now to pick my battles .
It’s a much bigger space than the Toilet Museum (ha! Even that sentence makes me smile), and other than maybe five other visitors, we’re the only people here. It’s cool to read up on famous scientifically unverified species like BigFoot and Yeti and the Loch Ness Monster, but also a bunch of less known species, too. And there’s a pretty compelling case to be made for their existence, based on some of the artifacts on display. But still… I’m skeptical. Silas, though, is seemingly fascinated. He actually takes out his phone and snaps a photo of the giant Sasquatch replica. Then later, of fecal matter from a small Yeti, apparently collected during some expedition in 1959.
So weird.
When I walk over just after he’s snapped the photo, Silas slides his phone back into his pocket and glances over at me for the first time all morning. He quirks a perfect dark eyebrow.
“Surprised they don’t have this on display at the International Museum of Poop.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a playful smirk. “You know— in Weirdville, Ohio.”
I grin, shaking my head.
“I know, right? They missed out, for sure. Tickets for this display alone probably could’ve funded that expansion they’ve got in the works… With the food hall and oversized gift shop?”
He nods. “The Shitty Diner, yeah… The baked beans are supposed to be to die for.”
We both break into laughter, and it shatters the tension that’s been weighing on us since we left Old Orchard Beach. And a little while later we’re back in the camper, on speaking terms again. We fix a picnic lunch which we pack into my insulated backpack (like I said: I thought of everything for this trip), and then it’s just a short ten-minute drive to the pier, where we’ll be taking a ferry over to Peaks Island.
We time it perfectly and a ferry is departing just a few minutes after we pull into the parking lot. Silas pulls the backpack from my shoulder as we jog to get our tickets.
“Here. I can carry that. ”
I let him, because I know it’s his way of feeling like I’m not the one doing everything. He won’t be able to pay for every stop we make today, so whatever he can do to feel like less of a charity case is important to him. He won’t let me give him much, but he’ll let me give him that: a stupid picnic bag on a ferry ride.
We buy our tickets just as they’re closing off the fence for the next ferry, and we full-on race to make it in time. Silver lining: we’re in such a rush that Silas doesn’t get a chance to argue over the fact that I pay for both tickets.
We make a mad dash toward the boat: Silas hot on my heels and me waving my arms like a pinwheel and calling out to the orange-vested guy at the mouth of the ferry, who glances our way and sighs, like it’s the biggest hassle of his day having to wait the extra fifteen seconds to let us on.
We’re both out of breath as we stumble onto the crowded boat. Silas is craning his neck, checking out the white and yellow-striped vessel like it’s a spaceship that just landed in his back yard.
“Whoa… It’s got three levels,” he murmurs under his breath.
It makes me smile: the way he seems to have a thing for tiered attractions: first the waterfalls that caught his eye in the guidebook a couple days ago, and now this ferry. And yeah, I know it’s random. Still, I find myself pocketing these little observations like smooth bits of sea glass.
I follow him up the steps to the open-air deck and all the way to the bow. We lean against the railing facing the water, forearms resting on the sea-spattered bar. From up here, we have a three-sixty view of ocean and brightly colored sailboats, fishing vessels and islands and picture-perfect inlets.
Silas is quiet, but his eyes are alive. I know how he feels: this moment is amazing.
We stand there for a while, side by side, just breathing in the sea air. We pass an island that is entirely taken up by an old ruined fort. It looks like something out of a dystopian video game.
“So…” Silas finally says, his silver-grey eyes still scanning the waves and the mass of land ahead. “What’s on this island we’re going to?”
I glance over at him. The fresh air is good for him: there’s color in his face again .
I turn my attention back to the water. “You’re going to think it’s super weird,” I tell him. “Like, really weird.”
His eyes widen just a fraction, and he turns his head to look at me.
“Okay… Are we talking weirder than the Toilet Museum, here?”
“Weirder.”
“Oof.” He shakes his head, and I laugh.
“Alright… What is it?” He draws in a slow breath. “I’m ready for it.”
“You sure?”
He nods. “Hit me.”
“It’s the world’s only Umbrella Cover Museum.”
His usually so serious lips fold into a sloppy grin. “Jeeesus…”
I shrug. “Told you it was weird.”
“Yeah. Well, you didn’t lie.”
“I never lie.”
He rolls his eyes. “Shocking.”
I elbow him in the ribs for that one, and then immediately feel bad when he flinches, because I forgot about the bruises.
“Sorry,” I say.
But he just grins. “Not as sorry as the crazy cat lady who had nothing better to do than open an umbrella cover museum.”
“It’s a guy who opened it.”
“Whatever,” he says. “He’s still gonna be off his rocker.”
“Don’t say that… I bet he’s really cool.”
Silas smirks. “I bet he’s really weird.”
“Tooold you…” Silas singsongs under his breath as we wander up the path to the white-washed cottage that houses the World Famous Umbrella Cover Museum.
“Shh!” I smack his chest as I plaster a smile on my face for Hrothgar, who I recognize from the website as the museum’s current owner. He is standing in the open doorway wearing a brown knitted cardigan and orange Crocs. And he’s playing a turquoise accordion.
So okay, Silas could be right: he might be leaning a little on the weird side. But he’s also over-brimming with enthusiasm. He gives us (and the three other visitors who wandered into the cottage just a short ways from the Peaks Island ferry landing) a private tour of the one-room museum. It’s jam packed from floor to ceiling (and when I say ceiling, I mean the ceiling is also covered) with hanging umbrella covers from all over the world, and in every pattern and shade of the rainbow. It is tackiness in its purest, most glorious form and I love it.
While Silas was fascinated by the cryptozoology museum, here he is merely baffled. And he doesn’t do a great job hiding it. He’s looking at me more than he’s looking at the umbrella covers. I think he’s trying to gauge my reaction, because while he didn’t initially get the concepts of the other museums we’ve visited, he did get the actual exhibits. Here, he doesn’t get either. And I want to explain to him that this is exactly the point: there is nothing to get. It’s pure whimsy. But I have a feeling that whimsy is a little out of Silas’ wheelhouse. Okay—a LOT out of his wheelhouse.
He doesn’t take one single photo. I take about fifteen.
As we trail back down the path twenty minutes later, Silas keeps glancing over his shoulder, as if he’s worried Hrothgar might be following us back to the ferry. But he’s still safely stationed on his perch by the front door, happily greeting the next batch of tourists with his accordion tunes.
“Well,” Silas says. “That was a trip.”
His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and he looks so bemused it’s actually kind of funny. He kicks a pebble with the toe of his shoe and it bounces off into the road that leads down to the cafe near the docks. We follow that same road and find an empty bench on the pier where we sit and take out our picnic lunch.
We’re quiet for a while as we both dig into our avocado and cheese sandwiches. Silas says he’s never had avocadoes before, and he watched me dubiously as I sliced one back in the camper. But there are no complaints from him now about the double-decker sandwich he’s devouring. Of course, I’m pretty sure this is his first meal in about twenty-four hours. He finishes his sandwich before I’ve even taken five bites of mine.
He leans back and stretches his long legs out, then takes a drink from one of the water bottles I packed.
“Did you get those book covers finished?” he asks as he sets the bottle down on the bench beside him.
I look over at him, surprised by the question. He’s watching two guys docking a small wooden motor boat along the pier, and his expression is unreadable.
“Almost. The first one’s a romance novel, so those are pretty quick. Basically, just two blended images, and the title and stuff.”
He nods. “Cool.”
He glances at me, and our eyes meet.
He looks away again.
“I don’t mind manning the window again tomorrow… so you can work on them.” He pauses. “I promise I’ll stay away from the Nutella.”
I love this sweet, bashful side of Teenage Silas. It is a total one-eighty from his usual rough and prickly self, which just makes me like it even more. He wears this side of his personality like a pair of shoes he’s considering buying, even though they’re different from anything else in his closet.
I look away. “I kind of over-reacted about that. The Nutella was… not a bad idea.”
“It was a fucking awesome idea.”
I knock my shoulder against his solid bicep. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far… Rookie.”
“Whoa,” he grins, eyebrows arched. “Are you calling me… a cookie rookie?”
I groan. “Oh my Gosh, Silas… That is sooo cheesy.”
“Says the girl who just took us to an umbrella cover museum.”
“Okay,” I concede. “Good point.” And then after a second, I add: “But yeah, that would be cool, if you’re up for taking over cookie sales sometime this week while I work on an award-winning book cover design.”
He nods. “For sure. ”
And then we’re both quiet again for a bit. Silas pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket as he stands up. He wanders closer to the ferry landing to light up, taking a long drag which makes his cheeks hollow. Just beyond him, the ferry is approaching, its silhouette rippling in the early afternoon sunlight. When it’s almost here, I pack away the remnants of our lunch, then sling the backpack over one shoulder and walk over to where Silas is standing. He takes one last puff, then flicks the cigarette butt into the water.
I slap his arm instinctively, and he glances at me. “Shit. Sorry.”
“Geez. You need to stop leaving a trail of litter everywhere you go.”
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. He does look a little bashful though, so maybe there’s hope after all.
Back in the camper, Silas reaches across and tugs at the itinerary binder I’m holding, which I’m using to double-check the location of the next stop on our route. I look up and find him biting lightly on his full lower lip. His grey eyes meet mine.
“There’s a quick stop I want to make before we get on the highway,” he says, his voice low and a little cautious. His request takes me by surprise and I’m not sure what to make of it.
“Oh. Um, sure. Where is it?”
Please don’t let it be a liquor store… Please don’t let it be a liquor store…
His eyes won’t meet mine this time. “It’s uh… It’s kind of a surprise.”
Okay. That sounds like it’s not a liquor store. Because a surprise means it’s something I’ll like, right?
“Um, okay… Yeah, sure,” I stammer. “Is it close by or…”
“Yeah.” He glances down at his phone. “Maybe twenty minutes.”
There’s an awkward silence, and then I nod once. “Okay. Sounds good.” I wrestle Trudy into drive. “Let’s do it. Lead the way.”
And he spends the next twenty minutes directing me until we reach our destination. Which appears to be… a huge shopping mall?! ?
I’m getting suspicious again and can’t ignore this nagging worry that this has something to do with him finding a way to score booze.
He directs me to the edge of the parking lot, where Trudy has lots of space to stretch out, away from all the other cars, and my worry intensifies because this only confirms that Silas’ surprise end destination truly was this mall.
This massive, definitely ordinary shopping mall.
Silas must sense my trepidation because he pauses as he reaches for the door handle, then sighs when he peers back and sees my expression.
“Jesus. Would you relax?” He rolls his eyes. “I followed you into a toilet museum for chrissake—and you can’t follow me into a stupid shopping mall?”
Okay. When he puts it that way.
“Sorry… Okay, I’m coming.”
Silas hops out and slams his door, then starts toward the entrance. I do the same a few seconds later, and when Silas glances over his shoulder to see if I’m following, I jog until I catch up to him and we walk together. He holds the door open for me when we reach the main entrance to the mall, and as soon as I see what’s just ahead, at the far end of the food court, a lump forms in my throat and my fingers lift to my mouth.
Oh, Silas… You just lit a match and ignited a tiny piece of my heart.