Chapter Six #2
He nods to himself. “Clay,” he answers, as if we are meeting for the first time. As if he doesn’t want to dwell too long on the years that stretch between past and present—the threads of time that separate the real world from this one, mainland from his island. Who we were from who we are now.
“I know,” I reply, and his eyes stay on me a moment longer, as if he’s gazing into the past, just before he steps out into the hall and is gone. But he doesn’t close the door fully, he leaves it open a crack, perhaps to give me comfort, to assure me that I’m not a prisoner. I can leave at any time.
I can leave this room, anyway.
But not the island.
I twist the gold engagement ring around my finger, the diamond just as lustrous and sharp-edged as the day I first slid it on.
Has James heard what has happened to me, about the island, how I waded out into the stormy Atlantic?
Is he on a flight to the Faroe Islands, fingers tapping on his cell phone, hoping I’ll call, text, all just a misunderstanding?
Has he called Nana, both of them formulating a plan, their voices hurried, an unspoken worry at the backs of their throats, a strangeness they don’t dare give voice to: that I have vanished, history repeating itself?
Unexpectedly, I think of Mom. She still lives in San Francisco—last I heard.
Nana talks to her from time to time. But after college, when I changed my number, I asked Nana not to give it to her.
We barely spoke as it was. There was nothing left to say.
And I’d decided that what I needed most was distance, boundaries.
She was never really a mother to me. And yet, I think of her now.
Just a flicker in the back of my mind. And I wonder if she knows, if she’s heard about my disappearance.
And if it even matters.
My hip bone throbs, my whole body feels heavy as iron, while my head pulses with every whack of my heartbeat in my ears, so I sink down against the pillow that smells like mint, wool, salt… like him? And I sleep.
The hallway is lit by a single candle, the wood floor cold beneath my feet.
A closed door sits on my right; to the left, an open doorway reveals a small bathroom.
I only glance at it as I pass: clawfoot tub, pedestal sink with a round mirror above, white tile floor.
No toilet. It’s from another era. In need of renovation—the kind of bathroom found in an old farmhouse in one of those HGTV fixer-upper shows.
Maybe they’d decide to maintain the vintage feel, or maybe they’d demo it and give it a sleek, concrete bathroom with modern fixtures and copper lighting.
At the stairs, I grip the railing and use it to guide my way down, my hip lighting up, a white-hot pain with each step.
The front door stands ahead of me, an upholstered couch to the right—the color of oatmeal—and a brick fireplace with chopped wood stacked beside it.
I limp toward the door, fighting the throb at the back of my skull.
The doorknob is cold in my palm as I turn it, and at once, the wind pushes the door inward.
It slams back against the wall.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, how long I’ve been in this house, but I know I need to get out of here.
Stupidly, I left my cell phone in the pocket of my jeans back on the beach, before I dove into the sea.
But even if I had kept it, it would be waterlogged from the swim, and likely dead now anyway.
I have no way to call for help. At the edge of the front porch, rain pelts my face, and I blink, lifting a hand over my eyes to peer toward the stormy skyline.
I can’t even make out the sea beyond the edge of the island.
“Dreich,” his voice says softly behind me. “Ye step out there—” He nods from just inside the open doorway. “Ye’ll be soaked through in no time.”
My throat is dry. “How long was I asleep?”
“Been two days since I brought ye up from the shore.”
“I can’t stay any longer, they’ll be looking for me.”
Wind gusts past me, spraying rain through the open doorway onto the floor. Clay tips his eyes at me. “I don’t want ye here any more than ye want to be here.” His words are biting, and my chest tightens. “But we’ll need to wait for this storm to pass to see how far we’ve drifted.”
I stare out at the sea, drawing in the scent of brine and fish and algae. I don’t know what I thought would happen—leaving the shore, swimming toward a memory. But not this. Maybe I thought it would be like before: when I motored Nana’s boat to the island, then left it just as easily.
I didn’t think I’d be trapped.
I lower my hand, because he’s right, I’m not going anywhere in this storm. I can barely stand. So I turn, crossing the porch and moving slowly back through the open doorway.
He swings the door closed behind me, and the air inside the living room settles back into a muted calm, rain streaming down the roof.
The room is shadowy, but not unwelcoming—there is a softness to it, hints of the woman who once lived here: a folded blue quilt over the back of the couch, floral cushions in hues of yellow and green, a few paintings on the walls—seascapes, mostly.
On the mantel, over the unlit fireplace, sits a wooden clock, frozen in time.
It reads 11:42. Was this the time the island separated from the mainland?
Beside the fireplace are two rows of shelves filled with books. The spines look dusty. Unread for quite some time.
“Here,” he says, offering a hand.
I stare at his palm, work-worn, rough, and I reluctantly take it, knowing my hip can’t hold me upright much longer. He leads me into the kitchen, a room that feels all at once familiar… but forgotten. My left leg is trembling by the time he places me in a chair near the woodstove.