CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER
SKYE
Six weeks ago, my mom gently informed me she’d been chosen to oversee an exciting new dig in Africa, and, oh by the way, I wasn’t invited.
Two weeks ago, I moved in with my dad.
Today, he handed me my uncle Scott’s journal.
Nothing will ever be the same.
NINE HOURS EARLIER
My dad’s official title is Daniel J. Bracken, PhD, Professor of Astrophysics and Solar-Terrestrial Physics at the Institute of Study of Earth, Oceans, and Space, a Department of the University of New Hampshire.
His unofficial titles? Island explorer, NASA consultant, stargazer extraordinaire.
And the title that fits best? Forty-four-year-old bachelor obsessed with news of the weird.
At least he was consistent.
One step into Dad’s home office on the day I moved in confirmed that his last title was still the most accurate.
Three walls were completely plastered with overlapping newspaper clippings of unusual happenings and missing-person reports, Internet printouts of similarly odd stories, and Google Earth snapshots.
Paragraphs and headlines were circled in various colors; if there was a rhyme or reason for the rainbow-marker madness, it was lost on me.
One wall contained a ginormous map of the South Pacific.
Chalk lines marked a grid. White tacks dotted the map like stars.
Since my visit last summer, the number of white tacks had grown.
And Dad still insisted I exercise like a fiend.
Morning runs, interval workouts, and a ridiculous amount of arm-strength exercises that bordered on fanatic.
That’s the other thing about my dad: He’s a cross between the Nutty Professor and Sarah Connor from Terminator 2, only he specializes in Survivorman techniques instead of semiautomatic weapons.
Obsessed with fitness, he’s pretty ripped for a dad, possibly because he’s lived the Paleo lifestyle for as long as I can remember.
I’ve never eaten anything processed at Dad’s house.
Then again, usually when I visit, we go off somewhere remote where sushi is tame.
I came inside from a run, sweating and tired but feeling pretty good.
I’d figured out years ago that my visits with Dad were easier—or at least less painful—if I made a decent effort to stay in shape back home in Gainesville.
And by decent I mean sticking to a schedule of regular runs.
As a result, I was thin, on the wiry side, but I’d no hope of building big muscles anyway; I had my mom’s small-boned build that topped out at a whopping five feet five.
I’d also been cursed with the absolute nightmare that was my mom’s hair: curly blond ringlets that defied any kind of styling.
I relied on massive amounts of ponytail holders and gravity to make it behave, with mixed results.
At least I’d inherited my dad’s eyes. Neither blue nor green, my eyes were an equal combination of the two, with specks of mica mixed in like salt.
My dad said the stars touched my eyes. It’s what makes them shine, he liked to say.
If so, I guess the stars touched my dad’s eyes, too. It was the one feature we shared.
“How was it, Skye?” Dad called from his office. “Did you sprint at the end?”
I kicked off my shoes. “Yes, Dad, I sprinted at the end. The last fifty yards, as hard as I could.”
“Good girl. How about push-ups? Did you knock those out yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Make time for them, Skye. A strong body makes for a strong mind,” he continued.
“Don’t dismiss skills you may need just because you haven’t been called on to use them.
And hopefully you never will, but better to plan for the worst and hope for the best.” His voice lightened.
“But if you’re not busy with your push-ups, I’ve got something I want you to see. ”
“Let me guess,” I said, stretching. “Another video on edible plants of the South Pacific? Or a documentary on rudimentary tool making?”
“At least you remember.” He laughed.
One thing I’ll give my crazy-sweet dad is that he’s one of the biggest optimists I’ve ever met. He wasn’t faking his delight in my comments. He wasn’t totally balanced, either.
It’s why my mom left.
“Seriously, come in here for a sec,” he said.
“Coming.” I sighed. Nothing in Dad’s office ever took just a “sec.”
If possible, the walls of Dad’s office seemed more covered than usual.
A new folding table hugged the wall under the window.
Paper coated the table like frosting: piles of white, with handwritten notes scrawled everywhere.
Yellow Post-it notes containing hand-drawn arrows pointing to other notes lurked haphazardly among the mess.
As I entered, Dad’s eyes lit up like he’d just found leprechauns and their pot of gold.
“Skye.” He held up a piece of paper and grinned. “I think I’m close.”
“To what, exactly?” I tried to muster some enthusiasm and failed.
“To finding the original home of my guide last year. Or rather, his grandmother.” He waved the paper animatedly.
“According to his stories, his grandmother was relocated from her island birthplace in the late 1940s—a place of secrets and spirits, he said—and that’s the island I need to find.
” Paper in hand, he walked over to the huge wall map of the South Pacific.
“I’ve narrowed it down to a small cross-section of islands along the equator. I think I’m finally close.”
The secret island, I thought, my heart sinking. Of course.
Crazy-obsession number one, the one that pushed my mom over the edge and out the door.
“Dad.” I spoke slowly, careful to keep my tone level.
“I understand you think you’re close. But I also love you.
And I think”—I paused, making sure he was giving me his full attention—“it’s time to stop.
You’ve been fantasizing about this secret island for years.
You’ve fixated on something that doesn’t exist—or if it does, it’s not part of our life.
And you’re missing out on this life.” He’d gone still as he listened.
Maybe that encouraged what was the words I’d been dying to say for the last few years.
“Dad, Mom left because you wouldn’t let this island obsession go.
She left, Dad. Four years ago. And you’ve been alone ever since.
You don’t date, barely have friends, and every free minute you’re not working at the university or lecturing on solar flares or electromagnetism, you’re researching islands or traveling to one.
For what, Dad? Where has it gotten you?” I swept my hand around the cluttered office.
“Dad, you need to let it go,” I said softly.
“As your daughter, I’m telling you: Let it go. ”
“And as your father, Skye, I’m telling you I can’t.” No judgment, no resignation, just pure astrophysicist matter-of-fact.
He strode over to his desk and picked up a small, worn black journal. With equal purpose, he handed it to me.
“This is your uncle Scott’s journal. He wrote it when he was seventeen. Your age. Read it and then we’ll talk.”
I didn’t move. “I want you to think about what I said. I’m serious, Dad. It’s time to move on.”
His smile was hard. “I know you’re serious, Skye. So am I. Read.”
“Did Mom ever read this?” I held up the journal.
Dad’s voice softened into a pained tone I didn’t recognize. “Yes, she did. But she never looked into his eyes. She never saw the truth.”
The truth was, I’d never looked into my uncle Scott’s eyes, either. I’d never had the chance. My dad’s twin, Uncle Scott, had died in a freak accident at age eighteen.
I went upstairs, took a quick shower, opened the journal, and began to read.