Chapter 12
I barely saw Yasmin at all the next day.
After grabbing a quick cup of tea from Annabelle, she retreated to the shed and spent hours in there doing who-knows-what with Agatha’s magic book.
Nate and Old Pete finished the electrical work around noon, and then Nate returned to the house to bring Yasmin a sandwich for lunch.
My own stomach was starting to growl when the doorbell rang. I stretched and closed my laptop, grateful for the break. When I reached the hallway, I realized that someone—Nate, most likely—had fixed the doorbell so that it no longer sounded like someone was stepping on a frog.
“What a lovely day for magic!” Miranda exclaimed when I opened the door. She was wearing maroon from head to toe today, including what looked like red velvet slippers. Her fingernails were painted to match. Under her arm, she held an old book—one that looked suspiciously familiar.
I let her in, then said, “You have a date with Yasmin, I assume?”
She nodded. “We’re making great strides, Gibson.”
“Great strides toward what, exactly?” I walked with her through the house and out to the back deck, where we looked at the messy garden.
But Miranda demurred. “Oh, I shouldn’t say. It’s still early stages, and ... I think we’d best have that conversation together. The three of us.”
“O-kay,” I said, but she was already down the steps. She opened the shed door and hugged Yasmin enthusiastically. I could just barely see Yasmin’s face as she greeted Miranda. Her eyes crinkled in a smile, and she laughed easily at something the older woman said.
“Weird sisters,” I muttered, pulling the phrase from somewhere deep in my brain. “I think it’s time I got the fuck out of this house ... It’s definitely time to stop talking to myself.”
***
On my walk downtown, I passed the turnoff to Big Mike’s just as Adam and his crew were speeding in the opposite direction. I raised my hand in a wave, and the four of them waved back. One honked a bike horn. They stopped before turning to go home.
“My dad says you’re a wicked guitar player,” Adam said. “Don’t you have a bike?”
“Nah.”
The kids looked at each other as if I’d just said I’d been abducted by aliens.
“Stay here!” Adam dismounted, letting his bike fall to the ground, and dashed down the lane that led to his house. “Make her stay!” he called over his shoulder.
His three friends, grubby from playing whatever games they’d been playing in the forest, linked hands and formed a wall to prevent me from leaving. I put my hands up like I would if I was being apprehended. “What’s going on?”
“You can’t be here without a bike,” one of the kids said. He was taller than the others, gangly and glasses-wearing. The others nodded.
“I think it’s illegal,” another one whispered.
I laughed, but the kids remained serious. A few moments later, Adam returned, riding a bigger bike than the one he’d left behind.
“Here.” Adam dismounted and held the handlebars steady. “It’s Sage’s, but they have, like, two other ones, which is not fair, by the way.”
“I can’t take Sage’s bike!” I said.
“Sure you can.” Adam shrugged. “I’ll tell them you borrowed it.”
“But—”
Before I could protest further, Adam picked up his original bike from the ground, hopped on it, and the crew headed off. “Later!”
“I ... Thank you!” I yelled at the kids.
Then I stared down at the bike. I liked to think of myself as fearless but even I wasn’t so brave as to ride a bike in New York City, so it had been literal decades since I’d ridden one.
Was remembering how to ride a bike actually like remembering how to ride a bike?
After staring for a good thirty seconds, I summoned the courage to sling my leg over the center bar and try it.
***
Sweating and breathless but alive, I made it downtown. Biking was, regrettably, much faster than walking. But I’m sure I looked far less cool doing it with a white-knuckle grip on a set of wheels made for a teenager.
I had a turkey sandwich at a brewhouse called Mary’s.
The food was expensive but decent, and I finally found a beer that didn’t taste like Pine-Sol cleaning solution.
I sat by myself on the patio and watched the ferry come in.
A light breeze tickled my cheek, but my hair was short enough not to fly in my eyes.
The experience was ... not bad. One pleasant lunch wasn’t going to convince me that this was the greatest place ever. But ... not bad.
Reluctant to return to the house and work, I pedaled around the island, joined by throngs of tourists enjoying the last bit of their summer vacations before returning to real life.
Slowly getting the hang of my borrowed ride, I biked through a neighborhood of flower-lined porches in front of mini-mansions and the expansive lawns of a resort before the path started to climb.
As I passed a lookout called Lover’s Leap, I resolutely looked ahead, not stopping.
I was having a pleasant day and was not about to consider the possibility that Annabelle leaped to her death from this spot two hundred years ago.
Passing Arch Rock, I glanced up at the rocks and shrugged, then turned in toward the intense greenery of the island’s interior following the signs to Fort Holmes.
The original British fort was located on the highest point on the island and surrounded by the dense forest of the state park.
The sounds of birdcalls became louder as I got further from the tourists cycling the perimeter.
To get to the fort, I had to hike my borrowed bike up a steep dirt road lined by trees on both sides.
A few kids passed by on bicycles, but otherwise, I was left alone with my thoughts.
When I reached the reconstructed building, I was breathless from the climb.
The sight of the fort itself was anticlimactic.
It was nothing more than a dilapidated two-story wooden building behind a fence at the top of the hill, surrounded by a grassy field.
I supposed it made sense that the American fort was far more imposing than the British one, given that it had been occupied for much longer.
I entered the building and gazed around the sparsely furnished room, skimming the informational plaques, not entirely sure what I was looking for.
While I was learning what a redoubt was, my phone buzzed.
Brooke sent a video of a rehearsal. I recognized the space, a tiny studio in the Village.
The band was playing “He Knows You Want His Blood (So Don’t Give It To Him),” but even through the terrible sound of the cell phone video, I could tell it wasn’t right.
Every member of the band was out of sync.
After eight seconds of the song, the video cut to a selfie view of Brooke making a face that said, “Can you believe this shit?” Then she zoomed in on a guitar player I didn’t recognize.
He royally fucked the main intro chord progression, then left his cell phone on and stopped the rehearsal to answer it.
After the video, she sent a text saying, “u have got to come back Gibson I cant deal with this shit anymre”
Laughing, I sent a series of emojis in reply.
She sent me back a GIF, and I responded with a kissy face.
In the ten seconds it took her to like the text, I worried it’d been too much.
Brooke and I weren’t an item, but she flirted with me often enough that I knew she was interested.
Before I left for Michigan, I would have grasped for every crumb from her like a drowning man grasping for a life raft.
I put my phone away and peered through the slatted window as if looking out for an impending American invasion. None of the signs mentioned anything about women at the fort, which was hardly surprising. I stood awkwardly in the center of the room, shoved my hands in my pockets, and exhaled.
“Yep,” I said to no one. What was I looking for in this museum? A simple explanation on a sign about why I had an English ghost in my house? Come on.
My phone buzzed again.
Brooke said, “got a gig at The Crowbar on the 31st, some bigwig money bags are coming to see if they want to fund studio time for us.” She added seven dollar sign emojis, then added, “u better be back by then cuz this guy sux”
My heart started pounding as fast as it had while hiking up the hill to get here. Studio time? The thirty-first? That was only a little more than a week away. I left her on read and walked outside the building, willing my heart to slow down.
Back in the sunshine, I looked at the reconstruction. It just looked like a sad, old wooden building where a bunch of English kids camped out through brutal Great Lakes winters.
I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. Why was I looking for remnants of a ghost when I should be rehearsing? Or actually trying to sell my house so I could return to real life?
Before I could convince myself not to, I sent a thumbs-up emoji in reply to Brooke. I could get back by the thirty-first. Somehow. Just needed to convince my cousin not to sue me and sell my house. No problem.
Exiting the fort, I spotted a sign that read “Post Cemetery Fort Mackinac.” I hesitated. The afternoon was waning, and I still had work to do. I didn’t need to repeat the list of things I should be doing instead of chasing ghosts. A chilly breeze sent goosebumps running down my arms.
And it felt wrong, somehow. What would Annabelle say if she found out I went looking for her body?
I couldn’t help but feel a pull, though. As if seeing a stone with her name on it might connect us. If she was buried here, I could touch the ground and feel something solid of hers beneath my fingers.
I turned back the way I came.
***