Chapter 13
Unsure of my ability to drink and ride a bike, I walked downtown as the sun started to descend on the Great Lakes.
The crowds were heavy, with bikes zooming along the main road along with the occasional horse carriage.
I spotted the group of women from my ferry ride here on one, squeezed into the carriage compartment like sausage in a casing.
All of them but one was loudly laughing or taking a cell phone video.
The woman squeezed into a tube top appeared about to vomit at any moment, but her companions were blind to her discomfort.
The Purple Stallion was busy, happy, and loud—not the vibe I wanted.
I passed two fudge shops, three T-shirt shops, and an overpriced steakhouse before arriving at Helga’s as a band was setting up and tuning.
With a groan, I sat down and watched as Big Mike plugged in his Larrivée Baker electric.
Dr. Johnson, of all people, was at the mic.
She adjusted the height of the microphone then tapped it a few times.
Sage was barely visible behind the drum kit at the back.
Two people I didn’t know were also on stage, one at the keyboard and the other playing bass.
Into the mic, Dr. Johnson said, “Okay, folks we’re going to be playing here in about ten minutes, so stay tuned and don’t forget to tip your servers!”
“Woo!” The whoop came from Rebecca Johnson, seated at a table near the middle of the room.
She was halfway into a pint. Seeing her in a different context was jarring.
During my unexpected haircut, I hadn’t noticed the little happy smile lines around her eyes or the way she wore chunky-but-tasteful jewelry.
Tonight, she was wearing a dark blue high-waisted jumpsuit, and her hair was pulled into a knot high on her head the same way the bossy nurse from M*A*S*H wore hers.
On Rebecca Johnson, the ‘do was cute and just a tad sexy.
As a waitress took my order, Rebecca turned and spotted me.
Oh, shoot.
“Gibson!” She stood, knocking into the table and sloshing her drink but not spilling it. “Right? It’s Gibson?”
I nodded, hoping she wouldn’t approach. She did.
“Your hair looks great! I mean, I knew it would.” She put a hand to her chest and put on an exaggerated expression of pride. “Since your stylist is perfect at everything she does.”
I really tried not to smile.
“Seriously, though, I hope it’s working for you.”
“The hair? Yes,” I said. “The hair is one thing in my life that is, actually, perfect.” Surprisingly, I meant it.
I had given very little thought to my hair in the last few days, which meant that it was perfect.
There was no pulling it into a painful ponytail or burning my fingers to curl it and then not recognizing the person in the mirror with curled hair.
A few other people came into the bar, but it wasn’t a packed house. Big Mike wandered over to the table, giving me a friendly wave. “How’s the guitar?”
“It’s, uh, also perfect,” I said. I kept trying not to smile, but these people made it difficult to remember why I was upset when I arrived.
Dr. Johnson joined the party, throwing her arm around Rebecca. She was about three inches shorter than her wife even while wearing two-inch wedges, so she had to go up on her tiptoes. She was wearing a cute patterned wrap dress that accentuated her curves nicely.
“You remember Sara, right?” Rebecca said, seamlessly providing her wife’s first name so I didn’t have to keep thinking of her as Dr. Johnson.
We shook hands, and Rebecca told her I loved my haircut. Sara responded with a snort. “Of course Gibson loved her haircut! Her stylist is perfect in everything she does.”
“Damn straight,” said Rebecca with a smile.
“Hair aside, how are you?” Sara asked. “Your head must be just fine since you’ve come to see the best band on Mackinac. Also, the only band, but we try not to mention that part.”
“I’m ... . good. I, uh, got an offer, actually,” I said with a grimace. “On the house.”
I expected the mood to plummet as the trio realized I was betraying their little island of weirdos and fucking off back to the big city. But instead of frowning, Big Mike, Rebecca, and Sara all smiled.
“That’s great!” Sara said.
Big Mike flagged down one of the waitresses, then pointed at me. “Do not let this woman pay for her drinks tonight. They’re on me.”
“Or me!” Rebecca said.
I held up my hands. “No, no, no. That’s not necessary, really!”
“Of course it is!” Sara said. “Congrats on selling the house. It’s what you wanted, right?”
“Umm . . .”
Rebecca leaned in to whisper, “And you will have to tell us how much you’re getting. Like, ballpark.”
Big Mike backed away. “I don’t want to know! But I’m happy for you all the same, Gibson. Even if it means we’re losing a potential bandmate.”
“You play? Or sing?” Rebecca asked, her eyes wide.
“Guitar,” I said, taking a sip of my beer and hoping to end the conversation there.
Big Mike clapped me on the back, graciously waiting until I’d swallowed first. “She’s great! Way better than I am!”
“I mean—”
On stage, Sage had emerged from behind the drums. “Two-minute warning,” they said into the mic.
They gave me a small wave, but their neutral expression didn’t change.
For the performance, Sage looked much the same as they had when I saw them last—a band T-shirt and ripped jeans.
They weren’t wearing a jacket tonight and had swapped AC/DC for Rick and Morty .
“We gotta go, babe,” Dr. Johnson said, pulling away from her wife’s arms. “We’re playing!”
“Fine.” Rebecca let her go, checking out her ass as Sara weaved around the bar tables to the stage. Then she grabbed her purse and drink, moving them to the seat next to mine. “Break something!” she called to her wife.
“I won’t!” the doctor said, blowing her a kiss before she returned to the stage.
***
Sage was amazing.
The rest of the band, not so much. Big Mike was a perfectly average guitar player, such that I hardly noticed his slips.
There wasn’t anything novel or interesting about the way he played, meaning that he had a level of skill that let him fade into the background while the mistakes of the rest of the players were loud and clear.
The bass player appeared to be about eighty-five years old and half asleep.
He missed half his chords and almost fell off his chair a few times.
Sara’s singing was the kind of singing you do in the shower or the car—not in front of people.
I’d be damned if she didn’t try, though.
But I couldn’t take my eyes off the green-haired teenager.
They played not only with technical acumen, but with the kind of heart you can’t fake.
The kid added flair to the simplest routines and even went off on a few solos that were just sophisticated enough to blend into the song without being showy.
The kid had talent. Too bad they were stuck on this island full of tourists instead of living in a place with a scene.
Rebecca signaled for a waitress to bring us more beers and clinked her glass with mine when they were delivered.
It was easy, somehow, to sit with her and watch these mediocre musicians.
If Brooke or any of my other friends were here, they’d be making snide comments about the players’ lack of skill and planning to head to the next bar.
But as I watched Rebecca watching her wife on stage, I was humiliated to feel tears building behind my eyes.
It felt like there was a gaping wound in my chest, one that should be bleeding all over this stupid bar high-top table and onto the sticky floor.
Pressure built behind my sinuses, and I hated that I was getting emotional while a group of amateurs played “Wonderwall.”
Why did they all have to be so fucking nice?
The song ended, and I gulped down half my pint in one go.
While they played, people kept trickling in to the bar and filling the house.
I looked around at the crowd. There were a few tourists in sundresses and khakis, but most wore jeans and T-shirts.
These looked like locals, not the tourists who would flock to the bar, then go buy late-night fudge and a fifty-dollar Mackinac Island T-shirt.
Rebecca cheered louder than anyone else in the crowd, then whistled using her fingers. “Thanks, babe,” Sara said into the mic.
It was so obvious how much they loved each other—disgusting, really. A goddamned little happy band family on this little happy island with their devoted groupie and kids who loaned bikes to strangers and ...
I had to go.
The stage loomed over me, looking like a distortion from a movie special effect.
I started sweating everywhere, including weird places like the dip of my collarbone under my black T-shirt.
I recognized the feeling of an oncoming panic attack.
If I didn’t get out of this bar in the next five minutes, I would pass out.
I wanted what they had so bad it hurt.
As I bolted, Rebecca was belting out the beginning lines of “Don’t Stop Believin.’” Luckily, I got out before the earworm became permanently lodged in my brain.
Leaving the bar, I gulped in the night air, and walked along the path circling the island. There wasn’t a destination in my mind, but though I staved off an actual panic attack, I knew I couldn’t return home just yet.
Home? Abaddon wasn’t home. It was just a place to stay. One that was going to make me a lot of money.
The moon was about a quarter full, bright enough that I didn’t need to use my phone to walk along the path once my eyes adjusted.
Buoys blinked at me from the dark waters of the lakes like red eyes winking from afar.
I shivered at the brisk wind that came over Lake Huron.
After walking for a good fifteen minutes, I’d left the bright lights of downtown behind.
Ahead of me was darkness and a familiar bend in the path.
It was the cove where I’d seen Annabelle that night.
I never figured out why she was here. At this cove—or in this world at all. I shivered again. Walking forward slowly, I watched the rocks for any sign of a beautiful ghost in a nightgown.
“Annabelle?” I whispered, my voice sounding louder than intended in the quiet, dark night. “Are you here?”
Nothing.
I walked to the little beach where I’d seen her, studying the features of the rocks.
There was a mile marker on the side of the road, identifying this spot as mile three.
But other than that, it was just a stretch of rock where the road curved to match the natural contour of the island.
The dark rocks gleamed with spray from the gentle waves generated by the lake.
“Annabelle?” I called out, louder this time.
My voice was swallowed by the waves.
***
All the rooms in Abaddon Cottage were silent and dark when I returned.
The beer in my stomach sloshed around uncomfortably, pressing on my bladder and reminding me of my age.
I trudged up the stairs to my room and readied myself for bed, but sleep eluded.
I felt exhausted, worn like a rubber band stretched too tight.
Before I could slip into unconsciousness, the scent of the lakes returned.
“Marley,” I whispered, “are you here?”
My ghost appeared slowly, phasing into solidity like she was waking from an invisible sleep. Annabelle sat in her chair next to the bed, looking down on me with a sad, soft smile on her face.
“I’m here, dearest.”
I closed my eyes and let myself fall apart. Instead of a gaping wound, now I felt like an overflowing bathtub. Too much feeling for one chest cavity to contain.
How could she call me “dearest?” What did I do to deserve that honor when I couldn’t possibly be hers?
“Will you stay for a while? Read a book if you like.” I reached out my hand, hovering it in the air between us, palm out, saying what I needed with the grasping of my fingers. “The light won’t bother me. Just stay?”
Slowly, she reached out with her own ghostly hand. Our palms didn’t touch. But I felt the shimmering, pulsing energy of her. When our hands finally overlapped, I felt the coolness of Annabelle’s essence lightly kissing my skin.
“We’ve gotten ourselves into a predicament,” Annabelle said softly. “Haven’t we, Gibson?”
I curled my fingers, clinging to a hand that could never hold me back. “Yeah, I think maybe we have.”