2. Isaac
Chapter 2
Isaac
“I thought you said the house next door was empty.”
Sierra sighs on the other end of the phone. “It is empty. The professor from the college who lived there died a couple of years ago.”
“Was he married?” I can’t help but watch for signs of life from the house next door. Besides my sister calling me, my phone has been incredibly silent since yesterday afternoon.
“No—I don’t know. I only heard about it through Uncle Rob. Sad story—the professor's car slid off the road near the lighthouse and went over the cliffs.”
“Oh, wow. That’s awful.” Awful doesn’t even begin to cover it, but the surprise and horror at the thought have stunned me momentarily.
“Right?” Sierra says. “I avoided that road last time I was in town. They added a guard rail, but it’s too tragic.”
“Did the family sell the house or anything? Uncle Rob never mentioned new neighbors?” I thought I saw a flicker of light out of the corner of my eye last night, but I couldn’t be sure. I had seen nothing in the two weeks since moving in.
“I don’t talk to him as much as you do,” she sighs. There’s the sound of pots and pans in the background as she preps dinner. “Didn’t,” she corrects. There’s a moment of silence as we let reality sink in.
Uncle Rob was old, but his passing had been hard. Sierra and I spent most of our summers here in Calysto’s Cove with our mom and her brother, Uncle Rob. Ice cream on the boardwalk, looking for mermaids at Lighthouse Beach, Lobster Fest. It was a second home to us. It wasn’t a huge surprise when we found out he had left his house to me, but I surprised the whole family by moving into it. Calysto’s Cove is a far cry from the Chicago art scene.
“Why are you asking all these questions, anyway?”
“I met a woman who lives there yesterday.”
“Ooooh,” Sierra teases through the phone. I can envision the salacious eyebrow waggle in my mind. “Is she cute?”
“She was having a panic attack in my front yard.”
“Okay, bad time to check someone out. What was she doing having a panic attack in your front yard?” There’s a crash in the background, and she swears under her breath.
“I think she was trying to return a package.” I scrub my face as I recall the pale, shaking woman. She looked terrified—not just of me, but of everything. “I don’t know.”
“Weird. I hope she’s alright.” I can hear the shrug accompanying my younger sister’s words.
“Yeah, me too.”
The sounds of her beginning to cook break up the silence. The hiss of butter in a pan, the soft sounds of something dropping into it. “Hey, did you finish moving your stuff into the bedroom, or are you still sleeping on the couch?” Shit. “I’ll take that silence as a no. I’m going to hang up, and you’re going to go finish that. The paint is definitely dry, and you are going to mess up your back sleeping on the couch, old man.”
“Sierra, I’m only two years older than you.”
“And?”
“Fine. Later, hot dog.”
“Later, dweeb.”
Pork Belly’s ears perk up. “No, no hot dogs for you,” I tell her. She grumbles dramatically as she lays her head back down.
Sierra is right, though. That couch is killing me, and the paint is dry upstairs. I have to move the furniture in from my studio.
Uncle Rob’s—my house—has three bedrooms. The large, well-lit main bedroom upstairs, a second bedroom upstairs facing my not-so-empty neighbor’s house, and a small guest bedroom on the main floor with ancient bunk beds that Sierra and I used to sleep on, adorned with scribbles like Paleolithic cave art. The main bedroom is spacious and makes for the perfect studio. It has a huge walk-in closet for supplies, and a dated bathroom that I don’t mind getting dirty with paint, clay, and metal shavings.
Sure, I haven’t been able to actually make anything in months, but it’s nice knowing it’ll be there when I’m ready. Right now, it’s a beautiful and breezy storage room.
I took the last couple of weeks to update the second bedroom upstairs. I replaced ancient wallpaper with fresh coats of paint and re-grouted the tile. It looks respectable now.
Moving in and then sleeping there? That means this is my home. That this isn’t a vacation. It means I have to get back to work creating something new—a task that is currently impossibly out of my reach.
My phone buzzes in my hand as I stare up the stairs. I say a silent prayer that it’s my neighbor. I’m getting worried.
Sierra: Send pics when you’re done.
I roll my eyes; she knows me so well.
Two hours, a dozen curse words, and one screwdriver stolen and hidden by Pork Belly later, I send her a picture of the freshly assembled furniture.
From my bed, I can see into a window in my neighbor’s house. I wonder what that room is for her. A bedroom? An office? The layout of her downstairs seemed similar, so it might be the main bedroom if the upstairs is similar, too.
Her house had been relatively uncluttered, but had a distinctly empty feeling. It felt abandoned, frozen in time.
The scribbled notes pinned to the refrigerator looked brittle with age. The few dishes in the sink belayed small meals, not someone cooking regularly. A half-dead plant sat in the window of her kitchen.
She had a distinctly empty feel to her. It was like someone tipped her over and poured the life out of her. It’s not that she was standing in PJs in my yard in the middle of the day or the panic attack itself. It was the all-consuming panic in her deep green eyes when they finally met mine. It was the clamminess of her skin. It was the way she shook like leaves in the wind, like the entire world was blowing right through her.
I stare out the window as the sun sets, my neighbor’s house hazy behind the curtains I hung. It’s like getting a wish granted when I see the upstairs light turn on. The curvy silhouette of a woman pauses in front of the window, still as a deer in headlights. I wonder if she’s as shocked as I am to see a light on. Uncle Rob hadn’t used this room in years. Like a sleepy eye closing, the curtains seal out the light.
It’s been three days since the incident with my neighbor, and I’m starting to get worried. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since the upstairs light the other day. I wonder if she was a ghost or if it was all a dream. This town can play tricks on you if you aren’t paying attention.
Despite that, being back in Calysto’s Cove is nice. Pork Belly and I have been re-exploring the once-familiar streets. Some things haven’t changed—the faint scent of butter that seems to cling to the town square on warm days thanks to Lobster Fest; the fishermen and -women scuttling about the cove; the weird old guy that runs the ferry still asking riddles.
There’s also plenty of change—a new coffee shop called A Cup of Nick, a new restaurant called the Stake House up the boardwalk from the Crab Hole, new rumors about who is dating who and who is what. All things considered, Calysto’s Cove and its small-town weirdness have changed little since I was a kid. While it was never my permanent home, moving here has been like a homecoming. I’ve always been searching for the magic innate to this seaside haven.
I keep waiting for the inspiration to hit. Important things and places should inspire, shouldn’t they? That’s how it used to work. I’m looking for it on the shoreline as Pork Belly splashes through the surf. I’m looking for it as I walk along the lake. I’m looking for it as I watch weather-worn sailors hobble around the town square and candy-covered children sprint down the boardwalk. Tomorrow, I think I’ll look for it when I go for a hike in the woods.
Frankly, I’ve been looking for it for months. Maybe I was too hopeful to expect to find it here. Maybe that spark I had is gone. When I glance at the blocks of wood, thin metal sheets, clay tools, and assorted artist detritus I’ve lugged here with me, I feel nothing. I see nothing. All I see now is a collection of things that used to mean something to me. The tools, the mediums, the ideas used to be like an extension of me.
Now, I’m like a toddler learning to hold a crayon for the first time. One minute, I’m unveiling my most recent piece, coasting on the critical acclaim. The next, I’m looking at it, wondering how I’ll ever make something like that again.
There was no traumatic life event. There was no loss of muse. One day, I woke up, and instead of an idea, there was a colossal art block in its place. It happens to everyone occasionally, but it happening a month after being featured in ArtForum and everyone watching to see what I’m going to do next is like a cruel joke.
So, like a coward, I ran. Which is easy when you have no personal attachments outside of professional relationships, a family already scattered throughout the country, and a newly inherited house.
Now, instead of unpacking my beautiful new studio, I am watching PB chase seagulls on the beach just off the boardwalk, hoping that anything will convince me to create.
My phone buzzes from my pocket with a new message.
Unknown Number: Hi Isaac, this is your neighbor, Brinn. The one who accidentally had a panic attack on your lawn. Thank you (and Pork Belly) for getting me home safe. Please tell Pork Belly she is a good girl. Sorry for the inconvenience.
The sharp sliver of tension embedded between my shoulder blades loosens. I’m sure she has other people in her world and doesn’t need some random guy to check on her, but seeing someone so shaken is jarring. So, just in case....
Isaac: Hey, Brinn! Not an inconvenience at all. Pork Belly and I are on our way back from the boardwalk soon. I was going to pick up some coffee from A Cup of Nick. I can grab you something, and you could tell PB in person?
While it’s presumptuous of me to assume there might not be many people showing up for Brinn, I watched her have a panic attack a hundred feet from her own home. That’s not typically a sign of someone who is doing okay. No one needs someone to save them, but sometimes, they need someone to show up for them.
The reply comes a few minutes later, just as PB brings me a wave-worn stick she pulled from the surf. She grins at me around it.
Brinn: I’ll trade you a coffee for another misdelivered package.
“It’s called a Cold Nut,” I say after Brinn takes a sip of the iced coffee I brought her from A Cup of Nick. Their signature drink: a peanut-dusted iced mocha.
Her eyes go wide but quickly crinkle at the edges in laughter. “Excuse me?”
“You know, because of the peanuts.”
“Right. The peanuts.” She looks skeptical, but takes another sip. “Where is A Cup of Nick?”
“You’ve never been? It’s right across from the park.”
“I usually make my coffee at home,” she says. “Is it okay to pet Pork Belly?”
Pork Belly’s ears perk up at her name, whole body wiggling in delight. “PB would love nothing more.”
Brinn sets her drink on the porch steps where she’d been waiting, setting upon PB with coos and cuddles. I can’t help but smile at both PB’s clear joy and how much better Brinn is looking today. Her round cheeks are pink with life rather than drained of it. She’s steady on her feet, with no sign of a tremor in her hands. I’m relieved to see she’s alright.
“Who’s a good girl? It’s you, obviously. Clearly, you’re the best girl in the entire world,” she says to PB, who is now shamelessly on her back getting belly rubs.
“The seagulls on the beach may disagree.”
Brinn laughs again, and it’s beautiful. It’s a hearty, warm laugh, and it settles over me like a warm summer day. When she looks up at me from PB’s side, her eyes remind me of the old-growth forest beyond the meadow.
“Well, I think she’s perfect,” she says, giving the grinning dog a final pat. “Thank you for bringing her by and for the coffee. I can grab your package for you.” She disappears into her house momentarily and comes out with a small package. “I’m not sure why this keeps happening. I never had this problem with Mr. Ender, my previous neighbor.”
“Mr. Ender was my uncle,” I say as I take the package. Truthfully, I can’t even remember what I ordered.
Something shivers through her body. “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss. I didn’t know him very well. I wasn’t sure if he had family or....”
“Thank you, it’s okay,” I say. “My family used to come here a lot when I was a kid. When he left me his house, it seemed like a sign to make it my home for a while.”
“Oh, you’re not from Calysto’s Cove?”
“No, I’m originally from Chicago. Pork Belly is, though. I got her at the shelter in town a few summers ago while visiting.”
“A hometown hero returns. Here to save us from those seagulls,” Brinn says while she gives the smiling dog another scratch on the head.
“Are you from here?”
There’s no room for question in her curt response. “No.” The surrounding air seems to heat with the tense silence, stifling us both.
“Thank you for the—”
“PB and I will let you—”
We start and stop simultaneously, pairing it with awkward half-laughter.
“Thank you,” she says again. “For the coffee and Pork Belly time.”
“Pork Belly will be delighted any time you want to say hello,” I tell her, and her face lights up. “We’ll let you get back to your day. Thank you for not stealing my package.”
She laughs, and the lingering doubt about her state melts from my mind. She must have been having a bad day. “No problem.”
Pork Belly wags her tail in joy at Brinn, and I think I understand why.