Chapter 8
eight
Percy
The waves from the lake are quieter on this wooded trail.
The trees surrounding the narrow path block out the sound of water breaking against rocks and muffle the voices of the other students, making everything feel distant and far away.
It’s easy to pretend I’m out here alone in the wilderness, completely cut off from the rest of the world.
Or, better still, that I’m with my parents.
They could be just ahead out of sight, talking quietly to themselves in that romantic way they had, holding hands while they wait for me to catch up.
I turn a bend and the image I’d conjured is so real that, for an instant, I can actually see them standing there in front of me.
But, of course, it’s nothing but the light shining through the branches overhead.
My breath hitches as the vision fades back to bleak reality.
My dad can’t even bring himself to visit one of his favorite places anymore, the emotions it conjures still too raw after two years.
Maybe he’ll never be able to face them. And my mom…
Like so many other things I used to love, only her ghost remains.
I release a heavy breath and quicken my pace.
Suddenly, the woods seem to loom around me, claustrophobic rather than freeing.
Scraggly branches scrape at my sides like skeletal fingers seeking to ensnare me while the bright autumn leaves blaze with an inferno ready to burn me to ash.
No sense dragging this out any longer than necessary.
I’ve only got a few minutes while the others are stopped for lunch, and I don’t want to throw off Oshkoff’s carefully laid schedule.
Thankfully, the path soon opens into a clearing.
I’d worried I might find other hikers already here, but I appear to be alone.
I guess there aren’t too many people braving the park’s interior this time of year when they can stick to the more relaxing bike ride.
I’d be doing the same if this place hadn’t been on the list my dad sent me this morning.
But I’d promised my dad I’d visit the spots most important to him and Mom, so here I am, the ever-dutiful son.
Anger briefly coils in my gut, hot and heavy as it constricts my chest. I fight down a sudden urge to pitch my head back and scream at the unfairness of…
well, everything. Coming here by myself.
Losing Chris only to have him dangled in front of me, tantalizingly out of reach.
My dad’s broken face and slumped shoulders.
My mom’s emaciated body wrapped in blankets, tubes swishing as she reached up to cup my cheek with a trembling hand…
The abrupt rage passes, and I slump, taking a moment to gather myself before I raise my eyes to examine the clearing in greater detail.
Other than the surrounding trees broken by a couple of paths, the only noticeable feature is the large rock resting atop a slight incline.
Like most of the geological formations on Mackinac Island, it’s solid limestone—a stack over twice as tall as me.
It’s honestly not much to look at, but I suppose it’s impressive enough for its sheer size.
I slowly pace its perimeter, studying the boulder from every possible angle.
Friendship’s Altar, it’s called, though I have no idea why.
I bet Professor Oshkoff could’ve explained the historical significance to me, but no way am I going to ask.
Besides, it doesn’t matter what this place means to others.
What’s important is what it meant to my parents.
I fumble in my pocket for my phone and tap out a quick message to my dad.
Me: I’m at Friendship’s Altar.
It doesn’t take him long to respond. I wonder if he’s sitting alone in the living room, photo albums spread around him the way I’ve caught him some nights when he thinks I’m asleep.
Dad: Pic?
I snap a picture of the rock, stepping back to get the whole thing in frame. Dad doesn’t respond for a while after I send it. Maybe he won’t.
My phone buzzes right as I’m about to tuck it away. I check my texts, and sure enough, there’s a new one from my dad.
Dad: Your mom and I used to love hiking out there.
It was so peaceful—easy to lose yourself in the wilderness, at least when there were no tourists around.
Sometimes, we’d sit out there and read or talk for hours.
The night before our wedding, we were both so nervous.
We each snuck out on our own and somehow wound up there at that exact spot.
I guess she found the same comfort in the rock’s solidity that I did.
By the time I finish reading his message, my screen blurs through the sheen of wetness in my eyes. I wipe my unshed tears away. God, I’ve cried more on this trip than I have in years. Since…well, since those last terrible weeks in the hospital, watching my mom waste away.
I’m still gathering myself, trying to decide how to respond, when my dad texts again.
Dad: That night when we met up, we both carved our initials into the limestone.
Your mother said it was so we didn’t need to worry about the wedding or whatever came after because we’d always have our friendship.
I don’t know if the initials are still there—that was over twenty years ago, and I never checked any of the times we went back.
I was too scared they might’ve worn away. But you could look. If you want.
Imagining my dad hunched over his phone while he typed that message breaks my heart.
I crouch near the base of Friendship’s Altar, then hesitate, staring at the cracked stone.
What if I search only to discover that my dad’s fear has come true, and the initials aren’t there?
For all I know, they’ve been gone for years and years, a victim of weather or erosion.
Leaves crackle beneath me as I plop to the ground, burying my face in my hands.
Perhaps it’s better not to know whether even this small remnant of my mom has been erased.
I’d rather assume some part of her remains—her spirit, perhaps, watching over Dad and me the way she used to when she was still alive.
Would she be happy with what she sees? Would she be proud of the person I’m trying to be for her?
I’m not sure how long I sit there, huddled in the leaves against the limestone face. Too long. The rest of the group is probably either waiting for me by now or has gone on ahead. But not even the thought of Oshkoff’s anger—or worse, her disappointment—gives me the strength to stand.
What finally does is embarrassment. I hear feet marching up the path and scramble up, wiping my eyes on my coat sleeve while typing out a quick response to my dad.
Me: Love you. Gotta get back to the bike tour.
Dad: I love you, too. Let me know when you’re back in town and ready to hit up Main Street and Market Street.
The thought of visiting more places haunted by my mom’s memory and reading more sorrowful texts from my dad fills me with dread, but I tap out an affirmative and tuck my phone away.
I try again to dry my eyes so that I don’t look like I’ve been crying.
It’s probably a lost cause, but the last thing I want right now is to deal with the sympathy of strangers.
Except, as I start toward the path leading back to British Landing, it turns out that’s not the last thing I want because Chris strides into the clearing, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He jerks to a halt when he sees me.
“Oshkoff’s looking for you,” he mutters, his eyes flicking away to stare at Friendship’s Altar. “Everyone’s ready to go.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll head back right away.”
Something in my voice must give away my tension because his eyes meet mine. For a moment, his usual disdain vanishes, replaced by concern.
“Are you all right, Perce?”
Perce.
No one’s called me that in two years. No one ever has other than him. I’d thought it ridiculous to have a nickname for something as short and simple as Percy, but part of me had always been thrilled by the way he’d said it. Like I was something precious worth protecting.
He said it the same way now. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve already taken an unconscious step toward him.
My arms twitch at my sides. In that moment, it takes all my self-control to not throw myself at him and hug him tight.
To resist the urge to cry on his shoulder and let all the emotions about my mom and dad and this ill-advised trip boil out.
Something abruptly shutters on Chris’ face. His sympathy—if that’s what it had been—vanishes, replaced by the same indifferent mask he’s worn around me all trip. “Forget it. I’m sure you can manage on your own. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
With that, he turns and vanishes down the trail. I wait until his footsteps fade before I finally follow, each crunching step I take through the dead leaves heavy with regret.