4. Pippi
“Eeeeeeeuuuuppppuuccccckkk…” I grasped on to the coarse wood railing with all the strength I could muster as my guts hurled themselves overboard.
“ Fuck , babe.” Jackson’s hands tapped my back. “How much more do you have left?”
None.
The answer should’ve been none .
I’d been on this ship not even an hour . And I’d done nothing but puke.
Which was horrific . Because A: this rickety wooden vessel had the sketchiest bathrooms I’d ever seen . They were toilet seats strapped over a hole.
A hole that led directly to the sea.
I’d crouched by one of those toilets when my stomach first started roiling.
But the violent WORUSH of the sea whisking beneath the black hole had sent me bolting back to the deck.
Where I’d been since, hurling my guts up.
I’d cleared a quiet place for Jackson and me to stand, though, since most people had migrated elsewhere once they heard me exorcising my demons, a.k.a, my stomach.
But that led me to the second reason this was so wretched. B: Jackson was at a complete loss.
Uncertainty poured off him as he touched my back—cautiously—standing a little distance away, lest I misaim and splatter some of my demons all over him. “I don’t think we’re even halfway there.” His voice was tight. “Maybe you should’ve taken the meds earlier.”
I’d taken the motion sickness preventative exactly one hour before we boarded the boat. Exactly . I’d timed it down to the minute.
It hadn’t helped.
Because it wasn’t the motion that had my stomach in an uproar. It was the ocean.
Seeing it. Hearing it. Smelling it .
Oceans stunk. That briny odor grated at my nostrils and made my eyes water.
And all of it together—the sights, sounds, and smells—had made me sticky. Sweaty. And set my stomach panickedly working on its evacuation plan.
I heaved again, straining against the railing, squeezing my eyes shut so I wouldn’t have to see the frothing waters beneath us.
Someone walked by with a humph of disgust.
“Babe, you should really be doing this in the bathroom. ” Jackson’s fingers fluttered against my shoulder. “Or at least below deck. People are starting to get upset. I know there’s a bar down there…”
My stomach surged.
“…so I’m assuming there are some places to sit. That’d be better, right?”
I pressed my knuckles to my mouth, swallowing the fresh flood of bile and making sure it stayed down before I croaked, “That’d be worse. ”
Worse because of the smell. At least up here on the deck, in open air, the brine wasn’t overpowering.
Down there, with years of water sediment built into the cracks and crevices, and the sewage-salt scent mixing with the aroma of booze, and the clouds of perfume and cologne from the people crowding the bar…Nope.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
I braced my hands against the railing, forcing myself to stare at it—this weather-worn scrap of wood, with all its cock-eyed grains and gouges and sunspots. Instead of the churning, white-capped grey waters below.
“Should I get someone?” Jackson asked.
Stay calm.
You’re okay.
Stay calm.
I drew a long, shuddering breath, trying the four-seven-eight method Jessa always swore by. It never did diddly-squat for me, but y’know, stranger things have happened.
Like me being on a boat. A creaking wooden boat. A boat old enough to be my grandfather. Probably old enough to be my grandfather’s grandfather.
A boat that’d once been a stunning vessel—if the grainy old photos we’d seen at the loading dock had been any indicator—with glistening, black-painted wood and crisp white sails. A proud sailing ship, once master of these waters, now geriatric and feeble, reduced to ferrying tourists.
Ferrying them over a monster-infested ocean .
My stomach rumbled. I leaned over the railing, bracing, but only a watery belch came up.
“False alarm.” I turned to Jackson and tried to smile, but all I felt were tears. And I was afraid that if I did anything—even crinkling my face into a grin—I’d start crying. And he already looked so upset.
“I’m going to get someone.” Jackson’s arm fell away from my back.
“I’m sure there’s something they can give you.
You can’t keep going like this, babe. You’ll make yourself sick and ruin the whole trip for yourself.
” His hands dropped to the front of my shoulders.
“Can you come back a bit? There’s a bench right over here. ”
He guided me, and I followed, my feet feeling heavy and clumsy as I moved. I didn’t sit when Jackson tugged me onto a bench. I fell.
To my right side, someone sniffed haughtily. The kind of snuffle someone made around an “unbelievable.”
“I’m sure she’s not the only one onboard getting seasick,” Jackson snapped as he twisted, extracting our chunky carry-on backpack from his shoulders. “You don’t have to act like she’s diseased .”
“Jackson.” I laid my hand over his arm. And I dared a glance at the snobby sniffer, once Jackson had his warm palm against mine.
A middle-aged woman got up from where she’d been seated on the other end of the bench and walked away, pulling up the collar of her coat to protect her neck from the wind.
The gale had already snatched her hair, leaving the artfully bleached strands tousled, and the cold had painted her cheeks a deep rosy rouge.
It was cold up here, wasn’t it? With the sea breeze whipping by and frost still nipping at spring’s heels. I hadn’t noticed before. Puking was a good workout, y’know?
I felt it now though, the icy air slashing at my overheated, sweat-slicked cheeks. It was delightful.
Jackson nudged his arm out from under my hand and unzipped the backpack, frowning as he rooted through our clothes, my polka dot bathroom bag, his saddle brown one, and got to the spare makeup pouch I’d thrown our medications into.
“Well, this isn’t doing shit,” he grumbled at the medicine pack.
“‘Motion Sickness Relief’ my ass.” He shoved everything back into the bag and zipped it up.
“I’m going to go see if I can get you anything stronger.
You gonna be okay here for a second by yourself? ”
No.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”
“Okay. Stay away from the railing, though. We don’t want you flipping overboard. If you need to hurl again…” He sighed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be better off below deck?”
“Positive,” I mumbled. “I’ll be fine, Jackson. Honest.”
I won’t be fine. I’m scared. Please don’t leave, Jackson.
Jackson stood, scooting the backpack under the bench. “I’ll be right back.” And off he went.
Leaving me alone. On a boat. Out in the middle of the North Sea.
Waves rumbled and smacked forcefully against the ship’s hull. Battering it. Weakening it. How many lickings could a boat like this take before it stopped ticking? Before the wood folded beneath the sea’s might?
Sweat trickled down my back.
What would happen if this ship sank? Were there lifeboats on board? How many? And would they stand a chance against the sea’s behemoth white-capped mountains? Or the monster who dwelled in its depths?
My belly gave another bubbly grumble. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting to breathe around the mounting nausea. The panic. But I couldn’t.
I was a child again, battling the sea’s malicious grip and watching the shore drift farther, and farther, and farther away. Knowing that no matter how hard I paddled, how viciously I fought, the ocean had me, and it didn’t much like relinquishing its victims.
Terror clawed at my insides.
Breathe. You’re okay.
My lungs sputtered.
That was a long time ago.
You’re not a kid anymore.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
The sound of my phone in my pocket sent me rocketing clear off the bench. I squawked when my bum thumped back down.
A couple walking by stopped and stared at me. They were my age, give or take. Maybe a few years older—already on the downhill slide to the big four-oh.
I smiled at them— shakily. The man returned it, tucking his chin into a slight nod, sympathy emanating from him. The woman looked down her nose at me like I was a pile of riffraff.
Which, to be fair, I felt like riffraff, wearing my comfy jeans, which were a little (lot) on the baggy side and a little (lot) threadbare around the cuffs and waist. My puffer jacket was the most gorgeous shade of shimmering lilac, but it was a full size too big for me.
(The smaller sizes had all been boring colors).
Jackson called this my purple Michelin Man coat. He wasn’t wrong. But I sure loved the color.
Combine my outfit with my red curls, windblown into a tizzy puff, along with the pallid and sickly complexion my skin was likely boasting, and…Yeah. I didn’t blame the woman for looking at me like that.
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
“Shoot.” I jumped again when my cell gave another angry rattle. “I thought you were supposed to stop workin g out here.”
My phone had one bar. One measly bar, a little nick at the top corner. And it was determined to use that last breath of life to torment me.
Notifications flooded the screen, papering themselves over the background image of Jackson and me on the day we moved into our house. Emails. From work.
Andy asked if I could review work orders before I got to the island. Mr. Hollingdale at VitalTech copied and pasted the same message and punched the Send button every hour with the subject line: Please advise status.
Several notifications that parts had shipped— not for the VitalTech order. Unfortunately. But for another hot job we had meandering through the plant. I forwarded those to Jessa.
Company BS emails—y’know, the “happy birthdays” where people had to hit Reply All and clutter everyone’s inbox.
More emails from Andy, and texts from him too.
Andy: Pippi…please…these orders have to go ASAP. Jessa doesn’t know the account.
Andy: I need you to look at them. We can’t afford another fuck up.
Andy: ????
Andy: You’re not on the island yet. The ferry doesn’t get there until 4:00 p.m. local time. Please review these work orders.
I sighed.
To say Andy had been upset when I’d submitted my PTO and gotten it approved was the understatement of the year—he’d almost cried. Which had dang near made me cry.
“I’m happy for you, Pip,” he’d said. “Don’t think I’m not. It’s… Phew. Bad timing. I don’t know that I could do this without you.”
I imagined him sitting in his office, frazzled and working his dark hair into a messy tuft as he tried to figure out the work orders.
And then there were the texts from Jessa and Kai.
Kai : Don’t look at those work orders, Pip. You’re on vacation.
Jessa : Fuck the work orders. First of all, how dare he think I can’t approve them.
I see more work orders in an hour than he’s looked at in the ten years he’s been here.
Second of all, it ain’t your problem right now.
Third of all, he’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.
DO NOT WORRY ABOUT WORK ON YOUR VACATION.
Kai : You don’t need to forward the shipping emails. I got them—remember, all your emails are coming to me. Enjoy your trip.
Oops. I should’ve read this before I shot the notifications to Jessa’s email.
Jessa : You know I’m mega jealous, right? Have I told you that? ENJOY IT. Seriously. I know it’s not your dream vacation, but girl! You’re heading to the land of magic. To be PAMPERED. Have fun. And make sure you have a few drinks for me. XOXO.
I smiled, opened her text and started to type a response, but?—
Around the ship, a chorus of “ughs” and “I needed one more minute” snaked into the air.
“That’s it then,” a man somewhere to my right declared. “We’ve crossed the reef. No more cell phones, boys.”
My phone locked up, briefly flashed a NO SIGNAL at the top, then cut to a spinning wheel of death before it shut down.
Welp. There went that.
A thread of terror wriggled in my stomach. Around me, some people cheered. Others lamented the loss of their phones…their cameras, mainly.
“See that fog up there?” some man said. “Wouldn’t have been able to get pictures through that anyway.”
The wriggling terror worm did a funky little jig in my gut.
I tucked my phone back into my pocket and put my head down, resting it between my knees. Tried to focus on anything, anything, but where we were. On the ocean, now totally cut off from the outside world…
“Color…”
“Colorful things…from the ground…”
That voice. I popped my head back up, swiveling this way and that.
Fifty or so people spanned the length of the deck (there were one hundred or more on this ship, but with a chunk of them boozing it up below), and everyone was talking. Clamoring. But none were that voice.
That voice tugged at something inside of me—something deep. Like a memory I’d lost and completely forgotten about until something dredged it back up.
Déjà vu, some called that sensation. Others swore it was old magic trying to reawaken in a person—wishful thinking, mostly. Nearly everyone wanted to be a Sorcerer, but less than five percent of the population had magic.
“What’s their word?”
The voice tickled my brain just as a scream shattered the misty air. Not a scared one —although it spooked the life out of me. That squeal was pure, unadulterated excitement.
“Oh, ooooh, OOOOOHH!” A woman bellowed. “I saw it! Lionel! I saw it! Come quick! It’s the monster!”