Chapter 8
Helena locked her Chevy and hopped out into the garage of the ferry, the one that would take her to Nantucket Island.
She’d been driving for three days, and her legs felt as though they were made of butter.
But for the first time since pre-pandemic, for the first time since her parents’ deaths and her diagnosis, she was out of Orangeburg. She’d nearly made it.
On the top deck, Helena gripped the railing and gazed across the turquoise waves, waves that had once known her father, waves that still echoed her father’s stories, long after her father had left this world for good.
Helena felt a wave of nostalgia. She was cratered with pain.
But as the island grew bigger and bigger on the horizon, as her new—if brief—life drew closer, a smile crept across her face.
This was the first time she’d made a decision “just for herself” in ages. Maybe she’d never done it before.
Above her, clouds billowed and darkened the sun. She heard one of the ship workers tell another that the weather had changed. There would be a storm tonight. He said the ferries would be canceled later, which meant they’d probably get to go home to their families earlier than they’d thought.
“Maybe we’ll actually get to watch the game,” one of them said.
Helena was grateful that she’d made it to the island in time. She would have been sad to spend a night in a hotel, waiting for her life to begin.
The ferry ride took about an hour. As she drove in a single-file line off the ferry, she wondered at the other people coming to Nantucket today.
Were they coming for vacation? Did they live here part-time?
Most of the cars were far more expensive than hers: BMWs and Porsches and Lamborghinis.
She’d put on her nicest dress, one that had once belonged to her mother, and added a touch of makeup to her lips and cheeks.
She looked less sick with the makeup on.
At least, she thought she did. She wondered if anyone recognized her illness.
Maybe she could cover it up. She supposed she’d know soon.
If people stared at her, if people asked if she was all right, she’d know that the makeup didn’t help at all. That it was a waste of time.
The little house she’d rented was a twelve-minute drive from the harbor.
She drove slowly, her foot hovering over the brake, as many kids were around, throwing balls and threatening, it seemed, to run into the road.
Families were everywhere, trying to make the most of the day before the rainstorms started, eating ice cream cones or arranging dinner plans or slathering on sunscreen.
She hadn’t seen anyone on vacation in a very long time, not since she’d gone on vacation with Elliott a million years ago.
The air around the vacationing families seemed to shimmer, like they gave off a kind of magic. Maybe it was love.
Helena reached the house at half past five.
The property manager was there to give her the keys and welcome her to Nantucket.
He’d even left some wine, which she couldn’t really drink because of her liver, and a mini-cheesecake.
Lying about how much she loved wine, she thanked him and allowed him to give her a tour of the house, although she was extraordinarily exhausted.
She was grateful that it was furnished, as she’d sold everything she owned and couldn’t afford to buy anything.
She imagined leaving it here when she was gone.
It would be furniture for someone else, then—furniture for another person’s escape.
The mattress was on the harder side, but largely fine.
There were a few books, mostly crime thrillers and romances.
And the sofa and television suited her for long evenings in, keeping to herself, diving into stories.
From the sofa, she could see the Nantucket Sound beyond, plus a long stretch of white beach.
“You said you want the lease to be open-ended?” the property manager asked.
“That’s right,” she said.
“You want to be an islander, then.” He smiled. “It’s rare that people actually make the move out here. It’s brave.”
Of course, Helena couldn’t tell him how not-brave she really was. She was dying. She didn’t have a choice but to go to the prettiest place she could think of and find beauty in an ending.
After the property manager left, she sat on the sofa and watched the storm crawl through the sky.
It was a fascinating celebration of grays and purples and blues.
She ate a few bites of cheesecake and opened a window to feel the wind on her face.
She knew she needed to find a way to have dinner.
She needed fuel so that she wouldn’t sleep the entire day through tomorrow.
She’d found a way to manage her illness, she supposed. At least, she could manage this iteration of it.
Life came with different eras, as did a serious illness like hers.
Briefly, Helena opened the box of art supplies she’d brought from Orangeburg.
She’d initially considered selling her paints and canvases and everything else.
But something in a dark, achy part of her heart told her to hang onto them.
Maybe, near the end of her life, she would make something incredible; maybe she could make something beautiful that would outlive her.
Maybe she’d find the strength to make art again. Finally. After such a long time.
But as the storm grew bigger, the waves began to crash along the beach.
Rain pelted the windows, and thunder shook the house.
Shivering, Helena went through her things to find a big sweater.
She turned up the heat, then made herself a mug of tea.
She felt like a fool, ill-prepared for “island weather.” But still, it excited her. It was a change of pace.
It was then, as she sat with her mug of tea and prepared for her long first night in, that she saw the sailboat.
It was rollicking recklessly over the waves, tilting to-and-fro in a way that made it seem like it was going to capsize.
Helena got to her feet again. A headache pounded between her ears.
She could barely make out a figure on board, struggling to stay onboard, opening and closing the sails manically.
Helena considered what to do. If the man was really in trouble, shouldn’t she call someone?
Maybe the Coast Guard could come out and help him?
Then again, it didn’t seem logical that the Coast Guard could go through those waves and fetch him.
He was trapped in the middle of the storm.
The waves could swallow him at any moment.
Still, Helena decided it was better to call someone.
She tapped her pockets, then searched through her purse.
But she couldn’t find her phone anywhere.
She groaned, not wanting to leave the window for too long for fear of what could happen to the man.
Her silly theory was that if she kept staring at him, he’d remain above water. He’d survive.
She wasn’t sure why that theory held any weight in her mind, given the fact that everyone in her life had died or gone away. It seemed far more likely that because she’d seen him, the waves would gobble him up.
Suddenly, a mighty wind ripped over the back patio.
Yanked out of its stand, a sun umbrella came toward the big glass door, then smashed into it.
The sound was terrible. It splintered Helena’s eardrums and made her cry out.
But all at once it was over, and glass was everywhere, glinting and wet.
Helena realized that there was a single shard in her sweater, that it had flown nearly six feet from the glass door, but that it hadn’t gotten into her skin.
Thank goodness. Oh, but it was an awful mess.
She hated the idea of calling the property manager already and explaining that she needed an expensive repair.
She hated the idea of causing any problems for anyone.
She preferred to think of herself as invisible.
During these panicked few moments, Helena allowed herself to forget about the sailboat outside.
But suddenly, out near her beach, there was the scraping sound of wood on wood.
Hurrying away from the back door, she went to the kitchen window, from which she could see that the sailboat she’d thought would capsize was now tied to the makeshift dock on her property.
It thwacked and bumped against the long, wooden stump.
It seemed that the sailor had managed to sail himself to dry land, thank goodness. But where was he?
And then, there was a shadow across the back porch.
A tall man hurried through the rain, his hair flat on his forehead, his eyes dark and wild.
Helena was struck by how handsome he was, how quickly he moved.
She realized he’d seen her, peering out the window.
He was running to her. Her first thought was murder, television shows, crime dramas.
Was he coming here to hurt her? But then she reminded herself that actually, he’d been the one in danger, not her.
What was more, what could she gain from being afraid of someone who wanted to hurt her? She was going to die anyway.
She told herself not to think that way, but sometimes it was impossible to stop.
“Hey!” he called out. “Can you help me?”
Help him? Helena wondered how she could help anyone, given how helpless she was.
But suddenly, before she could fully prepare herself and consider what he was running into, he stepped on something on the patio floor—maybe a shard of glass?
—and yelled. He nearly fell, then hopped his way one-footed over to one of the porch chairs.
Blood gushed from the sole of his right shoe and pooled on the patio floor.
Already, he looked pale, like raw chicken.
He stared down at his foot, then raised his head to look at Helena through the rain.
Helena felt suddenly and horribly awake.
Frantically, she removed her sweater from her torso, then considered how to get over to him to wrap the sweater around his foot and, hopefully, stop the blood before he lost track of himself.
There was so much glass between them, too much of it to walk through.
She’d have to go outside through the side entrance and get to him that way.
Meanwhile, rain continued to pour through the shattered back door, darkening the carpet. It would have to wait.
Feeling like a much stronger and more capable woman than she was, Helena bucked through the side door and entered the chaos of the rainstorm.
Out here, through the thunder and waves, she could hear the stranger, howling in pain.
She hurried to the stranger. From her angle on the patio stairs, she could see that the glass in his shoe was the size of her hand.
It glinted strangely in the sour lightning light.
“I’m here!” she said, careful not to step on any glass as she approached him. His eyes found hers, and they reminded her of a frightened dog’s. But as soon as she bent down to look at the glass, the man slumped over in the chair. His eyes closed.
“Hey!” she cried, reaching up to shake him awake. She wouldn’t let this stranger die on her patio on her very first day on Nantucket Island! She wouldn’t let death follow her to her new life. “Hey, wake up!”
The man opened his eyes again and blinked at her. “You’re pretty,” he slurred.
“You’re going to have to hop in my car,” Helena told him firmly. “I can’t get this glass out myself. I don’t want to do any more damage.” She winced when she considered pulling out the glass, just like that, would do to him. Maybe it would sever something that couldn’t be fixed.
“Do you hear me?” Helena demanded.
Finally, the man nodded. He put his hand on Helena’s shoulder, and then Helena stood and provided a bit of balance for him as he hopped slowly on his good foot, down the two patio steps, and into the garage. Once he was in the car, his cheeks glinted with sweat and tears.
“I’m going to get blood all over everything,” he said. “I don’t want to ruin your car.”
“It’s already ruined,” she told him.
But she watched as he tried and failed to save her car upholstery, loosely wrapping his shoe with the sweater she’d given him.
Helena had never driven faster in her life. Off they went, with Helena screaming at her GPS to give instructions to the hospital. As it routed her, she glanced over at the stranger countless times, wondering why on earth he’d been sailing around in the middle of a storm.
“Why were you sailing?” she demanded. “I mean, wasn’t it too dangerous?”
But the man seemed unable to have a normal conversation. He’d already lost too much blood.