Chapter 26
BILLIE
There have been protests in the street every day since we got the final notice. I think people have been expecting me to show up to them, but I haven’t been able to face it. Going to a protest means accepting that it’s ending.
I’ve been carrying on like nothing is happening, like nothing is changing.
Mom came over to my house this morning, telling me that if we’re not all shipped out by the end of the week, the bailiffs are coming to drag us from our homes.
I still don’t think they can do that, but it’s got everyone scared.
People are starting to leave. Protesters are begging them not to go, to stay strong, but the island is falling apart.
I keep watching it all, numb from my window.
“Oh, don’t forget the silver teaspoons,” says Mom, opening a cupboard with such force it makes the contents rattle.
I sigh. “No. Let’s not forget the silver teaspoons.”
“Billie, I know this is hard, but—”
“But what, Mom?” I snap, slamming my fists down on the kitchen table. She stops in her tracks and stares at me.
She’s been wandering around the kitchen with a cardboard box for hours now in some vain attempt to get me to start packing. I don’t want to pack. I don’t want to think. I want things to be like they were before.
My mother lets out a long sigh, the fake smile draining from her face.
She puts the box down on the counter and comes to sit next to me, slumping down in the seat.
She takes my hand. “I don’t want to go either,” she whispers.
“I know this is hard for you, Billie, but it’s my life too. It’s all of our lives.”
I let out a choked noise. “It’s all of our lives that he’s taking away,” I whisper. “How could he do this to me?”
“You still haven’t told him about…” She gestures at me down toward my stomach in what she thinks is a tasteful and subtle move. “Have you?”
“No,” I reply with a groan. “How can I? How can I even think of speaking to him when he’s ruining everything?”
“You should at least try,” she says.
I swallow a nasty comment. She means well, of course she does.
But she’s not me. When I was born, she had a husband who loved her, a house of her own, somewhere she was going to have roots.
I was expected, planned for. My baby might be wanted and loved, but that doesn’t stop it from being the biggest surprise of my life, and babies take a lot of preparing for, physically, mentally, and domestically.
At least they would if I were keeping my house.
It’s the uncertainty that’s killing me. I have no idea what to expect.
I have no idea where I’m going to be this time next week.
I have no idea where my baby will grow up, what streets they’ll walk, what sights they’ll see.
The school they’ll go to. The community they’ll have.
I never planned for them to know anything but this island.
“Let’s get through this together, okay, sweetie?”
“Together,” I echo and squeeze her hand, closing my eyes as if that might keep the image of her here in my kitchen sealed in my mind. As if it might freeze the moment of us here long enough to make it last a lifetime.
I know it won’t, but I like the delusion of thinking it might.
“Now,” she says, “I know this is hard and not what you want to hear, but we should pack, if only so we don’t lose everything if they come to kick us out.”
“If,” I huff. “You mean when.”
“Your mother hasn’t lost all the hope in her yet.” She smiles. “You never know when things might change.”
“Okay,” I breathe. “Together.”
I let her pull me to my feet, but we’re both startled by a sudden uproar outside. We take a second to look at each other. Our faces are mirrored in frowning confusion before we rush to the window to see people running down the street.
“Another protest?” I ask.
Mom shrugs. “I didn’t think there was one planned.”
“Doesn’t mean there can’t be one,” I point out. She just nods. “It’s good to see people caring,” I say quietly, wondering if I should be out there too. Once, I would have been leading the protests. Now, everything feels so lost.
My mother tsks at me. “You sound like you’re losing hope again.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Maybe this time, they’ll make a difference,” she says, with such certainty that I almost believe it. Almost.
Slowly, I pick up a box. It drags in my arms like it’s made of lead, but I’ve barely even opened a drawer when my neighbor, Christina, thumps on the door and lets herself in.
I almost drop my box in surprise. “Christina? What’s happening?”
She’s six inches shorter than me with a shock of red hair, and her face is flushed like she’s just sprinted, her breath coming in heavy gasps like she’s terrified or excited. It’s hard to tell which. “You’ve got to come, Billie, Gracie.”
“What’s happening?” my mother asks again.
Christina’s words tumble out as a non-explanation. “Outside on the street. Everyone’s going there now.”
“Where?” I demand.
“The dock.”
“Why?”
“It’s that billionaire. It’s Jacob. He’s come back.”
My whole world turns so dizzy that I stumble back a few paces and have to sit down. “He’s back?” I echo, numb. “Why is he back?”
Christina shrugs. “Word on the street is he’s called some sort of town meeting. He wants to speak with us.”
“Why? So he can lord it over us peasants that he owns our island?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Apparently, Briggs was really weird about it when he told people. He was being super cagey.”
“That’s not that unusual,” I say.
My mother raises an eyebrow at me as if trying to tell me to be nice. I ignore it.
Christina shakes her head again, her ginger curls bouncing in her face. “Apparently, he was weirder than usual. I think there’s something really big going on. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“I…” I stammer. I don’t want to tell her no, because I don’t want to look like a coward. But the idea of seeing Jacob, meeting him face to face again, makes me feel sicker than any morning sickness.
“We’ll be there,” says my mother, stealing the conversation to give a response I didn’t want. “Are you going down to the dock now?”
“Yeah,” says Christina. They’re chatting so casually, so normally, like all this is nothing. How can they be acting like all of this is just nothing? “I am. I’ll report back. I won’t let you miss any of the juicy details.”
“Of course not,” says Mom.
With that, Christina offers us a mock salute, says goodbye, and then hurries out the door, closing it behind her,
“I’m not going,” I say to my mom as soon as Christina’s out of earshot.
“Of course you are,” she says firmly, sitting down next to me again.
“I can’t see him,” I say, shaking my head so firmly my brain feels like it’s spinning. “I don’t want to cry in front of everyone.”
“It might be good news,” she says.
“Is this how damn annoying I usually sound?” It’s the weakest joke imaginable, but it’s enough to defuse some of the tension.
Mom gives me the most real smile I’ve seen her give in weeks and brushes a knuckle over my cheek. “Yes, my darling. This is exactly how enthusiastic you usually sound.”
“Is it always this annoying?”
She chuckles. “Not always. And it gets things done. It always has.”
“So why couldn’t I fix this?” The words stick in my throat, barbs that claw my insides on their way out. “Why did this have to be the only time I failed?”
“There’s still time,” Mom insists. I scoff, but she keeps going.
“Go to the meeting tonight, for me. Listen to what he has to say. You don’t have to speak to him.
You don’t even have to let him know you’re there.
But what if he says something good? Don’t you want to be there to hear the news for yourself? ”
“I guess.” I sigh, but she’s right. The idea of finding out what he has to say secondhand is even worse than hearing it straight from his mouth.
At least if I hear it from him, the words won’t have a chance to get skewed by someone else, twisted into something better or worse.
If he’s going to speak, I won’t let him be paraphrased.
It’s not what I want, but I’ve run out of arguments. “Okay. I’ll go.”
“And,” Mom continues, “tell him about the child.”
“What?”
“He deserves to know, don’t you think?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t going to tell him yet.”
Her eyes burn into me. “When were you going to tell him?”
I look away. “I don’t know, okay? Later. When I’ve figured out the right words.”
Gently, Mom lets out a breath. “Honey, there is never going to be a time when you figure out the right words. It’s best to tell him now and get it over with.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right, but I can’t bear it.
“What do I say?” I ask.
“The truth,” she says simply.
“How did you tell Dad?” I ask softly.
Her breath catches in her throat. We haven’t talked about him in a while. I know it still hurts her to think about him. It still hurts me. We both miss him so much, but I love to hear her stories about him. I always have.
Now, more than ever, I could do with a good one, and I think she could too.
She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, then nods slowly. “We hadn’t been married long,” she starts, and we spend hours talking about him, sharing stories and laughing. Doing anything except packing. It’s exactly what we need.