that way, each a little rougher than the one before. After the last time, I lie down facing away from her, and she touches my back. I lose my shit and fucking yell at her, then say I’m sorry and let her pick out the movie. Some royal shit about King Henry.
Nate won’t answer any of my texts. I figure he’s fucked up or maybe mad at me for Laurent—that is, if he’s heard already.
I stay up all night, paranoid as shit that I’ll get found out for Laurent and sent to fucking jail or something. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe, and I dropped the Xanax that was in my pocket, maybe at Laurent’s place.
That’s why I walk back to my room at five-fifteen in the morning. I leave Ms. Keller a note, calling her Rachel and saying I’m sorry for the yelling.
Walking across campus to my place, I realize what they told me last year at that two-week program Dad forced me into was right. There’s something wrong with me. I can’t use Xanax or, fuck it, anything, without becoming like this. No way Laurent keeps getting me stuff after last night, and maybe that’s a good thing.
I feel just a little better as I open up my dorm-room door. My hands are shaking, but it’s no big deal. Now that I know there’s a problem with the Xanax, I can stop it—easy.
Something’s off about my room, but I can’t figure out what. Maybe it’s just me. I get the baggie from inside one of my boots and take a Xanax, laughing. What a fucking addict. Then I strip my bloody clothes off, open up the bathroom door to bury them at the bottom of my hamper.
That’s how I find Nate. He’s slumped over on the padded bench that lines the bathroom’s back wall with a belt around his arm and all those pills swimming around his cold, bare feet.
Two
Finley
Doctor has a wardrobe full of yellows, greens, and reds. I stand in the closet adjoining the master bedroom in the clinic residence, and I thumb through his shirts. I suppose he’d never be caught wearing gray or black or dark blue.
I bring the hem of a bright green shirt to my face and inhale the slight, soft scent of washing soap.
Here is a man who is within my grasp. I could have his babies, serve the people here, and help make Tristan stronger. Yes, he’s puritanical and patriarchal, but I can’t live with that? Mummy endured worse without losing her brains or running off, as I’ve dreamed of so often recently. (Not that I could, given my fear of boats). Mummy endured everything and always did her best for me.
I wander out of the closet and curl up in bed, and I don’t leave until it’s time to make two house calls. After that, I scurry back to Doctor’s and soak in the bath. I’d like to cry, but I feel nothing.
I remember the morning and try to sear his touch, his lips, his voice into my memory.
I doubt he’ll come back ’round this time. Why would he? I know what my assets are; I realize I’m not utterly without them, but I’m not exceptional. I’m just a girl locked on an island, and he’s him.
Yes, he holds my hand and gives kisses that reach down to my soul. But he’s a natural-born romantic. He knows Neruda; how could he not be? He loves tugging at my hair and giving me his dimpled smiles. He’s got a big heart; I suppose it just spills over onto who’s nearest. Here, he’s had no one but me. No one else who knows his demons. No one whom he trusts with his deft, shaking hands. That doesn’t mean he needs me, I tell myself.
Still, I dream of getting on a boat with him, sailing away. I think of what it might be like, but then my chest feels like it might collapse on my heart. I’m locked inside a cage, and I feel it. I’ve got to get out, even merely for an hour.
I crave the wind on my face and the moonlight in my eyes. I know where I want to go, but I clean house instead, arranging all the knitted pillows neatly on the couch and picking lint off the rugs as if the queen herself might drop in for tea. Finally, when even Baby is tired out, and I feel numb enough for comfort, I put on my coat and boots and slip into the darkness.
Night has always been my favorite time. When I was young, I’d sneak into the grass beside the house and lie there looking at the constellations. When Mummy would catch me, she’d chastise me for going out so late, but then she’d pinch my cheeks and say, “I see you in a space helmet one day, my wee dearie.”
Before I spoke again, before I learned to throw clay, I spent my time painting nighttime landscapes with the watercolors Gammy ordered from our old suppliers’ magazine.
For years, it’s been my habit to walk up to Vloeiende Trane at night and sit there on the moonlit plateau talking to Mum. The nights are often cold and windy, but that matters little to me. I button my jacket to the neck and wear the hood if needed.
As I walk up the ribbon of a road that leads to Gammy’s cottage, I think of my mother. What would she think of me now? I’m not an astronaut, nor am I brave or strong or happy. I’ve failed her.
I hear Gammy’s voice, though, and I think about her favorite quote, which says that if you want a happy ending, it depends on where you stop the story. My story’s not over—that’s true. But I know down in my soul that it will never be a fairy tale. I’ve made choices that have locked me in, and that’s my burden to bear.
As I near the cottage, my heart sits like a lump of steel in my chest. The house is dark except a light that shines on the back porch, where there’s an awning that wraps partway around the house, covering my potter’s wheel.
I assume he’s sleeping. I’m a horrid person for the way I left him there, for using pleasure as a weapon. Perhaps I’m twisted from my perverse past. The idea makes me ache.
I take the trail that winds toward the volcano, following it up the hill that leads to the top of the plateau. It’s mostly barren here, but there’s a single cluster of these massive shrubs that grew up in a circle. I think I might lie there at the center, watch the stars move till I don’t feel so horrid.
I do just that, lying on my back with my knees drawn up, watching my breaths drift in puffs of fog to be tossed by the sea breeze. I hear a whale’s song, which my mother used to tell me was the merpeople. That’s all it takes to fill my eyes with tears, smearing the stars.
The ground is cool. It chills me through my jacket. Even though I thought it would be good up here…it isn’t. It’s just the barren earth and the projector image of the starlight. A bit of wind to chill my nose and numb my hands. The reality of things is quite different than daydreams.
“I’ve nothing to say,” I whisper to her.