Summer of Lost and Found (21 page)

I'd tried to convince myself that all those sounds had really happened while I had my ears plugged. But when I'd removed my hands, the silence in our apartment had been deafening.

As I sat on the beach, I put the headphones back over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, too.
Ambrose is coming out of the water right now. He's walking up the sand, shivering, and he's about to plop down next to me. We'll look at each other and laugh about what a crazy idea this was, and then as soon as the wind dies down we'll hop in the skiff to go back to Roanoke. The wind will push us right to the beach with no effort. Then we'll go to the ice-cream shop. I am definitely getting extra sprinkles.
I opened my eyes and gazed out to sea, in time to see Ambrose's head—his tangle of hair, really—bob up from the water. I jumped to my feet, waving my arms around wildly. “Ambrose! Come back!”

I don't know whether he heard me, but he dove under again. This time I watched for him, willing myself to not blink as I stared at the surface, waiting for him to emerge. I don't know much about free diving, but I know enough to guess that people typically don't do it during conditions as rough as these. Or alone. I counted the seconds to see how long he was staying under.
One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three.

I got all the way to
one-hundred-Mississippi
before I saw him surface again. How was that even possible? I was counting slowly.
I must've missed him bobbing up at some point; it's the only explanation
. You'd have to be some kind of world-record holder to hold your breath that long underwater.

The waves pounded the sand with even more force, and the sky had darkened so much that it looked like night was falling. Rain pelted me, cold and stinging on my bare arms. I remembered the poncho in my bag. I tore my eyes away from the patch of sea where I'd last seen Ambrose and turned toward the skiff. Just in time to see a wave coax it from its sandy cushion back into the water.

S
creaming, I dropped the detector and ran after the boat, pushing myself through the waves until my feet couldn't stay on the sandy bottom anymore. Then I swam, fighting terror with each kick and stroke. I was so close to catching up with the bobbing skiff.
Just keep moving.
Finally, after swallowing a big gulp of seawater, I reached the boat. I clung to the side as it drifted farther out to sea. It took all my strength to heave myself over the edge, and then I half fell, half collapsed inside. I realized then that the life jacket was still in the sand.

At first, I curled up in the bottom of the skiff and sobbed. It wasn't just possibly-lost-to-the-sea Ambrose, and the raging storm, that made me cry. It was
everything
. Missing New York, and missing the summer I'd planned with Jade, whose texts had grown farther apart and always mentioned Sofia. Missing my father, and missing the kind of relationship with my mom in which she didn't keep huge secrets from me. I'd felt lost ever since the day he'd disappeared. I'd wanted so badly for something—anything—to be found. But it looked like I'd only worsened things. Now, trapped in a rickety boat in the middle of the Graveyard of the Atlantic, I was in danger of losing not only Ambrose but myself.

The skiff rocked me as my tears started to slow. A lot of my problems had just happened to me—I didn't do anything to make my dad go away or my mom bring me here. I also hadn't done much to
solve
my problems, although how I could solve my dad sneaking off to England was beyond me. But
I
was the one who'd put myself in the boat. I couldn't blame anyone else for that choice—even Ambrose.
Maybe right now
, I thought,
I need to stop letting stuff happen to me
. It was time for me to paddle my own way home, or die trying.

I seriously hoped that last part wouldn't be literal.

Sniffling, I sat up and grabbed the oar. I tried to steer, but the waves had other plans for me. The boat drifted toward the area where Ambrose and I had stood with the metal detector, which was still lying on the sand, probably getting ruined by the beating waves—not that I'd be able to recover it. Returning it undamaged to Lila's garage should have been the least of my worries, but I felt a slap of guilt about stealing and then losing it. That was another problem I would have to own up to.
If we get back to shore.
I gripped the oar tighter.

Clambering up to the bow, I leaned over and yelled to the waves, “Ambrose! Ambrose!” If he surfaced somewhere near, I could stick the oar out and drag him in. Panic rose in my throat, and I felt like I might throw up again. Where was he, in all those whitecaps? Salt water and tears stung my eyes. I clutched the oar and stared at the angry sea. “Ambrose!” I called again, my voice overshadowed by a clap of thunder.
I am not giving up.

The sky lit up with lightning, shining a spotlight on Ambrose popping up from the deep. “Nell!” He was only a few feet to the right of the boat, but he was facing away from me.

“Behind you! I'm here!” I frantically rowed closer. Ambrose treaded with one arm, the other clutching something underwater. The glint of his signet ring showed me which way to go as the sky further darkened. “Look behind you!”

Finally, he turned and saw me. Who cares that I was crying like a baby and soaking wet. I wept a little harder because he was okay—or would be, so long as I could get to him.

I stuck the oar out. “Swim to me. Hurry!” The current and the wind had shifted and were moving the skiff quickly in the other direction, away from him.

Ambrose dipped under the waves. Now that I was so close, I could see him underneath the surface, moving through the churning water with speed and precision. Was Ambrose part fish or something? He could navigate the roughest surf I'd ever seen, and he could hold his breath underwater for a ridiculously long time. It wasn't normal. I shuddered.
Something weird is going on, and it's not just the weather.

He surfaced right next to the side of the skiff, which teetered back and forth so much that he was only visible in between rocks of the boat. But I still saw that he barely gasped when he popped above the waves. “Take this!” he shouted. He held out an object to me—another oar? I dropped the one I was holding into the bottom of the boat and grabbed for it. It almost fell out of my hand because it had such a weird, slippery texture. Like the posts on that dock: wood that was slimy from years underwater and slick with algae.

Ambrose was beneath the waves again. I held my breath as I waited for him to surface. My lungs were bursting when he did. He grabbed hold of the skiff, clutching something with his right hand. The boat barely moved as he hopped in next to me. Or maybe I simply didn't notice it because of the waves.

“Where did you get this?” I held up the slimy oar. Another crack of thunder sounded, and a gust of wind washed a huge wave over us. I braced myself against the sides of the boat, shivering. My relief at Ambrose being safe was speedily being replaced by exhaustion. I wanted to be back at the cottage, in my little slant-ceilinged bedroom. I wanted to be curled up in a chair in the garden, reading. It seemed to be wishing for too much in the moment, but I wanted to be back in my New York City apartment, watching TV on the perfect-size-for-three couch. Holding a bucket of microwave popcorn, with my parents on either side.

Ambrose's eyes were wet and shining. Maybe it was from the salt water and swimming, but it also looked like perhaps he had been crying. Otherwise, he was remarkably unruffled. His clothes were plastered to him, but he didn't shiver. The gusts of wind threatened to knock me over unless I crouched near the center of the skiff, but he sat up tall.

“I found it.”

“Found what?” I asked. “The oar?” It would help us try to get home.

He shook his head. “Aye, but there's more. That oar is from the pinnace. Shipwrecked, half-buried in the sand.”

Pinnace. Hadn't he said that his father had left on one of those? I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach, not related to the churning sea.
What if Ambrose's dad got shipwrecked?
Maybe that's why he never came back. I had to swallow three times over the catch forming in my throat before I could ask him. “What—what pinnace?”

“The one the colonists took.”

I sucked in my breath so fast I gasped. “Wait—you found
it 
? I mean,
them
? How do you know?”

“I could tell when I saw the boat. There were cannons on board, poking up out of the sand. I felt them with my hands. Then I found this.” He held out a tarnished object. “Take it; keep it safe,” he said. “In your bag.”

I grabbed it from him. It was rough and corroded, but I could tell what it once had been. “An old cup.” I zipped it in my bag, which I slung across my body.

“A silver cup, the kind the colonists brought from England. One caused a big fight between the first group of Englishmen and the Aquascogoc people.”

“Wow.” It definitely looked old enough. “How are you so sure?”

“I also saw . . .” He trailed off, staring into the waves. “There
had
been a tempest that day. Most fierce.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Much like today. The storm blew up quickly, barely after they left the beach. Then they must have wrecked on a shoal. Alas, they ne'er got any farther.” He grabbed the oar and clutched it to his chest. “All this time they have been so near,” he said, his voice breaking a little.

I had the strangest feeling then, a cold shock. Like stepping into the freezer aisle at the grocery store on the hottest day of the year.
“There had been a storm. Much like this.”
How in the world did Ambrose know that the colonists had left the island in a storm? What else did he see in that shipwreck to get the details?

Unless he knew all that before he found the wreck.

As I was about to ask, another huge wave hit the boat, stronger than any of the rest. Before I knew what was happening, the skiff flipped over. Ice-cold water filled my mouth, swirling over my head. The strap of my bag floated up and tugged on my neck. My hands moved through the water, one grasping an oar as it floated past my outstretched palm. With the other, I found the skiff's bench and hooked my elbow around it. I pulled myself into the pocket of air between the water and top of the boat, spitting out a mouthful and coughing. Thank goodness that at summer camp, they'd taught us how to flip a canoe.

“Nell! Hang on!” Ambrose swam up to me.

I clutched the bench and blinked the salt water out of my eyes. I could hardly breathe, much less speak. My bag settled back at my hip, but underwater.

“Pray pardon, do not move—I shall right us.”

I was too weak to say anything, too weak to help. I don't know how he had the strength to overturn the boat, but as I clung to the seat, it flipped right side up again. I lay on the bottom, still hugging the oar Ambrose had rescued from the deep. Seconds later, Ambrose flung himself over the side and next to me. It must've been a huge effort because he looked as pale and weak as I felt. I was so cold, so tired. Rain pelted me. I wanted to let it fall onto my tongue, I was desperately thirsty. But exhaustion wouldn't let me open my mouth.
Water, water everywhere nor any drop to drink.
Everything else from the skiff, my water bottle and goggles and the other oar, was gone. On the way to rest with the pinnace on the bottom of the sea. What was in my bag was surely ruined.
How are we ever going to get home?
I knew then what the answer was: We weren't.

We were lost now too.

My eyelids fluttered shut, even though I fought to stay awake. I felt myself slipping, slipping. The last thing I heard was Ambrose crying next to me. “I am so sorry, Nell. This is all my fault. Please forgive me. I never meant for this to happen. But—but be not afeard. You'll still be with me.”

Barely do I possess the strength to write. More than a fortnight hath passed. With e'ry day, we grow weaker. We have little food remaining, only sparse grapes on the vines. The rest of our company hath given up all hope. They dismantled all the remaining homes and followed Manteo to his village on Croatoan. C-R-O, they carved into a tree, so the rest of our company would know whither they had gone.

Mother and I did intend to go.

But Mother, she is too weak and ill to journey. Whether lack of sustenance or an illness most wicked, I know not. A fever hath plagued her for days.

We shall wait hither. On Roanoke. By my troth, I know my father shall return.

E'ry morn, I walk yonder, to the edge of the sound. I wait for white sails on the horizon. Certes, my father shall find us.

This is my tale.

The story of how I journeyed across the sea, for a life in a new world.