Summer of Lost and Found (5 page)

“No, I'm here from New York, just for the summer.”

“Welcome. Let me tell you a little about ‘here.' ” She cleared her throat. “Roanoke. Picture this island, 1587. Wait, no. First picture it a couple of years earlier. People had been living here for, like, ages. Algonquian-speaking people, like the Roanoke tribe, and the Croatoans, too. But the Europeans only found the island in the fifteen hundreds. Pirates and explorers got shipwrecked off the coast all the time; the shallow waters and barrier islands are treacherous. They call this area the”—she paused for dramatic effect, lowering her voice and leaning toward me—“Graveyard of the Atlantic.” Lila nodded slowly, letting her words sink in.

That was creepy, honestly. Pirates and shipwrecks and graveyards, oh my. There aren't that many cemeteries in New York City, which is something I like. I've wanted to avoid them ever since Jade told me that when you walk past one you have to hold your breath and say “Dray Evarg,” or “graveyard” backward, in your head until you're away. Otherwise, she said, the ghosts of the people buried there could rise out of the earth and inhabit your body, forcing out your soul. I don't really believe her, but I do it now anyway, just in case.

Still, something about Lila's know-it-all tone made me want to play it cool. “Hmm” was all I said. Although I was pretty interested in what she was telling me. I sent a quick text to Jade:
Met this girl in the bookstore—might be kind of cool.
Maybe now I wouldn't feel so bad about all the time Jade was spending with Sofia.

“Anyway, in 1585 a group of English guys, mostly soldiers and stuff, came over to establish a colony. But they didn't last long. They were clueless, especially about getting food. Some of the Native people helped them out at first, but things got really bad after the Englishmen killed the Roanoke's leader, Wingina, in 1586. Eventually a bunch of the colonists went back to England, leaving fifteen behind to literally hold down the fort. Those guys all pretty much died.” I shuddered a little at that.

Lila sat back in her chair, still rocking. The way her eyes shined, I could tell she loved being a storyteller. “In 1587 the English tried a second colony. Sir Walter Raleigh was behind that one. Do you know about him?”

It was a familiar name but I wasn't sure why. I bit my lip and debated whether I should say yes. But what if she asked me questions about him I couldn't answer? Impatient, Lila slapped her thighs and whistled. “Here, Sir Walter!” The sleepy dog bounded over and, panting, plopped in front of Lila. “Sir Walter Raleigh is my dog.
Aren't you, good sir!
” She petted him on his graying nose and he gave us a doggy smile. “But this
good sir
's namesake was an important English nobleman. He sent over the second colony, made up of families. They called themselves ‘planters' and were people who wanted a fresh start in a new country. Well, new to
them
.” Lila paused. “Not so much the people already here, you know? My dad always reminds me of that. He's an archaeologist—and he's studied the Carolina Algonquian people that lived here long before the English.” That made sense—of course Lila would know everything about this place if her dad researched it. Like how I know a lot about cool plants. It made me feel a little better about seeming clueless in comparison.

Lila kept going. I was starting to feel like I'd stumbled into summer school. “But the second group of colonists still couldn't figure out how to gather enough food on their own. They depended on help from people like Manteo, a Croatoan man who had sailed back from England with them. This town, Manteo, is named after him, of course. Anyway, it got so bad that the leader of the colony, John White, decided to go back to England to get more supplies and stuff. He left all the colonists behind, including his daughter, Eleanor. Her baby girl, Virginia Dare, was the first European born in the United States.”

“I wonder if I'm related to her,” I blurted out. I don't know why, but I thought that might impress Lila.

She shook her head at me, kind of sadly. “Not likely. I'll get to that in a second.” I frowned and leaned back in my seat. She was totally lecturing me, but now I really wanted to hear the rest of the story. Also, while we'd been talking Sir Walter had shuffled over and plopped on my feet, and I was enjoying petting him.

Lila glanced to her left and her right, like she was making sure we were alone. Then she scooted her rocking chair even closer to me and Sir Walter, so near I could smell the bubblegum on her breath as she talked. She spoke in a low, serious tone. “So John White set sail for England. He left one hundred and sixteen people behind, because although two babies had been born on the island, one guy had been
murdered
right before he left.” I rolled my eyes a little. It takes a lot more than mentioning the word “murder” to faze me after living in New York City my whole life.

Lila continued, “There were all kinds of delays, so it took three whole years before he returned to Roanoke. Now, he had told the colonists that if they ever left the island, they should carve where they were going into a tree. That way he could find them. Also, if they were leaving because of danger, they should carve a special symbol, called a Maltese cross.” Lila swished her index finger in the air, drawing the plus-sign shape. By then I actually was on the edge of my seat, in danger of falling onto Sir Walter.

“White arrived on his granddaughter's third birthday. I bet he brought her presents from England.” I pictured a man on the shore, clutching a sea-damp doll. For some reason, it made me a little wistful to think of a grandfather—or a father—doing something thoughtful like that after being away for so long.

“The fort was totally deserted. The buildings they had put up were taken down. A few things were left, like cannons and some stuff that belonged to White. But everything else was gone. The colonists had disappeared without a trace. Then White found three letters, carved into a tree:
C-R-O
.”

“What did that mean?”

Lila shrugged. “White thought it meant that the colonists went to Croatoan Island, which we call Hatteras today. Manteo's village was there. But White never found the colonists, and neither has anyone ever since. They simply vanished.” She made a
poof  
hand motion.

“But the crosses you mentioned—did they put one on a tree? To show there had been danger?” I shifted in my rocking chair. How could so many people disappear, without anyone finding them—ever? People don't vanish into thin air, even if they die. Watching police procedural TV shows with my dad has taught me that.

Lila shook her head. “Nope. At least, not that anyone has ever found. Some people think the colonists moved onto the mainland, up by the Chesapeake. Others think they joined up with tribes in the area, like the Croatoans. They might've died of illness or been killed in a conflict—maybe the Spanish found them. And a few people actually think it was something stranger, like alien abductions.” She paused for dramatic effect. “We may never know the truth.”

“Crazy” was all I could bring myself to say. I felt in my pocket for my phone and refreshed the screen to see if I had any messages. None. I felt a little sick to my stomach again. But maybe it was because I hadn't really eaten lunch. I sent a quick text to my dad, telling him that I may have stumbled upon a mystery here in Roanoke. I also asked if he knew anything about our Dare family background.

Lila started rocking again. “I like to think that they're still here, haunting the island. Because there are lots of ghostly things on Roanoke, like a spooky white doe that people see in the woods. You see, nobody knows exactly where the colonists lived on the island. But I have a theory about how to find them.” She gave me a self-satisfied smile. “Wherever they settled is probably where their ghosts are now. Find the ghosts, find the lost colonists.”

“But what if their ghosts are gone?” Like I was even sure ghosts existed.

Lila made a
duh
face. “If you had been missing for hundreds of years, don't you think you'd stick around to see if anyone ever finds out what happened to you? Anyway, people have been trying to use archaeology to find them for decades and that hasn't worked. So maybe paranormal investigation will. Even if my dad thinks that ghosts have nothing to do with science . . .” She trailed off, then cleared her throat. “Hey.” She grabbed my arm. Her hand was cold and clammy, even though it was so hot out. “I know what. You'll be my assistant. I'll teach you
everything
.” She grinned at me. “You are
so
lucky you stumbled on me here. This is a rare opportunity, to learn about both Roanoke and ghost hunting from the master.”

The master? Please. Even though she had good stories, Lila was bugging me. I'd also be doing enough assisting for my mom,
thankyouverymuch
. I sent another quick text to Jade:
Nevermind. The girl's kind of full of herself.

“Actually, my mother is here to do very important
scientific
research, so I'm pretty busy helping her. She's a botanist at the Natural History Museum in New York. It's where—”

“I know all about that museum!” Lila interrupted.
Ugh.
That's one of my biggest pet peeves. I stood up from my chair. Sir Walter made a sad
woof
as he moved out of my way. I gave him an apology pat.

“I should head home. My mom's probably wondering where I am.” I offered a halfhearted wave good-bye. “Nice talking.” Jade had replied with a frowny face.
Pretty much,
I thought.

“Where are you staying?” Lila called after me. “I'll take you out on a ghost tour some day. Gratis.”

Gratis.
Really? I pretended not to hear her. I hurried down the steps and in the direction of the cottage. Even if I didn't like Lila, she told a good story. Hers had stuck in my head and gave me goose bumps despite the muggy heat smothering me and everything else here. All those people, left stranded on this island. How long did they wait for White to come back? And how did they feel, not knowing where he was or if he'd return? I pictured the man standing on the shore again, clutching that doll for his three-year-old granddaughter. Virginia Dare. It made me so sad to think about how he never knew what had happened to her.

Even if I didn't want to hang out with Lila and her pretentiously named (but cute) dog again, I wanted to know more about the lost colony. I couldn't believe that nobody ever figured out the truth about the colonists. There must be answers somewhere, because people just don't let those they love vanish from their lives.

Because if people did do that—could my dad vanish from mine?

I
felt better when Mom got home that night and grilled us steaks and corn on the cob, dripping with honey butter and dusted with salt. She chided me for not calling her when I left the house or when I got back, but because my trip to the bookstore went totally fine she didn't push it. It was like both of us knew that despite the great food and cozy cottage and charming town, something was amiss; Dad wasn't there and we weren't really talking about
why
he wasn't there. One step in the argument direction and the whole façade of fun summer research trip would come crashing down on us. No, thanks.

Mom declared that for the weekend, we were going to be tourists in the Outer Banks. She pulled out the official guidebook and a highlighter. “We'll do anything you want, sprout.”

“I don't even need to look at this to know what we're doing on Saturday,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Beach day!”

Mom rolled her eyes but smiled. My dad and I love the beach; my mom always says that it's not her thing. First, there's her fear of open water. She'll swim in a pool but I've never seen her jump in an ocean or a lake. I don't think she even likes going out in boats, in case they'd spontaneously capsize and she'd get tossed overboard. Second, Mom's one true love is plants, and they grow on land. Seaweed, she says, is not enough to make her like the ocean. Especially when it washes up on shore and starts stinking as it breaks down in the sun.

“I said ‘anything,' so I suppose I have to agree to this plan. Figure out which beach you want to hit. But pick something else for Sunday, okay?”

While Mom cleaned the grill, I curled up on top of the green comforter, struggling to find a position that felt right on the lumpy mattress. I opened the guidebook and flipped through the ads. I stuck in the highlighter to mark my place and pulled my phone off the nightstand. I sent Dad another text:
We are going to the beach tomorrow. You are missing out!
What I really wanted to write was,
What is the deal with you and Mom? Why is she acting like everything's okay when it so clearly isn't? And where in the world are you?
But the thought of writing out those words—making my feelings real—was too scary.