Wreckage (18 page)

The vein in her neck pounds insanely fast. God, no. She’s covering something up, something bad, something she doesn’t want me to know. I want to ask but I don’t.

“I have no immediate plans for attack but I worry about you. I hope I’m overreacting but I want you to be careful anyway. Okay?”

“Okay.” She nods in agreement before returning the knife to its primitive sheath and taking a shaky breath. “Enough with serious stuff. Can you teach me about filleting the fish now, before it spoils in the sun?”

“Sure.” I turn up the side of my mouth, hoping I can fake a smile.

She jumps up, knife in hand, and runs toward the shimmering yellow-silver tuna that looks more like a small beached whale than a fish. She bends down and attempts to pick up the monster, calling me over. Her laughter, as always, sounds like the wind tickling wind chimes.

When I’m with Lily I forget how much I miss home. Even when I dream about my old life I can’t seem to imagine it without her there. I know she doesn’t feel the same way, she’d trade me for Jerry in a heartbeat, but I couldn’t survive on this island without her. How could I live if she were gone?

A horrible ache fills the space in my chest and part of me is glad I didn’t ask what happened between her and Kent, what he did to make her shake like that. I know I could get her to tell me, and if she did . . . I might have to kill him.

CHAPTER 17

LILLIAN

Present

“We saved up our best fruit for a week before that first Christmas. Then in the morning Dave and Kent went fishing so we’d have a big meal later in the day to celebrate. We made presents for each other out of what we found around the island and opened them after dinner that night. We also had decorations. We picked flowers and wove garlands. It was nothing like Christmas at home but we made a valiant effort.” Lillian spoke slowly. It was one of her favorite memories.

“Do you remember what gifts you exchanged?” As always with the good memories, Genevieve seemed bored, as if she could think of at least ten things that she could be using this wasted time on.

“I made hats for the guys out of some palm fronds. They sunburned easily, especially Kent with his light hair. I thought that’d be useful. Kent gave me a multicolored shell that I later made into a necklace. Dave gave me my own fishing spear. I had to borrow his or Kent’s until then because I was horrible at sharpening one for myself. I guess they were tired of sharing.”

“It must have been a hard day, though, without family, so far from home.” Genevieve pushed.

“Yes, it was.” Lillian had to force herself to keep from answering, “Yeah. Duh!”

“Have you asked your family how they spent that first Christmas without you? What were they doing while you were decorating with ficus and sharpening spears half a world away?”

“They spent it at home with my parents.”

Genevieve nodded like she knew better than Lillian what happened while she was away. “Your funeral was around Christmastime, if I remember correctly.”

Lillian’s nostrils flared and she considered ripping the mic off and walking outside. It felt hot and stuffy. Maybe she’d forgotten to turn on the air. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

“The search was called off only a week after the plane was located. You and your fellow passengers were declared dead soon after. Why was your funeral so delayed?”

Staring at Jerry over Genevieve’s narrow shoulder, she didn’t know how to explain. Jill said Jerry refused to give up, spending their life savings renting helicopters and chartering boats. Apparently Beth was right there with him, pitching in with funds, legwork, and just as much hope as Jerry. It wasn’t until her dad showed up that Jerry even thought of going home without Lillian and Margaret sitting beside him. But Pastor Rob was good in emergency situations. Her brother, Noah, always joked that he must have taken a class on crisis management during his years in seminary.

Jerry gave in and flew home with Pastor Rob, but put off having any kind of services. Days turned into weeks and then months. Finally, Lillian’s mom and Jill stepped in and planned a memorial in Wildwood for Lillian, and then one for Margaret in Fairfield, Iowa. They had two headstones placed in the family plot in Fairfield. Margaret’s snuggled up right next to her husband and Lillian’s sat next to an empty patch of grass that would hold Jerry’s remains one day. She saw it when they went to Margaret’s burial. The epitaph said: “Loving wife, mother, and friend. Lost too soon.” Lillian called to have it removed the next day.

“Hope.” Lillian held her husband’s eye for a beat before focusing on Genevieve again. “I don’t think Jerry had lost hope yet. I personally think something inside of him always knew I was out there, alive.”

“That first Christmas—what was your family doing?”

“I only know what I was told.” Lillian leaned over the stiff upholstery of her armchair. “My parents stayed in Missouri for Christmas, decorating the house and the tree.”

Genevieve scowled. “So they went from having a funeral for their daughter to throwing a big Christmas celebration?”

“You make it sound so heartless,” Lillian snapped. “Christmas is my favorite holiday; they wanted to make it special. To help my children regain some normalcy.” She could never find a way to thank her parents for doing all the things Jerry couldn’t because of his grief, buying and wrapping the majority of the boys’ presents, making the cookies, reading the stories, remembering to open the Advent calendar, and taking the kids to Christmas Eve services.

Genevieve nodded about forty-seven times like she really, really agreed with Lillian. “So it was hard on the boys?”

Lillian didn’t want to talk about this anymore. She could talk about the island and the crash all day but when it came to her kids, she was done. Waving her hands in front of her like she was shooing a fly, she decided to put an end to the emotional manipulation Genevieve Randall was trying to pull. “It was a tough Christmas for them but you know kids. When Santa comes, no one can keep a sad face.”

Lillian was glad that as Genevieve asked her flippant questions about decorations and presents the camera was on her face and not Jerry’s. She knew how to put on the mask of apathy, a move Jerry never mastered. She knew how to steady her voice and crinkle her eyes with her fake smiles. She knew how to affect carelessness so no one could see her grief. It was her greatest talent, the most remarkable thing she’d learned being stranded on a tropical island—more impressive than spearfishing and fruit gathering or weaving blankets from palm fronds. She knew how to lie.

“Did you celebrate any other holidays? How about New Year’s? Palm hats and coconut husk party favors?”

New Year’s. If Christmas was Jerry’s low point then that first New Year’s was Lillian’s. Her own pit, the one she was still so trapped in she couldn’t even see the pin of light at the top any longer, was dug that day. But instead of flinching and without blinking back even one rebellious tear she answered.

“No, it was like every other day.”

CHAPTER 18

LILY-DAY 112

The Island

Floating faceup in the blue-black water, I let the little streams of sunlight cascading through the canopy tickle my eyelids, performing a dance of colors that my mind makes music to. Arms spread wide I bask in my imagined masterpiece, working hard to push down the memories of home that have been creeping out since Christmas.

A week ago, on Christmas Day, I gave myself a gift—a day full of recollection. Until now I’ve been careful to keep away from those thoughts, finding them less painful to avoid than to relive. But on that Christmas morning, I gave in.

I told stories to David and Kent about my boys, some of them twice. I told them about Josh teaching Daniel his ABC’s by writing them in permanent marker across our brand-new flat-screen TV. I told them about Josh’s phase where he’d only wear things that were orange and how inexplicably proud I was when Daniel told his preschool teacher that green beans were his favorite food.

I told them about my first Christmas with Jerry and how, even though we had no money, we made each other special gifts and how I still used the little wooden vanity he made me that year to put on my makeup in the mornings. I drove them crazy with stories until Kent curled up in the shelter to get away and I finally picked up on David’s forced polite smile.

Even when they were done listening, I wasn’t done thinking. I ran through whole days of my life from home from sunup to sundown. Some were from the baby days, where I nursed for hours and became a master swaddler. Others were from the hazy days of chores piled on top of each other and little boys turned wild with boredom.

My favorites—the days I reviewed slowly, savoring like a well-loved novel—were the lazy days when Jerry was home with the family. At times Margaret was there, or my parents. I was surprised, after a few hours of practice, how focused I could get the images and how clear the details. It was like being transported home every time I closed my eyes.

What I couldn’t foresee was how my gift, the gift of remembering, would turn on me like a Christmas puppy with rabies. In the week after Christmas Day I tried to turn the “home” channel off and the “survival” one back on, but it wasn’t easy. The images, feelings, and smells inundated me in any quiet moment, and around here most moments are quiet.

I almost didn’t come to my special spot today because of the silence that haunts it, but I’m glad I did. It’s as if the waters of the pool are washing away the residue of pain that the memories left behind as they boiled off into the atmosphere, and I’m starting to feel clean again.

Reluctantly, I meander toward the cluster of rocks where I spread out the clean laundry to dry. Grabbing my shorts, I’m relieved to find them still wet. David’s expecting me back for the second half of his New Year’s festivities, but I’m still worn out after last night.

Kent refused to acknowledge our party, sleeping like a stone in the shelter while we sat by the fire singing silly camp songs and telling ghost stories. The highlight of the night for me was the hour before what we approximated was midnight. We spent that time comparing plotlines from various Lifetime movies in a competition to determine who’d seen the worst. It was a close race but David eked out the win with his dramatic retelling of
My Son, My Lover, My Friend
. I haven’t laughed that hard in months.

We ended up dozing off on opposite sides of the fire. I’ve slept there every night since my run-in with Kent on the beach. David usually sleeps in the shelter but bunking together last night was so fun, reminding me of the few sleepovers my parents allowed me to attend during my teen years.

But instead of sleeping until noon as I would’ve done at sixteen, I woke before dawn, once the fire had smoldered down to embers and the chill in the air was unmistakable. It was a habit I’d adopted from my time in the shelter, from the time I had to keep guard against Kent’s hands. A habit I can’t kick, even when Kent is far away from me.

Christmas was hard on all of us but it had a strange effect on Kent. Christmas night he disappeared into the trees and didn’t come back for two whole days. I told David we should check on him in case he’d fallen in a hole or drowned while fishing, but David didn’t seem concerned. In fact, he was almost chipper at our unexpected vacation from Kent’s continual criticisms. It’s not like I missed Kent but I feel safer when I can see him, predict his next move.

David was right, though, Kent was fine. Two days later he sauntered out of the jungle in the middle of the night and plopped down behind me smelling of fish and body odor. I cursed myself for being dumb enough to think I could sleep in the shelter while he was gone, but this time when he tried to touch me I didn’t pretend to be asleep. I bolted down to the beach and spent the night by the fishing log, shivering in the damp sand. Kent hasn’t said a word to me since that night, but I can feel him watching me.

I climb on one of the empty boulders in the little patch of sunshine the clothes are baking in. When the sun hits my skin, I can’t help but let out a little moan of pleasure—this is my island version of a spa day. The water evaporates off my body, and my paper-thin bra and underwear are dry within a few minutes of sunbathing. Relaxing back on a flat slab of rock, I’m lulled by the sounds of the jungle, and my mind fills with nothingness so I can drift off to sleep.