Wreckage (35 page)

The Island

The sand is so hot it burns my cheek, but I can’t feel it. That’s not true, I
do
feel it but I also deserve it. I press my face farther into the superheated granules, wishing I could hear his little squealy seagull cry one more time if I just dug deep enough.

Even after a month I can’t stand how quiet it is with just David and me. I don’t know why it’s so hard to get used to. Paul was only here three months, a blink of an eye in the context of my whole life, but once he was here, it felt like he’d always been here. Now he’s gone; I feel like I’m dead too.

I can’t sleep in the shelter anymore. That’s where it happened, where he took his last breath. I wasn’t even awake to see it. My baby slept in my arms as he had every night since he was born. But at some point in the night he stopped breathing, and by the time I noticed, my breasts were engorged with milk and my tiny son was cold and blue in my arms.

My scream woke David. To see a man who found such fulfillment in fatherhood lose his reason for being, it was almost like I saw two people die that day. David says he doesn’t blame me but I don’t believe him.
I
blame me so how could he not? What kind of mother sleeps through the death of her child? Even if there was nothing I could do, which I’m not completely certain of, I wish I could’ve been there, to look into his eyes one more time and kiss his face while it was still pink and warm.

Instead, the memory of his stiffening, discolored body haunts me. I almost can’t remember what he looked like before. I want to ask David. I want him to remind me of his rich black hair that was soft as cashmere and smelled more beautiful than any flower on our island. I want him to tell me about Paul’s crooked smile that we had to work so hard to see but gave us more entertainment than any movie or television show ever could. I remember telling David, with all the sage advice of a seasoned mother, “Don’t worry—soon he’ll be smiling all the time.” God, I hate being wrong.

If I could’ve switched places with Paul right at that moment, I would’ve. I’ve begged God for that exact thing thousands of times. It hasn’t happened yet and I’m starting to think it won’t. I don’t get what I ask for. I certainly didn’t ask for any of this.

I was living quietly as a Missouri housewife, clipping coupons, running the kids to and from sports practices, and perhaps participating in some yoga in my spare time. Occasionally I hoped that one day, when the kids were older, I’d go back to teaching like Jill was always begging me. Every day was a lot like the next, a blissful blur of family, chores, and homework. I used to think it was boring, that I was boring. But now I want it back. I’d rather live in a blur than live here.

Instead, I’m perpetually stuck here on a beach I hate, staring into a sky I can’t stand and washing in water I despise. On top of it all, I’ve turned into a person I don’t even recognize; I’m a murderer, an adulteress, an abusive parent. If I could hang those labels in signs around my neck I’d feel better, not worse. I don’t know what that wuss Hester Prynne was complaining about.

The sand has grown cool under my cheek. Even sand lets me down. A loud grumble protests from my empty stomach. I’m used to the hunger by now but I still hate that sound.

Eating’s always been a chore on this island, so now I’ve decided to forego it as much as possible. It’s easier to feel the pain of hunger than the pain of losing Paul. I guess that’s why I push David away too. I shouldn’t be happy and comforted in his arms while my infant son is dead.

I’ve considered a few solutions to ending my pain, one in particular that appeals to me, especially when David’s close, his hand on my leg or our fingers touching when we clean out the fire pit. I don’t think he’d help me, though. I could trick him into it. He wouldn’t know until it was too late.

“Lily! Time for dinner!”

It’s David. He’s still pretending I eat food. We do this every day and it’s becoming a tidy little routine. I burn my pain out on the sand above our son’s grave and he throws himself into work so he can pretend he’s not devastatingly heartbroken that he lost his only child.

Then he whips up some sort of gourmet island dinner I pretend to eat as he counts my nibbles. We load more wood on the fire and then sit by it in silence until I fall asleep and he crawls over to his side of the shelter, as if I’d ever put a foot back in there.

“Lily!” he shouts again. He’s growing impatient. If I wait too long he’ll come out here and that never turns out well.

“Good night, Paul,” I whisper into the sand. It ripples away from me on the breeze before I reluctantly pull my body up, my old scar tight with sunburn.

Trudging up the berm toward the fire circle, I notice the tangled mess of hair has fallen over my face. I’m hoping I won’t have to make eye contact. He thinks he hides the pain and worry well but he doesn’t. We barely talk anymore and I haven’t heard him laugh since the day before I woke him with my screams.

“Come here, Lil, sit by me.” He signals me over as though we were in a packed high school cafeteria instead of the only two people in the middle of nowhere.

“I’m not super-hungry right now,” I lie. My mouth’s watering at the smell of cooked fish.
Crap, I used to hate fish. Why does it have to smell so good?

“I know, I know. Just like you weren’t hungry for breakfast, or lunch, right?” He pats the spot next to him on the weatherworn tree trunk. “Keep me company and maybe you’ll remember your appetite.”

“Fine.” I flop down next to him like a spoiled teen. “I’ll eat when it’s pizza.”

“Promise? You know I’ll find a way to make fish pizza, right?” David shoves a full coconut bowl of chopped up chunks of food into my hands.

“Good luck with that one. Pizza isn’t pizza without cheese.” I put the brimming shell down on the other side of me as fast as I can, avoiding temptation and finding a tiny bit of enjoyment from the protests of my empty stomach.

“You burned your face again.” His worried eyes are working me over again, that line developing between his eyebrows. He touches my scorched cheekbone and even the light pressure of his fingertips makes me flinch.

“It’s a first-degree burn. I’ll be fine.”

His face gets hard and I can tell he’s grinding his teeth. He always does that when he’s trying not to fight. We never used to fight. Now we have the same argument every day.

“I’m gonna say it even though I know you don’t want me to.” He speaks slowly, seemingly unworried about his food getting cold. “You’re the only thing I have left I remotely care about. I need you to stop hurting yourself. If you won’t stop for you, stop for me.” He slides his hand into that special place at the base of my skull where his fingers belonged.

The tiny caress makes my pulse race in that embarrassing way it always has when David touches me. I don’t want to think about David and me and our whole island history. I want to think about anything else, the way my empty stomach churns hungrily against itself, or the sting of my burned skin. If we talk about this we’ll talk about Paul and everything else we’ve lost because of this damned island.

“I can’t stop. I can’t be happy. I don’t deserve it,” I mumble, but my body betrays me, responding automatically to his touch. I lean into his hand, rubbing my sand-burned face against his warm skin.

“I don’t expect you to forget him but it’s okay to be happy sometimes. After my dad died I had a hard time getting out of bed in the morning and remembering that the only person who ever truly cared for me was gone. I felt guilty laughing at a TV show or having a good time with my friends. It took me a while to realize he wouldn’t want me to go into hibernation. He loved me. He’d be glad to know I was happy.”

As I listen, in some ways I know he’s right. These are the same reasons I didn’t feel bad about my relationship with David. I knew that if I couldn’t be with them, my family would want me to be happy without them. And as much as it hurts, I hope Jerry will eventually find someone to love with welcoming arms and a big heart who’ll give my boys the attention and care I can’t. But this is different.

“Paul was an infant. All he wanted was to be taken care of and clearly I didn’t do that well enough.”

“It wasn’t your fault. He died. He just died. It could’ve happened in his crib in an air-conditioned nursery in Missouri. Sometimes babies die. I hate it. But what’re you going to do, punish yourself forever?” He lets his hands slip to my shoulders where they rise up and down as I shrug.

“I don’t know. I’ve never felt this way before. I don’t know how long it lasts.” My voice quivers. I have to stop talking or I’ll cry. If I cry now, I may never stop.

He pulls me into his arms and I press my face against his bare shoulder. His skin is almost as hot as the sand but it burns in a totally different way. This passionate connection between us reminds me of my idea, the one that might make the pain go away, if I can get him to agree. I’m fairly certain he won’t, but I can try.

Rolling my head toward his face I brush my lips against his collarbone, letting the thrill of touching his flawless brown skin flash though my body like lightning. His arms tense ever so slightly, which brings me closer to him. I don’t hold back. Leaving a trail of kisses behind me, I follow the line of his neck and jaw before pulling him into a fierce, needy kiss.

If he hesitates I can’t tell because he takes me in, hungry, and when we’re touching, pulling, grasping at each other, I feel nothing but a pumped-up sensual high. It’s amazing. This might work.

I’d almost forgotten how good we are together. His hands know exactly where I need them to go. He moves down my neck, and shoulder, toward my breasts. His breathing’s heavy and I can tell he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him.

When his mouth returns to mine I slide my hands down his taut back until I reach the loose waistband of his khakis. He’s tied them with a piece of material he salvaged when he cut off the bottom half of his pant legs. Following the crude belt around to the front, I fumble with the square knot that keeps the pants in place, finding it difficult without looking. It only takes a moment of distraction for him to notice. His rough hand wraps around mine like a vise.

“What are you doing, Lily?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I ask, trying to remember how to flirt.

He tosses my hand away and stands up as if he’s going to run. “Sorry, Lil, I’m not up for that today.”

“Don’t you miss us being together, David? You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it. Don’t you want me anymore?”

“It’s not about what I
want
now, it’s about what’s right and what’s safe. I can’t put my physical desires above your safety ever again. I won’t risk your life with another pregnancy.” He pulls the loops on his belt with a snap, tugging the loosened knot back into place.

“Would it be that bad, David?” I snap back, suddenly energized by the idea. “Another baby? I know it wouldn’t be Paul but we were so happy when we had a baby to love together. As for the pregnancy, I did it before, so I know I could do it again and if something went wrong . . . at least I’d be off this island.”

He freezes. “You didn’t just say that. Please, don’t tell me you came over here to seduce me so I could knock you up?”

“You
said
you want me to be happy. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. This would make me happy.” Hearing the words out loud I realize I sound insane, totally bonkers, but I want the emptiness to go away. I don’t know if this will work, but I want it to.

He thinks I’m crazy too; disgust and pity show on his face. I cover my eyes. I don’t want to see. If David hates me I’ve lost everything. Everything.

“It won’t be the same, Lillian.” The sound of my old name shocks me and even makes me feel gross.

“I know,” I mumble into my palms. And it hits me. My baby’s gone. Forever. I can’t make a new one as though he’s a toy I can order online when a piece breaks. He’s never ever coming back and it’ll always hurt. Always. A pathetic sob stutters out and the shame of what I’ve become nearly chokes me.

It takes all the energy I have left not to collapse on the ground and cry like a toddler having a temper tantrum. I want to kick my feet and scream at the top of my lungs,
It’s not FAIR!
because it’s not.

What I need right now is David. He’s my medicine, the one person who’s been through everything I have, and more. I need his arms and his sweet words. He’s always here for me, and without realizing it I’m waiting for him to hold me. I drop my hands and look around. The sun is setting and the fire’s reaching up toward the sky. David’s gone. If I squint I can see him, far out in the water, his head bobbing up and down, swimming. Congratulations, Lillian, you make the only person who still loves you disappear. I’ll make this up to him one day, losing his baby, going totally crazy, making him become my perpetual caregiver. But not today. I’m not strong enough yet.

My stomach growls angrily and it hurts this time. There’s the bowl of food beside me; cold fish has never looked so good. I pick it up, my hand shaking so badly the lumps of fish jiggle around in the shell. Hesitating, I snatch one piece of charred flesh and toss it in my mouth. The delicate salty sweet flake nearly dissolves on my tongue and my mouth floods with saliva at the taste of real food. What would it be like to have a stomach full of food again?

Then the shelter catches my eye. The mat is still there, covering the spot where I used to sleep with Paul, David snuggled up beside us. My fingers dig into the thin coconut shell. If I wasn’t half starved it might’ve broken in my hand. Instead I take it and throw it in the fire, the precious food taking a moment to catch and turn black.

Who am I kidding? David’s better off without me. The sun’s ready to sink beyond the horizon, off to shine on my family on the other side of the world. David crawls out of the ocean, water dripping off his cutoffs. At least he’s remembered that this is when the sharks come out.

I need to be gone before he comes to dry off by the fire. I can’t look at him after his rejection. I toss another log on the fire and double-check that all evidence is burned to a crisp. Then I throw on Margaret’s old coat, which still smells like Paul, and head down the beach and the peninsula. The sand will be cold now, and after tasting dinner I’m hungrier than I’ve been in days, but I deserve this ceaseless hunger.