Borealis(11)

“What’s your name?” Mike asked.

“I don’t have one.”

“Did you fall off a ship?” Charlie asked from across the table. “Did a ship go down out here or something?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. She seemed unconcerned. Bryan placed a bowl of cornflakes in front of her, which she proceeded to eat with her fingers. “This is good,” she told him, holding up individual flakes to examine them up close before eating them. “These taste good.”

“Honey,” Mike went on, “how the hell did you get out here?”

“Wait.” She set both palms down on the tabletop, on either side of the cereal bowl. Across the table from her, the guys recoiled without thinking about it. “There was one more of you.”

“The kid’s in his room,” McEwan said before anyone else could answer. “Sweetheart, what the f*ck you doin’ running around naked out here in the middle of the devil’s icebox? How long you been out here before we came along?”

“I don’t remember,” she said. “I don’t know how long.”

“And you don’t remember how you got out here?”

She seemed to consider this. Finally, as a coy little smile spread across her face, she said, “I don’t. I don’t remember.”

They watched her devour several bowls of cereal and even warmed her with a shot of vodka before the totality of the day’s exhaustion began to weigh heavy on them all. They slipped out of the galley one at a time, until only Charlie, Mike Fenty, and the mysterious girl remained. The trawler bobbing like a cork on the troubled, icy waters of the Imarpik, the cupboard doors creaked open and banged shut while the remaining few inches of Popov seesawed in the bottle. Between Charlie and Mike the silence was pregnant with speculation. Frequently, sitting across from each other at the Formica table, the two men would exchange similar glances, each attempting to prompt the other into speaking.

Whether he crumbled under the weight of Charlie’s unflinching glare or merely surrendered to his rank as captain, Mike sighed and finally said, “Look, darling, it’s late. You’re eating like a truck driver who just drove in from the moon but it’s late. Charlie Mears and I, we’re hitting the sack. You’re welcome to my bunk for the night. There’s an extra cot next to Falmouth. Won’t be an issue long as he cranks down the snore machine for the—”

The girl stood abruptly. “Good night,” she said, and marched out of the galley.

Mike turned and stared at Charlie. They broke into laughter together, the girlish giggling subsiding only after Mike stood, yawning. “Fuck it,” the captain growled. “Maybe Billy’s right. No sense cutting this thing short.”

Charlie shook his head. “It’s late, Mike. Go to bed.”

Later, in his own room, Charlie couldn’t find sleep. He stared at the darkened overhead while on his back, his big hands laced behind his head and one ankle crossed over the other. Joe was snoring soundly. Outside, he could hear the waves lapping against the sides of the trawler.

“You awake, Charlie?” It was Sammy Walper’s voice, disembodied in the dark.

“I guess. What is it?”

“She make you feel…” Sammy paused, possibly choosing his words with heed. “Make you feel funny, Charlie?”

“Nearly gave me a heart attack earlier when I saw her running along that ’berg. That’s about it.”

“She doesn’t exist.” His voice was small and growing smaller. “Like… I mean, she’s not supposed to exist. And maybe she doesn’t. Not like you or me, I mean.”

“Sammy, what are you yappin’ about?”

“She doesn’t know who she is,” Sammy said.

“Probably amnesia. She’ll remember in the morning,” Charlie assured him.

“No.” Sammy Walper sounded adamant. “No, that’s not it…”

It was only when Joe spoke up did Charlie realize his snoring had stopped. “Truth is,” Joe muttered, his voice still groggy with sleep, “she didn’t say she couldn’t remember her name. She said she ain’t got one.”

“Well shit,” whispered Sammy Walper. The greenhorn’s heartbeat was nearly audible in the claustrophobic little room.

“Guys,” Charlie said, rolling over. “Let me get some sleep. I need to dream about my kid for a few hours before sunup, okay? Everything,” he promised them, “will be fine in the morning.”





6


In the morning, Sammy Walper was gone. It was impossible, of course—there was no place to go—but the truth of the matter could not be refuted. The kid was gone, vanished, disappeared. After thirty minutes of scrambling about the Borealis like frantic rats through a gasoline-smelling maze, the crew regrouped in the galley, confusions rising, to formulate a more ceremonial approach to the search.

“We’ll split into teams,” Mike said. “Charlie and Joe, you guys check the engine room, the generators, every single poorly lit crevice on this ship.” Mike handed Charlie a flashlight then instructed Bryan and McEwan to systematically check every room as well as all the compartments and hatches abovedeck. “We’ll tear the boat apart if we have to.”