The Rattled Bones(46)

“What again?”

“College. Rhode Island. All of it. I just don’t get why this place”—he gestures to the sea with his fire stick—“can’t be good enough for you.”

I sit up, meet his eyes. I don’t want to have the conversation we’ve had a hundred times. Reed’s never understood why I need to study business before applying my knowledge to the aquaculture industry here on Maine’s coast. He wants me to train locally, get hands-on experience at the oyster farms and fisheries that line our coastline. And I know I could. It’s just, I want to see more of the world, and is that such a bad thing? “Maine’s my home, Reed. It’ll always be the best place in the world.”

He takes my hand. “So stay.”

“You know I can’t.”

“You can, Rill.”

I shake my head. “I can’t. Not now.”

“Especially now. With your dad gone.” He swallows hard. “I want to see your gram looked after.”

“And I don’t?”

“?’Course you do. It’s just . . . I don’t want you to go, Rill.”

“I know.” Leaving Reed will be hard.

The warmth of the fire spreads along my face. I reach my free hand to it, let the flames heat my palm, and there is a hint of something at Malaga’s shores. A spit of fire.

“You don’t have to leave.”

“I have to leave.” Gram’s pride. Dad’s pride. My college essays: one about what it means to be a first-generation college student, the other on the economy of sustainable fishing and balanced oceanic harvesting.

Another spark of flame rises on Malaga’s shores. It multiplies, like tiny bursts popping up from the soil. I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing I’m tired, that the flames are warm and here and in front of me, not in the distance.

I hear Reed but don’t hear him. I catch only a few words. “It’s not the same, Rill.”

I press my mind back into the moment. “What’s not the same?”

“Look at you. You’re here and you’re not even here.”

“I am.” I use my elbow to pull his knee tighter against my leg.

“I don’t know where your head is lately, Rill, but it’s not with me. Ever since you started hanging out with that dude from away.”

Flames grow larger on Malaga. Dancing upward and across. The small fires spread to reach one another, like children joining hands. I shake my head, shake the scene. The distant fire won’t leave. The flames comb up the length of the shore, walk to the island’s peak. The fire rages at the edges of the water, heat pushing against the cold, wet sea. I look to Reed, how his eyes are fixed on the same island and yet he says nothing.

He can’t see what I see. The fire isn’t real.

“I’m the idiot for thinking you’d stay here with me, with your gram.”

“What?” It’s not fair to Reed, the way I only half listen. I stand to see the rising blaze on Malaga.

“What is wrong with you, Rilla? You can’t even listen to me for five minutes.”

“I’m listening. I’m here.” But I’m staring out at Malaga, Sam’s boat still anchored offshore. Sam, still on the island. “I gotta go,” I whisper. Check on Sam. Make sure the flames are only in my imagination.

“You said that. I just didn’t think you’d ever be selfish enough to leave your gram.”

“Wait, what?”

“You’re gonna leave the same way your crazy mother did. Except you’re worse because, if you leave, your gram will be all alone. Alone, Rilla. That’s some cold shit. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

My brain pushes away all distractions. The flames, Sam on the island. I see only Reed. Hear only his words, their accusation. I know he just wants me to stay, but still . . . the anger that fuels his words feels deep. Brewing. “I think you need to go.”

“Might as well. You’re not even here. You can’t stop fixating on that island for five fucking seconds.” He stands, flicks his stick into the flames, and storms off. His words kick at me. I watch his shape disappear into the darkness, his silhouette fading beyond the swell of Gram’s gardens.

I go to the dock, but there’s no longer a reason to reach Sam. The fire has disappeared, if there was ever a fire at all. I hear the distant churn of Sam’s engine, see his boat’s safety lights pop green, red, white. I stand at the shore for a long time, wanting the fog to rise. I wait for the girl to sing to me. Or the Water People to talk to me. Wait for Sam to dock at Fairtide. Wait for the sting in my heart to settle. But none of these things happen. I grab a bucket from the dock and fill it with water to douse the flames in the fire pit.

Why did Reed really come tonight, after I told him I needed rest? Because it feels too much like he was checking up on me, making sure Sam wasn’t here or something.

I wish he’d listened and stayed away. I wish he’d never gotten the chance to say his awful words, make me feel like I’m abandoning Gram instead of making her proud.

I go upstairs and press my hand to Gram’s attic door as I head down the hallway, the light from her studio gathering around my feet as I stop and say my silent good night.

*

Later, a summer storm arrives. The wind feels confused, blowing from every angle, howling against its own groan. Waves batter the shore. I read through Sam’s notes, looking still for my girl and maybe for anything that will help me make sense of what happened to my mother. What happened to the innocent fishing community of Malaga. I focus on Sam’s notation about one of Malaga’s residents: Eliza Griffin was by all accounts a fiercely independent woman who made her home from a detached sea captain’s hull. She left behind many generations of wooden lobster traps, all in varying sizes and shapes. Archeologists use this as a map of lobster trap evolution.