The Rattled Bones(60)

He squeezes my hand. “Take care, now. You can call if you need anything at all.”

I need so much, but nothing the doctor can help me with.

Gram walks Doc Brower out of my bedroom and switches off the overhead light as she leaves. She doesn’t return until she has my prescription bottle in hand. She sets down a fresh glass of water before twisting at the medicine’s cap. She taps out a small green pill. She sets it under my bedside lamp. Then she kisses me on the forehead and leaves a stamp of warmth there. “Ya need your rest, Rilla. I’ll be right here if ya need me.”

“I’ll be fine, Gram.”

She pats at my hand. “I know ya will.”

Gram sits on the rocking chair, her worry forcing her back so straight. I roll the pill in my hand. It is small and round and chalky. It’s green, not red. Did my mother start with the green pills? My mother. Reed’s angry words swim at me, joined by the ember words scrawling across the attic door, filling my room. The memory of being pulled into the deep.

I take the pill, swallow it without water.

I lower my head to my pillow and my mind races with Dad’s funeral, Malaga’s history, the girl with the song. Gram’s attic and the wood grain that rearranged to tell me IM HERE. And then. Then the scenes quiet. My mind fogs with some internal lullaby. The bombarding images turn to black. An all-consuming black. Soothing. So opposite the institutional place I’ve always feared. I walk into this blackness knowing I’m safe. Knowing the blackness is there to hold me. Comfort me.

I give over my trust.

I surrender my independence.

I let the black carry me off.

*

I wake from another world. The pill Doc Brower prescribed me knocked me out. I even slept through my alarm, apparently, since I feel Gram prodding me in the arm to open my eyes.

“I’ve been trying to wake ya for nearly five minutes, Rilla. Are ya all right?”

“Fine. Yes. All good.” I give Gram the reassurance she needs. “I just needed sleep, like the doc said.”

Gram’s eyes are creased with worry. “Sam’s downstairs.”

“I’m up.” I sit against my headboard despite the lasting ache trapped in my back.

“How are ya feeling?”

“I feel great.” I rub at the corners of my eyes. “I slept great.” No dreams, no interruptions.

“That’s a balm for my heart.” Gram pats me on the shin. “The medicine helped, then?”

“Definitely.”

Gram squeezes my shin. “Ya feel like having some breakfast?”

“I’m starving.” Gram has always equated an appetite as a sign of good health.

“I’ll fix something. Can ya come down?”

I nod. “Of course.”

Gram smiles as she leaves, closing the door gently behind her. I wait until I hear her footsteps on the stairs before I go to the windowsill. The window is closed, locked from the inside. I move the shirt that clings to the sill. Just below the words FIND ME and DONT GO! are scratched two additional words. Familiar now. IM HERE

FIND ME

DONT GO!

IM HERE

I let my thumb trace the thin ridges of the words. I don’t know how the words are scrawled here, how the girl can visit me and mark my world in this way, but I know the words are hers. And I make a promise to find her.

I look out at Malaga and hold my hand against the glass. “I know you’re here.” I press my forehead to the cool glass and give in. “But why?”

So much of me doesn’t want her to answer.

Too much of me needs her to answer.

I exhale hard against the window, causing a spray of fog to spread across the glass. I raise my finger, write: WHO R U? into the circle of steam. I return my forehead to the glass, maybe waiting for an answer. Or maybe I’m just relieved the morning feels so still and my bones feel so rested. But there’s an emptiness in me that I know belongs to my mother. It’s the same emptiness I felt when friends had their mothers picking them up from school, throwing them birthday parties—an absence. For the first time since I was six, I wish my mother were here. I wouldn’t ask her to explain her choices, her leaving. I’d only ask her to talk me through what’s happening, let me know how close I am to the edge.

*

I dress for normal. White tee, black leggings. I pinch my cheeks so the red will rise. I stretch my face into a smile. Normal. Normal enough for Gram to let me slip out onto the boat.

She’s with Sam, eating cubed watermelon at the table, by the time I get to the kitchen.

“There’s your tea there.” Gram nods toward an empty mug next to the kettle, but keeps her eyes trained on me. I pour a cup, bring my mug under my nose, breathe in the clover leaf and orange rind. For clearing the blood and the lungs. I take a sip and let the hot liquid river its ways to my stomach.

“Sam tells me ya two have plans to go buggin’ today.”

“Have to. Some pots have been soaking for four days now.”

“Is that a long time for a trap to soak?” Sam asks.

I nod. “Ninety-two hours is the longest the law says a trap can stay in the water. Any longer than that and the lobsters won’t have any food to survive.”

Gram tsks. “Maybe we should be thinking about your wellness, Rilla, not those bugs.”