The Rattled Bones(7)

In the kitchen, I pack my lunch. I make Dad a sandwich too. Out of habit.

Gram squeezes through the patio doors, joins me in the kitchen. Her sigh is heavy and foreign; Gram never complains.

“Everything all right?” I suspend my knife in the peanut butter jar and hear the absurdity of my question only after it passes my lips.

“Ayuh.” She wrestles her dirt-caked gardening gloves from her fingers and abandons them to the table. Tiny pebbles of earth skitter across its worn wood surface. Gram looks out at her back gardens, clean hands planted on her sturdy hips. “I’ve got grubs, Rilla.”

I almost laugh. Insects? Insects are a solvable problem. “Grubs, huh?” I paint the peanut butter onto my bread, all the way to the very edges the way my father liked.

“Those devils have got some moxie being so close to my peonies.” Gram huffs past me and dips her head into the fridge. She draws in a small gasp when she opens the door. “There’s more food in here than stars in the sky.”

“What do you need? I’ll get it for you.” I place the knife onto the cutting board and join Gram at the open fridge.

“Beer.” She says it like it’s not six o’clock in the morning.

“Beer?”

She fans her twisted fingers to hurry me along. “Well, I’m not gonna drink it, Rilla. It’s for the grubs. Give me as much as we’ve got.”

“Right.” I remove the casserole dishes and pass each one to Gram. I reach into the back and grab four bottles. I tuck the fifth deeper into the corner. It feels wrong to give the last of my father’s beer to garden pests.

Gram packs the casserole dishes into the freezer with impressive economy, then scans my outfit. “Looks like you’re dressed for buggin’.”

“Not today. The traps haven’t soaked long enough. I’ll haul tomorrow.”

Her side glance tells me she’s waiting for more.

“I just need to be on the water.”

She nods, covers my hand with hers. “You’re just like him, Rilla. Two seals always needing their ocean.”

I don’t tell her I’m headed for land.

*

It takes only minutes to reach the lee side of Malaga Island, the protected side. I tell myself that I’m here for a new perspective—to see my surroundings in a new light. And if I’m being honest, I need to put some distance between me and Reed and his choice to check out when I don’t have that luxury. And Hattie’s voice mails. I don’t know what to say to her yet, and I can’t hurt her more. But it’s when I idle my engine in front of the exact spot where I saw the girl two days ago that I know my motivations are singular: I’m looking for the singing girl.

The beach is empty, which should be zero surprise. Still, a part of me hoped she’d be here, waiting for me or something. It’s been impossible to shake the memory of her and her disappearing skiff, not to mention the tidal wave growing from Malaga’s shores. But I’m not willing to chalk these things up to hallucinations just yet. I refuse to let my brain slip into the space of madness that stole my mother.

I thrust my anchor overboard and the water swallows its weight. I strip off my layers and toss them into the tiny rowboat tied to Rilla’s stern. On another day, I would row the short distance to shore, but today I want the bite of water to wash over me. Through me. I climb onto the starboard ledge wearing only my bra and underwear. My toes hug the cool fiberglass rail as my eyes measure depth the way Dad taught me.

Black at the deep.

Green at the shallows.

The water before me swirls with a jeweled color that’s between black and green.

I jump.

The icy water swallows me as I plummet, feet first. Bubbles crowd around me, the water making room for my shape. I thrust my arms up, pressing deeper into the sea despite the shock to my lungs, the cold squeezing me. I open my eyes, the salt stinging as I stare at the black. In the depth of this water there is no loss. In the ice of this sea there is only numbness.

And a song.

I hear it over the weight of the water pushing against my ears.

Come here, come here, my dear, my dear.

I spin around, search the deep. Cold fear rips through me.

Come here, come here, my dear, my dear.

I hear the words too clearly. Here, underneath millions of years of ocean, I hear the song meet me. Come here, come here . . .

I bullet to the surface. My ears pop and then the voice of the ocean rushes all around me. The waves explode as they crash against the side of my boat. My mouth takes in seawater and I spit it free. The salt bites against my tongue. My fingers work to free the skiff rope from the Rilla Brae, but they are wet and fumbling. I kick my feet below the surface of the thrashing water, to stay upright, but also to push away the song rising from the deep. My fingers are cold and cramping as they rip at the knot, too clumsy. Too wet. Too slick. I look over my shoulder, into the sea of waves, my heart thundering for what I might see surface from the spraying waves.

When the knot opens, I slip the rope around my wrist and swim to shore. I scramble onto land, dress quickly.

The air on the island is still, quiet. The breeze holds its breath. I stumble back from the beach, waiting for something—someone—to rise. The singer. The girl? But the sea holds its secrets. The waves roil unfazed. I squeeze my palms to my temples, pressing them hard against my skull. Did I imagine the song? I shake my hands free. No. I heard the singing. Impossible, maybe. But I heard it. I take a few steps back, putting distance between me and the deep. When nothing emerges from the surf, I turn and quickly hike to the highest slab of granite. I sit against the rock’s heat, pulling my legs to my chest as if they are some kind of protection.