Migrations(36)

The bell sounds overhead. I imagine the shrill cry of a gull, and the sound of its wings swooping through the fog. There should be hundreds of gulls on a shore like this.

We are slowing. The crew members on deck shout to each other now, and the sweep of the lighthouse beam makes a path through the fog. The bell tolls in a steady rhythm to which I can match my breathing. Ennis guides us into the harbor of St. John’s with what seems little effort. But I know the stress such a berthing has caused the crew. They’ve been tense all morning, unable to control the weather or the skill of their skipper.

I am nervous for a different reason: my passport is fake.

Well, that’s not exactly true. It’s not fake, it’s just not mine.

The sound of it reaches me before anything else. I start to notice more voices adding their shouts to the wind. Shapes form through the fog. Bodies with signs held aloft. Stop the massacres! Oceans belong to fish, not people! End the killing!

I take a breath, a gasp; a fist connects with my chest. The shouting is almost violent, it is filled with a fury I know well: it is my husband’s rage they embody as they chant and cry, as they try to do what little they can to stop the maddening inevitable doom we have built.

Léa moves to my side. Her eyes are cold, jaw hard. “Don’t look at them,” she says, flat.

I see one sign, larger than the rest—What more must we destroy?—and a bottomless shame opens within me. I’m on the wrong side of that sign.

It’s strange being on land again, even after only a few weeks at sea. Already it feels unnatural. The earth is too hard under my feet, as though it will compound me a little with each step. I move down the gangway to the customs terminal, making sure to tuck myself between the crew members of the Saghani. I am handed a customs form to fill out and I do so using Riley Loach of Dublin’s information. An overzealous customs officer watches me with hawk eyes the whole time. But the man behind the counter only gives me a cursory glance—I make sure to smile widely at him, obscuring my facial features a little—and then he stamps the passport and lets me through.

There is a corral separating us from the protesters but I can hear them so clearly, can make out their individual faces, each one watching us in disgust, bearing the same disbelief I’ve struggled with. A man near the end of the group wears a striped beanie and brandishes a sign that reads Justice for fish, death to fishermen. It sends a chill through me, and that’s when our eyes meet, just for a moment, and it’s as though this man can see straight inside me and has judged me monstrous.

“Come on,” Basil says, pulling me by the elbow. “Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

We walk until the street is clear and then we wait for an ambulance to transport Samuel to the hospital.

“You okay?” Léa asks me softly, the two of us standing a little apart from the others.

I cast her a sideways glance. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just seem jumpy.”

She has begun to watch me, this French mechanic. I feel her dark eyes on me often, and sometimes when I catch her gaze she turns quickly away. I have not been sure until this moment if what lives in her interest is concern for my sanity, or something more intimate, more painful.

Ennis travels in the ambulance with Samuel while the rest of us divide into cabs. I spend the drive staring through the window at the winding city, brightly colored houses built into craggy hills. Everything is still blanketed in heavy fog, giving the day a sense of unreality.

We find Ennis sprawled tiredly in the waiting room and sink into chairs around him. “He’s being looked at. I’ve called Gammy, she’s on her way.”

Forty minutes pass before Samuel’s wife, Gammy, arrives. She strides through the doors in thick leather boots, riding leggings, and a shaggy woolen sweater to cover her robust form. Her hair is as red as Samuel’s, plastered with sweat to her forehead and flushed cheeks. Blue eyes dart worriedly as she takes Ennis in a bear hug and thumps him on the back. “Where is he?”

Ennis shows her the way and then we are quiet once more, waiting. I am not good at waiting.

“How long have they been married?” I ask Dae.

“’Bout thirty years. Think they’re up to about a dozen kids now.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. Samuel’s got a lotta love to go round. Just ask him.”

“I have and he’s told me the same thing multiple times already.”

We while the day away, keeping ourselves occupied with a pack of cards Dae thought to bring. Léa and I go on a food run and return with egg rolls and coffees. Gammy finally reappears midafternoon, looking wan.

“They’re keeping the idiot overnight. He’s on some hefty antibiotics for the infection, and they want to monitor his heart. Think there might be a problem with it.”

“From the defibrillator?” I ask.

Gammy’s eyes find me and soften. “No, darl. The heart condition was from before he got injured. You saved his life.” Gammy glances at Ennis. “Goddamn cable that hit him probably saved him as well. Otherwise we wouldn’t have known about the bad ticker until it was too late. Never thought I’d thank you for anything, Ennis Malone.”

I expect it to be a joke but no one smiles. Ennis inclines his head a little in acknowledgment. Gammy watches him for a good long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she spreads her hands. “Right. Let’s get off, then. I’ve got ravenous beasts at home who need feeding and I’m sure you lot could do with a proper wash and feed.”