One Night on the Island(77)

Another message arrives and I almost don’t look because there’s something incongruous about the glare of the screen against the timeless dark skies. But I do look, and I breathe in sharply when I see the name on the screen.

Mack.

I stored his number in my phone when I took the rule sheet down. I intended to keep the list as a memento, but I’ve misplaced it, probably swept up with the clear-out after Mack left. Is he in trouble? Did he not make it safely home? I’d have heard by now, surely, if not. Hardly breathing, I click his message open.

One – Springsteen just came on the radio and I thought of you.



Two – I fucking miss you, and the island, and the lodge. But you most of all.



Three – You know what three is.



Oh, Mack. I read and reread his words. Of the two of us, I thought I’d be the one to break our pact, the one who ended up a little drunk and a lot lonely with my phone in my hand. What do I do with this? Reply? I think of him, about his long journey home, the stress he will have been under returning to Boston, seeing his boys again, the roller coaster of emotions he’ll be going through with Susie. I can’t even begin to imagine how you process building a life, a family, with someone, and then having the rug pulled unceremoniously from beneath your feet. I saw how cut up he was about Robert, and I’m sure Susie will feel the same boot in her gut when – if – Mack tells her about us. He’s flown home to face a truckload of agonizing conversations and decisions. I expect messaging me was a desperate, alcohol-related escape route back to Salvation. I hate to think of him alone in that condo he detests, beer in one hand, phone in the other.

I study his words again, thinking about my options. I could just not reply, stick to our agreement. It would send a clear message: this isn’t a good idea, Mack. One text leads to another, and before you know it we’re friends on Facebook and torturing ourselves looking at photos that break our hearts. He may well have woken up regretful about even sending it. Not replying would solve that. But then, he might also wonder if I ever even received it, if it got lost somewhere along its three-thousand-mile journey, if a passing mermaid plucked it from the air in an act of female solidarity to protect me from further harm. I feel certain he wouldn’t contact me a second time, and that would be that.

I think all of these commendable thoughts, knowing all the time that I’m going to reply. Of course I am. I just don’t know what to say. I try out various options before I strike what I hope is the right note.

One – I’m sitting on top of Wailing Hill wearing your deeply unfashionable cyclops torch.



Two – I miss you frantically. The lodge feels too big without your ridiculous coat taking up all the space.



Three – I went to the knitting group today and cried like an idiot, but I still don’t regret you. Not now, not ever.



Three A (because I know you don’t approve of a fourth) – Don’t feel the need to reply. I get that you probably drunk-texted, or you were at a low ebb, or struggling to readjust. I’ve replied, so we’re even again now. X



I press send, then slide my phone into my pocket. I could sit here and wait a while, see if he replies even though I told him not to. He might; he’s hours behind me and it’s early afternoon in Boston. I wait for just enough time to be sure my words have fired themselves off in search of him, then I click on the head torch and set my sights on Otter Lodge. It’s still mine for now, I have to make the most of it.

I’m pleased to see the fire I left in the hearth hasn’t completely died out and I feel a sense of accomplishment when I’m able to revive it. Fire means light and heat, cavewoman necessities I can provide for myself. I mean, I put the lamps on too, because I’m not an actual cavewoman, but the sense of satisfaction in my own capabilities is real. I can do things to make myself feel strong. Heat up some soup, light some candles, layer on my favourite cardigan. I remember feeling apprehensive before I came to Salvation at the thought of being alone at the lodge. I worried I’d feel too remote, too alone, exposed. A little afraid, even. If anything, I feel the absolute opposite of all those things tonight. I’m in need of this silence, and I feel held and supported by the thick stone walls around me. When Mack was here, it was a nest for two; now it is a nook for one.

My eyes come to rest on the brown-papered parcel Delta gave me. It’s tied with simple string and there’s a note.

Most of Salvation’s women have had need of one of these at some point in their lives. You know where we are if you need us. X



I pause, the package resting on my knees. I’ll take good care of that note, it will always be precious to me. Pulling the string, I fold back the paper, and then I gather up the contents and press my face into it with a soft, grateful sigh. I didn’t think I had any tears left in me today, but it seems I’ve got a back-up well. It’s a blanket. A blanket made up of knitted squares stitched together to make a patchwork quilt of colour and comfort. I shake it out and wrap it around my shoulders, squeezing my eyes tight shut. It’s as if the island women have wrapped their arms around me, an intentional show of sisterhood, of feminine solidarity. I sit for a few minutes and let the layer of warmth sink into my skin, and then I open my eyes and examine it. I recognize the yellow wool Ailsa used recently, and Carmen’s unmistakable battleship grey, ‘the warmest on the island’. I smile at the thought of Dolores’s lemon-sucking expression every time Carmen says it. There’re other colours too – moss green, bubblegum pink, cherry red, turquoise blue. Offshoots of projects I’ve seen growing on their needles. God, what a phenomenal group of women. I feel honoured to count myself even temporarily amongst their number. I wonder if they realize how special what they have is or if they’re lucky enough to be able to take their good fortune for granted, an accepted part of islander life. They look after their own, and every now and then they sweep a lost lamb into their fold. ‘I’m a lucky lamb,’ I whisper. It’s the exact right gift at the exact right moment. I’m reminded of the first time I laid eyes on my lime-green clamshell laptop, the feeling of being understood, the swell of intention behind my ribs. I feel it again now, a cosmic nudge to listen to my gut. ‘Okay,’ I whisper. And then I say it again, louder, more resolute. ‘Okay.’