The Light Pirate(69)

Hurricane season arrived, stretching well beyond its usual confines. With it, spikes of uncertainty. Without the constant deluge of the weather service’s predictions, they had to rely on their own observations. Every time the sky darkened and the needle of the old-fashioned barometer began to swing, they prepared. Sometimes Phyllis cranked the radio to try to glean what she could, but the forecasts were written for the north and the signal was barely there now that all the nearby repeaters were decommissioned. Officially, there was no one left here—no one to warn, no one to rescue. Their information came from what was left unsaid. Eventually, the two of them began to rely on the color of the sky and the smell of ozone that rolled in off the ocean instead. They stopped bothering with filling in the blanks of the weather service’s broadcasts. Their own forecasts were more reliable. Wanda especially, Phyllis noticed, seemed to know when it was time to strap in. She knew even when the sky was still clear and the air pressure had yet to drop. Once Wanda made the call, their preparations were a well-oiled machine.

Bit by bit, the Wanda she remembered returned. As far as Phyllis could tell, it was the storms she had to thank. As the first hurricane season after Lucas left swept through, Wanda clicked into that rhythm of preparation, endurance, recovery. The work required a degree of innovation and each storm was its own surprise, washing away the monotony that had colored the preceding spring. It was as if the storms were filling her internal stores with that great, churning power they wrought, feeding her in some extraordinary capacity. Shocking those batteries back to life. Phyllis watched the smooth, almost effortless way Wanda navigated the storms, wondering, not for the first time, where the lines between what was explained, what had yet to be explained, and what was wholly inexplicable were drawn. There was data Wanda could hear that she couldn’t. Which category did that belong in?

There were a great many storms that year, some harsher than others, but all demanding in their own way. In October, Wanda turned seventeen. During another time and in another place, she’d be a girl toying with the idea of adulthood, just beginning to shake off the vestiges of childishness. But here, now—she was grown. The luxury of that transition had gone the way of gasoline and beach bungalows.



As the season wound down, they decided to see what might be salvaged from some of the big box stores up north. It was a long way by boat, but now that the water had swallowed the old Highway 1, it was the only way. Paddling that far upriver took time and muscle, and in the past, Phyllis reasoned that whatever treasures they might find weren’t worth the exposure of the trek. But she wanted to give her young friend a treat. And, if she was being honest, she needed one for herself as well. The relative calm of winter’s skies after such a tumultuous summer beckoned them away from the haven of the blue house. She decided that the risk, just this once, was acceptable.

They struck out when it was still dark. The humidity of the summer months still hadn’t broken. Most days, the temperature would creep into the nineties and maybe beyond by the time the sun gathered its strength above the horizon, but none of this was unusual anymore. They reasoned that if they got an early enough start, they could be back before the hottest part of the day. Taking turns rowing, they made good time. Phyllis began, then passed the paddle to Wanda when she was tired. Wanda leaned into it, sliding the blades in and out of the water so cleanly they barely made a sound, propelling their vessel faster and straighter than Phyllis ever could, a coordinated dance of muscle and tendon flickering underneath the skin of her bare arms. She thought about what Lucas had said to her before he left, that his little sister belonged here. Watching Wanda, she understood what he’d seen. And she understood that he was right. Loss was a part of life above the Floridian border and below it. Whether he’d taken her or not, she couldn’t have escaped it. At least here, Wanda not only understood her ecosystem, she was a part of it. It was the water-bound light that flocked to her, but so much more—the storm predictions, her ease in the water, the way she adjusted to the changing environment almost effortlessly. Leaps of adaptation are what’s necessary now, Phyllis thought. If humans desired a future, if they deserved one, it would have to come from a generation made like Wanda.

When they arrived at the abandoned strip mall, the sun had risen and the wet heat was intensifying by the minute. The white letters that hung on their destination were mostly missing. It read: WALMART. The parking lot was too shallow for the weighed-down canoe, so they got out and waded, pushing it alongside. Half-sunk shopping carts and abandoned cars dotted the expanse. Oil slicks swirled on the water’s surface. Garbage floated. Phyllis had foreseen this; they both wore waders, not because they were squeamish about getting wet, but because the stagnant water was filled with trash and sewage and dead things. Evidence of previous looters was clear: plywood torn away from windows, broken glass, graffiti. The damage looked old and worn, which set Phyllis somewhat at ease. But not completely. They were exposed here—there was no getting around that. She felt for the gun she wore in a homemade shoulder holster and tried to remember why she’d thought this was a good idea. The hot metal was comforting. She’d strapped it on that morning feeling certain she wouldn’t need it, but what-ifs governed her entire life. She had never not paid them heed. What if she did need it? She fingered the leather straps she’d scraped and tanned herself. This skin used to belong to a deer. Now it belonged to her. How delicate life is, she thought. How unjust.