The Scent Keeper(41)

Sure, said a voice in my head. And Martin’s probably not beating his wife right now, either.

The only thing I knew for certain was that Fisher would be next, and I was to blame. It was worth all the costs if I could save him.



* * *



“Oh my darling child,” Colette said as I walked in the door. The love in her voice almost broke me. Maybe, I thought for one beautiful moment, if I told them everything, they could help. Do something.

But as I was opening my mouth, Henry came down the hall, truck keys in hand. His eyes did a quick scan over me, checking my face, hands. “You okay?” he asked.

I understood then—they’d known about Martin. Of course they had. And they’d done nothing. I didn’t know which made me angrier, their knowledge or my lack of it. I grabbed the wave of that fury, let it wash away the words I was going to say and sweep me away from them.

“I just want to go to sleep,” I said, heading for my bedroom.

“Emmeline, we need to—”

I closed my door and leaned against it, my heart hammering. After a while, Colette went back to the kitchen, taking the scents of cardamom and bread dough with her. Dodge made his slow way down the hall and scratched at my door. I couldn’t let him in. I was afraid I’d cry.



* * *



Henry and Colette stayed in the kitchen for a long time, their voices murmuring. I lay down on my bed, waiting for them to go to their room, to sleep.

As I lay there, my restless mind spinning, my body feeling the pull of the tide, I gradually came to understand that I wasn’t doing this just for Fisher. I needed to go to the island for myself. In reality, the idea had been simmering in my head ever since I’d started doing deliveries to the islands with Henry. It had been a fantasy then, but now that I’d found that article, I think a part of me knew I’d have to go back—to the lagoon, our cabin—to see if the man in the story bore any relation to the father of my memories. I needed to set the versions one on top of another and see where the edges matched.

But that would never happen if I couldn’t get out of the house.

To distract myself, I set my mind to details, plans. It was only September—when we got to the island there would be plenty of food to gather. Henry had said no one else was there, and with any luck the cabin would be in good shape.

I let myself relax into the memory of my own childhood competence, into the prospect of those tall, forgiving trees. I refused to think about what it would be like for Henry and Colette to find my empty bedroom. I refused to think about what it would be like to forage on the beach without the sound of my father’s laughter.

After what felt like forever, Colette and Henry went to bed. I listened as the night settled into silence. When I finally heard Henry’s deep, rhythmic snoring, I loaded some clothes in my backpack, then added the article and the green-wax bottle, shoving them deep inside. Carefully, I opened my door. Dodge was asleep in the hallway outside, but he was so old now that his sleep was more like a fall into a deep well. I looked at him for a moment, then stepped gingerly around him and made my way to the kitchen.

We needed basics—flour and rice and salt—and I packed a couple grocery bags, then slipped the boat key from its hook by the door. Glancing out the window, I saw Fisher’s silhouette crouching at the base of the porch steps. I put on the backpack, grabbed the food, and went to the front door.

Just go forward, Emmeline, I told myself as I heard it click shut behind me.



* * *



Fisher’s face looked like I felt. “You okay?” I asked.

“She wouldn’t come,” he said. He swallowed, a liquid sound. We hugged each other.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The journey out of the harbor was agonizing. We couldn’t risk turning on the motor; we had to paddle, and the boat wasn’t designed for that. We moved forward ponderously, no matter how much Fisher and I leaned into our strokes. We’d positioned ourselves on either side of the boat, but if we didn’t paddle at exactly the same moment, we wandered sideways, and the tide we would need later when we tried to run the channel was no friend now. I could hear the front edge of it running through the rocks on the shore. I had always loved the music it made, the conversation between stone and water, but not now. We were in a race with that tide, and those rocks told us we were losing.

I felt the sharp, squishy pain of blisters forming in the curve between my thumb and index finger. The muscles in my neck screamed from the constant craning. I looked over my shoulder, searching Henry and Colette’s windows for a light.

“Should we…”

Give up. Go back.

“No.”

I shut my eyes then and listened for Fisher’s strokes, staying with them, putting every ounce of my energy into my back, my arms, my hands. As we slowly moved forward, I could begin to feel the boat rocking slightly with the current of the bigger water beyond. The scent of trees started giving way to water, to salt.

Then, with one thrust of our paddles, we were out. I opened my eyes and could just barely see the islands in the distance, a slim black line between the glittering water and the dark sky. It surprised me, how much you could see at night when there was nothing—no trees, no hills—between you and the moon.

The tide grabbed the prow of the boat and started pulling it south, along the coastline. Fisher turned the key and the engine roared to life. He cranked the wheel hard, steering us out across the current and toward the islands. As we shot eastward, I kept my face to the wind, pressing it into the blast of clean air and moisture.