Float Plan(47)

“Yeah, it is.”

“I’m glad.” The line goes quiet, but the silence isn’t awkward or filled with things left unsaid. Maybe this is a temporary truce, but tonight I will settle for all is calm, all is bright. “Mom’s back,” Rachel says. “Merry Christmas, Anna.”

“You’ve sailed so far,” my mom says with a note of wonder.

“A thousand miles, more or less.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“All the time,” I admit. “But Keane is with me and he is…” I struggle for the words that will encompass everything he’s become. Guide. Travel companion. Safety net. Rock. Comfort. Friend. “I wouldn’t have gotten this far without him. He’s taught me a lot.”

“I’m glad you’re not alone anymore.”

The table is not so far away that I can’t hear Agda’s big laugh, or the way Karoline claps and shouts “Yes!” whenever she agrees with what someone is saying. I’ve failed pretty spectacularly at running away. “Me too.”

We wish each other Fr?hliche Weihnachten. Ich liebe dich. Gute Nacht. I end the call as Keane is crossing the sand to my hammock.

“Doing okay there, Anna?”

“Yep.”

He gestures toward the opposite end of the hammock. “Room for a plus-one?”

“I only share with people who have saved my life.”

“Then I reckon it’s my lucky night.” The hammock tilts precariously as he climbs in so that we’re facing each other. “We should have one of these for the boat. String it up on the foredeck.”

“Okay.”

“That was too easy.”

“My small heart grew three sizes today.” I point to my Grinch T-shirt. “Or maybe it’s just a good idea.”

Keane rests his arm on my shin, his hand on my knee. We’ve come so far in such a short amount of time. Almost a month ago I suffered anxiety over sleeping in the same cabin. Now we routinely invade each other’s space.

“You seem happy,” he says.

“I guess I am.”





meager offerings (23)





Morning comes early and bright, and I wake to find Queenie sleeping on the pillow beside my head. Nova, a small tan island dog who claims Felix and Agda whenever they’re home, is curled on the floor beside the bed. The house is quiet, but the breeze rustles the leaves of the trees and the birdsongs are constant. I get out of bed, and peek into Keane and Eamon’s room. It’s early for them to be awake and gone, but it’s Christmas Day. There’s no Catholic church on the island, but I suspect they’ve gone to services in the makeshift annex beside the ruined Methodist church at the bottom of the hill.

The Christmas tree is a tiny pine in the middle of the coffee table and there are presents strewn around it. Among them are some with my name and I’m embarrassed that I didn’t even think about gifts. Not even for Keane.

Agda is awake, her hair sticking out every which way, when I reemerge from my room, dressed to go down the hill and with Queenie on her leash.

“I’m going to check on the boat.”

“The Sullivans have the car.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll hike it.”

Going downhill doesn’t take long with the help of gravity. At the landing, Queenie hops eagerly into the dinghy, and as we motor out to the Alberg, I realize she’s becoming a boat dog.

The anchor is secure, so I brew a small pot of coffee for myself and dig through my belongings, searching for potential Christmas presents. There is a bottle of German wine I was saving for Trinidad that I decide to give to Felix. Agda is a bigger challenge because I don’t feel right giving my clothes—even lightly worn—to someone who has welcomed me into her home. On the top shelf of the hanging locker is Ben’s Polaroid. He loved that camera, but I haven’t used it since he died. I take the camera from the shelf, brush off the dust, and snap a picture of Queenie.

Keane is the hardest of all because I have nothing to offer him. Except, sitting in the sink is the Captain America mug. My heart aches a little as I carefully wash and dry it, and I begin to understand why Ben’s mother swept in after his death and took everything she could get her hands on. But the mug is not Ben and giving it to Keane will not diminish his memory.

I gather everything into a paper shopping bag and sit on deck until my coffee is gone. When Queenie and I return to shore, Foxy’s gift shop has opened for the day and I buy a T-shirt for Eamon.

I perch on the tile steps of the empty, gutted church with my dog and my gifts, close my eyes, and listen to the pastor’s voice drift out from the nearby annex, sermonizing about a manger in Bethlehem. Perhaps my meager offerings will be enough.

The pastor comes out first, the congregation singing “O Come, All Ye Faithful” behind him, and I move Queenie away from the path of the procession as they walk by.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Everyone is welcome. Merry Christmas.”

Keane and Eamon are among the first people who stream out from the annex and they’re surprised to see me.

“I wanted to make sure the boat was okay,” I say. “But I could use a lift up the hill.”

Back at the patchwork house, I wrap presents using borrowed paper and add them to the pile around the little tree. Felix is awake and we all gather in the living room for the exchange. We crisscross each other as we hand things out, so my first gift is a pink Foxy’s T-shirt from Eamon. He laughs when he opens the men’s version of the shirt in black. “It’s the stuff of O. Henry stories, isn’t it?”