The Girl in the Mirror(36)

A motorboat appears from the inner harbor and heads toward me. A long orange launch. Men in military uniforms stand on the foredeck. A dozen or more. Are they policemen? I duck belowdecks. What will I say to them? Are they here to question me?

I haven’t showered since I lost Summer. I stink, and my clothes hang loose on me. In the double mirror, a strange face greets me. She’s deeply tanned, her skin peeling and ruby-brown. She’s gaunt, red-eyed and savage. Sodden hair clings to her face and neck, and her sarong is dirty and torn. Her right hand and right leg are bandaged.

I tear the bandage off my leg. The wound beneath is already healing to a red line.

The girl in the mirror isn’t Summer or Iris. She’s unrecognizable. Her eyes are hostile, barbaric.

I’ll at least wash off some of this smell. I grab a rag and jam the faucet up, but of course, nothing comes out.

Now there’s an angry banging on the hull. Deep voices, boots stomping. They’re coming aboard. I can’t greet them like this. I yank open the bathroom cupboard and grab a bottle of Summer’s perfume. I spray my body. The smell of Summer. Apples and the beach.

A deep voice is calling, a strange accent. “Captain! Captain! This is the police.”

I race to the cockpit. I’m going to tell them the truth.

I step out into the sunshine, and I’m swept off my feet. Strong arms embrace me, the sweet smell of cloves. Hot tears fall on my face.

“Summer, Summer, Summer,” he says. “Thank God you’re safe. You’re so late. I died waiting for you. I’m never letting you out of my sight again!”

I cling to him, and a dam bursts deep inside me. I cry and cry. I split in two with crying.

“Adam,” I sob. “Darling, it’s worse than you think. I’ve lost my sister.”

In the end, I do it for Summer.

“I’ve lost Iris,” I say. “Iris is dead.”





Part II

Summer





10

The Police




I’m Summer. I’m Summer. I’m Summer.

I’m the beauty queen, the wife, the mother, the firstborn. I melt into my husband’s arms, and a rushing red warmth rises through my body, tingly and electric. My skin seems to melt; I almost dissolve into Adam. We’re wrapped in each other, covering each other in joyful tears.

Nobody has to grieve. The perfect family is safe and well.

No matter what happens afterward, it will all be worth it for this, this moment, now. I am the good twin and I am loved. Adam holds me so tightly my feet lift off the ground.



The policeman can barely wait for Adam to set me down before his questions begin. Who am I? What is my business in the Seychelles?

“My name is Summer Rose Romain,” I say. “I’m married to a Seychellois citizen. This is our yacht.”

The policeman glares at me from across the cockpit. I clutch Adam’s warm hand. For a big man, the officer has a fine jaw, high cheekbones, a face that reveals the skeleton beneath. The sun reflects off his police badge and shines in my eyes. He swaggers around, burly and brusque.

“Are you a citizen?” His voice booms. “Do you speak Creole?”

Adam pulls me gently down into the cockpit seat beside him and squeezes my hand. He replies for me, a burst of noise. Am I expected to understand this? Has Adam taught me any Creole?

There are a hundred, a thousand things I’m meant to know. I can’t do this.

I never dreamed Adam would be here. What is he doing in the Seychelles?

“Summer? Summer!”

I jerk my head up. I must learn to answer to my name!

My husband shakes his head, his eyes wide. “This is hopeless,” he says. “I can barely recognize my wife. Think what she’s been through. She was all alone out there. You saw she can’t sail. Her sister is the sailor. Was the sailor.” His voice cracks.

The policeman puts his hand on Adam’s shoulder and speaks again in Creole, but his voice is quieter. They whisper back and forth, as though there’s some chance I’ll understand. Is there? Creole sounds like French. Iris took French at school, and phrases pop out now from the sea of sound.

Dans la mer. In the sea. Bonne femme. Good woman.

I don’t think I’ve learned any Creole. I’m not supposed to know these words.

Handcuffs jangle from the inspector’s belt. He lights a cigarette, inhales, and flicks the ash onto the teak floor.

Who is the “good woman”? Me or the one who is dans la mer?

“I know this is hard, baby.” Adam draws me closer, laying a protective arm across my lap. “But can you tell us where Iris fell? Where should we search?”

I don’t have to fake my response. Sobs break out of me, and I can barely speak through the heaving of my chest. “It was a week ago—more—it was a thousand miles away!” I cry. “I woke up and she was gone! I searched. I searched for days and days. I searched till I ran out of fuel. I searched till I was running out of water.”

The police inspector has more questions. He fires them at me in English and Creole. Adam translates. The other men march up and down the deck in the hot sun. Bathsheba wobbles under the heavy tread of their boots. A knot of them are smoking at the bow, taking turns to glare at me between puffs.