The Island(96)
She drove through surf.
Something solid under all four tires. They were on the beach. The mainland!
She looked in the rearview.
The Toyota was just behind them, coming close for a last-ditch ram— Nope.
The Toyota lost its grip, hit a wave, and flipped.
Heather turned on her iPhone. She had no idea that in Seattle, Carolyn had called Jenny, the conference rep, and the Victoria police had been looking for them where the Porsche’s GPS had last pinged. If she could get a signal on the phone, they would be rescued in minutes.
The phone came on.
The battery was at 3 percent.
She drove up the dunes onto a deserted beach road and discovered she had a full bar of bandwidth signal. There was a text from Carolyn about Star Trek: Voyager.
“Is the phone working?” Olivia asked.
“Yes!” she said and dialed 000.
50
It was a dream. It could not possibly have happened.
Tom had dreamed them to the far side of the world.
And she had dreamed them home again.
It was dark out. The kids were sleeping.
She put the hot chocolate mug back on the coffee table next to a Dunkin’ Donuts box, a Seattle Times, a meteor-iron penknife, and a long letter from Carolyn with song lyrics inside.
She got up and peeked through the curtains. No TV van there today. Yesterday KIRO 7 and before that CBS.
The TV was on as a candle against the dark. The Home Shopping Network, which was always upbeat even at three in the morning. Especially at three in the morning.
She had work to do at this hour. Forms to sign. The Victoria police and the Australian government could not have been more kind. After she’d been discharged from the hospital, they had let her go. They believed her when she said she would come back for any possible trial.
She didn’t really know if she would come back. The kids shouldn’t have to go through all of that. Now, safe in their house in far-off America, they were sleeping. And the therapists and Dr. Havercamp said they were doing well, considering. They were both off their meds, and that was something, anyway.
Heather sat back on the couch and flipped through the channels.
Five hundred channels but in the wee hours, nothing as cheery as HSN.
She was thinking about phoning them to buy a duster on a long piece of plastic when there was a noise at the top of the stairs.
“Are you down there?” Owen asked.
“I’m here, honey.”
“I heard something.”
“It was me, I’m awake down here, watching TV. Stay there. I’ll come up.”
She checked in on Olivia, who was sleeping soundly. She tucked Owen back into bed and kissed him on the forehead.
“Can we go see Grandma and Grandpa on Goose Island this weekend?” Owen asked.
“Of course we can, but Grandma might want to paint you. And I know you hate that.”
“It’ll be OK,” Owen said.
“Sure, honey. Try to go back to sleep.”
“I will. I was thinking about something. Olivia’s right about something.”
“What?”
“She says your singing is OK.”
“She said that?”
“Yes. You should sing somewhere. Like at a coffee shop or something. We’d come to see you.”
“Maybe I will. Good night, Owen.”
“Good night…”
“You don’t have to say it.”
“I’m gonna say it.”
“You don’t have to,” Heather insisted.
“I want to.”
“Kid, I don’t even need it.”
“Good night, M…o…m,” he said, giggling and whispering the letters like they were a spell.
She slipped back downstairs.
She thought about the O’Neills. She’d read only yesterday that there was a proposal to remove the entire family from Dutch Island while Victorian government officials investigated their title deeds; it was said that they were considering giving the land back to its native owners, the Boon Wurrung people.
Maybe that would be something good that would come from all of this?
Maybe.
She opened the front door, opened the screen door, sat on the stoop, and lit a cigarette.
West Seattle was quiet. The Sound was calm.
The moon was up and so bright you could see the snowy mountains of Olympic National Park. There was a crow on the telegraph wire in front of Starbucks.
She knew it wasn’t the same crow. Only the shearwaters made that journey from Australia to here. Not crows.
Still, it was looking at her like it knew her. And saying hello cost nothing.
“Hi,” she said.
She finished the cigarette and found herself locking the door, pocketing the key, and crossing the empty street to a deserted Alki Beach.
She could see her breath in the moonlight.
The beach was pristine; summer was coming and they raked it every night.
She kicked off her old Converse slip-ons and stood on one of the rake’s curves, her toes in the cool sand.
She lifted one leg and let the Earth rotate slowly beneath her feet.
She breathed in and out.
In and out.
She let the tension ease from her shoulders. Her left shoulder in particular, which still ached.