Hidden

by Karen E. Olson

  The clock tells me it’s still early, not even nine o’clock. I put on a kettle of water to boil and stick a teabag in a mug that I take from the cupboard. While the water begins to heat up, I go into the bedroom, taking off my jeans, sweater, and long-sleeved T-shirt, replacing them with flannel pajamas and a fleece bathrobe. Maybe sometime in June I’ll put the flannel and fleece away and take out the cotton.

  I still haven’t turned on any light except the one in the kitchen. I tell myself it’s because I like the cozy feel, but I know in my gut that I’m afraid that black car followed me here, that he knows where I am and is just waiting for the right moment.

  I go into the bathroom and close the door, trapping the light inside. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. If he shows a picture of that long-ago woman to anyone, will they recognize me? I trace the lines in my face near my eyes, around my mouth. When did these show up? The glare of the bulb in the lenses of my glasses hides my eyes, so I take them off. The lashes are black with mascara. I pick up a cloth and wash my face with soap, wiping away the day but not the years. There is even more gray in my hair than I thought, leaning closer to take in the short curls, the wisp of bangs covering a high forehead.

  I have not seen that younger face in so long. I cannot say for sure that I won’t be recognized, or that I will.

  The TV lends its own blue film to the darkness that envelops my bedroom. I don’t keep a TV in the living room, only here, where I can pull the covers up and prop myself up on my soft, goose-down pillows. They are my only luxury, a piece of my past I cannot let go of no matter how much I have tried. My green tea is on the nightstand, the doors are locked, I am alone watching a movie about a boy who was taken hostage and held for ransom. It is based on a true story.

  I decide the next morning while making my oatmeal that I have to go out today. I woke up in the night wondering if I had imagined him. It was possible. At first, I thought I saw him everywhere, but soon his numbers diminished to nothing. When I close my eyes and force myself to see that face from last night again, it’s not the young, beautiful man I remembered. This man was handsome but older, his hair receding, his jaw settling into a looser jowl, his middle thicker. He was a man I might notice at Club Soda and play a round of pool with after a few drinks. I try to conjure what had been familiar about him: his stance, the way he held his head, his back stiff and straight, his arms at his sides.

  The image plays over and over in my head like a movie marathon. With each showing, however, he becomes more and more a stranger. Like any other tourist wanting a getaway before the crowds show up.

  I chew a raisin, stirring a handful into the hot cereal as I walk out onto the front porch. I pulled my dingy wicker chair out of the garden shed last week, and now it waits for me. I sit, eating, staring out at the water. A gray strip of fog hovers on the horizon, but I spot the ferry, a pinprick in the blue cloth laid out in front of me. Some days I never move from my chair except to get another cup of tea or a sandwich, wrapped in my fleece cocoon, the angle of the house such that the wind misses this spot. I watch the ferries come and go, the top of an occasional car or bike that passes below the green strip of grass that slides down over a small hill to the road.

  Today, though, I don’t stay. I finish my oatmeal and carry the empty bowl into the house, to the kitchen, and rinse it out in the sink. I get dressed in my usual uniform of jeans, T-shirt and fleece pullover and put on the sneakers that I’d shed the night before. I grab my backpack and go outside. My bike is propped up next to the back door. I don’t lock it up. Steve tells me I’m too trusting, that bikes can go missing even here.

  I know what happens when something goes missing.

  So far, though, no one has ever taken it.

  I throw my leg over the seat and shift a little so I’m comfortable, pushing the pedals until I’m flying over the hill and down toward Old Harbor. The National Hotel is open, advertising lunch and dinner, and many of the shops are hanging out their shingles and waiting for the big summer business that’s on its way. I think about stopping in at The Beaches Gallery, where my paintings are on sale, but I’m not in the mood at the moment to talk to Veronica, the owner. She is a bit high maintenance, and I’m in a hurry. So I continue down past the Surf Hotel, slowing as I go around the corner, and there’s the building. A small, squat clapboard house with a long deck overlooking the water. Sunswept Spa. Next to the Mohegan Bluffs, it is possibly my favorite place on the island.

  I lock up the bike in the rack next to the parking lot and make my way up the steps. The soft tinkling of a bell sounds as I push the door open, and the scent of cloves hits my nose. I breathe deeply, all the stress of my nighttime wonderings melting out of my shoulders.

  ‘Nicole!’ Jeanine leans in and kisses me first on one cheek and then on the other. Very European. She is wearing a short-sleeved, lacy top and a long knit wraparound skirt. Her blonde hair, piled on top of her head and pinned with chopsticks, smells like strawberries. ‘What a surprise!’ She takes a step back and assesses me. When I first met her, this bothered me – the way she studies me every time I see her. But this is what makes her good at her job, owning this spa. ‘You need stones today,’ Jeanine says matter-of-factly, going around the dark wooden counter and checking the appointment book. ‘I have an hour before my first client.’

  ‘I really just wanted to take a yoga class.’ The class starts in five minutes; I checked the schedule before I left the house. I have yoga pants and a mesh shirt in my backpack.

  She frowns. ‘That’s not what you need. Your energy is off, you need some balance.’ With that, she takes my hand and leads me down the hall, through the waiting room and a door that leads to the private rooms. She gently pushes me into one, the dim light making it seem as if it were twilight instead of early morning. ‘Undress. I’ll be back in a few.’

  The door shuts gently behind her, and I stand for a moment. I am used to Jeanine’s way but I am still a bit thrown because this is not what I’ve come for. I am not used to asserting myself anymore, however, so I shrug off the backpack and begin peeling off the clothes I’d just put on not twenty minutes ago. When Jeanine comes back, I am face down under the sheet, the warmth from the padded table soaking into my skin. I’m still a little tense, but the anxiety starts to ease. She doesn’t say a word, but I hear the stones clicking against each other, the water in their bath sloshing. In moments, a heavy stone is sitting on my lower back. The heat penetrates my body, and I sigh before I can stop myself.

  Jeanine chuckles and puts two more stones on my spine. I welcome them and want to be covered completely. I want to crawl into their bath and feel their smoothness all around me.

  As my eyes droop and close, I realize she is right. I need this.

  My muscles feel like Jell-O as I dress. Jeanine has left me alone again; my body is warm and tingly. I will need a shower to wash off the oils she’s used, but for now I relish the slick feeling of my skin, drink in the aroma. I glance in the mirror and smooth my hair back into a short ponytail, tendrils framing my face. I don’t look nearly as old as I did earlier. When I’m dressed, I leave the room, squinting as the brighter lights outside stab my eyes. Jeanine is at the counter again, and she smiles at me.

  ‘You feel better now, don’t you?’

  ‘You just like to rub it in.’

  She laughs. ‘Oh, rub it in, yeah, I get that.’

  I don’t even realize that I was making a joke, but I go along with it.

  ‘Plans today?’ she asks as she rings up my bill. She gives me a discount because we’re friends.

  I shrug. ‘Not sure yet,’ I say. I have a flashback to a time when I always had plans. I shudder, wondering where that came from.

  ‘Must be nice,’ Jeanine says, but it’s not in a jealous way. She loves her job and knows how hard I work during the season. ‘Want to meet for dinner tonight?’

  I nod. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Four-ish would be good,’ she says, looking at her book.
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  The door bell jingles.

  ‘That’s my next appointment,’ Jeanine says, rising.

  I pick my backpack up off the floor and swing it over my shoulder, turning. But I’m not watching where I’m going and I crash into Jeanine’s client. I back away quickly and look up, ready to apologize.

  He smiles, but there’s a question in his eyes. ‘Do I know you?’

  THREE

  A chain around a tree holds my bike securely as I make my way down toward the rocky beach, the wooden staircase twisting and turning to accommodate the terrain. The way down is easy; my feet fly as they maneuver the slats so familiar that they barely register what they’re doing. Every once in a while I look down to make sure they’re on the right track. My hand skims the railing, and I scan the Mohegan Bluffs that drop a hundred and fifty feet.

  When I reach the bottom, I look up and revel in the craggy cliffs. I make my way across the beach, stopping occasionally to pick up a smooth rock that’s caught a glint of sunshine and is winking at me. I have glass jars full of these rocks all over my little house, reminders of these days when I wander without purpose. The jars mark my time here, dated carefully: my first visit to the Bluffs; my first, fifth and tenth anniversaries on the island; the day I started my bike tours. I don’t just come here on special days, but I only make a jar for those.

  Today is a jar day.

  The wind slides up my sleeve and touches my elbow, my shoulder, my chest before slipping out the other side. My backpack is heavy with stones, and I take deep breaths as I climb the wooden stairs back up to my bike. This is the hard part, going back up.

  I have a message on my answering machine when I get home. I don’t bother with it right away. Instead, I unload the stones and take one of the sparkling, empty jars out of my pantry. Carefully, I slide the stones inside. There aren’t enough to fill it, only about three-quarters of the way, but I seal it anyway and take my marker and write the date on the bottom. I know where this one will go: on the bookshelf in the bedroom just next to the jar from my first visit to the Bluffs.

  ‘Meet me at Bethany’s for lunch.’ Steve’s voice echoes through my kitchen, bouncing off the tiles over the stove when I finally hit ‘play’ on the machine. The clock tells me it’s almost noon; the clouds tell me rain is coming. I’m not sure I want to take the bike out now. I have a can of tuna for a sandwich. I pick up the phone and dial.

  ‘Storm,’ I say abruptly. ‘Why don’t you come here for lunch? I have tuna.’

  ‘Too late. I’m already here, waiting for you. Where have you been?’ He pauses. ‘Forget about it. I’ll get a couple clam chowders to go and you can make a couple sandwiches. I’ll be there in a few.’ He hangs up.

  I make the tuna methodically, spooning out small dollops of mayonnaise until it’s just like Steve likes it. I’m not fussy about my tuna, but he is, so I accommodate him. I find some rye bread in the freezer and stick four slices in the toaster oven to unthaw. Again, I wonder if I will tell Steve. I have wanted to, lately, more than ever. This need to talk about it has caused me to wake in the night feeling as if something heavy is sitting on my chest. But there is no guarantee that if I tell him the feeling will go away.

  The knock is quickly followed by the sound of the back door opening and Steve’s hearty ‘Hello, hello!’ It is always the same greeting. He comes into the kitchen, puts the bag with the chowder in it on the counter and peers into the toaster oven. ‘Rye?’ he asks.

  ‘I’ve got lettuce, too,’ I say, showing him the leaves I’m rinsing in the sink.

  He nods appreciatively.

  ‘Slow day?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s always slow until they come,’ he says. ‘And then I won’t have time for lunch.’

  ‘And I won’t have time to make lunch,’ I say.

  Our summer days skip along so quickly, however, that it barely registers with either of us, and in September we will find ourselves at Club Soda wondering where the season went. The routine is comfortable, as is the sight of Steve chewing his tuna sandwich and taking alternate spoonfuls of chowder. I have managed to find some diet soda for him. I drink seltzer, and we don’t talk again until we have only crumbs on our plates. I pick them up and put them in the sink, throwing out the Styrofoam containers slick with remnants of chowder.

  Steve has gone into the living room and is standing in front of the bay window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass.

  ‘It’s started raining,’ I say flatly, handing him another soda.

  He takes it and turns to me, a frown on his face. ‘Nicole, there’s something I’ve got to ask you.’

  I feel as if he’s hit me in the chest. I wait.

  ‘I mean, don’t take it the wrong way or anything, but I realized it yesterday when I went over to get that TV.’

  I let out a little breath, like you do when you’re swimming underwater for a long time and you want to make sure you’ve got enough air until you can reach the surface.

  ‘Do you ever go to the mainland?’

  My lungs can’t take it anymore, and I exhale. I shake my head. ‘No, no, I guess I don’t.’

  ‘Have you ever gone? I mean, since you’ve been here?’

  He has never asked me anything like this before, and I know he believes he can trust me to tell him the truth. I give him what I can.

  ‘No.’

  Steve’s face scrunches up as he registers this. ‘Why not?’

  I shrug. ‘I guess I just don’t feel I need to.’

  ‘Is it because you don’t have a car? You can’t get around over there? I can take you, you know.’

  I think about what it would be like, taking that ferry back across the water. I know if I do that, I will never return. So I shake my head again. ‘I don’t need to go, but thanks for offering.’ I try to make my voice light, like my behavior isn’t odd. But I know it is, and I know he sees it like that. I begin to wonder if anyone else has noticed I never leave, then dismiss that thought. Steve is the only person who sees me regularly and would notice. I am surprised it’s taken him this long to figure this out, but I chalk it up to the fact that even though we’re friends and we do see each other frequently, I still maintain a distance.

  Steve is understandably confused; it’s all over his face. But to his credit, he doesn’t press it. ‘How about a game of Scrabble?’ he suggests, and I rummage through my closet and set up the board on the kitchen table.

  The rain continues for the rest of the afternoon. Steve wins two games, I win one, and he reluctantly bids farewell and heads back home. I know he wanted me to invite him to stay for supper, too, but I tell him I have to call Jeanine. When he leaves, I do just that and make an apology: I am tired after getting up so early, hiking the Bluffs and then spending three hours with Steve. She offers to pick me up so I don’t have to take the bike out in the rain, but I beg off, repeating my excuses. I am not in the mood to see anyone else today. I have gotten used to my own company and enjoy the solitude.

  I watch the gray clouds shifting back and forth. Flashes of lightning appear, followed by claps of thunder. I revive the fire and soon the house is cozier, the light from the sky reflecting through the window onto the flickering flames in the stove. I forget about supper and instead have a cup of tea and microwave a bag of popcorn. I doze a little on the sofa under an afghan I bought in the shop next to Veronica’s gallery.

  I think about Steve’s question when I wake up in the dark, go into the bedroom, put on my pajamas and crawl into bed. I stare at the ceiling, for a fleeting moment wondering what it would be like, stepping onto land that is not an island for the first time in years. Would it be as if I’ve been on a boat and I’d have to find my land legs? Would I stumble, dizzy and uncertain about where to turn? The comfort of the island, knowing all its roads, its paths, its secrets, its boundaries, would be ripped away, leaving me exposed. I’m not ready to take that wall down, but I cannot ignore the feeling in my gut that something is about to change.

  FOUR

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nbsp; In the days when I wasn’t Nicole and the sun was high and the sky was its clearest blue, I slathered baby oil on my skin and baked on a multicolored blanket on sand as soft as a featherbed. But today, a day just like that, I put on bike shorts and a T-shirt, cover my head with a helmet, fit my socks over my calves and tie my sneakers tight. The coconut scent of the sunscreen I use mixes with the honeysuckles and roses I pass as I fly along the country roads. It’s hard to believe that the island is only seven miles long and three miles wide when with each turn I see another long line of stonewalls, another pond, another lighthouse. Even though I believe I know each landmark, every inch of this island, I can still see things that are new. As I make one more turn, I see what it is today: the shad is in bloom, the delicate white flowers dancing across their branches. I stop to admire it, allowing me to catch my breath and take a drink of water from my bottle.

  Another biker is approaching, and I raise my free hand in a greeting. I expect him to continue past but he slows down, comes to a stop next to me. Under the helmet, I recognize the man at the spa yesterday. I offer a tight smile.

  ‘Fancy meeting you here,’ I say.

  His grin is broad, reaching across his face and into his eyes. ‘Love this island off-season,’ he says enthusiastically, and his tone is infectious. I feel my smile relax a little for a second before I reel it back in.

  ‘This is the best time to come,’ I say in my best tour guide voice. ‘May and September. The shops and restaurants are open, but the tourists haven’t arrived yet.’

  He cocks his head at me and studies my face for a second. ‘Are you heading anywhere in particular?’

  ‘I’m going up to North Light. Have you been there?’

  ‘I’ve only seen it in a picture. Lead the way,’ he says.

  ‘You don’t mind a woman taking the lead?’ The flirtation is an instinct that comes back without warning, startling me.

  His eyes twinkle. They are a deep chocolate, with laugh lines dancing around them. ‘I prefer it,’ he says softly, and I find myself staring at his lips. He notices, and his tongue flicks out for a second as he licks them.