The screen displays a delicately hand-drawn tree. An oval portrait of Dawn central on the trunk. Branches stretching out above her, interwoven. Each featuring its own, smaller portrait. On the closest two branches are her mother and father. Dawn taps beneath her mother. The screen changes.
“All of this is my mom’s side. I’ve traced my ancestry through her back as far as 1643.” She scrubs her finger across the screen. Flips through the pages for Agent Ladd’s benefit. Newspaper articles. Letters. Old photos. Birth certificates.
“But here’s my dad’s side. My Island side...” Lesguettes is written in fancy calligraphy, but the space around it is mostly blank. Unused branches. Empty spaces. Uncertain notes and question marks. “I want to finish it, but my dad’s no help at all. He doesn’t even know his own grandparents’ full names.”
Agent Ladd is horrified by this shameful admission.
Ren simply shrugs. “They were only ever Gram and Grandpa to me.” The women shake their heads. Do their best to ignore him.
“For all I know, we’re related.” A thought occurs to Dawn. “We’re not-- Are we related?”
Agent Ladd softens a little. “Not so far as I’m aware, Miss Lesguettes.”
Despite it not occurring to her until that moment, Dawn is a little disappointed. Still, she soldiers on. “There’s always been something inside me I couldn’t account for. It made me different than other kids. Like, a kind of a strength that was always there, but I’ve never known where it comes from. That’s why I’m here. To find out if this is where I belong.”
She jumps as the Jeep revs its engine in the next lane. Barely waiting for the security arm to rise before lurching forward. Roaring beneath it. Up the ramp. Onto the ferry. Leaving theirs the only remaining vehicle. They were definitely being left behind.
“You’re cleared.”
Dawn blinks. Looks up at Agent Ladd. “We... What?”
“Good luck finding your family. And trust me, Miss Lesguettes. You’re going to fit in just fine.” Without further ado, she slides shut her window.
The security arm lifts. Their path to the ferry is suddenly cleared of obstacles.
Ren shakes his head. “Clearly we should have mentioned your interest in genealogy sooner.”
Dawn buckles herself back in. “Don’t waste time, Dad! Just go!”
Ren puts the SUV in gear. Drives forward. Up the ramp. Onto the ferry and into the last spot, just behind the green Jeep. Around them, the cars are mostly emptied. Their fellow passengers relocated to an upper deck where they can best enjoy the ride.
The crew readies for departure from dock. Lifting the gate. Locking it in place. Closing the vehicles off from the mainland. Preparing for the trip across the channel.
Ahead, cement pilings reach up from the waves. Ready to bear their heavy load, should bridge construction ever resume. They form a dotted line, pointing the way across the water.
Toward the Island.
CHAPTER THREE
Aaron lays on top of his covers. Arms crossed. Watching a bar of light crawl down his wall as the sun rises outside.
The black-out curtains are not quite as wide as his window. However he pins them down, morning light always sneaks in. Usually he’s too tired for it to make any difference. Today, he makes bets with himself: The light will touch the edge of the poster at 6:33. It didn’t. It won’t pass the crack in the wall before 7:14. It had. It will hit the speaker by 9:00. This remains to be seen.
If he’s gotten any sleep at all, it was so thin and restless as to do him more damage than good. The only reason he’s still in bed at all is he doesn’t want to run into--
The front door slams.
Aaron rolls off his bed. Pulls the curtain back from his window just enough to peek out.
Below, his mother slowly descends the four front steps. Clutching the railing for support. In heels. Not tall ones - probably less than an inch - but as she so rarely wears them outside of weddings and funerals, even that small height difference turns every step into a treacherous tightrope walk.
Sylvie is clearly uncomfortable. Unaccustomed to business attire: Heels instead of work boots. Hair down instead of ponytail. Houndstooth tweed skirt and blazer instead of denim and plaid. Before reaching the driveway she rearranges her outfit no less than six more times. Pulling. Hitching. Tucking. Stretching. None of these adjustments bring her any measure of comfort. Loosening one area of the stiff and itchy ensemble only serves to tighten another.
Her oversized black truck - dented and muddy with a broken brake light disguised by red duct tape - is much more in keeping with the woman. She climbs in. Starts it. Then, after a moment of warming up, rolls out into the narrow street and drives away.
Only when it has disappeared around the corner does Aaron relax. With his mother gone, he is free once more to move around the house without fear of confrontation.
Before he leaves his room, he notices the time: 9:00 on the nose. The bar of light has moved halfway down his wall. Still nowhere near hitting the speaker.
Aaron picks it up. Lifts it into the beam of light. Claims at least that one small victory over the universe.
~
The long breadknife saws. Separates three sandwiches into precise and unsquished quarters. Slides each off the cutting board into its own plastic container. Labeled long ago. Careful block letters in fading permanent marker:
AARON. MOM. DAD.
Trevor clamps the lids tight. Steps back.
Every hair in place. Jawline still pink from shaving. Protecting his freshly pressed black suit with an apron decorated in puffy fabric paint swirls - a faint echo from those halcyon days when Aaron would still deign to do crafts with his father in the afternoons.
Trevor opens the refrigerator with one foot. Deposits the first two containers neatly in their reserved space - labels out. He grabs the third as the fridge closes. Drops it into his briefcase in the same motion. Economical movements honed over decades of identical mornings. A study in efficiency.
He’s opening the dishwasher when Aaron plods into the kitchen. Getting in the way. Interrupting his flow. He doesn’t mind.
“My son! My son! What an unexpected early-morning delight.”
Aaron waves half-heartedly. Pulls a marshmallow-laden cereal from the cupboard. Fills a bowl better suited to serving salad.
Trevor returns to his routine. On a slower setting. Moves cutting board and implements into the dishwasher. Turns it on. “Not that I’m unhappy to see you, but aren’t you working nights? You sure you should be up right now?”
“If I could sleep, I’d be sleeping. Believe me.” Aaron grabs milk from the fridge. Sniffs it once before pouring.
“Well, try to catch some Zs when you can. You don’t want to nod off on the job.”
Aaron snorts as he finishes the milk. “Yeah. I wouldn’t want to give them a reason to think less of me...”
His father sees the bait dangling, but refuses to bite. Instead, grabs a dishcloth. Wipes down the countertop. “Don’t forget: You’re taking Grampy to see Grams today. You want me to call? Remind you?”
“I got it.” Aaron slides open the silverware drawer. Puts his hand on a spoon but doesn’t lift it. “How’d Mom seem? Before she left?”
“Oh... You know your mother.” Trevor rinses and wrings out the dishcloth. Surveys the kitchen for anything forgotten or out of place. “Mornings aren’t her sunniest time.”
“Yeah.” Aaron takes the spoon. Shuts the drawer. “It’s just that... Last night--”
“DON’T!”
Aaron flinches. Drops the spoon with a clatter. Turns to see his father approaching. Eyes flashing. “Don’t. You. Dare...”
Bewildered, Aaron backs away. He’s never seen his father behave like this. Mom yes, but Dad? He doesn’t know what to expect. “I didn’t--”
“You don’t talk to me about this. Not now. Not ever. For Christ’s sake, Aaron. You’ve made a commitment. A vow. Don’t you get what that means?”
; “But, Dad... After all this time with Mom... You must know what she--”
“Doesn’t matter what I know. Not to you. You treat me like anyone else outside the Circle. Meaning: You keep your lip zipped. Circle business stays inside the Circle. I’m outside. Always.”
He lifts the apron over his head without mussing a hair. Hangs it on its hook. “This is it. The first. Last. And only time this will be mentioned. Do you understand me?”
Aaron nods.
“Got a problem? Take it to your mom. Or figure it out yourself. I cannot help you. I won’t.” He closes his briefcase. Snaps its clasps shut. Taking a deep breath, he once again becomes the smiling dad Aaron knows.
“Have a great day, Wonder-Kid.” He pulls his son into a tight one-armed hug, then heads for the back door, briefcase in hand. There, he pauses. Looks back expectantly before repeating, in a slightly-strained tone: “Have a great day, Wonder-Kid...”
Aaron realizes he’s breaking routine. “Oh! Uh... You too, Wonder-Dad.”
Trevor smiles. Nods. “And get some rest.”
The door closes behind him. And he’s gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
The sheets couldn’t be more tangled without someone purposely tying them into knots. They’re scattered. Covering as much floor as bed. Wrapped around one bedpost. Snarled around Wanda’s calf.
Beyond that, she’s entirely uncovered. Bare ass in the air. Sprawled across the bed, starfish-style. Taking up as much surface area as possible. Her mouth hangs open. Snoring unreservedly.
A pair of shapely legs enter the bedroom. Step up onto the mattress. Brace themselves on either side of Wanda’s prone body. If she notices, she’s extremely adept at playing dead.
One leg rears back. Kicks her. Square in the crotch.
“AUGH!” Dead no longer, Wanda coils into a fetal sphere. “What the hell, Netty?”
Netty steps down. Shrugs. “Four times I’ve shaken you. Four’s enough.” She finishes buttoning a stiff beige shirt over baby blue bra and panties. “You need to hibernate? Go find some other cave.”
Despite the kick reverberating through her system, Wanda can’t help but watch appreciatively as Netty steps into a sharply-pressed pair of ugly brown slacks and pulls them up over the buoyant curve of her bum.
Wanda reaches for that bum. Only to have her hand slapped away. Playful, but hard enough to smart. She rubs the sore spot as Netty exits the bedroom, tucking in her shirt.
A thin chime comes from somewhere nearby. Muffled.
Wanda leans over the edge of the bed. Yanks sheets aside. Finding her jeans on the floor, she fishes the phone from her pocket. Checks it. Incoming call from...
The Old Men.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She dismisses the call. It’s not the first. Overnight she’s missed three others from the same source. She can’t put them off forever. If she doesn’t respond, they will soon send someone to find her. Ugh. She flops back onto the bed. Spent already, before even starting the day.
“Come on, Wanda. I gotta get going.” Netty re-enters, brushing her hair. Checking all the angles in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door.
“Right. Right.” Wanda rolls upright on the edge of the bed. Regrets it. Groaning, she holds her head in her hands. Equilibrium entirely lost. “Just... Try for the minimum of mercy. We aren’t all blessed with your constitution. Some of us suffer, the morning after.”
“Suffer all you want.” She scoops up Wanda’s shirt and underwear. Piles them on her lap. “Just do it elsewhere.”
“Surely you can spare me a moment to make use of your facilities?”
Netty squints at her. “Make it high-speed. And no showering.”
“Your compassion is matched only by your grace, Antoinette.”
“Go!”
Wanda goes.
~
Wanda dumps her clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor. Digs through the pockets of her jacket. Finds it: The little nailpolish bottle.
She unscrews the lid. If she must go see the Old Men, she’s for damn sure going to do so fortified. The bottle’s a little under half-full, but it’s more than enough to do the trick.
She braces a foot against the fuzzy toilet lid cover for better access. Looks for unspoilt skin on her inner thigh. The little pink rectangles spreading away from her groin like a geometric STD. To even things out, she switches legs. Finds slightly more territory left unsullied.
She primes the little brush with goo. Leans over. Before she can paint the stuff onto herself, the bathroom door swings open. Thunks hard against the side of the bathtub.
Surprised, Wanda drops both bottle and brush. The bottle smashes against the tile. Shatters. Spilt goo hisses, then quiets. Neutralizing almost on contact.
Crestfallen, Wanda stares at the squandered treasure. Wasted. Gone.
“Seriously?” Not Netty in the doorway. Her teenage son. Max. Hand on the knob. Disgusted. “MA!”
Wanda sighs. Lowers her foot from the toilet lid. Bends to grab her panties from the pile of clothes. Steps into them.
“Max? Did you break some--” Netty is still in the process of buckling her gunbelt. In full uniform, she presents a very different impression.
“I confess, Sheriff Hubert. It was me.” Wanda finishes hooking her bra together.
“Get back to your room, Max.”
Max departs. His mother’s tone is absolutely not to be questioned.
Wanda wraps toilet paper around her hand. Kneels down to clean up her mess.
“You’re using again.”
“Again... Still... Never stopped. Not really.” She sweeps the broken shards into a pile. Little pits have burnt into the ceramic wherever spatters of goo reached, but the stuff itself has evaporated.
“In my house. In front of my son.”
“Not intentionally.” She deposits the wad of toilet paper in a tiny trash can. Rewraps her hand. Goes back for whatever remains.
“Then that’s it, then.”
“I know.” Wanda stands. Drops the rest into the trash. “Sorry about your floor.”
“Anything I need to do in here? To make it safe?”
“Naw. It’s gone. Burns off completely.” She pulls on her pants. Shirt. Grabs her jacket. “Nothing to worry about.”
Netty scoffs. “Oh, yeah. Nothing to worry about at all.”
Wanda tries to squeeze past. Netty stops her. One hand on her chest. She knows she’s used up her second chance. Isn’t expecting anything, exactly, but can’t help but hold on to a glimmer of hope.
Only to have it dashed:
“I can’t have any evidence left here.” Netty’s voice is ice. “Take the trash bag with you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Miss? Are you okay?”
Dawn holds tightly to the rail. Knuckles actually white. She looks over her shoulder at a man’s concerned face. At his uniform. One of the ferry’s many security guards.
“Oh. Yeah.” She smiles brightly. “Just excited. First time across the channel.”
He nods, examining her closely. “All right. Enjoy your trip.”
“Thanks!” She doesn’t wait for him to depart. Turns back to the water. Breathes deeply. Tries to think non-nauseous thoughts. To focus ahead. On the island - now in view in the distance.
Straight. Secure. Not rocking at all. Unmoved by choppy waters. She’s heard that concentrating on something stable - if not quite a cure - is at least a way to lessen the impact of sea-sickness. Thus far, she has not found it especially effective.
Her fellow passengers mill around the upper deck on perfectly adjusted sea legs. Enjoying the ride. The fresh sea air. Waiting their turn at the concession stand for lawsuit-temperature hot chocolate in styrofoam cups.
Meanwhile, her father paces.
“Of course not. Evie. I’m not blaming you.” One ear plugged with two fingers. Speaking too-loudly into his phone. “Why would I-- I trust you. Why would I double-check? You said the paperwork was all there. Dawn said it
was all there. I assumed that meant--”
He looks to Dawn. Tries to make eye-contact. Hoping to share a “Moms-is-sho-crazy” look. She won’t be pulled in. Zero interest in being Dad’s co-conspirator and mostly trying to focus on not-barfing.
It hadn’t set in immediately. She was fine until they’d come in sight of the island itself, and even then it was just a slight twinge at the back of her neck. But now? Her entire head throbs with each heartbeat. Far from getting used to the movement of the water, things have only gotten worse as the ferry crosses the channel.
She turns her face into the wind. Hair flapping wildly, now. Is the boat picking up speed? Her stomach turns a little at the thought.
“One does become accustomed to it... Eventually.”
Dawn looks up. Surprised to find herself surrounded. By nuns.
They range in age, but the one addressing her is easily the eldest. By decades. Her kindly face weathered and worn, no doubt, by years of worrying after her younger sisters.
In spite of her condition, Dawn attempts a friendly smile. “Turns out I’m not really a water person.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that, dear. Water’s where we’re all from, if you care to look back far enough.” Dawn blinks at the strange insight. She’s no expert, but pretty sure that’s not in keeping with standard church teachings.
“Are you Islanders?”
“We are. Though for many of our sisters it’s an adopted home. Our mission leads us all towards a shared destination.”
Dawn nods. “I have family there. But I’m a... Is ‘Mainlander’ the word?”
The nuns laugh. “I’m afraid not. If you aren’t island-born, we say you’re: From Away.”
“Huh. From Away...” She’s not sure she likes that. “That’s... Vaguely sinister, actually.”
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK ONE Page 3