by Karen Rivers
I don’t know why I’m remembering this. I don’t know if I’m remembering this right. Probably not.
Or maybe I am.
Suddenly, I’m dizzy. I can’t faint in the woods. No one would ever find me and probably a cougar would eat me, so I stop walking and flop down by the trail on a soft patch of moss, in the shade of a huge cedar. I must be getting lower now because the trees are evergreens and ancient. I break off some moss and press the damp roots against my forehead. I don’t know why, but ever since I was a kid, when I used to faint, Mom would put a cool cloth on my head and it was like magic, it fixed me. The ground is still damp and a bit muddy from the rain we had last week and the wind is coming up, but I don’t really notice that, because I feel like the memory is pushing on me. Crowding me out of myself. I’m remembering something I don’t want to remember, I really, really don’t want to remember it, I can’t not remember it, and the dogs are sniffing around my ears and my face like they can figure out what I’m thinking and fix it, that’s how it feels, like the dogs always want to fix things and Zeus sits back on his haunches and howls, a full-on howl, which makes me think of sirens, the way the sirens filled the air and drowned out all the other sounds that day while I stared down from the forty-second floor.
So screw me.
I don’t know what happened. The King disappeared into the bushes with the man and then came out again, pocketing something.
Money.
He was pocketing money.
He came out of the bushes, pocketing money, and then he ran.
He ran in the opposite direction from where we were meant to meet. He ran like an athlete, not like how he usually ran, he ran so fast and like a freaking Olympic athlete, that I thought maybe it wasn’t him after all, knees high, stride long, like there was something he could never run fast enough to get away from.
The man came out right after that. Coughed a few times, in that way people do when they’re self-conscious.
I mean, I’m not a total idiot. I know what happened. I know what they did.
I knew it then, too.
I just pretended I didn’t.
If I had my phone right now, I’d text Daff. I’d say, Did you know? And then she’d say, Know what? And I’d say, About the men in the park. And she’d say, Yeah, I knew. And I’d say, Why didn’t you tell me? And she’d say, Because you knew, too. And then I’d say, Je suis désolé. And she’d say, It sounds better in French, and then I’d run, I’d puke, I’d run, I’d flip backward off buildings, it would be the ultimate parkour, which maybe, after all, is what he meant for the forty-second floor to be.
And then I’m crying and the dumb dogs are slurping up my tears maybe because they are thirsty or maybe because they aren’t so dumb and they are fixing that, too, or maybe I am making them, the way I’m holding on to them too tight and they squirm away from me and sit back on their haunches, staring, like, What? Dude, enough, let’s walk.
It takes me a long time to start walking again, and the trees are dipping their tops into the darkness like paintbrushes and then swooping the dark low and long in shadows across the trail. I finally come out at a beach but I’m facing the wrong way. I mean, it takes me a while to figure it out, but what I’m looking at isn’t Vancouver. I’m on the wrong side. I’m literally miles away from where I am meant to be.
“Crap,” I say out loud, and my voice sounds like it’s interrupting a conversation the trees were having. I sit down in a little clearing and try to think, how or what or when or where and then I see that what I’m sitting on is a thing, a structure.
It’s a grave.
Well, yeah. Of course. I mean, of course. Why not?
People die, you know. People die everywhere. Even on abandoned islands where no one lives, the dead are everywhere.
That’s normal.
That’s just how it is.
32
The graves have mostly crumbled open and the markers are crooked and some are missing. I look inside one of the collapsed graves. I see bones. I don’t want to touch the bones because that seems wrong, but it’s like my hand won’t stop itself from reaching out, from touching the smooth but dirty round dome of the skull, from resting on the crumbled ribs.
It’s a pretty small skeleton. A kid. Or a really small guy, the size of The King. A pile of bones that used to be someone.
I sit back on my haunches and watch the sunset making lazy oranges and yellows spill low across the sky. The water on this side is different, even the beach is different: crushed white shells instead of pebbles. The ground by the beach is a low grassy field instead of stone. It’s like being in a different place, at a different time.
I’m cold, from the graveyard or my own cooling sweat. I wish I could light a fire on the beach. The dogs are confused, nervous. “It’s okay,” I tell them. “It’s going to be fine.”
The night sky is now full of stars. Because of Kelby, I can identify the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and Cassiopeia. Kelby’s on her side of the island, and I’m on mine. I guess she’s gone back to her cabin, off the rock. I guess she’s safe and warm and probably laughing with Charlie or talking to her mom or playing Monopoly or maybe she’s at my cabin, maybe she’s wondering where I am. For some reason, I think she’s in my room. On my bed. I think she’s reading my e-mails. I think she knows about Daff, or she’s finding out, and her eyes are widening as she realizes that I’m in love with someone who isn’t her, and she knows why I haven’t kissed her yet. She must wonder why I haven’t kissed her yet. She wants me to kiss her.
Doesn’t she?
I wonder if they’re worried. I wonder if Dad is freaking out. I wonder if he’s thinking about cougars and death.
Eventually, I take my wet towel out of my bag and use it as a blanket. I go to sleep on the white, crunchy shell-sand, above the high-tide line, the dogs pressed against my sides, keeping me warm.
Watching over me.
Protecting me from everything that might come out at night.
33
Dad’s furious.
“I thought you’d been killed, you idiot. Or that you’d fallen. Do you know how long we looked for you? Do you even care? We even called the RCMP. They were going to come and launch a search party. Do you get that? The dogs wouldn’t even come when I called. Don’t you think I thought the worst? That you’d done some risky climb and tried to flip or whatever you do at the top and missed or … worse. Worse. I thought maybe you’d—I don’t know. Damn it, kid. I am so mad. I am so, so mad. I know you don’t think of me much as a dad, but I am a dad and I didn’t deserve that. God, but I am glad you are okay.”
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Sorry. I was … I got turned around. Then it was dark. And, you know, I know there are cliffs and I didn’t want to … anyway, sorry. I just went the wrong way.”
He lurches at me. I think he’s going to hit me, so I bring my arms up. “Hey,” he says. “Hey,” and then he’s hugging me. For a second, I feel like burying my face in his shoulder, but then I push him away. I mean, really, too little too late.
“Settle down,” I whisper. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t ever do that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry.”
Then I think about that srry on my phone.
Anyway, I don’t know why I can’t
Sorry is never
“So,” I say. “Dad? I’m kind of hungry. Do we have any of those chips?”
He looks at me, frowning. Then he smiles. Then he starts laughing.
Laughter is so weird if you think about it, the way your face scrunches up in spite of what you’re feeling, the way your body undulates with the waves of sound that come out of you, even when nothing is funny, and tears pour down your cheeks.
34
Here is a thing that happens:
You are sitting on the bench on the point.
The moon is rising over the strait.
The moon is full and kind of red.
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Kelby says, “Pumpkin moon. Means someone will be murdered.”
You say, “Does not.”
She says, “Does too.”
You say, “Well, there are only five of us on this whole island, so who is it going to be?”
She says, “Hmm, none of us seems disposable.”
You say, “Exactly.”
She says, “This is so pretty.”
You say, “You are.”
She says, “What?”
You say, “You’re pretty.”
She smiles at you. Behind her, the moon illuminates a long strip of calm water. A ribbon of moonlight on the road, you think. So you say, “‘The highwayman came riding—riding—riding … up to the old inn-door.’”
And she says, “I love that poem.”
And you lean forward, just slightly, and then you are kissing her and the moon is still behind her but your eyes are closed and she is kissing you back and your hand is on her bare shoulder that has held on to the heat from the afternoon and your hand slides down and she is touching your leg and everything is exactly as it should be and this could go on forever and forever and
“Gross!” yells Charlie, from behind you. “I could see your spitty tongue, Kelby.”
And, scene.
35
I wake up in the morning and feel guilty and like I’m in love and like I have to avoid her and like I can’t wait to see her and like I should write to Daff and like I shouldn’t ever contact Daff again and I’m grinning like an idiot.
So yeah, normal.
Ish.
Then I feel guilty. Lather, rinse, repeat.
“Good night?” says Dad. Then he continues without waiting for an answer. “Wanna dive the center today?”
“Huh?” I say.
“Of the strait,” he says. “For something different. I know you guys are getting bored with the reef. Maybe it could be fun.”
“Dad,” I say. “The reef is never boring.” And this is the truest thing I’ve ever said. I mean, it’s not the Great Barrier Reef, but it’s something.
“It’ll be an adventure,” he says. “Hey, maybe something will happen and I can write about it, because I’ve gotta admit, this book is sagging in the middle.”
“Right,” I say. “Okay. Adventure.”
But what I’m thinking is Kelby, Kelby, Kelby.
Which isn’t good.
The thing with girls is that you shouldn’t let them get to you. You shouldn’t let them get in. Because next thing you know, they’re under your skin, like scabies. An itch you can’t scratch.
Not that Kelby is scabies.
Not that Daff is scabies.
Nah, girls aren’t scabies. Girls are—
Dad interrupts. “Let’s move it, son, while the water is calm as a baby’s butt.”
“Okay, okay,” I say. I dump my dish in the sink and grab my stuff from the hook. “Ready, old man?” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I’m coming.” He gathers up his camera and his gear and food and drinks and, weighed down, we make our way to the boat in the bay.
Kelby always goes first, sits on the edge of the boat, waiting for the right moment. The problem is that she won’t make eye contact. The whole way out here, her eyes drifted off me, like they couldn’t stick if they tried. Her hands tap out songs on her leg.
I think she mouths something to me right before she puts her mouthpiece back in and disappears, but I don’t catch it. I feel a shiver of something that might be dread but I can’t figure out what’s wrong. Charlie is eagerly snapping photos with Dad’s camera, like our own personal National Geographic paparazzi. Darcy is at the wheel. Kelby drops into the sea.
Then it’s my turn.
The water this deep is a different color, more blue-gray than green, or maybe that’s because it’s cloudy out today, the sun veiled with the haze of coming rain. Without the reef there to show where we are, it’s super disorienting, like we’re diving into outer space. There are no edges. It takes me a few minutes to adjust to the openness, to find Kelby, to follow her flippers as she descends into the darkness.
It does look dark.
It’s not really so very deep, so it seems wrong how fast the light filters away.
How soon we’re in the dusky low light of deep water.
Anxiety prickles at my neck. The dives we did before were so shallow you could see the seafloor from the boat when the water was clear. This is something altogether different. This feels too real. It feels bigger than me. Like how kissing Kelby felt. Like I was letting go of something or falling into something that could eat me alive.
I try to keep my breathing calm and under control, but it’s hard not to take fast breaths. I start thinking about this guy I heard about on a podcast who was cave diving somewhere in Southeast Asia. It was so dark you couldn’t see where you were or where you were going, and I guess he got tangled in the safety rope at the bottom and died, and then this other guy went in to get the body, and he died, too. I’m not telling the story well because trust me when I say it was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever heard.
I shouldn’t be thinking about stuff that’s scary, I should be thinking how lucky I am, how this is beautiful, but all I can see are Kelby’s green flippers and the water is murky, which I know is silt from the river across the strait, but it’s disconcerting and ugly.
I want it to be over.
It takes ages to get to the bottom. I don’t know how deep we are, but the surface looks a lifetime away. I check my tanks because I feel like I’ve already used all my air. I’m light-headed. The gauge says I’m fine, but I don’t feel fine. I point up and Kelby shakes her head no, we just got here. She looks puzzled. I shrug, point at my gauge. She swims over and looks and makes a gesture of, What? It’s fine! I slow my breathing. Nod.
Okay. Fine.
There is much less to see here than at the reef. The seafloor is flatter than I would have expected, littered with rocks and a few waterlogged logs and some low-lying gray-looking grassy weed. We are too far away from the light. I point up again. I don’t like the way the ocean feels open behind me and in front. I don’t like the way I can’t see an edge.
She looks around, makes a gesture I don’t understand. Then she starts to rise, following her bubbles. I wait until she is a few feet above me, and then I start to follow.
Which is when I see it.
I’m sure I see it.
Look, this will sound
I know what I saw
I know what I see
It might be hard to
About twenty feet away, moving fast through the water is a white.
A great white.
It’s the biggest shark I’ve ever seen.
I can’t reach Kelby’s foot to get her attention. My brain unravels. Everything I love about sharks dissolves into a montage from Jaws.
Suddenly, he’s so close I could touch him. He’s curious, I tell myself. Not hungry. Not on the attack. But I stop breathing. I swallow wrong. My throat closes and I’m choking. How has she not looked back? How can she not see this? Some buddy.
The shark flicks his tail in slow-motion—the water he moves pushes against my face—and he disappears into the shadows to my left.
I know she didn’t see it. She’s so far away. She didn’t wait.
When I get to the surface, she’s already on the boat. My heart is practically pounding out of my chest.
“… sort of boring,” she is saying. “Not much down there. Not like I imagined—oh, there you are. What happened to you? You’re supposed to stay close.” She sounds mad.
“There was a…,” I say. “Sorry? I—” I’m gulping air like a thirsty guy in a desert. “Sorry, I’m—”
“What’s with you?” she says. “You know you can’t swim off and do your own thing.”
“There was a shark,” I whisper. It comes out thin and unsubstantial. A ghost of what I wanted to say.
“Whatever,” she says. She mumbles under her breath,
“Douchebag.”
“What?” I say. “Seriously. There was a shark.”
“Maybe we should not talk,” she says. “Sharkboy.” Her voice is heavy with sarcasm and I realize she’s never called me that before.
“There was a freaking huge shark,” I say.
“I’m sure,” she says. “That only you could see. Was there also a unicorn?”
“Are you guys fighting?” says Charlie. “Are you mad?”
“No,” I say, at the same time as she is saying, “Yes.”
No one talks on the way in, like my muteness is contagious. Like I’ve sucked all the joy out of these people and this place.
The waves are coming up and the boat hits the chop hard and we wouldn’t be able to hear each other anyway. It starts to rain, gently at first and then harder and then it’s a downpour.
I can’t stop thinking about the shark. It was there. I know it was.
Wasn’t it?
The shape of it in the water, like a shadow, but present. Solid. Real. The way the weight of the water was pushed toward me when he left, a force of nature. But did it, after all, seem as real as the whales? The whales made sounds, clicking and whistling. Sharks are silent. Was that the difference? Or was the shark only an idea I wanted to see? Like Kelby’s ghosts. So am I crazy? Did I make it up? Was it really there? Does it matter if we see a thing or if we just think we see a thing? And what’s the difference?
Dad wouldn’t believe me. Charlie would probably be scared. Darcy would … I don’t know. Pray? And Kelby? Well, she thinks I’m lying. And now, apparently, we’re fighting and I haven’t even got the first idea why.
There are so rarely whites in these waters. It hardly ever happens.
It probably didn’t happen at all.
But when I get back to the cabin, I climb up to my bed and I pick up my broken phone and plug it in. When I slide my hand over the screen, the edges of the glass are sharp against my fingers. I text Daff, I saw a great white shark. The sentence feels flimsy to me. Surreal. I can’t think of what I can add or take away to give it the weight that it needs. An exclamation mark? A paragraph of description?