Locked

by Parker Witter

  “Noah?” I call. No response.

  I snuggle farther down under the covers and allow myself another minute of glee. I can’t help smiling. Despite everything, I feel happy. Really, truly happy. We were together last night, and we didn’t die, nothing happened. I can feel the island bend to us. It’s warming to me, I know it is. Because we are so right together. Nothing has ever felt this true before—I belong with him.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and wrap the blanket around me. I peek into the living room. He’s not there.

  I head through the kitchen and out onto the deck. The sun is up, and it’s warming the island. It’s becoming summer quickly. The air is hot and heavy. I slip the blanket off and let the sun shine down on me. It radiates from the outside in. It feels delicious. The sun is reflecting off the water—creating silver sparkles all the way out to the horizon. Everything is so beautiful, I think.

  And then I hear him behind me.

  I turn around and see him leaning against the doorway. His hair falls into his face, and I notice how much longer it’s gotten since we’ve been here. I wonder if I could track the days that way, the way some people do with the sun.

  He doesn’t move, just watches me, but I don’t feel like I need to cover up. He’s seen every part of me now. There is nothing to hide.

  “Good morning,” I say.

  I walk over and kiss him. I weave my fingers through his hair and then take his hands and place them on my sides. His fingers glide against my bare skin. In the next moment we’re pressed up against the side of the cottage. I feel last night between us like a magnetic charge—drawing us closer and closer.

  But something stops Noah. He unhooks me from him gently. He runs his hands down my arms and then crosses the deck and picks up my blanket. Instantly, I feel my body flush. And then he hands it to me. “We need to talk,” he says.

  “I know,” I say. “I’ve been thinking—last night, nothing happened.” I blush and shake my head. “I mean, there was no fire. No tidal wave. Think about it. We were together and the world didn’t end. Noah—”

  But he cuts me off. “August, you have to listen to me.” His tone is harsh. Set.

  “Let me guess—you’re the mayor of this place, too. Does that job come with a better house?” I smile, but it doesn’t catch on. It doesn’t change him. And I know now that what he has to tell me is serious.

  Something inside me comes crashing down. Like there was a beautiful chandelier in my chest—high, crystal, illuminated, brilliant, and it has become unhinged. It falls through my body, leaving shards of broken glass as it finally splatters. Please don’t take last night away, I silently pray. Whatever it is, please don’t say it was a mistake.

  I slip the blanket over my shoulders. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Noah sucks in his bottom lip. He paces on the porch. It’s hot out here, but now I want the blanket as close around me as I can get it.

  “I went out to get some water this morning,” he starts, “and Asku was there. He said the chief wanted to see me.”

  “But nothing happened,” I say again. I suddenly have the intense need to defend us. “No meteors hit. There was no lightning. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know,” Noah says. “It’s not that.” He stops moving and looks at me. I want, more than I ever have, to let him put his arms around me. To tell me that it’s all going to be okay. But whatever it is he has to say, he hasn’t, yet.

  “But that’s good, right?” I say. “That’s good. I mean, then you can choose. We can—”

  “August.”

  I take a step closer to him. The sun beats down, and I see him squint at me.

  “Whatever it is, it’s okay,” I say. “We can figure it out now.” I’m directly in front of him. “We can figure it out together.”

  “I found out something,” he says. “It’s good news. Really good news.” He looks up at me, and I see how liquid his eyes are—full. Like they’re about to spill over.

  I stand perfectly still. If it’s such good news, why does he look like it’s physically hurting him to get the words out?

  “Ed is alive,” he says. “Maggie, too. Everyone. They were rescued by the coast guard right after the crash.”

  My hands feel numb. A million emotions cascade through my body like a riptide—like they’re carrying me out to sea. Maggie is alive. Ed’s alive. They’re okay. I imagine their faces—smiling. Real. Relief covers my body like the sun.

  “They’re still in Seattle,” Noah continues. “They’re still looking for you.”

  “Us,” I say. “They’re looking for us.” Then: “Oh my God.”

  I blink and look at him. Noah was the one who believed they were okay. He was the one who kept insisting they were alive. And he was right. He had hope.

  “I know,” Noah says. “It’s amazing.”

  “No, Noah, listen to me.” I hike the blanket up. “If the chief knows this, there must be a way off this island. There must be something they’re not telling us.”

  Noah reaches forward. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to get you off here,” he says. “I’m going to get you back to them.”

  His words spear my chest. A steel rod through my heart. You. “I’m going to get you back.” Not us, you.

  “Noah,” I start, but he shakes his head.

  “I promise,” he says.

  I want to ask him a million questions. What did the chief say specifically? They’re alive, but were they hurt? But I get the sense now is not the time. So instead I say, “I know.” I reach my hand out slowly and touch his chest. I can feel his heart beating there—steadily and fiercely. I was so happy to be in this moment. So happy to be just with him. Thinking, maybe, we could stay this way forever. But now the moment has been punctured, and it’s spilling out. There is a future now, which means there is a past. Everything that happened before the crash. Ed. High school. Everything we were. Everything we wanted. What if we can get it all back now? What if the life we were heading toward before the crash is still the one that is meant for us?

  “I should go to the stream,” Noah says. “Catch something for today.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. And then he leans his head down—but his lips don’t meet mine. They land on my forehead. Light. Like a whisper. Like the last remaining notes of a song. “I’ll see you,” he says, and then he is gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  I know what I have to do. As soon as Noah leaves, I go back inside and get dressed. My feet have gotten used to the rocks here, but I put my shoes from the crash on today. I’ll need them for the climb.

  I take a clay jug from the kitchen and fill it with water. It’s heavy, and I debate leaving it, but I haven’t been up that far since the day we got here—and I don’t know how long it will take me, or how long I’ll need to stay.

  I start to walk. Up past the river where Noah is fishing. I don’t see him, but he could be anywhere. Hidden by the trees a bit downstream. And the water is too loud for me to call out, anyway. I think about him teaching me to fish here. About the night the roof caught on fire. It all seems so absurd, so unbelievable. An alternate reality that now is just that—alternate. Because Maggie and Ed are alive. They’re real. I look out to the horizon. How close are they? If the veil was lifted, would I be able to see them?

  And it’s this knowledge—their presence—that pushes me away from Noah, wherever he is, and makes me keep moving forward, upward.

  When Maggie and I were younger, we used to go camping. She hated it. She’s always been more girly than I am. She’d move into the mall if she could. Not that I’d blame her. Our house hasn’t exactly been the most welcoming place since Mom died.

  Right after the year that went, for me, like this: school, hospital, home—Dad took us camping. It was before Miss Opportunity, when it was only the three of us. We didn’t fit together, we all knew it, but there we were, in the woods for a weekend. At first Maggie wouldn’t come out of the tent. She h
adn’t even packed hiking boots. Dad was mad about that. He thought she had done it on purpose. She probably had.

  They got into a big fight. I remember Dad screaming at her. He said some things I can’t forget. Stuff about Mom and stress and health. Stuff about why Maggie never came to the hospital with me. Stuff that sounded like blame.

  He was angry, but that’s my dad—he’s never been able to be the bigger person. The father. He should have taken Maggie in his arms when Mom died. He should have told her he’d be there, that she’d get through this. But all he did was push us both away.

  Maggie was shaking. She doesn’t cry easily, she never has. Even when she was a baby, she’d screech and yell, but she wouldn’t bawl, not really. She’s stoic. But that day in the tent she was sobbing. She couldn’t catch her breath. My dad walked off. I have no idea where. And I told her to put on her shoes.

  “Just flip-flops,” she hiccupped out.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  We started off on a trail. We were at one of those reserves they have around Oregon. Where you can camp and take any number of hiking routes. They’re listed somewhere. Stroll. Easy. Challenging. Difficult. I don’t know what we picked. We just began walking.

  We didn’t talk, but soon her breathing calmed. Her shoulders stopped shaking. And then she grabbed my hand. Maggie isn’t very affectionate. Neither one of us is. It took a whole year before I let Ed kiss me in public. But that day Maggie and I walked up that entire mountain hand in hand.

  I didn’t tell her Dad was wrong, that it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Because those are just words. They don’t mean anything. It was just what happened. Mom got sick. She died. It wasn’t because Maggie sometimes fought with her. It wasn’t because Maggie didn’t have perfect grades in school. I didn’t say any of that, but I did promise her. I promised her through the way she squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. I promised her I’d be there for her. That I’d protect her. That I’d make sure to be her buffer—for Dad, for everything. I’m her big sister. That was my job.

  It’s still my job.

  I keep walking, and before I know it I’m at the clearing. It’s like I’ve been led there by some internal compass, the little string that is now tugging me back, forward. Home.

  I hadn’t thought about what I’d do once I got here. It’s empty, of course. There is no one here. No magical machine that’s going to transport me off this island. No red button. But that’s not really what I’m looking for after all.

  I sit down. I wait.

  I take a swig from the jug and then lean back on my hands. The sun shines through the trees, creating intricate lace patterns on the grass. I lie back. The damp ground is cool on my back, and in another moment, my eyes slip closed.

  When I wake up, it’s dark above me, and before I even open my eyes completely, I know he is here.

  I scramble to sit up. I’m not sure what to do, whether I should stand, what I should say. I thought when I got to this moment, I’d know.

  But he speaks first. “I’ve been wondering when you’d come.”

  The chief bends down and offers me his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up to stand. He’s taller than I remembered from our half-conscious beginning here and yet he’s wearing no headdress. It’s obvious who he is, though. His presence speaks for him. He seems to be a man of contradictions. He is wrinkled, yet his skin is smooth. It would be impossible to tell how old he is. He could be forty or a hundred and fifty. His eyes are jet black, yet kind. Even in their darkness they seem to have the essence of light. The feeling of welcome.

  “You speak English,” I say.

  “I do,” he says. “There are many things about my people I think you’d be surprised to learn.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful. You have been kind to me here. My friend Asku has taught me many things. You’ve given me shelter.…”

  He bows his head slightly. “You miss your family,” he says. “It is natural.”

  I nod. “Noah told me they’re safe. Thank you.”

  The chief begins walking and motions for me to follow. “You know, when I was a boy I wanted to leave. My grandfather used to tell me stories of the mainland. Stories of things I thought only magicians could do. Machines to make everything. Cities cluttered with buildings as tall as the sky.”

  We cross the clearing and head back into the woods. I have to take large strides to keep up, but the chief looks like he is strolling. He walks with calm confidence.

  “When I was ten years old, I tried to escape. I swam out to the rocks at the cove. I nearly drowned, but Noah’s grandfather rescued me. A few years later, his son followed. He made it.”

  “The Healer,” I say.

  The chief looks over at me, and his eyes seem to smile. “Yes. For years I harbored resentment of my onetime friend—that he had done what I could not. But I never tried to leave again.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  The chief doesn’t speak. The forest, with all its sounds—birds chirping, leaves crunching, wind whistling—seems to silence. “Because,” he says finally, “I realized my place. I realized my home.”

  I think about Noah’s words to me: “These are my people.”

  “And Noah?” I say.

  “We locked this island so long ago because we believed the natural rhythm was being disturbed. In your world, there is no peace, because there is no balance. You have abused nature, and yet you expect it to be your friend. Harmony in a people, in a culture, cannot exist without duty. Every role must be filled and, yes, this is his. He was called back to fulfill his destiny.”

  Called back. The plane crash. “You could have killed my sister,” I say. “You could have killed us all. Noah wasn’t the only one on that plane.”

  The forest clears, and we are standing at an overlook. The ocean sparkles and shines below us. The waves tumble and roll like schoolchildren at recess. Laughing. Playing. Free.

  “He was being called home,” he says simply. “I did not do the calling. That is for forces greater than I.”

  “But—” I begin, and the chief cuts me off.

  “You do not see what is,” he says. “Your sister and your friends are fine. Noah is here.”

  “So am I.”

  “You want to know how you can get home,” he says.

  It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes,” I say. “I know you know how.” My heart is hammering, beating so loud in my chest I’m afraid I won’t be able to hear his answer.

  “I do,” the chief says. “But I am not the one who can do it. It is not my role.”

  The acid is back. I feel my hands clench and release. “Yes, you can,” I say. “You found out about Maggie and Ed. You know how we can leave, and you’re not telling me because you want Noah to stay.”

  “Ah.” The chief gazes out over the water. He’s quiet for a moment, long enough for the anger I feel to rise and not fall. “The one thing I have never understood about your culture is how you separate love out. How you see it as being different from duty. Sacrifice is not the absence of love, August, but instead its vessel.”

  I stand perfectly still. “Love,” I say, but it’s to myself, too soft to hear.

  “It is you, August, who needs to make a choice.”

  “It’s not my decision,” I say. My voice is quiet. “I can’t tell Noah what to do. It’s his choice what role he wants to fill.”

  “And you?” The chief looks at me, and when I see his face, I take a step backward. He looks older, far older than he did in the clearing. It’s like all his years, every experience, every memory, is present on his face when he says, “What role will you fill?”

  Chapter Twelve

  The chief leaves me on the bluff. It’s not until he’s gone that I begin to understand what he means. What I have to do. What I will.

  I climb down the mountain easily. The sun is shining brightly, and by the time I get back to the cottage, the water jug is empty. Noah isn’t there. I s
lip off my shoes and head out the back way down the path to the ocean.

  I walk right in—feet, ankles, then knees—all the way up to my waist. The water is crisp and cool, and I dive under, letting the blast of cold dissolve into a sharp clarity. I come to the surface gasping, awake, alert. I think about the countless mornings begun with a cell phone alarm. That’s one thing I won’t miss. This way is better.

  I flip onto my back and shut my eyes against the intensity of the sun. I just wish there was a way for them to know I was okay. Some message I could get to them. But what would I say? If they knew I was alive they’d never stop looking.

  I open my eyes and begin to swim back to shore. No, they have to think there is no hope. That’s the only way. If we can’t leave, the chief will send them a message. I know he will.

  I get out and wring my hair. It’s getting long. I can knot it without any kind of tie. I walk up the path. I’m so lost in my thoughts—going over what I want to say to Noah, how I will phrase it, arranging and rearranging the words—that I almost miss him. He’s seated on the deck, looking down on me. I climb up.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He smiles. “Busy day?”

  I eye him, shrug. “I got hot. Did you catch anything?”

  He nods and cocks his head in the direction of the kitchen. “A bunch, actually. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

  “Me too.”

  I hoist myself over the railing and go to sit down next to him. The wood floorboards are warm, and they feel good on my damp skin. “I realized something this morning,” I say. “About you. About the position of Healer.”

  Noah doesn’t answer. He’s looking beyond me, down at the water. It’s like he’s seeing something else, lost in a different world. “I have something for you,” he says. He hands me a folded leaf that immediately opens when I take it. Inside is a tiny cowrie shell, with a hole in the top.

  “I saw you lost your bottle cap,” he says, his eyes on the shell. “I thought you could wear this.”