Searching for Sky

by Jillian Cantor

  “What did she mean, Helmut’s captive?” I ask. I can still hear the flock of them squawking behind the closed coming-in place. Captive. It sounds like “capture,” which makes me think of the rabbits and birds in our traps.

  “Oh, Megan, honey …” She sighs, but she doesn’t answer my question. She twirls the end of my braid with her fingers, almost like River always did, except it doesn’t feel the same from her, and I pull away, out of her reach. “We’ll need to get your hair taken care of, won’t we?” she says. “But first things first, I guess. Come on, let’s go inside.”

  She pulls my hand, and I follow, wondering what she means about getting my hair taken care of and why she didn’t answer my question about Helmut. I think of River’s short hair, the way he looks so different now. River. Helmut’s son, looking so much like him that Roger thought he was him. How does the grandmother woman know Helmut? How did Roger and Jeremy know him? How did that woman holding the stick in my face know him?

  Then I think, none of them knew him. How could they? I am the only one. River and I, we’re the only two left who knew him.

  My first memory of Helmut is watching as he snapped a rabbit’s neck, quickly, precisely, so its head fell limp, ready for us to skin it. This is truth; this happened. I know it did, no matter what Helmut always said about memory, and as I think about it now, I wonder if Helmut’s insistence about memory was only right for things that happened away from Island. Everything seems so different here; maybe memory is different, too?

  That morning, with the rabbit, I felt my mother flinch as she wrapped her arm around me. She had one arm around me, one around River. She always held us to her like that, as if we were both her children, not just me. River hid his eyes in my mother’s hip then, but I watched, eyes wide open. Fascinated? Horrified? I don’t know.

  “Come on, Sky,” Helmut said, looking at me, smiling. “You can be my helper.”

  “Oh, Helmut.” My mother shook her head. “Really, she’s too young.”

  “Are you? Too young?” he said, staring straight into my eyes. His eyes were the color of palm bark. When they held you, you did not dare look away. I was four, maybe five. But I shook my head. He laughed. “She’s a tough one, Petal,” he said to my mother, whose arm pulled around me tighter. “Come on, Sky. Show my boy how it’s done, why don’t you?” River still had his eyes turned into my mother’s pelt, and I felt bad for him. But the dead animal seemed appealing to me in a way, too. I wanted to know. What to do with it, how to, as Helmut always put it, make it useful.

  Helmut handed me the sharp stone. “We’ll bleed it, then cut away the fur for a pelt. Then we’ll clean it in Falls and roast the meat for dinner.” I nodded. “Right here,” he said, pointing to the rabbit’s neck. “You make the first cut.”

  I took a deep breath and gripped tightly to the stone, and then I did as he asked. Helmut smiled over me to my mother. “What a good girl you have here, Petal.” He tousled my hair with his large, wide palm. “Now,” he said, “you’ll have the honor of cooking us dinner tonight.” He paused. “Why don’t you watch her, River? You might actually learn something.”

  Chapter 15

  I follow the grandmother woman into her shelter through a place she calls Laundry Room. There are tall, square boxes on one side that she tells me she uses to wash and dry clothes. I’m relieved that there is some way to get clean here, but it seems strange to put your clothes in a box to wash them rather than Falls, and to dry them in a box, too? Does the California air not dry things as the air on Island did?

  I follow behind her, letting my hands graze everything, while the grandmother woman spouts off new and unfamiliar words: Wall. Door. Handle. Mirror. Floor. Railing. So many words I don’t know, so many things I have never seen. I don’t think I’ll be able to remember them all exactly as she’s told them to me. And it makes me feel so tired now to think that I will have to.

  Then I follow her up what she calls Steps. And they are, I realize, like the rock hill on the boat, only they are softer, and she says it’s okay to take the flip-flops off in here, so I do. Steps sink beneath my toes like soft, warm sand, but the grains do not stick to the bottom of my feet. I follow behind her slowly, basking in the feel of my bare feet on something other than flip-flops.

  At the top of Steps, there is another pathway, Hallway. I follow her down it and then through a coming-in place, no, Door.

  “Here you have it, honey,” she says. “This will be your bedroom. I hope you like it. It used to be your mother’s once upon a time.”

  “My mother’s?” I whisper, and I try to imagine her here, in this space, among all this, wearing the strange sorts of things I’m wearing, feeling the strange sorts of things I’m feeling. But when I close my eyes and try to picture her, all I can see is the way she looked lying there in Shelter, that last morning, her lips parted slightly and as blue as Ocean.

  I open my eyes again and take in Bedroom. It’s a square, like the space in Military Hospital, only it’s pink like the shells on my bracelet were, with Pink Bed in the middle, and square drawings of Ocean on all the walls. The grandmother woman seems to notice me staring at them. “I just hung these pictures up this morning,” she says. “To make you feel at home.”

  Pictures. I think of the picture she showed me of the baby human and my mother, and how it seems pictures can be all things. I reach out and touch one, and it’s cool and smooth, nothing at all like the real thing. Just like the picture of my mother.

  “You said it was close,” I whisper, running my hand against the pretend water.

  “What is, honey?”

  “Ocean.”

  She nods. “Yes, the ocean’s just two blocks from here.”

  “I want to go there,” I say.

  “Of course,” she tells me. “But why don’t you get some rest first. The doctor said your leg is still healing, and we need to make sure you take it easy and keep up with your antibiotics.”

  “I’ve already rested,” I tell her. “I want to see Ocean.”

  She walks over to the thing I think she called Window, then quickly pulls a stick to, as she says it, close the blinds. It makes Pink Bedroom turn dark, and I wish she hadn’t. “They’re like vultures.” She shakes her head.

  “Vultures?” Vultures, I know. Giant birds that would swoop in on the remains of dead animals. It was why we always put anything dead we didn’t eat back into Ocean, the place Helmut told us the dead would become whole again and come back to us anew, as fresh food. But still, the vultures came and circled sometimes when we could not eat the meat fast enough. They would frighten me, with their giant wingspan, their yellow eyes, the way they would circle, hovering, waiting for just the right time to drop.

  “When it quiets down out there, we’ll go to the ocean, okay? The safest place for you to be now is here.”

  I don’t understand why there’s safety in Pink Bedroom, with Fake Ocean surrounding me. But I nod because I don’t know what else to do.

  “What do you like to eat, honey?” she asks me. “Whatever it is, you tell me, and I’ll cook it for you for dinner.”

  “Fish,” I say tentatively, thinking of River’s face on the afternoon of my birthday, the way he grinned as he let his catch span the length of his arms.

  “Fish,” the grandmother woman says. “What kind of fish. Like sushi?”

  “What’s sushi?” I ask.

  “Raw fish.”

  “Yuck.” I shake my head. “You eat fish raw?” I think about the pink bloody flesh of the fish River caught me, and the thought turns my stomach.

  “Sometimes, yes. But I can cook it, if that’s how you like it.” She pauses. “Is that how you ate it … there?”

  I nod. “You have Fire Pit to cook it here?” I ask her, feeling hopeful that something here is the same, that there will be one thing I know, I understand.

  “Sort of,” she says. “I have a grill in the backyard.” She reaches into her rabbit pelt container and pulls out a small, flat square. S
he presses on it, then holds it up to her ear and starts talking. “Hi, Ben,” she says. “Can you do me a huge favor? Did your mom leave you the car today? She did. Okay, yes. Good. Can you run to Sandy’s and bring me back some salmon. Or maybe halibut. You know what? Get both.”

  I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or not, but her voice moves so fast, and she’s not looking at me now, so I sit on the edge of Pink Bed and breathe deeply. I think of the way River looked sitting this way, when I saw him earlier. The way he wrapped his arms around me and whispered Skyblue into my hair. And the way he told me that we had to make our own way here, that he wanted to be without me.

  I think of that morning again, my birthday. Do you feel any different today, Sky? My mother had told me that it would happen. One day, she would always say, when you and River are older, you’ll see each other differently. And that will be okay. That will be good. You’ll be the ones to keep life on Island going.

  I think about River’s hands on my bare back, the next morning, as we swam past Fishing Cove, the way I felt something as he pulled me close—warmth.

  The way I felt about River, I realize now, might have been changing ever-so-slowly, creeping up on me, the way Helmut used to track a boar, slowly, patiently, with stealth.

  But what about River? Did he feel anything that morning in the water, too, or was it just like any other time we swam together and our bare skin touched?

  I understand that he feels different now, though I don’t understand why. That morning was not that long ago, I realize, though now that I haven’t made notches on Tree of Days each morning, I’m not really sure exactly how long it’s been. Still, I know it hasn’t been that long, and yet it feels like a lifetime.

  I feel different now. Older. Younger. Confused. But I still wish River were here so I could tell him. So I could hold on to him next to Fake Ocean and ask him to go with me to the real thing, vultures or no.

  I lean back into Pink Bed and close my eyes, and it’s almost as if I can imagine myself there again, on Island, with River. And even with my mother and Helmut.

  Though I told the grandmother woman I didn’t need to rest, that I had already rested, as soon as I close my eyes and bask in the warm glow of the sand and Ocean, Falls and Shelter, I feel myself getting sleepy, just the way I did that night after I ate all the fish and River and I fell together on the rabbit pelt mats. I want to sleep so he can be with me again.

  But just on the edge of dreaming, River and my mother so close, I hear the voice of the strange woman waving the stick in my face: How did it feel to be Helmut Almstedt’s captive all these years?

  Chapter 16

  It’s dark when i open my eyes again, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am, how I got here. I can’t make out the pictures of Fake Ocean in the darkness, and though the grandmother woman says it’s close, I can’t smell or hear Ocean the way I always could on Island.

  I stand up, and my leg is sore now. I walk carefully in the darkness, not sure if Pink Bedroom has light electricity or not. Door is slightly open, and Hallway is glowing.

  “Hello,” I call out, frightened for a moment that there could be vultures here, inside the grandmother woman’s shelter. “Hello,” I call again.

  “Oh, Megan, you’re awake.” The grandmother woman stands beyond Steps. And though she has been very kind to me today, when she calls me Megan, I suddenly hate her, and I have the urge to run. Though where I’d go, I’m not sure. “I was just about to wake you,” she says. “Come on down. Your fish is cooked. Careful on the steps. Use the railing.”

  She’s pointing as she talks, and I remember the railing is the long, thin stick. I’m not sure how she wants me to use it, so I test its sturdiness with the foot on my good leg.

  “No, no, no.” She waves her arms in the air. “Not like that. Just hold on to it with your hand as you walk, so you don’t fall. Like this, see?” She climbs Steps, then back down, touching the railing to show me.

  I nod and do as she says, though the railing seems strange to me. All those times I climbed the twenty paces down Grassy Hill to Falls, and I never had anything to hold on to.

  When I get to the bottom of Steps, I realize I have to pee, so I ask her where Bathroom Tree is. She frowns, but then she says, “Right through here.” I follow her down Small Hallway until she opens White Door. “Make sure to wash your hands when you’re done, okay? You know how to do that, right?” I shake my head slowly, and she shows me what she calls the sink and the faucet. When she lifts the faucet up, water pours out into the sink like a very small, clear Falls washing into a container. “And use soap,” she says, going through the motions, showing me what she wants me to do.

  I’m getting impatient because I really have to pee, so I start taking the rectangle off while she’s rubbing her hands together, creating white sea foam. She pushes the faucet down, and the water disappears.

  “Megan,” she says, “what are you doing?” She pulls the rectangle from me and places it back.

  “I really have to pee,” I say.

  “But leave that there. Have you been going in the toilet tank?” She sounds angry, and I’m not sure, so I shrug. “Oh dear lord,” she says. “Here. You sit here.” She points to the circle rim where I’d been resting my feet. “And then when you’re done, you flush.” She pushes something, and all the water begins to swirl down, down, away.

  “Where does the water go?” I ask.

  “Oh, I don’t know. The sewer, I suppose.”

  That means nothing to me. “I really have to go,” I say.

  “Oh, okay. I’m sorry, honey.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and walks out, closing Door behind her. “Don’t forget to pull your pants and underwear down first!” she yells. “And pull them back up when you’re finished.”

  It’s seems like so much to remember, so much effort, all just to pee. Pants down. Pants up. Flush. The faucet. Soap.

  Everything is so much harder here.

  The grandmother woman is waiting for me in Small Hallway when I’m finished. “I heard you flush and turn the sink on and off,” she says, patting me on the shoulder. “Good.” It’s embarrassing that she has been listening for my noises, and I wonder if she also listened for the strange sound of my pee hitting the water. On Island, everyone knew that if you were at Bathroom Tree you were to be left alone, that it was a place for privacy.

  “Now, come on into the kitchen,” she’s saying. I follow her into a large open space with a lot of square wood boxes everywhere. “Have a seat at the table.” She points to a large, round wood, and I begin to climb up on it. “No, no. On a chair,” she says, pulling on another, smaller wood and showing me how she wants me to sit on it. I do, and that’s when I notice we’re not alone, that there is a boy here, standing across the space, holding on to a container like the one that brought me the disgusting coconut milk at Military Hospital.

  “Hi.” He waves and puts the container down in front of me.

  “Oh, Megan,” the grandmother woman says. “This is Ben. He lives next door. He went out and got the fish for us.”

  “Some coconut milk,” he says, putting the container down in front of me. I notice that he’s tall, like River, but his hair is brown and curly like mine, and short, very short, just below his ears. He has brown eyes, and his voice shakes a little when he talks.

  “Ben is your age,” the grandmother woman says. “His mom works a lot, so he spends a lot of time here. Keeps an old woman company, don’t you, doll?” She puts an arm around his shoulders and hugs him to her.

  I sniff the container and remember the sour taste of coconut milk at Military Hospital. “I don’t think I like the coconut milk here,” I say.

  “Oh.” The grandmother woman frowns. “How do you know?”

  “I had some yesterday.”

  “Oh.” She laughs. “That was probably cow’s milk. This is actually coconut milk. I made a special trip to Trader Joe’s this morning to pick some up for you.”

  She pushes the
container closer to me, so that I feel I have no choice but to drink it. I hold the container to my lips and pour a small amount down my throat. It’s not awful, like the other milk. But it’s not exactly the same as real coconut milk, either. It’s too sweet, and too cold. It sticks in my throat.

  “It’s good, right?” she asks. I nod because she sounds so eager to please me. She puts some fish meat on the circle in front of me she calls a plate, and it smells good, almost familiar, like my birthday fish. I scoop the meat up with my fingers, and she hands me a fork spear. But I put it back down and keep eating with my fingers. I realize she and Ben are just standing there, watching me eat, but I don’t even care. I’m so hungry now, and the fish tastes so good. Even on a plate, in this strange faraway place.

  I fill my belly, and for a little while, it is like filling myself with hope, that maybe everything here will be okay.

  After I have eaten an entire fish and my belly is full, I tell the grandmother woman again that I want to see Ocean.

  She sighs, walks away, and then walks back. “They’re still out there,” she says. “It’ll die down in a few days.”

  “I could take her,” Ben says softly. “We’ll go out the back, climb the fence into my yard, and then take the back path there.”

  “I don’t know.” The grandmother woman frowns.

  “Yes,” I say, though I am not sure about Ben and whether I can trust him. But he is offering to take me to Ocean, and that is all that I care about now.

  “I don’t know,” she says again, but her voice breaks, so I think that means yes. My mother used to do the same thing, when Helmut would ask her to do something she didn’t really want to, and it surprises me that they can seem so much the same, even though they are not the same at all.

  “Come on,” Ben says. “Follow me.” Then he turns to the grandmother woman and says, “We’ll be back in twenty minutes, Alice. I promise.”