I didn’t want to change into this person. I tried to stop it.
After a long, expectant pause, I push the towel off my shoulders and brush the last bits of hair from my clothes. I get my knapsack and strap it over my shoulders.
Downstairs, I find Marlie in the back room slumped on the cot. When she sees me, she holds a hand toward the door. “Would you mind?” she says. “I just need a minute.”
“That’s okay,” I say. I make up a lie so she won’t worry — those are the easiest lies because people also want to hear them. “Scotty is coming to get me and I’m going to stay with him.” But I have to warn her too. “Go to Peg’s until you can cross back to the mainland. Get out of here. Don’t let him stop you.”
“Okay. Thanks, Gemma.” She keeps melting into something smaller.
I close the door between us, and it goes quiet on her side. Before I know it, I’m leaving the house and walking away down the road.
Only the crunch of stones in my ears. My feet and legs are wheels turning and I can’t feel them. Hot wind pushes into my mouth and chokes me. Stars cluster above me. Bootes, Virgo, Corvus. The herdsman, the goddess of fertility, the spy. Lower down, the sparkling lights of Corona Borealis, Ariadne’s crown. A princess caught in a love triangle: her and Theseus, the man she loved who might or might not have loved her back, and Dionysius, the god who married her with or without her permission.
The road feels miles longer than ever, probably because I don’t know where I’m going. I’m not going to Peg. Not going to Doris. Don’t want to tell anyone. Don’t want to turn this into a story.
Fog rolls up the hill from Keele’s Landing. Soon it will swallow me into itself and try to lose me. Even so, I keep walking toward it, the fog bundling and rolling over the whole of West Island and on its way to smother the East.
I close my eyes while I walk and picture the wind swooping in and raising the bottom of the mist, like dainty hands pulling up the hem of a flowing dress. I walk under it, certain and trusting that the weather knows where to take me. Hidden in its folds, I follow exactly where it wants me to go.
At the end, there’s a dark tunnel, and I stop and crawl inside it and lie down, curling myself into a ball. It isn’t a blanket, the fog, it doesn’t keep me warm at all. But I coil myself inside it and lie as still and silent as a stone. Even when the rain spears the tunnel. Even when the drumming is so loud it trumps my heart. Even when I shiver with such conviction it’s like someone is drowning me.
After a very long while, I fall asleep.
Someone is shaking me, but not hard. “Gemma … Gemma.” That name sounds so special in his voice. “Gemma … Gemma.” I wake up and peer through crusted eyes.
Scotty is crouching beside me. He has his hand on my shoulder. “Gemma? You all right?”
I rub my eyes clean. Behind Scotty, I notice the rain has stopped and has left an incandescent cloud of fog. Raindrops literally stopped in motion, in time, hanging, waiting, and blooming with sunlight.
I uncurl myself and try to stretch, but it’s too cramped in the tunnel. My eyes are so tired, they can hardly open. Scotty coaxes and leads me out. Only with his help can I stand up.
But it’s not a tunnel at all that I found during the night: it’s Biscuit’s doghouse. I’ve never been inside his house before, probably because Biscuit never has. But it’s a good place. Solid and straight. Mr. O’Reardon made it when Biscuit was a puppy, building it with plywood walls and real shingles on the roof and even a carpet on the floor. But Biscuit never wanted a place of his own.
“You all right, Gems?” Scotty is still holding my hand. I don’t want to let it go.
“I’m okay, Scotty.”
“Biscuit in there with you?”
Coldness makes me shiver. “No.”
“Wonder where the bugger is.” Scotty huffs his breath and pulls gently on my hand. “Let’s get you inside and warm.”
Before I realize what I’m doing, I throw myself at him. I hug him so hard his ribs press into mine. I imagine our ribs lacing together like pleading fingers. Scotty pats my back, and I put my mouth to his ear and breathe into it. I want my breath to go inside him. I want it to swirl around inside him until it turns into a ghost that stays with him always.
Scotty leads me by the hand back to the house and brings me to the living room couch. He puts five blankets around me, even one around my head. I never take my eyes off him.
He says, “If it makes you feel any better, you look cute as a button with your new haircut. A real young woman.” He smiles at me encouragingly. “Getting all fancy on us are you, now you have a big-city lady around?”
Even though my heart is burning, I feel myself shiver under the blankets.
Scotty goes to the kitchen and pours a cup of milk into a pot and puts the pot on the stove. He stirs the milk and says, “You going to talk about what happened, Gems?”
I don’t say anything.
“My dad is out looking for — Anyway, it’s just the two of us here right now if you want to talk.”
I shake my head.
Scotty puts down the spoon, “Okay, then.” He won’t force me. He whistles between his teeth and checks the temperature. Scotty is the only one who understands. Because he is my one true love.
When it’s ready, he brings me a cup of warm milk and sits on the couch beside me. He puts his hand on the blanket over my foot. “It’s going to be all right, Gems. Take it from me. Today’s heartbreak is tomorrow’s foothold.”
When I don’t say anything, he gets up and goes to the hall closet and opens its door. He pulls out a flat pile of folded clothes.
I love him so much. Maybe he’s the only one in the world who can make me happy.
He hands me the flat pile of clothes. “These are Mom’s. Hope that’s not too weird for you, but you’ve got to get out of those wet things if you’re ever going to warm up. Mom was tiny too. Not like you, mind, but she was a wee thing. Those should fit you until you get home and can change into your own.”
When I take the flat little squares from him, my hand touches his. I pull off all the blankets very slowly and stare at Scotty. He steps back and opens his hand to the bathroom. I walk to it very slowly, tears crystallizing over my eyes. Scotty has given me Mrs. O’Reardon’s clothes, the clothes his own mother wore when he lived with her.
His hand reaches behind me and pulls the bathroom door closed. I can hear him walk into his bedroom. He calls through the walls. “You want to wait here till your dad gets back? Or do you want to hang around with the ladies at the diner today?” I hear the loud clomp of him changing his sandals for boots.
I put Mrs. O’Reardon’s old clothes on the edge of the bathtub. Then I take off all my own clothes. They peel away in wet, snaky strips. My bare skin is slippery all over. My body is rounder and softer than I remember. I touch my breasts. They are as soft and budding as foam on a wake. Already I feel warmer.
Scotty calls through the wall, “I have to go out today, check for some poachers that Dad got wind of. I can take you wherever you want, though.” Being with Scotty would make everything all right. It would make everything better.
I feel warmer and warmer. I touch my bare stomach and feel the slippery wetness. Scotty calls through the wall, “Your dad should have the ferry fixed later today, and you can wait in town and go home with him. What do you say?”
The flat pile of Mrs. O’Reardon’s clothes waits for me to take it up. I wonder how Scotty took the clothes off his wife. How he kissed her. How it felt when he lay on top of her, skin to skin. I could be a Mrs. O’Reardon. If I have to pick a name, that’s the one I want.
My bareness is warmer than any clothes. I put my hand on the doorknob.
“Now that I think of it, Gems,” Scotty calls, “I think we should run you to Peg for a quick once-over. Just to make sure you’re healthy and fit.”
In his bedroom, Scotty sits on his bed, back to me, pulling a fresh shirt on. His head tilts down so he can watch himself doing up
the buttons. The hairs on the back of his neck are red and black mixed together, like the skin on stones. He says, calling, looking at his buttons, “You could also stay at Peg’s house, have yourself a proper sleep. Don’t want you getting sick.”
I open my arms and, with all my love pouring out of me, I climb over the quilted mattress, the softness that will entangle us, and wrap my warm bare body around Scotty.
When he turns to me, he’s smiling so very sweetly and he starts to open his arms to me. But when he sees my body, his face opens up. His mouth opens, his eyes widen, his eyebrows lift. A gargling sound comes from the back of his throat. If it’s a scream he’s holding back, I must be what I know I am: a monster.
Scotty jerks away from my body, pulling himself up and far away from me to the very back corner of the room. Turning away, he puts his hands on his face. Through them he says, “Get some clothes on, child. Quick, go get dressed.”
“But, Scotty —”
“Now. Get some clothes on now.”
His words hammer me into the ground, crumbling my insides. More scared than I’ve ever been, I run back to the bathroom and slam the door shut. I fumble to put on Mrs. O’Reardon’s dry clothes. They hang off me like empty bags.
When I’m dressed, I come out of the bathroom. Scotty isn’t in his room. I find him in the kitchen, a knife in his hand, cutting thick slices of cheese onto bread.
I don’t know what to say.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Scotty says, not looking at me. His back is to me, muscles knotting and working as he cuts the cheese and heats up a frying pan.
“I love you, Scotty.”
He puts the cheese toast into the frying pan. Without looking at me, he says, “It’s okay, Gemma.” The toast sizzles and smokes.
“I love you more than anything.”
Scotty looks at me then. His face is back to normal. “I love you too, Gemma. You know that, right?”
I choke on my tears.
“But you’re young and I’m old. Too old for you. We love each other like friends. Or like a brother and sister love each other.”
You don’t belong to anyone.
Scotty picks up a spatula and turns his back to me. “I would never do anything to hurt you, Gemma. Ever.” He presses the spatula onto the cheese sandwich. A burnt smell rises with the smoke. He says, “And that’s not always how it works with grown-up love.”
Iused to think the inside of Peg’s house was from a fairy tale. It has butter-yellow walls and lace-covered everything and china figurines and matryoshkas and stuffed pillows and silver teapots. We used to have tea parties in her parlor when I was little. Peg always poured the tea. We would eat shortbread that Randy made us special and we would talk in British accents. Peg’s British accent was hilarious.
In my head I say goodbye to all of it.
Peg walks me through the yellow, lacey parlor and into the exam room. The exam room is the opposite. It has white white walls, silver trays on wheels, shining tools, and three cots laid out with clean sheets. Scotty follows us, quietly catching Peg up on what he thinks has happened.
I don’t pay attention. The only thing that matters now is how I’m going to get off the island.
Peg sits me on a cot, sticks a thermometer in my mouth, and shines a light into one eye. The brightness doesn’t hurt at all. She shines it into the other eye. “Everything looks lovely, dear,” she says, cooing.
I will sneak on the ferry when it comes back, when no one is looking.
Peg wraps a blood pressure cuff around my upper arm. She sticks the stethoscope under the cuff, then pumps the monitor tight. It squeezes me good and hard. It wants to tell me something.
I will cross to the other side. I will go away.
We’re all quiet as Peg releases the pressure and blood pumps down my veins again. She counts the heartbeats.
On the mainland, because no one will know me, I can be anyone I choose.
Peg rips the cuff off my arm and wraps the stethoscope around the cuff. Then she pulls the thermometer out of my mouth and checks it. “Well, everything seems perfectly fine,” she says, smiling, relieved. Then she looks me in the eye, “But is it, my darling?”
On the mainland, I won’t belong to anyone. Nobody’s child.
“Gemma. Is everything all right?” Peg’s voice shakes me out of my dream. “Did something happen between you and Marlie up at the house?”
I pretend to think very seriously, then shake my head slowly, as if I don’t want to hurry the answer, “Nooo, everything is perfectly fine.”
“So why were you wandering around in the middle of the night, and sleeping in Mr. O’Reardon’s doghouse?”
I pretend to think. “Well, no reason, really. I thought it might be fun to explore.” I wait for another thought. “But don’t expect Marlie to stick around too much longer.”
Peg and Scotty exchange a look. Peg says carefully, “Did you two have a fight?”
“Oh no,” I say, already sounding like a different person, “Marlie and I are awesome. It’s Marlie and Jonah who might have a problem.”
“I see,” Peg says to Scotty.
“If you haven’t seen her yet,” I say, “expect her soon. Make sure she gets on the ferry.”
Peg gives a sorry nod. “All right, my darling. We will.”
“So,” I say, “I should probably get back to the house to say goodbye. Don’t want to miss her.”
Scotty pipes up. “I could drive up there and bring Marlie down.”
“Actually,” I say, almost ashamed at how I’m using her — but I have to get away and nothing must stop me — “I think it’s best if Marlie and I have a good heart-to-heart before she leaves us. In private. Up at the house.” I look through Scotty, but I give him my nicest smile. “So I think I’ll head back now.”
“Let me take you up, Gemma,” Scotty says, trying not to sound worried. “Don’t want you to get sick, after all this.”
And I will walk myself back to town, under cover. It’s the ferry I need.
Peg nods, “I think that’s best, Gemma. If we can’t convince you to stay here, then I’d rather Scotty ran you up.”
On the island, there is no such thing as a waste of time.
“Okay, thank you,” I say.
Peg seems reassured. “Well, good.” She touches the back of her hand to my forehead, then strokes my face. “But you call us the moment you need anything. All right, my darling girl?”
“All right, Peg.” Before I follow Scotty, I take her hand — without squeezing it because I don’t want to hurt her — and say, “I love you, Peg.”
Peg’s eyes tear up. “I love you too, dear. More than anything.”
While Scotty drives me up the road to the house, I look straight ahead, not saying anything. When we get to the last bend in the road, Scotty says, “When you feel better, Gemma, call me and I’ll come get you and we can go rock climbing like in the old days, how ’bout? Get the cobwebs out. Sound good?”
Looking out through the truck window, I say, “That sounds great.”
He stops on the driveway by the front door. “Do you want me to come in? Talk to Marlie?”
I shake my head.
Scotty pats my knee then pulls his hand back quickly. “Okay, then. Don’t you worry yourself. It’s not good for you to worry. Everything will be fine.”
I grab my knapsack and get out of the truck, closing the door behind me. Scotty maneuvers the truck around the drive.
For the first time, I notice the seat beside Scotty is empty. No Biscuit slobbering on the window, staring at me through it, no barking down at the house, no trying to jump on me, no begging for hugs. “Where’s Biscuit?” I say as Scotty drives the truck away. I call louder, “Where’s Biscuit?” But it’s too late, he’s gone.
I don’t go into the keeper’s house, but only wait long enough to make sure Marlie hasn’t noticed my arrival. There’s no movement through any of the windows.
The house reminds me of Jonah. A nigh
tmare picture of his face charges into my mind — distorted, a menace. And questions call: What is he? How could he do it? What did I see and ignore for so many years?
Memories flood in instead of answers. Or maybe they are answers.
Once I found him crouched in the woods, his arm flinging up and coming down, smashing something in the space between his bent knees. Because it was dinnertime, I was out looking for him. It was pouring, but summer rain, hot enough that the rain was welcome. The sight of his arm coming up and smashing down, veins bulging under his skin like knotted kelp, stopped me from calling out to him. Blood started to ooze out of his hand and arm and wash with the rain down his skin like an overflowing brook.
A twig snapped under my foot and he heard it. He froze, his bloody fist hanging in the air. On the ground between his feet, something was too broken to recognize. Very slowly he turned his head around. His eyes locked onto mine, and I couldn’t see into them. It was like there was a black screen across his pupils.
I wanted to run away. I knew — I think I knew — that whatever he was smashing could also be me. But I was too shocked to move. That’s how I saw the blackness in his eyes roll up like blinds being pulled, and his skin cooling to its natural color. Himself again, the he that I recognized.
Completely calm now, he lowered his hand and stared at his smashed knuckles. After a moment, he wiped his fist along his shirt, leaving rusty streaks on the cloth. “The surveillance camera broke,” he said. “I’m going to have to order another one.” He didn’t say any-thing else, and I just watched as the rain joined us together, silver links of chain from him to me.
Fear crashes over me and washes everything else away. It destroys confusion and fatigue. It kills outrage and sorrow.
If I leave, Jonah will be angry. He will forget himself, and he will fight for his survival.
I have to get away from him. I have to hold him off.
I begin to fumble with my things, opening my knapsack, searching for an answer. My fingers brush my sketchpad, and an idea comes to me. If I leave him a letter, if I appease him, he’ll be relieved. All his troubles will be over and he will let me go.
The Darkhouse Page 12