Cheryl gasps. I lift my eyebrows. Chloe doesn’t react, completely indifferent.
“Right now we’re on Penobscot Bay, which opens into the Atlantic. You might have heard of Vinalhaven, the most crowded island in the area, if you can call twelve hundred people a crowd. We only make the seven-mile trip from Wisewood to Vinalhaven to pick up mail—”
Cheryl squeals, pointing at the water. “Is that a seal?”
While everyone else peers where she’s pointing, Gordon watches me. I pretend not to notice. A gray blob bounces in the distance.
“Excellent spot, Cheryl,” Sanderson cheers, pulling out a pair of binoculars and doing his best Steve Irwin. He’s a different person now than he was in the harbor, chatty and happy, no longer nervously glancing at Gordon every thirty seconds. “We see tons of seals around here, otters and porpoises too. You should all keep an eye out. Once a bunch of dolphins even swam alongside the boat. So dope.”
Cheryl oohs and aahs while Chloe leans over the rail. The mention of marine life makes me think of Kit’s walrus impression, assisted by breadsticks. She would do anything to get a chuckle out of Mom and me: that goofy butt dance, corny dad jokes, the way she rode her bike with no hands while belting Mariah Carey, dead serious that she thought she sounded good when in reality her voice sounded like a crow in distress. When I realize I’m thinking of her in the past tense, my breath catches.
By now Maine’s coastline has disappeared. Wild islands surround us. At their shorelines are slabs of granite so monstrous a person could fall between two and disappear forever. Towering evergreens have consumed every inch of land beyond the granite, huddling in such thick clusters you can’t see past them. They lean away from the water, recoiling as one, and it’s no wonder. The sea roars and roils, steel in color and resolve. A wispy fog envelops us, dancing on the surface of the bay. Instead of descending from the silver sky, the vapors climb out of the water, otherworldly. I peer over the side of the boat, trying to find their source. I sense something is down there, watching, waiting.
“What’s the deal with the fog, Sanderson?” Cheryl asks.
“It’s sea smoke. Super-cold air moving over warmer water.”
“Does that mean we can swim at Wisewood?” says Chloe, who I’m relieved still has a pulse. “If the water is warm?”
Sanderson frowns. “It only reaches the high fifties, even in summer, so I don’t think you’d want to. But we have a class for advanced students called Mastering Extreme Elements that includes some gnarly cold-water swimming.”
“How deep is it out here?” Cheryl asks.
“Twelve feet.”
Cheryl gestures to Chloe, herself, and me. “And are your guest groups usually this small?”
“Depends on the time of year. Not many peeps want to come here in winter. If the wind kicks up too much, the water becomes unpassable. That means no leaving the island for weeks at a time. Not that you dudes would notice. We have plenty of food and medical supplies—nothing to worry about.”
Cheryl bobs her head.
“Check out my three o’clock,” Sanderson says. “See the bald eagle on top of that tree? We have a lot of these guys in the area.”
From wildlife Sanderson moves on to naming the landmasses around us: Hurricane, White, Spectacle, Crotch (yes, seriously), Lawrys, Cedar, Dogfish. Some islands he points out have houses on them, but most don’t. Every new isle is identical to the last: an army of spruce trees trying to spear the sky, granite breakwaters guarding the perimeter. Out here you can’t hear an ambulance siren or the ping of a new e-mail. Already we’re too far away.
After a lengthy silence, I sneak a peek at Sanderson. He’s gazing at the horizon, mind a million miles away again.
“Are you all right, son?” Cheryl asks him.
For the second time since leaving the harbor, Gordon turns around. “Tell them about your setback today. What we discussed on the ride over.”
Sanderson grimaces. “I’ve been sober three and a half years. Not a single drop.” He gnaws on his lips like he’s trying to stop the words from coming out. “This morning I woke up, and the urge was strong. Stronger than usual. I thought I’d take the boat ashore, find the nearest bar, have a drink. Just one.” He closes his eyes. “Instead I told Gordon about it. He offered to make the ride with me, so I didn’t have to face temptation alone.”
“We’re all about helping one another here,” Gordon says, his attention back on the wheel.
Sanderson forces a smile, pale and sweaty despite the temperature.
“It must be so hard changing old habits,” Cheryl says.
“The key to recovery isn’t fixing your old life,” Sanderson says. “It’s starting a new one.”
Gordon points at an isle in the distance. “Here we are.” He glares at Sanderson. “Home sweet home.”
Wisewood has the same thick forest as the other islands, with a coastline of boulders, but as we make our way around the island, the forest gives way to a manicured hedge wall at least eight feet tall. In the middle of it is a wrought iron gate. Past the gate, a long path leads to a silent misshapen structure.
The geometric building appears to be two stories, but it’s hard to tell. Walls jut from more walls, as if the house has grown tumors. Some sides are floor-to-ceiling glass, while others are painted the same deep green as the forest.
“This is Teacher’s home,” Sanderson says.
Teacher? Is that what they call the guy who runs this place? I can already picture him: perpetually barefoot, wavy brown Jesus hair, wire-rimmed glasses, eyes open a little too wide. I’ve seen the documentaries.
What has he done to inspire such devotion in these people?
The boat passes the gate, and the hedge wall obscures most of the building once more. Ahead of us, an aluminum pier protrudes from the water, unyielding as waves crash against it. A small lump rests on the end of the jetty. I squint. It’s a backpack.
Gordon stops the Hourglass, and both men tie her up. With Sanderson’s help, the three of us wobble onto the snow-powdered pier with our luggage. A gust of wind mauls us, nearly blowing Chloe into the water. I hold her arm until she steadies. Sanderson puts on the backpack. It appears heavy, packed to the gills. Embroidered on the top strap is MS. Mike Sanderson.
“I’ll take that.” Gordon reaches for the bag.
“I’ve got it,” Sanderson says.
“I insist.” Gordon yanks it off his back. Bag clenched in one hand, he gestures to Sanderson with the other. “Please. Lead the way.”
Sanderson opens his mouth and closes it again. He ducks his head from the wind, then leads us to the start of the pier. What did he need that huge backpack for? Why did he leave it behind? Why won’t Gordon let him carry it?