None of it is terribly important, but it relieves him to unload his thoughts. I’ll carry them for a while, but these are the things I would prefer to keep close: the scent of his beard after he’s been on the dock all day, like lake water mixed with ashes. The lines on his knuckles, permanently stained from his carpentry work around the island. And his irises. Tiny circlets of white and gray that resemble the eyes of an Isle wolf.
Voices seep through the tangle of spruce trees. The dock is just beyond, and the low purr of the ferry’s motor grows louder. Among the fallen leaves, a dead deer mouse lies on the trail, thin and stiff. I crush it underfoot and smile. From the trail behind, a couple catches up to us. They live in one of the rare houses beyond ours, and their backs are burdened with heavy packs.
“Hey, Jakob. See you on the boat?” the woman asks. She walks past, her elbow swishing against mine. She doesn’t catch my eye. She doesn’t say a word about my nightgown, and neither does the man. They are worried about making the ferry and do not make an effort to see me. Like the broken branches off the trail and the dead mouse, I am invisible to them in these moments. This brings me comfort, but nevertheless, their brush by me feels icy.
“Yep. See you soon,” Father responds. Beyond the web of trees ahead, the couple joins the group at the pier. My father stops and lingers in the shade to face me. His eyes crinkle with concern. “Anda. I could stay.”
“You can’t be here with me,” I say. “No one can.”
“Then come with me,” he asks, helplessly.
I sigh. I lift my chin and let him see me. Really see me. Just as he is more to me than a list of supplies gathered to provide for his child, I am more than a girl who wears a nightgown to hike in the woods, whose hair crackles with static when it gets too long and flyaway.
I am November on the island. I am part of the lake, and the earth, and the rusted steel of the shipwrecks. He cannot stay to see what will happen. He’s witnessed too many Novembers with me here, seen that destructive synergy when he can’t tell the difference between me and the storms. My body rebels when he tries to take me away. But staying with me will kill him, piece by piece. It’s already started to kill him, fissuring his face into a million wrinkles, years deep.
His death cannot help me.
And so I choose to stay on the island, because the other option is a reality I can’t even comprehend. I cannot fight my nature. I cannot be what he wishes me to be, all year long. That part of me that is Jakob, my father—that part has been fading more every year. Soon I might be the waves on the water, just as my sisters have become. It is the natural history of us. He knows this. He can’t stop it.
“No. I must stay,” I remind him.
He nods. His eyes sparkle with redness and moisture, and I let the backpack slip off my arms to the ground. He picks it up and hoists it over his broad back.
“December first. I’ll be back.” He takes a step closer. “Don’t let them see you,” he warns, tossing his head toward the dock.
As if that matters. As if they ever try to see me.
He waits for my embrace, his arms arcing towards me, a bear trap ready to be triggered. A brisk wind blows at us from off the water, and my white hair twists around my face in a riot. My father loses his balance and is forced to take a step back. I can’t touch him. I cannot.
Once, I could do these things. But I’m forgetting. Once, he taught me to read and cipher and do arithmetic, and all of it is more dream than memory now. I’ve forgotten what one should do and feel when a father leaves his daughter.
I wring my hands together and blurt out, “Don’t forget to sleep.” My fingernails dig into my knuckles. “And eat,” I add. “You should eat food. You should…wear sweaters.”
Father smiles gently at my efforts. “Good-bye, Anda. Be careful.”
“Careful” is such a strange word. To be full of care, overflowing with sentiment. The nature of care is solely for those with whole hearts to give. The word is an antonym to everything I am now, and my father’s words are a strangled wish, rather than a warm farewell. He crunches away down the path, and I stay in the shadows of the forest as he approaches the boat.
I watch from behind a particularly fat spruce trunk. A tiny iridescent dragonfly is entombed under a blob of sap, and my heart lightens a single gram. I lean close to the tree, letting the sap stick to my own fingertips, watching my father shake hands with the last residents of Isle Royale. As he boards the full ferry, he turns and looks over his shoulder. His eyes scan the grove of spruces, searching for a last glance good-bye, but his eyes never find me.
The mooring lines are untied from dock cleats, and the engine roars as the vessel pulls away. Usually, I feel a frantic sensation when watching the last ferry leave. Panic mixes with sheer loneliness, but it’s fainter than in previous Octobers. I breathe easier once the boat motors its slow exodus into Washington Harbor.
I push back from the tree. A sudden, sharp crack of a stick sounds from nearby. Likely it’s a moose. I turn around to walk the mile hike back home when I freeze.
It’s the boy.
Through the columns of bushy evergreens, he stands there with hands against rough bark, just as mine were a few seconds ago. He’s so tall. Six feet, maybe an inch over. His skin is darker than the usual shade worn by the tourists who blanket their skin with titanium cream. His face stakes no claim with anyone and refuses to give its secrets. He’s surprisingly graceful as he steps back. Well, not so graceful. He doesn’t know how to walk in this pine forest without making noise. He doesn’t see me yet. He’s still watching the boat in the distance, his face a mixture of relief and worry.
What is he doing here?
Almost as soon as the thought enters my head, his head swivels toward me, as if someone slapped his face in my direction. Our eyes lock on each other, and his face fills with wonder. For a full minute, we just regard each other. Astonishment forces its way into my chest. A very human sensation, one I haven’t felt in years. The slight wind disappears, pushed away by our mutual atmosphere of surprise.
Finally, he seems to rouse himself with a deep breath. He looks like he’s going to say something.
I spin around and run.
Chapter Three
HECTOR
Holy shit.
It’s her. The girl I saw yesterday, before I landed. My heart punches my chest a million times a minute. She stands there staring at me, her pink lower lip dropped in surprise. She’s wearing a lumpy parka on top of—wait, is that a nightgown? Her bare ankles are twigs sprouting out of muddy boots. A tangle of white-blond hair, all different lengths, adorns her head. Looks like she attacked her own head with scissors and no mirror. And she has that amber skin that reminds me of autumn.
We freeze, staring at each other for almost a minute. Why is she here? Who is she? Why the hell is she dressed like a homeless woman from downtown Duluth? Is she going to scream at me?