He almost seems to be convincing himself. I know he would miss me. He’s gotten used to having me there. There were normal days, sure. When we’d watch a football game on TV, or he’d come home from the library and bring me three books I actually wanted to read, because he knew what I liked.
It’s easy to think about those days when nothing went wrong.
But it’s far too easy to remember the days when they did.
Right now, I see him differently, as if somebody sharpened a focus in front of my face that’s been blurry for ages. He looks old and lonely. The idea of him by himself in that house with nothing but beer and cigarettes and cigars…it’s depressing. I can almost see him staring at the TV set on static.
“I’ll miss you if you go,” he whispers. “I know I’ve been too hard on you. I’m sorry for that. I am.” Quietly, so that none of the officers can hear.
My uncle slips his hand around my shoulder and pats my back.
It’s not much of a gesture. Just like that dad who felt sorry for me because I didn’t have someone to teach me how to fish. Like after my uncle would scream at me for screwing up, oh, everything—then pat me once remorse finally kicked in. Like he would when I was twelve and woke up after another lost night, again. A year’s worth of pats on the shoulder. Apologies. So many apologies.
A million thoughts violently force their way through my head, a mudslide of terrible things. Nothing has changed. Nothing. I want the officers to see what’s going on, but everyone’s head is turned away.
Everyone’s head is always turned away. No one ever sees. No one ever wants to see.
I want to hit him. But then it’ll be me doing the hitting, with three Coast Guard officers watching me attack my guardian. Once again, I’ll have no evidence. I’ll have no proof. It’s the word of a loser runaway kid who’s already costing the state thousands of dollars to track him down. It’s me with my bad grades and garbage attitude with too many near-expulsions at school.
I tear his hand off me and jump up, hyperventilating. “Don’t you fucking touch me. Ever.”
The captain whirls around. My uncle stands up too, his face ashen with surprise. His hands are out, a what-the-hell gesture.
“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Not angry, but hurt. Confused. Because I can’t possibly remember what I wasn’t supposed to remember. The officers stare at us. The uncle who can do no wrong, and the nephew who embraces all things wrong.
Oh, what a great actor. I’d applaud and throw him some fucking roses, if I could. The other officers come inside, and questions start pinging back and forth. They keep their distance from me, probably afraid I’ll swing. One of them takes out the cuffs again. My uncle’s face is sweaty, and he says something like, “I pat his back and he freaks out. This is what I have to deal with. Every day.”
I want to cry and hide. It’s never going to end. It’s always going to be a story I’ll never get to write, not the way I want to. The part of me that drove me to plan, sock away money, and escape to Isle Royale—I don’t know where to find him. I just don’t give a shit anymore.
A puff of damp, cold air hits my neck. The door to the cabin is open, and beyond, the lake waves are small and well behaved against the light gray sky. There’s a space between two of the officers. Just enough.
I turn and run. The two guards grab for me, but only get a slight hold on my arms. I wrench away, falling on the slippery floor. My legs scramble to gain some footing and I kick one of the guards now reaching for my ankle. The other one moves to throw himself onto my back, getting my neck in a chokehold. The crook of his elbow crushes against my windpipe and I try to cough. I can’t. I try to breathe, but that’s not happening, either.
I can’t reach the water. I’m going to get dragged back and there will never be an opportunity to escape again.
No. No.
I ignore the shouts coming from the inside of the boat and my uncle’s yells to grab me. My hands ball into fists and I aim right at the guy’s face over my shoulder and he howls in pain as my knuckles meet the crunch of bone under skin. The vise around my neck is gone and I kick away, pulling myself against the floor outside the cabin.
I make it to my feet and lunge between the open gap between the two railings. Someone grabs my whole torso from behind, pinning my arms. I try to throw him off, but it’s so slippery that I can’t get any traction. My boots squeak and slide beneath me as I try to kick. But I’m already so tired from fighting.
“Stop fighting, Hector. Just stop,” my uncle begs me. “Please. It’s over.”
I stop struggling. Straight ahead, the lake water splashes with waves that are rougher and higher than moments ago.
Only ten feet away.
Oh, Anda. I was so close.
Two other officers grab my arms and they all throw me inside the cabin. I land on my knees, and my arm is yanked behind me, hard. The one with the smashed nose cusses loudly as another guy handcuffs my wrists to a metal railing against the back of the inner cabin.
Now the only way I’ll escape is if the ship sinks.
Anda. Please.
Chapter Fifty-Two
ANDA
The water weighs me down, and I feel its strength against my legs. It reaches all the way from Menagerie Island to Isle Royale, and to the docks in Duluth and Copper Harbor. Gentle waves splash on the rare, frosted sea glass inside Whitefish Bay. It is calm. I’ll keep it this way until he’s safe.
There are more than a dozen boats afloat in the bay. So many others, along Marquette and Keweenaw Bay. There is a lone boat crossing the length between Isle Royale and Grand Portage.
Hector’s on board.
I make sure that the seas are placid ahead of the bow, and that the wind stays reined in. If I could push it faster, I would. If I could—
Wait. The boat has stopped moving.
The engines are in neutral. The ship bobs gently in the water, but unusual vibrations and irregular knocks communicate to the depths below, frightening the fish. Shouts reverberate and send rings of sound through the hull and across the surface of the lake. My eyes close and read the tale, like a book open in my hands, illuminated by a noontime sun.
They are fighting. Three, no, four, subduing the one. He’s fighting, not for life, but something else.
For me. For an end to it all. I squeeze my eyes shut, listening hard to the wishes of his heart. There is nothing but surrender and despair.
“Hector!” I cry out to the sky, panicked. And the sky answers.
There was a small storm that was due to come, but weakened. I gather its roots and glut it quickly with more moisture and warmth. The clouds above the lake condense with a roiling strength, moving and flowing across the lake, thickening into the troposphere. The storm drags its nails into the calmer air below, molding breezy puffs into muscular corridors of wind.
Waves rise quickly, from short swells into choppy, breaking crests. It will take time to grow them larger, but grow they will. Three-foot seas will turn to five-foot seas, and ten-foot waves will follow. I feel the energy from my skin to my bones, delving into my breastbone and spearing my heart. A heart that is now stuttering to a stop.
Hector.