Spells for Forgetting(2)

“Hey.”

“You make it?”

I pushed through the doors to the ferry’s linoleum-floored cabin, where green bucket seats were set in fixed rows. Behind the counter in the corner, a short man with a stained white apron draped over a thick fleece stood awkwardly, watching me over a stainless-steel coffee maker.

“Just about.” I ducked low to glance out the hazy window, where the sunlight was a smear of white on the scratched glass.

“Well, I got your message. All you’re really looking for is any important paperwork that might have been left there. You’ll need the deed to the house in order to sell it. Titles, marriage licenses, bank accounts, whatever. And we need to get someone local to handle the sale unless you want to get stuck going back and forth to deal with all of this.” Eric’s gruff voice on the other end of the line was a tightly pulled tether between this world and another—my simple life in Portland and my less than simple history on Saoirse. “Any other loose ends there?”

I bit down, following the stark outline of the island with my eyes until it disappeared into the sea. There were a hundred different ones I could think of, but only one I gave a shit about.

“No. The orchard was taken care of in Henry’s will.” I answered, my voice catching just slightly on my grandfather’s name. I hadn’t spoken it in years. “It’s just the house. Maybe a few pieces of old farm equipment left on the property or something.”

“When do you have to be back to class?”

Class. I hadn’t thought about my classroom on campus for weeks, and the view of the orange-hued wooden risers in the light streaming through the tall arched windows made me feel even farther away. “Not until next semester. I took a leave to take care of my mom.”

“That’s right.” His tone shifted just slightly. “Well, get all of this sorted and then get the hell out of there.”

“That’s the plan.” I breathed, eyeing the windblown faces that filled the deck outside. It was almost the end of the season, but there were still dozens of tourists on the early ferry, headed for the orchard. “And Eric?”

“Yeah?”

I lowered my voice. “Thanks for your help with all of this.”

“Pretty handy when your college roommate turns out to be a lawyer.” He half laughed. “Anyway, I’m sure I owe you for one thing or another.”

But he wasn’t just a college roommate. He was a friend. Maybe the only one I had. He was also the only person I’d ever told about Saoirse Island, even if I’d never uttered a word about what happened there. “I mean it. Thanks.”

“You can buy me a beer when you get back.” He paused. “How’s that?”

“Sure thing.” The door opened again as I leaned into it, and I swallowed hard when I spotted the tipping masts of the boats in the harbor. “Better go. I’ll probably lose service any minute.”

“See you next week.”

“Bye.”

The ferry horn rang out as I hung up, and I pushed back out onto the deck. Below, the bow of the ship was carving through the dark blue sea, churning up a splitting trail of white foam on either side of the vessel.

I wanted to hate my mother in that moment, as I felt the deep grow shallower, the island creeping closer. I wanted to be angry or think her selfish for sending me back here. But I owed her this. After everything, the very least I owed her was this.

A few days, and then I was gone. I could turn my back on the island like I had fourteen years ago. But this time, I would never go back. I’d lived enough years now to know that there were some ghosts that haunted you forever.

Saoirse had secrets, yes. But so did we.





Two


    EMERY


I don’t know when I started sneaking out of Dutch Boden’s bed in the mornings. It was just one of those unspoken rules, drawn like a thick black line around the edges of my life.

A circle of sunlight pooled on my shoulder as the sun rose behind the trees. Through the thin linen curtain, I could see the pale mist that covered the island in a heavy autumn silence. Beside me, Dutch slept soundly. The breath dragged in the back of his throat, the smell of him filling the room with the familiar scent of cedar smoke. Each time I tasted it on my tongue, it soured with the memory of the night before.

The argument had started in the kitchen, drowned in three glasses of wine, and cast in the light of the fire that had gone cold hours ago. But I’d known Dutch long enough to know how to end our fights.

I wrapped my arms around my bare body beneath the quilts, watching the early light spin his wiry blond hair into threads of gold. The angle of his chin had sharpened in the years since we were kids, the freckled skin of his face rough from the sun and salty winds. But there was a part of him who was still that skinny, shirtless boy I’d grown up with, and maybe that was the problem.

The clock on the bedside table ticked softly, the long hand creeping its way along the dial. In another eight minutes, Dutch’s alarm would go off, waking him for an early morning at the orchard, but I’d be gone before he opened his eyes. Like always.

I let one bare foot slip from beneath the quilt and slowly sat up, careful not to make a sound. The branches of the spruce outside tapped against the window as it swayed in the wind, and I watched my own reflection take shape on the glass.