The Ones We're Meant to Find(6)

Hubert groans.

“Come on, come on.”

A wave rolls under us, pitching me stomach-first into the stern. I brace myself for the next lurch.

It never comes.

Because Hubert moves. He moves, skimming over the waves, foam pluming in his wake, and I could kiss him. I really could. I adjust his trim, test his tiller, then steer him back toward the shore. I leave him on the beach and run to the house for my stockpiled supplies. Some of the taro biscuits have gone moldy. I toss them onto the kitchen floor and replace them with fresh ones from M.M.’s glass jar. On a whim, I pour in the entire jar. Gotta go big to go home.

“Strongly disagree,” U-me says, following me as I carry the supplies to Hubert.

I stash them in the locker under his stern. “You knew my endgame all along.”

“Agree.”

“This shouldn’t be coming as a surprise.”

“Disagree.”

“You’re contradicting yourself,” I complain, but she’s not looking at me anymore.

She’s looking to the sea.

I look too. In my dreams, there are other islands out there, even floating cities. But in my dreams, I can also see in color and swim for days. Dreams are dreams. I know better than to rely on them.

Truth is, I haven’t a clue where Kay is. Joules, I don’t know where I am. I used to row Hubert as far out as I dared, hoping to find land, or at least something to orient myself. But I never discovered anything, just kilometers of choppy sea.

And now I’m reminded of how it felt out there. How quiet, on the best of days. How stormy on the worst. The muchness of things, solid water all around. The littleness of things, silence and sunlight to spectate if I drown.

Shivering, I trudge back to the house. The sand-carpeted steps whisper beneath my feet as I climb onto the porch. The kitchen greets me from behind the door. The windows above the sink are open, facing the sea and inviting in its breeze. On windy days, one gust can travel through the half door separating the kitchen from the living room and into the modest hall, breathing life into every nook and cranny, teasing the tattered lace curtains into a dance and animating the rocking chair in the bedroom.

But even without the sea’s spell, the place is alive. The furniture is minimal but mismatched, as if collected over time, and the floor plan, while straightforward, springs the occasional oddity, alcoves indenting the walls like sealed-off entryways to other worlds. The house must be an heirloom, cherished and passed down, and as I pull on a sweater from M.M.’s closet, I’m almost tempted to stay. It’s possible I’ll go mad in isolation, or lose my vision entirely, or the taro plants will catch blight and die. But the future is too abstract. In the here and now, I’m safe. We take care of each other, M.M.’s home and I.

The bedroom door behind me sighs open. I don’t turn because it can be no one else, and sure enough, U-me rolls next to me, something in her arms.

A purl-knit sweater embellished with iron-on pugs.

My heart catches in my throat as I remember my first days here. Waking up on the shore, naked as a newborn, drawing air into my deflated lungs. The water has never been warm, but that day, it must have been freezing. My teeth chattered so hard that my vision flickered as I crawled toward the house on the sand-submerged rocks.

M.M. saved my life. Well, her sweaters did. I yanked the pug one from her closet, right after the moths flew out. It was thick and warm, and all I cared about.

It took a full day for the shivering to stop. A week to remember my name. Then the other pieces came back. Memories of colors I can no longer perceive. A sister back at home, wherever home was. We were close—I knew that in my blood. She must have been worried sick when I disappeared. Maybe I’m forgetting her, but what if she’s also forgetting me?

My heart hardens as I stare at the sweater. I thought my enemy was the sea. But it’s this house. These sweaters. Even U-me. They’ve let me grow comfortable.

I can’t grow comfortable.

I leave the bedroom. The living room. I ignore the mess of taros I’ve made in the kitchen and head out to the porch again. U-me trails me. She watches as I use a piece of metal scrap, foraged from the Shipyard, to etch one more line onto M.M.’s porch rail. It’s striped with tally marks of all the days that have passed since I first washed up.

With any luck, this will be the final mark.

“Stay,” I order U-me, dropping the scrap metal. “Good,” I say, backing down the porch steps as U-me blinks from the deck, sweater still draped in her metal arms. “Just … stay.”

I swallow, turn, and jog to Hubert. I push him into the water, clamber aboard, and switch on his motor.

I don’t look back.

The sun sinks into the horizon as we zoom toward it. It’s beautiful, I recall. Sunset. Honey-hued and apple-skinned. But it’s hard to retrieve images from the past without feeling like I’m running through dry sand, and soon, the charcoal skies dim to black. The moon brightens slowly, like an antique filament lamp. We hit a calm patch of sea a couple hours later, and I turn off Hubert’s motor to save some battery before resting against the supply locker, a spare sweater folded beneath my head. The stars in the sky are the last things I see, and then the sun is rising, rinsing the waters around me to a powder gray. I start the motor again.

I mark the days on Hubert’s gunwale. I drink some water, confident it’ll rain soon. I nibble on taro biscuits and try to keep up the conversation.