Chapter Two
ANDA
I saw him on the ferry.
Every day, I’ve stood at the shore to watch the disinterested ferry pass by. The passengers are always the same, their faces set with familiar expressions of anticipation, or the green bitterness of seasickness, or the blankness of one who knows the lake and the Isle so well that nothing is new. But this boy was different.
We shared the same expression. And what’s worse, he could see me.
No one ever sees me at first glance. They don’t care to, they don’t want to, they want to but they can’t. If they’re searching hard enough for something, then sometimes it can happen. Father tries to explain why, but none of it matters. This boy—this boy—he saw me. Immediately. And it felt terrible, when his eyes touched my skin. I search inwardly for a similar feeling, flipping through file cards of memory. And then I find it.
Magnifying glass. Sun. Dead aspen leaf. Boring a pinhole of smoke and fire with that focused sun.
Yes. Yes, that. That is what it felt like when he saw me.
I was standing on the shore, waiting for one more day to arrive, the day that everyone would leave and the island would be mine. The bamboo-like rushes were rotting underfoot, and the juniper behind me scented the wind with its spicy notes. Grebes flew overhead, too smart to stay near me. I could feel the eagerness of the boats, wanting to get away and dock for the winter, to be safe. I knew my father paced inside our home. Anxious to leave me alone. Frightened to leave me alone.
Standing on the shore, I let the icy lake water seep into my shoes, weighing me down. I watched the passenger boat pass by, the last one that would bring anyone onto the island. And I thought, Soon. Soon, you’ll all go far away. You don’t want to be here when November comes.
But this boy saw me.
No one ever sees me.
Run, Anda.
I listened to her voice and ran away, terrified.
...
The next day, I sit on the floor of our small cottage, cradling the cracked weather radio in my lap. I’m impatient, fumbling with the tuning knob. Words stutter and struggle for clarity between bouts of static. Finally, I hear the automated woman’s voice from the NOAA station consistently, a beacon from the battered machine.
Southwest winds ten to fifteen knots
Cloudy with a 90 percent chance of rain after midnight
I close my eyes and listen to the drumming of the truth. The rain is coming. I feel it beneath my skin and on the tip of my tongue, like a word ready to be spoken. No matter what time of the day, the words from NOAA are a comfort. They may be robotic recordings, but they’re slaves to the wind and temperature, just as I am. With the radio on, I am not alone.
Areas of fog in the morning
Waves two to three feet
“Anda. You know where the spare batteries are, don’t you?” My father’s heavy steps creak the oak floorboards. He’s pushing aside a pile of driftwood I’ve left in the middle of the kitchen floor, trying to open the cabinet by the stove. He shakes the box of batteries at me, and when I don’t respond, he puts them back with a sigh.
I say nothing, because the weather service is buzzing in my head, and there’s a warning laced in there.
Pressure is dropping rapidly
“Anda. My boat leaves soon.” He strides over to where I’m sitting by the fireplace. He wishes he could come closer, but he won’t. It’s October. He’s sensed the seasonal change that already sank its claws into me when the fall temperature fell. I push a lock of hair out of my face, and static crackles the ends of my strands. I’ll have to cut it again soon.
My legs are crossed, and I’m still in my nightgown. His boots stand a precise three feet away. If I looked closer, I’d see the worn leather become jean-covered legs, then a thin and carved-out torso, as if a stiff wind had permanently bent his back years ago. He’d be unshaven and his white hair mixed with brown and occasional copper, like the agate I found broken on the lakeshore only days ago.
“Anda.” There’s a slight strain in his voice. Perhaps he’s getting pharyngitis. “It’s time for me to go.” He seems to be waiting for something.
The voice on the radio fades into static again. I fiddle with the antennae, but the radio is telling me it’s tired of talking, that I need to go. My father takes his coat down from the wall peg. A suitcase and backpack sit by the door, ready to flee the cottage. If the door were open, I imagine they’d tumble down the gravel road just to get away from me.
The air inside the cabin has grown stifling. The cabin’s telling me to get out, too. I get up and put on my rain parka, then shove my bare feet into a pair of duck boots. Father stares at my eyelet nightgown, coat, and boots with bare ankles above, hair still messy from a restless night. Asleep, I’d seen brown skin and knowing brown eyes from a face on the ferry staring me down all night. I only escaped when I woke up.
Father picks up the suitcase and opens the door. I grab his backpack. There is a tag printed with a name, SELKIRK, in permanent ink that’s smudged nevertheless. I study it for a moment, and then my eyebrows rise. Oh. Selkirk. That is our name, isn’t it? I slip my arms through the straps and wear it backward so my arms can support the bulk of it. He watches me waddle down the stone steps and shakes his head but says nothing.
He doesn’t need to tell me that there are civilized ways to dress, or to say good-bye to your father. Before he leaves you, secretly, on an island so inhospitable that everyone abandons it when autumn hits, an uppercut that won’t be dodged. We have been through this before. Arguments don’t work when one side is a tidal force that has no basis in rational thought.
I can’t remember the last time I lost an argument. He knows what happens when I don’t get my way.
My nature upsets him. No, “upset” is the wrong word. Fracture, rend. That is what happens to Father. So when November arrives, when the strength of the weather resonates with my need more than any other time, that is when he leaves. I am more dulcet the rest of the year, but it is not easy. Birth and growth are sweet to him and everyone else, but not for me. I do what I can to draw from what death occurs in the broad summer, but it’s scant. I’ve given up on explaining it all to Father, and instead, I wait for November for my time to renew myself.
Not everyone is happy with this arrangement.
It’s a mile-long walk to the dock. Since there are no roads on the island, we take a wooded hiking trail through ghostly paper birch trees and balsam fir that lend their spice to the air. Any tourists have long since left, and we pass a campground that’s quiet but for a few seagulls pecking about the footprints of the departed.
As we crunch along the path, my father polishes his glasses and rattles off a list of things he must tell me. “There’s enough fuel for the kerosene heater if you keep it on low. I’ve left food in the pantry to last until I come back in early December. There’s a pot of that homemade strawberry jam that you like so much.”
“I like strawberry jam?” I ask him.
Father stops walking. His sorrowful eyebrows sag above his eyes. And then I realize, I’ve already forgotten, haven’t I? Parts of me—the human slices of what I am—are already fading. They have been fading more than ever these last few years. This saddens him.
“Yes. You like—you used to like it.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, Jimmy will drive me over in his boat in December. The first aid kit is fully stocked. Try to be frugal about the batteries, if you can…”
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.