Chapter Thirty-Two
ANDA
I stay in the same position, kneeling on the shore at Middle Point. Mother stays silent—she knows how wrong my choices are. She has a glacial patience and will wait for me to return to my senses.
I will not.
Hours ago, Hector lay before me, alive, his heart beating so loudly in my eardrums, the most magnificent sound in the world. And then he left me.
I had forgotten what sadness meant, and human loss. The ending of one season, of one wolf—it brings about more life. Those endings are beautiful because of what might come next. But the ending of us, of Hector and me…nothing beautiful is born of this.
This is what you wanted. And now you see the consequences. It’s not too late—
She’s right. I’ve done this to myself, allowed myself to open a door I thought closed. I’ve invited in the possibility of an altogether different pain.
I weep, still kneeling on the shore.
Mother is coaxing me back into the water. There will be other boats. The whole month of November is still mine. But she doesn’t understand the nature of my keening.
I want this agony. I want to know that I can bleed red like Hector. I want to miss biting his lip when we kiss. I want to miss him making me breakfast. I still want to discover the best and worst of him, a little bit every day.
I inhale the lake air hard, and it hurts my lungs. And I cry for the happiness of the pain.
The waves have calmed, not completely, but their energy is diminishing. I know that Agatha is being airlifted into a helicopter, and that boats are patrolling the area for Thomas’s body, which they will find soon. I’m swirling the currents above the lake bed, and will lift his remains to the surface so Agatha may mourn her lover. Humans so adore lingering with their dead. I understand they even perfuse their bodies with plastic and preservatives so they can hoard their remains forever.
Finally, it grows dark. I think of Hector. I know he’s left the cabin, and he’s already on the Greenstone Ridge Trail to the other side of the island. He’s trying to flee from me. Satiated on Thomas’s death, I can think more clearly now, and my heart—my heart—it chafes and knifes at me on the inside with every beat.
I miss Hector.
But I must respect his wishes. Shouldn’t I? We were a story with no happy ending, and deep inside, I knew that. Hector had yet to learn, but he did. And yet I made sacrifices anyway.
Sacrifice.
The word reminds me of another one Hector knows. “Scarify.” To create scars. I think of the rounded burns on his arm, and I start crying again.
I miss Hector.
...
When I get to the cabin, it is empty. The ghost of his presence is the only thing lingering behind. His scent on the couch; the soap in the bathroom he probably forgot to pack with him. The food on the kitchen counter has been trifled with; only a portion of it is gone, as well as half of the camping equipment from the store.
But his clothes, his bags, his heart—gone.
I fiddle with the weather radio, but it discusses high pressure and sunshine. Not soothing.
I take the rock cairns from my bedroom and remake them, but their balance doesn’t pacify me the way they always have before.
I know what Mother is thinking. It’s better this way. Now I have November to myself. I have the cabin. Father will be back December 1 so we can hide on the island together until spring. He will bring with him packages and supplies to keep himself fed and taken care of. As for me, when I’ve tried not to kill in Novembers past, I’ve become wilder in some ways. Father says “less predictable,” which, for a creature like me, is simple chaos. But maybe I can control this.
There is only one way to know.
I go to the bedroom and take my nightgown off. In the drawer, I pick out the things that Father bought for me. Jeans, a little too tight, but they’re the only ones that fit me. A camisole, waffled long underwear, and a flannel button-down on top. Two pairs of wool socks.
I rush around the cabin, whose rafters practically hum with excitement at my activity. It’s used to having me sit for hours, meditating on a piece of lint, organizing cairns. Now I’m sweeping all the leftover camp food into a backpack. I stuff other things in there, like scissors and a fish fillet knife sheathed in a kitchen towel. I bring the big flashlight, Father’s store of batteries, soap, the remaining water purifier, and every box of matches in the kitchen drawers. Father has a tent rolled up in a sleeve of nylon, and I attach it and a sleeping bag to the back of the backpack.
I try to think like Father. What would he do to care for me? I make one last trip to the bathroom and put in toilet paper and the bottle of castile soap, and open the medicine cabinet. The bottles in there make my nose curl from their bitterness. There are so many that Father has needed—for pain that I never feel, for infections that I never get, for sleeplessness that doesn’t bother me. I scoop them up and add them to the bag, too. I put in four tubes of toothpaste and several toothbrushes.
Finally, I root out the radio from its nest by the fireplace. My good friend. It has never been outside these walls, and I wonder what needs it has. Perhaps like other cared objects, like human babies, it might need clothes. I swaddle it in a towel before packing it safely.
At the door, I put on Father’s warmest coat, three hats, two scarves, and hiking boots. The enormously heavy pack goes on my back, and I pause before leaving. The wind hisses from the outside. I ignore it.
I sniff the air, deciding on my path. I’ll find Hector. And we’ll go as far to the interior of the island as we can, away from the water. Mother will be quieter there, and her influence dulled. It will be much harder to tempt me back into the water this way, and I can concentrate on Hector. We’ve had a conversation that’s only just begun. And I’m finding myself anxious, for the first time in my life, to finish it.
The cabin beams at me. It will be lonely without human occupancy, but the door lightly bumps my lumpy backside, as if to say, Truly, the boy doesn’t understand what you’ve done. What you meant to do. Go fetch him, Anda.
So I go.