CHAPTER 57 WREN 1980s
CHAPTER 58 ISLA Labor Day: September 7, 2020
CHAPTER 59 THE INTERVIEW 2021
CHAPTER 60 ISLA The Day after the Interview
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
ISLA
1995
The night we found Marlow, I saw her face when I looked in the mirror.
I climbed out of the old copper tub, its metal starting to show patches of cyan. The shock of cold made me tingle, warm bathwater still slippery around my legs as I stepped on the footstool. The fog in the mirror gave way to my methodical hand swipes.
But instead of my own reflection, there she was again. Staring at me with those eyes, like she did through the window that morning.
She’s not letting you go.
The doorknob rattled. My shoulder met my chin as if cradling me.
“Isla. Your mother would like to take a bath sometime tonight.” Dad had this habit of never knocking. He was a doorknob shaker.
She’s here. She came back for me.
I turned back to the mirror. She had vanished once more, leaving me with an image of my own face, melting into something almost unrecognizable.
“Stella, our eight-year-old daughter seems to think our cabin is her own personal spa,” I heard Dad say through the dark cedar door, his words coming in waves of baritone and brass.
Mom pushed the door open. I clutched my towel against my chest, a purely involuntary reflex. Her straw hair was still damp from the lake, and her skin had a slimy sheen. She blinked her glassy lapis eyes at me and then focused them on the puddles I had created all over the black vinyl floor.
“Sweetie, I hope you saved some hot water for me,” she said, a hint of bemusement in her voice.
I remained still.
“Isla?” she asked with a head tilt.
“Are we having dinner soon? Is Moni cooking?” I stammered.
“Yes and yes.” She patted my head tenderly and then scooted me out.
Dad stood behind her. I could see them looking at each other in the mirror, the stark contrast in their colorings. The angles in their facial bones, the shapes of their eyes, all distinctive landscapes. Dad’s deep, dark hair seemed to fluff Mom’s into a near-champagne cloud. He caressed her neck and I kept walking.
“Moni!” I called out. My hand traced the metal banister as a few drops of rain started to splatter over the main room’s wall-size windows.
We were at the tail end of our annual cabin getaway, which usually meant some sort of delectable hot dish Moni would create with whatever leftovers still lingered like stray kittens waiting to be finally taken in.
As a baby, I had failed to properly pronounce the Korean word for grandmother, Halmoni. “Moni—Moni!” I’d babbled.
The nickname had stuck and she was forever my Moni.
I found her in the kitchen, her petite form hovering over the rice cooker plugged in next to the unused gas range. A bright-red broth bubbled up, and she gave it a stir with her oversize silver spoon.
“Vacation food always tastes better out of a rice cooker,” she said in Korean.
She cracked a square of ramen and handed me half. I slid my half in, and she stirred the noodles, their stiffness giving way to the hot liquid, their squiggly foam strands making my mouth water. A handful of chopped green onions, a few bits of red meat, and some oval-shaped rice cakes were tossed in as she tasted the liquid with her spoon, then offered me a sample. I sipped it, the broth nearly burning my tongue. The top of her salt-and-pepper head bent down over the pot to inspect further.
I wanted to tell her then. About the face I saw in the window that morning. The first time she showed herself to me.
One look was all it took to haunt me.
A round, bundled mass of chestnut flesh, two luminous coals gaping at me, magnetically in focus upon whatever fell in their sight.
My chest filled with fright and wonder. The rest of me static, locked in on her stare. I blinked and shifted my eyes. The early morning had started to extend glints of light across Lake Superior. The vibrant waves lapped curiously hard against our dock, each crash saying See her, see her.
I looked again. The glass of the window grew thick and foreboding. The face seemed to float and then dissipate in and out of the speckled mix of light and shadows.
Isla.
I heard someone calling for me. Was it Moni? Dad?
