She gazed hard into my eyes, searching, and then gripped under my mouth.
“Why are you doing this, Isla?” she asked sadly.
I jerked away from her grasp.
She stepped back from me with reluctance and began to walk away. But suddenly halted. Her head hung down until she turned and looked over her shoulder.
“The truth is . . .” Her chin trembled once. It quit like the power going out. “The truth is I don’t remember. I can’t remember.”
I stood there for I don’t know how long after she had gone. Waiting for my body to unfreeze. Waiting for the blood to return to circulating after going dry with the rage and fear that had encircled me.
I didn’t see the young man talking to me at first. The nice kid who would sometimes wave to me as he took over my shift each morning. His blurred face formed features when I saw his mouth begin to move.
“Are you okay?”
His eyes were concerned and then shifted to acknowledgment, relief.
“Hey . . . I know who you are . . . I thought I recognized you. You’re Marlow Fin’s sister, right?”
CHAPTER 50
ISLA
Labor Day: September 7, 2020
He looked so much older than I remembered him to be.
His hair had thinned in the front, and age spots dotted the area around his eyes and jawline like constellations. I never thought of my father as old until that moment. I saw Moni somewhere in his face, but it faded out when he turned from the road to glance at me.
“Do you think we should stop at Betty’s Pies . . . for old time sakes?”
I was in my thirties, but he was still trying to provide a consolation for his daughter, a treat to make all her troubles go away.
“If you want,” I answered flatly.
“Let’s stop, then. I could use a break. Stretch these old legs out.”
It had been his idea to go up to the cabin for a few days.
My disposition apparently had not seemed too healthy lately. Mom had been calling me with more frequency, making our conversations even shorter.
“You know we worry about you, Isla,” she said two days ago.
“I wish people would stop saying that.”
“It’s been nearly three years. Our hearts are broken, Sawyer was a son to us all. And they break for you but—”
“But what? Time to move on?” I said bitterly.
“Well . . . yes. You’re still so young, honey. You could still have a life. You should have a life.”
“I don’t want a life without him.”
She had gone silent—the purpose of my cold statement. I was tired. I was tired of having to explain my grief. It seemed nonsensical to me that anyone would question why I was still in the same state of misery. Why nothing had changed for me. Why I couldn’t pick myself up and have that epiphany about starting a new life, come to terms with the fact that Sawyer’s death had meaning and it was all destined to happen this way. Why I couldn’t go on appreciating life even more, like some moment in a subpar movie.
Utter bullshit.
His death had no meaning. There was no greater purpose behind it. He was gone and I was left with the hollow space he left behind.
It had required an additional phone call from Mom and coaxing from Dad for me to agree to a little trip up north. “Fresh air” was the cure-all for everything. A change of scenery would apparently be the treatment I required.
I didn’t agree to go to the cabin for their sake. There was only one small motivation that got me in the car with Dad—the memories of Sawyer that lingered there, like a shirt I had left behind and needed to reclaim. Of the time when we had just sunk our teeth into the flesh of being together, a ripe peach so perfect it would never get any better than that.
The bends in the shore-lined highway were familiar to me as Dad weaved in and out, his hands steady on the steering wheel, so cautious. He slowed down to park in front of Betty’s Pies. As we walked up, I could see the cobalt booths through the window, the white-and-blue-checkered floors. He ordered a slice of blackberry rhubarb, and I shook my head, only wanting a coffee. We sat in one of the booths and he ate his pie almost forcefully. Had he hoped this little stop would cheer me up? I picked up my coffee and held it toward him.
“Pretty good coffee,” I said, a pathetic attempt to be something of the daughter I used to be.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything other than that?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re missing out on Betty’s famous pie. How often will you ever come here?” He looked to the front of the restaurant. “Maybe get something to go or—”
“You know I brought Sawyer up here once.”
He adjusted forward in his seat. “Oh. I never knew that.”
“Yes.” I sat back into the booth. “Did you ever bring anyone up here?”
