Gone Away

I don’t know how I got here. That’s typical for me, at least for the last four years. It’s like a black wall went up in my brain, after which everything is smudged, jumbled, or simply missing. I’d wake up in alleys behind dumpsters with no idea how I got there. Sometimes in strangers’ beds or squalid mattresses in abandoned buildings. All pretty par for the course. But somehow, out of the fugue of my addiction, I must have finally made a good decision and gotten myself to my family’s summer cabin on the island.

I’m sitting on the rocks along the shore when awareness kicks in. There’s no boat on the beach, so I’m guessing I convinced one of the lobstermen to drop me off. It makes sense. If I have no boat, I can’t get off the island, and if I can’t get off the island, then I have no access to alcohol, no access to drugs, no access to a world that made me feel so bad about myself that I threw myself even further under its heel. 

I breathe in deeply, the salt air singing in my lungs. It’s the kind of day people write stories about, searingly blue skies, waves shushing along the sand, the sun warming my skin in an embrace that lulls me to sleep, the island having rekindled some peace in my soul the way it always used to.

When I wake up, feeling languid and refreshed, a lobsterboat is tooling out in the bay, circling a bright pink buoy. I wave, wondering if this is the guy who dropped me off. He doesn’t wave back, though he’s far enough away to be more of a little Lego shape than a human, so I figure I’m pretty invisible on the pink granite ledge.

I look around for my bags, but there aren’t any. Yep, that’s par for the course for me, too. I’d make some great plan and then blow all the details. I pat my pockets and realize I didn’t even bring my phone. That’s not good. How am I supposed to call for a ride off the island? Then again, no cell phone means no way to text any of my so-called “friends” for a fix. I pause, wondering if I have any so-called “friends” anymore. I’m pretty sure I don’t.

I decide that not having a phone was probably part of the plan. Not going to lie, I’m kind of impressed I actually got my shit together enough to pull this off, even if flawed. In fact, now that I think about it, if the lobstermen are out, it must be June. My parents always come to the island in late June. I bet my plan was to spend a week or two cleaning up and then surprise them. They haven’t seen me in I’m not sure how long. Maybe three years? I’ve been a shitty daughter and sister. I’ve screwed up. But here on the island, I’m going to be able to fix it, to fix myself. 

This has always been my safe space. We came here as a child every summer. Both my parents were professors, so we spent most of the summer at the cabin. For me and my brother Daniel it meant weeks of unfettered freedom. No parents yelling at us to be careful in the road. No worries about stranger danger. No electronics to suck up our days. Instead, each day was elongated with wonder and marvel. We’d go exploring along the shoreline, climb the ledges without anyone telling us not to get hurt, dig for clams in the cold stinky flats. We’d play tag up in the meadow, racing around the huge boulders that slumbered like great wooly mammoths in their coats of shaggy lichen. Those were the best times of my life.

I head up to the cabin. The grass out front is kind of long, and everything inside is packed up and musty. Mouse pellets track little avenues along the kitchen floor. I’ll clean it up later. First, I need to check the emergency food supplies we always leave stored for just-in-case situations. Rice, beans, spaghetti, some cans of Dinty Moore. That’ll hold me for a week or so. I don’t feel like eating much anyway.

I spot the old foghorn above the mantle. We used to suck in great gulps of air to blow the deep, melancholy moan it’s supposed to make, only to manage to blow squawking wet farts that caused us to fall about laughing. My childhood memories are captured like that, in surround sound 3-D technicolor. My memories of the four years since I went to that frat party are insubstantial, like the faded gauze curtains in the cabin windows, frail threads woven through emptiness. 

I get flashes sometimes of that night four years ago. A bright red Solo cup. A nauseating spin of lights as I dangle limply over a broad shoulder. A dark basement. The sound of laughter. It’s a cruel sound. I tuck it behind a black wall of shame in my mind.

After that night, the world tilted on its axis, with me unable to find my balance. I dropped out of college. Got a crummy job at a burger joint. A “friend” shared some prescription pills to help me calm down. Halcion: a name promising all the idyllic wonder it stole from me. I lost that job, and the world tilted even further. Lost my shitty one-room apartment, and the world flipped upside down, with me trying to right it with anything I could drink, swallow, or snort. I lost contact with my parents. It’s the usual pattern of self-destruction you see in documentaries about rock stars. Only I’m not a rock star, just a fool who couldn’t pick up the pieces of a disaster. I didn’t even think to seek help, just hid somewhere deep inside my head.

Now, on the island, I spend all my time outdoors watching the deer moving like sepia shadows through the trees, the porcupines lumbering up the birch trees with their strange dignity, the tide maintaining its rounds up and down the shore. When it pulls out, long fronds of olive-green seaweed comb the surface, threaded with schools of flashing silver fish. I spot the lobsterman with his pink buoy and wave again. He doesn’t wave back, but it’s comforting to know he’s there since it seems like my folks are late coming up.

Today, I’m totally fogged in. It’s like I’m the only person alive in the entire world. The mist cloaks me in a cool wetness which soaks the dry soil of my soul. Dancing in the grey shroud, I drink it in, quenching a thirst I didn’t know I had.

Funny, when we were kids, we’d usually stay inside on foggy days. We’d play endless games of Sorry and Go Fish! I loved playing hide-and-seek especially. Being younger than my brother by three years, I always messed up. I’d crouch in my little hiding spot, listening to his approaching footsteps, but I couldn’t wait for him to find me. At the last minute, when I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, I’d jump out, yelling, “Surprise!” We’d both start shrieking until our mom made us stop and play Scrabble instead, like some literary punishment for our rowdiness.

I’m starting to worry a little. My days seem blurred together, so I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but the grass is getting really long, like up to my waist. Could something have happened to my parents? They could have died, and I wouldn’t even know. I think I need to get off the island, but every day when I wave at the lobsterman, he manages to ignore me. Maybe I should light a fire on the beach. That’s a good idea. I’ll do that tomorrow.

I check the food supplies and am surprised to see there’s still plenty. I must not be eating much but then again, it’s Dinty Moore so of course I’m not. Dinty Moore is to my stomach what a hangover is to my head.

All summer long, the ocean has been speckled with brightly colored buoys like a connect-the-dots picture that’s never been connected. Today, there are fewer buoys, which would mean the lobstermen are starting to pull their traps. Summer’s over. I briefly wonder how so much time could have gone by. I’m getting concerned about my situation though, so I head down to the shore to light that signal fire like I told myself I would. The bright pink buoys are gone.

Pink is a pretty unusual color for a manly lobsterman. I start thinking I might have been making assumptions and maybe it was a lobsterwoman. But then, assuming a woman would choose pink is kind of also making assumptions. This all makes me tired and confused. Maybe I need a little more rest. As I head back up to the cabin, I notice the blueberry patches have turned a vibrant red, shocking against the dying turf. It makes me flinch.

I awake to the sound of voices. Finally! I get up and can practically see the cold in the air. I’m surprised I haven’t lit a fire in the old wood stove. My parents will be disappointed if they find me like this. I jump up, but outside the window I see the shapes of several men carrying guns. Damn it. Hunters.

In the past, we’d find evidence of hunters in the cabin. A broken door jamb, some disarray, food eaten. Generally, they weren’t too messy and didn’t take anything besides the Dinty Moore, which in all honesty, they were welcome to. Dad disapproved of them, saying men walking an island to drive the deer before them is not very sportsman-like. It made me anxious about the kind of men they might be.

Even though I need a ride off the island, I don’t feel safe facing them. I think I should hide. I slip under the bed, wincing as they batter in the door and stomp into the cabin in heavy boots. The black wall is back inside my head again. I can’t think. The hunters talk and settle into the wicker chairs which creak in protest. Suddenly, their laughter fills the cabin, and just as suddenly, I’m back to that night four years ago, to the Solo cup and the laughter.

I’m desperate to block it out, squeezing my eyes shut in my hiding place. I know, I’ve been hiding ever since that night. Hiding in my head, hiding my body behind oversized clothes, hiding from my parents who would know I had been unforgivably stupid and careless and be disappointed in me. I need to stop hiding, but I can’t. I push myself back further in the darkness under the bed.

Everything has been quiet for a while. I venture to open my eyes. I’m looking into the bright green eyes of a small child who’s on her hands and knees peering at me. I’m confused. The hunters wouldn’t have brought a small child. And she’s dressed only in a tee shirt and shorts, not the bulky winter gear the hunters wore in November.

She appears to be about three or four years old and happy to see me. I slide out from under the bed, through thick balls of dust, and sit on the floor next to her. She grins at me.

“Why were you hiding?”

“There were some…” I pause. No need to make her afraid. I can hear voices in the living room, younger voices of a woman and a man.

“Hunters,” the man is explaining.

“Well, it’s not right,” says the woman’s voice crossly. “You having to fix the jamb every year.”

A much younger voice begins yelling excitedly, “There’s mouse poo in the kitchen!”

“Every year,” the woman sighs.

“Are those your parents?” I ask the child.

The child studies me seriously for a moment. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

“It’s been a few years,” I say, tentatively tasting the words on my tongue. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken to anyone. “I came here when I was a kid. It was the best time I ever had.”

The little child nods. “My brother won’t play with me anymore. Will you play with me?”

I nod back, thinking the conversation is kind of disjointed, but then I am disoriented by the fact that somehow, it’s summer again. White light is streaming through the open windows, carrying with it the crying of gulls.

“Who are you talking to, Hannah?” the man calls.

I’m startled at hearing my own name after so long and almost answer, but I realize he cannot be speaking to me.

“The lady under the bed,” Hannah answers cheerfully.

“Oh, good grief,” I hear the woman say.

“My name’s Hannah too,” I tell the fey little child.

“My name’s Hannah,” she tells me. I’m wondering how to contribute to her one-sided approach to conversation when she continues. “I’m named for Papa’s sister.”

Something inside of me stirs. “Is your dad Daniel?” I ask. It’s possible my brother had married, had children, done the whole living life right thing while I was out screwing up mine.

“He says I look like she did,” Hannah answers unhelpfully. But then I realize with the bright green eyes and curling blond locks and small heart-shaped face, she looks just like I did as a kid.

Daniel! Someone in my family is finally here! I think maybe my heart will explode with a joy I had not thought I would ever feel again. I’d always figured my family hated me for being such a mess up, for disappointing everyone, for ruining my life. But they hadn’t, and the proof was in this beautiful child wearing my name.

I stand abruptly, startling the little girl whose eyes grow round. She staggers to her feet, pointing at me with a chubby finger and jumping up and down on the dusty floor.

“Papa!” she shouts out. “I can see through the lady!” Kids are so weird.

“I’ll go see what she’s going on about,” I hear the man say. His footsteps creak across the cabin floor. It reminds me of scrunching down in some little dark space and listening in thrilled anticipation as his footsteps came closer. I look about quickly. It would be so much fun to surprise him!

I slip over to the doorway to stand behind it and put my finger to my lips in the universal childhood signal for secrecy. Little Hannah giggles wildly, a sound of unleashed joy.

My brother will be so surprised to see me.