Page 12 of What You Never Knew

May and I would splash around in the lake, ducking underwater whenever a bat skimmed across the surface in pursuit of dinner. We knew it was time to get out when the red tip of our mother’s cigarette died away and the sound of ice against the walls of her glass rang out.

She’d hurry us both up the path to the cottage, warning us each and every time not to trip on the rocks or tree roots. Inside the cottage we’d kiss her good-night and take ourselves upstairs to put on our pajamas, brush our damp hair tight against our skulls, and brush our teeth with sharply minted toothpaste.

Our mother would stay downstairs, puttering around, listening to her records and doing whatever she did into the night. That time of night was when our worlds split into two, leaving me and May as one island and my mother as her own. She never said it outright, but we knew we were not to come downstairs after the night swim.

We’d turn all the lights out except for the bedside lamp and climb into May’s bed. My mother’s music would drift up the stairs and under the door, a soft soundtrack to our hushed conversations. Our cheeks would still be pulsing with the power of the day’s sun, our eardrums still pressurized as though we were underwater—until we yawned enough to pop the sensation away.

We’d talk until May became sleepy; she was always the first to give in, which meant I got sent to my room. May was serious about sleep and claimed I kicked too much and called out. Restless in life and in sleep, Leo used to say about me.

Even when my mother left us on our own to go across the bay to the resort, we followed the ritual of a night swim and climbing into May’s bed. When we got older, it was to talk about boys we liked and girls we didn’t. I’d stretch my tanned legs up the slant of the wall to admire my brightly painted toenails. Once or twice we smoked a cigarette we’d stolen from my mother’s purse, blowing the smoke through the screen, where the breeze whisked it away.

In the stillness of the night, we were always able to hear our mother’s approach. The sound of the boat carried across the calm water and through the open windows. It was a high hum as she sped across the bay, then became a low rumble when she slowed down near the dock and a soft put-putting before the engine cut out completely. I was always safely in my own bed by the time I heard the creak of the screen door.

May and I read sounds at the cottage the way blind people read braille—to understand what was happening and prepare for what was coming next. Screen doors opening and closing, music playing, ice clinking against glass, creaks on the stairs, the rumbling of arguments between my parents like thunder from deep within the sky—all of them were instructions on how to orbit my mother: stay away, come close, come close but not too close. Those sounds were our points of sail in a windstorm.

As in the other bedrooms, the sheets are still on the bed, tucked in tightly at the corners as though just waiting for their occupants to return. The place was closed properly in every other respect—water and electricity turned off, fridge cleaned out—but it’s like we forgot about the bedrooms. I wonder if my mother was planning on returning. Was it the grief over my father’s departure that kept her from ever coming back? And if that was the case, then why didn’t she just sell the island? The futility of these questions, with everyone in my family gone, exhausts me.

The quilt at the end of May’s bed is lavender and white. I unfold it, give it a good shake, and wrap it around me—ignoring the musty scent. Lying down on her bed, I stretch my legs up onto the slanted part of the ceiling above me like I used to. My muscles sting slightly with the pull of it, and I feel foolish. I slide them back down and curl up into a ball with my head on the pillow.

Holding my breath, I listen for something familiar, for some sound to ground me to this place, but the creaks and buzzes are foreign to me. Avril Island has changed with age just like I have. The loneliness of it thuds around my chest like a trapped rat. I miss my girls. I miss May. I miss my youth.

Tears begin to leak slowly from my eyes, and I don’t stop them. I just lie there, letting the pillow soak them up. I’m too tired to get up, too tired to try to escape the sorrow. And I have nowhere to go. I’m on an island in the middle of a lake in the dead of night with nobody here to interrupt my grief.

The slow leak of tears turns into sobs pulled from the depths of my gut. The sobs turn to bellows. There’s no one to hear me, no one to be frightened by my primal display of pain. I unleash the monster of it, and we dance together in one long, ugly dance until I am too tired to move and it finally lets me sleep.

Hot sun beating down on my face wakes me. It’s streaming strong through the windows of May’s room, which means it must be midday at least. It’s stuffy and I’m sweating, even under the light quilt. My head throbs, and my eyes are swollen and feel as though bits of sand have scraped across their surface. That’s what crying will do. I don’t recommend it.

Throwing the covers back, I shuffle into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I change into a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and my running shoes. Each task feels difficult. My body is so heavy with grief. My outpouring last night did nothing to exorcise it. Instead it feels stronger than ever, as though it’s taken over all of my soul instead of just one corner of it.

Downstairs I find the old CorningWare coffee percolator and plug it in to make coffee. The room quickly fills with the rich scent of it, making me feel a little more human. May and I took turns putting the coffee on each morning. My mother wouldn’t come down until she smelled it brewing.

I stand at the counter and can almost hear the delicate padding of her feet on the stairs behind me as she arrives for her first cup. As soon as she appeared, the energy of the room shifted, became weighted and charged at the same time. As her daughters, it was our job to read her expressions and mannerisms so that we knew how to proceed. Did she need extra attention that morning or space to be alone? Did she need the little white pills she kept in a case in her purse? Did she need compliments, affection, or silence?

Reading those signs was important; if we made even one misstep, we’d pay for it. Maybe just a harsh scolding, or a pile of chores heaped on us, or the silent treatment, or maybe, the very worst, a character assassination—being told what horrible daughters we were and why. Those moments were the ones that left scars, the internal kind, our personalities growing and developing around the bumpy scar tissue so that we were never really rid of them.

Some mornings she came down and nothing was needed. She was feeling good, ready for the day, her spirits high, and everything in me would relax. I built my love for her around those moments, convincing myself that it was the real version of my mother, not the other, unpredictable one who could turn my whole world black with the flick of her tongue.

After forcing a piece of toast and some coffee into myself, I feel slightly better. I move to the washing machine in a fog and slowly pull out the wet sheets and towels. I’m relieved and surprised to find that the clothesline has survived; it still runs from a hook on the house to a tall pine tree on the other side of the yard. With the speed and agility of an eighty-year-old, I hang each item on the line and pin it into place. The task soothes me with its methodical movement, the quiet of outside and the warm sun on my back. Just keep busy, I tell myself.

A wall of linens is created, blowing in the soft breeze, dissecting the yard down the middle. The task exhausts me, so I lie down on the grass, right underneath a white sheet that hangs only an inch or so above me. It moves gently back and forth, changing my view of the sky second by second.

The grass under my hands is still damp from the dew and gently soaks my back. I imagine sinking down into the dirt below, so deep I can no longer see the sky; so deep my breath is buried. I imagine the worms feasting on my skin and bones, ingesting the grief that’s in every piece of me. Those sad worms then become food for the birds. The birds ingest my grief in turn, then fly it out into the world and spread a plague of sorrow.

Tears bite at the back of my throat. I sit up before they can become full-blown. Move, some part of my brain screams. Pushing myself up off the ground, I swat the white sheet away and start running—across the lawn, around to the front of the cottage, until I find the faintest trace of the path that once led all the way around the island.

I run as fast as I can, slowing only to navigate tree roots, fallen branches, rocks, and the odd small bush that has grown up over time. My atrophied muscles tighten and pop, the loose flesh around them shaking until a hot itch spreads across my skin. My lungs expand and pull in the fresh air, stinging with the effort. The pounding of my blood echoes the pounding of my feet on the soft earth.

I used to run five times a week; I even did a half marathon every year. There’s been no running since May died. Mourning has become my full-time job; I’d forgotten that running is a cure. My body protests the sudden onslaught of movement but celebrates it at the same time.

I don’t stop until I’m at the other side of the island. It’s not a long distance, maybe only a mile, but in that short time I’ve cleared away the fog and outrun my self-pity. The sweat dripping from my forehead and trickling down the inside of my T-shirt is cleansing, as though emotion has been released through my pores.

Squatting down on the rocky shore, I splash some cool lake water onto my face, let the water lap up onto my running shoes, wait for my breath to slow. Every muscle in my body is singing, and a warm calm has arrived after the sudden explosion of endorphins.

I stand up, ready to run back, and notice that another, more discernible path runs away from the shore and right into the forest. It actually looks like it might have been used recently; the ground is well worn, and nothing grows across it. Following it into the trees, I expect to find remnants of a bonfire, discarded beer cans, maybe condoms. Evidence of young people who realized the island was deserted and made it their personal outdoor party spot.

The path ends in front of a tree about fifty feet in. Right away I notice a small cross made out of sticks, stuck in the ground at the base of a tree. It looks like a child made it, so maybe it was part of some game May and I played when we were younger. There are bound to be surprises, things forgotten after so many years.

Nonetheless, I give the cross a little kick, just hard enough to send it into a pile of leaves a few feet away. Religion’s never really been my thing, but since May’s car accident my indifference to it has developed into full-blown resentment.