Page 54 of What You Never Knew

What I do know is that he’s gorgeous, kind, considerate, successful, funny, and smart but has never been married and has never spoken of a long-term relationship. He bends down and kisses me gently on the lips before leaving the room to make me breakfast. I slide back down under the duvet, wondering why such a catch of a man has, as far as I can tell, remained uncaught.

After Ezra leaves for work, I head to Avril Island. The police called while I was eating breakfast and said they’d be by around noon. As I arrive back in the light of day, the night before just feels like a bad dream.

The morning couldn’t be more perfect. The lake is like glass, the only movement a duck cutting through its silky surface. The sky is a clear blue, not one cloud in sight. Dragonflies zip above me, catching early-morning bugs. Nothing could be scary in this setting.

I sit with my feet hanging off the end of the dock. The water is so still I can see right down to the round rocks and old logs that cover the bottom. The odd fish swims lazily through the underwater obstacle course.

It’s mornings like these that I remember from childhood. Looking back, it feels like every single one was like this. May and I would bring our cereal or toast down here, still groggy from sleep. We would have woken up, put on our bathing suits and maybe a pair of shorts. Grabbed some breakfast and a towel and headed down here. We’d eat in silence, both of us taking from the morning what we needed. Then we might go swimming if we’d woken up enough. Or lie on our towels on the dock in the sun—the boards already warmed with its heat.

My mother would come down at some point with her coffee and Baileys—a veritable force, upsetting the gentle morning balance of May and me. Wearing one of her bright, flowing bathing suit cover-ups, a bikini on underneath. She’d drop her tote bag beside a lounge chair and spread her towel out before shedding the cover-up.

Pulling out a tube of Bain De Soleil, she’d spread the orange tanning cream all over her already dark skin. The tropical-smelling substance enhanced one’s tan; it didn’t protect against it. Skin cancer was not a thing back then.

May often slipped off the dock at that point into the cover of the water, staying under as long as she could in the suspended, green quiet of submersion. I usually picked up my towel and moved it onto the lounge chair beside my mother’s and asked to use some of her tanning cream so that I could smell her on me all day.

So many mornings bloomed from this dock into days full of swimming, tanning, friends, sailing, cliff jumping, water skiing, and lazy afternoons in the hammock. So many mornings identical to this one but now so far out of my reach.

The day is already hot, and just sitting there in the sun, I’ve broken a sweat. I wish I had my bathing suit on so I could dive in and cool off. Then it dawns on me that this is my island and I can do whatever I want. Who cares if some stupid kid is trespassing and catches sight of me? Maybe it will scare them off. I stand up and peel off my stale clothes from last night.

The breeze brushes against my liberated skin, and I wonder if anything feels better than this. Moving to the edge of the dock, I plant my feet and make a graceful dive into the cool, clear water. All the bits of myself that are usually covered by a bathing suit celebrate the sensation. It feels like swimming through silk as I pump my arms and legs through the deep water.

How have I not done this yet? I think to myself as I rise to the surface. And why not with Ezra? The thought brings on a fluttering of butterflies. I hang out in the water for a little while, then pull myself up onto the dock. I didn’t bring a towel, so I hurry up the path and into the cottage.

Running across the living room to get to the linen closet, I reflexively cringe, expecting the scolding that always came if we walked through the cottage without drying off first. The silence reminds me once again that I’m alone and I’m in charge. When my girls come, I won’t say a word if they decide to traipse though the place soaking wet. It doesn’t hurt anything; the footprints dry right into the age-old wooden floor. Not having the same rules that my parents did is a liberating feeling.

Being back here is changing me. I can feel it. I’m slowly shedding the doubts and insecurities that grow like warts on your insides as you get older, rising from a breeding ground of multiple failures, controlling husbands, character assessments made by your parents that you never seem to fully escape, and other countless shards of life that get buried in your subconscious.

Avril Island has given me back some part of myself—the twelve-year-old girl I was when I left here so long ago. She didn’t know enough about the world yet to be afraid, she didn’t know enough about people yet to shut them out, and she didn’t know that failure was even a possibility. That girl’s been here waiting all this time for me to show up and reclaim her.

MAY

There are police here. Two of them—a man and a woman. They’re standing over by the record player with June. The male police officer is holding the cord in his hand and examining it closely.

I understand why after I hear June explain how it turned on by itself in the middle of the night. June walks them over to a window and points outside to where she apparently saw someone run off into the woods.

The police ask her some standard questions about the doors being locked, and apparently she’d checked them before bed and they were. They seem to think the record player and stranger are an unrelated coincidence.

The male police officer speaks the most. He’s about ten years older than June and maybe twenty years older than the female police officer. He has that condescending tone that older men in positions of power so often have, mostly directed at women, as though he’s talking to imbecilic children. You can tell he used to be quite good-looking, which never helps in the attitude department. He wears a wedding ring, the skin puffy around it, so you can imagine him taking it off at night and massaging the blood flow back to the area.

Taking in all of these details, I realize I haven’t seen anyone other than June and Ezra since I died. I’m a recluse even in death. Just for fun I move right up close to the female police officer. She shivers and glances over her shoulder, then puts a hand on her utility belt. She’s pretty in a plain kind of way, her blond hair pulled back into a tight bun, no makeup, her body a well-worked-out machine.

The longing to feel the softness of skin, the press of lips, the cushion of breasts suddenly floods my space. How is a dead person supposed to deal with the longing for love? It makes me wish I’d spent more time on it while alive, gotten over the shame and just lived in my truth.

I had several girlfriends over the years, but my inability to go public with them always eroded away at the relationship, leaving me single in the end. The one-night stands I collected were brief encounters and left me feeling only shame. June always encouraged me to come out, to force my mother to accept it, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to give her more ammunition.

June is saying something about chasing the person into the woods and them getting away in a boat. The female police officer asks June to take them there, then glances over at the male police officer to make sure she’s made the right request. I move up close to her again and say right into her ear, Don’t let the asshole intimidate you. He doesn’t know any more than you do. She turns her head in my direction and frowns before lifting a hand to her ear to brush my words away.

I don’t follow them. Instead I watch from inside the cottage as June leads them both down the path into the woods, the sight of which brings a chunk of memory floating up to the surface. It’s definitely part of the one I had the last time I was here, of West coming up the path toward me and my mother in the middle of the night.

In this bit of the memory, I’m standing at the very same window I am now, watching my mother and West disappear together into the forest with only the light of the moon to guide them. My mother is carrying a shovel; West is carrying something in his arms. I can’t see what it is, because he’s facing away from me, but I can tell by his pace and posture that it’s something heavy.

The memory has a distinct feeling to it, one that surges in me now. I stood here watching something that caused me terror. I don’t want to know what he’s carrying or where they’re going. I don’t want to know why. The resistance brings the fading on. My visits are getting shorter, the bits of memory clearer and more ominous. I wonder how much time I have before the entire memory rises up to show itself. Will it break me apart completely, send me back to the quiet for good? Whatever is going to happen, I know it won’t be long now …

JUNE

The police say that nothing was seen last night by the police boat but that they’ll have a boat go by again a few times tonight to check on things. I take them to the place on the island where I saw the tin boat leave from, and I show them the tree with the cross. The male police officer just stands there looking bored, while the female police officer asks me some questions and takes a couple of photos of the tree.

They think it’s a good idea to stay at a friend’s for the night and wait for me to pack a bag before we all leave the island at the same time. I can’t help but feel that I’m abandoning her all over again.