2000
I am following my sister Beatrice through the house, trying to listen to her as she gushes and tumbles over herself, pulling me from room to room in this bizarre reunion tour of our childhood home.
“Honestly,” B.B. says, “I think you should have the whole third floor. The turret could be your…”
I’m having trouble listening. A low fuzz in my head makes it impossible to hear anything else. The house is bigger and emptier than I remember it. Each room cavernous, the furniture exactly as I left it, as if the house was staged (quite poorly) to sell some eleven years ago and has been waiting to boast about itself to a never-arriving viewer.
Somewhere down the hall I can hear Wilderness on the phone—a man I should probably call sheriff if only to convince my brain that he is an authority figure and not just the acne-covered boy I once knew who used to sit quietly at that same kitchen table looking over a math book while B.B. argued with Carrie over how many pages B.B. had left to work.
B.B. and I are moving down the hallway from kitchen to living room. The space feels tall but tight, and a sleeping bag and pillow are shoved to the side.
“Have you been sleeping down here?” I ask.
“Makes me feel closer to my mother.”
What is that supposed to mean? B.B.’s boldness, leaving the evidence of her slumber like that, makes me worried. What else will she tell me if I ask? Am I ready for any of it?
“You have to consider the bones of the house and not pay attention to this shitty furniture.” B.B.’s begun to sound like a Realtor. I’d mock her if I had the headspace to do so. “A lot of it is screwed to the floor. Do you remember that? We used to have to clean underneath the couch by lying on our tummies and sliding a broomstick with a rag attached to it. Fucking weird, right?”
The sofa in the living room is a scratchy brown, and hung above it is the old head of the moose that Seth Volt supposedly killed; although, now that I think about it, there have never been moose on this island. The story is unlikely, yet here remains Kind King Ferdinand with his rickety antlers and brown marble eyes. His lower lip drooping and losing its stuffing, begging to be allowed to decompose.
“Why didn’t we throw this away?”
My sudden interruption startles B.B. a little. The conversation has not been interactive. “It’s always hung there behind the couch. We just never used this room.”
“It’s awful.” I’m unable to take my eyes off it.
Awful is an understatement. Ferdinand’s shadow is wide and long enough to darken the whole room. The dingy brown of his hair makes the couch look new. When the island was too cold or rainy to let us leave the house, we would inevitably get in trouble with our father—for laughing too loudly or using our sleeping bags to ride down the stairs like giant worm girls. He would emerge from his office and point to the living room, bellowing, “Girls! You sit here until you’ve calmed down!” The moose head wasn’t meant to be part of the punishment, but it would loom above us with its great snout and its rigid ears.
“It’s rotting,” I say.
“It is.”
“Taxidermy rots?”
“Everything rots.”
I don’t have to touch the couch to remember how much it itched. How, when we were told to take a time-out for whatever we’d done, the old fabric would print waffles into our thighs.
“I don’t like the couch or the head,” I say.
“Then out it goes! We can put every goddamn thing on the curb if you want to. Let’s go upstairs. I’m so excited to talk it all through.” She is chattering again, talking even faster now that she’s gotten me to react in some way.
“Are you on something?” I ask before following. “Too much coffee? Speed?”
“Shut up.”
I didn’t realize until I walked back inside Quarry Hollow that I was missing the sensory memories. I could have told you which doors stuck (all of them) or which floorboards creaked and which keys on the piano no longer worked (most of them), but I couldn’t have told you about the smell of enclosure in the air—as if there isn’t a single window that has ever been opened—or the way the ceiling fixture in the bunk-bed room fills with dead bugs so much that the carcasses block the light and rattle around like peppercorns when the winter wind finds its secret ways into the house. I hadn’t forgotten the soft give of the floorboards, but I didn’t remember how their bounce feels less like rot and more like wanting. A desire that is echoed by the rush of the toilets when flushed, as sudden as airplane toilets—the handle opening up the throat of the beast—seemingly powerful enough to suck us down.
“I’ll clean up the bedroom Dad used and share that with my boyfriend. There is already a bed on the third floor, and I’m sure we can get a new mattress in there ASAP.”
“Wait. What boyfriend? I thought you had a ‘maybe’ girlfriend?” The sensation of being back in the house is still distracting. My brain is cutting in and out on B.B.’s monologue.
“I don’t have one yet, but it’s only a matter of time, Henrie,” B.B. says, and her eyes barely have to flash back toward the stairs for me to know she means Wilderness.
“No, B.B. Not Wilde.”
“I do what I want. Now keep up.”
B.B. makes room for me to peer into the second-floor bathroom. It’s an unremarkable room, although quite big once you make it through the doorway. A claw-foot tub with a shower curtain hung around it across from a white sink and toilet. The white tile floor is chipped, yellowing near the baseboards. I haven’t thought about this space in years, but it’s all exactly the same. Even the too-long shower curtain. B.B. and I used to take baths in that tub. Our parents’ jojoba shampoo could be used for bubbles if necessary, and we’d spend hours in there, draining a little bit of cold water to layer in hot until the water heater gave up on us. The towels always hung in bunches—the damp of those wrinkled folds never losing the cloying smell of mildew.
“The turret is above here so you could easily extend the pipes up.”
“For what?”
“Are you not listening? For your darkroom. We could cover the windows, and I bet Carrie would know how to extend the pipes.”
“You are fucking crazy.”
“Why would you say that?”
“We aren’t staying here. We have lives off island. We both do.”
“We can bring our lives here. What’s stopping us from doing that? You can’t be a photographer here? You can study with Ms. Sonia. Learn island history. I can take over for Dad.”
“What does that even mean? Dad was a recluse. You gonna shut yourself in his office and write poems?” I don’t mean it to come out as nasty as it does, an insult somehow to both her and my father. My sister glances in the direction of my father’s office. She looks nervous.
“It means nothing. Just that I’d keep up the house and the land we now own. And I’ll join the council.”
“Jesus, B.B.”
“What?”
“That sounds…” I realize I don’t know what to say. Terrible? Wonderful? Possible?
“Carrie would never let me stay and you know it.”
“Aren’t you twenty-four? Does your mother get to tell you where to stay and not stay? And isn’t your lease up on your apartment in June? Is someone giving you a free place to live? I mean, someone besides our dad, who has left you your own island house?”
“B.B., this place is…”
“Is what?”
“I don’t know. Dangerous!”
“I knew you weren’t listening. We will make this a new place. A new house. A new island. We will be like Elizabeth and Eileen Fowler before Seth Volt showed up. They were pioneers, those two. Strong women who were going to make this island a town. That’s us! Volt sisters unite!”
“Don’t be such a dork, B.B.”
“Yes, maybe, but they were the ones who made it a home. Settled in and tamed it.”
“I think the word you are looking for is colonized.”
“Henrie, don’t be difficult.”
“Me? Difficult? This place is not safe, B.B. That’s fact.”
“What you’re saying is all negative bullshit. We’ve been left this house. Me and you. It’s our responsibility.”
“B.B.! It’s called the Killing Pond for a reason, and not just because we named it that in one of our games.” I suddenly realize there is a blank spot in my memory from last night. A gap between seeing the body in the quarry and waking up in the Island Inn—my brain and body separated for a time. The realization makes me feel uneasy, out of control.
“You can’t just ditch me again.”
The use of the word again hurts, and she knows it.
“What makes you suddenly want to stay?” I realize she has not made this change of heart clear, and it is a change of heart. As soon as college became an option, she left too.
“Well”—she smiles so wide that it verges on crazy—“I feel different since Daddy died. Sad, sure. But, also, more powerful. More certain. We aren’t the same girls who were separated way back when. We are new! We can be better than our parents without making their mistakes, their decisions. Plus, I know several people who are going to be homeless postgraduation. I’m thinking that, at least for the summer, we could fill this place up. Fill every room with someone we know and give it back some life.”
“Carrie would never live here.”
“Good! I don’t want her to.”
“But I do.”
“Fine, whatever. I don’t care. Just think about this, Henrie,” B.B. says, grabbing hold of my wrist. “What has this family never tried? Never insisted on when things got rough?”
“I have no clue, B.B.”
“Staying together! As soon as things get weird, we run our separate ways. Daddy thought he could handle it all on his own—”
“That’s not true! He kept you.”
“Yes, but he didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t ask for help. He tried to farm me out to Ms. Sonia so I could be the stupid keeper or whatever. I said, ‘Fuck that,’ and was really damn lonely for a long time. You and me, we are the Volt sisters. No secrets. No shame. And we can do anything together, right?”
B.B. is staring at me, begging me to agree with her, and all I can think of is that body in the quarry, my camera closing in on her. The emptiness of my stomach and then a blank stretch of time.
“Carrie would never go for it.”
“She would for you,” B.B. says.
There was a time when I couldn’t fathom wanting anything other than this island.
We are passing by our dad’s office door, and I hear the first rustle of voices from beyond it. A low whisper, the murmur of the ghosts shushing me. They do not want me to dig through my memory, they do not want me to tell B.B. that I have lost time. Shhhhh, they say. Sweet girl. It is not her business.
B.B. slides between me and the closed door, like she wants to make sure I don’t go in. I don’t say anything; I let her think this sly move has not been noticed. We stare instead at an old portrait of our great-great-grandfather—Seth Volt. There were never many family photos in the house, but this one has always been right here.
“Do you remember what Daddy used to say?” Beatrice startles me with this question. It’s off topic and she sounds genuinely sad.
“Every man for himself,” I say, sarcastic.
“Shut up. What he used to start all his stories about Seth Volt with.”
I do remember.
“‘When your great-great-grandfather first got to Fowler,’” B.B. starts in a purposefully deep voice, and I join in, “‘there were so many trees you had to suck in your stomach just to make it from spot to spot.’”
“‘A squirrel could cross from beach to beach without ever touching ground,’” I continue alone, doing my best imitation of my father’s gravelly voice, and it sounds nothing like him, but B.B. still laughs.
“Do you remember the pipe Daddy smoked? Smelled so good.”
“God, yes. Did he ever give that up?”
“He did. Caught me smoking cigarettes when I was a teenager and told me he’d quit if I quit.”
“But you didn’t quit!”
“Nope, but he didn’t know that! Do you remember how he used to leave us those notes?”
“All over the house!”
“Yes!”
“Rolled up and stuck in the keyhole of our room! What was it the notes said?” I ask, feeling uneasy.
“You remember. They either said nonsense things like ‘Green is the color of the day’ or they assigned us chores—‘Clean stove inside and out’—or they were commands.”
“I can’t remember those.”
“Yes, you do. He’d tape them to the back of soup cans or put them in books to mark a certain page: ‘Always stay outside after dark’ or ‘Learn how to walk on tiptoe’ or ‘Risk a little death every day.’”
I remember suddenly a note taped to the mirror in the bathroom. Small and typed, it read, Smile, no one else is going to do it for you. Had that been from our father? His paper. His typewriter keys. So, yes, probably. What B.B. is referring to, however, seems like a whole different life. A catalog of a time when I wasn’t aware or even here, and it hurts. Burns in my belly.
“He was crazy,” I say, and know there is truth in those three words, but they also imply that I am on the same page as my sister, that her memories are mine, which isn’t at all true. It’s a big lie. Fat between us.
“That’s us. Fowler Island’s weirdest. Better than boring.”
“Is it?”
“This portrait was one of his note spots! Want to see if there is still one left?”
B.B. is already moving the painting off the wall so I don’t bother answering. Something about her holding it, awkwardly, makes me realize in a new way how big the picture is. The dark spot on the wall where it hung reflects the same surprisingly wide and tall space. A bit of wallpaper is almost pretty, another spot of brightness our family has covered up. I wonder if B.B. is right. If we unloose the furniture, pull down the moose head, and clean out all the cupboards, will there be so many bright, fresh spots uncovered that the house will find a new life? A healthier version of itself?
“There.” I see a small scrap tucked into the frame. I pull out the yellow paper. It’s Daddy’s for sure and his handwriting with its mostly capital letters. I read it aloud: “‘Beatrice was never lonely.’”
We are both silent. B.B. hangs the photo back on the wall. Some of her joy is gone. She looks angry. That tiny blip of hope that B.B. made me feel is gone now too. Dread floods in.
“Daddy left us the house. The two of us. Together. He’d want us to do something good with it.” Her voice is somber. Her mouth downturned. She’s lying about something—that much is easy to tell—but I don’t know what. “Now is our time, Henrie. I’m telling you. We will make you a darkroom. You can fill this house with family pictures. Not Volt family. Not that old sad shit, but new shit. New family. Who we are now and who we bring here to be our family. Let’s throw away this painting! And the first picture we hang will be a photo you take of us. We’ll frame it and put it right here.”
B.B. yanks Seth’s grimy portrait off the wall again and hurls it down the stairs, the cracking shards spilling out as it skids down the stairs.
“B.B.! You can’t just throw that away.”
“Why not? It’s my house.” B.B. stops abruptly and turns a little pink before she adds, “I mean our house.”
“We should give it to Ms. Sonia or something. It’s historical.”
“Fine. But you have to agree to stay and live here with me. We will fix this old place up.”
“Don’t you remember Mom trying to fix this place up all through our childhood? It never took.”
“Henrietta Volt! Stop avoiding the question. Besides, your mother, Carrie, is no Volt.”
“Fine. I’ll stay for the summer. We’ll fix it up, but you have to agree that we are fixing it up to sell it.”
“Can we invite in our friends for the summer if they are willing to help?”
“Sure,” I say.
B.B. spits in her palm and holds it out to me. I raise my eyebrow in disgust. “Shake on it. Spit pact.”
I spit and shake. The slime of us, at least, is agreeing on something.
“Henrie!” Carrie yells from the kitchen. “Henrie! Where are you?”
“Coming,” I call. The next step is breaking the news to Carrie: Mom, I won’t be leaving with you. I’m staying on. It sounds nuts even in my own head. Just for the summer, I will insist. I know already she isn’t going to believe me. We will fix up the house, make it as beautiful as it can be, and then sell it. I promise!
She will say, Henrietta, sweetie, the island will not let go.
I will say, Mama, I have to. I’m so sorry.
B.B. is grabbing my arm, digging her nails in too tight and pulling me close to her. “I have your word now. No going back.” Her smile is replaced by something dark and desperate. Something old that looks like it was nailed to the floor of this house a long time ago.
She lets go of my arm and the smile is back. “You’ll see,” she says. “By the end of the summer, you will want to stay.” I watch her move ahead of me toward the kitchen, skipping a little down the dark hall.
“That’s not what we’ve agreed to!” I holler after her.
In my hand, I hold the yellow slip of paper my father left in the picture frame for B.B. to find. Its tall dark letters do not give away when it was written. Last month? A decade ago? The years in which my father must have watched the quiet eat his daughter up. I feel it too. The stillness of the house. The body part in the quarry, telling us nothing about who it was, only that it was. Yet, something about the idea of staying is also intoxicating; it’s almost preternatural. Perhaps we are as different as B.B. keeps insisting. Special. And deeper, under all that dreamy noise—the ghosts whispering, Help us, and the island whispering, Stay, I can hear my own truth, deep in my chest where my ribs curve back in to threaten my heart, and it is not a whisper. My body is screaming, Run.