Last Night
I threw off the ropes that held the ferry to the dock and stumbled onboard as the boat began to drift out to sea. The boat swayed, and every small wave forced me to find balance. Every twitch of readjustment meant movement and movement meant pain.
Finding my way in the dark to the captain’s quarters, I will always be grateful that the keys were in the ignition—the one gift the universe gave me that day—just dangling there like a lonely silver earring, catching the flickering light of fire in the distance. I turned it and the engine sputtered to life.
I’d never piloted a boat, but it seemed enough like a car that I understood the basics: a steering wheel, a gear shift for forward and backward, and power. It was less a ferry, anyway, and more a large catamaran.
All I cared is that it would carry me—where? Not home. I no longer had a home.
The entire world was open and yet there was only one place that called out to me.
Seattle. To see my father.
I spun the steering wheel, turning away from the burning island. I watched as the destruction rotated from view and I stared ahead at the endless watery horizon. I refused to look back. I already knew what lay there, what loss.
On the control panel, there was a GPS map. I found the Seattle marina and set my course. In less than an hour, I’d find help and I counted down each eternal second in my mind. I throttled the boat to full power, feeling the ferry crest over waves and soon enough I was in the open sea. Even there, the fire reflected into the distance, tentacles of yellow and red reaching far beyond. It would be a long time before it faded entirely.
I was alone. So alone.
Everything that had defined me—my friends, family, home, school, even skin—was gone. I didn’t know by what force I was even able to stand. Ruthie Stroud had escaped that island, but I had no idea who piloted the ferry. No idea who I would become.
I wasn’t sure a future existed anymore.
No, there would no escaping what happened here.
I never belonged on Hemlock Island. I’m not sure I belong anywhere now.
The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done, and I think: who will love me after all this?
Outside was a blanket of darkness, only the lights on the boat, casting out into the void. I thought of my guidance counselor and his desire to be a light in a sea of darkness. Maybe this boat was a beacon. Maybe I was a beacon.
As if in argument, deep down, breaking through the dark, a voice in my head whispered, “Jump! Jump in the ocean!” The voice spoke to me. Encouraging me. Taunting me. The solution to everything. I fought the urge to listen. To move to the railing and let go. To end this great mystery, this great misery and learn what was on the Other Side.
Do it, do it, do it.
But something held me back. I don’t know if it was Life itself, but as much as I wanted to leap, my feet stayed rooted to the floor. To give up now would dishonor all that I’d suffered. I cursed my own cowardice. I cursed life’s insistence on living no matter what.
I screamed and no one heard.
Something caught my eye and distracted me: movement on the passenger deck below. A figure, a wisp of light against the darkness, and then it was gone.
I thought: I’m so tired I must be seeing things. But that seed of doubt, that flicker of worry, led me out of the captain’s quarters and down a small flight of metal stairs, each step a firestorm of pain. The first passenger section was filled with rows and rows of seats—all empty. I crept all the way to the back, trying to save my last bits of energy. Had I actually seen anything?
There. By the stairs. A person.
Then they were gone. Descending.
No, I thought, not an infected adult. Not here.
I looked for a weapon. Nothing. I wondered if I should hide. I feared I might fall unconscious and whoever it was would find me.
I followed down another short flight of stairs to the bottom passenger section.
The figure waited near the stern of the boat. In the dark.
I thought I was seeing a ghost. As I approached, I was certain of it.
A woman I recognized stood looking over the water, over the symmetrical waves from the wake of the engine. When she turned, my heart leapt in my throat and I wanted to run.
It was my mother.
Her fingers were bloody, her nails torn, skin gnashed down to bone. She must’ve literally clawed her way out of the shed, inch by hellacious inch. I couldn’t imagine what she endured, and I thought of how much she and I were alike. By all appearances, she’d avoided any of the fighting. But she was dirty, her hair unkempt, and something in her face told me she was still not the mother I knew growing up.
My body froze and I expected her to lash out, yell and scream, hell—ground me.
“Mom?” I said.
She stared at me, head tilted and I realized she didn’t know who I was. Not with my injuries.
My own mother doesn’t recognize me.
Given a mirror, I wasn’t sure if I’d recognize myself either. “It’s me. Ruthie.”
“Ruthie.” She said my name slowly, as if remembering something from long ago, and I felt a wave of relief. She was real. “My Ruthie’s dead.”
“No, I’m right here.” But I had no reference to prove that I was who I said I was. “I’m your daughter. Remember? Me and Theo?”
“Theo,” she said with some recognition. “Where is he?”
“He’s not here. He….” How do you tell a mother she’s lost her son? My voice cracked. “He’s back on the island.”
She looked over her shoulder at the burning, and I sensed she knew. Otherwise, Theo would be on the boat. And that look she had that was so unlike my mother only deepened. “Were you together?”
I nodded.
“My son,” she said to no one in particular.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and regretted it immediately. What a useless thing to say.
“Was he a good boy?”
“He was. You would’ve been proud of him.”
She stared at me. “You always had your father’s eyes.”
So she’d recognized me after all.
“How could you?” my mother softly asked.
I didn’t know how to answer. “I did what I had to, Mom. I know you don’t understand. Maybe Dad will.”
“No one will.”
I wanted her to see things the way I saw them. To understand how I felt. And yet, we were on opposing sides. “You’re wrong, Mom. I’ll show them. They’ll see.”
We stayed looking at each for I don’t know how long, rising and falling with the ocean swells, when she said, “Come, give your mother a hug.”
I didn’t trust her. She’d tried to hurt me before. But I’d lost Theo. And she was my mother. My mother, the woman who wiped my tears, who loved me when boys threw sand in my face, for so many years she was my world, the center of my universe, my everything. I wouldn’t lose her. I wanted to feel her embrace.
So I did as she asked and I shuffled forward the few feet that separated us. I stood in front of her, and she put her arms around me, and when her skin touched mine, it hurt, every nerve screamed, but she was my mother, and I loved her touch. I loved her.
She hugged me and I was lost. Time stopped, even reversed. In those moments, I thought—maybe this has all been a mistake. Something happened here that wasn’t supposed to. It’s no one’s fault.
If Forgiveness existed, it was here. Now.
I was crying on her shoulder, and I just wanted my mother. It was that simple. I want my mother.
I wanted her to kiss away all my pain. To rock me to sleep. To tell me everything would be all right. I wanted her to live forever.
We spoke of things. About her choices, and mine. About Dad.
Then I felt her hands around my neck. Pressing into my throat, crushing my voice box.
I wasn’t surprised.
I gazed into her eyes and saw a remnant of the mother she once was—filled with love and laughter, and I was flooded with memories: coloring Easter eggs, packing my lunch box for school, sewing costumes, helping me sell Girl Scout cookies, reading bedtime stories, baking my favorite chocolate cake with M&Ms, and quizzing me on my spelling test before school. Years of memories, large and small, the unremarkable events of daily life, the invisible actions that bonded a family together.
All those memories and I wanted to stay in them. I felt them. Such peace. My pain disappeared. Gone. I was whole again. Pure. I wanted to die with those memories, surrounded by such love. I fell into their warmth, their release, my legs growing weak, the edges of my vision becoming blurry, darkness encroaching, but something in me refused to die.
Something revolted, something protested and I broke free from her spell and gasped, “No!”
Even in my weakened state and my skin cracking, I grabbed her. I hated it. Manhandling my mother. Shoving her. Throttling her.
Although she flailed, I knew what I had to do. I thrust her overboard, bending her body to my will, every inch a war, every millimeter a struggle.
She had given birth to me, but I would send her to her death.
She reached for anything to hold onto. Prying the last of her fingers from the railing, her screams in my ear, I watched as she splashed into the water. The boat continued onward and she was just this bobber in the ocean, bubbling up, trying to stay afloat, shouting something I could not hear, but when I closed my eyes, I think sounded very much like I love you.