Professor M. Weary showers and dresses. He can barely contain his excitement, but he must try. He knows it will take some time for Isabelle to adjust, and so he must give her adequate space and calm. That first night in her hotel room, Isabelle will fear every rumble from the ice machine and bolt upright at the footsteps of traveling salesmen. In the morning, the shock will hit. The disbelief will. She will question her own sanity. She’ll circle her reasoning again and again. She will marvel at how little she has with her. She’ll cry with regret and grow giddy with possibility.
He knows this.
He knows that she will look at herself in the mirror, at any alterations she makes in her appearance, and she’ll feel a jolt, and a sense of marvel. But she’ll look over her shoulder and weigh every word from every stranger. She will read every expression and gesture as she has done since she was small, but even more so, for a long while. It takes a long while to stop being afraid after you’ve been that afraid. It takes a long while to trust your own self when you’ve been so questioned.
Another thing she’ll do? Replay that night again and again, same as Professor Weary did. Does. He remembers it all. It will never leave him. How, on the boat trip, Henry had caught Sarah writing that email to Virginia’s sister, Mary. How Henry’s face twisted in rage. How the hatred burned in his eyes. She’d been so careful, to hide the watch and the photo and her journal in Gavin Gray’s safety deposit box, but she’d gotten nervous, cooped up with Henry like that on the boat. Scared, as his paranoia about Gavin Gray got crazy. Someone else needed to know what was going on, in case something bad happened to her.
And then it did. The worst possible thing happened. Henry flung open the cabin door, because he always, always knew when you were betraying him. He caught her with the laptop, wrested it away. He saw the name Mary. He saw the words If any harm should come to me. It was as far in the email as she’d gotten, but it was far enough. The professor still has nightmares about that argument, about pushing past Henry in that cabin, running across the deck, and realizing there was no escape. There was only dark water, and more dark water. Rough, cold water, slapping the sides of the boat.
In his dreams, the professor can hear Henry’s screaming voice. You know nothing! And he can feel Sarah’s voice rising in her chest, unleashing, because what did it matter now, now that this was the end of her? I know everything. I know what you did. In his dreams and even in his waking moments, the professor feels Henry’s hands shoving, feels the shock and cold of being suddenly submerged. He feels himself kick toward the surface, gasping for air. Again and again, he tries and tries to untie that dinghy. He feels the thick wet rope, the fist of a knot, and then, dear God, the miracle of loosening. It loosens, the dinghy is free, and he grips its edge as waves smack his face, as he swallows water, and chokes and holds on. Sometimes, when night falls on Mount Khogi, when the jungle is all around him, pulsing and dangerous, he sees Henry standing on the deck of that boat, looming above with his arms folded calmly, because Sarah’s fate was certain.
And sometimes in his dreams, he cannot untie that dinghy. He cannot keep his head above the waves as the dinghy bucks and drifts, as he thrashes and fights to stay alive. He does not finally summon the impossible strength to pull himself over the side. He does not make it to shore by his own will, letting go of that boat so that it will look like Sarah has drowned. He does not watch that boat disappear over the horizon, knowing he must disappear now, too, for his own safety. And he does not stumble to an old phone booth to make the call to Gavin Gray that will save him. He thrashes, he goes under. He wakes up, trembling and panic-stricken, just as the sea wins and swallows him.
He wakes up, and his heart pounds in fear, and he must assure himself that he is alive. That she is. Sarah, even if the old Sarah is gone forever.
Isabelle, too, will quiz herself on her new identity, as she hides for a short time in the busy anonymity of the city. She will say her name again and again until she believes it. Weary remembers Gavin Gray’s eyes showing a mix of worry and glee when Sarah told him the name she chose.
M. Weary? Are you sure? Gavin Gray said.
Am weary? Am exhausted, Sarah said. M. Fed Up.
And Isabelle will be glad to be alive. So glad, because she has been so frightened, and now she is not. She’s free. This feeling will never leave her. She may forget it momentarily in the busyness of the day, in the heat or the demands of the jungle, but then it will come again: the rush of relief, the gratitude for her life and its splendor, and the sheer fact that it is. She is not Virginia. She’s not one of the many, many Virginias.
Some things will be easier for her, thanks to Weary. The same way it’s always easier for the younger sister, because the older one leads the way. There will be no need for chopped hair and bound breasts, something Isabelle, with her fine features and lilting voice and small hands, couldn’t have convincingly pulled off, regardless. There won’t be the scrutiny, either. She won’t need to stay here, as Sarah has; after a while, she can go wherever she wishes. There won’t be agents making a visit, trying to locate a maybe-missing person. She will not need Gavin Gray to hide her, bless his sweet soul. Gavin Gray, who loved Sarah beyond measure, who loved her better than anyone ever had, who rescued her and kept her safe, even if her own love remained only devoted and platonic. None of this will be necessary for Isabelle. Not when she is number three. Not with the work already done.
Such a shame number two was not enough. But, look! An arrest, in twenty-four hours! The wetsuit was found right away, and so much more, too. What a field day for the media! Isabelle has done an astounding job, and so has he. Weary couldn’t have hoped for better. Isabelle is a champion. Isabelle has done an amazing job, plus.
“She only swims in the morning, never at night,” said neighbor John Cardinali, 42, who found her abandoned wetsuit at the scene. “No one would swim in that cove after dark.” Remy Wilson, the last to see Austen alive, said, “She was nervous. She practically jumped in my car. She was in a big hurry, all right. Terrified. And marks! She had marks on her arm.” Officer Ricky Beaker, of the Parrish Island Police Department, said there were signs of forced entry, and that North had Austen’s purse in his possession.
And more, more, more! Oh, Isabelle, you beauty! You fellow seeker of shelter and justice! Police say that two bloody towels were found in an initial search of the house, as well as a trail of dried blood on the floor. Investigation is ongoing. She recently sold her business, and only that day deposited a large sum into his account! He just bought a boat! The rest of her funds are unaccounted for…
Nevermore, Mr. Marvelous.
It’s a heyday.
It’s the last word.
Weary likes to imagine that winged heart of Virginia’s, at peace at last. He needs to get to the airport, but before he leaves, he kneels by his bed. He folds his hands. He says a prayer for Virginia. And he says a prayer for Isabelle, too, that she may be happy here, that she may feel the glory that safety gives. Dear God, he prays, with his little religious soul. Please.
What can you do? He went to Catholic school! It will never leave him. Weary believes that Catholics are like alcoholics. You can stop partaking, but you’ll always be one.
He loves God, and life, and rightness and goodness. He feels utterly heady. Today, he will finally meet Isabelle, at long last. The professor has filled the tank of his Jeep for the ride to the airport. He has tidied his home. He has put fresh Amborella trichopoda in the guest room where she’ll stay until they find her a place of her own. The creamy white, delicate flowers are endemic to New Caledonia. But more important, they bloom on the longest branch of the oldest tree, the first plant to ever flower.
Professor Weary has also made a dessert. His kitchen still smells warm and sweet from the baking fruit. Everyone loves his special peach tart. The fabulous, satisfying scent makes him think of his favorite news report yet, a video, one he has watched and watched again, because he still loves, loves, loves the Internet. It’s Henry North, being hustled into a squad car. He is hunched, hurrying away from judging eyes. Quite clearly, you can hear him say, They framed me! But the most lovely part of this video is what comes next. The way the clip cuts to the news anchor, who quite clearly smirks. Her mouth goes up ever so slightly in the corner. Her eyes don’t roll, but they don’t have to. Framed? Uh-huh. Right, her face says.
What must Henry feel now, knowing that Sarah is alive somewhere, and Isabelle, too? What must he feel, understanding that they have finally and successfully avenged Virginia’s murder? Well, what did Poe say, about old Fortunato? A wrong is unredressed until the avenger makes himself felt to him who had done the wrong. At long last, Weary can sleep like a baby.
Flight is a mystery and a miracle. Did it evolve when small dinosaurs went from trees to the ground, or from the ground up to the trees? No one knows. Only Archaepteryx, first bird, original bird, 150 million years ago, might have an answer. There are the scientific principles involved: the shape of the wing, the strength of the breast, the thrust and swim against air currents. There is the pressing down and the pressing against.
But, too, there is the simple beauty of the act. The impossibility of it. In a flock, there is a strength, endurance. There is a sense of purpose. There is will. They cross over the earth, going from where they began to somewhere else. It’s survival; it’s majestic. So light in feather, so hollow of bone, so small in a huge sky, and yet: They rise.