What if Isla sees that video without me there to explain?
She’ll think I’m full of shit. That I played her. Who could blame her? Why hadn’t I just told her the way that I feel about her last night?
What if she leaves before I get back?
The wind picks up, rustling the vegetation, and I jump at the burst of movement in my peripheral vision. But it’s only a bird. An innocuous, little bird. I’m being ridiculous. Godzilla isn’t coming to get me. Godzilla isn’t even real. They’re just lizards. Little harmless lizards. Not even poisonous. I’m not a little kid anymore. They’re probably more afraid of me than I am of them. I take a deep cleansing breath as I try to refocus.
And then a tiny lizard darts out of the bushes andruns over my foot.
I produce a sound reminiscent of the screech my little sister did when I used to put fake snakes in her cereal boxes. I don’t even care. There’s nobody here to hear me scream.
I’m so busy freaking out that I don’t immediately notice the six-foot iguana that’s calmly watching me from his sunbathing spot on the beach. My stomach clenches, and I feel my sweat glands kicking into overdrive. I must get off this island. Now!
Radio. There’s a radio. I have no idea how it works, but I will figure it out.
I fling the cooler open and tear into the bulky manila envelope. I have no idea whether Cappy will actually be in the area but it’s worth a try. If he’s not in radio distance, maybe someone else will hear my call. But there’s something strangely fitting about reaching out to Cappy. The salty sea captain saved me once, so maybe he can do it again? I’d gladly don a plastic tarp if it means I can get away from Don Iguana over there.
I’d never had a chance to tell Cappy how much I’d enjoyed his song last night. I’d gone outside to look for him, and he was nowhere to be found. He’d just vanished.
I reach into the envelope to pull out the radio, and a token of some sort falls out. Like a poker chip. But not a poker chip. Reaching for it and turning it over in my palm, I recognize the writing on it. It’s a sobriety chip. Fifteen years. That’s a long time. A good run. Good for Cappy. I’m pretty surprised he left it behind at the bar though. Seems like the sort of thing you’d want to hang onto.
And then the faded and cracked dog collar falls out of the torn envelope, and I drop the chip in the sand. A round silver registration tag with a dog license number and a heart-shaped enamel pendant exactly like the one that my sister made in grade school are both still attached
Frantically I grab the thing up out of the sand, running my finger over the number. I hold it up to the green tag that’s hanging around my neck, matching the sizes. Hands shaking, I remove the necklace. There’s a number on the back. A number I’ve memorized over the years I’ve been wearing this thing. I use a backward version as my password. I already know the numbers match. But I have to see them, side by side.
My eyes fill with tears as I flip the dog’s tag back over and read the worn engraving.Murphy Porter. Goodest Good Boy.
We’d buried him without his collar. His name tag had randomly fallen off the day before.
Nobody knew why the old dog got in the car with our dad. Nobody knew where they’d been going. Not even my dad. He couldn’t remember anything. He was lucky to survive the crash. Murphy wasn’t as lucky.
After that, my dad had gone to rehab. And he’d relapsed a few times. And then he disappeared.
Jesus, Jackson.
Why hadn’t I recognized my own damned father? Why hadn’t I put it together sooner? I’d been looking at that Uber driver in LA for a sign. But it never even occurred to me that the bushy-bearded old man with the half-open fly who rescued me from the storm might bemyold man.
“I hate you!” I shout at the lizard. “You stupid fucking asshole!” He blinks his evil eye at me. Cold and inhuman. Like a monster. Like a nightmare.
One time when I was about seven or so and I’d just watched Godzilla, my dad came home drunk. He was stomping all over the place and wrecking stuff. My mom called him that. She called him Godzilla. And when I went back to sleep, I dreamed my beloved dad turned into a scary, tough-skinned lizard man. His eyes went cold. He didn’t care if I cried. He wrecked all my stuff. He wrecked me.
I pick up the chip and pocket it, checking back in the envelope for a letter. There isn’t one. Just a small business card with “Captain James Porter” in an old-fashioned script. Below this, it says “Available for Private Tours, Parasailing, and Sportfishing.”
I flip the card over. On the back he’s written;
I’m sorry, Son. I don’t expect to be forgiven. Glad you’re okay.
Am I okay? Am I really?
I wipe away a tear and yell at the iguana again. “Fuck off! I don’t want to hear it from you!”
There’s only one thing to be done. I’ve got to climb up that hill, find the lizard webcam, and hack my way onto the wifi so I can call someone for help.
I’ll be damned if I’m calling my fucking father.
* * *
As I climbup the small hill, I’m glad for the bug spray. The flies are thick, and the mosquitoes are large. A couple of them get me, despite the spray.
