But out here, without a clock or calendar to mark the hours, maybe we are bound by no edicts or natural laws.
We are free.
I find a copy ofThe Old Man and the Seaby Hemingway on one of the dusty shelves in the living room, and I read to Clay each morning, while we lie curled in bed.
Then I wrap myself in one of the quilts, my feet in two layers of socks, and plod down to the kitchen to make tea. I bring two steaming cups back upstairs, crawl into bed, and we sip them with blankets pulled to our chests. He tells me old Scottish fables, stories that were read to him as a young boy.
“Maybe you’ll see it again someday,” I say. “Maybe the island will carry us back and I will finally see your home. Your Scotland.”
“Maybe,” he agrees.
Time is our perpetual partner, intimate and ceaseless. Some days it bends around us easily, hours passing without much notice. But other days, the minutes gnaw and bite at us—a reminder that we’ve been here too long.
Too many weeks have passed, and eventually time will run out.
The sun will not rise, our eyes will not open.
And we will be a memory recalled by no one.
“You should try to stand,” I urge. But he closes his eyes, looking so weak I worry he won’t open them again. “Clay, please.”
I slide my arm around his torso—still broad and muscled, even after so long without a real meal—and reluctantly, he bends forward, sliding his legs to the floor. I place the cane into his hand, and he shifts his weight heavily onto it.
With effort, he stands, and I guide him to the bedroom door.
He limps across the hall, and I push open the bathroom door. He angles himself in the doorway, seeing the bath of warm water. “Ye didn’t have to do this.”
“I thought you could use a little warmth.”
It took some time, hauling the buckets of water up from the kitchen to the bath, twice as long as it usually takes Clay to fill the tub. But after adding a few sprigs of dried lavender, left over from the jar Alice kept in the cupboard, the entire bathroom smells so delicate and beautiful that I could cry.
I help Clay to undress, and he grips the edge of the bath, easing himself down into the water, gritting his teeth. If the tub was large enough, I’d happily sink into the water with him, but instead, I leave him alone while I plod down to the kitchen to find something for dinner.
Our choices are limited. On the counter sit five mason jars of stewed tomatoes—which we’ve eaten so much of that it makes me sick just looking at them. A large jar of pickled cauliflower and cabbage. And one last jar of red beans. I’d been saving them, the last of our protein—aside from the few eggs our chickens have been laying. But they too have been affected by the constant cold, and limited food. Soon, we’ll have to decide if they’re better off on our plates, instead of waiting for the rare egg.
Once it comes to that, I know we’ll be nearing the end. It will likely be our final meal.
Tonight, we will spare the chickens, and I decide to open the jar of beans.
After a warm bath it will feel like a delicacy.
I twist off the lid, about to pour it into the cast-iron pot, when the glass jar slips between my fingers—shattering across the floor. My lungs release a breath, gaping down at the mess of broken glass mixed with cold beans, in shock, when my mind finally catches up, realizing what’s happening.
The whole house is vibrating—windows shaking in their frames, glasses above the sink rattling, and I reach for the counter for balance.
My thoughts are slow to understand, the lack of calories has dulled my synapses, but when I look to the window, I see the ice shifting.
The vibration pauses, then starts again, the walls of the house thundering up from the foundation. I stagger to the back door, yanking it open.
I need to see.
To be sure.
The house is moving.
I race up the stairs to Clay.
Fissures begin cracking open in the landscape of endless white.
