Page 20 of What You Never Knew

It takes me a few seconds to recognize the person in the next one. She has long black hair, which is lifting in the wind, and smooth, tanned skin that looks as though the sun radiates right from it. She’s kneeling in our garden and looking to her right, away from the camera, showing her profile. Her green eyes are narrowed into slits and her mouth is pursed. At first I think it’s because of the bright sun, but when I follow her gaze, I see that she’s looking directly at my mother and West, who are standing in the corner of the yard, talking. It’s Ezra’s mom, Willa.

She came to the island with West now and again, mostly to help with gardening because she was good at it. Did she know about the affair in this photo, or was it just a budding suspicion? She always intimidated me. A wild and free kind of woman, she went everywhere in bare feet just like her son, could make flowers grow from sand, and seemed to see right into my soul every time she looked at me.

I told my mother once that I thought Willa was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. In reply, my mother told me that Willa thought she could talk to trees. That she was barren and that’s why she and West had adopted Ezra, which proved that looks could be deceiving. Then my mother got angry at me for some trivial thing and sent me to my room. I didn’t know then that it was pure jealousy talking. That my praise of Willa was like poking a rattlesnake with a stick.

I stare at the photo of Willa staring at my mother and West. How could my mother carry on like that under all our noses? Did she think everyone was too stupid to realize? The betrayal is bad enough, but it’s just insulting that she didn’t think she would be found out. You always get found out.

I toss all the photos onto the coffee table, and they fan out into an accordion of visual secrets. I’m emotionally drained, and a slow-moving headache is traveling across the top of my skull. I should probably drink some water, I think to myself while sliding into a fetal position on the couch. I pull a cushion up under my head and close my eyes, wanting escape more than anything. Escape from my longing for the Avril Island days of my youth, no cares and concerns weighing on my innocent mind. Wanting to be once again unaware that my mother was spinning all of us into a cocoon of lies and betrayal.

The next day, despite a bit of a hangover and the heavy weight of the secrets I learned the day before, I go out to the shed in the back to look for some tools to help clear the path around the island. I want to do mindless and productive work that will make me feel like I’m taking Avril Island back for myself, regardless of its sordid past. I’m thinking it’s best to just let the past stay in the past and keep moving forward.

The inside of the shed smells of gasoline and damp earth. The tools are neatly hanging from hooks along one wall above an empty workbench. An ancient lawnmower sits in the corner along with some red gas tanks. I didn’t come in here much as a kid. There was no need, with West around taking care of things.

I pull a rusty pair of pruning shears off the wall. It takes some work to open and close the blades, but eventually the rust is rubbed from the hinges and I can get it going at a good pace.

I go the same way I ran yesterday, since I already started on that side. There’s something cathartic in hacking away at the overgrowth, and I quickly get lost in it.

By the time I make it to the other side of the island, there’s a line of blisters across my right hand. The skin is pink and raw. How stupid was I not to think to wear gloves for this kind of work? Chucking the pruning shears on the ground, I soak my hands in the cool lake water, but all that does is deepen the sting. I decide to call it a day. I’ll do the other side of the island tomorrow, hopefully after finding a pair of gloves.

Before heading back, I decide to check in on the tree where the cross was to see if there’s any more evidence of people trespassing. An icy chill slides down my spine as soon as I step into the clearing. The cross is back, stuck into the dirt at the bottom of the tree. Somebody obviously retrieved it from the bushes where I kicked it. I would have preferred beer cans and condoms, signs of kids just having a good time.

“Hello,” I call out. The sense of not being alone on this island is here again and stronger than ever. My voice bounces back to me, and a bird laughs from a tree above me. I turn in every direction, looking for clues of someone or something, but there’s only forest in every direction.

I take my phone out and snap a photo of the cross before giving it a kick and sending it flying even farther this time. I take another photo of the tree without the cross, wanting a clear timeline of what’s happened. Proof that I have indeed gotten rid of the cross. I’m sure it’s just some young people messing with me, but there’s been a lot of wine drinking on this island already, a lot of fuzzy moments, so documenting things seems like a good idea.

After bandaging up my blistered hands, I spend the better part of the afternoon cleaning lounge chairs that I found in the storage shed down by the lake. It takes a lot of scrubbing and I probably could have just gone out and bought some new ones, but it’s important for me to keep busy.

By the time I’m finished, circles of sunburn pulse with heat on each exposed shoulder. The chairs are set up in a row just like they used to be, as though waiting for the rest of my family to come down and take their place.

I go for a quick swim and then sit back in one of the chairs to enjoy my handiwork and let the sun dry me. With my eyes closed, bright-orange flashes from the sun appear behind my lids.

I’m able to be still, drifting between the past and present, not allowing any one thing to stick with me other than the visceral sense of my surroundings then and now. It is a quiet, peaceful place, but only briefly. Heavy thoughts soon creep in, and I must get up and move once again. It’s okay, though. I’m getting things done, building myself back up with each little accomplishment.

After May died, I spent weeks doing nothing. I wasn’t sure I would ever feel the will to get out of bed and get back to life. I didn’t know how to live without my sister. It was as if the moon had suddenly disappeared from the world and I was expected to create my own orbit cycle, control the tides, and know when it was night and when it was day. Being back here has given me new purpose and in a way has brought me back to May. I feel closer to her here, as though she’s all around me.

Standing in front of the open fridge, I peer in at the limited collection of food I’ve curated. For the first time in a long time, I’m actually hungry. Hard work and a day outside are good for the appetite, my mother always used to say, even though I rarely saw her consume more than cocktails and cigarettes.

There’s not much to put together for a nice dinner—just cold cuts, cheese, some raw vegetables, and a tub of dip. It looks like I planned for a picnic, not multiple nights at the cottage. I’ve just resigned myself to a tuna fish sandwich for dinner when I hear footsteps on the verandah.

“Hello? June?” Ezra calls through the screen door.

“Come in,” I answer, leaving the kitchen to greet him.

As he steps into the cottage, I’m again shocked by his good looks. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to grown-up Ezra. He’s wearing worn jeans with a brown leather belt and a blue T-shirt that glows against his tanned skin and deepens the color of his eyes. His dark hair is messy from the boat ride, and he clearly doesn’t make shaving a priority, but on him it works—really well. I have to force my mind not to be illicit just looking at him.

He has a six-pack of beer in one hand and two grocery bags in the other. “I brought dinner.” He holds everything up and smiles. It’s that same open, up-for-anything smile that he had as a kid, and it makes me laugh. “Some steak, fresh bread, and salad.”

“Sounds delicious, albeit quite presumptuous of you. Who says I haven’t just finished a lovely meal myself?”

He moves right past me and into the kitchen. “Well, I saw inside that fridge of yours yesterday.” I follow behind him and watch as he makes himself at home—putting away the beer and unpacking the food. “I also wanted to make up for dumping all that shit on you.” He leans against the counter and looks at me, his eyes once again full of apology.

I wave a hand at him dismissively. “I asked you to come over, remember? I wanted to know more about the newspaper articles. And it’s better I find out now than never.”

He cocks his head to one side. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” I say, with a firmness I don’t actually feel. “But more importantly, do you ever wear shoes?” I point at his feet, which are once again bare, hoping to change the conversation to lighter things.

He shrugs. “Why would I when I’m in and out of a boat constantly?”