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Chapter 28
When I bringup my sisters, I’m certainly not expecting Kal to offer to take me to them.
I feel like that kind of goes against the rules of kidnapping, bringing the captive around the people who want her home.
Then again, I’ve never been on the business end of a situation like this, so what do I know?
Marcelline helps me pack, quietly taking clothes from my dresser and placing them into my open suitcase. I glance at her as she moves, toying with the journal in my hands, wondering if I should take it with me.
Before coming to the island, writing was as second nature to me as breathing. It was where I funneled the inspiration gathered from the poems and books I read, jotting down random musings or fictionalized anecdotes about my life.
I haven’t touched the journal since my arrival, inspiration few and far between, despite the serenity around the house. Technically speaking, the Asphodel is the perfect place for a writer’s retreat, though it feels odd creating anything in a place so plagued by death and darkness.
Perhaps that’s why I haven’t tried.
“What do you think, Marcelline?” Holding up the journal, I turn it so she can see the pink leather cover. “Should I try to pick up an old hobby?”
She purses her lips, twirling the end of a strand of her strawberry blonde hair. Most of our relationship up to this point has been me firing words at random, and her dodging every bullet, ignoring my comments and questions unless Kal is around.
“What’s the hobby?” she asks, her voice raspy, as if rough from lack of use.
“Um, writing.” I perch on the edge of the bed, flipping through the pages, my neat handwriting floating by with each turn.
“Like, stories? Poems?”
Heat scorches across my face, flames of embarrassment licking my cheeks. “Both, kind of. I used to do it all the time, but to be honest, I kind of forgot about it since coming to Aplana.”
She nods, widening her blue eyes. “Yeah, the island has that effect on people. Like you come here, and your previous identity kind of just... evaporates. Some locals call it the New England Bermuda Effect. I had an aunt who said Aplana was filled with an ancient, ancestral magic that replaces a person’s nature with that of the island’s.”
“Do you think that?”
“No, I just think it’s easy to forget everything the second your feet touch sand.” Marcelline shrugs, pointing at my journal. “Doubly so when you’re busy falling in love.”
The heat spreads from my face, scoring a path down my sternum, and finally settling in my gut. I lean forward, shoving the journal into the front pocket of my suitcase, and try to steel myself against her comment, even as my pulse beats so loud and fast, I think it might launch out of my throat.
“Definitely the sand,” I say quickly, over the bile teasing my esophagus.
Marcelline presses her mouth into a thin line, then nods, dropping one last T-shirt into the suitcase. “Yeah,” she agrees, clamming up like every other time I’ve tried to start a conversation. “You’re probably right.”
I don’t see her again before we leave the house, and I dart outside to the back yard before we load into the town car, speaking in low, soothing tones to the garden that still has not bloomed.
Staring out at the expanse of soil, I sigh, unsure of what exactly to say. “All the gardening blogs suggest talking to your plants. That, even though there’s no actual science to back that data up, they swear it makes a difference. So, here I am. Temporarily. We’re about to go to Boston for a bit, but when I come back, I expect a fully flourishing garden, okay?”
If Mamá could see me now.She’d probably accuse me of witchcraft and burn me at the stake.
“I get it,” I tell them, hoping the bulbs can hear beneath the dirt. “You’re afraid of what waits for you on the other side of the soil. You’re warm and comfortable where you are now. Safe, even. It’s terrifying, trying to find courage to take a leap of faith, but you can’t spend eternity hiding. Eventually, you have to take the opportunities that are thrust upon you, and trust that the universe knows what it’s doing.”
Hope bursts like a backed-up pipe in my chest, but I stuff it back down where it belongs, not wanting to entertain that thought.
“April is the cruelest month,” I add, quoting The Waste Land, like the flowers might appreciate the sentiment. “Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. It’s time.”
When I turn around, I see Kal hovering by the back gate, watching me with an unreadable expression. I approach him slowly, shame heavy in my chest.
“Is your garden a big T. S. Eliot fan?” he asks, his face shifting into one of quiet amusement.
“Don’t laugh,” I say, glancing up at the sky, noting the thick clouds rolling in over the ocean. “Love is the greatest act of revitalization, and I happen to think poetry is the best way to relay that.”
He doesn’t say anything as I move around him, leading the way to the front of the house where our car sits, Marcelline already in the front passenger seat.
