Locked (7 page)

I know what I have to do. As soon as Noah leaves, I go back inside and get dressed. My feet have gotten used to the rocks here, but I put my shoes from the crash on today. I'll need them for the climb.

I take a clay jug from the kitchen and fill it with water. It's heavy, and I debate leaving it, but I haven't been up that far since the day we got here—and I don't know how long it will take me, or how long I'll need to stay.

I start to walk. Up past the river where Noah is fishing. I don't see him, but he could be anywhere. Hidden by the trees a bit downstream. And the water is too loud for me to call out, anyway. I think about him teaching me to fish here. About the night the roof caught on fire. It all seems so absurd, so unbelievable. An alternate reality that now is just that—alternate. Because Maggie and Ed are alive. They're real. I look out to the horizon. How close are they? If the veil was lifted, would I be able to see them?

And it's this knowledge—their presence—that pushes me away from Noah, wherever he is, and makes me keep moving forward, upward.

When Maggie and I were younger, we used to go camping. She hated it. She's always been more girly than I am. She'd move into the mall if she could. Not that I'd blame her. Our house hasn't exactly been the most welcoming place since Mom died.

Right after the year that went, for me, like this: school, hospital, home—Dad took us camping. It was before Miss Opportunity, when it was only the three of us. We didn't fit together, we all knew it, but there we were, in the woods for a weekend. At first Maggie wouldn't come out of the tent. She hadn't even packed hiking boots. Dad was mad about that. He thought she had done it on purpose. She probably had.

They got into a big fight. I remember Dad screaming at her. He said some things I can't forget. Stuff about Mom and stress and health. Stuff about why Maggie never came to the hospital with me. Stuff that sounded like blame.

He was angry, but that's my dad—he's never been able to be the bigger person. The father. He should have taken Maggie in his arms when Mom died. He should have told her he'd be there, that she'd get through this. But all he did was push us both away.

Maggie was shaking. She doesn't cry easily, she never has. Even when she was a baby, she'd screech and yell, but she wouldn't bawl, not really. She's stoic. But that day in the tent she was sobbing. She couldn't catch her breath. My dad walked off. I have no idea where. And I told her to put on her shoes.

“Just flip-flops,” she hiccupped out.

“It doesn't matter.”

We started off on a trail. We were at one of those reserves they have around Oregon. Where you can camp and take any number of hiking routes. They're listed somewhere. Stroll. Easy. Challenging. Difficult. I don't know what we picked. We just began walking.

We didn't talk, but soon her breathing calmed. Her shoulders stopped shaking. And then she grabbed my hand. Maggie isn't very affectionate. Neither one of us is. It took a whole year before I let Ed kiss me in public. But that day Maggie and I walked up that entire mountain hand in hand.

I didn't tell her Dad was wrong, that it wasn't anyone's fault. Because those are just words. They don't mean anything. It was just what happened. Mom got sick. She died. It wasn't because Maggie sometimes fought with her. It wasn't because Maggie didn't have perfect grades in school. I didn't say any of that, but I did promise her. I promised her through the way she squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. I promised her I'd be there for her. That I'd protect her. That I'd make sure to be her buffer—for Dad, for everything. I'm her big sister. That was my job.

It's still my job.

I keep walking, and before I know it I'm at the clearing. It's like I've been led there by some internal compass, the little string that is now tugging me back, forward. Home.

I hadn't thought about what I'd do once I got here. It's empty, of course. There is no one here. No magical machine that's going to transport me off this island. No red button. But that's not really what I'm looking for after all.

I sit down. I wait.

I take a swig from the jug and then lean back on my hands. The sun shines through the trees, creating intricate lace patterns on the grass. I lie back. The damp ground is cool on my back, and in another moment, my eyes slip closed.

When I wake up, it's dark above me, and before I even open my eyes completely, I know he is here.

I scramble to sit up. I'm not sure what to do, whether I should stand, what I should say. I thought when I got to this moment, I'd know.

But he speaks first. “I've been wondering when you'd come.”

The chief bends down and offers me his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up to stand. He's taller than I remembered from our half-conscious beginning here and yet he's wearing no headdress. It's obvious who he is, though. His presence speaks for him. He seems to be a man of contradictions. He is wrinkled, yet his skin is smooth. It would be impossible to tell how old he is. He could be forty or a hundred and fifty. His eyes are jet black, yet kind. Even in their darkness they seem to have the essence of light. The feeling of welcome.

“You speak English,” I say.

“I do,” he says. “There are many things about my people I think you'd be surprised to learn.”

“I'm sorry,” I say quickly. “I don't mean to seem ungrateful. You have been kind to me here. My friend Asku has taught me many things. You've given me shelter.…”

He bows his head slightly. “You miss your family,” he says. “It is natural.”

I nod. “Noah told me they're safe. Thank you.”

The chief begins walking and motions for me to follow. “You know, when I was a boy I wanted to leave. My grandfather used to tell me stories of the mainland. Stories of things I thought only magicians could do. Machines to make everything. Cities cluttered with buildings as tall as the sky.”

We cross the clearing and head back into the woods. I have to take large strides to keep up, but the chief looks like he is strolling. He walks with calm confidence.

“When I was ten years old, I tried to escape. I swam out to the rocks at the cove. I nearly drowned, but Noah's grandfather rescued me. A few years later, his son followed. He made it.”

“The Healer,” I say.

The chief looks over at me, and his eyes seem to smile. “Yes. For years I harbored resentment of my onetime friend—that he had done what I could not. But I never tried to leave again.”

“Why not?” I ask.

The chief doesn't speak. The forest, with all its sounds—birds chirping, leaves crunching, wind whistling—seems to silence. “Because,” he says finally, “I realized my place. I realized my home.”

I think about Noah's words to me: “These are my people.”

“And Noah?” I say.

“We locked this island so long ago because we believed the natural rhythm was being disturbed. In your world, there is no peace, because there is no balance. You have abused nature, and yet you expect it to be your friend. Harmony in a people, in a culture, cannot exist without duty. Every role must be filled and, yes, this is his. He was called back to fulfill his destiny.”

Called back. The plane crash. “You could have killed my sister,” I say. “You could have killed us all. Noah wasn't the only one on that plane.”

The forest clears, and we are standing at an overlook. The ocean sparkles and shines below us. The waves tumble and roll like schoolchildren at recess. Laughing. Playing. Free.

“He was being called home,” he says simply. “I did not do the calling. That is for forces greater than I.”

“But—” I begin, and the chief cuts me off.

“You do not see what is,” he says. “Your sister and your friends are fine. Noah is here.”

“So am I.”

“You want to know how you can get home,” he says.

It's not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes,” I say. “I know you know how.” My heart is hammering, beating so loud in my chest I'm afraid I won't be able to hear his answer.

“I do,” the chief says. “But I am not the one who can do it. It is not my role.”

The acid is back. I feel my hands clench and release. “Yes, you can,” I say. “You found out about Maggie and Ed. You know how we can leave, and you're not telling me because you want Noah to stay.”

“Ah.” The chief gazes out over the water. He's quiet for a moment, long enough for the anger I feel to rise and not fall. “The one thing I have never understood about your culture is how you separate love out. How you see it as being different from duty. Sacrifice is not the absence of love, August, but instead its vessel.”

I stand perfectly still. “Love,” I say, but it's to myself, too soft to hear.

“It is you, August, who needs to make a choice.”

“It's not my decision,” I say. My voice is quiet. “I can't tell Noah what to do. It's his choice what role he wants to fill.”

“And you?” The chief looks at me, and when I see his face, I take a step backward. He looks older, far older than he did in the clearing. It's like all his years, every experience, every memory, is present on his face when he says, “What role will you fill?”

The chief leaves me on the bluff. It's not until he's gone that I begin to understand what he means. What I have to do. What I will.

I climb down the mountain easily. The sun is shining brightly, and by the time I get back to the cottage, the water jug is empty. Noah isn't there. I slip off my shoes and head out the back way down the path to the ocean.

I walk right in—feet, ankles, then knees—all the way up to my waist. The water is crisp and cool, and I dive under, letting the blast of cold dissolve into a sharp clarity. I come to the surface gasping, awake, alert. I think about the countless mornings begun with a cell phone alarm. That's one thing I won't miss. This way is better.

I flip onto my back and shut my eyes against the intensity of the sun. I just wish there was a way for them to know I was okay. Some message I could get to them. But what would I say? If they knew I was alive they'd never stop looking.

I open my eyes and begin to swim back to shore. No, they have to think there is no hope. That's the only way. If we can't leave, the chief will send them a message. I know he will.

I get out and wring my hair. It's getting long. I can knot it without any kind of tie. I walk up the path. I'm so lost in my thoughts—going over what I want to say to Noah, how I will phrase it, arranging and rearranging the words—that I almost miss him. He's seated on the deck, looking down on me. I climb up.

“Hey,” I say.

He smiles. “Busy day?”

I eye him, shrug. “I got hot. Did you catch anything?”

He nods and cocks his head in the direction of the kitchen. “A bunch, actually. I think I'm getting the hang of it.”

“Me too.”

I hoist myself over the railing and go to sit down next to him. The wood floorboards are warm, and they feel good on my damp skin. “I realized something this morning,” I say. “About you. About the position of Healer.”

Noah doesn't answer. He's looking beyond me, down at the water. It's like he's seeing something else, lost in a different world. “I have something for you,” he says. He hands me a folded leaf that immediately opens when I take it. Inside is a tiny cowrie shell, with a hole in the top.

“I saw you lost your bottle cap,” he says, his eyes on the shell. “I thought you could wear this.”

I touch the gold strand around my neck. I feel my throat constrict.

“It's beautiful,” I say. I take the gold chain off and slip the cowrie shell on. It slides down easily. “Will you?” I say, holding it out to Noah.

He edges closer to me and takes the necklace from my hands. I move my hair to the side as he loops the chain back around my neck. I feel his fingers on my skin as they gently find the clasp.

“There,” he says.

I turn around and look into his face—heavy, beautiful, so full of love. And I want now, more than anything, to tell him what I need to.

“Noah,” I say. I slide closer to him and take his face in my hands. “I want you to be here. I want you to be the Healer. They need you, you said it yourself. Tell them you'll do it.” I don't let my eyes leave his. “This is where you belong.”

He snorts. “Belong,” he says. He stops, looks at me. “And you?”

I swallow. “I want to stay with you.”

Noah shakes his head, pulls my hands down. “You're just saying that because you don't think there is another way.”

“Is there? Noah, we've been trying to figure out how to get off this island and failing, and maybe—maybe it's time we tried to figure out how to stay.”

“Your whole life is somewhere else,” he says.

“Not anymore.” I take a deep breath. “I know my sister is safe. I know it will be hard, but she's—” My voice catches, but I push forward. “She's going to be at college soon and until then Ed will look out for her. I know he will. Noah, my life—my life is with you now.”

He looks at me. I see his eyes get liquid. “August,” he says. “This isn't what you're meant for. This isn't your destiny.”

“But it's yours.”

I see him swallow. “You'd do that for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” he asks, and I see the bewilderment in his eyes. The way his forehead knits together.

I think about the chief's words on the bluff. About sacrifice. Duty. About how we show it. “Because I love you,” I say.

He doesn't react, just keeps looking at me. “That's not a good idea,” he says.

“It's not really a choice, Noah.” I fold my hands in my lap. Suddenly, I feel exposed. What if I've misread this entire thing? What if he doesn't want me to stay with him? “What about you?”

“You have to ask?”

My heart leaps up into my neck. I feel it beating there, trying to scramble up my throat and out of my mouth, through my words. “Yes,” I say. “I do. We're talking about forever.”

He nods. Then he runs his hands over his forehead. “When we started second grade, Tobias Scarsdale used to pick on you. You were so small and he was one of those freakishly big kids, remember?”

I nod, but I don't say anything. I have no idea where he is going with this.

“He hit you once. You were answering a question, and he just leaned over and grabbed your elbow and smacked you. He wasn't allowed to sit next to you for the rest of the year.”

“Noah…”

“After school that day he was waiting for his mom. I almost killed him.” Noah looks up, shuts his eyes briefly. “I pummeled him. I was suspended for a week, but it didn't matter. I couldn't let someone get away with trying to hurt you.”

His head snaps back down. He looks at me. I feel all the air leave my body in one, solid rush.

“Summer after seventh grade. Your parents wanted you to go to Europe with them, but your sister had soccer camp and they didn't want her to miss it. You thought it would be unfair to just bring one of you, so you stayed home. Your aunt came to look after you guys, and you made Italian every night. You even went and used your allowance to get one of those pasta makers so it would feel like you guys were in Italy.”

“How do you…”

“Freshman year, when your mom got sick, you didn't leave the hospital for eight straight days. Ed and I would go home at night and you would sleep on the two chairs in your mom's room. Maggie didn't visit. You were angry about that, but you understood.

“And that night Ed asked you to be his girl I came there to tell you how much I loved you. I came there because I couldn't bear to think of living another minute without you by my side. Ed showed up and he knew what I was there to do, but he said he wanted you, too. He said the right thing to do was to let you go. That he could take care of you the way I couldn't—I thought he was right.”

Without even realizing it, I've begun to cry. I feel the tears sliding down my cheeks, landing in my lap and mingling with the ocean water.

“What I am trying to say to you, August, is that asking me is a really stupid response. Because it has been you, only you, every single day, for as long as I can remember. And I hate myself because the only thing I want is to stay here with you forever.”

I don't know which one of us moves first. It doesn't matter. Because soon I'm in his arms and he is kissing me like I have never been kissed before. Nothing has ever felt so good, so true, and I know, now, that what I'm doing is right. I can't not be with him. Leaving here, going back to a life that was, I can't do that. Because he's everything now. Wherever Noah is is where I want to be.

My face is wet from crying, and he kisses my eyelids and then my cheeks. When his lips meet mine again I taste the salt on them. His lips travel down to my neck and then he's standing, with me still in his arms. He carries me through the cottage and into the bedroom. He takes my wet clothes off, but this time there is no chill. I am already heated up by the sun and his kisses.

It's different this time. Slower. More familiar. My body folds to him instantly. He traces his fingers all over me, like he's mapping my body, drawing it, memorizing every inch. His lips find the backs of my knees, his hands find my thighs. I don't feel shy or nervous. His kisses are deeper. His hands move farther. It feels like everything is more weighted, heavier. Like just by being together we're making an impact.