Authors: Christine Lemmon
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RETURNING TO THE ISLAND
meant stepping into a world without pressed dresses. The color of the sky on a particular day mattered more than the color of clothes she chose to wear. The humidity on her skin meant more than the sweat that came from working out in a gym. She enjoyed walking the rugged, sandy path more than sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor back home, where things like sand and turtles surely didn’t belong. Stepping foot on the island meant returning to a world where errands didn’t matter. She felt like a person removed from the developed world, from malls and grocery stores, gas stations and traffic. Here, everything was simple—not boring, just simple. She felt a sense of elation after returning to the island, her kingdom of Narnia, as if life off the island tossed her one too many things to do.
The island represented a newly discovered mentality, something she was capable of embracing anywhere and anytime. She would charter a boat out to some island any time her list of things to do became overwhelming.
Some people never needed to make a list in their lives. They stored details in their memories, not knowing why they felt agitated and stressed. These people needed to visit an island. Vicki was one of those who write down every item of every day’s agenda, including things that might be natural instinct—wake up, eat breakfast (Quaker Oats Life cereal, something from the fruit family, plain yogurt), shower, bank, post office, etc.
This at least gave her brain a break from having to store it all.
On the other hand, she was a perfectionist
and
a list maker, and that combination—along with a strong work ethic and a Type-A personality—threatened to drive her to the edge of sanity. Such people needed to make perfectly
beautiful
lists, and if they screwed up one word, or the order of their errands, they felt compelled to crumple them up and start over again. Making lists coincided with a profile on obsessive behavior, but Vicki’s reasons for making lists were entirely practical—a disorganized list meant a disorganized day, and a disorganized day naturally led to a frazzled, unproductive mind.
Island life required no lists. Life just happened there, like the weather. Rain arrived whenever it pleased. Its timing didn’t matter. It could hit in the midst of an outdoor party and not care that it was falling on guests’ expensive hairdos and drenching their designer gowns. Let them worry about that. And this they surely did! If rain took into consideration all the events, it might ruin on any given day or night, the world might shrivel up into dryness because the rain worried so much.
Tarpon Key was a small mangrove and didn’t allow much room for worry. Lists, whether mental or written, would fall through the branches into the murky water. Life there stayed rudimentary. And it forced Vicki to notice smaller things, like a roseate spoonbill pacing deliberately in slow motion. Or the smaller oystercatcher, with its long, curving beak and dainty steps or anhingas perched in the mangroves to dry their wings, while the great and little blue herons stalked crustaceans and small fish in the shallows.
Vicki worked lunch, then walked briskly back to the staff house to change her clothes for dinner. Denver had told her a new vessel had arrived, and Vicki couldn’t wait to meet the new waitress.
There were lines on her face, tracks, but not the railroad type created for a purpose—more like the bad kind of tracks, not meant to be there; the kind left behind after a heavy suitcase is pulled across a hardwood floor that someone would love to hide, but redoing the floor might cost a fortune. Her cheekbones were as pale and sunken as a collapsed sand dune falling into a lake. Thick black mascara enclosed her eyes like a barbed
wire fence, warning people not to get too close. Only her long, curly brown hair added feminine softness, and it fell around her face like a flag torn by the wind. Her name was Evelyn, and she was assigned Old. Mr. Two-Face’s spookiest room—the attic way up the steep stairs.
The ceiling hung low, forcing the women to duck as they stumbled up and down the stairs like Halloween guests scurrying through a haunted house. Together, they cleaned out the piles of old newspapers, empty cigarette boxes, and beer cans stashed in the closet. They brushed the cobwebs off the gray paneled walls. As Evelyn washed the window facing the east, tree branches slapped against it like the hands of an abusive partner.
“I feel more at home with this window than I do with the one overlooking that enormous body of water,” said the woman, jumping back as a large branch slammed against the glass. “Yeah, I’d rather have just this one window. The window overlooking the water reminds me I can’t swim.”
“Well, I just hope you’ll get a glimpse of the sunrise through those tree branches,” said Vicki.
The woman stood like a hunchback in the low-ceilinged attic. “You look like a college-educated gal; am I right?” she asked.
“You could say that, yes,” replied Vicki. “So tell me, Evelyn, why are you here on the island?” She tossed the last two beer cans into a Hefty bag.
“I’m in hiding. But I’ll tell ya about that some other time. For starters, I was wondering about your birthday. When is it?” Evelyn tucked her cleaning rag into the waist of her jeans and opened the window facing the east for air.
“My
birthday? Why?”
“A birthday tells me more than a name. When’s your birthday?”
“December 18.”
“Nice to meet you, my little arrow-shooting centaur.”
“What?”
“You’re a Sagittarius. We’ll talk later.”
Evelyn certainly didn’t require much training. She said she had waited tables her entire life – except for the decade when she danced topless in a
bar near a beach. Despite her curiosity, Vicki left the woman alone her first few nights on the island, assuming she might want initial privacy, the kind she herself had wanted weeks ago when she first arrived, before agreeing with John Donne that no man was meant to be an island.
There was a strange glow in Old. Mr. Two-Face’s eyes, and Vicki noticed it as she approached the staff house after a busy night of waiting tables. She planned on sitting outside on the wooden steps for a few minutes, something she often did when insomnia struck, but tonight the glow from the newcomer’s window caught her curiosity. She altered course and made her way up the narrow, steep stairs and peeked into Evelyn’s room. Kerosene lanterns, belonging in the restaurant, were glowing everywhere. The woman sat Indian-style on the sandy floor. In the flickering red light, her facial lines showed up as more embittered than they appeared in daylight.
“It’s dark in there,” whispered Vicki.
“I don’t mind darkness, but the window is totally freaking me out,” said Evelyn.
“I see why. It sounds like the tree branches are going to break right through.”
“I’m used to the branches slamming against that window. It’s still the other window that freaks me out the most.”
“Why?”
“All I see is water. I’m not even going to look out it. I feel like a small bug that can’t swim.”
“How can you find your way to the window, let alone see what you’re playing in this dark room?” whispered Vicki, noticing a deck of cards in her hands.
“Oh, my little college-educated girl, welcome, welcome,” said Evelyn. “Come on in now, out of that doorway. Come on.”
“Let me guess. You’re playing a lonely, desolate game of solitaire,” said Vicki, squinting at the cards.
Evelyn laughed, “Oh no, not solitaire, and I’m not
playing
, honey. This is serious stuff. Here, shuffle this deck and draw eight cards. Come on. Don’t be a scaredy-cat.”
A horrible shuffler, Vicki clumsily moved the cards through her hands, while looking at the weird and colorful pictures on their backs. Candlesticks, men with wings, other men with horns, gold wine cups, ladders. She selected eight cards and handed them to Evelyn.
“These are Tarot cards, and they’re going to tell
me
about
you
. About your past, your present, and if they feel comfortable, your future.”
“Why would I need cards telling me about my past and present? I already know about them. I would, however, like to know about my future, my immediate future.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Am I going to die anytime soon?” She knew she had asked a serious question, but she put no belief in the cards, or in what Evelyn was saying.
“The cards will tell me what
they
want you to know. I have no control over that, babe.” Evelyn laid the eight chosen cards in two rows on the floor and studied them seriously for a moment. “Now this is your past. They want to tell me about your past, maybe so you’ll believe in them more. You were comfortable, surrounded in comfort. I get a strong sense of home, belonging, comfort in people and places you loved all around you, and -”
“Wait, stop,” interrupted Vicki, rubbing the goose bumps on her arms. “I don’t get it. Where are you getting this information? You don’t know me, anything about me!”
“It’s not coming from
me
, doll. The information is coming from the
cards
, the spirits working through the cards.”
“Spirits?”
“Yes, I thought I told you that. I’m just reading what the spirits want you to know.” Evelyn flipped another card from the deck and said, “More recently, you feel guilty you didn’t go to her funeral, don’t you?”
“What?
I’ve never said that out loud to anyone. What are you talking about?” Her tongue caught a warm, salty tear before it dribbled toward her chin. And she wished she hadn’t stopped at this lighthouse, because nothing about it felt safe. She longed to be sitting on the staff house steps instead. Why didn’t she stay on course?
“Moving on,” said Evelyn without emotion. “Writing. I see writing.”
“Sure. Letters. I write letters to my grandmother. My letters keep her going.” Vicki crossed her arms, not in defense, but to shield her from a sudden chill.
“Yes. Keep writing those letters. They may turn into something more someday.”
“Okay! Stop.” She felt as if her immune system had weakened, like a head cold coming on quickly.
“We’ve gotta finish, baby cakes. Touch as many cards in the deck as possible, then choose four more.”
Vicki did as she was told, her hands trembling.
“You asked about death. Well, I can’t get any specifics on that, but you are your own worst enemy. Does that make sense?”
“I think I’ve had enough. This is too weird. I’m done.”
She left the attic, making her way down the steep steps and the long hallway to the front door. It felt good to leave Old Mr. Two-Face and walk the path to the dock and the houseboat. But as strange as the tarot card experience was, she found herself curious, wanting more.
“Often, we rush through our days at an accelerated rate,” said Ruth, while in the so-called Cat Pose. “Then, we plop ourselves into bed, expecting to fall fast asleep. We do nothing to make this a natural transition, and we get frustrated with our minds and bodies if they don’t fall quickly to sleep.”
Vicki closed her eyes while in position, and began to pray, thanking God for her mind, her body, and her breath. She looked forward to her years here on Earth, and to her never-ending years in Heaven as well.
“Ruth,” she said after finishing her prayer, “I find myself thinking more positively when I practice yoga. I find myself craving healthy foods. I find that my body doesn’t ache as much after carrying those heavy trays. I find myself praying more deeply, whereas before I would pray only briefly because things interrupted my concentration.”
“Vicki,” Ruth said from a balance pose, “are you feeling at all seasick?”
“No. Why?”
“You haven’t noticed that the waves are picking up and the boat is rocking heavily back and forth?”
“Not at all.”
“Nice. You’re focusing inwardly. You’re grounding yourself, preparing for future attacks.”
“Future attacks?” asked Vicki.
“Yes, any one or thing that might attempt to tear down the peaceful fortress in which you live.”
“Okay.”
“Before, you might have felt weakened by the boat rocking back and forth, just as any stressful incident might have made you weak. Yes, your walls are becoming stronger, and that is good.”
The next day during lunch, a man carrying a dozen red roses arrived on the island by charter. Without coming into the restaurant, he yelled to Vicki through the screen.
“Hey, do me a big favor, will you? Ask Evelyn to step outside. Tell her there’s a surprise out here.” Everyone, including customers having lunch, heard him ask his favor and watched curiously as Vicki ran into the kitchen.
“Evelyn, hurry! There’s a surprise for you outside. Quick!”
“For
me
? Oh gosh, oh shit! I mean, a
surprise
?” She walked out the front door and looked around.
Like a jack in the box, the man was whistling from behind a palm tree, and as Evelyn walked outside, he popped out. “Marry me, Evelyn!” he shouted.
She jumped into his arms crying as he spun her round and round, sending chills through Vicki. Customers clapped. One lady wiped her eyes with her napkin. No one knew Evelyn had a boyfriend. She had only talked about her future, and that of everyone else.
Nights came and went, some plain and others fancy. Some were casual, and some were dressy. Some were damp, wrinkled, and in need of ironing, while others were dry, smooth, and simply hung out like a sheet on a line, absorbing the scent of the air. On one particular night, she started worrying about Spain come fall and all her big and little worries wouldn’t
go away. She felt as if the darks and lights were tossing together, their colors bleeding, and she felt too exhausted to separate them. Walking the trail, she felt like a load of wash stuck on a never-ending hot cycle, shrinking from every exotic sound and sweating from the extreme humidity. So this was how one felt when worried over everything.
As she entered the lighthouse area, she felt drained. She stopped for a moment, remembering the money Howard had hidden to the east of the crooked palm, and wanted it as much as one might a twenty-dollar bill stuck in the pocket of a pair of jeans about to enter the wash cycle. She could quickly yank it out, dig it up in the dark. No, I’m too tired. It’s not worth the effort, she told herself and started to walk again.