The Islanders (11 page)

NINA WATCHED
SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE
on the TV in her room until it went off at one. Then she spent the next two hours switching back and forth between MTV, Home Shopping, and reruns on Nick at Night. Nick was doing a
Brady Bunch
marathon.

At three she made an effort to go to sleep, but gave up almost immediately. As soon as the comforting light of the TV screen went off, the walls seemed to close in around her. She switched the TV back on, but nothing held her interest. It had all become just disconnected sounds, shadows marching from left to right, right to left without purpose.

She had known for years this day would come. She had known that she was not really done with the man who had introduced her to shame. He was family, after all. Family. Sooner or later he would reappear, stepping out of her memories and nightmares into her real life again.

She gulped for air, straining for each breath as the memories
flowed through her again. There had been pain, yes, but the pain was the easier part. Far worse had been the fact that at times there had been a sickening sort of pleasure, like being tickled and tickled while you screamed and pleaded and the person tickling you wouldn't stop. And afterward he would cry softly and say he was sorry. He was weak, he said, he knew it. But it was her fault, too. It wasn't his fault that she was so sweet and pretty. He couldn't help how he felt. How she made him feel.

And she could never, ever tell anyone, because if she did, no one would believe her. Who would believe a little girl over a grown man? He would tell everyone she was making it up, and people would call her a liar and say she was disgusting and sick. No one would believe her. Ever.

Except . . .

Nina sat up in her bed and pulled her blankets close. Except that she had told someone. Zoey.

And Zoey
had
believed her.

Had Zoey just been pretending to believe? Did she secretly think Nina was crazy or making it all up? She tried to remember everything Zoey had said as they sat by the picnic table, bothered by flies and the smell of garbage spilling out of the cans. Had she been just pretending?

No. Zoey had never lied to her.

Zoey
had
believed her.

No one would ever believe her, but Zoey had.

She jumped up and began dressing with hurried, clumsy fingers. There was one place she could go, and one person she could talk to.

It took ten minutes to dress, creep down the stairs, and emerge into a foggy night of silent streets and dark windows. She walked along Lighthouse, listening to the surf on the rocks and the impatient rustle of the trees that lined the street. She turned down Camden, past closed shops and colorful window displays that were all shades of gray, her steps loud on brick sidewalks and cobblestoned streets.

Zoey's house was as dark as everything else. No porch light, no glimmer of illumination escaped through drawn curtains and shades.

Nina knelt by the low landing of the front door and ran her fingers slowly over dirt and twigs and rocks, searching. It took several tries before she felt the right rock and picked it up. In the bottom of the rock was a sliding panel that concealed the Passmores' extra key. Nina had seen Zoey resort to it on several occasions.

Feeling frightened, but so much less frightened than she had in her own home, Nina used the key to open the front door. She closed it gently behind her, wincing at the click of the tumblers as she locked it again.

Up the stairs and she was at Zoey's door.

Now the only problem is keeping Zoey from screaming
, Nina realized with some return of her usual good humor.
She'll wake up and see me and either think I'm a burglar or that I really am gay.

She opened Zoey's door stealthily and stepped into the room. The only sound was Zoey's heavy breathing. Nina crept forward and stood by the bed.

She touched Zoey's shoulder.

“Unh,” Zoey murmured.

“Wake up,” Nina said. “It's me, Lucas. I have to have you.”

It took several seconds, but Zoey's eyes opened at last. She blinked, squinted, blinked again.

“It's me, Nina.”

“Nina?” A voice blurry with sleep and incomprehension.

“Yeah. I'm afraid so. It's three forty. In the morning. Or night.”

“Nina?” More coherent this time.

Zoey's next question would be what the hell was she doing creeping into her bedroom in the middle of the night. Only Zoey didn't ask the question. She sat up and flicked on the dim, yellow bulb of her nightstand light. She was wearing a Boston Bruins jersey, twisted about twice around her body.

“I couldn't sleep,” Nina admitted, “so I thought I'd make sure you couldn't sleep, either. Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. You're my best friend,” Zoey said.

For some reason that simple statement brought tears to Nina's eyes. She tried to toss off some clever line, but the excitement of being out in the night alone had worn off, leaving nothing now but despondency and profound exhaustion.

Zoey leaned toward her and put her arms around Nina's shoulders and hugged her close.

Nina let her head fall onto her friend's shoulder, unable to speak. Unable to offer an explanation that Zoey had not even asked for.

“Take off your shoes,” Zoey said. And Nina kicked them off.

Zoey lay back against the pillows and rested Nina's head in the crook of her arm. Nina felt tears running freely, wetting the sleeve of Zoey's jersey. And she felt a tidal wave of weariness sweep over her, paralyzing her limbs, numbing her mind and at last obliterating her consciousness.

An hour later, Zoey gently disentangled herself from Nina and got up from the bed. She needed to think, and she was ravenous. Nina seemed in no danger of waking up. She was in a sleep so deep she might have been in a coma, not even fluttering an eyelid as Zoey left the room.

Zoey padded down the stairs and went into the dark
kitchen. Even before she turned on the light, she knew someone was there. And she knew who.

She flicked on the harsh fluorescent light. Benjamin sat there, a Braille book open before him on the table, a bag of Doritos nearby.

“Zoey?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Is Nina with you?”

“No. She's asleep upstairs. How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I heard someone sneaking in. I figured it was Lucas, actually, having the somewhat sleazy imagination I do, but I wanted to be sure it was okay, so I stood outside your door for a while until I heard you say Nina's name.”

Zoey opened the refrigerator door and stared in at the assortment of leftovers, milk, soda, lunch meats, and defrosting chicken. She opened the freezer and lifted the Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey. It was at least half full. Good for a start.

She grabbed a spoon from the drawer and sat down at the table across from Benjamin.

“I have the feeling that Nina was the person you were asking all those hypothetical questions about earlier,” Benjamin said as Zoey took her first bite.

“I don't think you'd believe me if I denied it,” Zoey said.

“No. She's obviously in trouble. Enough trouble to bring
her here in the middle of the night. And enough trouble to shake you up badly enough to say ‘there are some real creeps in the world.' A very un-Zoey-like thing to say.”

“Look, I don't think you want to get involved, Benjamin. It's not your problem. She's
my
best friend.”

To Zoey's surprise, Benjamin looked angry. “She's my friend, too,” he said. “I care what happens to Nina.”

Zoey took another bite, but the ice cream seemed to have lost any flavor. She stared blankly at the toaster for a few minutes, going over all that Nina had told her. Then she snapped back, refocusing on her brother. Nina was carrying a huge load of fear and shame. Even secondhand, even just the part she had shared with Zoey felt crushing.

The decision to tell Benjamin happened before she was consciously aware of it. She simply began talking. “She has an aunt and uncle coming for a visit. They're arriving tomorrow, and this is the aunt and uncle she stayed with right after her mom died.”

Now Zoey hesitated. Nina had sworn her to secrecy. Zoey had given her word. If Nina knew she was telling Benjamin, she would probably be humiliated beyond belief. But this had become Zoey's problem now as well as Nina's. It was too big for Zoey to be sure that her word to Nina was the most important thing.

Benjamin was waiting patiently, unmoving. It brought a smile to Zoey's face. So typically Benjamin. The smile evaporated as she made the final decision. “Her uncle molested her. Repeatedly.”

Benjamin said nothing, just hung his head.

“I think she's afraid he'll try it again.”

He remained silent, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. When he spoke, it was only to mutter a few unusual obscenities. Then he seemed to refocus on the problem at hand. “She's older now—she could tell her father.”

“I think it's more complicated than that,” Zoey said. “The bad thing is that she feels like she's to blame as much as he is.”

“How the hell would
she
be to blame? She was an eleven-year-old girl. He was an adult.”

“It's how she feels,” Zoey said helplessly.

“It may be, but she has to realize that's just not the way it is. She was eleven, for God's sake. You can't vote when you're eleven, you can't drink, you can't drive. You can't play the lottery or go on half the rides at Disney World. She was just a kid. When you're eleven, your only responsibilities are doing your homework and feeding your dog. You don't decide whether or not to have sex.”

“Maybe you should tell Nina that,” Zoey said.

“Someone should,” Benjamin said heatedly. “All the right is
on Nina's side. All the wrong is on her creep of an uncle's side. All of it. A hundred percent. Goddamnit, she ought to put that son of a bitch in jail.”

“Could she?” Zoey asked. It hadn't occurred to her that would be an option.

“I don't know,” Benjamin admitted. “I guess it depends on whether too much time has passed, things like that. I don't know. I don't know if that's what she'd want to do. But it is what should be done. He shouldn't get away with it.”

“I don't think she wants to tell anyone.”

Benjamin nodded. “Yeah, I can imagine.”

“She's worried what people would think.”

Benjamin smiled crookedly. “I didn't think Nina ever worried about what people would think of her.”

“This is pretty major. She doesn't want people staring at her and whispering and saying there goes the girl who was molested by her uncle. Nina doesn't mind people thinking she's strange; she just doesn't want them feeling sorry for her.”

“Tell me about it,” Benjamin said dryly.

“I don't know what I should do,” Zoey confessed. “I think someone needs to tell Mr. Geiger about this. And I think Nina should talk to a shrink or a counselor or someone who knows about this kind of stuff.”

“And you're wondering if you should be the one who tells?”

“I don't know. What if Nina won't?”

“It would be better if she told,” Benjamin said. “I mean, better for her, rather than you or me or someone else doing it. If she decides to tell, it will be like she decided to fight back, you know? Does this guy have kids?”

“No.” Zoey shook her head. The same thought had occurred to her. “But there are always other ways for this kind of person.”

“Maybe we should ask Mom and Dad,” Benjamin suggested.

“I can't do that. I promised Nina. She said she had to have at least one person in the world she could trust.”

Benjamin nodded in reluctant agreement. “Well, she has two.”

Zoey got up and put the lid back on the half-melted ice cream. “I still don't know what to do.”

“Sorry,” Benjamin said dispiritedly. “You know, I used to get so pissed at people for feeling sorry for me, for saying poor Benjamin. But now all I can keep thinking is poor Nina.”

Zoey smiled sadly at her brother, sitting there with his blank brown eyes filled with tears, staring into the fluorescent glare. “No one says poor Benjamin anymore.”

A flicker of a smile. “Damn right,” he said.

“I better go back up.”

“Yeah. Good luck.”

She began to leave but stopped, with her hand on the light switch. “Benjamin?”

“What?”

“I'm very glad I have you as my big brother.”

“Don't go all sentimental on me, Zoey.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Must be the lack of sleep.”

“Yeah. Good night. And . . . and I love you, too, Zo.”

 

I don't know why Nina and I ended up having the kind of relationship we do. You see these families—sisters, brothers, brother-sister combinations of various types—and some are like the Brady Bunch or the Partridge Family, all gooey and close-knit. Others are more your basic Cain and Abel thing.

I guess Nina and I are somewhere in between. We won't be forming a bond and going on the road, but at the same time we aren't likely to kill each other.

I haven't really ever thought about it that much, but on those occasions when I do, I wonder if it all goes back to our mom having died. It seems like it was around then that we started sniping at each other a little more.

More likely, though, we are the people we are, and that's all there is to it. Nina is more involved with other people than I am. She's more provocative in some ways. Obviously she's more popular than I'll ever be, at least with other girls. And God knows she's funnier.

When I look at the future, I see Nina maybe doing comedy, blowing away the audience on Letterman. Or else writing funny plays in New York, still with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Maybe by then she'll have graduated to cigars.