Lost Memories.
Yes, that would be a good name for this place.
At some point, I heard footfalls that were lighter than Pan’s.
“Will?” Nathan stood on the porch and peered out at the dock.
My heart burned like fire and ice. I didn’t say anything or look at him. I was still hurt and yet I wanted him to want me.
“There’s news from your father,” Nathan said now into the silence.
With my heart pounding, I glanced in his direction.
Chapter 5
“He has promised to come clean in eight weeks and publicly confess to the environmental crimes. Before that, he wants to sort out his affairs and yours, and those of his employees.”
So many things were going on inside me at once. My stomach warmed with gratitude and my longing for Dad soared into the star-speckled sky. I wanted to hug Dad right now and just cry. I was worth enough to him. He loved me unconditionally. For a moment, I allowed all these feelings to sink in before the truth sank like a stone into my stomach.
He would be put in prison and I would be left alone. That was why Pan had confessed his affection for me. He certainly had known. And he had offered me a new home. Several times, I swallowed the tears that had built up in my throat. A tiny part of me still hoped that Dad was only admitting guilt to save me. It had to be that way because then, and I realized this with all my heart, Nathan, Isaac, and everyone else would have stolen not only my freedom but my entire life. My father. His money and my home. My future. And the man who had baked brownieswith me and cleaned my birdhouse simply couldn’t be capable of committing all those crimes. It was absolutely absurd.
That night I stayed alone in the tiny hut, but I was certain someone was watching me. Sleep was out of the question since a thousand things were going through my mind. I had no illusions about being released in eight weeks. Nathan had said I would have to remain here for a few months if not a year. Now that I thought about it, I understood why. Isaac had a year at most and then he wouldn’t be alive anymore. I would be safe from him. And even if Dad pleaded guilty, he still might press charges. Most likely. One didn’t exclude the other. The men would have to obtain new identities, new passports, as Nathan explained to me the first week in the swamp. They didn’t trust me. Some—and I suspected he was thinking about Taurus—might have to have a tattoo that was too conspicuous removed, and they would certainly scatter in all four directions. Only when they were as invisible as the wind would Nathan release me.
Were there any, apart from Sparta, with family in Coldville that they wanted to return to? The police would search there first and they would dig up the graves if necessary, but obviously, they would need names for that. Only I could provide them with those since everyone in the far north was keeping quiet. But as soon as I betrayed even one, he would possibly drag the others into the abyss with him. And there were men whose names I would never voluntarily give to the police.
Or was there a different plan? Would the men wait for compensation before getting their families out of Coldville and starting a new life with them elsewhere?
I didn’t know. I was certain no one here would tell me. For me, Dad’s admission only changed my life afterward. A life without Dad by my side, alone, but with the press breathingdown my neck. A gauntlet of guilt and atonement, with court cases and negative headlines. I would be responsible for everything that needed to be sorted out, but I would have no one left to seek advice from.
These thoughts alone overwhelmed me. On that sticky, hot night in Louisiana, I suddenly felt so afraid that I wanted to tell Pan to take me with him, just as a good friend, naturally, but then I remembered my grandma Anna.
With infinite love,
Your Grandma
How could I have forgotten her! She wanted to talk to me about Mom and Dad. I hadn’t thought about her and her letter in so long. Maybe she had some answers for me.
The next few weeks flew by in harmony with the days. The summer was hot and humid and there was always something to do. Fortunately, the mood was lightened by my father’s concession and we created something like a regular work routine. I had calluses on my hands that wouldn’t go away because we washed the laundry by hand and the wooden slats on the hut needed to be replaced. To do this, we often spent hours poking around the floating forests in the boat searching for suitable driftwood in the silvery-gray mist. Sometimes, I wondered if the hideout was worth all this effort, but the men seemed to enjoy the simple work.
Nathan proved to be a skilled craftsman using only a saw, a planer, and a file to shape chairs and smaller tables out of gigantic driftwood. I couldn’t help but recall the driftwood heart that he had given me at Rosewood Manor that Dad had immediately confiscated. He had obviously perfected this art at some point because each piece was a masterpiece. Icarus and Troy often assisted him, although Icarus was always misplacingtools, which regularly drove Nathan mad. Troy was not all that interested in wood, so he occasionally wandered off on his own to salvage more treasures from the huts on the island. He was keen on his search and, at one point, even came back with a silver ring, which he theatrically put on my finger, which earned him a grim look from Nathan and Pan. Pan returned almost every day with new driftwood, which he towed behind the motorboat, or chopped wood, one of his new favorite activities. Sparta, on the other hand, worked on a new raft when he was fit enough.
Time passed quickly. We could have lived like that for over a year. Sometimes, when I was near Nathan, I watched him filing a piece of wood; the way his muscles flexed under his shirt, his slender, sinewy arms that flexed with every movement, and his narrow hips in low-cut jeans. I loved the way he carelessly tied his hair back so that a few strands always fell across his face. At night, I had wild dreams about his hands pressing me against the shack just so he could kiss me as long as he wanted. In the morning, I woke up disturbed, but still felt the tug of strange longing pulsing in my blood. I wanted him.
We hadn’t spoken since that day when he locked me in the shed, but it felt like we were speaking. Like eight years ago at the back gate of Rosewood Manor. Like then, we had turned into animals that circled each other, eyed each other, but never came too close. Like then, a strange shiver of happiness ran through my veins when I felt him watching me. Like that summer long ago, I wanted to please him and often spent far too long in front of our mirror. Troy and Icarus teased me about making myself pretty for Pan, who then left the hut in silence. As I watched Nathan, Pan watched me. Still. And yet I hadn’t told anyone about our conversation. Why should I? That was between Pan and me.
Just like the days, the evenings always followed a certain rhythm. Troy taught me to cook. If the men were lucky, they would return from a boat trip with garlic, vegetables, spicy sausage, chicken, and ham—each time we would cookjambon alay, a stew based on an old Louisiana recipe that Nathan knew. After that, I often played backgammon with Sparta on a homemade wooden board and the men drank moonshine, which was what they called the liquor they received from Mrs. Durand, an artist who made furniture and wooden ornaments out of driftwood, but who also bought some of Nathan’s artwork. Mrs. Durand may have been fictional, but Nathan claimed she was our next-door neighbor and her little house was also in the Atchafalaya Basin, just a forty-five-minute boat ride away. From her, he had also picked up the herbal medicine for Sparta, the pain-relieving brew he had told me about. He kept it under a floorboard in a secret hiding place that the others didn’t know about, but I once caught him stowing the brew there. He hadn’t seen me, so I hoped one day to find his cell phone there, which he guarded as well as the brew.
I had to call Dad. At least once. Maybe there wasn’t good internet reception here, but you could make phone calls. The area wasn’t as isolated as Nathan initially tried to make me believe. The wide basin, which looked like a lake, had once been full of bald cypress trees, which had been felled for their high-quality wood. Oil companies had long since taken up positions in front of large coastal cities in order to maximize their profits in the Gulf of Mexico. But here, in the place where he had brought me, there was no trace of consumerism or America. It was a deserted, lost place, peaceful and full of magic.
Even Sparta, who was gradually worsening, said that. For a few days, he had not gotten up but lay all day in the hut on our most comfortable mattress. His skin glowed in the southern heat and I often fanned him for hours with a fan that Nathan hadreceived from Mrs. Durand. I gave him the amount of brew that Nathan taciturnly poured for me, plus as much moonshine as he wanted. When he wasn’t sleeping, he told me about Coldville and his life. About conifers so black and cold they seemed to be merely silhouettes of frosty shadows, about snowflakes as big as the palm of my hand, and a sky that was as smoky blue as my eyes in the morning. I felt the longing for his home in the pictures he painted for me, the longing for his wife and son that he had left behind. “A farewell forever,” he said in a shaky voice. “They knew it.” He looked at me with glassy eyes that seemed eerie on his pale face. Like will-o’-the-wisps in a pale mist. “The little one’s name is Samuel, Sammy…he’s three years old, a good boy…looks like his daddy.” He sounded proud. I had to turn away so he wouldn’t see my tear-filled eyes. “He should have it…” A coughing fit interrupted him and he spat blood into the piece of cloth I handed him. “Have it better. Get medicine. Learn the truth about why his daddy died.”
“He will,” I said as I looked at him, my heart in two. The life was draining out of his body every day, like a secured balloon with a leak, getting flaccid day by day. Sparta had lost too much weight, his arms and legs as thin as twigs that a gust of wind could break. It hurt to look at him.
Have you ever seen someone die, Willa Nevaeh Rae?
“Willa,” Sparta said quietly now.
“Stanton?”
