August Isle Page 13

  “Is it because of the legend?” Sammy asked before I could reply. “About the ghost? Is that why we can’t go?”

  Jason laughed, his teeth bright white against his tanned skin. “Well, that,” he said, “and it’s private property. If you ever get close enough, you’ll see the Keep Out signs in the water all around it.”

  “Who owns it?” Caleb asked.

  Jason tugged the brim of his baseball cap lower over his face. “Not sure, dude. Someone with a lot more money than me, I guess.”

  “Nobody lives there, right?” Sammy asked.

  He shook his head.

  “But does anyone ever visit?” I tried.

  “I’ve never seen anyone out there. Why so many questions?”

  “I’m writing an article about the island,” Sammy said.

  “Hmmm,” Jason murmured. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but there’s no getting onto Keeper’s Island.” Then he grinned. “And besides, the old keeper is waiting for his next victim. You don’t want it to be you.”

  Maybe it was just because the sun was so bright, but I swore I saw Sammy’s eyes narrow the tiniest bit, like Jason had thrown down a challenge.

  And she had accepted.

  “Why didn’t you tell him about what we saw last night?” I whispered, once we had sailed away again.

  “When you have a scoop, you don’t just go around blabbing about it to everyone,” she said.

  A trio of pelicans flew overhead. We watched as they dove, beaks first, into the water nearby. A few seconds later, they emerged. One of them had a shiny fish flopping in its beak.

  “So what now?” I asked.

  Sammy thought for a minute. “Find out who owns it, maybe?”

  “Or you could talk to Mr. Taylor.”

  “Mr. Taylor?”

  “Yeah. I mean, wasn’t he supposed to be the ghost’s last victim? Obviously, he wasn’t, but maybe there’s a reason the rumor got started. Maybe he knows something about the island. He might have been there, at least.”

  Sammy clapped her palms to her cheeks. “Miranda, that’s genius! Why didn’t I think of that? You would make a good reporter, too.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said. But I was glad that I had been able to help Sammy, even just a little. “How are we going to get to his house today? Without your mom knowing?”

  Sammy’s face broke into a smile, the sun catching blindingly on her braces. “I think I have an idea.”

  31

  For Sammy’s plan to work, we needed Jai’s help.

  The three of us cornered him after lunch, when he was about to leave for his lifeguarding shift and Aunt Clare was upstairs getting ready for her lessons. Sammy laid it all out for him in one long breath.

  We would tell Aunt Clare we were going to the beach, where Jai could look after us. We would even leave towels and a beach bag just in case she came to check on us after her lessons were done. If that happened, Jai would tell her we had gone for a walk. He would text us, and we would leave Mr. Taylor’s and cut back over to the beach.

  “No way,” Jai scoffed.

  “Please, Jai?” Sammy begged. “Please, please, please?”

  He started for the front door. “Why would I lie to Mom for you?”

  “I’ll trade you. I’ll do your chores for two weeks.”

  Jai stopped, his hand on the doorknob. Sammy bit her lip and looked upstairs, listening for any sign of Aunt Clare.

  “And clean the bathroom?” he asked.

  Sammy gave a disgusted sigh. “Fine.”

  “For a month,” he said.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Only if you cover for us tomorrow, too.”

  Jai hesitated. Then he shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. “But you have to tell me what you guys are doing.”

  Sammy and I glanced at each other. For once, it seemed she didn’t have a story ready to roll off her tongue. It was Caleb who spoke.

  “They’re helping me. My parents are, um, getting divorced. My dad moved to a hotel last night, and I have to bring some stuff to him. The thing is, they don’t want anyone to know they’re splitting up yet, so we can’t really tell your mom.”

  The sharp angles of Jai’s face softened. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry, man.”

  He hesitated another second before shrugging. “Fine,” he said. “But if you get caught, I’m telling Mom I had no idea.”

  Sammy ignored him, clapping her hands together as the door slammed shut behind Jai. “That was awesome, Caleb!” she said. “How did you come up with that so fast?”

  “I didn’t,” he said, and I realized that he had big purple circles under his eyes. “My dad did move to a hotel last night.”

  “Oh, no,” Sammy breathed.

  “I’m really sorry, Caleb,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Honestly. At least they can’t fight while my dad stays there. And at least he’s close by. For now.”

  I didn’t say anything, but having your dad live in a hotel didn’t sound very okay to me. It sounded awful.

  “Come on, Miranda,” said Sammy after a minute. “Let’s go tell my mom we’re going to the beach.”

  But my feet stayed planted where they were.

  “What’s wrong?” Sammy asked.

  It was bad enough, I thought, that I couldn’t have a normal relationship with my own mom. But now I was jeopardizing Sammy’s relationship with hers. Didn’t Caleb’s dad moving out just go to show how fragile families could be? That not all families could work through their problems?

  “Are you sure you want to lie to your mom?” I asked. “I don’t want to make trouble for you guys after everything you’ve done for me. I mean, won’t you feel bad about it?”

  But Sammy just blinked. “Why would I?” she replied. “She’s been lying to me, hasn’t she? I checked online, and there’s nothing about people being pickpocketed in town.”

  When Sammy started upstairs, I followed her. Because when she put it that way, it didn’t seem quite so wrong.

  32

  It was Mr. Taylor who came to the door that afternoon.

  “Where’s Betsy?” Sammy asked, as we stepped in.

  “Ladrão!” Safira cawed.

  “She had to take care of her mother today,” Mr. Taylor said. “I guess she wasn’t feeling well this morning, so Betsy took her to the doctor. She gets confused quite easily these days, I gather.”

  “That’s too bad,” Sammy said. Then she spotted Slug, his tail thumping against the living-room rug. There was something different about him today. “Hey! His cone is gone!”

  “Yes, he’s all healed up,” Mr. Taylor said. “As they say, time heals all wounds. Shall we get started? I think we’ll finish it today.”

  His last words hung over us like storm clouds as we all stared at the last two lonely boxes.

  “Does this mean it’s our last day here?” I asked.

  “Actually, I was thinking maybe we could have a kind of—party,” he said. “Before Miranda leaves. To say thank you for all your help. But if you have other plans, of course—”

  “Can we do it tomorrow?” Sammy asked.

  “Not tomorrow,” Mr. Taylor said. “I’ve got some errands to run on the mainland. And the next day is the August Festival, so I expect you’ll be busy.”

  “Will you be there?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m not much of a crowd person. But perhaps the next day? You can come over around lunchtime, and I’ll have Betsy make us something special.”

  “That’s the day before I leave,” I said, my stomach twisting.

  I thought I saw a flicker of sorrow dart through Mr. Taylor’s gray eyes, quick as a swallow flitting past on the wind.

  “Don’t remind me,” Sammy groaned, glancing up from a sleeping Slug, whose tongue lolled in a long ribbon to the floor.

  “We’ll be here,” I said.

  She glanced at me. We would have to convince Jai to cover for us another day. Maybe Sammy c
ould offer to do his laundry or something.

  I looked around the room. Dust no longer danced in the air, and the damp smell from before had been mostly replaced with something like cinnamon. It looked so bare without all the crates.

  “Can I ask a question?” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “What did you do with all the stuff you brought back? And what’s going to happen to all the stories? Why’d you have me type them all?”

  Mr. Taylor settled down in his usual place on the couch, and Safira hopped over to him. “I thought I would put them somewhere,” he said. “Someplace where people can see the objects and learn their stories.”

  “You mean, like, a museum?” Caleb asked.

  “Of sorts.”

  “What about your story?” Sammy asked. “Is it going in the museum?”

  “So many questions today,” he said, arching his eyebrows.

  “Will you at least tell us your story today?” Sammy tried.

  Mr. Taylor shot her a tired smile. “You’ll make a great journalist,” he said. “You’re quite—persistent. But I’m afraid the answer is not today. Now, shall we—”

  “Actually, can I ask one more question?” Sammy interrupted.

  Mr. Taylor’s smile fell into a hesitant frown. “Yes?”

  “It’s about how, um, how you left August Isle.”

  “So you want to know about ancient history, then?” His voice was light, but I thought I saw his jaw stiffen beneath his beard.

  “The night Miranda, um, broke in here,” Sammy said, “it was because Caleb dared her to. Because we didn’t think you would be here.”

  “Because we thought you were dead,” added Caleb.

  “And why would you think that?”

  “Because of the legend. You know, the one about the ghost of the lighthouse keeper?”

  Mr. Taylor crossed his arms over his chest. Three little lines appeared in his forehead. “I know the legend.”

  “Well, people said that’s why you disappeared,” Sammy explained. “They said that you went to Keeper’s Island and the ghost got you.”

  “Did they, now?”

  “Yes. And I want to write an article about Keeper’s Island. And I wondered—because of the legend—if maybe you knew anything about it?”

  “Unfortunately,” said Mr. Taylor, “I don’t think I’ll be of much help to you, since—as you can see—I was not, in fact, murdered by a vengeful ghost. I’m sorry to be so uninteresting.”

  Sammy sighed. Then, “It’s okay,” she said. “There is a story there. And I’m going to find it, just like you found all these.” She tapped the lid of one of the remaining boxes.

  For a few seconds, Mr. Taylor just stared at her. “I believe you will, Sammy,” he said finally. “But first, I think we have one or two last stories waiting for us here.”

  33

  The very last place the wind blew me on my travels was to Lima, Peru, a city overlooking the Pacific from its perch upon ragged clifftops. One evening, after a long day walking through its winding streets, I stopped in a park to watch the sun set over the sea.

  Presently a woman sat down on my bench. With her was a small, pigtailed girl who waved shyly at me before running off to play.

  Her mother and I soon struck up a conversation. She asked me where I was from and why I was visiting Lima. When she caught sight of her daughter trying to scale a nearby tree, she scolded her. “No, Illari!”

  “Is that her name?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said “She is named for my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother must have been a special person,” I said.

  “She was,” the woman replied. “Very special.”

  “I’d love to hear about her, if you have the time,” I said.

  The woman studied me curiously for a moment.

  “My grandmother came to live with my father and me when my mother died,” she began. “I was only ten years old then, and I did not know how to live without a mother.

  “At first, when my grandmother came, I found her very strange. I had grown up in the city. She had grown up in an ancient village high in the Andes. I thought she was backward, and she thought I was much too modern. One night, she woke to hear me crying. When she asked me what was wrong, I told her I missed my mother. That I could no longer feel her love.

  “My grandmother told me then what her grandmother had told her as a child. That people are simply stars, fallen from the sky. We live our lives here on earth, and when we are ready, we return to our place in the heavens. ‘So do not cry, my child,’ she whispered. ‘For your mother’s love shines down on you always.’

  “At first, I did not believe my grandmother. I thought she was just telling me a story. But soon I began to find my mother everywhere. Her favorite song played in the shops I went into. In every book I read, I found her name. The flowers she had planted years before bloomed again in the spring. And slowly, my anger faded. For I found that my grandmother was right. Though I could not see my mother any longer, she was with me all the time, like a star that becomes invisible when the sun rises but is always there, hanging in the sky.

  “My grandmother lived a long time, and we grew to be very good friends. The night after she died, I took a bus away from the city lights and lay in a field, looking up at the stars. Just as my eyes began to close, I glimpsed one of them falling to earth. And I remembered what my grandmother had said. The very next day, I found out I was going to have a baby. I knew then that it would be a girl, and we would name her Illari, after my grandmother.”

  “Do you truly believe what she told you?” I asked after a moment. “About the stars, I mean?”

  “My grandmother’s ancestors believed we fell from the stars for thousands of years before science proved that our bodies are made of stardust,” the woman said. “Is it so hard to believe that they might have understood something else about what happens when we die? Who am I not to believe? And who, for that matter, are you?”

  “That’s the very last story?” Sammy asked, once Mr. Taylor was finished.

  “The last one I collected before coming home,” he said, staring down at the photograph Sammy had pulled from the final box. It showed the silhouette of a woman with a little girl hoisted on her hip, both of them watching the sun go down over the ocean.

  “Isn’t there something else that goes with it?” Caleb asked. “A painting or a sculpture or something?”

  “Just the photo,” said Mr. Taylor. “Real love is something you feel, but it’s not something you can touch or hold. Which means nothing can take it from you, see? Not even death. That’s what the woman in the story learned.”

  “Do you think her grandmother sent that falling star?” Sammy asked. “That she sent the baby?”

  Mr. Taylor didn’t answer for a minute. “I suppose I believe that when a person loves you, their love continues to echo on, even after they’re gone.” He cleared his throat and stood up. “I’m feeling a bit tired now. I think I’ll go lie down. Caleb, why don’t you take the giveaway book pile over to the library now? I’ll see you all soon.”

  As we got up to leave, though, I didn’t think Mr. Taylor looked very tired.

  I just thought he looked sad.

  34

  Caleb went to lug Mr. Taylor’s huge box of books to the library. Sammy and I thought we should start heading back to get our stuff on the beach, so we went in the opposite direction.

  Sammy was the first to find her voice. “Do you know anyone who died?” she asked.

  “Only my grandparents on my mom’s side,” I said as we climbed the boardwalk stairs. Sandy dunes covered in sea grass rose up like tiny mountains on either side of us. In the distance, I could see the orange ribbons around the sea turtle’s nest. “But they died before I was born, so I never met them. What about you?”

  “My granddad on my dad’s side died when I was ten,” she said. “I didn’t get to go to his funeral, though, because it was in India. Only my dad went.”
>
  I usually tried not to think about death. Whenever I did, I thought about Mom or Dad dying and never being able to talk to them or see them again. Then I would get this awful panicky feeling in my chest, and if I wasn’t with them, I would have to text them just to make sure they were okay.

  “Do you think your granddad is up there somewhere?” I pointed to the sky, where fat seagulls flew over our heads, camouflaged by the clouds.

  “Well, Hindus believe in reincarnation,” Sammy said. “It’s called samsara. You live all these different lives, but your soul—your atman—stays the same. So my grandfather wouldn’t be up in the stars. He would be here on earth, living a totally new life.”

  “Whoa,” I said. “So would he know who you were if he saw you?”

  Sammy shook her head. “It doesn’t really work like that. You don’t get to carry your memories. Just your karma. All your good deeds and bad deeds. They come back to you in the next life.”

  “More echoes,” I said. “Like Mr. Taylor was talking about.”

  We reached the spot where we had laid our beach towels down, near Jai’s lifeguard tower. A blond girl with a big sun hat was chatting up at him, and he was laughing at something she said. I wondered if she was the one he was always talking to on the phone at night.

  Just then, I felt my own phone vibrating in my pocket. My heart pounded as I reached back to get it.

  It wasn’t Mom, though. It was Dad. Maybe it was because of what we’d just been talking about, but I was really happy he was calling.

  “Hello?” I said, walking a few paces toward the surf.

  “There she is!” said Dad. “How are you, kiddo?”

  “I’m okay, I guess,” I said, letting my toes sink into the sand. A line of creamy seashells rattled against the waves a few inches away. “How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m okay, too.”

  My throat tightened. I could tell by the sigh in his voice that he had talked to Mom. But what had she told him?