Page 7 of The Island

Back inside, she went through the wrong door and found herself in a massive closet that was empty but for hundreds of coat hangers. The closet had a huge mirror at its rear. Heather hadn’t seen a mirror in a few days. It sucked her in. Her mother, the painter, claimed that sadness always leaked through the eyes. Heather’s green eyes looked more tired than sad. Her face had picked up a tan and her hair had bleached a little in the sun. She’d lost weight, which was not a good thing because it was all muscle mass. She hadn’t been doing her exercises or yoga. She looked frail, like one of those Manson chicks, and when Tom told people she’d grown up on a sort of commune you could tell that they were thinking NXIVM sex cult or worse. Of course it was nothing like that.

She grabbed her phone, sat cross-legged on the floor, and dialed a number.

“Hello?” a female voice said.

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Whoa, girlfriend! I was wondering if I was ever going to hear from you again. Pretty sure the hitchhiker killers or the spiders were going to get you.”

“Not yet. What time is it there, Carolyn?”

“It’s five thirty. Five thirty in the evening.”

“Here it’s the morning. Tomorrow morning, I think.”

“Man, that is freaky. Seriously, are you looking out for the spiders? And did I warn you about those blue-ringed octopuses that kill you in ten seconds?”

“You did. Funnily enough, very few blue-ringed octopuses in the desert,” Heather said.

“Don’t blame me when they get ya. How’s the trophy husband?”

“He’s good.”

“I’ll bet he is! He’s a tall drink of water, that one. And how are the little monsters?” Carolyn asked.

“You shouldn’t call them that.”

“Ha! I knew you would get Stockholm syndrome sooner or later. Cough me an SOS in Morse code if he’s in earshot.”

“He’s not and everything is OK.”

“You’ll come and see me when you get back? Show me your photos, tell me everything?”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t seen you for ages.”

“The ferries—it’s complicated.”

“He doesn’t like you coming back here, does he?”

“You’re crazy.”

“It’s the drugs, isn’t it? He thinks we’re all degenerates. You should never have told him about our marijuana crops. And yet he gives his own kids so-called prescription drugs. They’re hypocrites, these doctors, and—”

“Oh my God, Carolyn, can we change the subject? How’s everyone at home? Tell me about the Sound. What’s the weather like there?” Heather interrupted.

“Let me go to the window. You can’t see shit. Fog and rain. Drizzle.”

“I dreamed it was snowing,” Heather said. “How’s Scotty?”

“He’s hanging in there. He came by to see me yesterday. Just nudged open the door and came in. I gave him a couple of pets and he fell asleep on the mat.”

“Seen my dad?”

“Yup. He’s good. Been out kayaking.”

“And my mom?” Heather asked.

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