Page 188 of The Otherworld

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Papa has been instructed not to exert himself lest he bring on another heart attack, so I’ve forbidden him to do any chores for the foreseeable future.

“I’m strong,” I assure him. “I can manage.”

“I won’t make you a beast of burden, my dear girl.”

“But—”

“I’ve made arrangements already,” he says, staring out the kitchen window at the coastline as though seeing it in a whole new light. “A man will be coming out here several times a week to help us with whatever is needed. If he’s true to his word, he’ll be here on Wednesday. Until then, we will carry on as before.”

As before.

What an impossible notion.

Nothing can be as it was before. I realize that over the course of the following days. There was a time when the rhythm of my habits felt as steady and comforting as the tides that lull me to sleep each night. There was a time when I found wonder and delight in ordinary, everyday things. Now I find only reminders of what I have lost.

Days feel impossibly long, nights even longer. I visit the greenhouse every morning, my harvesting basket slung over my shoulders and Lucius trotting at my heels. I walk the beach and see many beautiful shells, but I don’t bring any back to my room. I spend hours on my knees in the garden, digging up root vegetables, scrubbing them clean, and preparing them a hundred different ways. I chop firewood until my hands are calloused and my arms sore. Every evening, I sit by the fire with Papa, who has begun to tell me stories about Mama. Stories of when they were first married. How happy and hopeful they both were, eager for the future, dazzled by the unknown.

I know how Mama must have felt during those glorious days of early love. I’ve experienced that feeling—that thrill of hope and possibility, the bliss of not knowing what the future holds but knowing it will be good.

Now, those feelings are just another memory.

Another weight of sorrow in my heart.

I tell myself that time will heal this wound, but it only feels more tender and sore with every passing day. Sometimes I cannot contain the grief and must let myself cry—an emotional indulgence I allow only when I am alone in my room or somewhere far down the beach, out of Papa’s sight. I don’t want him to know how much I miss Adam. I’ve caused him too much trouble as it is.

Then, one clear morning, Papa reminds me, “It’s Wednesday.”

“What’s special about Wednesday? Oh, I remember. The man you hired is going to come today and help us with the chores. So I don’t become a beast of burden.”

Papa smiles, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time. “That’s what he told me, anyway. Let’s see if this man keeps his promises.”

Around midmorning, I hear the telltale growl of a small aircraft engine. My heart gives an unexpected thud of anticipation, and I have to remind myself: It’s not Adam.

“I think that must be the man,” Papa says, coming into the kitchen. He looks out the window and sees the plane approaching. “Why don’t you go out and meet him?”

I frown. “Me? Right now?” I’m in the middle of kneading bread dough, up to my elbows in flour—but Papa doesn’t seem to care how busy I am.

“Yes,” he says, his voice soft but serious. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, I unstring my apron and brush the flour off my hands. Papa remains at the window while I step outside into the soft golden sunshine. A cool breeze rolls off the ocean as I walk out to the grassy knoll overlooking the beach.

When my gaze lands on the floatplane, I stop dead in my tracks.

It’s Adam’s plane.

It’s Adam.

My heart jumps out of my chest as he emerges from the cockpit.

No.

Impossible.

I must be imagining him standing there.

But then he takes off his sunglasses and smiles.

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