Page 55 of The Otherworld

“It was not nothing. It’s more than most people do for anyone else in their entire lives. Do you even realize that? It’s incredible. I’d be bragging about it forever if I were you.”

Orca laughs. The cutest, sunniest laugh I’ve ever heard.

“I mean it. I was going out of my mind when you called me that night. I don’t know what I would have done if it weren’t for you. I mean, Adam would still have found the lighthouse, and you still would have helped him. But I wouldn’t have known about any of it, and my parents would have convinced me that he was gone, and it just… it would have destroyed me. It was destroying me.” I pull into the driveway and slow the car to a stop. “What I’m trying to say is… you helped me through the darkest time of my life. You believed when no one else did. And I can never thank you enough for that.”

I kill the engine and sit in the dark for a minute, watching the rain slide down the windshield.

“You’re welcome, Jack,” she answers softly. “I’m glad I was able to help you. I’m… glad I happened to find that backpack.”

I smile. “Yeah. So am I.”

* * *

Mom is alive again. Her bed is made, the house is freakishly clean, and she’s not wearing black. She’s singing when I walk in the door.

Singing.

We eat the stupid casserole Mrs. Dubois gave us, and it’s actually really good because my brother isn’t dead and because I’ve hardly eaten in a week. I joke that nobody should tell Mrs. Dubois that Adam is alive, and when he returns, he can show up on her doorstep to bring her casserole dish back. Mom says, “That’s awful,” but she’s grinning. Dad thinks it’s a great idea.

For the rest of the night, I keep thinking about what Orca said. How she’s so restless, so desperate to see the world. How she feels trapped, afraid that she’ll never be free.

I may not have grown up in a lighthouse with a crazy hermit for a dad, but man, do I feel her pain.

Adam doesn’t get it; she’s right about that. He’s so stable. So okay with everything staying exactly the way it is. He’s certainly not as talkative as you, she said. But she didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I detected a hint of admiration in her voice.

I wonder what they have been talking about. Orca must be asking him thousands of questions about the “Otherworld” or whatever she calls it—and knowing my brother, he’ll be dutifully giving her one-word answers.

I’m kind of jealous of him.

Not for the broken ribs—that sucks. But to be stranded on an island with Orca Monroe, all alone? That doesn’t sound like too bad a time.

It’s ridiculous, but part of me feels strangely possessive of her. Maybe it’s because I “met her” first. Or maybe it’s because she stopped me from falling into the abyss of grief—she gave me hope when all hope seemed lost.

I remember what she told me the first night I talked to her on the phone. How her father wants to keep her on that island: no friends, no movies, no pizza. She can’t live her whole life like that—it would be crazy. It would be a tragedy.

I won’t let it happen.

I meant what I said: I owe her my life. A trip to the Otherworld would be nothing compared to what she’s done for Adam and me. As soon as this storm passes, I’m going to fly out to Recluse Island and meet this girl. I’m going to pay her back—to show her the world she’s always dreamed of.

Damn the rules.

17

Butterflies and Hurricanes

ADAM

“O, you take the high road, and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye…”

An angelic voice coaxes me awake like a breath of summer wind. For a moment, I don’t know whose voice it is or where I am. Fatigue holds me under the waters of semiconsciousness.

“… but me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond…”

At last, I force my eyes open, taking in the room around me—Orca’s living room. Flames crackle in the fireplace, hissing over the split logs. Lucius is sprawled in front of the hearth like an ancient sacrifice. Orca’s singing drifts from the kitchen.

How long have I been asleep?

The last thing I remember is Orca sitting in the chair across from me, sewing something, rambling on about how her father won’t let her go to the mainland. I must have fallen asleep on her. Now a gray wash of light filters through the windows, brighter than it was before I dozed off. The steady shhhhh of rain murmurs against the roof, but the thunder and wind seem to have subsided.

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