Brandon Enns - Islanders

“Yeah?”

“Never mind.”

She rolled over and nestled up into his chest. “You stink.”

His chuckle vibrated against her ear. “I know. I died and came back. You stink too.”

Erin slapped his stomach, making him grunt. “I know I do.” She slid her hand from his stomach to his chest, feeling his heart beat. She kept it there and felt it slow. So did hers.

The water was calm but she was still queasy. The sun shined down on Ashton’s six pack, and not a smidgen of sexual desire lingered. She wasn’t ten feet off the ground. Somberness enveloped her, distracting her from the pretty boat ride back to mainland. It appeared that she wasn’t the only one who was reeling after the most bizarre few days of her life. Everyone else was silent, the water around them was silent, and even the hum of the boat’s motor was quiet. At the far end of the boat, Trevor’s arms were wrapped around Erin, and she couldn’t help but be envious. It was a dirty feeling.

Ashton smiled at her. He had a bottle of beer in his hand with the label half peeled off.

They were off the boat in no time. Mainland.

A friendly man dressed in a button-up shirt and khaki shorts was there waiting for them. He helped load up their bags into his dated SUV and attempted small talk in the beginning of the ride, but one word answers clued him in that nobody was in the mood. She felt a little bad for him, but was too drained to worry all that much. The road was bumpy and narrow in the beginning. Along the ocean side she spotted some local kids on the beach splashing in the water, laughing uncontrollably as kids should.

They were herded like cattle the whole way through and before she knew it, their plane had lifted off into the air. No more than five words had been shared amongst the group. They touched down in Boston, their connection fitting in perfectly with their timeline as they only had to wait a half hour before boarding again. Skye looked around at the mix of Yankee and Red Sox hats in the plane, but no brawls broke out. She was asleep as soon as the plane left the runway.

Ashton was searching her eyes for something as they stood outside her apartment building in Brooklyn Heights. The neighborhood was rundown, but her place was only a few blocks from the brownstone architecture that she adored. It made her feel like she could travel back in time to simpler times devoid of screens and noise.

“I think we should break up.” The words relieved her more than anything.

“Yeah… Okay…” He tightened his lips and nodded in disappointment. “Still friends?”

Her laugh was more of an exhale. “That’d be great. Seriously though. I think we are capable of keeping in touch.”

“We’re still going to have sex though, right?” he said half-jokingly, maybe half-hoping.

She didn’t respond.

“I’m kidding. Would it be okay if I called you in a couple weeks?”

“I’d like that.” In the past, several booty calls would have ensued. But this time, that would not happen.

He hugged her and sneaked an innocent kiss on her lips, the final touch to let her know that her gut was telling the truth. There was nothing. She was nothing.

Everything in her studio apartment looked the same. Her stone walls, rustic kitchen, cheap leather sectional couch pointed at her old television that was deeper than it was wide. The open concept leading her to her massive window that looked out toward a series of billboards, usually promoting the latest hit detective or medical TV show. Her bed placed in the corner of the room, not having a room of its own. She had liked how free it was, having everything in one room, not being secluded to smaller areas. It felt cozy; it was an eccentric place, and it had been hers. But no longer did it feel like hers. She was a stranger living in someone else’s apartment, distant from the same brick walls that had comforted her all those nights she lay awake satisfied after heated sex with a stranger.

The smell of cigarette smoke from the hall comforted her, and she fell asleep once more.

Skye woke up disoriented. She didn’t know where she was. Once she became aware, she was disappointed. Her bright red digital clock flashed into her eyes 4:01 a.m. She tore through her closet, packing everything into a small suitcase and duffel bag. She didn’t even take a second to look around the apartment to admire the place she wouldn’t come back to. She just left.

Skye rode the subway to the end and back twice, looking through various search engines, along with Facebook, but had no luck finding her mother. She tried the white pages and siphoned through a list of Carol Bernard’s. She would wait until her favorite library opened and make her calls there. Maybe she’d pick out a new thriller novel and read that too.

Clinton Hill library was reasonably busy first thing in the morning, but she found her spot tucked in the corner, lost in a maze of shelving. A small round table and two chairs; the spot was almost always available to her. She took a seat, and began making calls to every Carol nearest their old address and outward from there.

Some hung up immediately, probably assuming she was some telemarketer or life insurance pusher. Some were rather friendly, maybe feeling lonely and just happy that their phone rang. Some were direct, telling her she had the wrong number, sounding annoyed. But she wiped through New York with no trace of her mother, the woman she had abandoned.

He had always hit her so hard. Nearly killed her once… What would he have done to her when they discovered I left? Skye continued to make calls.

She went to her favorite coffee place which was now quiet because the morning rush had come and gone. She ordered a lemon poppy seed muffin to go with her dark roast coffee, one cream, no sugar. The smell made her feel a little better, and although she didn’t think she was hungry, she scarfed down the muffin rather quickly. An old gray-haired couple sat across from one another; one reading a book, the other reading something on her phone.

Before she searched for more Carol Bernard contacts outside of NYC, she reconsidered the worst. As she tried to search obituaries, her hand was trembling. She thought of her mother’s pretty face. She didn’t smile often, but when she did, everyone else around her felt better about themselves. Her hair was always in a ponytail, her long elegant neck always dressed with a gold or silver necklace. She loved jewelry but took a beating the one time she purchased some on her own. She was so elegant, like a dancer, and her voice was as soft and as smooth as her walk. Then, thinking of her mother’s beautiful attributes, she remembered a conversation they had shared once, back when they still had some form of happiness.

They stayed up late into the night, her father out on a bender, and they ate popcorn with a movie on in the background that they paid no attention to. They told stories of their fantasies of living in Rome, sipping wine outside their hostel, listening to love stories of other backpackers, watching the tourists pass by on the beach within their sight. They’d eat fresh Margherita pizza on the beach and fall asleep in the sun, pretend fight with swords at the Coliseum like the idiots they were, check out hot guys at the Vatican, and make corny jokes. They would find a rich father-son combo and marry them to take half their shit and move on to the next country. They would spend the whole night spinning fictional tales, dreams that could only rest with the stars, and would go forever unlived. Their fantasizing fun would come to an abrupt halt when they heard cursing and clumsy footsteps coming up to the door. Skye would rush to her room and her mother would quickly set out his cup of water and Advil for him before rushing to her bedroom as well.