is. Your words matter. Tuck them in here, where they will be kept safe.
Sincerely yours,
Tillie Donaldson Blackwood
September 23, 1933
Five years before she died, and the year that Claudine was born.
I feel a chill go through me, and then something more—a kind of lightning warmth. As far as I know, this right here is the only piece of Tillie correspondence that remains. A lovely, romantic legacy from a vibrant, alive woman. I pull out my phone and take a photo of the letter.
Before we leave, I add one of my own.
Dear Claude, write your own story. Love, me.
* * *
—
Back at Addy’s, I sit on the window seat and pick up the package, which is heavier than it looks. I give it a good shake and it rattles. Whatever is in here will never be enough apology, but I open it anyway.
Inside is a mound of Christmas tissue paper, silver and blue with snowflakes. On top, a postcard. Welcome to Ohio, worst of the Midwest, it says over a photo of the giant blue arch over I-70 that welcomes you to the state. Underneath the arch stretches a flat, endless highway. We have fields! Corn! Pigs! Meth! And more fields!
I flip it over. On the back, my dad has written:
Dear Clew,
I’m thinking you can’t find this on the island and you’re probably really craving it by now. If you can eat up all of them before you leave, I’ll be beyond impressed. Awed, even. Bring the survivors (if there are any) home, and I promise to make them for you. I love you.
Love,
Your dad, such as he is. For better or worse, like it or not. The dad you’re stuck with, who doesn’t deserve you, but will always love you, no matter what.
I set the card aside and dig through the tissue, and suddenly I’m blinking and blinking as hard as I can because I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not forgive him and I will not cry.
Five minutes later, I’m wiping my face with a washcloth and staring at my red, puffy eyes in the bathroom mirror. I go back into the dining room, back to the window seat, where I’ve lined up the contents of the package, one by one. Twelve boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese.
* * *
—
It’s five o’clock when Miah drives up to Addy’s in his truck. I hear him coming and run to meet him on the porch.
He says, “I’m sorry, Captain. Someone broke into the Park Service office, two of the Outward Bound campers are lost, Bram and Shirley need me to close up their house, and my sister called.”
“Is your mom okay?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He rests his forehead against mine and whispers, “Let’s just run away.”
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
He closes his eyes and I close mine.
After a moment, he pulls away and lets out this long sigh. “I’m going to charter off at nine-forty-five tonight. That gives us a little more time.”
He gives me a sad smile, and he’s trying his best to make it seem bright and normal, and then there’s this instant when the smile vanishes and he’s looking into me, so deep I can feel it.
He says, “I’ve got a few more things to do and then I’ll come find you.”
Suddenly it washes over me—this sinking feeling. I try to shove it aside. I tell myself it’s just sadness over him leaving and the fact that our time on the island is at an end. But it’s more than that. I feel this flash of panic because something in me is saying, This is it. This is your goodbye.
“What is it, Captain?”
He’s smiling again but his eyes are worried. I can tell he thinks it’s true, that he’ll come find me.
“Nothing,” I say. Because I have this need to chase away the worry, to look into his eyes right now and see only me.
Then he kisses me, and it’s just kissing. Nothing more. But somehow it means the most of all.
DAY 32
(PART TWO)
I’m sitting at dinner and trying to focus on the conversation, but my eyes are on the door, watching for Miah. I’ve told myself I was being dramatic earlier. Of course he’s going to come find me. Then I have this vision of him appearing, just like he promised, and me not seeing him, and him leaving, no chance to say goodbye.
I say to my mom, “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.” I slip out of the