‘Open it later,’ she says, hugging me over her ridiculously huge baby bump.
‘Go back inside,’ I say. ‘You’ll make the baby cold.’
She laughs. ‘A bad mother already. This poor one has no chance.’
I leave her there and head off, thinking how wrong Delta was just now. That baby is one of the luckiest kids on the planet to be born on Salvation amongst these people.
Dusk gathers as I make my way back up Wailing Hill. I’m wearing Mack’s deeply unflattering but hugely practical head torch – he left it in my coat pocket and made me promise to use it. I’m glad of it this evening but also glad no one can see me.
It’s almost dark when I reach the summit of the hill and I drop my bum down on the familiar slope of the boulder. I know exactly how to position myself on it now, there’s a particular spot that’s been moulded into a gentle curve by countless backsides across the years. I’d like to think mine has added a little to the groove too.
I click the head torch off to better appreciate the view. I left the porch light on for myself at Otter Lodge, I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to a cold, dark place. For a moment, I imagine Mack is in there now building a fire, and it’s so sweet I could set myself off again. But he isn’t. Solitude awaits me, and actually, after an afternoon of such bolstering company, I find I don’t mind the thought of some time alone.
A noise in my pocket startles me – my phone connecting to the network. I switched it back on after Mack left, just in case. A message from my mum; she has a coffee cake cooling on the side and wishes I was there to eat it. She wants to get a visit arranged as soon as I’m back in England. I haven’t told her much about what’s been happening here, but she’s my mum. I know she reads my work and finds all the invisible words between the lines, that she’s deciphered secret SOS messages I didn’t even know I’d sent. Another message, this time from Ali, to let me know she’s approved my request to take the chunk of annual leave I’m owed and tag it on to my time here. I sag with relief. It’s a tiny window of breathing space, more Salvation days before the sand runs through the timer.
Another message arrives and I almost don’t look because there’s something incongruous about the glare of the screen against the timeless dark skies. But I do look, and I breathe in sharply when I see the name on the screen.
Mack.
I stored his number in my phone when I took the rule sheet down. I intended to keep the list as a memento, but I’ve misplaced it, probably swept up with the clear-out after Mack left. Is he in trouble? Did he not make it safely home? I’d have heard by now, surely, if not. Hardly breathing, I click his message open.
One – Springsteen just came on the radio and I thought of you.
Two – I fucking miss you, and the island, and the lodge. But you most of all.
Three – You know what three is.
Oh, Mack. I read and reread his words. Of the two of us, I thought I’d be the one to break our pact, the one who ended up a little drunk and a lot lonely with my phone in my hand. What do I do with this? Reply? I think of him, about his long journey home, the stress he will have been under returning to Boston, seeing his boys again, the roller coaster of emotions he’ll be going through with Susie. I can’t even begin to imagine how you process building a life, a family, with someone, and then having the rug pulled unceremoniously from beneath your feet. I saw how cut up he was about Robert, and I’m sure Susie will feel the same boot in her gut when – if – Mack tells her about us. He’s flown home to face a truckload of agonizing conversations and decisions. I expect messaging me was a desperate, alcohol-related escape route back to Salvation. I hate to think of him alone in that condo he detests, beer in one hand, phone in the other.
I study his words again, thinking about my options. I could just not reply, stick to our agreement. It would send a clear message: this isn’t a good idea, Mack. One text leads to another, and before you know it we’re friends on Facebook and torturing ourselves looking at photos that break our hearts. He may well have woken up regretful about even sending it. Not replying would solve that. But then, he might also wonder if I ever even received it, if it got lost somewhere along its three-thousand-mile journey, if a passing mermaid plucked it from the air in an act of female solidarity to protect me from further harm. I feel certain he wouldn’t contact me a second time, and that would be that.
I think all of these commendable thoughts, knowing all the time that I’m going to reply. Of course I am. I just don’t know what to say. I try out various options before I strike what I hope is the right note.