I weave through the meadow quickly, past the shrines, and reach the beginnings of the forest. The pines are too bushy, so I find a nice eight-pointed tree and start hacking at the base of the trunk with my kitchen knife.
Two hours and a dozen blisters later, the tree falls over. One down. I trim off the branches and start chopping the second. The sky darkens as I work. The air grows clammy.
Wiping sweat from my brow, I glance up to the trees ahead. They’re dense, but it’s almost as if they’re not there. The Shipyard beyond looms up in my vision, calling my name.
Cee.
Cee.
Cee.
Right. Still on the island. Still losing my mind.
I lunch on some leaves, then fell one last tree. I tie the three trunks together with twine from my pack, strip down to M.M.’s holey camisole, and fill her sweater with rotting leaves and pine needles. That should do for fertilizer. The boy won’t be expecting it. I smile a bit at the thought of surprising him.
The walk back through the meadow takes longer than usual, probably because I’m dragging three trunks topped off with a sweater-sack of mulch. By the time I transport everything to the top of the ridge and lower them down the other side, the clouds have thickened. It starts to drizzle as I lug everything across the rock scape, back to the house. I unload the trunks on the porch, prop the sack of mulch by the door, and head in.
I almost don’t recognize the kitchen. The floors are polished, not a speck of sand in sight. The counters are clean. The old pitcher by the sink is filled with dandelions.
“Wow.” U-me is either malfunctioning or self-actualizing.
“Wow,” says U-me, rolling out from the living room. “Expressing astonishment or admiration, exclamation.”
“Aw, U-me. You didn’t have to—oh.” I stop between the kitchen and living room, the half door separating them swinging into the back of my calves. “It’s you.”
The boy sits back on his bare heels, a monogrammed towel in his hands and a pail of water beside him. His cheeks darken as he catches sight of me, and his gaze shoots down to my clogs. “You’re tracking in mud.”
Huh. I assume he’s blushing, but I can’t begin to imagine why. “How did you sleep?” I call as I go back to the porch to kick off my clogs. It’s only his second day on the island. All in all, he’s holding up rather well—better than me, on any given day, if he has the energy to clean.
“How do you feel?” I ask, returning to the living room.
“Fine,” says the boy, terse.
“I brought back some mulch for the garden.”
A grunt of acknowledgment. Glum today, I see.
Crouching beside him, I notice that his eyes are puffy and his nose is darker than the rest of his face, the shade of gray closer to that of his cheeks. Has he been crying? My heart twinges, and I squash the urge to ask if he’s remembered something. The question killed the mood last night and created unnecessary friction. It’s a sore spot for him, not having memories, like not being able to see in color is for me.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say instead as he tackles a stain in the wood that looks like it’s been there since the beginning of time.
“It’s filthy.”
“It’s fine.”
He keeps scrubbing.
Sighing, I grab a towel from the bathroom and join him on the floor. Our elbows bump; he jerks away. Then he stills.
“Your hands.”
I wince as I dunk the towel into the pail of what turns out to be salt water. “It’s nothing.”
His fingers close around my wrist.
At first, I let him inspect my pulpy palms. Then the warmth of his touch spreads under my skin, making me more aware of it—and of the holey camisole barely covering it, turned sheer by the rain and revealing bits of me that would mean nothing to U-me, but the boy is not U-me. The boy can see—has seen, judging by his cheeks—and now I’m blushing too, which is ridiculous. I’m perfectly comfortable showing off my body, at least in my memories. What’s different?
For one, past-Cee was much better groomed. I tell myself that my embarrassment has nothing to do with the boy, who gives me his solemn diagnosis. “Infection could set in,” he says as I tug my hand out of his.
“I’ll heal.” I grab the towel and attack the stain, stopping only to insist “really” when he doesn’t join me. He’s unsatisfied by my reply; I can tell from his expression, the same as yesterday’s when I explained my plan to find Kay. I have proof of healing, though, and from injuries much worse than this. I’d just rather not get graphic. Cleaning seems to be more the boy’s speed, and eventually he returns to it. We work in silence, the rain on the roof quieting as we finish. He goes to the garden, and I head outside, taking advantage of what cloudy daylight remains to cut the trunks into rough log shapes for Hubert 2.0. I’ll have to name him. Or them.