Read Online Searching for Sky by Jillian Cantor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jillian Cantor
Ads: Link
Island, I never questioned my place in the world, where I belonged, where I’m supposed to be. Now I am a girl without a place. It’s worse than hunger—it’s the saddest, most lonely thing I’ve ever felt.
Dr. Cabot sits down next to Bed, and she picks up my hand. Her fingers are fleshier than the woman who called herselfmy grandmother, thick and full, and if they were covered in blond hair, they might remind me of Helmut’s. “Now, I know all this must be very scary for you.” I shake my head. How can she know anything? “And this is all going to take some getting used to after everything you’ve been through. But I promise you”—she squeezes my hand—“you’re going to love it here once you adjust.” I pull my hand away from her and turn on my side, facing away. “Why don’t you relax for a bit,” she says. “Your grandmother should be allowed to take you home within the hour.”
Chapter 12
I do not understand beginnings, that things happened to me once, before I could remember them. There are beginnings on Island I can’t remember, either. Getting there, for one. The origins of Shelter or the wooden traps. The beginning of Tree of Days and Cooler. I know the stories, the things my mother told me about The Others Who We Never Met, The Accident, that Helmut was so good at surviving, that we were so lucky to have him. I know that every 365 days, counting from the thirty-second notch on Tree of Days, I turned another year older, and that every 365 days from the fifty-sixth notch on Tree of Days, River did.
But now my memory is like Ocean. It moves in and out, back and forth. Sometimes it brings me gifts and sometimes it takes them away just as quickly.
Helmut always told us that memories are things that never happened, stories we make up in our mind to makeourselves feel better. River tried to argue with him about this once.
“That’s not true,” River said, shaking his head hard. He was younger then, stupid enough to think he actually had a chance at winning an argument with Helmut. “I remember my mother,” River told him once, “and she loved me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Helmut laughed. “You didn’t even know your mother. She died before you were born. Petal is the only mother you’ve ever known.”
My mother nodded and murmured in agreement, though she was frowning, her forehead dewy and shining with sweat the way it always got when the sun was too high in the sky, too bright, too hot.
“I knew her,” River insisted to me later as we sat in Cove By Falls together, leaving my mother and Helmut to have their alone time in Shelter, which they asked us for at least once every seven notches, sometimes more.
River dangled his feet in the water. He was smaller than me then. Shorter and thinner. Sometimes I thought I might be strong enough to pick him up and hang him over my shoulders. Helmut said I could, before he laughed, like he was joking.
“I knew my mother,” River told me. “Helmut is wrong.”
“You’re an idiot,” I told him, skimming the water with my feet so it splashed up at him. “Memories are just stories you tell yourself.”
Helmut did not believe in stories. Not memories. Not anything. My mother told River and me the story once of two animals in a boat, going out to sea. The owl and the pussycat.
They sailed away for a year and a day, and they danced by the light of the moon .
She smiled as she said it, as if maybe this was her memory. Her story. I tried to imagine her and Helmut out in Ocean, dancing together.
“Who am I in this stupid scenario?” Helmut growled. “The owl or the cat?”
“What’s a cat?” River asked.
“It’s kind of like a rabbit,” my mother answered.
The owl. Helmut was the owl. Of course.
I think about all this now as I sit at the edge of Bed, waiting for the grandmother woman to come back for me. I think about River’s memories, his stories, his insistence once that his mother was real, that he could honestly
Dr. Cabot sits down next to Bed, and she picks up my hand. Her fingers are fleshier than the woman who called herselfmy grandmother, thick and full, and if they were covered in blond hair, they might remind me of Helmut’s. “Now, I know all this must be very scary for you.” I shake my head. How can she know anything? “And this is all going to take some getting used to after everything you’ve been through. But I promise you”—she squeezes my hand—“you’re going to love it here once you adjust.” I pull my hand away from her and turn on my side, facing away. “Why don’t you relax for a bit,” she says. “Your grandmother should be allowed to take you home within the hour.”
Chapter 12
I do not understand beginnings, that things happened to me once, before I could remember them. There are beginnings on Island I can’t remember, either. Getting there, for one. The origins of Shelter or the wooden traps. The beginning of Tree of Days and Cooler. I know the stories, the things my mother told me about The Others Who We Never Met, The Accident, that Helmut was so good at surviving, that we were so lucky to have him. I know that every 365 days, counting from the thirty-second notch on Tree of Days, I turned another year older, and that every 365 days from the fifty-sixth notch on Tree of Days, River did.
But now my memory is like Ocean. It moves in and out, back and forth. Sometimes it brings me gifts and sometimes it takes them away just as quickly.
Helmut always told us that memories are things that never happened, stories we make up in our mind to makeourselves feel better. River tried to argue with him about this once.
“That’s not true,” River said, shaking his head hard. He was younger then, stupid enough to think he actually had a chance at winning an argument with Helmut. “I remember my mother,” River told him once, “and she loved me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Helmut laughed. “You didn’t even know your mother. She died before you were born. Petal is the only mother you’ve ever known.”
My mother nodded and murmured in agreement, though she was frowning, her forehead dewy and shining with sweat the way it always got when the sun was too high in the sky, too bright, too hot.
“I knew her,” River insisted to me later as we sat in Cove By Falls together, leaving my mother and Helmut to have their alone time in Shelter, which they asked us for at least once every seven notches, sometimes more.
River dangled his feet in the water. He was smaller than me then. Shorter and thinner. Sometimes I thought I might be strong enough to pick him up and hang him over my shoulders. Helmut said I could, before he laughed, like he was joking.
“I knew my mother,” River told me. “Helmut is wrong.”
“You’re an idiot,” I told him, skimming the water with my feet so it splashed up at him. “Memories are just stories you tell yourself.”
Helmut did not believe in stories. Not memories. Not anything. My mother told River and me the story once of two animals in a boat, going out to sea. The owl and the pussycat.
They sailed away for a year and a day, and they danced by the light of the moon .
She smiled as she said it, as if maybe this was her memory. Her story. I tried to imagine her and Helmut out in Ocean, dancing together.
“Who am I in this stupid scenario?” Helmut growled. “The owl or the cat?”
“What’s a cat?” River asked.
“It’s kind of like a rabbit,” my mother answered.
The owl. Helmut was the owl. Of course.
I think about all this now as I sit at the edge of Bed, waiting for the grandmother woman to come back for me. I think about River’s memories, his stories, his insistence once that his mother was real, that he could honestly
Similar Books
