Seeing Red (2 page)

He glanced at her while she fumbled with her
clothes. She was chewing gum in a very non-attractive way. His
taste in women was becoming questionable. A laugh escaped Alexander
when thoughts of a cow grazing a field popped into his head. She
looked at him curiously as she finished dressing in her crimson-red
Band-Aid dress that barely covered that gorgeous ass. M
aybe I
should try to screw her while I’m sober
. S
ince I’m already
late . . .

But he quickly waved that thought away when she
popped her chewing gum bubble with her fake red nail.

In contrast, he remembered Jillian was skinny: no
breasts, no ass, no stomach, and no hips. She had red curly
hair—not wavy—curly, like a crazy red mop or a neglected Raggedy
Ann doll with matted hair. She used to hate when he teased her by
calling her Red. She had big green eyes—too big for her face. It
looked as if someone had glued two large round emeralds on her
face. She also had tiny freckles around the bridge of her nose and
cheeks that looked as if tiny little pieces of auburn glitter had
been sprinkled on her tanned skin. She always had scrapes on her
knees and elbows and dirt under her fingernails. He’d bet that
what’s-her-face never had anything less than perfectly manicured,
albeit fake, nails. And Jillian was short—very short. It took her
two steps to catch up to one of his, even when they were
younger.

***

Oliver

Oliver drove to the funeral, furiously wrapping his
hands around the steering wheel of his old red pickup truck. He
could have yanked the steering wheel off the dashboard. He knew his
brother must have had someone in there. He heard the moaning and
panting last night as he tried to sleep. He loved his brother. He
was his twin for goodness’ sake, but he couldn’t continue to take
care of him. He was probably a drunken, stoned mess. Alexander was
on a downward spiral, and Oliver knew Helen’s death would be the
final nail on the coffin. He had to stop worrying about Alexander
and start thinking of his internship. He hoped it would lead to the
career of his dreams and that he would one day be traveling the
world.

Oliver worried he would not be able to pursue his
dream because his fuckup mess of a brother would be left to live
under a bridge without a penny to his name. After the funeral, they
would need to have a serious conversation. He hoped Alexander would
be sober by then.

The other thought that flooded his mind was Jillian.
She more than flooded his mind; she was a tsunami inside his head.
It had been so long since he’d seen her. The last email she sent
was over three months ago, and it was in reply to his email
congratulating her on graduating as valedictorian from St. Mary’s,
an all-girls boarding school in New Hampshire. She also kept
insisting he go over to Helen’s to make sure she was okay. He never
did, and he would regret that for the rest of his life. Jillian was
always a few steps ahead of everyone. If Jillian had a “feeling,”
you’d best believe that ignoring it was the wrong way to go! She
was smart and beautiful in a tomboy sort of way. She had kept him
sane on Onion Island, and he had missed her so much.

He parked at the funeral home and couldn’t help
thinking of that last day on the island: the day they were
separated. It should be called the day that they were finally
rescued, but life on the island was all he knew and thus separation
seemed more apropos than rescue. He sat in his car for a moment,
and thought about that day.

It was June 3, 2001. Alexander and Jillian were
racing down the beach, trying to find the biggest crabs. Oliver was
also playing, but everything with Alexander and Jillian turned into
a competition. As with everything else, Jillian would find a crab
or shell and Alexander would have to find more crabs or shells or
the biggest crab or biggest shell. It went both ways: anything that
Alexander did, Jillian had to one-up him. So it was never just a
search for food—it was always a competition. Oliver played but
never joined in the races because he didn’t want to end up in a
fight with one of them later on if, God-forbid, he won. They were
sore losers and would always end up fighting. Always!

If the menu called for crab, Alexander and Jillian
caught them, and Oliver always helped Jillian clean and declaw them
so that one of the adults could cook. In those last years on the
island, there were only eleven survivors left, and by the time
Jill, Oliver, and Alexander were about ten years old, they were
responsible for helping with the food. They were not allowed in the
water because reef sharks and urchins lurked in the shallows, but
they were expected to help.

On this particular day in June—they were twelve
years old by then—the rain began coming down particularly hard. It
had been unusually rainy that summer. All of them ran into the
makeshift shelter to wait out the storm. Alexander ran in, yelling
for help because Jillian was having one of her spells and he could
not move her. Helen used to tell us she suffered a form of
epilepsy, but as a child, Oliver didn’t know what that meant. But
on this day, Jillian just stood there. It was a vision that he’d
never forget.

It rained and thundered all around her, and Jillian
was a statue: her eyes lifeless, not a blink or a flinch in her
entire body. She was standing by the beach. Her feet were knee-deep
in the ocean by the time Helen and the rest of the adults ran to
get her. They had to carry her into the shelter because they could
not shake her out of her trance. Alexander still held their buckets
of crabs, which were still fighting to be released. Helen shook
Jillian to no avail. Mike, the self-proclaimed doctor on the
island, checked her pulse and concluded that she was alive and the
seizure would have to run its course. Eventually, she came out of
it. She burrowed her head in Helen’s chest so no one would see her
cry, but everyone heard the sobs. She kept saying that she would
never see anyone again and that the boat was coming.

It rained and rained for what felt like an entire
day because they all fell asleep. When morning came, instead of the
sun coming out, more lightning and wind ensued. At one point, the
thunder was so loud that it did not seem like thunder, but
explosions, as if their island was exploding. When Jillian had a
chance to calm down, Alexander, Jill, and Oliver huddled together
close to Helen. They all kept brave faces—especially Alexander—but
it was the scariest night of their lives. There was no end in
sight—just booms of thunder and flares of lightning. No one spoke
for hours, but Jillian did something she had not done before. It
was not in her nature to be affectionate, but, on this day, she
repeatedly hugged and kissed the twins as if she were saying her
goodbyes. Alexander shooed her away, but Oliver warily allowed the
affection.

They were not sure if their shelter would survive
the storm. It was made mostly from palm leaves, pieces of scrap
metal from the airplane, and ropes made from all the coir that was
on the island. As the rain subsided, the wind would pick up, and as
the wind subsided, the torrential rain would pick up. It was an
eternal cycle of rain and wind. Although Jillian tried to be brave,
she shook next to Oliver, and he affectionately scooted closer to
her and to Alexander in an effort to comfort them. Oliver could
sense his brother’s fear even with the brave facade he tried to put
on. Jillian grabbed Oliver’s hand, and he could see, between
flashes of lightning, that her eyes were shut tightly. This was a
first. He’d never seen Jillian show fear. She was brave and strong
and never cried or asked for help, ever. He could tell that she was
petrified by the strength in her grip on his hand. Twenty-four
hours later, the sun finally came out.

Seagulls hovered over Onion Island and debris was
everywhere. Jillian was sound asleep on her side with her head on
the crook of Oliver’s shoulder, his arm protectively wrapped around
her. Alexander was asleep in Helen’s arms. Throughout the years,
Oliver had slept on the beach and in their makeshift beds with
Jillian hundreds of times, but this time it felt different. This
was not a feeling a twelve-year-old boy was accustomed to feeling.
She was scared and Oliver comforted her. As she wiggled closer to
Oliver, he began feeling other things start to happen to his body.
He had to untangle himself from her before she woke up to see
exactly how excited he was. He quickly pushed her off before she
had a chance to wake up, and he ran towards the mangroves. He had
to catch his breath and figure out how to quickly subdue this
excitement.

When he returned, he noticed everyone walking
around, trying to survey the damage. Jillian barely looked at him,
and Alexander was also unusually quiet. They were both embarrassed
by the way they had reacted throughout the night—scared. They were
too proud to show any vulnerability. The camp was a mess. The
shelter was destroyed. The pieces of scrap metal that formed the
roof looked like the lid of a sardine can—ripped open. The sleeping
area was not only soaked but most of their belongings, little as
they may have been, were blown all over the island. There were even
things on top of trees.

In the midst of surveying the damage, Oliver heard
some loud voices—unfamiliar voices. He called the others to let
them know. It turned out that the storm had caused a large yacht to
become beached on shore. The people on the boat did not know that
other people inhabited the island.

Oliver remembered the first time he saw the yacht
and the people that were on it. Everything was a whirlwind of
emotions, orders, and panic. Jillian was quiet and not at all moved
by anything. It was such a peculiar sight to behold. It was as if
everything was happening around her and she was in the center of
it, undisturbed. She had known this day would come—the boat and the
rain . . .

The newly stranded survivors from the yacht wanted
to help. They called rescue, and by nine p.m. the evening of June
4, 2001 they all were landing in Kerala, India, on their way to an
American Embassy. Within ten days after their rescue, Helen,
Alexander, Oliver, and Jill were on their way to San Antonio,
Texas, to Helen’s relative’s home. Jill was sent off to boarding
school almost immediately, and Oliver had not seen her again. But
during the last seven years, they kept in touch by phone, emails,
and letters.

So the thought of seeing Jillian Stone again, after
seven years, made him nervous.

Families are
like fudge, mostly sweet with a few nuts.

-Helen

Jillian

Jillian sneaked in a quick glance at her reflection
in her rearview mirror before she stepped out of the car. It was a
hot summer day in Texas—like every day in Texas. She blotted the
thin sheen of sweat beginning to accumulate on her forehead and
under her eyes. As she reapplied mascara for the third time that
day, she giggled at the thought of Helen. Things like mascara and
sweating were never an issue on the island, and Helen would have
certainly mocked her.

The sudden roar of a black matte motorcycle racing
towards the funeral home caused her to almost poke her eye out
while reapplying the mascara. She stepped out of the car and walked
towards the parlor, deliberating whether the motorcycle would stop
before it crashed straight into the building. Luckily, the driver
abruptly took a sharp turn and stopped, causing a big gash on the
beautifully manicured lawn of the funeral grounds.

He took off his shiny black helmet, pushed down the
kickstand, and stepped down. She couldn’t see who it was from where
she was standing, but everyone watched the man’s abrasive entrance
onto the serene grounds of the parlor in horror. Stumbling off the
bike, he took a few steps to get his balance then took off his
leather jacket and threw it on the handlebars.

Surprisingly, the boorish man was wearing a
beautiful black suit underneath the black leather jacket. Jillian
was forced to turn her gaze when she felt a hand on her shoulder
and a whisper in her ear. “He sure knows how to make an entrance.”
Startled, she turned around.

“Oly!” Her startled expression immediately changed
as the corners of her lips curved upward at the sight of him. He
pulled her in for a hug. It was a long hug. He squeezed her for
hours, days, weeks, while he stroked his hands up and down her
back. It felt so familiar and comforting.

“Long time no see.” He smiled.

“It’s been too long. You look great. Look at you.
You grew! Wow, I’m not taller than you anymore.” She stepped back
and looked up at this man who she remembered as a skinny, gangly,
little boy. Well, he simply was not a boy anymore. He had short
dirty-blond hair parted on the side, mesmerizing clear blue eyes,
and alabaster skin. The pale white skin was a surprise because she
had been used to seeing him many shades darker from all the sun on
the island. He had on a flawless navy-blue suit with a crisp white
shirt and silver tie. He towered over her at six feet tall, and he
was only eighteen years old and probably still growing. Even
through the suit, she could tell he was no longer the lanky boy she
once knew. He was strong, lean, and tall. The same gentleness was
still imbedded in his eyes. That had not changed.

“I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said, her eyes
beginning to water. “She was always such a vivacious woman. I wish
I’d known how sick she was.”
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t
cry.

“I know, Jillian, me too. Bob said that she didn’t
want us worrying about her and she didn’t want anyone, especially
you, me, and Alexander, to know.” She saw the glassy sheen forming
in his eyes.
Don’t cry, Oliver! Or I’ll lose it. Don’t cry.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Her internal monologue was getting a
little too rambunctious.