Seeing Red (3 page)

“So I see Alexander is, well, still Alexander,” she
said as they both turned to their right to see him walking towards
them with sunglasses and helmet in hand.

“Yep, things haven’t changed much since the last
time we spoke.”

As Alexander approached, he took off his sunglasses,
squinted at Jillian, and slowed his walk as if he were trying to
figure something out. He looked as if he had the world’s worst
hangover. Suddenly, he stopped, opened his mouth, said something
softly to himself, and ran towards Jillian and lifted her up into a
hug and spun her around. “Oh my God, Jill, it’s you!” It sounded
more like a question than a statement.

“Well, I hope so; otherwise, you’ve just attacked a
total stranger.”

“Yep, sarcastic, pain in the ass Jill,” he put her
down and took off his sunglasses, looking down from her toes all
the way up to her hair.

Whereas Oliver’s hug was tender and affectionate,
Alexander’s hug was ferocious and playful.

“You look different. What the hell happened to your
hair?” His eyebrows scrunched together as he looked her over from
her shoes to the top of her head. He grabbed a chunk of the tip of
her hair, which was draped over her breast and let it go like a
limp arm. It just fell right back down.

“Nothing happened to my hair. What the hell happened
to you, Xander? You look like hell, and you smell like you bathed
in tequila.”

“I like your hair straight like that, Jillian. It’s
pretty,” Oliver interjected.

“No. It’s boring and predictable and very
boarding-school preppy. And, by the way, I don’t appreciate that
you haven’t seen me in four years and the first thing you tell me
is that I look like shit,” Alexander replied.

“I said hell. Not shit. I don’t curse anymore. But
either way, look who’s talking? You said that my hair was ugly.
And, by the way, it has been seven years, not four. I can’t believe
you’re stumbling into Helen’s funeral, roaring on a motorcycle,
half-drunk. You almost hit the building with your bike.”

“Wow, some things never change. Stop arguing, you
two. Let’s go inside. It’s only us, a few of her friends, and her
husband, Bob,” said Oliver.

Alexander and Jillian scowled at each other and
turned around to walk into the funeral, following Oliver.

Jillian turned around and grabbed Alexander’s
forearm to stop him from walking in. “Hey, so how are you doing? I
mean with the whole death thing.”

“Fine,” he said coldly. She looked into his eyes for
a few seconds. Since they were little, she’d always known if he was
lying by just looking into his eyes. She let him go, and he moved
past her but stopped and turned around, grabbed the tips of her
fingers and whispered, “It’s nice to see you, Jill; I’ve missed
you,” and kissed her cheek, tenderly this time.

The funeral was short. Jillian had a lump in her
throat the entire time the reverend spoke. Helen was the best
person she knew. She was caring and funny and always knew the right
things to say. Jillian spoke with Helen over the phone almost every
single day. If they didn’t speak, they emailed. She had kept Jill
abreast of Oliver and Alexander and of the other people from Onion
Island who had all passed away throughout the years. With Helen
gone, the only people still alive from the island were Alexander,
Oliver, and Jill. With the reality of Helen’s death, sadness began
to envelop her. An unexpected sob escaped. She hoped no one heard.
“Shi . . . shoot.”
Shit. I’m crying, damn it, and
cursing.

She quickly stepped outside and put on her oversized
fashionable sunglasses to cover the tears, but this was the kind of
cry that could not be concealed. It was ugly crying.

Within seconds, Oliver and Alexander were at her
side.

“It’ll be okay, Jill.” Alexander hugged her
nervously. “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry.”

“Thanks for making me feel less self-conscious about
it, Alexander!” She rolled her eyes at him.

“Don’t cry, Jillian. Come. Sit down.” Oliver pulled
her to a nearby bench.

She sat and put her elbows on her lap and her hands
on her face and just cried and cried.
Stop crying! You’re
embarrassing yourself.
She couldn’t say anything. She should be
consoling them, too, but couldn’t think of a single thing to
say.

“S-s-sorry guys,” she stuttered between sobs. “I’m
so embarrassed. I don’t know what’s gotten into m-m-me. I think I’m
going to get going.” She took a deep breath and stood up.
The
only thing that would make this moment even crappier would be
falling flat on my face.
And with that thought, her heel got
caught in a crack on the asphalt floor, and she fell forward,
leaving her shoe caught in the crack.
Great! Just great!
In
a nanosecond, two pair of arms grabbed her, hands everywhere,
saving her from her own klutziness—but not from further
humiliation.

“Umm, thanks, boys. I guess you remember how
graceful I could be.” She said with a nervous laugh. “Anyway, see
you.” She walked away, this time being extra careful.

Oliver and Alexander looked at each other,
confused.

“No, no, no. We haven’t seen you in seven years.
You’re not going anywhere. Let’s go have a drink, or have you
eaten? Let’s go eat.” Oliver spoke quickly. Alexander winced; she
knew he was still hung over and the thought of a drink was probably
making his stomach turn.

“Okay. I guess.”

“There is a diner right around the corner. Follow me
in your car,” Oliver said as they all started to say their goodbyes
to the other attendees at the funeral.

Bob reached for Jillian’s elbow and pulled her
aside. “Wait, Jill. I have something for you.”

“Okay?” Jill asked, but Bob pulled her to the side
and spoke so no one else could hear.

“Helen wanted you to have these boxes. I found them
last night when I was going through her things. There was a note
indicating to give them to you as soon as possible.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“I’m not really sure. Looks like papers and
journals. It didn’t say anything other than to give them to you.”
He helped her load the boxes into her trunk, gave her a hug, and
walked away.

“What was that all about?” Alexander asked.

“I’m not really sure. Bob said that Helen left me
these boxes. Let’s take a look at them over lunch. Let’s go, boys.”
She said with a forced smile.

The two brothers looked at each other. Oliver
shrugged, and they all left, ignoring the mystery of the inherited
boxes.

A few minutes later, the twins and Jillian were
sitting in a small diner in San Antonio, Texas, sharing pie and
having coffee, staring at one of the boxes that Bob had given
Jill.

Jill cautiously looked inside the box, and to her
surprise, all she saw were papers and things that looked like old
handwritten books. She shrugged and looked at the twins.

“What is this?” She rummaged through the box. All
three stood up and looked into the box that was sitting on top of
the table. They each grabbed some of the notebooks and papers.

“These are Helen’s journals. Remember she would
write everything down,” Oliver said with a half-torn sheet of coir
in his hand.

“Is this coir? I haven’t seen this since we left the
island.” Jill asked.

“Yes. Remember when we ran out of paper, she started
using coir from the island. There was coir aplenty! I can’t believe
these survived the rescue.” Oliver said.

“I remember you used to write too, Jill,” Alexander
interjected.

“Of course, I remember, but it’s been years since I
wrote anything but an essay for school. I can’t believe these were
salvaged. And look,” she said, grabbing some composition notebooks.
“They don’t all seem to be from the island. Some are dated from
before we were marooned and some are dated after. No wonder there
are so many boxes.”

“Wow. She wrote all her little sayings on them. I
think about her funny quips all the time,” Oliver said.

Jillian smiled. “I do too. I loved her sayings. She
had one for every situation.”

Alexander grabbed the heavy box and set it on a
chair next to Jillian and grabbed a handful of journals and papers
in no particular order. All three rummaged and read some of the
passages to each other for the next few hours.

January 5, 1990—Day182

I am the author of my life. Unfortunately, I’m
writing in pen, and I can’t erase my mistakes.

Jillian is seven months old now and doing great. She
should never have been on that plane at such a young age, and now
she is an orphan. She has a mess of red curls and big green eyes.
She’s going to look just like her father when she grows up. I hope
the resemblance is only physical.

I’m also worried about poor Mary—she is so big now.
She says she’s not due for another month, but I see her growing by
the hour. There is no way she will make it another month with those
twins wreaking havoc in her belly. Regardless, we will still be
here a month from now, a year from now, a decade from now—if we
survive.

-Helen

January 15, 1990—Day 192

Eat a live toad the first thing in the morning, and nothing
worse will happen to you the rest of the day.

Tommy’s getting sick. I’m worried. He’s our best
fisherman. He says it is just a cold, but I remember when the pilot
started with that cold and those small spots around his wrists—he
didn’t survive. We cannot lose one more person. We are down to
fifteen people. We were thirty-four when we crashed, including the
crew on the plane heading back to the U.S. from India. I will pray
for Tommy tonight. Meanwhile, Jillian is growing and growing and so
is Mary’s belly.

-Helen

“Wow. I didn’t know there had been so many people
when we crashed. Helen saw a lot of people die throughout the
years. She never seemed disheartened by it.” Jillian said while
skimming through more of the journals.

“She was a strong lady—never wanted anyone to see
her weak. Just like you, Jill.” Alexander added. Jill didn’t really
have a reply to that, so she kept her head down and kept reading
out loud.

January 20, 1990—Day 197

If you can’t see the bright side of life, polish the
dull side!

We saw a plane yesterday, and jumped up and down and
lit the big fire we have set up. Nothing happened. Nothing ever
happens. I wonder if this is what Amelia Earhart felt like. At
least I have Matthew and the others. My dear Matthew’s such a good
husband; I am so lucky that he survived the crash. Mary is all
alone and very pregnant. I miss Esther most of all. Jillian needs
her mother here, and Esther would have been such a good mother. One
day I will tell Jillian all about her.

I’m seriously getting concerned about running out of
ink and paper.

-H

January 24, 1990—Day 201

Just remember if the world didn’t suck, we’d all
fall off.

Tommy died two days ago. He’s buried with the rest.
It’s hard losing anyone—especially when the numbers are dwindling.
RIP, Tommy. You shall be missed. If someone finds this one day, I
hope that your family knows what a hero you were to us and how you
kept our bellies full of fish every day.

-H

March 27, 1990

Always laugh when you can. It is the cheapest
medicine.

Alexander and Oliver seem to be doing great. They
are now two months old. Mary is so strong—stronger than I could
ever be. She delivered those boys like a champ. Mike was great. He
may not have been an OB/GYN, but the skills he learned his year in
medical school paid off.

A few days ago, while gathering some breadfruit and
mangoes, Matthew found some tampons, a toothbrush and toothpaste,
deodorant, some clothes, a blow-dryer (not so useful), makeup
(mostly melted) and a box of condoms. . . Hmmm, maybe we could use
them to carry water or something? I bet that was poor Rose’s
toiletry bag; may she rest in peace. It’s part of the commune now,
even the condoms! It’s probably been there for months, but that is
not a side of the island we normally go to because it is so hard to
get there. The mangroves are dense, and no one wants to get bitten
by mosquitoes and risk getting sick and dying as Rose did last
month.

Jill is doing great. She said her first word, Nana,
when she saw a banana, and she is walking. She’s the light of
everyone’s day. There are times she worries me because she’ll be
playing and then abruptly stops and stares at nothing for what
feels like hours. I can’t get her to come out of these spells. It’s
happened three times now. Eventually, she snaps out of it and
resumes whatever she was doing. I’m concerned she’s having silent
seizures. Mike says he remembers reading about this briefly, and it
is a form of epilepsy, but there are other symptoms associated with
epilepsy that she doesn’t seem to have. “Only time will tell,” says
Mike.

Trent finally figured out how we could make
pencils—if you can call this a pencil—out of bark. He also was able
to make paper—more like a papyrus-type thing—out of all the coir on
the island. It is almost like hemp paper. It’s great because now we
have an endless supply of things to write on.

We haven’t seen a plane in months.

-Helen

“Look, you wrote these, Jill.” Alexander said and
started reading out loud.

August 1, 1998

I’m sad for Oly and Xander. Mary died. She got stung
by a puffer fish when she went for a swim in the lagoon. I loved
Mary. She was a very nice lady. I don’t know what to say to Oly and
Xander. They are so sad that their mommy died. They are only eight.
I’m nine years old, so I understand better. I love them. They are
my best friends. I told them that she was going to get hurt by the
fish, but no one listened to me. As Helen always says, “Today is
the last day of some of your life. Don’t waste it.” So I’m going to
see if the boys want to play.