“Why don’t you just go hunt for their corpses?” she’d said. “Or ask the Ocean to tell you their final thoughts. You want to know that, too?”
I understood her disgust. She saw my scrapbooks as an unhealthy obsession with the people we’d murdered. What I wished she understood was the way those people haunted me, the way the screams stayed with me long after the ships sank. Knowing that Melinda Bernard had a vast collection of dolls and that Jordan Cammers was in his first year of medical school eased my pain. Like somehow knowing more about their lives than their deaths made things better for them.
My goal today was Warner Thomas, the second-to-last person on the passenger list of the Arcatia. Warner turned out to be a relatively easy subject. There were tons of people with the same name, but once I’d found all the social networking profiles with posts that stopped abruptly six months ago, I knew he was the right one. Warner was a string bean of a man who looked too shy to talk to people in person. He was listed as single everywhere, and I felt bad for thinking that made perfect sense.
The last entry on his blog was heartbreaking.
Sorry this is short, but I’m updating from my phone. Look at this sunset!
Just below that line, the sun melted into nothing on the back of the Ocean.
So much beauty in the world! Can’t help but think good things are on the way!
I nearly laughed. His expression in every picture made me think he’d never exclaimed anything in his life. But I couldn’t help wondering whether something had happened just before that fateful trip. Did he have a reason to think the direction of his life was changing? Or was it one of those lies we told from the safety of our rooms when no one could see how false it was?
I printed out the best-looking photo of him, a joke he’d posted, and some information about his siblings. The scrapbooks weren’t things I liked to carry in public, so I placed my papers neatly in my bag to take home.
Sorry, Warner. I swear, it wasn’t me you died for.
With that complete, I was able to turn my mind to something a little more fun. I had learned over the years to balance out each devastating piece of my scrapbook with something joyful. Last night, it was looking at dresses before pasting in the last of Kerry’s pictures. Today, it was cakes. I found the culinary section and hoisted a stack of books to an empty space on the third floor. I pored over recipes, fondant work, construction. I built imaginary wedding cakes, one at a time, indulging in the most consistent of my daydreams. The first, a classic vanilla and buttercream with pale-blue frosting and little white poppies. Three tiers. Very lovely. The next was five tiers, square, with black ribbon and costume jewelry brooches aligned vertically on the front. A bit more appropriate for an evening wedding.
Maybe this would be my next big dream. Maybe I could become a baker and make someone else’s day special on the off chance I never got one myself.
“You having a party?”
I looked up to see a scruffy, blond-haired boy pushing a cart full of books. He had a flimsy name tag I couldn’t read and was wearing the standard college boy uniform of khaki pants and a button-up shirt with his sleeves cuffed around his elbows. No one tried anymore.
I held back my sigh. It was unavoidable, this part of the sentence. We were meant to draw people in, and men were particularly susceptible.
I looked down again without answering, hoping he’d take the hint. I hadn’t chosen to sit at the back of the top floor because I felt like socializing.
“You look stressed. You could probably use a party.”
I couldn’t suppress my smirk. He had no idea. Unfortunately, he took that little smile as an invitation to continue.
He ran his hand through his hair, the modern-day equivalent of “Good day, miss,” and pointed at the books. “My mom says the secret to making good baked stuff is to use a warm bowl. Not that I’d know. I can hardly make cereal without burning it.”
His grin suggested that this was only too true, and I was slightly charmed as he bashfully tucked a hand into his pocket.
It was a pity, really. I knew he meant no harm, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But I was about to resort to the rudest move I had and simply walk away when he pulled that same hand back out and extended it to me.
“I’m Akinli, by the way,” he said, waiting for me to respond. I gawked at him, not used to people pressing past my silence. “I know it’s weird.” He’d misread my confusion. “Family name. Kind of. It was a last name on my mom’s side of the family.”
He kept his palm outstretched, waiting. Typically my response would be to flee. But Elizabeth and Miaka managed to interact with others. For goodness’ sakes, Elizabeth cycled through lovers regularly without ever saying a word. And there was something about this boy that seemed … different. Maybe it was how his lips lifted into a smile without him seeming to even think about it, or the way his voice rolled warmly out of him like clouds, but I felt certain snubbing him would end up hurting my feelings more than his, and that I’d regret it.
Cautiously, as if I might break us both, I took his hand, hoping he wouldn’t notice how cool my skin was.
“And you are?” he prompted.
I sighed, sure this would end the conversation despite my kindest intentions. I signed my name, and his eyes widened.
“Oh, wow. So have you been reading my lips this whole time?”
I shook my head.
“You can hear?”
I nodded.
“But you can’t speak … Umm, okay.” He started patting at his pockets as I tried to fight the dread creeping down my spine. We didn’t have many rules, but the ones we did have were absolute. Stay silent in the presence of others, until it was time to sing. When the time came to sing, do it without hesitation. When we weren’t singing, do nothing to expose our secret. Walking down the street was one thing, and so was sitting under a tree. But this? An attempt at an actual conversation? It landed me in a very dangerous realm.
“Here we go,” he announced, pulling out a pen. “I don’t have any paper, so you’ll have to write on my hand.”
I stared at his skin, debating. Which name should I use? The one on the driver’s license Miaka bought me online? The one I’d used to rent our current beach house? The one I’d used in the last town we’d stayed in? I had a hundred names to choose from.
Perhaps foolishly, I chose to tell him the truth.
“Kahlen?” he read off his skin.
I nodded, surprised by how freeing it felt to have one human on the planet know my birth name.
“That’s pretty. Nice to meet you.”
I gave him a thin smile, still uncomfortable. I didn’t know how to do small talk.
“That’s really cool that you’re going to a traditional school even though you use sign language. I thought I was brave just getting out of state.” He laughed at himself.
Even with how uneasy I was feeling, I admired his effort to keep the conversation going. It was more than most people would do in his situation. He pointed at the books again. “So, uh, if you ever have that party and need some help with your cake, I swear I could get my act together long enough not to ruin everything.”
I raised one eyebrow at him.
“I’m serious!” He laughed like I’d told a joke. “Anyway, good luck with that. See you around.”
He waved sheepishly, then continued pushing his cart down the aisle. I watched him go. I knew I’d remember his hair, a mess that looked windswept even in stillness, and the kindness in his eyes. And I’d hate myself