.............................
FEBRUARY
“What’s your most favourite thing in the world?” Estelle angled the phone at Conner, recording yet another home movie.
Today, she’d recorded countless memories.
Today was Coconut’s first birthday.
“This little nut right here.” Conner tickled Coco, who sat happily in his lap.
She didn’t understand the importance of such a day or why I snuck off with her mother halfway through the festivities to make love in the same sea where she’d been delivered.
She squealed and laughed as Pippa and Conner buried her little legs in the sand and crafted her one large candle with the words ‘You’re our Favourite Nut’ in the moulded flame.
It’d been a cute day, and we were all tired from tenderising and kebabing the octopus we’d eaten for lunch.
Estelle angled the phone in my direction. “And your favourite thing, G?”
My eyes met hers; my cock twitched. I’d had her a few hours ago, yet I could go another round. I didn’t know if was the pure Fijian air or the fact she constantly teased me by wandering around half-naked in her fading bikini. Either way, she was right when she said my libido was out of control. Even with my rapidly depleting reserves.
“You, of course. You’re my wife.”
A year.
One full year she’d been my wife. We hadn’t celebrated, but we had retied flax rings around our fingers in symbol for the ones that’d disintegrated long ago.
“And you, Pippi?” Estelle blushed, dropping her gaze from mine to focus on the lanky ten-year-old.
“Um...” Pippa tapped her bottom lip. “I think it would be our new house. I love my room.”
My heart warmed.
Estelle angled the phone for a selfie, adding herself to the recording. “Well, my favourite thing is this, right here, right now. You guys and hanging out in the hot afternoon sun.”
Conner groaned. “Cheesy.” Grabbing Coco’s hands, he rocked her on his lap as if they were rowing out to sea. “And you, little nut? What’s your favourite thing?” He blew raspberries on her naked belly.
If we were ever found, the first thing we would have to do was scramble for clothes. Conner and I never wore anything other than board-shorts. Pippa and Estelle wore their bathing suits, and little Coco preferred to crawl around nude or grudgingly with a diaper.
She hated clothing.
Coco giggled as Conner blew another round of raspberries.
“Co...co...co.”
We all froze.
“Did she...did she just say her first word?” Pippa’s mouth popped wide.
Estelle zoomed her phone to her daughter, waddling on her knees to get closer. “Say it again, Coco. What’s your favourite thing?”
My daughter’s blue-green eyes zeroed in on Conner and repeated. “Co co co co co.”
“So her favourite thing is herself?” Pippa wrinkled her nose. “I thought her first word was supposed to be da-da or Pip-pa?”
Conner burst into laughter, clutching the squirmy baby and punching the air. “Wrong, suckers. I’m her favourite person. Didn’t you hear her? She obviously said Co...that’s me.”
The ensuing war lasted all night.
And by the end of the verbal debate (Pippa couldn’t tolerate that Coco had chosen Conner over her), it was undeniable.
Coco’s first word was Co.
For her older brother.
Her favourite person.
Chapter Fifty-Five
...............................................
E S T E L L E
......
MARCH
TWO MONTHS AGO, Pippa turned single digits into double and grew into a wonderful ten-year-old.
One month ago, Coco uttered her first word.
This month, we were focused on surviving the constant rain showers and thunder clouds. We spent more time indoors as fleeting morning sunshine switched to downpours in the early afternoon.
We did our best to stay occupied while cooped up inside. However, there was only so much whittling or finessing we could do before boredom became an issue.
The only one of us not struggling was Coco. Ever since she’d said her first word, she hadn’t shut up. She muttered nonsense, sporadically inserting a word she heard us use.
Thank God, Galloway didn’t swear as much anymore. Otherwise, we’d have a cursing infant.
One morning (when the sun seemed stronger and more likely to stick around), I got up early and attempted to have another day of fun. As the days rolled by, they morphed faster into a blur. I hated that life had accelerated way too fast.
Ever since my periods had stopped, I knew we were on borrowed time. Our bodies had used up whatever reserves we had left (making us dizzy, achy, and not able to concentrate), and unless we escaped, we couldn’t live the idyllic life I’d dreamed, hidden for the rest of our days in paradise.
We had to leave.
We had to run.
And in unanimous consensus, Galloway started building another raft.
He gathered more bamboo and sat in the shade for hours plotting how best to secure it so it didn’t sink like last time.
But for now, I was focused on spending the day with my family.
While they slumbered, I scooped up dry seaweed and draped it in our umbrella tree as an ugly version of tinsel and tore up pages of my notebook to fold cranes and origami love hearts for silly gifts when everyone awoke.
My songs and penned lyrics had become tools to play with rather than write in. With no pens or ink, Galloway had done his best to provide me with twigs charred in the fire to write with charcoal.
But it wasn’t the same.
The loss of my writing left a piece of me hollow and smarting, but it was nothing compared to the horribleness of waking two weeks later and finding my phone wouldn’t turn on.
No amount of solar power would charge it.
No tapping the battery would coax it.
We had a death on the island, and it’d taken our memories, our photos, our videos, our calendar, our very way of life with it.
The dead technology took our final piece of sufferance, pushing us one step closer to abandoning our island that seemed to have abandoned us.
We were no longer wanted here.
Once our mourning was over and every attempt at bringing the phone back to life failed, I placed the dead but so, so precious device into the carved box Galloway had made me for my last birthday.
Inside, I’d stored my expired credit cards, waterlogged passport, and the three gold and silver bracelets I’d worn on the flight.
Everything that’d seemed so important, now rotted in a box unneeded in this new existence. Gold was no longer a currency, coconuts were. A passport was no longer top possession, our Swiss Army knife was.
Funny how things we thought we couldn’t live without suddenly become superficial when faced with the truth.
The truth that we entered this world with nothing and left with the exact same sum.
The only one who didn’t suffer the dreaded curse of pining for their past was Coconut.
She had sand for blood and wind for breath. She could swim before she could walk (not that a few stumbles could be called walking), she craved more and more solids, and my milk was drying up, unwanted.
Unfortunately, her naps that’d allowed me time to fish or tend to our camp were few and far between as was the cooing and babbling. Her little vocabulary had transformed into a well-versed conversationalist.
Galloway had earned her second word. Da-da. And as much as I would love her to call me mummy, her girlish heart belonged entirely to G.
I adored that she’d turned from a helpless newborn into a tiny independent person, but I hated that my phone was no longer able to capture her growth and imprison her giggling chortles for me to look back on and relive happy times.
Because happy times were few and hard to come by.
Especially as lethargy and vacancy crept
over us like a fog determined to smother.
We tried to fight it.
We did our best to reverse it.
But we couldn’t prevent the inescapable.
Our avenue for recording was gone.
Our perseverance for living was done.
We put on a brave face, but as our bodies slowly starved and storms did their best to relocate our island to Antarctica, it became harder and harder to remain happy where everything seemed so tough.
.............................
APRIL
Conner shed fifteen for sixteen under a starry evening and crude jokes.
He and Galloway hung out while Pippa, Coco, and I spent the evening doing whatever we could to treat Conner like a king.
We’d all chipped in and created him a flax sleeping bag for the nights he wanted to camp away and Galloway had carved a doll with big lips and boobs, saying it was his first girlfriend.
That had earned him a punch followed by surly curses.
Two days after Conner’s birthday, we lay on the sand digesting breakfast of taro and fish, and for the first time, we heard something that wasn’t the wind rustling through the trees.
The loud foghorn hung heavily in the air, echoing in my ears, heralding all of us to the shore.
We stared for minutes, doing our best to squint on the horizon. If we had my phone, we could’ve taken a photo and zoomed in to see what lay out there (like a cheap version of binoculars).
We’d done that a few times.
Conner had repeatedly snapped images of every inch of the horizon, enlarging the photo to its maximum potential and studying for any signs of life, any other island, any hint that we weren’t so alone.
Over the course of our years here, we’d seen plumes of commercial airliners, soaring thousands of feet above our head. We’d spotted a fishing trawler far, far out to sea that didn’t notice our hastily burning signal fire. And imagined voices when tiredness turned our thoughts into mush.
But this...this sounded closer.
Real.
Was it a tanker? A barge? A ferry? Some sort of nautical magic that could whisk us away from here?
As the afternoon ticked on, our legs grew tired, and we sat, one by one, in the sand.
And we stared.
We stared and stared until daylight switched to moonlight and we had to admit what we’d been chanting in our heads for hours.
They’re gone.
No one’s there.
We’re alone.
.............................
MAY
Rustling multihued feathers switched the calendar to May, donating hundreds of squawking parrots to our island.
We didn’t know where they’d migrated from but we tracked the jewels creatures through the trees in awe. Pippa trailed beneath them, collecting discarded indigo and emerald feathers, while Conner climbed into the branches to see if they were tame.
We didn’t look at them as food.
Merely pretty animals to enjoy.
Not that they stayed long.
As quickly as they’d arrived, they flew off.
A pandemonium of parrots in a rainbow blur.
A few days later, Pippa decided she no longer needed Puffin as a security blanket.
And Coco much preferred her flax voodoo doll, courtesy of Conner, to the tatty stuffed kitten.
I didn’t know why that upset me, but it did. The faded cat was no longer wanted. No longer carted around the island by its paw.
It was discarded.
However, I gave it a forever home on our shelves in the house, sitting pride of place between the salt bowl and dried mint.
RIP, Puffin.
He’d gained new employment as our mascot.
Chapter Fifty-Six
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G A L L O W A Y
......
ONE YEAR BEFORE THE CRASH
“DID YOU KNOW about this?”
I stared into the distrusting eyes of my term manager. We were all assigned a caseworker to take our grumblings and requests to the bosses.
I never summoned mine. Never had a reason to. And they’d never summoned me in return. I was a murderer serving a life sentence. There was nothing more to discuss.
Until now.
“Answer the question, Mr. Oak.”
I shook my head. “No, how could I?”
“You didn’t plant this evidence?”
“No.”
“Yet you admitted to committing the crime?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
My manager closed the folder in front of him. “Well, it just so happens, the truth has been proved a lie.”
My heart (that’d been dead every day since they’d imprisoned me) picked up. “What?”
“You’re free to go, Mr. Oak. Time to leave.”
.............................
JUNE
IT’S TIME TO leave.
We’d waited too long.
We no longer had a choice.
“I love you, Estelle.” Her back bowed as I entered her.
She was hot and wet and slippery.
And always so ready for me.
No matter that it’d been a busy day of fishing and repairing the net after it snagged on coral. No matter that Coconut had been colicky and unable to rest. No matter that our happiness levels had shrivelled more and more as life got harder and harder. She never said no to me. Never made me feel like a nuisance or hindrance.
I adored her for that.
She still smiled when she looked my way. Still blew me kisses as we worked side by side. And still welcomed me to take her no matter what time of day.
I loved her.
I’d married her.
But I didn’t know how much longer I could keep her.
“We’ll try to leave soon,” I murmured as I thrust gently into her.
Her legs spasmed around my hips, her arms slung over my shoulders. Tonight, we’d opted for quick, quiet pleasure, staying in our bark-decorated room, no energy to go to the beach or indulge in a night swim.
“Is it safe?” Estelle gasped as I withdrew and re-entered.
I didn’t know how to answer her question.
So I didn’t.
Plus, it wasn’t exactly sexy talk, but the thought of getting off our island was paramount. It tainted everything. It was an obsession we all shared.
Everyone but Coco, of course. She didn’t know any different. She ran on uncoordinated legs on the beach and swam with ungainly splashes in the ocean. Her favourite food was her namesake. Her lullaby and comfort were the island sounds.
If we left (when we left), she would struggle. We were the outlanders here, but if we somehow sailed back to society, she would be the interloper. A castaway baby with no birth certificate, no passport, no home.
My heart clenched thinking about stranding her there like we’d once been stranded here.
But that won’t happen.
She’d have us. All of us. Conner and Pippa would live with us. Our family wouldn’t change, only our current circumstances.
“Stop thinking about it, G.” Estelle’s fingers slipped through my hair, grounding me to her. “Only think of tonight. Of us.”
My chest tightened and pleasure replaced my worry.
She was my wife.
I obeyed.
.............................
JULY
Time was never on our side.
It either flew too fast, hurtling us toward a desolate future. Or slowed to a maddening crawl, slowing our progress.
Despite our dedication to leaving, it took much longer than we’d hoped.
Our energy levels dwindled but the life raft slowly took shape through bleeding hands and broken blisters.
Estelle and Pippa helped.
They worked next to Conner and me as we tied and secured, tested and hoped.
I’d opted for a different design this time.
Just like I’d improved our house, so too did I tweak the original floatable (or not so floatable) platform.
This time, I’d done my best to tie the bamboo into the shape of a kayak. The hollow poles joined at an apex where we would sit and row with baby Coconut fastened securely in the middle, far away from the drowning sea.
Hopefully, the outrigger would be long enough to hold extra supplies, strong enough to carry the weight of stoppered water and blankets for shade, and fast enough to get us to a new home before we died of starvation.
However, instead of feeling proactive and upbeat, we struggled. The longer we worked on the boat, the more fear solidified. Our happiness turned heartless, demanding putrid payment for everything we’d enjoyed.
Our ill-nourished bodies had forced our hand. We had to leave if we wanted to breathe. But the thought of sailing away from the only place of value kept us restless and sleepless.
Conner, for his sixteen-year-old strength, had faded just like the rest of us. His muscles had slowly shrunk, and his ribs stood out like an unplayed harp beneath his skin.
Pippa was much the same. She hadn’t hit puberty yet, and her skinny, girlish body showed no hint of womanly curves or budding breasts.
Not that our bony forms stopped us from working hard and pushing each other to the brink.
If we weren’t working on the life raft, we were completing other tasks.
Estelle would cook.
Pippa would babysit.
And Conner would be up in a palm tree on look-out. We’d all become great climbers to reach the green coconuts in the fronds, and occasionally, sat in the swaying height, hoping to see rescue before we cast off and gave our lives to fate.
Our kayak was almost done.
Our time was almost up.
So why couldn’t I shake the God-awful feeling that tragedy was once again coming for us?
Chapter Fifty-Seven
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E S T E L L E
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AUGUST
THREE YEARS.
Three long, incredible, trying, amazing, awful, blissful, terrible years.
29th of August, the day of the crash, loomed closer.
At least, I thought it was August.
After my phone died, I had to keep a record of the days by scratching each sunset into our umbrella tree, counting the strikes, knowing in my heart we were all getting tired.