In what seemed to be slow motion, Mick twisted in midair. He was scored all over by wounds. The gulls had tattooed his wrists and hands with abrasions. One ear was gone. A crimson hole. His Adam’s apple poured a waterfall down his neck, streaking his poncho. The birds swooped around him, unrelenting. His hand rose in a helpless gesture. A trail of red mist followed the movement, drifting behind his arm like an afterimage. He was standing too close to the water.
A slip. A stumble. That is all it takes to claim a person’s life. Mick fell inside a cloud of wings. He disappeared behind the rocks. A splash rose against the shore, glinting in the light. The birds rose too, triumphant.
Something touched my arm. It was Galen, gripping my elbow to steer me forward. We stumbled frantically through the rookery. We reached the shoreline together. His grip was causing me pain. It was hard, at first, to make sense of the mix of glare and darkness. Dazzling coins were spangled across the water. My eyes adjusted slowly. There was a long shadow inside the wet glow.
Now, in retrospect, I am aware that I did not want to understand what I was looking at. I took it in without registering its meaning. Denial is a powerful thing: it can alter what we see, help us forget the moments of transgression and pain in our lives, keep us unaware of violence. Mick’s body bobbed limply on the ocean. Facedown. I held my ground, waiting for the scene to resolve into something else. Any second now, he was going kick his legs. He was going to surface, gasping for breath. He was going to start to swim. I was calm and curious, nothing more.
A moment later, a gull landed on Mick’s back. Its beak flashed, and a spatter of crimson coated its feathers. It took flight with something in its mouth — a hunk of quivering pink. A second bird followed suit. It perched quizzically on Mick’s arm, its weight dipping the limb beneath the surface of the water. It peeled a strip of skin from the back of his hand. Then another bird landed. And another.
At my side, Lucy was sobbing. She waved her arms in vain, trying to scare the gulls away. Galen had his fingers buried in his hair. His mouth was contorted. The birds were growing bolder, circling in a pack. They yanked tufts of Mick’s hair out. They stabbed at his poncho, penetrating the fabric, wrenching mouthfuls of wet flesh from his torso. They smacked one another with their wings, battling over who would alight on the body next. They shrieked in what seemed to be elation. Mick was a sodden mass, oozing coils of blood over the surface of the sea.
I don’t know how long I would have stood there, unwilling to believe what I was seeing. Forever, maybe.
It seemed as though the noise of the birds was growing louder. The roar became unendurable, thundering in my ears. I had an impression of motion and wind, of something rising around me, as though all the gulls on Southeast Farallon had taken flight at once.
Galen grabbed me as I fell. The last thing I remember is the expression on his face — eyes haunted, mouth open — and the vise of his wiry arms.
I WOKE IN my bedroom. I kept my eyes closed for a bit, inhaling the familiar odors of dust and mildew, feeling the light from the window on my cheek. Somebody else was there. My heart leapt. I wanted it to be Mick; I was sure that it would be Mick. He had always been the one to care for me when I was ill.
“How are you feeling?” Lucy said.
I opened my eyes. She was leaning over me. Her hair swung in its usual braid.
“I’ll get you some water,” she said, turning toward the door.
I flung out a hand to stop her.
“What happened?” I said.
She sank onto the bed, frowning. I was struck anew by the hale solidity of Lucy. Her whole body spoke of matronly good health. But her face had a dewy aspect now. Her eyes were swollen.
“You know what happened,” she said.
I was still hoping she might come up with an alternate solution. Maybe Mick had been rescued just in time. Maybe the kiss of life had saved him. Maybe he was downstairs now, shrugging off the last vestiges of hypothermia. Maybe he was fine. That was what I wanted to hear: Mick was absolutely fine. It was the What If Game all over again.
Lucy brushed a lock of hair wearily from her face.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
At once, I pushed myself upright. With a frantic gesture, I reached for her, pulling her into a bear hug. I saw the shock in her face. My belly knocked the wind out of her. She patted my back, and I gripped her rib cage with all my strength. This was not a benevolent instinct. I wanted to force what she was about to say back into her throat, through her lungs, down through the soles of her feet. I wanted to prevent her from saying Mick’s name aloud, from saying drowned or gone or, God forbid, accident. I did not want her to say a word.
37
I AM LEAVING THE islands. It has not been a question, to go or to stay. Galen has arranged the whole thing for me. He has radioed the mainland, contacted Captain Joe. On Friday afternoon, the ferry will take me away.
It is July. Mick died in July. I know this, not because I have checked a calendar, but because the night the helicopter came to remove Mick’s body, there were fireworks. I was lying down in my room for the whole of that encounter. I heard the whir of the rotor. I heard the angry, raucous response of the gulls. For a while, it was Armageddon out there, the blades whooshing, the birds in flight too. Voices downstairs. Footsteps. Doors slamming. I stayed where I was. Soon enough, the helicopter rumbled off. The gulls seemed upset for a long while afterward, shrieking and babbling.
I did not budge. The sky darkened outside. Weak and weary, I stared out the window. I had not found the wherewithal to eat or drink much of anything. At last, at moonrise, the gulls bedded down. The islands looked painterly in the waning light — coated with white bodies like gesso on canvas. The moon was a sliver, a fishhook. A few stars began to burn. I was debating whether I had it in me to head downstairs and attempt some dinner when there was a sound — a distant report.
I caught my breath. The noise was unmistakable. Cannon fire. For a moment I was reminded of the eggers and the lightkeepers — their epic, ancient battle. There was a flash of light. Another boom. The sound and the flicker were too far away to appear synchronized. It took me a while to realize what was happening. The fireworks were rising above San Francisco, thirty miles away. From my vantage point, they were tiny. I could have pinched them out between thumb and finger like the flame of a match. Three golden spheres burst in succession, as small as buttons. Red, white, and blue rockets whizzed in teeny arcs. A diminutive, glittering tree blossomed in the air, its leaves streaking downward like a weeping willow’s. It was as though I were watching the Fourth of July inside a snow globe.
The finale was impressive. Bright orbs overlapped one another, all the colors of the rainbow. A garden of miniature flowers bloomed and died in a matter of seconds. When it was done, I waited a while, hoping for more. The cannon fire continued for a minute or two in the darkness: all the aggressive noise of the fireworks, none of the celebratory light. Finally, only the smoke was left — gray, hollow shapes, drifting on the wind like ghosts.
I HAVE NOT cried for Mick. Instead, I have been wandering. I have trekked all over Southeast Farallon, visiting places I have not been in months. I have carried the weight of my belly across Dead Sea Lion Beach. I have visited the caves to the north. Rhino Catacombs. Orca Cove. Eerie places, with an eerie view. With the baby kicking in protest, I have strolled all the way to the Weather Service Peninsula. I have sat for hours on Marine Terrace, shielded beneath my hard hat, wrapped in my poncho, breathing through my mask, gazing in the direction of California.