“I am in a sea of wonders; I doubt; I fear; I think strange things which I dare not confess to my
own soul.” – Bram Stoker, Dracula

We should have stayed on land. Thomas and I balance wide-legged on the deck as the ocean churns against the ferry and slap, slap, slaps the bow like a ticking clock. We’re supposed to depart in ten minutes – the final passengers are handing in their tickets – but the sun is running late, and the clouds are pregnant with rain. We still have time. I can lead Thomas down the staircase toward the ferry terminal where our car is parked. He will be angry, but I will have saved him. I will have saved us. My hand reaches for his, but a gust of wind whips across the exposed deck, and I’m forced to grip the railing. A few of our neighbors let out shrieks that drown in the updraft. As the last passengers board, I clench my teeth, and the metallic flavor in my mouth tastes a lot like dread. This trip was a bad idea, and not only because of the weather.

“Beautiful day for a boat ride,” Thomas shouts, as if sensing my fear. On the long drive from Boston to Rockland, he tried to minimize the burden of the trip (“It’s only one night”). Now he’s trying to make a joke. I give him a small smile, because if these tactics don’t work, Thomas may resort to my least favorite strategy (“Why did you say you would go?”). Besides, the guard has closed the pedestrian gate to let the cars board. There’s no going back unless I were to make a scene. We accepted an invitation to visit Thomas’s boss on the island of North Haven, and we have to go.

Thomas moves behind me in an embrace, pushing my hood back then cradling my growing stomach with one arm. His other hand grips the railing, steadying us both. Deep breaths, deep breaths. In the pilothouse, the captain does not look worried. He is caught up in routine as his hands flip a switchboard, and he talks through a walky-talky. Thomas’ breath warms my neck, making it tingle, and instead of kissing me, he scrapes my skin with his teeth. My jaw unclenches. This is his most convincing strategy: a glimpse of the old, affectionate Thomas.

He took the job at Sanguine Capital less than a year ago. My mother had died of leukemia, and we wanted to have a baby. Life felt like a turbulent sea blowing us in every direction, and we needed an anchor. “Sanguine takes care of their employees,” he promised when he accepted the offer. “We’ll have everything we need. For us and the baby.”

At first, Thomas seemed fine, but now I’m not so sure. A creeping suspicion about my husband, something too vague and nebulous to say out loud, has been growing inside me. Over the last months, Thomas has been transforming into someone else. The changes are subtle, but I know him well enough that I can tell. He barely sleeps, and his skin is very pale. His voice is colder, sharper, and at times, in certain lights, he looks bloodless. When did the changes start? I noticed them after he joined Sanguine, but maybe the transformation started earlier. The only way I can explain the change is that Thomas was hungry before he took the job – I think that’s why he joined – but instead of satiating his hunger, Sanguine seems to be starving him.

Like a child scared of monsters, I’ve avoided looking at the shadows where Thomas has been hiding. With this trip, I’ll meet his boss, Carl. I may also get my answer about Thomas whether I like it or not.

At 7:32 a.m. the ferry pushes away from the dock. The boat sways and the clouds sprinkle a light mist instead of the downpour I was expecting. I hold my hands over my ears like fleshy earmuffs because I expect the horn to blow, but all I hear is muffled chatter from the group next to us. They are moneyed New England types – modest and discrete. They display no outward brands or labels, no gaudy jewelry, and no signs of aesthetic procedures aside from waxy, wrinkle-free skin. I let go of my ears, and their conversations become louder, ranging from cars to restaurants to personal acquaintances. As the ferry picks up speed, they embed subtle one-upping gestures in each remark.

“Yes, we ate there last summer.”

“No, I didn’t know they had a house there.”

Now that Thomas and I have money, I should be used to this kind of small talk, but it always unnerves me as if I’m watching a school of sharks swim in circles, searching for blood.

An hour later, the fog rolls in and the horn blows, creating a somber pause that lasts until North Haven emerges from the mist. The shore is covered in pine trees, and everyone leans over the railings to admire the houses in the clearing. Mansions are perched above steep, jagged rocks that cut into the ocean like dark blades. Other rocks jut upwards, but the ferry seems to know each cluster, and we navigate with ease. As we approach the pier, the water becomes dotted with smaller boats: sailboats, fishing boats, tugboats, and little dinghies. We glide past them in a straight path, and the wake forces the anchored vessels to wobble and dance.

A small group has gathered near the loading dock, and Thomas points as we climb down the stairs. Carl stands in front, waving in windshield wiper motions. He is a partner at Sanguine. His name is printed on the office door and the college gym of his alma mater. His Boston Brahmin ancestors travelled on the Winthrop fleet in the seventeenth century. Old money. Older than old. You wouldn’t know this by looking at him. Carl’s white hair is uncombed, and he wears an unbuttoned flannel that reveals a faded t-shirt underneath. His wealth is so established, so secure, that only tiny clues slip from the carefully closed seams of his life.

Beside Carl is a pale, slender woman with thick, graying hair pulled into a ponytail. Thomas told me her name: Edith. She is Carl’s first and only wife, and their marriage is an outlier. Most of the partners have at least one divorce under their belts. Edith’s face on the pier is statuesque, as still and peaceful as the white buildings behind the crowd. For a moment, while we exit the ferry, I wonder if she is, in fact, a statue — her skin carved from marble or alabaster — but then she smiles. I exhale.

“Made it all right?” Carl clasps Thomas’ hand in an aggressive but friendly handshake.

“Smooth sailing.”

Carl and Edith both lean in to give me a kiss on the cheek. I’m shocked by the hard grip of Carl’s hand on my shoulder as he leans in. His cheeks smell of aftershave and something bitter. Edith is like a butterfly, fluttering around my body more than touching it.

We follow to where they have parked a rustic pickup truck with green stripes on the sides. A young man steps out from beside the truck to greet us. He is lean and bronzed – the type of youth who enjoys the outdoors – but I cannot pinpoint his age. Sixteen, maybe.

Carl introduces us. “My son, Will.”

Will’s eyes are somewhere far off, lost in a daydream. He grabs our overnight bag and places it in the truck bed. As we pull out of the lot, I take a final look at the pier where the ferry is parked, ready to make its journey back to the mainland. I feel the sinking dread I felt back in Rockland. The car picks up speed, and a swell of panic makes my heart flutter. I grip my stomach, ready to say something to Thomas, but then the clean, fresh air hits my face, swirling around my eyes, nose, and ears. The breeze blows my feelings out the window, and I bring my hands back down to my sides. Maybe it was only morning sickness, that feeling.

They take us on a tour. Carl hunches over the steering wheel while he narrates and points. Most of the information is a recitation of names. So-and-so lives here. They work there. Carl is sure to add whether they live on the island or come for the summers. Thomas asks whether the Bush family vacations in North Haven, and Edith says that Jonathan Bush’s family has a house, but George Sr. and Jr. go to Kennebunkport a hundred miles south on the mainland.

We circle back to Carl and Edith’s property, pulling onto a dirt driveway that travels up a hill. The downward slope leads to a river that flows to a dam. Two red kayaks, a dingy, and a rowboat are tied to a wooden dock that juts into the water. The house is large and old and sits on the highest part of the hill like a crown. The wooden shingles are graying from the weather. In the back, there is a screened porch.

What would my mother think if she could see this place? When I was seven, our neighbor in Aberdeen got new quartz countertops, and everyone went to see the installation, including my mother. I remember her silence in the little ranch kitchen while the other women cooed their praises like doves. My mother kept tapping her chipped manicure on the gleaming counter surface. Her lips pulsed with envy. Yes, my mother was as hungry as Thomas but in a different way. She would not have known what to make of this house and its lack of ostentation.

Carl parks the car, and Will carries our overnight bag to the guest bedroom upstairs. Everyone else goes to the porch where I sit on a sofa with green and white stripes. Edith serves us lemonade.

“Huge congratulations,” Carl raises his glass to me and Thomas, ice cubes clinking on the sides. “Are you excited?”

I look at Thomas. His lips are curled back, full of pride. “Very,” he says.

“Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?” Edith asks.

“A boy,” I reply. I’m aware of their eyes searching my body. Thomas is not the only one who has transformed. I am also suffering from strange symptoms. At night, I am prone to insomnia or else heavy, lethargic sleep. My dreams have been strange, disturbing at times, but when I wake up, I cannot remember them. My body has doubled its volume of blood, but I have become anemic. In our overnight bag, I’ve packed a capsule of iron. This does not seem like polite information to offer to our hosts.

Edith addresses me. “Are you taking time off before the birth?”

“I was going to teach summer school, but Thomas convinced me to rest.”

“What do you teach?”

“High school English.”

“Mina works at one of the most challenging schools in the city,” Thomas adds.

Everyone nods, and I realize that my middle-class job has been translated into something more common and tolerable in Carl and Edith’s world: altruism.

“Teachers are so undervalued,” Edith says, as if to emphasize the point.

The conversation shifts to an update on Thomas’ latest project for Sanguine. He was charged with determining whether the firm should buy a senior living facility in Texas. Thomas thinks it is a good investment, but his words are measured, trying to reassure while not appearing overconfident. He uses terms like “top-performing submarket” and “positive economic drivers” to describe the location. At no point does he mention the building’s potential inhabitants, people like my mother who spent the final years of her life inside a similar facility.

Thomas thinks I don’t understand much about his work, but I know enough about the proposition to realize what will happen if it goes through. Sanguine will hire consultants and implement changes to make the centers more profitable. They will cut back on nursing staff. They will admit more challenging patients who can be billed at higher rates on Medicare. They will reduce the meal options and increase the number of residents in a room. They will make the last years of these people’s lives – already plagued by chronic health conditions – a living hell. When they are done, Carl and Thomas will make a killing with the sale. Sanguine will gorge itself on great gushes of money spilling into its bank accounts, and ours.

If Carl is hungry for the deal, he doesn’t show it. He nods throughout Thomas’s summary and asks him measured questions. When Thomas responds, I see the shadow of the person I see at home: the person who stays up until three o’clock in the morning; the person who no longer laughs; the person with sharp teeth, angling for another bite.

Finally, Carl says, “I’ve reviewed the numbers, and they seem compelling. I’ll talk about it with the committee.” This, I know, is Carl’s blessing. Thomas’ project needs someone who can pitch it to the other partners.

Edith leans toward me, lowering her voice. “Your blood pressure must be low. Drink.” She fills my glass with more lemonade.

“I get dizzy sometimes.” I try to reassure her. The men continue talking, and the conversation gets more laid-back. Thomas congratulates Carl on the latest sale, which turns into a complaint about the lawyers they used for the transaction. Both men sit with an ankle resting on their knees: a master of the universe and his apprentice.

Edith and I make light conversation. I cannot ask her about a job. She has not worked in some time. I do not think less of her for this, I want to tell her. I want to ask if she’s ever had fantasies about leaving. No note, no traceable car. Escape would have to be spontaneous, we might agree. Planning requires courage and commitment that neither of us have except in brief, overwhelming bursts. But then I remember Edith is not like the wives who have already left.

“We lucked out on the weather,” Carl says, motioning to the rays of sunlight bursting through the clouds. “It really cleared up. We can head to the boat in thirty minutes.”

This was the pretense under which we came: the sailboat. I’ve never sailed before. I don’t know which ropes to pull, how to tie a knot, where to sit, or what any of the sails are called. I’m not sure if the baby and I are worth the added weight, but no one else seems concerned.

“Why don’t you go upstairs to change,” Carl says. It is not a question.

I walk with Thomas up the creaky, narrow staircase. Precious items hang in the hallway: a dulcimer, old photographs, and a quilt. The floor is made of walnut boards. The wood is warped and looks like it has been tossed in the ocean. Our bedroom is covered in yellow wallpaper.

We change, me in white jeans and Thomas in pinstripe shorts. He almost looks like himself again now that we are alone. His teeth have settled into a perfectly human smile.

“You’re very quiet,” he says as if to check on me.

I keep searching in my bag for my sweater.

“Everything okay?”

I don’t answer, because beneath the toiletries and socks, at the very bottom of the overnight bag, I have found my mother’s rosary. When did I pack it? And why? The answer doesn’t matter. I pinch the familiar beads between my fingers. Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.

“None of this bothers you?” I ask.

“What bothers me?”

“Your job. That deal. These people.”

Thomas glances at the door. “Keep your voice down. The deal hasn’t even gone through.”

Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

“What are you fidgeting with in the bag? Answer me.”

I withdraw my hand from the beads. “I don’t understand why we have to do this, Thomas.”

His eyes are cruel again, victorious. “You think we could live on your salary?”

I drop the rosary beads. My chest is tight. He pretends there wasn’t a choice with the baby coming. Like millions of people don’t live in the world with their empathy intact. The truth is, now he’s had a taste of this life, he doesn’t want any other kind. Thomas exits without saying another word. In a daze, I continue dressing, leaving the rosary at the bottom of the bag.

On my way down the stairs, I am relieved to meet Edith instead of Thomas.

“Carl and Will went to prepare the boat,” she tells me. She smells of sunscreen, and she has selected a hat from the many that hang near the door. With her fair skin, she must be afraid of the sun.

She escorts us down a path until we reach the water’s edge. I put as much distance as possible between me and Thomas until the sailboat becomes visible. The boat is a beautiful distraction. Its nose parts the water like a sharpened knife and turns as it glides, revealing a white hull that curves downward, graceful like a ballet slipper. Two gigantic masts reach upwards, as tall as any of the trees on shore. The three sails are down, but the effect is capital-R Romantic. A name has been hand-painted in white and red letters on the side.

WHITBY

Edith steers and the men untie the sails. They wait until we’re further out and can handle the speed. Each sail makes a cracking sound in the wind until it’s taut and smooth like a clean bedsheet. By the time the last one is down, we’re far from the island, really cruising.

In this light, everything is bleached and dazzling. Carl instructs us to change sides when it’s time to turn, and we all pile on one of the benches to provide some counterweight. During one turn, Carl even reaches to help me so I don’t fall over on my stomach. The wind blows the dark, heavy thoughts from my mind again. I must be wrong about these people. Carl and Edith are not performing some dark seduction. They want to show us a good time, that’s all. When Edith glances in my direction again, I flash her a genuine smile.

Once we’ve found a steady trajectory, Edith shows me the bathroom. The air below is stale. The cramped room is dark. Two bunk beds line each wall, and we pass a small kitchen that she calls a “gally.” The shelves are bare and coated with dust.

Edith gives me privacy, and on my return from the small toilet, I pause in front of the mirrors that line the kitchen. The woman staring back at me is alone in a dark room. Her brown hair is tousled from the wind. She looks tired. Is she a prisoner? I inspect my face for any signs of distress. Finding none, I smooth my hair, pulling it back into a ponytail. At my neck, I rub at two small dots, no bigger than the tip of a pencil. The dots do not disappear, so I scrape them with my nails. Then I return to the bathroom and wet some toilet paper, scrubbing until the base of my neck turns red from the friction. The dots remain. New moles, maybe. My skin is sore and tender. Like Edith, I need to be more diligent with my sunscreen.

Thomas meets me on the stairs, motioning me back down.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Everything is cloaked in shadow. I cannot see his face to tell if he is being genuine, so I search for a light, finding it near the staircase. When I turn back, Thomas is pulling something out of his jacket pocket: a black box, rectangular like a coffin, closed with a golden clasp. The box is a little larger than the palm of his hand, which he holds out in offering.

There are boxes at home, too. Cardboard deliveries of diapers, pacifiers, and tiny onesies. An expensive crib waits in the baby’s room, ready to swaddle and sway the baby when he’s born. I bought these items in a fit of pleasure as if they would guarantee the baby’s safety. As if all that money could ward off death.

“I know it’s been tough,” Thomas thumbs the clasp open. “But we’re on the right path. Together.”

Inside the box’s velvet lining is a ruby pendant on a thin gold chain. Thomas removes the necklace, snapping the box shut, and walks behind me, slipping his hands over my neck. The chain tickles my chest. The ruby is light against my clavicle. His fingers are so gentle, and a feeling of languorous pleasure invades my body, warm and sensuous, that almost drowns my fear. Necklace secure, Thomas bends his head lower until his mouth hovers over my skin, sending a ripple of goosebumps across my skin. His lips are soft, tender and he kisses me only once.

Above deck, everyone is silent as we continue our cruise. Edith looks at me and gives me a knowing smile. I reach instinctively for my neck.

Back at the house, Carl pulls on a green rope tied to the dock. A rectangular cage emerges. Inside, five dark brown shells flap, claw, and crack against each other. Their bodies are shocked by the rush of oxygen.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Carl says.

The table is set and the world outside starts to dim. The wrought-iron chandelier shines a buttery yellow light on our plates next to the lobster shells. Carl is at the head of the table, and Edith and Will sit across from us. Thomas is thrilled with the meal, and for a moment I think about how perfect he looks here, how he is as much a part of the scene as the plates and cutlery. Then I remember hearing that lobsters were once considered unfit for polite society. They were served only to prisoners.

Carl raises his beer in a toast. “Thank you for coming,” he says.

“Thank you for having us,” we reply.

The meal begins. Carl grabs the shell of his lobster and – crack – snaps it in two. Thomas follows, then Edith and Will. I try to break mine gently, but it’s a massacre. Water spills from the carapace. My hands are slippery. I try not to think of the lobsters as they were: alive in their cage and then boiling in the pot on the stovetop.

“What do you do when you’re not here?” Thomas asks Will.

“Will just graduated from medical school,” Carl replies. “He starts his residency this year.”

The statement makes me look up from my food. Will’s blushing. He’s not a teenager. Even knowing the truth, I cannot believe it. His wealth and summer lifestyle have frozen him in time.

“Do you know what you’ll specialize in?” Thomas asks.

“Cardiothoracic surgery,” Will replies. He uses a long stick to scrape out a tiny bit of meat from one of the lobster claws, and I imagine him opening someone’s chest, his soul as sterile as his hands.

After dinner, we go back up the wooden stairs and into our yellow room. “Did you know that Will was in medical school?” I whisper once the door is closed.

“No, why?”

“He looks so young.” I pull my pajama shirt over my head and button the top button.

Thomas grunts dismissively. He is relaxed from the meal. He pulls back the blankets – a down comforter topped with a quilt — and lies down. I ask if he’d like to read but he says we have to be up early to go kayaking, so I say okay and we turn off the lights.

I can see the moon through the lace window curtains, ghostly pale as it illuminates the river. Everything is quiet but I sense many things moving outside. Fish. Worms. Nesting birds. Under the water, the lobster crates are empty and the water flows through the square holes as it makes its way towards the dam.

I put my hand over my body and try to relax, but I should be back in Aberdeen, browsing the aisles of used clothing at a thrift store; or back in Boston, walking up Market Street where people sell mobile phones and t-shirts with bright, garish words printed on them and someone is thwacking drumsticks on overturned paint bins; in a bar, talking with people who laugh too much and drink too much and don’t think before they say silly things like “all intensive purposes” when they actually mean “all intents and purposes”; with people whose smiles stretch across their whole faces and shoulders stoop from carrying too many heavy things; dancing uninhibited to music that is too loud; where there are car crashes and people euthanize their dogs for no good reason and you cry yourself to sleep at night because you are so full of melancholy that you think you will die from it.

The room is quiet. Thomas’ shallow breath tells me that he isn’t sleeping yet.

“Thomas?” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think the lobsters feel anything when they’re in the boiling water?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure they have brains. Or a nervous system. It’s better if you don’t think about it.”

He puts his hand on mine, and I can feel the weight of his love hidden somewhere in the palm of his hand. It’s so light, so faint, but it anchors me to the bed and keeps me from floating away. I return to my body. It belongs here, I think, or the cluster of tissue and cells growing inside it does. Even if I had the strength to get up from the bed, to pack my bags, there is no leaving this island. There’s no train or ferry or car to get me off. It is too late to turn back. I try to remember the afternoon on the sailboat. If I close my eyes, I can still feel the deck moving under me, bobbing up and down with the waves. I let the sensation lull me to sleep.  

The next morning we get up and take the red kayaks on the river. Without telling Thomas, I slip my mother’s rosary into my swimsuit, and when he paddles toward a bridge, I finger the beads again in the cockpit. Each one is smooth and shiny. When the rosary slips into the water, it disappears almost immediately, drawn to the dark mud floor. Death is so far away in this place with its loons and herons that graze the water. I won’t be like my mother. My child won’t be like me. We will build a palace to keep him safe, and death will never find us.

When it comes time to leave, Carl and his family walk us to the pier.

“They’re a nice family,” Thomas says as the boat pulls away. The water is calm and rocks the docked boats gently like bassinets. I look at Will and wonder if the baby will be like him. The engine starts and the mist enfolds us, pouring in like smoke. There is no escaping the mist’s cloudy embrace, but I am not afraid. Thomas’s hand is firm in mine. When the horn sounds, we sit in peaceful quiet until we see the brick of the mainland ahead.