Page 71 of Beautiful Ugly
“Is it really you?” I ask.
She nods, takes a step closer, and I take a step back.
“Yes, it’s really me,” she says, then stares at me waiting for a response I don’t know how to give. I’m notimaginingthis. Abby is alive and she is here on the island. At least I can be certain of that now, even if nothing else makes sense.
“What the fuck is going on?” I blurt out.
But I don’t sound angry. I sound afraid.
“You don’t look too good, Grady. Do you want to sit down?”
“I thought you weredead.”
“This must feel like a lot.”
“A lot? Youdisappearedover a year ago. Iknewit was you at the pottery yesterday. I don’t understand what is happening.” The words tumble out of my mouth, tripping over themselves. “Why would youtrickme like this? Why pretend not to know who I am?”
“Because Idon’tknow you,” she says, undoing my sanity slowly, like a zip.
“What do you mean?” I stare at her, unsure whether I canbelieve a word she is saying. “I don’t understand. Do you not remember us? Do you have amnesia?”
“Why don’t you sit down? This must feel like some kind of crash landing—”
“Kitty, your godmother, she’ll know what to do.”
“I think you’re in shock.”
“We should call her. Call Kitty.”
“There are no phones on the island, Grady.”
“Yes, there are. But you’re right, we can’t stay here, we should leave. Call her as soon as we reach the mainland.”
“You can’t leave this island, Grady. They won’t let you.”
“What are you talking about? Whatisthis place? Why are there only women living on the island and what are you doing here? Is it some kind of cult? Have these women brainwashed you? We could go home, pretend like none of this ever—”
“Thisismy home. Come on, I want to show you something,” she says, walking toward the doors without waiting to see whether I will follow, which I do, but I feel as though I’m in some sort of trance.
The air feels strangely warmer outside and the mist has completely cleared. The night sky is coal-black and it feels close and solid, as though the darkness here is something I can touch. There is a full moon and a thick blanket of stars above us, and everything is still and silent, except for our footsteps. We cross the village green and carry on walking until we reach the pretty thatched cottages with quirky names. Abby stops outside the last one, called Whit’s End, takes out a set of keys, and unlocks the bright red front door. She flicks on the lights and I’m scared of what I might see, but it’s just a cozy-looking cottage. The place is quirky with low ceilings and wooden beams. The front door leads straight into a small sitting room, where there is a fireplace with bookcases on either side, a sofa with a knitted throw, and a sheepskin rug on the floor.
“Nice piano,” I say when I see an old upright in the corner ofthe room. It’s covered in painted birds and there is a metronome sitting on top of it. I’m surprised because Abby is gifted in many ways, but not musically. She always used to joke that she couldn’t play a triangle.
“Take a seat,” she says, nodding toward the sofa.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Suit yourself. I need a drink, can I get you one?” I shake my head and she raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s a first.”
She disappears through another door and I decide to perch on the edge of the sofa. I notice the turquoise vase on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. It’s just like all the pottery at Beautiful Ugly and I wonder if Abby made it herself, and whether that part of her story was true. I no longer know what to believe, or think, or feel. She reappears with two glasses of whiskey and puts them on the table.
“In case you change your mind. Gosh, it’s cold in here,” she says, then lights the fire.
I am not cold. I feel as though every part of me is sweating.
“I spent some of my childhood in this house,” Abby says. “Almost sold it a few years ago, but I’m glad we didn’t in the end. I can’t imagine anyone else ever living here, it would feel like letting someone trespass in our history.”
“Ourhistory?”