What I do know is, for months I couldn’t understand why Tom was on that boat. He didn’t have to be a waterman. He was a voracious reader. He enjoyed writing. He dreamt of adventures with boyhood friends on faraway lands. He could have done so much more with his life. Why did he stay there? Why does anybody on Frick Island stay there, when the land is disappearing so fast, it might not even be there eighty years from now. Or ten. Or five. Or one, if a hurricane hits it at the right force and speed.
But then, sometime in the past week, I wondered: Why do any of us do anything?
Living, in itself, is a risk, with only one guaranteed outcome. And we get up each day, and we make our toast and kiss our spouses or kids or parents or cats or dogs and go to work or school and come home to yet another pile of laundry. We do all of these things with no guarantee that we’ll even make it through the day. See the sun come up the next morning.
Somebody could make the argument that it’s pointless. Somebody might say that it’s insane.
And maybe it is.
But maybe it’s something else, too: hopeful.
Every human being—every single one of us—wakes up each morning hoping, believing, that today is not our day. Not our time. That the storm is not yet here. That our island will not be wiped out. That we will see the sunrise the next morning. That life is worth living.
Otherwise, we wouldn’t bother getting out of bed.
I spent months on an island trying to understand why the actions of the people on it were so incomprehensible, only to find that they were nothing out of the ordinary, after all.
If it’s insane that Piper loved her husband, Tom, so much, she pretended he was still alive, right beside her, because the alternative was too much to bear, and if it’s insane that the entire town went along with it, because they loved her so much, well then . . .
May we all be loved and love each other so insanely.
May we all be so human.
“Piper?”
She jerked her head, suddenly coming back to herself, remembering that she was in the plastic molded chair in the corner of the general store. Mr. Garrison peered at her, taking in her mussed hair, her pajamas, with a look of concern. “You OK?”
Piper slipped out her earbuds and stared at the computer screen, and then, through her ridiculous stream of never-ending tears, she managed one word: “Yes.”
Chapter 30
Sure you won’t come to trivia tonight?” Jess asked as she walked by Anders’s desk. “We could use you. Hector and I overlap on sports knowledge, and his only other area of expertise is—and I quote—‘the Kama Sutra.’”
She pulled a face, and Anders forced a grin. “Nah. I’ve got to . . .” He couldn’t even remember what lie he had conjured up earlier when he said he couldn’t go. That was the level of pathetic he had reached.
“Eat ice cream out of the carton and cry yourself to sleep?” Jess supplied.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Your sad puppy-dog eyes these past few months are worse than actual sad puppy-dog eyes,” she said, before patting him on the shoulder and telling him the name of the bar in case he changed his mind.
Anders had been trying to move on, he really had. The final podcast had soared, reaching more than 1.9 million listeners, and though four months ago that would have been Anders’s wildest dream come true, he couldn’t even enjoy it. Now, instead of wanting his dad, Rob, to listen to it, the only person he wanted to hear it was Piper.
He had sent her at least twelve letters—the first few pouring his heart out, explaining how and why he had messed up so badly; the last few he whittled down to the essence of what he wanted her to know: “I’m sorry.” She had yet to respond.
When he wasn’t penning letters, he kept his head down, did the assignments given to him at work, and, at night, sifted through all the emails and messages that still flowed into his in-box, though the current had slowed down some. Some of them—his favorite ones—were heartfelt, from people who enjoyed the podcast or wanted to know how they could help Frick Island and other cities most threatened by climate change, or who felt they understood a friend or family member a little better after listening to it. There were not-so-nice ones, too, of course, criticizing Anders or the people on Frick Island, spewing a level of profanity and hate that always took Anders aback in how angry people must be to e-shout vitriol like that to a stranger. He even had a few job offers—radio stations, a newspaper in Texas that wanted him to start up a podcast department, an agent who thought the podcast could be turned into a book. Anders was flattered, but he also felt stuck, as if he couldn’t move on, couldn’t capitalize on this newfound fame, because he had garnered it by hurting others, and therefore didn’t deserve it.
Only two messages really surprised him. The first was an email from his dad in Chicago. He sat up when he saw it and eagerly clicked on it (though he was irritated with himself for being so eager).
Anders—
Looked at the link you sent me. Nearly 2 million subscribers? Tell me you’re capitalizing on this properly. Advertisers would murder their family dog for that audience. You need, at the very least, a sales director and a lawyer.
