At the window, Galen spoke.
“That doctor,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“That damned doctor. He remembered me. I remembered him too, but I wasn’t going to say anything. We don’t talk about the past here.”
I was still catching up. Galen was apparently referring to the gray-haired teddy bear of a man, the bespectacled medic who had accosted him and claimed to recognize him. I had more or less forgotten the whole encounter. It had been eclipsed entirely by Charlene’s condition and my own anxious state.
“He knew my wife,” Galen said.
“But you said—” I began, then faltered.
“My wife. He knew her. What are the odds?”
I gazed at him for a moment in consternation.
“I didn’t realize you were married,” I said.
“She died. Eleven years ago. She died.”
“Ah,” I said, stunned.
“Damn,” Galen spat out.
He sprang into motion again. As I watched, he paced to the hat stand and back to the bookshelf, making the most of the little space.
“I don’t mention it,” he said. “I never bring it up. We don’t talk about—”
“The past here,” I said. “I know. But sometimes, maybe, it’s okay to—”
“Yes,” he said. “Sometimes.”
Even his hands were restless, moving through the air as though manipulated by a puppeteer — a novice unaccustomed to the delicate wiring. Fingers drifting. Palms turning upward. Elbows akimbo.
“Will you tell me what happened?” I said.
“She drowned.”
“Oh.”
“We were on a fishing trip. We lived in San Francisco then. We had rented a boat, just for the day, with friends. A squall blew in. Choppy seas. She shouldn’t have been on deck. I told her to stay inside — I told her. She never listened to me.” Galen gave a tight, pained grin. “She lost her balance. Hit her head. She was unconscious when she entered the water. We couldn’t get to her in time.”
“I see,” I said softly.
And I did see. Many things were falling into place.
Something had driven Galen to the most godforsaken, far-flung place on earth. Something had induced him to stay indefinitely. Until this moment, I had been unable to comprehend it. It had been one more puzzle of the islands, too difficult to solve.
Now, however, I understood. He was still pacing, the glow from the lamp tangled in his white hair. I took in his agitation, his brisk stride. Outside, the breeze howled like an irritated child. A shutter bumped against the wall. The elephant seals were making noise now, grunting and squealing. I was doing mental arithmetic. Eleven years ago, Galen’s wife had passed away. Ten years ago, he had left the mainland for the Farallon Islands, never to return. The pieces fit together at last.
“It was a one-two punch today,” he said. “Charlene on the stretcher — barely even breathing—” He broke off. “My wife had red hair, like hers. It all came back.”
“I understand.”
Outside, the wind smacked the glass. I held still.
“An accident,” Galen said. “Another accident.”
“Yes.”
He rapped his knuckles against his thigh. Then he said, “How long have you been on the islands? How long exactly?”
“Oh,” I said, a bit thrown at the abrupt shift in topic. “Six months.”
“And what do you think of it?”
“It’s my favorite place,” I said. “And I’ve been to a lot of places.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Despite everything that’s happened.”
“Despite everything,” I said firmly.
On the coffee table, the octopus oozed into view again. His skin was now the color of blood. He had circumnavigated his tank and was beginning a new revolution. All eight arms grappled against the glass, the suckers splayed.
“I can be someone new here,” I said.
For the first time, Galen smiled. “I suppose that’s true. You can be Melissa or Mel. You can be a little mouse girl.”
“Yes.”
“We can all be someone else on the islands,” he said.
He shifted his weight. I heard a cry outside the window. It sounded like a seal pup.
“Do you want to sit?” Galen said.
“What?”
“Or a glass of water?”
“No. Why?”
“Never mind.”
The octopus turned himself upside down in his tank. There was something arboreal about him in that position — his tentacles scrolling along the screen above him, shifting like tree branches in strong wind. Galen was watching him too. He stepped closer to the glass and bent down. Then he glanced at me. His expression was calculating, his eyes obscured by grizzled brows.
“Every animal acts according to its own nature,” he said.
“I know what you mean,” I said. “An octopus always wants to escape.”
“No,” Galen said. “That’s not what I mean. The octopus doesn’t want to escape. The octopus tries to free itself because that is its nature. The shark hunts because that is its nature. The female elephant seal abandons her young because that is her nature. This is what I was telling you before. Weren’t you listening?”
I realized I had taken a book down from the shelf, a hardcover volume decorated with a photograph of a squid. I was holding it against my chest like a shield.
“It is always a mistake to anthropomorphize an animal,” Galen said. “We can observe its behavior. We can catalog its actions. We can keep a record of what it eats, how it mates, where it urinates and defecates, how it plays, where it finds shelter. We can study its actions all day long. All year long. But we will never know what it thinks. We will never know what it wants. Even among humans—”
He paused, running a hand through his hair.
“We believe we understand one another,” he said. “As a species, I mean. But how can anyone ever know what’s in another person’s mind? How can we be sure?”
He paused again. Beyond the window, the surf boomed. The islands seemed to be waking up — no longer peaceful, no longer still. A strange expression flickered across Galen’s face. It could have been a grin or a grimace.
“I’m a biologist,” he said. “That’s what I am. If an animal is violent — if an animal is injured — if an animal acts according to its nature—”
He laughed. The sound surprised me, high-pitched and ringing. It chimed through the living room like a struck gong.
“What do you think of that?” he said.
I was lost. But his mood had lightened, and that was a good thing.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.
It was an empty phrase, but he appeared to take it at face value. He straightened up, towering over me, his chalky hair nearly brushing the ceiling. Then he turned to me once more, and I saw a smile playing around his mouth.
“What is your nature, Miranda?” he said.
I sucked in a breath. I had been waiting for an opening like this.
I knew what he was hinting at. I knew what to do. Galen had broken the first rule of the islands: he had talked about the past. Now it was my turn. In a way, it would be a relief. He had laid the groundwork for me.
I began to speak, stammered, and cleared my throat.
“My mother,” I said. “I lost my mother.”
“You did?”
“When I was fourteen.”
My voice came out louder than I had intended. Galen’s demeanor changed, his expression growing softer, more open.
“She was hit by a car,” I said. “A truck, actually.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That must have been hard.”
“It was. I mean, it is. Still. It changed everything. It changed me.”