The Riverside. 2:45 AM.
“Much appreciated,” I said, pulling up my hood.
The innkeeper was silent, mulling what to say. All he could come up with was,
“My cousin went out in one of those. Didn’t come back.”
“My condolences.” I saluted, stepping into the night. The wind battered the door shut behind me. The rain was quick and stinging.
My fingers were already cold by the time I began undoing the mooring. But I’d rowed this river as a kid. I knew what I was doing.
No, I thought as I set out, the only problem is those salts. The salts crept out of the water. They had a way of greasing knots and dislodging oars. The river was wild this night—It rolled and scratched against the hulls. I knew this river when it was placid. I remembered the first time I’d seen her gliding across the water.
The tides twisted me, and I let them carry me toward the island.
“Is your home down the river?” I had asked her.
“This is my real home.” She’d answered. I hadn’t understood.
My real home wasn’t by the Riverside anymore. But I came back. The innkeeper told me I could find what I was looking for here.
“That’s no way.” She had said, taking my hands in hers. “You must do it this way.” I never managed to replicate her knot. Instead, I hitched the moor and climbed onto the shore.
The canopy was dark, but the tree trunks were pale and spindly. I remembered this path, but I’d never followed it. I’d only sat on the marshy shore, chewing popsicle sticks or hanging homemade wind chimes with her. I’d gone where she’d gone. I hadn’t seen her since I left.
My light fell on what I sought. I knelt, mud seeping into my knees. The plaque was warped by a puddle, but I could read it. It was a grave marker.
“1923–1937.” I read aloud. I rose on shaking legs. Those September afternoons, just us on the river. I’d been afraid of the water until she invited me into her boat. I recalled her pale sundress with the old-fashioned ruffles. I recalled her name, the one etched into the stone.
It took me a moment to find my craft. It wasn’t tied to the old rotten dock anymore. Instead, its tether wound around a tree a few paces down the shore. My flimsy mooring had come undone—it was replaced with the knot my childhood friend had never taught me well enough.
My parents never saw the girl with the rowboat. I suppose only I could see her. Or, she only wanted to be seen by me.
As I rowed back to shore, I watched the trees of the isle. I’d forgotten my flashlight at the headstone. Through the downpour, I could have sworn I saw a light cross those trees. Perhaps it was just a reflection off a silver wind chime. Perhaps it was her.