July 15, 2008
As Kimberly hopped down from her grandfather's car and headed towards the Ayers' house, she wondered once again what the fuck she was doing. Dutchy's family had agreed to see her. She wasn't quite sure why, wasn't sure what they knew, what they'd seen. Dutchy was complicated, in so many more ways than his sunny exterior had led her to believe. She'd combed the tapes, nightmares and stress and doctor's orders be damned.It wasn't hard to get information online. The terrorists had seen to that.
She'd watched clips, the times when Dutchy did things, the times when he didn't. She'd tried to find out the truth, now that that was an option. She'd tried to puzzle out just why he'd not been on those boats with Sarah and Bridget.
The time for blame on that front was gone. What she had seen was a boy she'd barely known, a boy she had judged based on his school persona. He'd been a faker, in his own way, just like she had.
Kimberly had been wrong when she'd thought he was weak. She'd underestimated him when she'd marked him as nothing more than someone else's responsibility. She had this vague feeling that maybe an apology was in order for that, but Dutchy was dead, so apologies wouldn't help him much.
She didn't know if his family knew that she had traveled with him. She didn't know if they knew that she had threatened him, had traumatized him. She didn't know if they knew that she had held him while he died. She didn't know, but she was willing to bet that they did. Maybe some families had stayed strong, had held themselves away from the internet and the news during those horrible weeks, but they had to be in the minority. Kimberly was a little bit surprised that Dutchy's family had agreed to have her, and, knowing nothing about them, she was prepared for bitter recriminations, hatred, and blame.
That was okay. She could deal with that, could let it roll off her back. Maybe there would even be something there to take to heart. Maybe it would help her figure herself out.
She walked up to the door, listening to her grandfather's car pulling away behind her. He wouldn't go far. He never did. She had her cell phone, was all ready to call him as soon as they were done, whenever that ended up being.
With just a hint of a sigh, Kimberly raised her hand and rapped her knuckles against the door.
It had been quiet in the Ayers' house for a long time. The once brightly lit hallways were now bathed in a shallow gloom, a depressing, dull color that only served to sharpen the pain. Markus and Tinna rarely spoke about it. They were adrift at sea, with no end in sight. They didn't know where to begin.
During the week he'd been away, neither had entered Örn's room. After his death, Markus had locked it. Reporters had come by, but the Ayers weren't nearly as talkative as their son, and the story wasn't there. The boy known as Dutchy had done little heroics for all his trying. He'd cried, and he'd died.
But he hadn't died alone. There was a sharp knock at the door, and Markus tensed. His hair was greying prematurely, the "crisis" doing little to help with it. Tinna had refused to call it anything else. Dutchy had been involved in, and had lost his life in, the "crisis". Markus tried his best to understand. Tinna had always been aloof, pessimistic, and more than a bit reclusive. Dutchy had meant the world to her and had served to brighten her life. Now, with him gone, Markus was witnessing all his work unravel firsthand, in a matter of days, a series of news reports.
"One of the students—identified as Örn Ayers—seen here holding a map of the supposed location—"
"Individual known as Danya—kidnapping over two hundred students—"
"—death toll standing at—"
"—Release of footage showing the last moments of Örn Ayers life, comforted by—"
"Kimberly," Markus said, his voice scratching and his accent thick. The girl stood on the front porch, looking like she'd been holding her breath out of fear or uncertainty. Markus felt his heart burrow deep down inside him at the sight of her. All the survivors held scars. Some ran deeper than others. Kimberly had the eyes of a woman twice her age.
Hurt inside, enough for all of St. Paul. Let alone that class...
Gesturing for her to enter, Markus tried his best to force a cracked smile onto his face at the sight of the girl.
"Please, come in," Markus said. Kimberly entered, and he shut the door, hurrying toward the small kitchen, flicking the light on as he went. In the back of his mind, Markus' brain was busy churning. Kimberly Nguyen. The winner. The fittest, so to speak. She was just a girl, and his heart was pounding. Markus closed his eyes, cycling through his memories of the past four years, the boys and girls who'd come to his door, who'd asked him where "Dutchy" was.
Had Kim ever visited before, unaware of the fate that would await her? Did it matter?
"May I offer you a drink?" Markus said, grabbing a cup from the cupboard. "Please, feel free to ask for whatever you want. It's the least I can do."
You're my last connection to him.
Markus cleared his throat, trying his best to compose himself before turning back toward Kimberly.
"I suppose ah, you would like to talk about Örn."
"Yeah," Kimberly said. "And, uh, just some water, please."
She didn't plan on drinking anything here, at least not until she was sure there wouldn't be any resentment or awkwardness, but since the man who must have been Dutchy's father had already grabbed a glass, refusing seemed impolite. She didn't want to hurt him, to put him off in any way. This house looked like it had seen enough pain of late. Seeing a place that so clearly had once known joy fallen into despair made Kimberly a little edgy. It was too much like the island, like the houses she had entered there.
That happy observation aside, she wasn't entirely sure what to do now that she was here. She'd had plans, maybe, but they all involved being given a good opening, and Kimberly wasn't the sort to wait for that. She had no idea where she stood, and there was no way to proceed until she had more of a clue. Hoping for a chance to figure things out, she followed Dutchy's father to a small coffee table in a corner of the kitchen and, when invited, sat across from him on a wooden chair, eying the glass of water he placed in front of her. After a moment, she said, "He was a good person."
It wasn't how she'd planned it, but that was alright. It was something, and it was true.
Markus nodded his head slowly, letting the words hang in the air between them for a moment.
"Yes. A nice boy, a good person. He tried his hardest."
But you always knew that his hardest wouldn't be good enough. You always knew what kind of darkness was out there, and you always knew you were going to get the call, see his name on the news report...
Markus took a breath before continuing, squaring his shoulders and speaking calmly, trying to remove any hint of vulnerability from his voice.
"I'm... not sure if you've watched the footage. But, after you left, Örn's behaviour grew increasingly erratic. He hurt himself on a window. For most of the second day, he slept..."
Markus cleared his throat. "Whenever an announcement went out... It was obvious it caused him pain, regardless of who was listed. Örn was bullied when he was a little boy. But it only made him more... calm. Caring. He didn't want that, for anyone. And with such a great group of friends, I think Örn truly believed that Survival of the Fittest wasn't possible. That no one in Bayview would succumb."
He had to stop for a moment. Taking a long drink of water, Markus composed himself.
"When Örn came across Liam... I saw how scared he was. All of it had come to a boiling point. He couldn't move. If you hadn't come along when you did..."
Marcus looked at Kimberly, hesitating for only a moment. "I... I hope you don't blame yourself, for what happened there. From what I understand, Liam Brooks couldn't have been stopped."
"Maybe," Kimberly said. In truth, she had her doubts. She'd been weak, at the time, unwilling to become a murderer twice over even to protect those she cared about. Had what had happened with Dutchy given her the push she'd needed when she met Kris later? Hard to say. Whatever the case, she'd chosen to shove Brook out of the way. She'd still had her knife. Little separated Brook from Kris. She'd had even less reason to hesitate. Maybe she could have slid the blade between his ribs, saved a few lives. Maybe she could have stayed with Dutchy, met back up with Sarah and Bridget, and caught a ride off the island.
Maybe Brook would've pulled the trigger on Dutchy before she could prevent it, and then maybe he would've turned around, disarmed her, and cut her apart. Maybe he would've won and come home and done what John Rizzolo had. It was impossible to say.
It also wasn't that important. Kimberly did not blame herself, not entirely. Most of the blame lay at Brook's feet, and, beyond that, at the feet of the terrorists who had started the whole fucking game. Kimberly felt guilty to some degree, about Dutchy and much more, but she didn't really blame herself, at least for that incident.
There was more, though. Dutchy had been naïve, had thought their class above the barbarism to which it sank. The revelation was more surprising than it should have been. Kimberly had assumed that her initial wishful ignorance had somehow been unique, that nobody else could possibly think nothing would go wrong. Certainly, after she'd been shot, she'd figured no one could possibly question the dire nature of their situation. Hearing that Dutchy had been trapped in the same fantasies she had made Kimberly try to figure out something, anything she could've done to help Dutchy understand, to toughen him up just a little, to help him hold out just a few days more.
Nothing was really coming. That didn't mean she'd made all the right choices.
"I shouldn't have left," she said. It was true, and it was also a pointless statement. Nothing short of physical restraint could have kept Kimberly in the group once she'd figured out the differences in their goals.
That didn't mean she couldn't wish.
Markus took a deep breath, holding it in his lungs.
I shouldn't have left.
He closed his eyes for a moment in thought. Regret—that was only to be expected. Questions. That had been Kimberly's purpose in the first place. Answers. Closure, for a scared boy, naïve and dying on a blood-soaked island. Some closure, some definitive end. But the world wasn't like that. It didn't start and stop at clean intervals, devoid of loose ends, devoid of bitter resentment and pain. There was a hole in his heart, where once a smiling boy had resided, reading a comic book and wishing he could fly away.
Ironically, Markus only knew one sure thing. Kimberly was broken. Kimberly was hurting, in ways he could relate to but never fully understand. Her horrors and fears were too deep to contemplate, and it was foolish of him to even attempt to delve into them, selfish and pretentious to think his words could heal the scars.
This girl was manufactured. She didn't set out to kill. She didn't set out on that first day, prepared to harbour this guilt, to feel these questions.
Markus looked toward Kimberly's neck. Even now, he could see the faint outline, a tan line around her neck, fading slowly. He wondered if Kimberly still could feel the cold weight of the collar around her neck, still feel the degradation and terror it instilled in its victims.
"I... Kimberly," he began, coughing and clearing his throat. His eyes were watering. Very carefully Markus spoke; calm and cautious of every word he uttered in the gloomy kitchen.
"I can't begin to imagine what it was like for you. I'm not immune to tragedy. Through my life I've reached points where... where rivers split into streams, branching out in all directions. What if Örn had caught a cold that day? What if he'd made it to the boats? And, yes, even that. What if you'd stayed with him, protected him until the boats..."
Markus' voice trailed away, and he took a momentary sip of his drink.
"Kimberly, Örn loved you dearly. This I know. But his way was not yours. His path couldn't walk in step with yours. If Örn saw what you did to Kris, what you had to overcome to win... I don't know what Örn would do. What he would think of you. He was already hurting so much..."
Markus shrugged his shoulders, blowing air from his nostrils and sagging down slightly in his chair.
"You're not a stupid girl, and I'm certainly not condemning you for anything. You deserve life, and Örn would agree with me wholeheartedly. But Örn? The Island would have broken him, no matter what. In some of his actions... I think he saw that. I think he knew that even if he survived until the end, he'd never be the same. Dying then, he saw you as a guardian angel, nothing more. It pains me... But maybe it was mercy. For that, we should be glad."
Markus stared down into his drink, smiling and crinkling his eyes to stem the tears. He traced a calloused hand across the tabletop, feeling the smooth wood on the end of his fingertips, letting the weight of his words sink in. Not just for Kimberly. For him.
A merciful end. Was it merciful, dying in her arms? How am I to know...
"Kimberly. If it's not too much pain for you..." Markus cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on his hands. He couldn't break down. Willing himself forward, Markus spoke as best as his frayed voice would allow. "I'd like to know what Örn said to you, at the end. Hearing it from you... Would that be asking for too much?"
Hearing what Dutchy's father said, it wasn't so hard for Kimberly to read between the lines. Part of the message was that Dutchy wouldn't have approved of the path she'd taken, wouldn't have understood why she'd done all she had. She didn't doubt that assessment. Dutchy had been a peaceful boy. He'd been the one to want to help everyone, the one torn up by the sight of blood, the one who'd been so hurt when she'd threatened him, who, so far as she knew, hadn't betrayed her confidence, even after that. Of course he would never have understood what the island had turned everyone into. Kimberly herself could barely understand it now, or at least that was what she wanted to believe. Sometimes, though, the recollections were all too clear. Sometimes, it was all too easy to remember how good it had felt, kicking the knife out of Polanski's hand or screaming at Steven to shut the fuck up or smirking at Rhory while pressing the blade to her throat.
That was not what Kimberly wanted to be dwelling on right now. This was not the time or place for it. She tried to force her thoughts onto other tracks, to focus on the present or imagine some other way she could've done things, anything to stop focusing on what had really happened, what she had really done.
It was almost a relief when she was asked to recall Dutchy's last words. They'd lingered with her, had resonated somehow. She wasn't sure that she could remember them verbatim, but she knew the gist.
"He said he didn't want to die afraid," she said. "Then he... a little later, he said I'd love the place where he was. That was all."
Slowly, Markus nodded his head. He would have liked to say that a great weight had been lifted, that the revelation of Örn's last words had cleared his mind, had allowed him some semblance of peace. But all it did was empty his heart all the more. The part once filled by a desperate longing for the truth was now a cold void, and Markus felt nothing but an alien silence seeping through him, dulling his senses all the more.
"It fits him. Örn was always an idealist—he would imagine a better world, even as he lay dying."
Should he feel proud at that? His son had dared to dream of a better world. Should it matter at all? A part of Markus wanted to say yes. The silence within his heart only wanted to reject the naïve idealism.
"Thank you, Kim. It means the world to us."
It did. Despite all the pain, it was a conclusion. For that, Markus could only be thankful.
"Is there anything you wish to know? Anything... anything I could help you with?"
Kimberly paused, considered. Was there anything she wanted to know? Was there any way she could be helped?
No. Not really. Nothing meaningful, at least. She'd wanted to talk, just a little. She'd wanted, in some weird way, to make up for what she'd done to Dutchy by seeing if she could help his family in any way. She'd wanted to do something for him, something more than what she'd already done or tried to do. She'd wanted to feel better, and maybe she did feel better now. Maybe she could almost forget that night or early morning, sneaking back to camp, getting caught. Maybe she could almost forget the words she'd hissed at him, the grin she'd worn.
It had been the first time she'd lashed out at an innocent. Maybe it was where everything had started to go wrong, where she'd started to lose herself. Probably not. She suspected that everything she'd done, everything she'd become, had always been lurking inside her. She suspected it was all still there, just waiting for the right circumstances to show itself again. To say she had lost herself was to disclaim responsibility, to wimp out and take the easy path. It was to throw away her honesty. Perhaps it was more accurate to say she'd found herself, had found parts of herself that were integral portions of her identity, whether she appreciated them now or not. After all, they'd kept her going, had brought her through to this point.
A deep breath dispelled those thoughts, at least for the time being, and returned her focus.
"Thank you," she said. "You've already helped me. And... and I hope that things get better. I hope that, somehow, things get better."
It was a nice thought. It would have to do.
Markus nodded his head. It was odd, to say the least. For the past few days he'd had conflicted feelings about the meeting. Dread, uncertainty, confusion. Why was he doing this? Was it for Kim, or for him? How would he hold it together? Would Kim be the girl he thought, or was he dealing with a monster, a relic from that dreadful island?
And now, there was once more little to say, little to feel. Markus felt his emotions dull within him, lulled to calm by Kimberly's words.
"Things will get better," Markus said with a nod of his head. "You're right on that."
Örn was right on that.
Markus tried his best, and managed to force a small smile across his face. "Thank you, Kimberly. Truly, and from the bottom of my heart."
She wasn't sure what to say. Maybe there was nothing more. That seemed probable. She'd given what she could, and just maybe it had eased her conscience a little. Perhaps she was a little bit closer to finding some peace with Dutchy, with what she'd done to him and with what she'd failed to save him from. Nothing would ever be perfect. She would never be entirely okay. Still, this was a start.
She didn't want to rush away. It seemed rude. She didn't really think that lingering too much longer would be polite either, though, so she simply finished her water, exchanged a few more inconsequential pleasantries, and then found herself outside, cell phone in hand, calling her grandfather to come pick her up.
It had gone well. Something had gone right.
That was a pleasant turn of events. It was something she could hold onto, a positive feeling that might be able to carry her through the trying times ahead, because however lucky she had been here, there would be other visits that nothing short of a miracle would be able to make okay. But, at least today, the world seemed almost alright.