The Invisible Husband of Frick Island by Colleen Oakley (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📗

When working on a newspaper article or podcast, he typically gathered all the information first, and then formed all his research into a story, with a beginning, middle, and end. But this story—well, he was still in the middle of it. He was recording as he went, the audience finding out along with him whatever he uncovered about this strange little island. And he hoped to uncover how and when this delusion started for Piper. But he couldn’t exactly ask her directly. He had researched just enough about delusional disorders to know that if he contradicted what she believed to be true, she would just think he was crazy for saying that Tom was not alive.

And instinct told him—or maybe it was the way that waterman looked at him when he caught Anders eavesdropping in the One-Eyed Crab—that he couldn’t come straight out and ask anyone else on the island about it either. At least not yet.

Fortunately, BobDan reminded him he had the perfect cover—he had told everyone he was doing a podcast on climate change. And he saw no reason to disabuse them of that notion just yet. He didn’t like to lie—he was actually quite terrible at it—but he didn’t really see a way around it for now. And anyway, it wasn’t a complete lie in that he did talk about climate change in episode 2. Briefly.

He took a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his khaki pants, climbed the three cinder-block steps, and pulled on the door, which squeaked on its hinges, the inevitable effect of salt air meeting metal. He stepped across the threshold, cool air enveloping him, drying the perspiration on his brow. This was a Frick Island first—air-conditioning. At least a powerful one.

As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit space, the first thing he noticed was photographs, large and small, black-and-white and color, adorning nearly every free surface of wall, and then below them, the water damage. A clearly demarcated line rose about twelve inches from the floor, and considering the trailer was already about three feet off the ground, Anders stared at it, wondering at how large a flood would have to be to—

“Sandy.”

Anders turned toward the voice, noticing for the first time a man standing at the far end of the room behind a desk. He squinted at the name tag affixed to the man’s shirt: Bill Gibbons. “Huh?”

“Hurricane Sandy. That’s what the water damage is from. Applied for government funds to get a new building— conservation center, the works. I got eight hundred dollars.” He pointed to the floor. “Enough for the carpet.”

Anders looked down at the cheap but new-looking industrial carpet. He could feel the hard cement slab directly beneath it.

“You here for the tour?”

The tour? Anders glanced around the room, wondering what there possibly was to tour. All the photos had captions. Seemed pretty self-explanatory.

“Actually, I’m looking for Piper.”

The man’s eyes went hard. He studied Anders’s face, a detective trying to determine motive. Or maybe turn Anders to stone. Either way, Anders squirmed under the scrutiny. Finally the man spoke. “She’ll be along.”

Anders waited, hoping Bill would add an estimated time to his sentence, but no such luck. “OK.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and meandered over to the first large black-and-white photo on the wall: an image of a bird close up, the caption naming it a great blue heron. Anders skimmed the info about its habitat and history on the island, until the silence became overwhelming. He spoke without turning his head. “So are you related to BobDan, down at the docks? Noticed you have the same last name.”

“Him and half the island,” said an amused voice, but one that was decidedly not male. Anders swiveled his head only to lock eyes with Piper, who stood at the desk as if she had replaced Bill Gibbons with the flick of a magician’s wrist and a puff of smoke. Before he could decipher where exactly she’d come from, recognition flashed in her eyes. “Oh. It’s you.” Her inflection didn’t indicate pleasure at seeing him again. But it didn’t indicate displeasure either.

“It’s me,” he agreed. His palms started sweating again, despite the cold air. He peered at her, as if studying an animal in its natural habitat. Now that he knew for sure that Piper had an . . . imaginary husband, for lack of a better phrase, his nerves were slowly overtaken by morbid curiosity. He felt the familiar buzz at that first deep dive into a new story; the anticipation of the things he might uncover, the answers to the five Ws and an H that he learned about in his first newspaper reporting class in college. And then a thought struck Anders—what if Piper thought her husband was in the room right now? His eyes darted around as if an apparition of Tom might appear.

“You OK?” She peered at him strangely.

“Huh? Yeah—yep.” He rocked back on his heels, glancing around the room once more. Then he cleared his throat, trying to get back on track. “You told me I should come here . . . ?”

“I remember,” she said. A coiled lock of hair fell in her line of sight, and she tucked it behind her ear. “I just thought it would be last week—and then you didn’t show, so.”

“Oh.” Anders felt slightly shamed for breaking a promise he didn’t remember making. “Hey, do you mind if I record our conversation?”

She narrowed her eyes. “For your podcast thing?”

“Yeah.” He waited with bated breath for her response. If he could get her voice on the podcast, it would deepen the story so much more—and if she mentioned Tom? Anders got nearly light-headed with excitement.

“For your dad,” she said, and he was surprised she had not only been listening to him that morning at breakfast but remembered what he had said.

“Him and a few other listeners,” he corrected, which was more or less true. Nine hundred was a lot to Anders, but