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

him, an earnestness, at least, that she found appealing. Maybe it was the freckles. Or maybe it was the offer itself that was appealing. Harold was getting older, there was no denying that. Though he wouldn’t dare admit it, she could tell getting out of bed was a chore, the aches and pains. And though he was as strong as an ox, as capable as every other man on Frick Island, she didn’t like when he had to get up on a ladder to fix a shingle. Heck, she worried about him on the ground, carrying suitcases in for guests. Of course Tom used to do some of those more challenging chores, but he wasn’t around anymore, was he? Pearl let her eyes travel down from the boy’s face to his scrawny arms, as thin as the toothpick she’d use to test the batter in a few minutes. He didn’t look strong enough to lift the Frick Island cake they were baking, never mind a suitcase. But if he was willing to try . . .

—

A breeze greeted Anders as he walked out the front door of the bed-and-breakfast, and he paused on the top step to enjoy it. The weather was still warm this third week in September, but at least there were pockets of tolerability; reminders that fall was on the way. He popped in his earbuds and trotted down the three steps to the rosebush-lined walkway and out onto the road and breathed deeply.

Anders was in a good mood. Though the third episode of the podcast wasn’t as great as the second one—not as many twists—it had still tipped him over 2,500 subscribers and climbing. He couldn’t decide which part was best—Piper herself discussing other islanders’ disbelief in climate change (irony at its best!) or his recorded conversation with the therapist, who had finally returned his call and offered solid advice on how to properly react to someone experiencing a delusion.

“It’s as if the frontal lobe of their brain—the part of the brain responsible for critical thinking—is switched off,” she had said. “So basically, if they believe they’re the reincarnation of Elvis Presley, say, telling them they are not, in fact, Elvis Presley will result in them still believing they’re Elvis Presley—but now also believing you’re crazy for disagreeing. It can also be quite overwhelming for them to hear the truth, if they’re not ready—and can cause quite a bit of stress and agitation, which can lead to further deterioration of their mental condition. All that said, if you go along with it—start calling them Elvis, for instance—you’re just reaffirming their delusion.”

Anders had paused in his note-taking and reread what he’d typed on the screen. Don’t disagree with the delusion, but also don’t go along with it. “Wait—so what should you do?”

“Safest bet is to change the subject. Gently. Don’t acknowledge the delusion or allow them to dwell on it.”

Regardless, he was definitely on a roll. And now, with Mrs. Olecki agreeing to give him thirty dollars off a room for every hour he helped out, the only obstacle in his way had vanished just like that, and he could afford to keep going.

Sure, she had shut down his line of questioning on Piper, but he had anticipated that—and the “tighter than ticks” quote was great. It being such a nice day, Anders decided to turn left out of Mrs. Olecki’s and walk along the back end of the island, on a more desolate road where there were more empty plots of tall seagrass than there were houses. A door opened on one house, and a woman stepped out carrying a stack of packages and boxes so high, it half covered her face. “Lady Judy?” Anders said, stepping toward her in case the teetering tower toppled over.

She peered at him over it. “Anders.”

“Can I help you with those?”

“If I needed help, reckon I would have asked for it.”

“Oh—OK,” he said. “Well, have a good day.”

He carried on down the road, lost in thought about how he nearly apologized for offering help to someone and how backward that felt. And then he wondered what in the world was in those packages. He hadn’t realized how far he had walked until another figure up ahead caught his eye. He was almost to the wildlife center, and walking away from it was Piper, a football field ahead of him, carrying a very large duffel bag—big enough to carry a dead body if it was chopped up, Anders mused morbidly.

He would have been surprised to see her, had he not begun to understand that running into the same people over and over again wasn’t a strange coincidence but more an expected consequence of being on a three-square-mile island with only ninety-some-odd other people. It was weird if you didn’t see someone two or three times in one day. “Piper,” he said when he got close enough for her to hear.

She stopped in her tracks and looked up, startled. “Oh, hi. I didn’t see you there.”

He closed the gap between them, and that was when he noticed her posture, tense and jittery, like a deer caught in a car’s headlights trying to decide which way to dart back into the woods. If he had any notions she had forgiven him when he had gone to her house to apologize, they vanished the second she all but shoved him on the boat with those twin boys. And now, she clearly didn’t even like the sight of him. Anders frowned, unsettled by how much her opinion of him mattered—why did it unsettle him so? And then another thought occurred to him, as he closed the gap between them—he had no idea if “Tom” was with her. He slowed his pace. Should he say hi to the air next to her or wait for her to say something? He wracked his brain—it was just after noon on a Saturday, and if Anders was to go by what he had learned of the watermen’s schedule, “Tom” should be