“There’s been a lot of speculation,” Angie tells me. “Like maybe there was a fight, or some kind of oceanic heist you got wrapped up in where you had to take Elliot hostage. I don’t know. It was just one of those things where everyone got obsessed with it.”
I grab the remote and click it off. “Everyone thinks I abducted Elliot?” I ask, aghast.
“A lot of people think a lot of things, if I’m being honest with you.”
I lean back against the pillows, wishing this weren’t the case. I wonder if Elliot has heard yet.
“Can I borrow your phone?” I ask Angie. “To send a text to Elliot.”
“Sure.” She hands it to me. “You both went through hell together, huh? What have you even been eating?”
There’s so much to tell her, but I need to take it one thing at a time.
“So much seaweed, I nearly turned into an urchin.”
I type in the number Elliot gave me and write out a brief message on the phone.
Hank: This is Hank on my sister Angie’s phone. Elliot can reach me here.
I can’t figure out how to end it. I want to say something more, but I don’t know what. All I can really make sense of is the fact that I’m used to Elliot being close, and I want to check on him.
I’m still processing the fact that he didn’t find the dock, but the frustration is mixed up in a million other conflicting emotions. I want him here where I can see that he’s safe. Talk to him. Hold him.
I hurriedly send the message as it is and shove the phone back to Angie. “Thanks.”
“Hank!” my father announces from the door, and he and my mother come rushing in. They deposit grocery bags on the side table before throwing their arms around me from both sides of the bed.
“Our precious boy,” Mom says as she squeezes me.
When they step back, we all gaze at each other for a moment. My mother is in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt from a craft conference, and my father wears a rumpled and unbuttoned dress shirt.
“An island!” Dad says, rubbing his hands. “You were hiding on an island.”
Mom wipes a tear from her eye. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life. But I knew, if anyone had the wits to survive such an ordeal, it would be you.”
I take their hands. “Thank you,” I say. “I hate that I put you through that. But I’m okay now.”
Angie takes one of the grocery bags and rummages through it. “Let’s see. Razor blade. Hypoallergenic shaving cream. Small scissors. And we’ve got Q-tips, a manicure kit, moisturizers and wet wipes.”
I rub my itchy face. “I’ll be even more okay when I get rid of this beard.”
“Would you like me to help you into the bathroom?” Dad asks. He scratches his beard. “It’s nearly time for my monthly shave, too.”
“No.” I look at my family again, relief washing over me. “Right now, I just want to be here with you all.”
They pull up chairs and huddle close. A sense of love and belonging settles over me. Safe again, I ease back into the bed, and I begin to tell them what happened.
