Page 28 of Letting Go

The inside is remarkable.

"We also pretended we were orphans, which seems awful now because we did become orphans. Without Geo, we would have been real orphans."

This is my chance to take that dive into her past, to find out why she left, but I'm too surprised by the interior.

It’s neat and tidy, bright, freshly painted. There's a very old sofa with a sheet over it and three apple crates on end about coffee table height. A book, open, lies face down. She comes here to read.

"Look out the front window," she says. "To the left, you can still see a piece of the quarry and the forest and then the ocean and all the little islands out there. This cabin is the highest point on Rock Island. And it's built on rock. There's no basement here." There's an odd sigh of relief when she says this.

"What a gorgeous view."

"I'm not too sure who lived here. If it was a quarry manager or if they got their own place. But someone was here full time, and I just love it. There's a little stream out in the back and we would bring cold drinks and put them in the water. Look," she says opening the simple pine cupboards in the kitchenette, "Claire and I would dig the chipped dishes out of the trash and bring them here."

I glance at the cafeteria flatware in a cup on the sink.

"Those we took."

"You've been coming here to fix this up? Every day?"

She nods and then laughs again. A beautiful laugh, a real laugh. And it makes me feel so good inside to hear it, high and light. I put my arm around her and instead of pulling away, instead of getting some sort of resistance, she leans into me.

"I'm really glad I can show you this. I'm not ready to show the others."

I don't understand this family. One moment they seem super close, and then something is said that tears them apart. Though I've only met him a handful of times, Travis seems to be the only one removed from the drama.

She must have read my face. "It's hard to describe, but this was such an important place for all of us. We could become this tribe of kids who had to live on their own. We'd steal cartons of milk from the kitchen. Looking back, I'm sure my mother noticed. She kept a meticulous inventory, but we'd bring little cartons of milk and put them in the spring to keep cold and bring little bags of cereal and fruit. We'd hide everything in our shirts and pockets."

The kitchen looked remarkably clean. There's a very old stand up porcelain sink. A glass sits on the counter.

"What are these?" I point to a set of twelve tiny bottles with lids about an inch wide. They are soaking in the sink.

"Those were Mom's herb bottles. We'd grow herbs in the garden, dry them and then she'd use these for cooking and store the rest in big canning jars." She cocks her head to the side. "I've always really loved these. Perfect for treasures."

'There's water?"

"Yep. It's gravity-fed and pretty sophisticated. No electricity though. That's probably why it’s abandoned. There are so many abandoned places on these islands. But look, hurricane lamps." There are several scattered around the room.

"You could get a generator up here."

"Not worth it," she says. "Too noisy, too stinky. It’s bracing to come here. Puts you in touch with all the basics."

Chloe catches her hair and wraps it up in a thick knot. Her hair is nearly dry with swirling curls escaping the bun and wisping off the nape of her neck. I want to take those tendrils, lift them higher, and kiss her.

"Bathroom?"

"One holer." She smiles. "It's safe, sanitary, and saves water."

She glances around, appreciating the small space. "I was the oldest. I tried to make this into a home. I even made a school. Usually, it was outside on the porch, but on rainy days we'd come in here and we'd have 'lessons.'"

"Did your parents ever find out?"

"You know, I don't know. I'm sure they had an idea that we were playing house. They had to notice stuff missing. But I don’t know."

"Walls look great, floors?"

She shrugs, "I don’t know what to do with the floor. It's a mess and impossible to really get clean."

From what I can tell these are ancient sixteen to eighteen-inch tamarack pine floors, painted a dusty blue, or maybe a green. It's hard to tell. In front of the kitchen sink it's all scuffed and any place there was high traffic, the paint is completely worn away, but it's clean—as clean as you can get a two hundred-year-old floor.