Page 1 of The Summer Request
May 17th, 2022
Justine Emerald’s life ended on an island.
Connected to the mainland by a single two-lane road, Mount Desert Island gracefully breaks from Maine’s coast and rises from the sea with plumes of dense forests and mountain giants dressed in pink granite. Distinct from the generic calendar-like charm of a tropical island, Mount Desert has its own rugged, picturesque beauty with miles of rocky coastlines, rolling meadows, and crystal-clear lakes.
Nearly half of the island is a national park – Acadia, one of the smallest and most visited in the country. A mecca for hiking, kayaking, rock climbing, and lobster eating, the island is its own kind of paradise, and as good as anywhere to die.
Were Justine able to spring back from the dead in a fantastical Justine-like way, she would delight in the morbid fact that both her entry and exit from life occurred on islands.
Born Justine Miller 2,231 nautical miles from Mount Desert, she burst into the world with little warning. Her mother’s precipitous labor proved to be a poetic foreshadowing. Poor Tammy Miller wasn’t ready to be a mother – not then, perhaps not ever. She’d only managed to don one shoe before giving birth in the hallway of her small San Juan Island home, a fact Justine was never allowed to forget.
Justine loved growing up on San Juan Island. Set off the coast of Washington state, it’s one of over a hundred islands that make up the charming archipelago known as the San Juan Islands. Picturesque and wild, the islands allowed her to explore seemingly endless beaches, wildflower-covered hilltops, and stoic lighthouses.
When she tried to make Mount Desert Island her home, Justine focused on the similarities to San Juan – the evergreen trees, the craggy coastlines, and the breathtaking views. She was trying to make her husband happy, after all, and he preferred Maine to Washington.
However, the differences between the islands were stark.
The San Juan Islands live under the grace of the Olympic and Vancouver Island mountains’ rain shadow, resulting in temperate and calm weather that rarely dips below freezing, unlike snow-ridden Maine.
The islands are kept wild, with no roads connecting any of the San Juan Islands to the mainland. The four largest islands are accessible by public ferry, but the rest are reachable only by private air or watercraft.
Beyond the seclusion, the ecosystem of San Juan proved impossible to imitate. One of her greatest loves had been the wildlife of the surrounding Salish Sea, brimming with harbor seals, porpoises, humpbacks, and her favorite: orcas.
Whenever life knocked her down, she’d retreat to the park on the west side of San Juan Island and watch as bald eagles flew overhead, so common they bored her, and wait for the sleek black and white whales to mill past.
It never got old – their tall fins slicing through the water, their powerful breaths blasting a hundred feet from shore. The sight always filled her with awe, making her feel like she had a place in this beautiful, crazy world.
The whales had a tradition of returning to the islands each summer, following the runs of salmon, much as the Coast Salish people had done for generations. Justine had planned that she, too, would make a custom of returning each summer, because try as she might – as beautiful as Mount Desert was – it simply wasn’t home.
Yet, on that cool evening in May, Justine met her end and her tiny tradition was destroyed. It was nothing compared to the Coast Salish people being forced off of their lands, or even to the orcas being starved of their salmon, but to a certain few, it was a catastrophe.
Righting that ship took no small effort, and the hours and days following her untimely death were filled dotting the T’s and crossing the I’s on a hastily sealed non-disclosure agreement that firmly shut the door on the truth.
It was only in silence that Justine could be cremated, packed into a shining walnut box, and sent home to her beloved San Juan Island for the last time.
One
It seemed odd for Justine’s memorial to be held in Roche Harbor. They’d hardly spent any time there when they were growing up. If they’d ever tried to bring their mischief to the community, they’d instantly be chased off by a shopkeeper or restaurant owner who didn’t want their paying tourists disturbed by a group of shrieking girls.
Michelle squinted into the sun as she counted the people in attendance. There were only twenty-three so far. The service was going to start in half an hour. Where was everyone? Where were Justine’s famous friends, where were her dedicated followers? Perhaps there had been a more exclusive service on the mainland.
That would make sense. San Juan Island wasn’t the easiest to get to, a common complaint from Justine’s ex-husband Lou. Michelle always wondered if that was the real reason Justine had never moved back, or if there was more to it. Now she’d never know.
The thought drifted and settled heavily onto her chest.Neverwas the reality of death, though theneversdon’t make themselves known all at once. Loss was strange like that. Harsh realizations cropped up randomly, eachneverpiling onto the last and leaving an impenetrable feeling of unease.
She cleared her throat and looked around again. Surely their old high school friends would find a way to make it? Of their group, Michelle was the only one who still lived on San Juan. Her three other friends, including Justine, had fled as soon as they could because, like any wonderful place to grow up, San Juan was safe and therefore boring.
Michelle wasn’t sure if Lisa or Valerie were coming to the memorial. She’d called them both when she heard about Justine’s death. Valerie had missed the call, and when she’d returned it, Michelle was too busy to answer. Lisa had answered but couldn’t talk long, and the result was a series of texts that fizzled out without ever confirming their plans.
That was, unfortunately, how many of their conversations went these days. Michelle told herself it might be better if they didn’t come. It’d been years since they’d spent any substantial time together, and as the summer picked up steam, the island was being overtaken by tourists.
It wouldn’t be any fun for them to visit now. It wouldn’t be like old times, not really, and Michelle wasn’t in the mood to entertain. Tourists were good for her business, but bad for her nerves. She preferred the peace of the winter, strolling along a pebbly beach and taking solace in the fact she was the only living soul there.
None of this was good for her nerves, actually. Her chair was sinking into the ground. It was an elegant little thing, white wood draped in some shimmery material, but it was better suited for a wedding, not a memorial in a garden by the sea. Her back hurt already.
She stood to get a drink and survey the space. It was a lovely day, sunny but not too warm, with a slight breeze from the ocean. Along the sides of the white picket fence hung hundreds of fresh-cut flowers, and a delicate, decorative fabric hung over Justine’s enormous picture. The bottom was knotted in flowers somehow, and it blew in the breeze, capturing her attention for a moment.
Someone had clearly gone to great lengths to make this memorial beautiful. It couldn’t have been Justine’s ex-husband. He wasn’t even here.
