“And you, Pippi?” Estelle blushed, dropping her gaze from mine to focus on the lanky ten-year-old.
“Um...” Pippa tapped her bottom lip. “I think it would be our new house. I love my room.”
My heart warmed.
Estelle angled the phone for a selfie, adding herself to the recording. “Well, my favourite thing is this, right here, right now. You guys and hanging out in the hot afternoon sun.”
Conner groaned. “Cheesy.” Grabbing Coco’s hands, he rocked her on his lap as if they were rowing out to sea. “And you, little nut? What’s your favourite thing?” He blew raspberries on her naked belly.
If we were ever found, the first thing we would have to do was scramble for clothes. Conner and I never wore anything other than board-shorts. Pippa and Estelle wore their bathing suits, and little Coco preferred to crawl around nude or grudgingly with a diaper.
She hated clothing.
Coco giggled as Conner blew another round of raspberries.
“Co...co...co.”
We all froze.
“Did she...did she just say her first word?” Pippa’s mouth popped wide.
Estelle zoomed her phone to her daughter, waddling on her knees to get closer. “Say it again, Coco. What’s your favourite thing?”
My daughter’s blue-green eyes zeroed in on Conner and repeated. “Co co co co co.”
“So her favourite thing is herself?” Pippa wrinkled her nose. “I thought her first word was supposed to be da-da or Pip-pa?”
Conner burst into laughter, clutching the squirmy baby and punching the air. “Wrong, suckers. I’m her favourite person. Didn’t you hear her? She obviously said Co...that’s me.”
The ensuing war lasted all night.
And by the end of the verbal debate (Pippa couldn’t tolerate that Coco had chosen Conner over her), it was undeniable.
Coco’s first word was Co.
For her older brother.
Her favourite person.
Chapter Fifty-Five
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E S T E L L E
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MARCH
TWO MONTHS AGO, Pippa turned single digits into double and grew into a wonderful ten-year-old.
One month ago, Coco uttered her first word.
This month, we were focused on surviving the constant rain showers and thunder clouds. We spent more time indoors as fleeting morning sunshine switched to downpours in the early afternoon.
We did our best to stay occupied while cooped up inside. However, there was only so much whittling or finessing we could do before boredom became an issue.
The only one of us not struggling was Coco. Ever since she’d said her first word, she hadn’t shut up. She muttered nonsense, sporadically inserting a word she heard us use.
Thank God, Galloway didn’t swear as much anymore. Otherwise, we’d have a cursing infant.
One morning (when the sun seemed stronger and more likely to stick around), I got up early and attempted to have another day of fun. As the days rolled by, they morphed faster into a blur. I hated that life had accelerated way too fast.
Ever since my periods had stopped, I knew we were on borrowed time. Our bodies had used up whatever reserves we had left (making us dizzy, achy, and not able to concentrate), and unless we escaped, we couldn’t live the idyllic life I’d dreamed, hidden for the rest of our days in paradise.
We had to leave.
We had to run.
And in unanimous consensus, Galloway started building another raft.
He gathered more bamboo and sat in the shade for hours plotting how best to secure it so it didn’t sink like last time.
But for now, I was focused on spending the day with my family.
While they slumbered, I scooped up dry seaweed and draped it in our umbrella tree as an ugly version of tinsel and tore up pages of my notebook to fold cranes and origami love hearts for silly gifts when everyone awoke.
My songs and penned lyrics had become tools to play with rather than write in. With no pens or ink, Galloway had done his best to provide me with twigs charred in the fire to write with charcoal.
But it wasn’t the same.
The loss of my writing left a piece of me hollow and smarting, but it was nothing compared to the horribleness of waking two weeks later and finding my phone wouldn’t turn on.
No amount of solar power would charge it.
No tapping the battery would coax it.
We had a death on the island, and it’d taken our memories, our photos, our videos, our calendar, our very way of life with it.
The dead technology took our final piece of sufferance, pushing us one step closer to abandoning our island that seemed to have abandoned us.
We were no longer wanted here.
Once our mourning was over and every attempt at bringing the phone back to life failed, I placed the dead but so, so precious device into the carved box Galloway had made me for my last birthday.
Inside, I’d stored my expired credit cards, waterlogged passport, and the three gold and silver bracelets I’d worn on the flight.
Everything that’d seemed so important, now rotted in a box unneeded in this new existence. Gold was no longer a currency, coconuts were. A passport was no longer top possession, our Swiss Army knife was.
Funny how things we thought we couldn’t live without suddenly become superficial when faced with the truth.
The truth that we entered this world with nothing and left with the exact same sum.
The only one who didn’t suffer the dreaded curse of pining for their past was Coconut.
She had sand for blood and wind for breath. She could swim before she could walk (not that a few stumbles could be called walking), she craved more and more solids, and my milk was drying up, unwanted.