The other side of the island - Part 4 (story)

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There was no mysterious beauty to the island, the exotic backdrop of her daydreams was turning out to be a desolate pebbly beach, which seemed almost black under the gloomy sky. In the early days after the breakup, Helen had often pictured Jonathan walking down a golden beach, black hair ruffled by the breeze, cigarette in hand, his brow creased in the deep concentration his sensitive job required. The glorious Jonathan solving one of the greatest mysteries mankind had ever been faced with. She took comfort in that image, even if he had abandoned her it was not for some stupid woman. It made sense, at least.
Long before the boat reached the shore, she spotted him, waiting on the pier, smoking as usual. On the thirty-hour journey she’d had plenty of time to worry about her wrinkles no amount of concealer could hide and her thick waist, such a far cry from the slim young thing Jonathan had left behind decades ago. Her heart sank when she thought of presenting herself like that to the man who said he’d always loved her. Such a complete let-down.
What she hadn’t factored in was that Jonathan had aged just as much - gone were the locks of black hair he used to play with when he was studying, replaced by a buzz-cut meant to hide there was more gray than black in what was left of his hair. And the eyes, those deep black eyes she’d fallen in love with? Sunken and hidden behind round metal-rimmed glasses.
‘Hi’, he said simply and leaned to give her a hug. He did not even smell like Jonathan, he must have changed the after-shave. Obviously, she laughed at her own silliness.
He was way too thin, yet his grip was firm when he took her hand to lead the way. Just as firm like those day when they’d go boating and he held out his arm to help her climb out. Mocking her for wearing high-heels on a boating trip, yet squeezing her closer. Just like now, she thought. And her heart knew that ailing middle-aged man to be her Jonathan.

‘Should you be smoking that much?’, she ventured as they sat down in the messy room that served as his office. Her remark was met with that familiar frown that said ‘what are you, my mother?’ But he didn’t change the subject.
‘At this point, it no longer matters’, he said, with no discernible regret in his voice. Matter of fact, as always. Like the day he decided to take this job - ‘I have to leave and you cannot come’. His admission that he was ill was brutally honest, something autoimmune he did not care to elaborate upon. Wishful thinking had no place in Jonathan’s life. Funny how easily they were falling into the old pattern, with Jonathan making all their decisions. He never actually said ‘I don’t want to talk about my illness and I don’t need compassion’, but she understood nonetheless. And when she looked at him she tried not to be seen searching for signs of illness.

They spent a couple of hours drinking coffee and making small-talk, about life on the island and her marriage, without him ever saying anything as human as ‘I missed you’ or ‘It’s good to see you’, but then Jonathan never used to allow himself to show weakness. What he could not control was the hungry way he took in her every word and the eagerness with which he strove to make her feel at ease and welcome. Springing from his chair to put another pot of coffee when they’d already had more than enough and fiddling with the window. ‘Is it too cold?’ ‘Why don’t you take my jacket?’
‘Jonathan, stop it, I’m fine’.
She longed for him to come closer and sit by her, but he kept an awkward distance out of respect for the her absent husband, who had so graciously accepted she needed to visit an old dying friend.
By contrast, his whole attitude during the dinner served in the common room with the rest of the employees was meant to proclaim her as ‘his woman’, the one who had travelled thousands of miles to be with him. No one mentioned the equally absent Mary, the one who’d actually been by his side all that time.
It was only after dinner that they got to talk about Frieda, whom, he promised, she would meet the next day.
‘She’s getting old, too’, he said with a smile, the first admission they were indeed old.
What Helen wanted to know was - had it been worth it the sacrifice, abandoning the woman he loved, breaking her heart and everything? For all the scientific words he used, Jonathan did not speak of her as an impartial observer, but as a friend. He hadn’t achieved much, he admitted - Frieda would not speak to them and her biology still puzzled them. All the hatred, all her anger broke through and she couldn’t help herself. She raised her voice. Who cared he’ll know just how much it still hurt?
‘Why did you stay here if there’s nothing you can do? She doesn’t care, she barely knows you’re here.
‘She knows.’
Helen could tell he felt uncomfortable talking about Frieda. There was a struggle between his duty as a scientist and his need to win her trust. Giving her a few cold facts and a private viewing of the alien would not do it. She hadn’t travelled so far to be treated like a mid-level bureaucrat making his annual trip to the island to check up on the alien.
‘I had to stay. I had to protect her. God knows where she’d be today if it weren’t for me. And Mary.’
He was dead serious now, but Helen would not let go. He wouldn’t get away that easy.
‘So there’s more to it than you’ve just told me?’
‘A lot more and the military would have had her in one of their labs years ago. I couldn’t do that to her’.

(To be continued)

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