The Island Caretaker
"A storm strands him on a private island. The only other person is the caretaker—a widow who's been alone for years. Three days until rescue. Three nights of shelter."
The storm destroys my boat.
One moment I'm sailing between Pemba and Zanzibar; the next, I'm washed up on a private island, bleeding from the coral, watching the pieces of my dhow scatter on the waves.
A woman finds me on the beach.
"You're alive," she says, pulling me from the surf. "Barely."
Her name is Mama Kibibi.
She's the caretaker of this island—a wealthy family's retreat, currently empty, maintained by her alone. Sixty years old, two-fifty-five of isolation and survival. She's been here for eight years.
"The owners come twice a year," she explains, bandaging my cuts. "The rest of the time, it's just me."
"When's the next boat?"
"The supply boat comes in three days. The storm will keep everyone away until then."
"Three days."
"Three days." She finishes the bandage. "You'll stay in the guest house. I'll take care of you."
The guest house is luxurious.
But it's also cold, and my clothes are ruined, and I'm shaking from shock and exposure. Mama Kibibi finds me wrapped in wet blankets, teeth chattering.
"This won't do." She leaves, returns with warm clothes, hot tea, blankets that smell like sunshine. "You need body heat. Real heat."
She climbs into the bed beside me.
She wraps herself around me.
Nothing sexual—not yet. Just warmth. Her massive body pressed against my shivering one, her arms holding me, her breath warm on my neck.
"Relax," she murmurs. "Let the heat work."
I relax. The shivering stops. Sleep comes.
I wake to her hands on my chest.
"You're warmer," she says. "The fever didn't come. You'll be fine."
"Thank you."
"I haven't been touched in eight years." Her voice is strange. "Since my husband died. Since I came here."
"Mama Kibibi—"
"You owe me your life. The sea would have taken you. I pulled you out." Her hand moves lower. "Let me collect something in return."
I let her collect.
Three days on an island with a woman who's been alone for eight years. What else would happen?
She's desperate and gentle at once—her body heavy on mine, her mouth hungry, her hands learning me like the coral learned the waves. When I enter her, she cries.
"Eight years," she gasps. "Eight years of nothing—"
"I'm here now."
"For three days."
"Then let's make them count."
We make them count.
Every hour between my recovery and the rescue boat. In the guest house, on the beach, in her caretaker's cottage. She takes me in every room of the mansion, christening spaces the owners will never know about.
"They come twice a year," she pants one afternoon. We're in the master bedroom, her body spread across sheets that cost more than my boat. "For two weeks. Then they leave me alone again."
"How do you survive?"
"I don't know anymore." She pulls me close. "But these three days—I'll remember them for the rest of my life."
The supply boat comes on the third day.
I'm healed, dressed, ready to return to the mainland. Mama Kibibi stands on the beach, watching me prepare to leave.
"Come back," she says. "When you can. The owners won't know."
"How would I get here?"
"The same way you came. By boat. Just—" She pauses. "Don't get shipwrecked again. I might not be able to stop myself."
"Stop yourself from what?"
"Keeping you forever."
I come back.
Monthly, when the weather allows. A small boat to a private island, a caretaker who meets me on the beach. The owners never know. The supply boats never see.
"You could stay," she says one night. "Permanently. I'd tell them I hired a helper."
"And be trapped here? Like you?"
"Trapped together." She traces my jaw. "Is that so bad?"
I think about it.
It's not bad at all.
Mtunzaji.
Caretaker.
Guarding the island.
Keeping its secrets.
Keeping me.