Survive (12 page)

I look back once at the darkening valley we just climbed out of. From this view I can see that the nooks and crevices, and the cliffs and overhangs, are flattened into a majestic, romantic vista. Its charms are seductive and had I not just climbed my way out, I would only see the beauty.

While I’m looking at where we’ve been, Paul looks ahead to where we need to go, and glances up at the heavy cloud cover above us. The snow falls more quickly and the wind up here is brutal and we are completely exposed to all the elements.

But off into the distance, we can both clearly see a path down and off this mountain. We are a day away from the lowlands and, possibly, help.

We look at each other and he pulls me in and says, “Almost home, Solis.”

Chapter 30

W
e walk for a short distance on the top of the mountain. There’s a ridge that extends for a while. We find a massive formation of boulders not too far from its edge. They lie in a giant cluster, as if one wave carried them here and dropped them like so many pickup sticks. We walk around until we find a stony lean-to and slide between two of the rocks. It’s a natural cave.

Paul rests while I go out in search of any dry wood, but there’s nothing up here, plus the snow is wet. We have landed on the moon, I think, except it might be colder.

I find my way back in and Paul has laid out our bags. He has our water bottles out and we have enough melted snow for a few big gulps. My body sucks them in. I can feel the cold water wash down and into my chest and disappear. It’s as lovely a taste as anything I’ve ever had, even if it’s cold.

I slide into the bags, but this time Paul faces me. We look into each other’s eyes and there’s nothing said for what seems like an eternity. What is there to say, really? We have no food. We are alone and lying together at the precipice of what will almost surely be our death. But there is still a possibility for rescue and salvation. It could be a moment away, but then again, so could death.

His left hand is flat against the small of my back and he pulls me in tightly and kisses me on the lips. Both our lips are hard and chapped, but somehow, the kiss is softer than anything I’ve ever felt before. I kiss him back, first on the lips, then his cheek and neck.

His hand is cold and I can feel it on my body, moving and caressing along the lines, often touching and pushing beyond what I expect, but toward what I want.

I touch him too, and we explore each other as fully as we can with the cold and his damages. We softly whisper our hesitation and our approval, perfectly attuned to each other. He turns me to my back and presses his full body against mine. He kisses me, and I forget the world. The past. The future. Our pain and suffering. Everything disappears for what seems like forever in a kind of indescribable bliss.

• • •

We wake together to the sound of wind howling and flakes drifting into our lean-to: evidence of a storm rolling in.

“Hey,” he says, kissing my lips.

“Hey,” I say.

“Solis?”

“Yes,” I say.

“When the storm blows over, you have to leave me.”

I prop myself on one elbow in surprise.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You have to. I’m dying. If you don’t go, I’ll definitely die here and I’d rather not die here.”

The world giveth and the world taketh away. This is why I hate the world. I close my eyes and see my father putting tinsel on our Christmas tree. My stocking is hung beside his and Mom’s. There are candy canes everywhere. He’s doing a manic dance around the tree, singing, “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus.” He hands me a gift. “A little something early, darling.” And then he disappears into the kitchen and eventually into the bedroom, where later that night, he will blow his head off. I still have the gift. It was a portrait he did of me in a little white dress with yellow and pink hearts sewn on. My mother made that dress. I’ve kept the portrait, contrary to what I’ve told Old Doctor. And sometimes I pull it out and cry, like I am right now just thinking about it. But I’d be lying if I said the thought of it hasn’t brought me some joy, too.

He takes hold of my hand and moves it down to where his ribs are broken and I feel the swelling and the heat rising off his chest.

“I’m bleeding inside,” he says. “I feel it. My heart feels weak.”

A gasping sob comes from nowhere and I put my head on his chest. And I cry harder and harder, and he holds me, stroking my hair.

I kiss him on the neck a few times, then look into his eyes. Nobody has ever said those words to me before. I don’t know how to speak for a moment, and then a huge lump lodges in my throat.

“What can I do?” I cry.

“Nothing right now. But when the storm stops, leave me.”

There’s a long pause, and I’m trying to process all the emotions I’m feeling. It’s overwhelming, but I decide on a simple idea.

“I’ll find help.”

He nods, but it doesn’t mean yes, find me help. It means say whatever you have to say in order to go away and feel okay about it. Lie if we must, but you can carry on for the two of us.

“Read to me,” he says, after a long silence. “The letter.” I can see the dark rings circling his eyes now. I look at his skin more closely and even in the darkness his pale skin glows yellow.

I pull the letter from my pocket and begin to read.

I feel a soft sob pulse through Paul’s body and I stop reading and listen.

“Are you okay? Is it too much?”

“No, it’s good. I miss him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He died a day or two before I was sixteen. It is sweet, somehow, to hear your voice layering over his.”

“Should I keep going? “

“Yes.”

I put my hand through his hair and kiss his cheek. I return to the beginning, and I read to him. And then I read it again, and tears stream down his face.

When I finish, Paul reaches up and pulls me into him and kisses me.

“Can you tear me a piece of paper from the diary and get me the pen from my backpack?”

I reach over and grab his backpack and find a pen. I tear a sheet and hand him the book. He scribbles down something quickly and folds it up.

“Give this to my father when you get down,” he tells me.

“You’ll give it to him, okay?” My voice is choked with tears.

He puts his hand on my face as tears roll down. Cold air swirls around us.

We kiss again and again. Then I open the paper and look at the note. It is so simple it breaks my heart into two:

Dad,

I love you. I’m sorry.

Paul

Chapter 31

I
wake first and morbidly put my hand on Paul’s chest to make sure he is alive. His heart still beats and I can hear his breathing, though it sounds wheezy and shallow. The long rest has rejuvenated my body a bit, and I feel strong and determined, if also stiff and cold. I will find help for Paul or die trying.

While he sleeps, I pack up my sleeping bag and my bottle. I grab the hiking sticks, though I hope I won’t need them.

When I’m ready, I shake Paul and he reaches with his hand and holds mine.

“Come back for me. Even if it is long after I’m dead. Promise you’ll come back here.”

“Stop it. I’ll bring back someone who will help you. You’ll be alive when I come back.”

My voice chokes on the word
alive
. I’m looking at his body, and I can see how cold and pale and beaten he is. My hope is draining moment by moment, like the blood in his body. I feel helpless and angry, but I buck up and show him that I’m not afraid for myself or for him and that I’ll be back.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Maybe fate has plans.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I believe we found each other.”

“Like we were meant to.”

He nods.

“Before my mother died, she told me she’d be a star in the night and I could always look up and find her. I believed that for a long time.”

“That’s so sweet,” I tell him.

“If you need me,” he says, lying back as if he lacks the strength to stay upright.

“Okay,” I tell him, “you too. If you need me.”

I kiss him one more time as deeply and lovingly as my dry lips and bereft heart can muster. He cradles my cheek against his. Then he kisses me one more time on my eyes and whispers, “Goodbye.”

A short cry bursts from my chest, and I feel his chest heave, and we hold onto each other for just a moment longer. Then I turn and walk.

“I love you, Jane,” he calls out.

I stop walking and turn around. I take him in deeply with my eyes so my heart and brain never forget this moment or this beautiful boy who will always be mine. “I love you too,” I cry out. I bring a big mitten to my mouth and blow him a kiss. He smiles his big, crooked, awkward, lovely smile. I will never forget that.

• • •

I walk away from our shelter. He is alone with his brother’s words, the memory of my kiss, and the fear that this is the end of his time on earth.
I will find help.

I walk along the ridge, and it’s like walking through clouds. The mountain fog rolls around me, and it is impossible to know where I’m headed. Paul directed me to walk straight on the ridge, and from the daylight before the last storm, it appeared to descend and flatten out near here. If I can get to ground level, in an open space, and if the snow and cloud banks clear, I’m certain I’ll be found by a plane or somebody searching for us.

It’s a lot of ifs.

The ridge quickly flattens out and then descends into a steep, long slope that isn’t nearly as rocky as the valley. The tree line comes into view, and I am grateful for its protection from the wind. I often look up in the sky, hoping to see a plane. At one point I hear a faraway something, and I allow myself to imagine an airplane that will find me and then swoop in to save Paul. I push out all thoughts of him lying there alone and simply replay our night together, over and over.

By early afternoon, my legs shake and wobble. Each step requires strength my body no longer has. I fight to focus on moving and just keep Paul’s name as my mantra. If searchers were to find me now, they’d think I was a homeless person mumbling some psychotic chant about a long-lost relative. But it is the chanting, the repetition of just his name, that keeps me going.

By late afternoon I’ve reached the bottom, and I look out across a long stretch of flat terrain. It is open, and my mind tells me it is where I’ll be found. My gut checks me, though. Shelter. I can hear Paul’s voice saying that after water, shelter is everything. The trees and rocks offer me shelter and my best chance of survival if the weather turns, but the open grassland offers the greatest chance of being found and Paul being saved.

My first step into the open grass is deep and I realize the snow here accumulates in a way that isn’t true of the mountain slope protected by trees. Nor is it cold enough to create hardened snow, like on the top of the mountain. It isn’t a warning, I tell myself as I take another step and then another. It is the hardest walking I’ve done since this journey began. My legs are so tired it requires every ounce of energy to pull my feet free from the snow. The farther out I get, the deeper the drifts become, and I find myself becoming frustrated by my progress as night falls quickly around me.

The wind picks up and is vicious like never before. With each gust, I feel the temperature dropping. Here I am again. One way or another, I keep reliving that moment on the plane with the pills in my hand. I’m never going to make it across, and the cold is so severe I simply won’t survive the night.

I stop and turn my back to the wind and look back toward Paul.
I’m sorry,
I think. A tear freezes right on my cheek and I imagine his face before me. Words come and connect us.
The snow is your friend,
I hear him say. I don’t recall that he ever said that to me before, but the word
snow
reverberates throughout my head and heart. I start to dig and dig until I hit the earth. It is perhaps three feet deep. I work my way back toward Paul, digging out a grave the length of my body. I unfold my sleeping bag and stand in it. I zip the bag up to my armpits and sit in my snow grave.

I quickly shovel snow onto my feet and my legs and eventually cover my chest. I zip up my bag all the way and use my right hand to pull as much snow over me as possible. I pull my hand in and listen and feel for my fate. The wind is gone, or at least its chill does not touch me in the same way here. The bag is keeping my heat inside, and the cold from the snow is not enough to penetrate, at least not yet.

I smile as I hear Paul say,
Solis, well done
. I close my eyes and, just before I fall off, I have one thought:
He spoke to me. It wasn’t memory.

Chapter 32

A
nother night without dreams. Dead. Soundless. I wake before dawn and hear nothing. No howling. No wind. I am warm, but the chill of the snow is there, and I immediately claw my way out and stand up.

“I’m alive,” I shout. “Paul, wherever you are, I’m alive.”

I roll up my bag and drink the small amount of water that melted in my overnight bottle. My legs have not recovered, and I can feel the pain and ache in them from the very first step.

I push across the open grass and the farther I go, the more endless it seems. I fear my mind is slipping as I keep looking around, feeling that somebody is following me. For a minute I imagine it is Paul, who recovered and decided to come find and save me. But he never comes.
You can dream all you want, Jane,
I tell myself,
but this is just about you. Focus, Solis, focus.

I near the wooded forest on the horizon. I’ve trudged for most of the day in knee- and thigh-deep snow. My legs are dead and frozen in a way they’ve never been. I look back and there’s a sight so horrific, I gag.

It isn’t Paul that’s been following me, but a wolf. A lone black wolf, moving sideways and forward. I watch it zigzag along, and at first I think it might be hunting for rabbits or prairie dogs. But now I feel its eyes on me; it’s walking slowly, stalking me, waiting for me to falter. Then it will pounce on me and rip the meat from my bones.

With each step, I see the wolf coming closer. The closer the wooded area is, the nearer the wolf comes to me. Does he know that safety might lie just beyond the flat snow grasses for me? I experience a burst of adrenaline and move through the final twenty yards of snow and grass faster than I would have thought possible.

I glance behind me often. As my pace increases, so does the wolf’s. He trots and seems to be following a straighter path than before. He pauses when I look directly at him. I sense there is some fear in him as well. The thought of that emboldens me.
The big bad wolf is afraid of me!
Well, maybe not afraid, but he’s being cautious before he launches an attack.

I reach the wooded area and turn quickly, sizing up the wolf. He is bone thin. He stops in his tracks, and for the first time, he doesn’t turn his head. I want to run, but something in my gut tells me to stand still, if even for a second. His eyes are yellow and his fur is mostly black with grayish patches. He leans awkwardly on his left paw, lifting his right.
Is he injured?
I can’t tell. I’ve yet to see any other wolves.
Has he left his pack or been left behind?

With his probable injury, I suspect his speed is limited and his limited ability to climb is further diminished. I reach a large pine tree about fifty feet into the woods and begin climbing it. I stop for a moment to look back, but I don’t see anything.
If he had wanted to attack me straight on, it would have happened already, right? Just climb, Jane, climb.

The tree is thick with branches and each snow-encrusted branch takes a minute to navigate, but I make steady progress up the trunk. I think I hear a soft growl below me, but I do not look down. Then there’s some scratching on the trunk, but I convince myself that his injury will prevent him from climbing. And even if he can climb, I’d rather fight him from above in a tree then in an open field, where he would surely overpower me.

I slip and slide my way a good twenty feet up, find a good perch, and stop. I pull out my two climbing sticks and sit and wait to do battle. I’ll probably die up here, but at least I’ll die fighting. Is that a little bloodlust moving through my veins? I almost relish a fight at this point. I sense an uninhibited craziness brewing inside me, but it’s so different from what I felt at the hospital. It has purpose, and I’m in control of it.

I wait and listen but hear nothing except the normal night sounds of the forest. The wind whistles softly, a branch breaks and falls in the distance, and I listen to the rustling of trees against one another. A little fear snakes up my back as I imagine the wolf making its way up the branches, slinking slowly and methodically.

Would I hear it? In this darkness, will I hear it climb? I push the thoughts from my head.
Don’t let the voices take over again, Jane.
I think of Paul, and I wonder if he’s alive. The wind blows and I imagine that’s him sending me a hug from afar.

But what am I going to do? I can’t go down now.

I unroll my sleeping bag and perch on a clump of large branches, hooking my feet under and over them to brace myself. I snuggle down into the bag, zip and seal the top, and press my back against the trunk as firmly as possible.

As I sit in this tree, I contemplate the cold. I am freezing now beyond comprehension. I know that the temperature outside is mild compared to what we faced before, so the chill in my bones frightens me. I’m cold now because my body is running out of energy, and it’s damaged by my exertion and exposure for the last few days. I may be stronger than I thought I was, but I’m weakening too. I can only hope that somebody finds me soon.