Wreckage (10 page)

As I’m looking at the necklace, glued to her skin with blood and perspiration, the serpent-like strand moves up and down ever so slightly. It has to be a trick of the light. Squinting tighter, I see something, the unmistakable movement of a pulse under Margaret’s skin.

“Lillian, you’re awake.” It’s Dave. He’s sitting upright, his black curls flattened against his head where he was lying. My mouth is too dry to talk. Pointing feebly at the lump of fabric in front of me, I grunt.

Dave smiles sadly, nodding his head. “She’s alive.”

My eyes burn like I’m going to cry but no tears come, which is probably a good thing.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” The raft bounces, then Dave is by my side. When he slips his arm around me it seems so natural to lean into him, let my head burrow into his shoulder, and cry.

He holds me tight, and though he smells like sweat and salt water, I pretend he’s Jerry and that everything is going to be all right. Eventually my crying slows and stops but I don’t move. I don’t want to.

“Did that help?” His hot hand cradles my face, pushing back the curtain of knotted hair.

“Yeah, it did . . . How did you do it?” I want to ask,
Will she live?
but I already know the answer to that one.

“I didn’t do anything,” Dave snorts, like I’ve said something funny. “It was right before dawn, the rain finally stopped and I was trying to sleep but I was so cold I couldn’t—anyway, I heard someone talking. When I opened my eyes, there she was, white as a ghost, speaking the craziest gibberish I’ve ever heard in my life. With the dried blood on her face and hair, she looked like something from a movie. Then, like that”—Dave snaps his fingers—“she was out again. I checked her pulse and breathing carefully, and sure enough she was alive—is still alive, I’m guessing.”

“Then you bandaged her head?” I tried to turn to look at him straight on, but the nagging pain in my shoulder kept me in place.

“No, that was Kent.”

“Kent?”

“Yeah, apparently he’s some kind of Eagle Scout or something.”

“That’s impressive. I was sure you did it.”

“Well, I started to, but . . .”

“But he was doing a crap job of it so I stepped in,” Kent butts in, raising his eyebrows. “Your boyfriend here was wasting all the rubbing alcohol on grandma, and I knew if anybody was going to make it out of this insanity alive we might need to save some for the rest of us.” On the word “boyfriend” Dave stiffens and pulls his arm away.

“Well, whoever it was, thank you.” I glance back and forth between both men. “I mean it. I know she’s not in great shape, but if she can stay around a little longer, then maybe the rescue boats can help her when they come.”

“
Pft
, yeah,
maybe
.” Kent rolls his eyes.

“Kent, be human for a few minutes here,” Dave warns.

“Oh, darlin’, I meant no harm.” He’s mocking me now. “It’s not like I don’t want grammy over there to get outta this and go back to her life playing tennis and whatever other shit she fills her time with. I only mean that I wouldn’t be holding my breath for some rescue boat to show up and pluck us out of this blue desert.

“Our time is running short,” he continues. “It’s almost twenty-four hours since we crashed, honey, and let me tell you something.” He points a thick, meaty finger directly at me. “Once they find our plane sunk on the bottom of the ocean, they’re not gonna be searching for us so hard anymore. I can’t blame ’em. We’ve got no water except the useless salty kind.” He spreads his arms out wide, gesturing to the water outside the boat, as though we hadn’t noticed we were surrounded by an entire ocean. “We’ve got no food and we sure as hell got no way to signal our location. The beacon that came with this crap-tastic boat here had a rotted battery, so we’re as lost as lost can be.” Then, leaning forward and clasping his callused hands in front of him, Kent stares me in the eye. “Baby, you should be sad your mama is still breathing, ’cause she coulda had the easiest way out of this situation.”

Well, I’ll say this: Kent has this way of telling things right out, brutally honest. It’s like a slap in the face—it hurts for a moment, but when the shock wears off your head is clearer.

“Oh my God.” I run my hand over the delicate tufts of Margaret’s hair sticking out from under the protective coat. He might be right.

“It’s good to see someone is finally listening to me around here,” Kent mumbles, getting some perverse enjoyment out of my suffering.

“I’m beginning to wish I let you jump in that water, Kent.” Dave glares at Kent before slipping a hand into mine, which makes me jump at first. I just met this man but I can’t look away. “Okay, it’s not looking great for us right now; I can see that, but, Lillian, we have to keep it together. You never know what could happen. Carlton Yogurt is not going to give up that easily. This is a PR nightmare, and that is my professional opinion. Even if they don’t find us, we could run into a fishing boat or a shipping lane, or a helicopter might spot us from the sky. There are so many possibilities, but it’s going to take some time. We have to be patient and, as impossible as it seems, wait.”

“But there’s no time left for Margaret. You and I both know she can’t live long out here.” I point to her lifeless body. “And all I can think about is—
we’re next
.”

“You’ve got to think about good things, Lillian. Think about your children, your life at home, your husband. Oh . . . and here’s something,” he says, full of good-humored intrigue that doesn’t match the seriousness of our situation. He lets go of my hand and stumbles over to his side of the boat.

“This oughta be good.” Kent continues his running commentary.

Dave sloshes through the collected sludge of salt water, blood, and seaweed in the bottom of the boat, and back. He sits down next to me again, jostling my left side, causing searing pain to spread through my shoulder.

“When I grabbed the life jacket for Margaret, I also grabbed something else, something of yours.” Pausing dramatically he whips out my baby-blue JanSport. The bottom half is soaked through and there’s a ring of salt around the top where the water evaporated in the sunlight. Other than that it’s the same old bag I’ve carried for nearly fifteen years. It shouts
home
as clearly as if Dave had yelled it in my ear.

“How in the world did you get this back here?” Reaching out, I caress the smooth, faded fabric tenderly.

“That’s a very long and boring story I promise to tell you one day, but first we have to get off this boat. See? Something to look forward to.” He gives me a little wink and holds out the bag. “Here, take it.”

When I go to grab it, it feels as if a fishing hook is piercing my shoulder blade. I gasp, stopping short of the bag.

“Are you hurt?” Dave lowers the bag slightly, his crooked nose tilting to the left.

“No, no I’m fine. Uh, could you open that for me? I think I might have a bottle of water in there.” Dave scans me skeptically, then fumbles with the zipper, pulling hard to get it past a catch in the teeth. His elbow bumps my arm, making me wince. I take two steadying breaths, blowing them out slowly. “The bottle’s somewhere in the biggest pocket. I never opened it so it should be full.” I risk a look at Kent. “That should give us a better chance, right?”

Kent shrugs but sits up a little straighter, darting glances at the bag as Dave slowly unzips the largest pocket. I try to run through an inventory of what might be in that bag: water, granola bars, Margaret’s purse and toiletry bag, my makeup bag, my book, a change of clothes, my waterlogged cell phone, a notebook, and a few other odds and ends from home.

Dave peers inside, slipping the zipper open with the side of his hand. His eyebrows raise in surprise. Reaching his arm in deep, he pulls out a sixteen-ounce water bottle.

“Well, whad’ya know?” Kent says in awe. Dave tosses the bottle across the raft where Kent catches it gingerly, as if it’s delicate crystal. “Careful! This little bottle here is our life. We can live off of this for the next two days at least if we’re really careful about how much we drink. What else is in the mystery bag?”

Dave looks at me again, asking silent permission to rummage through my personal belongings. I nod, the pain in my shoulder making me queasy. Soon they find Margaret’s purse and makeup bag, which hold mirrors for signaling planes, a sewing kit, and random medicine bottles, some dating back to the turn of the millennium.

The mood in the raft gradually elevates from near-apocalyptic to semi-optimistic. The guys go through every item and categorize them by use, putting them in various-size used plastic baggies for storage. The distraction it provides is as much of a prize as any of the supplies.

“Lillian, look what I found! I can’t believe it’s all in one piece, maybe once it’s dried out you can read it again.” Dave taps my shoulder with the romance paperback, a half-naked couple embracing on the cover.

“Hey, stop it!”

Dave recoils. “What did I do?”

“Nothing, it . . . it’s my shoulder.” I try to catch my breath enough to speak. “When you touched it like that, it really hurt.” If I can keep it from moving again, it’ll stop hurting.

Dave crosses his arms, looking at me with pinched eyebrows, a little crease wrinkling between them. I wish he wouldn’t worry about me. I don’t need his concern—Margaret does.

“Never mind me, I’m fine.” I try very hard to sound confident.

“If your voice wasn’t shaking so badly, I
might
believe you.”

“I . . . it’s not . . .” But he’s right, my voice is warbling like an opera singer’s.

“See?” he says, cocking his head. “Now will you please let me take a look? You might be severely injured and if we’re actually stuck out here like
he
thinks, we don’t want it to get infected.”

“Fine.” I’ve run out of ways to get him to back off, so I turn to let him examine the injury. I bite my lip when he inspects the tender spot by my right shoulder blade.

“There’s an awful lot of blood here.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Yeah that’s what I thought. Lillian, the blood’s dried up and your shirt’s stuck to the wound. I’m not so sure what to do . . .” He pauses and then calls across the raft. “Kent, give us a hand here.”

“I tell ya, we’re gonna use this whole first aid kit before the day’s over, then what do you plan on doing, huh?” He lumbers across the boat to where Dave and I sit.

After trading places with Dave, Kent’s rough fingers explore the bloody patch through my shirt. Clicking the first aid kit open, he searches through the crinkly packs of paper, picks a package, and rips it open with his teeth, spitting the torn-off piece into the ocean. The boat leans sideways as he drops his arm over the edge and splashes his hand in the water.

“What’s going on . . .” I can’t finish my question, cut off by a hot slice of pain. Kent presses something wet against my shoulder. It’s only because I know Dave wouldn’t let Kent hurt me that I can stay still, breathing in and out in slow, controlled breaths. He pulls my arm back abruptly, blackness flooding in with the pain.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” Dave’s voice says from somewhere behind me.

“It’s called counter-pressure. Unless you want to do this I suggest you shut up.”

“No,” his voice mellows, “just be careful.”

“I have to lift your shirt up.” He runs his hand up my bare back, pulling the shirt up slowly. “This is going to hurt,” he warns as the fabric pulls on the wound. Then there’s more ripping of paper and something rough being pressed against the wound. The sting of alcohol hits all at once, its tangy scent burning in my nostrils, and I whimper a bit.

“I’m sorry, doll, it’s very deep.” He almost sounds like he cares. “It’s gotta be good and clean before I close it up.”

“Close it up? How do you plan on doing that?” Dave doesn’t sound convinced.

I’m only half-conscious. Another rip and more alcohol, this time Kent rubs hard and it’s like sandpaper on the open sore.

“It’s too deep to slap a bandage on,” Kent explains. “If we don’t get it closed it’ll get infected and she’ll go downhill fast. It’s not like we’ve got ourselves any antibiotics, right?”

“So, how do you plan on closing it up, Kent?” Dave repeats, his impatience building.

“You said there’s a sewing kit in that magic bag right? Well, I’m gonna use it for a little sewing project.”

“Maybe we should wait till the rescue workers come,” Dave argues. “I’m not doubting your abilities but I think they’re better trained for this.”

“Are you out of your mind or something?” Kent says tossing his last alcohol wipe into the ocean, then sitting up and cracking his neck. “Remember, there aren’t going to
be
any magic rescue people, at least not for a long time. If we don’t take care of ourselves, all they’re going to find is a boat full of bodies.”

“It’s fine,” I say quietly. “Do it now . . . please.”

“Are you sure, Lillian? We can wait a little longer if you want.” It’s Dave, giving me an out. I don’t want to wait. I want it to be over.

“Kent—do it
now
.”

“That’s a smart girl,” Kent says, like I’m a horse or dog. Dave doesn’t argue anymore, and I try not to listen as Kent preps for the procedure. “Okay, doll, try not to move.”

The cool metal needle is sharp. The instant it pierces my ragged skin, I can’t help but flinch from the deep, piercing pain.

“Shit! You’ve got to stay still,” he mutters through grinding teeth.

I try to remember the visualization techniques I learned in my birthing classes. Zen, I’ll be completely Zen. When Kent’s fingers frame the wound, I go deeper inside myself, using all that imagery Nurse Karen taught me during Lamaze. But I ended up with an epidural with both kids, so a lot of good that did me.

On one of my slow exhales, Kent pushes the needle through my skin, faster this time. I can actually feel the thread gliding through. When he sticks the needle through the other side, I lose my cool, twisting away from his tiny tool of torture. A string of curses erupts behind me.

“Look, honey.” His voice is shaking almost as much as my body. “If you don’t stop moving you’re gonna hurt yourself worse. Understand?”