Wreckage (15 page)

I want it to stop.

I don’t know how much longer I can deal with the torture of sleep deprivation. I’m hoping with some time alone, away from the only humans I’ve seen for two months, away from the monotony of the waves and the smell of salt and sweat that lingers in our shelter, I can get some clarity.

The bundle is getting heavy and my shoulder starts to ache when I finally reach the double-vee coconut tree that signals it’s time to turn onto the nearly invisible path leading to our oasis. Rubbing my fingers across its trunk, I trace the dark-gashed X that marks the way, a simple guide Dave made so we could find the water without Kent’s help. Today I need them. The rain caused some of the undergrowth to sprout up in surprising directions, forcing me to stop once or twice to make sure I’m still on the path.

Soon, the trees clear and the ground makes a juicy, squishing sound. I’m suddenly ankle deep in the clear water of the pool, swollen with rain from the past few days. My favorite laundry rock, usually a few inches from the edge of the pond, is surrounded by water. I don’t want to get my shoes soaked—they take forever to dry—so I hang my laundry bundle on a nearby branch before slipping off my shoes and wrestling out of my shorts and holey green V-necked T-shirt. Underneath, my sage-and-white tankini strap hangs off one shoulder. It’s already losing its elasticity but still covers most of the important parts. I shove the rejected clothes and shoes into the top of my pack, hoist it onto my back, and wade into the cool black water.

The pool’s powers of rejuvenation start as I trudge, knee-deep, to my laundry rock. With the last bit of muscle strength left in me, I drop the pack onto the moss-covered rock and sigh, super-tempted to climb up and use the dirty bundle of clothes as a pillow. Some kind of mom work ethic tells me I can rest when my work is done. Lame.

My washing routine is simple—first I wash the clothes, then myself. It doesn’t take long to shake out and rinse out the few pieces of clothing, always leaving Margaret’s jacket second to last, working on that rusty blood stain, hoping that the pain of her loss will disappear with it. Finally, I swim toward the rocky little alcove that crowns the clearing and stick my hand deep into a crack. A few weeks ago I discovered it, the right size for Margaret’s toiletry bag.

Just like the first aid kit saved our lives, Margaret’s bag saved my sanity. I found some small metal items like nail clippers and tweezers. There’s also a disturbingly large assortment of hotel shampoo, soap, toothpaste and brush, a washcloth, and lotion. I was a little surprised we didn’t find a robe in there too.

These tiny bottles make me human again. It’s miraculous what a pea-size portion of scented shampoo will do for your spirits. Kent and Dave are fully aware of my stash—and the nail clippers and tweezers are prized practical necessities—-but besides a small bar of soap that Dave keeps stored somewhere around camp, neither of them seems interested in using any of my personal hygiene supplies. That’s fine, more for me.

I swim over to the rock and wash my swimsuit, slipping the pieces off slowly, rinsing them in the clear water, and laying them out on the laundry rock to dry. Happily naked, I lather up, spreading bubbles over every inch of my body. I’ve turned lean and muscular, my abdomen tight and flat, a few off-colored stretch marks the only reminder that my body once produced humans. The hair on my legs and under my arms is growing manishly long. At first it was embarrassing but now the blanket of hair’s just as much a part of my new body as my scrawny thighs and jutting hipbones. But I do miss the satin finish of my skin after a shave.

As I scrub, the strong floral scent of the shampoo tickles my nose, and my skin tightens in the air after being scrubbed with the starchy-smelling hotel soap. After working a palm full of shampoo into my hair, I dunk under the water and shake my head around, rinsing the suds from my tangly curls. It feels amazing to be clean.

When my head penetrates the surface of the water, I sigh. This little vacation from camp life is over. Through a slit in the canopy I can see the clouds have settled over the sun. Without the sun, there’s a chill to the air, which means there’s another storm coming our way. Picking a comb through my hair, I wade up to the rocks and rub the hem of Dave’s shirt, almost dry. I’d better pack up quickly and walk back to camp before all my hard work gets ruined by the rain.

I grab my still-wet underwear from the rock and slip it on in the water; the stretchy beige lace at the top still clings comfortably to my waist. Just as I slide the last strap of my bra back on, a crack echoes out of the jungle. It sounds like a stick breaking and it’s close, scary close. There are a lot of crawling things on this island that I’ll never get used to—snakes, lizards, and rats . . . so many rats. The list ticks through my mind faster than I can keep track.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” My voice bounces back even though I’m whispering.

Tiptoeing out of the water into the silky mud, I move cautiously to the tree line where the mystery sound came from. I don’t really want to know what made that sound but I have to. Then, I hear it again, this time I’m certain, something large is moving through the brush. I tuck myself behind a banyan tree. I could climb it but the bark is smooth and the lowest branch a good eight feet up.

There’s a loud thump and growl of pain, not quite human but not quite animal either. Something big is heading my way. We haven’t found any predators on this island but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Turning on the balls of my feet, I dive into the water and swim to my hidden nook to stash my toiletries and then swim back and pack up the wet clothes, my shoes, and my uneaten breakfast. I throw them over my left shoulder and run barefoot through the trees, toward the beach.

I burst through the last leafy barrier onto the beach and collapse on the sand, dropping everything and gasping for breath.

“What was that?” I whisper on all fours in the sand.

“What was what?” A deep masculine voice echoes.

As I scramble to my feet, Kent comes walking down the beach. He’s dressed in his normal uniform—tattered shorts, no shirt, and a spear in his hand. His short blond hair has grown out since the crash but instead of lying flat on his head it spikes out in every direction, making his receding hairline stand out even more prominently.

Oh, it’s just Kent.
My heart starts to return to its normal rhythm. “I don’t know, I was washing the clothes and I heard this noise. It was loud and coming right at me. It sounded like some kind of huge wild animal.”

Kent stares at me, his white eyebrows raised skeptically, arms crossed against his bare, furry chest. “And what did this mystery creature look like?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t stick around to see, but whatever it was, it was big and it was moving fast.” It’s getting easier to talk now, my breathing almost normal. “Could it be a boar or wild pig or whatever?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” He shrugs, flipping the spear over his shoulders, hooking his elbows over both ends. “And that’s why you’re standing on the beach, soaking wet, dressed in your underwear?” He runs his gaze up and down my nearly bare body. “Did Little Red get frightened by the Big Bad Wolf?”

I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly aware of how close to naked I am. I swim like this all the time but standing here, alone, the way his eyes widen and trace up and down my body, it all makes me want to cover up. The embarrassed heat rushing to my face pushes tears into my eyes. I try to stop them. I don’t want him to see me crying, to see me weak.

“Why do you have to be such an ass, Kent? Can’t you try to be sympathetic?”

Turning away, I try to hide my face, busying myself picking up the now-sandy laundry pile. One of my mangos rolled down to the water, where it’s being kicked around by the waves. Crawling, I scramble after it as though it’s the last piece of fruit on the planet, the mango blurring into the foam through my tears. I brush my uneaten breakfast with my fingertips when Kent’s hand grabs my bare arm and yanks me to my feet.

“Don’t get all hysterical on me, I didn’t mean to shatter your fragile feelings.”

His grip is tight and his long fingernails dig white crescents into my skin. He pulls me toward him, till his chest hair tickles my forearm. His breath’s sour and I gag, glad I didn’t eat breakfast after all. I tug against his fingers but they hold me in an iron vise.

“Kent, let me go.” He ignores me, yanking me closer.

Pinching a clump of my half-dry curls, Kent wraps a coil around his forefinger, twisting and twisting until it coats his digit like wall-to-wall carpet. Then, letting it spiral off into a perfect curl, he grabs it in his fingertips and rubs it under his nose.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Real good.” Dropping the hair, he clamps down on my arms with both hands, pulling my reluctant feet through the sand, pressing his body against mine. His nose traces up my neck as he sniffs again.

I want to run away but I’m frozen like a possum, hoping the predator will pass me by. But when his mouth reaches my ear, his heavy breathing makes me scared.

“I’m not asleep this time, Kent. Let go of me right now or one night while
you
are sleeping you might find a snake in your pants,” I growl at him. “And that’s not a euphemism.”

He releases me, staggering backward, uncharacteristically stunned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,
bitch
. Go run home to daddy and tell him about all the monsters in the forest.” His hand rests casually on the hilt of his knife, conveniently tucked into the waist of his shorts. “Just don’t even think about pointing your finger at me.”

I wrap my arms around myself tighter, shivering as he takes one last lingering look up and down my half-naked body before skulking away, muttering under his breath. And I know, then and there, that the predator lurking in the dark corners of this island is no animal at all, it’s Kent. When I’m sure he’s gone, I don’t give myself a chance to think. I grab my things and run from danger for the second time that day—only this danger is real.

Reaching camp minutes later, I run past Dave, breathless. The fire’s smoldering, four small fish splayed out on long sticks for lunch. Dropping the pack of ruined laundry in the sand in front of the shelter, I search for the long column of smoke trailing toward the sky. Standing there with my hands extended, I let the smoke caress me, fill my hair and skin, erasing the subtle hint of lilac that followed me back to camp.

CHAPTER 15

DAVE

Present

“Basic survival—how hard is it to live on a deserted island?” Genevieve asked blandly. Her lackluster delivery was a relief. Finally, a safe topic.

“Very difficult, actually. I don’t know how mankind made it before cell phones, processed food, and electricity.” Dave chuckled low. People loved hearing about how they ate and slept and made a shelter. If they only knew it wasn’t hunger that caused their biggest pains, it was their own humanity.

“Tell us about your home, the island. What was it like?” She turned up a corner of her mouth in what Dave decided was meant to be a smile.

“Uh, it was small, only two or three miles in circumference. It had some fruit trees, a lagoon with fish, and in the jungle, a small pond-like area with fresh water bubbling up through a spring in the ground. We were lucky to have fresh water on a small island like that.” Dave felt a strange sense of pride describing the place they lived for so long. Telling the truth was much more fun than lying.

“How did you make it a hospitable place? What were your commodities?” Genevieve ticked through her questions at lightning speed but Dave considered the answers carefully, savoring the safety he felt in this part of their conversation.

“We built a shelter using bamboo, thatched palm fronds, and cut-up pieces of the raft for waterproofing. Kent made this complicated water catcher out of some other pieces of the raft that we used as our water supply before we found the spring. We picked snails from the sides of rocks and sometimes if we were lucky caught fish with a spear.” The whole lagoon sprawled out in Dave’s memory, the exact color of blue, the crest of rocks where they hunted their snails while watching for poisonous sea snakes, the glowing white sand, like a belt topping a never-ending aqua skirt.

“Hmmm,” Genevieve responded, skipping whole chunks of questions from Dave’s list about how fishing worked and their method of retrieving coconuts. “And the dynamic on the island? Was there a leader?”

Dave held in a sigh. Back to the aggressive questions, back to subversion. “Clearly Kent was the boss,” he blurted. “He was used to it from being a pilot and was good at making spur-of-the-moment life-or-death decisions. Lillian and I had no problem following him. It felt natural.”

It was hard to say nice things about Kent, even the few that were true, but it was important. That sneaky glint in Genevieve’s eyes flared up again.

“Then you and Lillian, what were your roles?”

One. Happy. Family. He’d sell it. Putting on his best smile, the one that made the dimple on his right cheek wink playfully, he answered with forced ease.

“We all did the same kind of work. We foraged and gathered fruit and supplies. We had a standing rule that every time someone left camp they needed to bring at least one piece of firewood back with them. We hunted. Though Kent was the best at that, we all were decent after a while.”

Genevieve hummed through pressed lips. “So you didn’t mind having Kent, who by your own admission was a sort of gruff and surly character, be your boss?”

“Not really,” Dave said quickly. He didn’t hesitate, that’s something to be proud of at least. “I’ve been in the business world long enough to know that the person who’s best for the job isn’t always someone I like. But as long as the job gets done and done well then I couldn’t care about personality.” Crossing one of his legs casually over the other, he hoped he gave off a relaxed vibe.

Genevieve, in contrast, sat stiffly on the edge of her seat flipping her open Sharpie up and down nervously. “Okay . . .” She drew out the last vowel, glancing through her pile of notecards. “Sleeping arrangements?”