Wreckage (16 page)

“Clearly, we all slept in the shelter. We wove some palm fronds together to make a mat to sleep on and another one to cover us. Then we slept close together to conserve body heat. On stormy nights, we’d take turns tending the fire through the night so it wouldn’t go out.”

“And it wasn’t strange sleeping with a woman who wasn’t your wife?”

“No, it was survival. Some nights Lillian watched the fire, and Kent and I snuggled like little girls.”

A ripple of laughs washed over the crew, making Dave’s chest puff a fraction. Genevieve Randall was not accustomed to losing control of an interview. Between questions she ground her teeth so much it had to create feedback for the sound guys in the van.

“How about emotionally?” she gasped, clearly dealing with some strong emotions of her own—frustration, anger. “How did you and your fellow survivors deal with being separated from family?”

“It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure.” Dave shifted in his seat. He knew he had to talk about
her
now. “Lillian missed her husband and children desperately. We celebrated their birthdays on the island and all their favorite holidays. She told me she went to sleep each night and woke up each morning with them on her mind.”

He had to stop himself from saying more, because he
could
say more about Lillian, a lot more, but he shouldn’t know so much about her. He focused on forming a thoughtful answer about Kent.

“Kent mourned Theresa’s loss more than any family from home; he never talked about them. I think if Theresa survived the crash, Kent could’ve stayed on that island forever.”

The reporter took an extra breath before responding with another question, one that bit him like a guard dog, warning him he wasn’t safe. “And you, Dave, how did you do without your wife?”

Dave glanced over at Beth, her face as still as a china doll. “I missed her more than words can say.”

That burning in his stomach began again, like an ulcer, the one he only felt when he was lying. He considered blowing her a kiss but then decided it might be oversell.

Genevieve flipped through a few cards, probably realizing she was way off track. Settling on one, she read the question right from the paper, like a six-year-old in a school play. “Lillian mentioned that you and your fellow survivors had some nicknames for each other, is that true?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t anything intentional but when you spend that much time together it tends to happen.”

“What was your nickname, Dave?”

“Dave’s already a nickname but sometimes they called me by my full name—David.”

Genevieve seemed to like that answer. “Is there a story behind it?”

Ignoring the urge to roll his eyes, Dave explained. “They said I was like David, from the Bible. You know, like David and Goliath. When I was hunting or fishing, it was Kent’s big joke when I caught anything—like if I caught even the smallest fish, it was equivalent to conquering Goliath.”

“Okay, I get it. So Kent was religious? He and Lillian must’ve had a lot in common, then.
She
came from a home where her father was a minister and her mother a Sunday school teacher. Sounds like they had some common interests.”

Trying to keep control he reminded himself that no one told this woman what happened on the island. No one but Lillian could have, and she had even more reasons to stay quiet.

“I’m not sure, Ms. Randall, all I know is that’s what he called me,” Dave said, knowing that if even one block in the tower of lies was pulled out by this woman, the whole thing would come crashing down.

“Well then, how about Kent? What did you call him?”

“We called Kent ‘Scout.’ He was proficient at all that survival stuff. Like he figured out how to make a fire using Margaret’s reading glasses and taught Lillian and me how to make thatches out of palm fronds and rope out of coconut husks. I mean, literally any necessity he figured out and provided for us.”

“Sounds like you were lucky to have him with you,” Genevieve pressed, a fine sheen of sarcasm coating her words.

“Very lucky. I wouldn’t be sitting here right now without that man.” It took a lot of practice to cover up the disgust in his voice when talking about Kent. Making eye contact and smiling plenty helped.

“Uh-huh, I see.” She moved on. “Lillian then, please tell us about her name.”

Dave glanced at his wife, her face a pale mask of indifference. Sometime he thought Beth was a better liar than the lot of them. It was going to be difficult talking about Lillian here, in his home. Dave made sure not to let his gaze stray for too long before answering the question.

“We sometimes called her Lily,” he stated, brief and to the point.

“Is there a story behind that name too?” Her voice dripped with honey, too sweet for good intentions.

“Nope,” he said, popping the
p
.

“Did Kent pick that name too?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. He thought Lillian was too stuffy so he called her Lily instead.” He leaned back, letting the voluminous white cushions envelop him.

“I’d guess that if Kent had a name for everyone he would’ve had a name for Paul as well. Right?”

Paul. The name made the vein in his right temple pound angrily. Why did she have to bring him up already? By far Paul was the hardest lie. There’s so much to cover up. His feelings toward Paul, Lily’s feelings for him, and how bad things became once Paul was gone.

“I’m not sure about that.” Dave cleared this throat. “You might want to ask Lillian, she’d be the one with that sort of information.”

“You didn’t spend much time with Paul, then?”

“When you’re all stuck on an island together there’s no way to avoid each other,” he answered, feeling testy.

“Ah, you wanted to avoid Paul and Lillian, then?” she asked, twisting his words ruthlessly. “Why was that?”

Dave felt riled, like a cobra poked a few too many times, and he was ready to snap at her with dripping fangs. “I didn’t avoid anyone,” he stated, voice imbued with venom. “
Lily
would be the one to ask about him.” He punctuated each phrase with a coiled fist on his knee.

Letting her shoulders drop, Genevieve shuffled the cards in her hand arrogantly, savoring the moment before she spoke again. “I’ll have to ask
Lily
about that when I get the chance,” she oozed.

CHAPTER 16

DAVID-DAY 81

The Island

Three months ago I never would’ve believed that soon my daily activities would include holding a spear knee-deep in a cool, placid pool.

Shirtless, with my long khaki pants rolled up to my knees, I feel very primitive, manly, one with the earth. Waking up in our lean-to shelter, making a fire with reading glasses, snuggling with virtual strangers to stay warm at night has become, dare I say, commonplace.

Today Lillian stands high above me on a cluster of rocks that jut out into our little bay. With her sun-browned skin and wild hair blowing behind her, she looks as native as I feel. Her muscles roll athletically under her faded electric-green bathing suit as she tiptoes gracefully through the sharp boulders. Pushing her hair behind her ears, she dips down to pick some shells off the rock’s edge, a glint of gold reflecting the noon sun. Margaret’s necklace, weighted down with rings, hangs from her neck, tapping her in the face.

Glancing in my direction she waves an empty hand, the other carrying a large leaf filled with her acquisitions. I pretend to scan the water before giving a decisive thumbs-up. I hope she didn’t notice me watching her but it’s hard not to. Her delicate balancing act is as graceful as a tightrope walker tiptoeing across a wire. And she’s hot, so there’s that.

Trying to repress a smile, I force myself to focus on fishing. If I let myself get distracted it could mean disaster. Lillian’s doing more than searching for crustaceans—she could be saving my life.

When we found this lagoon three days after we landed, it seemed perfect, protected from the waves and the wind by tall black rocks. The lagoon itself is full of large, lazy fish, and the trees drip with coconuts, breadfruit, bananas, and mangos.

Not to mention that from every other beach on the small island, the only place to catch fish is the reef. In normal circumstances I could swim the few hundred yards out and tread water, no problem. I’ve even had some spearfishing experience after all my trips to Fiji. But, after nearly drowning in the crash, floating in the ocean, pushing the boat through the water using our tiny reserves of energy to be human propellers—no one wanted to risk going out there.

The beach by the lagoon is also in a lousy location for rescuers to see our camp from open waters. Kent set up an SOS on the largest beach on the west side of the island and then on our side, just beyond the rocks. There’s a large signal fire that can be lit at a moment’s notice with a torch we keep inside the shelter, dry and ready to go. It’s a long shot but shifting the letters and piling fresh wood on the signal fire reminds me that there’s still some tiny glimmer of hope.

Then there are the sharks. I’ve lived most of my life in California and been to the beach more times than I can count, but I’ve only ever seen a shark with a thick plate of aquarium glass between us. So, from a lack of experience and some propaganda from Shark Week, I’ve always assumed sharks are like the gigantic dead-eyed monsters from the movies, that I was safe as long as I didn’t go out too deep in the water. Nature quickly taught me there’s more than one type of shark.

When I saw my first shark, I felt no fear. It was almost cute. As I fished, the mini-shark darted around the blue lagoon, drifting out toward the depths of the reef and then back in toward me like it was checking up on my progress. It reminded me of a playful puppy and was about the same size. I started to consider names for my little fishing buddy when I finally made contact with a fish, slicing through its gills in one lucky blow. Elated, I tried to lift the flipping fish from the water when the miniature predator yanked it off my spear, snapping the slender bamboo in half.

The shark shook the yellow cone fish into tiny pieces right in front of me, large chunks of fish flesh falling on my bare feet. The water clouded with blood and fish parts, churning as several other small gray sharks appeared out of nowhere to take part in the feast.

Adrenaline kicked in and I stumbled away cautiously, remembering something from the Discovery Channel about shark feeding frenzies and not wanting my legs to be included in their banquet. I didn’t dare turn away from that spot until I finally exited the water, my heart pounding ferociously.

“Sharks! In the water. Don’t go in,” I panted. Lillian leaped up from her weaving and met me halfway up the beach.

“Shark? Oh, Dave. Did it bite you?” She fluttered her hands around me, searching for bite marks or blood or something.

“What’s this about a shark?” Kent ran out of the trees, knife in his hand.

“Not one shark, lots of them. In the lagoon.” My breathing evened out.

“Wait.” He scratched the peeling bald spot on the top of his head. “You mean those tiny gray things?”

I nodded. “They took the fish right off my spear.”

Kent let out a booming laugh. “Aw, shit. You’re such a girl. Those things won’t hurt you. Next time try to shove a spear through its noggin and then you’ll have something to shout about.” He pocketed the knife and tromped into the jungle to finish whatever it is he does out there.

“Come. Sit.” Lillian guided me to a log that overlooks the ocean. She calls it our fishing log. “Kent caught some rats this morning so let’s forget about fishing for a day or two, okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed.

It took two days and a large dose of humiliation doled out by Kent to make me willing to enter the water again. I snuck off after sunrise so no one would see if I failed, but as I walked down the beach with a newly sharpened spear over my shoulder, I heard footsteps behind me.

Lillian.

She claimed she needed to pick the rocks again, even though she’d already collected a huge load the day before, leaving us with enough snails for at least one day, if not two. I pretended not to understand that she was coming with me out of concern rather than necessity. It took a lot of inner dialogue to feel flattered that she cared about my safety rather than emasculated by her desire to protect me.

As always, Lillian ended up being invaluable. From her perch on the rocks she quickly realized she could spot large schools of fish in the crystal water, as well as the ominous dark shadows of predators. As a result she convinced us, even Kent, that fishing should be done in teams, rotating every day with posts on the rocks and in the water.