Wreckage (33 page)

“I want to take him home.”

“Home?” Lily blows a curl out of her eye. “This is his home, David. He was conceived here and he’ll live here for the foreseeable future. Plus, we haven’t seen one plane or boat or submarine, for that matter, in over a year. I don’t think we have much of a chance of seeing one now, even if our SOS was highlighted in neon lights.”

Paul’s hair is dry now and frizzing up in the humidity. I caress it, probing the quarter-size soft spot on the top of his skull before responding. “I don’t
want
him to grow up here, Lil. I want to take him home and lay him down to sleep in a crib in his own nursery and buy ridiculously expensive diapers and, one day, teach him how to ride a bike and throw a ball.”

“
This
is Paul’s island. We should be planning ways to help him adapt to life here, not dreaming about diapers and trikes.”

“I agree, but I refuse to give up. I’m his dad and it’s an evolutionary requirement that I want what’s best for him.”

“Of course I want Paul to have the best life possible,” she says. “But I can’t live in some fantasy world anymore, David.”

Oh crap, I’ve made her cry, and not good, happy tears like when Paul was born but mad tears that rush down her cheeks.

“No, no . . . Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.” I rush to wash away the wet trails on her face. Her cheeks feel a little warm and that alone sends panic through me. “Let me get you some water. You’re hot.” I left the water bottle down by the fishing log, darn it, but before I can sprint down to retrieve it, Lily puts her blazing hand in mine.

“Never mind me, I’m being hormonal. You work on that sign if it makes you feel better. I’m guessing they won’t be parachuting to our beach anytime soon. Thank God.” Her laugh trills in an odd, high-pitched way and I inspect her closer. She’s sweating profusely, her hair soaked nearly through, like she’d recently been swimming. What’s going on?

“Lily,” I speak methodically, worried and frustrated at the same time, “why does that make you so relieved?”

Her smile drops and she frees one of her hands from under the baby to wipe at her dripping brow. “It doesn’t make me happy, you know that. I want to go home more than almost anything but,” she coughs, leaving me wishing for that bottle of water again, “it does make things a little less complicated.”

“Complicated?” I scoff. Isn’t this whole thing complicated? Hasn’t it been complicated from the day we walked onto that plane? She’s trying not to look at me and she bites the tip of her tongue. “You mean me and Paul, right? We’re your complications.”

All the air sucks out of my lungs. She doesn’t love me like I love her. I’ve been making a fool of myself.

“That’s not what I meant, you know it.” She attempts to sit up a little, pushing through whatever pain she must be feeling. “I love you both, but what would I tell Jerry and the boys?”

“You tell them we fell in love and we helped each other survive. Then you tell them Paul’s your son too and you don’t regret him, because I’d like to believe you don’t. Please tell me I’m right.”

“You forget that in the real world we’re married, and not to each other. Most of the time I do forget, but when you’re setting up signal fires and SOS signs, it makes me remember.” She swallows hard like she’s trying to force down a half-chewed piece of meat. “Please don’t make me remember, David. Not today.” She clears her throat and swallows again before lowering herself onto the floor, her breathing shallow.

“Lil, you okay?” Something’s wrong. Lily is pale as her sun-stained skin allows and her grip on Paul has gone lax. “Wake up, Lily! Wake up!” I scoop up the baby and place him in the small nest-like bed we made in the corner of the shelter in preparation for his arrival. He stays asleep like a champ.

Then, scampering on my hands and knees, I lean over Lily’s listless body and pick up her limp wrist. A pulse. I don’t take the time to count. It’s so hot in here; her clothes are soaked through with sweat. Quickly, I put an arm under her shoulder and another under her legs and lift her up. I try not to notice how light she is, how frail she’s become after growing our son.

Reaching the shade by the fishing log, I put her down on the cool sand, propping her up on the weatherworn wood. I grab the half-full bottle of water and press it to her lips.

“Drink, Lily, drink,” I urge. Her eyes roll around behind her lids like she’s trying to get them to open. Tipping the bottle up, I drizzle a little of the liquid into her partially open mouth. Her tongue runs over her teeth and lips like she’s a baby wanting a bottle. I lift it again and this time she swallows as it trickles down her throat.

“Lily? Can you hear me?” I can barely see her though the tears swimming in my eyes. “Please, please wake up.” Pulling her into my arms, I cradle her like I held Paul minutes ago. I force-feed her more mouthfuls of water until her eyelids flutter and her breathing slows.

“I feel funny,” she stutters. “I’m so thirsty and tired. Why am I so tired?”

I wish I had an answer. The only thing I can think is that she’s lost too much blood but I don’t know how to help if that’s true. In movies they’d rig up some kind of tubing and needle to do a transfusion, but I’m not sure if I remember my blood type correctly, much less what types of blood kill other people and what types save lives. For now, water will have to do.

“You could be dehydrated. You worked super-hard today and your body’s very tired. Let’s keep drinking and eating. I’ll take care of you.” I kiss her wet hair, the salty sweat stinging my cracked lips.

She pats my face, her hand as weak as a kitten’s paw. “I know you will, David. You take care of me.” I pull her arm down and place it across her body, refusing to let her expend any energy on me. She continues talking in a hushed whisper. “I’m sorry about before. You can work on your sign. You can do whatever you want. I do want to go home. Will you take me home, David?”

Sliding out from under her long eyelashes, tears fall down her face and land on her collarbone. I glare at them. She doesn’t have any spare liquid to lose right now.

“I’ll try, baby, I’ll try. Shhh. No more talking until you feel better.”

She nods. In the distance I hear a small cry, like a frightened kitten. Paul’s awake. I pull off my shirt and ball it up. Then, as carefully as I can, I settle Lily down into the sand on her side, shirt under her head, face free of any obstructions.

I run up the beach and retrieve my son to find that he’s soiled one of the makeshift diapers we fashioned out of leaves and coconut husks before he was born. They’re huge on him, since apparently neither of us remembered how impossibly tiny newborn babies are. It hasn’t done much to keep the mustardy goop from leaking out all over his back and scrawny, wrinkled legs.

I wash him quickly in the waves and slip on another diaper, adjusting it as best I can. Luckily, Margaret’s coat remains clean and I wrap him up tightly in it before carrying him and a bowl of coconut milk down the beach to his mother. She hugs him tight before offering her breast to nurse.

I sit close by, in case she passes out again and I need to catch the baby. It’s hard to sit still, leaving me too much time to think about this day, about my new responsibilities and fears. I think about all the
stuff
I have at home that I used to think was so important—my car, my house, my flat-screen TV, my iPod, my iPad. Then I look around here. I own nothing.

I think I’d rather have nothing. Possessions are so temporary, they can go up in flames like our plane, or sink to the bottom of the ocean like our luggage. All I have of importance here are Lily and Paul, and I wouldn’t trade them for a million cars or houses or planes. But I guess important doesn’t mean permanent, by any means.

Watching as Lily fights off sleep to feed our tiny newborn, I realize he may never go to a doctor or have real clothes or diapers. He’ll be cold and hungry more than any father would want his son to be. And Lily will have to rest and pray that Mother Nature will heal her like she’s supposed to, because there’s nothing I can do. Nothing.

Suddenly they seem more fragile, more temporary, than one single pane of glass in my house or headlight in my car or piece of crystal in my china cabinet. Possessions are breakable, that’s for sure, but they’re also replaceable. People, people you love, are not.

I forget whatever chore I was going to work on and settle my arm around the pair. Lily lays her head on my shoulder and slips into a deep, drug-like sleep. I put my hand under Paul to make sure he doesn’t fall, his tiny heart racing hard against the palm of my hand.

I’m glad Lily agrees with me—we need to take our little family home.

CHAPTER 29

LILLIAN

Present

“My recovery was very difficult after Paul was born. It took me a good six weeks before I could help Dave and Kent around camp again. I don’t think I ever fully recovered until receiving proper medical treatment at home.” Lillian paused thoughtfully and added, “Like I mentioned earlier, it was soon after Paul’s birth that Kent drowned.”

“How did Paul fit into your daily life? Was it hard to adapt to tending to an infant’s needs in such primitive conditions?” Genevieve sat on the edge of her seat. She was enjoying this. Is this why the reporter had picked Lillian’s story? Was it because of Paul?

“He was such a good baby. He was very laid-back and loved to sleep in our arms. He’d sleep snuggled in between all of us at night so we could keep him warm. I was able to nurse him, so food was no problem as long as I ate and drank enough. We were very lucky.”

Lillian was surprised at how easy it was to talk about Paul’s birth and his time on the island. In the past she’d tear up just saying his name. She took it as a good sign, that she was healing.

She’d always wondered why it was so hard to talk about him. She loved Paul as much as her other children. Having him grow inside of her and then live in her arms and grow from the milk she fed him was one of the most rewarding things she’d ever done. It shouldn’t be hard to talk about having him. It should only be hard to talk about losing him.

“Describe him to us, Lillian.” Genevieve’s voice was creamy and soothing. Lillian could almost believe she cared and decided to pretend she did. After checking Jerry, who’d been meticulously cleaning his fingernails for the past twenty minutes, she closed her eyes, trying to remember that face she saw only in her dreams.

“He was very small. I don’t know if he was smaller than my other kids or if he seemed small after not seeing babies for so long, but he felt like a feather in my arms.” A sad smile flitted across her face when she opened her eyes. “He had lots of black hair, thick and curly just like his brothers. His eyes were very blue. The gray in them slowly disappeared after about a month and they were a brilliant blue, like the ocean. He’d just started to smile the day before he . . .” Her voice stopped like a motorcycle hitting a brick wall.

“I can tell this is difficult for you to talk about,” Genevieve said, stating the obvious.

“Quite hard.” She didn’t like to think about that day and did anything in her power to keep her mind away from it, including taking those small white sleeping pills to chase her nightmares away.

“Before we talk about his last day, I have a different question for you.”

A question? Shocker. Lillian set her teeth, hoping it looked like a smile and not a dog ready to snap.

“Okay, I’ll try to answer it.” She rubbed her fingertips together, cracking her knuckles in quick succession, praying she could stay Zen now that they were talking about Paul’s passing.

“Why are you lying to me, Lillian?” Genevieve asked, keeping her nice “I understand you” voice on.

“What? I . . . what are you talking about?” Lillian stuttered, her stomach sinking like she’d swallowed a boulder. Her brain was on overdrive, quickly reviewing the whole interview. Where did she mess up and give it all away?

“This is what I’m thinking,” the reporter said, making Lillian’s mouth go dry and sticky. She’d give anything for a Diet Coke. She wasn’t ready for this. “Something’s off about this Paul story. At first I thought perhaps you and Dave made him up to make your story more interesting, but then I watched interviews with the two of you. Do you know what I realized?”

“What?” Lillian responded reflexively, feeling like an idiot as soon as the word left her mouth.

“You didn’t arrive on that island pregnant, did you, Lillian?”

Terror hit in a giant deluge. She glanced at the door. If she left the heels behind, how long would it take to get over to Jill’s house, hug her kids, and give in to this nagging desire to call Dave? She could take a flight out tonight, get a hotel room. He’s the only one that understood.

Taking a deep breath through her nose, Lillian let the oxygen bring her back to sanity. Running would make her seem guilty, she told herself, and running wasn’t an option. She had to figure out how to lie—better. Over Genevieve Randall’s shoulder, Jerry was suddenly focused and aware of what was going on. As Lillian opened her mouth to counter, Jerry cleared his throat loudly.

“I think that’s enough,” Jerry projected. He stood up, buttoning his suit coat in a very lawyerly way that made Lillian remember the eager young law student she married twelve years ago.

“Excuse me, Mr. Linden, but I thought you didn’t want to be involved in this interview.” Genevieve kept her frigid gaze on Lillian. Jerry’s heavy footsteps echoed off of the oak floor.

“I’m not speaking as Lillian’s husband. I’m speaking as her lawyer. You’ll cease this line of questioning or Mrs. Linden will be forced to end this interview prematurely.” He spoke with a little more force this time, standing directly beside the reporter.

Cocking her head from side to side like a prize boxer before a match, Genevieve rolled the Sharpie she was holding in between her hands, squinting up at Jerry with silent resolution. Even Lillian saw the fury in Jerry’s black eyes from where she was sitting. She bit the tip of her tongue thoughtfully. She liked this protective side of her husband, and if he told her to stop the interview, she would.