by Peg Kehret
Jonathan swam toward shore, trying to establish a kicking rhythm that would keep him moving but not exhaust him. He alternated between doing the crawl, which was fastest, and the breaststroke, which was slower but allowed him to see where he was going and to see what else was floating toward him.
Moose stayed at his side, swimming as fast as Jonathan but never any faster.
Once, Jonathan changed from crawl to breaststroke just in time to see a huge tree rushing toward him. Jonathan dove under the water, coming up on the other side of the tree. Moose dove, too. After that, Jonathan stayed with the breaststroke, changing to a dog paddle when he got tired.
He looked frequently to his right, to see if anything else was floating toward him, and glanced occasionally to his left, at Moose. Two more times, he had to dive beneath the surface to avoid being hit by floating trees or parts of trees.
After ten minutes of steady swimming, a huge stump swept past him, its roots extended like outstretched hands. Jonathan grabbed one of the roots and rode along for a few seconds, resting. It occurred to him that if his strength gave out before he reached shore, he could always hang on to a different tree or another stump or something else that was floating. One way or another, he would stay alive.
Determination gave him a fresh burst of energy. He let the stump roots slip out of his grasp, and began paddling toward shore again.
His legs and arms ached. He wondered if he should have taken off his shoes before he started to swim. His feet felt like blocks of cement when he kicked. He could still get his shoes off, if he wanted to, but he would need shoes when he got to shore. He was not used to going barefoot and he would doubtless have a long hike ahead of him, once he reached land.
Land. How far had he come? When he looked, it did not seem any closer than when he first rolled off his tree. The swift current kept him going west; he could not tell if he was also moving north, toward shore.
Shoes won’t do me any good if I don’t make it to shore, he thought. Holding his breath, he quit kicking, reached down, and tried to untie one shoe. He sank as his cold fingers fumbled with the wet laces.
When he got the shoe untied, he swam back to the surface and dog-paddled while he used his other foot to pry the shoe off. Then he repeated his actions with the second shoe.
Each time he felt a shoe slip off his foot and sink in to the river, his heart sank, too. He knew how much he would need those shoes later, if he made it to land.
If . . .
His chest hurt from the exertion. Water splashed into his face and his father’s voice echoed inside his mind: “Never drink from a river, Jonathan. Even water that looks clear and clean could be polluted.” Jonathan sputtered, trying to spit it out.
He stroked toward shore.
He was tired before he started swimming. He was exhausted now. He closed his eyes and did the dead man’s float, to rest. I’ll float for thirty seconds, he told himself. No longer. He began to count: one, one-thousand; two, one-thousand.
Twenty seconds into his rest, something bumped his feet. Jonathan’s eyes flew open as he jammed his feet down and began to tread water. A capsized tent floated past, its metal poles twisted like a pretzel. Had there been another camper on Magpie Island, after all? Jonathan wondered. Or had the tent come from the beach park in Beaverville or somewhere else?
He forced his weary body to keep swimming. Images flashed through Jonathan’s mind as he swam. Bits of his past appeared in slow motion, the way television sports replays are sometimes shown. Each segment lasted less than a second, yet he clearly experienced every detail.
He saw himself as a toddler, sitting on Grandma Whitney’s lap while she read him a story. He felt her warm arms around him, heard her soothing voice, and smelled a hint of talcum powder. For that brief instant, Jonathan felt secure and comforted.
Next he relived the day Abby was born and felt the excitement of going to the hospital to meet his baby sister.
He saw the tears on his mother’s face and heard the fear in his father’s voice two years later when they told him Abby had fallen from a slide at the playground and damaged her spinal cord. Jonathan had often thought how different his life would be if Abby’s baby-sitter had not allowed her to climb alone to the top of the big slide.
The image, like the others, quickly faded and was replaced by his Little League coach, Mr. Welch. Jonathan remembered his despair after he struck out with the bases loaded. He had wanted to quit the team right then, and give up baseball forever. “Never give up, Jonathan,” Mr. Welch said. “You’ll have your turn to shine, as long as you keep trying. You must always keep trying.” And two innings later, Jonathan smacked a triple into left field that scored the tying run.
Yes, Jonathan thought, as he pulled his arms through the water. Yes, I will keep trying.
He had heard that when people drown, they see their whole life flash before their eyes, just before they go under for the final time. Is that why he was remembering his past? Because he was almost out of strength?
He tried to kick harder but his weary legs did not respond.
Moose swam lower in the water now. His back and tail were no longer above the surface; only his head was visible. He’s tired, too, Jonathan realized. He’s having just as much trouble as I am.
“Good dog,” he said. “Good Moose. Keep trying, boy.”
The shore seemed closer. Jonathan realized the river was passing a small bay, where the land curved toward him for a time.
A shot of adrenaline burst through him, giving him new energy. He swam harder, kicking faster. If he could get out of the main current here, by the bay, he knew he would make it to shore.
He switched back to the crawl. Even though he couldn’t watch for floating debris that way, it was a faster stroke. He closed his eyes, concentrating on lifting each arm over his shoulder and stroking it back as hard as he could.
He never saw the tree stump. It came toward him, spinning slightly, and hit him in the head.
Jonathan’s feet quit kicking. His arms dangled limply downward. He floated briefly, face down, before he sank.
By the time Mr. Palmer found the high school, he was so weary that he could barely put one foot in front of the other. He stood inside the door of the gymnasium and looked quickly around.
Families sat on blankets on the floor, sipping coffee and cocoa and nibbling on doughnuts. Small children slept on cots. Beside him, a line of people snaked away from a table with a Red Cross sign hanging over it. Murmuring voices provided a steady hum in the background.
Another sign said Emergency Medical Care. Teams of doctors and nurses were tending various injuries.
At the far end of the gym, under one of the basketball hoops, Mr. Palmer saw a group of people in National Guard uniforms. They, too, had a table and a line of people.
Mr. Palmer threaded his way across the gym floor. Ignoring the waiting line of people, he went directly to the National Guard table and said, “I have an emergency. Who do I need to see?”
The man at the front of the line said, “We all have emergencies tonight, Buddy. The end of the line is back there.”
“I’m sorry to cut in,” Mr. Palmer said, “but I need a search-and-rescue team immediately. My children were alone on Magpie Island when the earthquake hit.”
The expression on the man’s face changed from antagonism to concern. “Your kids were alone?” he said. “On the island?”
The National Guard officer at the table said, “The island flooded. It’s gone.”
“I know,” Mr. Palmer said. “But Jonathan and Abby may have found a way to stay afloat. Jonathan’s very resourceful. We need to send search planes, to look for them.”
The officer said, “How old are they?”
“Jonathan’s twelve and Abby is six,” Mr. Palmer said. “She was in an accident and can’t walk unassisted but Jonathan would help her. Our dog was with them, too.”
A woman in the line grumbled, “He leaves a handicapped six-year-old alone and then
wants special treatment to find her.”
Mr. Palmer wiped the sweat from his brow. “My wife broke her ankle,” he said. “She’s still in our car, back by the bridge. We only left Jonathan and Abby so that I could get my wife to the hospital quickly. Please! I can explain what happened later. Right now, we need to send someone to look for my children.”
“We can’t send a search plane out until daylight,” the officer said.
“Daylight!” Mr. Palmer cried. “That’s hours from now.”
“I’m sorry,” the officer said and Mr. Palmer could tell by the look in the man’s eyes that he was sincere. “If we knew approximately where the kids were, we’d send a search copter with a spotlight. But your kids could be anywhere between where Magpie Island was and the Pacific Ocean. That’s too much territory to search in the dark.”
Mr. Palmer wanted to shout, “No, it isn’t!” He wanted to pound on the table and demand that every National Guard person in the state immediately set off to hunt for Jonathan and Abby.
Instead, he said, “Is there anything that can be done now?”
“If you’ll step over here, Sir, we’ll get all the information. We’ll have a search team ready to leave at dawn.”
Mr. Palmer struggled to stay calm as he answered the questions. He told how old Jonathan and Abby were, what clothes they were wearing, and gave a description of Moose.
The final question was, “How can we contact you tomorrow?”
“I’d like to go along,” Mr. Palmer said, “to help look.”
“I’m afraid that’s against regulations.”
“Then I’ll be here, waiting.”
There was nothing more to be done. Mr. Palmer thanked the guardsmen for their help and walked out of the gym. He would spend the night with the young man, Kenny, and his chain saw, clearing the road so he could drive his wife into town.
Abby stopped crying. Her nose was stuffed up and her head ached and she had no tears left. Periodically, she drew a long, shuddering breath. Her teeth chattered.
I want Mommy, she thought, for the hundredth time. I want to go home. I want Raggedy. I want Jonathan to come back. I want, I want, I want. . . .
But even as she yearned for help from her family, she knew they were unable to give it to her. They were not here. Not Mommy. Not Daddy. Not Jonathan.
The rough bark of the tree had rubbed her cheek raw. Abby touched her face gingerly, wondering if the wetness she felt was river water or tears or blood.
This dumb old Charlotte boat wasn’t sailing forward any longer; it was only bobbing up and down.
She braced one hand on the tree and pushed her chest up. Then Abby sat up, straddling the tree. Squinting, she looked in all directions.
She was drifting in a small inlet, surrounded on three sides by land. The shore was much closer than she had expected. Even in the dark, she could clearly see trees and the outline of a cabin.
If I could swim, she thought, I could make it to shore.
But she couldn’t swim. She couldn’t even float.
The river splashed around her legs. Abby lay back down, clinging to the tree.
The image of the cabin stayed in her mind. She would be safe there, and dry. It would be warmer, out of the wind. Maybe there were people in the cabin, and hot cocoa to drink.
Abby began to paddle with the hand closest to shore, pushing the water, trying to propel her tree forward. She leaned over the side, plunging her arm in past the elbow to try to get as much force as possible. Her fingertips touched bottom.
Shocked, Abby leaned farther, stretching her hand downward. Yes! The water was shallow enough that her fingers grazed pebbles and sand. If I had my walker, Abby thought, I could make it to shore.
But she did not have her walker and without it, she knew she could not stay upright.
Could she crawl to shore? Maybe. But the water might be over her head if she lay on her stomach.
The only way to find out if the water was too deep was to let go of Charlotte and slip into the river. Once she got off the tree, she knew she would not be able to get back on unassisted.
She stuck her hand into the water again. This time, she did not touch bottom. The riverbed must be uneven.
Abby shivered in the dark. Jonathan had told her to stay on Charlotte, no matter what happened. But Jonathan didn’t know she was going to drift so close to shore. And anyway, Jonathan had left her behind all alone so he wasn’t her boss any more.
She looked at the cabin. She tried to imagine herself in the river, crawling toward shore. If the water was too deep, she would have to hold her breath until she crawled to a shallow place.
Abby shuddered at the thought of water all around her while she crawled. But how else would she get to shore?
Land was so close.
Abby closed her eyes and scrunched up her nose, trying to decide what to do.
Abby shifted her legs off the tree on the side away from shore. Clinging to the tree trunk with both arms, she let her feet dangle downward. Her heart pounded in her chest and she held her breath as her ankles swung freely through the water. Slowly, she let her stomach slide off the tree, feeling the water creep up to her waist. The water reached her armpits before her toes touched bottom.
Abby tilted her head back and stared upward at the moon. She moved one foot forward and set it down. Then the other foot.
Pushing the tree in front of her and using it for balance, as if it were her walker, Abby walked slowly toward shore. To her surprise, her legs did move better underwater. Despite the cold, a warm flush of satisfaction spread through her.
She pushed the tree until the water was only waist-high. She could see the cabin clearly now. She kept going until the river came only to her hips, and she had to bend over too far in order to hold on to the tree.
By then the remaining branches of her tree had hit bottom.
I’ll have to crawl the rest of the way, Abby thought. She inched sideways until her hands were at the roots of the tree.
Good-bye, Charlotte.
She shoved the tree to her left. At the same time, she held her breath and fell face forward into the water. She bent her arms and spread her fingers so that she landed on the length of her arms from her palms to her elbows. As soon as she felt the river bottom on her arms, she straightened her elbows, pushing her head upward.
The water brushed her chin. For a moment she panicked, feeling the water surround her. I want Mommy! she thought, but she knew Mommy wasn’t there. No one could save her except herself.
She tipped her head back so her face was toward the sky; her hair floated on the water. She remained motionless on her hands with her body stretched out for a long moment, slowly believing that the water was not going to hurt her.
She took a big breath and held it. Eyes closed, she bent her arms until her elbows touched bottom. As the water swirled over her head, Abby crawled forward. Right arm, left arm, right. Her legs dragged behind her across the gravelly river bottom.
She straightened her arms and put her head up for air. The water level was below her shoulders. When she bent her arms and began to crawl again, her head stayed above water.
She moved her right arm forward, and then her left. The gravel scraped her skin, but she could do it! She could crawl out of the river!
“Watch me!” she wanted to shout. “Mommy! Daddy! Look at me!” She did not shout, because there was no one to hear her, but the thrill of accomplishment propelled her forward, even without an appreciative audience.
Right arm. Left arm. Just like the Marines. Abby crawled triumphantly out of the river and lay, panting, on the shore.
She was too cold to rest. She longed to be home, wrapped in the patchwork quilt that always lay on the end of the sofa. She wanted Daddy to pick her up in his strong arms and carry her to the sofa. She wanted Mommy to tuck the quilt around her and hand her a cup of steaming cocoa. She wanted Jonathan to sit beside her and read her a story—one of her favorites like Go, Dog, Go or Martha Speaks.
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Wearily, Abby forced herself back up on her forearms and dragged herself across the shore toward the dark cabin.
When she got there, she pounded on the door with her fist. There was no answer. She was not surprised, since there were no lights on inside. She really didn’t care if there were people here or not. All she wanted was a warm, dry place to sleep.
She stretched her arm up, barely able to reach the doorknob. She tried to turn it.
The door was locked.
Abby huddled beside the empty cabin. “Mommy!” she yelled.
She listened, hearing the slap, slap of the river licking the shore. She did not call again.
Her stomach growled. I want toast, Abby thought, and some applesauce, and my chocolate cupcake. Jonathan promised I could have cupcakes.
She shivered again, her teeth chattering.
Maybe the cabin had a back door that was unlocked. Slowly, she crawled to the corner of the cabin, turned, and made her way along the side of the building. The ground was covered with pebbles; her arms hurt when she leaned on them and her legs, dragging behind, got more scrapes.
There was no back door.
Frustrated, exhausted, and scared, Abby curled into a tight little ball, as close to the cabin as she could get, and fell asleep.
Five miles downstream from the old fishing pier, the icy water surrounded Jonathan, pushing him down as it chilled his body. Unconscious, he sank slowly.
Moose swam steadily nearby. As the water washed over the boy, the dog changed direction. Instead of continuing north, toward shore, he turned and swam east, straight against the current.
He kept his muzzle pointed up and paddled hard, forcing his head into the air. He looked toward where Jonathan had been. He saw only the river, rushing relentlessly toward him.
The dog dived under the surface. Nose down, he searched the water for his friend.
Jonathan dropped, unresisting, toward the bottom of the river. His arms and legs hung down and his eyes were closed.