by Marni MacRae
Breathe.
The next wave let me ride it. I wasn’t enjoying my surf, I was angry with the ocean, wanted to beat it, wail at it, where the hell is the raft? Oh God, Lucas! The wave crashed, and I screamed at it in my head as I went down, rolled, came up. Breathe. Give me Lucas you stupid, stupid ocean! Let me go! But the lesson of not fighting the waves was deeply instilled, I pushed forward, almost there. Another wave, ride it, own it, be its friend. And my feet hit bottom.
I could stand, but I let the wave carry me a little further. At last I was up, pushing through the water, struggling toward the shore ahead of me. My feet dug into the wet sand below, and the adrenaline in my veins gave me a rush of strength, a ringing in my ears. The next wave knocked me down, but I landed on hands and knees, it was shallow here, and then finally, finally. I stood on Land.
The sky was lighter, a dull gray now, but overcast. I briefly registered the clouds that now layered the heavy sky in a pearly blanket as my eyes strained to look back out to sea. I peered into the crashing waves and great dark blue beyond searching for yellow, for Ducky and Lucas.
“God please let him be there, please,” I whispered the prayer aloud scanning the water in the dim light, blinking the salt and sand out of my eyes.
I stood naked on the shore, my right side and leg screaming in pain, my heart still pumping adrenaline, the fear feeding me, sharpening my sight, flushing me with warmth and an inner stillness.
The pain didn’t matter, I would deal with it. Clothing didn’t matter. I didn’t even care at that moment if a resort stood behind me, just up the beach. I needed to find Lucas. I had too. Everything else was inconsequential to this singular goal.
I began striding down the beach, searching the waves, every swell and crash blocked my view to the ocean beyond. I half-jogged two hundred feet down the beach, seeing nothing, not on shore or in the waves. I jogged back to where I had crawled on shore, and continued two hundred feet the other way. I could feel myself flagging. The adrenaline and shock were wearing off, but not the panic. It was growing, like a banshee, screaming in my head. I turned back, running now, needing to move, to do something, and I set the banshee free.
“Lucas!” I screamed his name. “Lucas!” I called out over and over, running the football field length up and down the shore.
My leg was red and sticky with blood. My waist and hip were covered in scrapes and scratches that the reef had scored into my skin, but I knew my leg was worse. I had glanced down at one point and seeing the flesh torn, the deep red of muscle below the skin, I knew I was in trouble. That I would begin to feel it, that panic and shock would only keep me going so long, and then my leg would own me. Maybe kill me.
I let the blood stream. The running was helping it to wash freely from my body, wash away the salt water, clean it, I hoped. Then I prayed. Hoping and praying were now all I had. No clothes, no meds, no water or food. No Lucas. A sob broke free from me, my eyes were streaming tears, and I was gasping now, in pain, and anguish and absolute fear.
“Lucas!” Had I been unhurt, or even a little bit calmer I would have known he would never hear me calling. My screams were eaten by the waves. The ocean was a loud, roaring monster that swallowed my voice, crushing my eardrums with its incessant crashing. After days of calm, stillness, and quiet, now this noise. It was too much to take in.
My leg was burning now, insisting I notice. I stopped close to where I had crawled up to shore, my footprints and hand prints were there to mark it. It should have been triumphant, landing here, having found land, and hopefully a way home, but there wasn’t a speck of triumph in me. I would rather be at sea, safe in ducky with Lucas, making love, than right here, right now.
I caught a flash of yellow. Then a wave broke, and all I saw was white and gray and an array of blues. Turquoise, navy, aquamarine. Again, yes, yellow, just there! A swell began rising, and I saw that Ducky was carried on its back. The swell started to crest, and then break, and then the grays and blues again.
I surged forward, running and splashing frantically into the water toward the raft though it floated still some distance out, and suddenly my leg screamed. I heard it. No, that was me, screaming high and piercingly, and white stars appeared across my vision. Then black.
* * *
I went under. I had only been thigh-deep. The mistake I recognized instantly; saltwater in a wound. The water washed away the black, and I came up coughing and choking and then screaming again.
The fire in my thigh was now lightning, the pain so acute all reason was null and void. My body took over, ignoring my heart and love for Lucas, to save him, find him, ignoring the feeling of sand that my hands clawed at to get out of the water. Ignoring too, the rain that began falling as I pulled myself up on the beach. Every detail of the world was gone, only pain now. Then my mind was kind. It shut down, saving me from knowing this, from suffering this. And the blackness came again.
* * *
Warm rain pelted me. I awoke thinking I was in the shower. Had I slipped and fallen in the tub? The trivia that most household accidents happened in the bathroom ran through my mind before the pain brought me back to reality. I remembered the beach, the rain, my leg and … Lucas.
I opened my eyes and rose slowly. I had collapsed on my left side, my wound on my waist and hip and thigh faced the sky, and the rain was doing a decent job of washing away the salt and gritty sand and blood.
The pain had turned from lightning and fire to hot coals. I can endure, I told myself, just find Lucas. Make sure he made it. Then I can sleep. Then I can figure this all out. Find that resort, call a doctor.
I sat up slowly. The blinding flash of light across my vision made me dizzy, and I gasped as tendrils of lightning flickered along my thigh. Looking at the wound I saw it was still bleeding. The rain wet my skin as it poured down steadily, promising the day to be a long and wet one. Less of a storm, like the one we bailed out Ducky in during our time afloat at sea. More of a drenching, gray-skied I’m-gonna-do-this-for-a-while, kind of rain. But it was warm, so I was grateful for that.
Between the constant seeping of blood and the water from the sky, the gash would have a decent chance of washing out anything bad that may have gotten into it. I knew nothing major was torn in the vein or artery department, so blood loss wasn’t my greatest concern. Infection would kill me. It would take me slowly and painfully. So I went back to hoping and praying as I slowly, so slowly, got to my feet.
There she was, my little Ducky. The raft had washed ashore only fifty feet away. On impulse I began to run to her, my eyes searching the beach for any Sign of Lucas. My leg shrieked and the lightening almost brought me down. I slowed to a gimp-like stroll, my left leg bearing the bulk of my weight as I stuttered down the beach, limping to the yellow raft, now clearly almost completely deflated.
Ducky lay with her nose on shore, and her featherless butt still dipped in the water. The useless motor rose and fell as each lap of wave came up the sand. Dragging there, in the water, were mine and Lucas’s two suitcases, and the metal box, along with the angry gun. All still tied together, and secured to the raft. They had gone overboard, and the rope had allowed enough slack that they dragged only a foot or so behind the motor. No wonder it took Ducky longer to get to shore. She was basically dragging an anchor, trolling behind her a weight of waterlogged suitcases and a metal box. My purse was nowhere in sight, but I only noticed this as a side note of a female missing a part of her. For there, on the starboard side, draped half in the raft, half dragging the sand with the rise and fall of each wave, was Lucas.
I forced myself to be slow. I didn't want to risk passing out again. I might not wake up. I limped around Ducky’s nose, toward Lucas’s form. He laid face down, his arms and torso wrapped over the side, his left hand tangled in the rope that held the luggage, near the motor. I could see the binding was cutting off circulation. He must have been hanging as dead weight for some time, because the hand was swollen and purple. I immediately went to the back end of the
raft, stepping into the water gingerly, being extra cautious not to fall, not to pass out. I had been clenching my jaw in pain through the long stroll to the raft, and now my jaw hurt, but it was nothing compared to my leg, so I kept clenching, grinding my teeth. A whimper escaped now and then, as I worked on the wet rope, unwinding it from Lucas’s wrist. It was twisted and tangled, and I had to admire his quick thinking in tying himself as well as he could, to the only thing afloat, as he had been tossed from sleep, into the ocean.
I finally got his wrist free, and began massaging his hand, working the skin and rubbing down his forearm to his wrist to encourage blood flow. Please, don’t lose your hand. You would have to get a hook, and everyone would call you a pirate, and we hate pirates.
“Please, please, please.” I whispered it while I stood, clenching my jaw, massaging his arm, grateful that his skin was warm, he was alive.
The purple began lightening to a pinkish blue and then a somewhat normal color of skin tone began to show its self, and I whimpered again. But it was a grateful whimper.
I moved over to Lucas’s body. He lay face down, and I knew I would have to turn him over. I steadied myself on my left leg, standing like a stork or a flamingo, with my bloody right leg holding none of my weight. I leaned over, concentrating on my center of balance, don’t fall, I commanded myself, don’t you fall Sophia. You’re a ballerina. You can stand on one leg, for Christ’s sake. I am not, in fact, a ballerina, but every girl pretends to be, so I forced myself to stand, and lean, and balance, on one leg. Grab his shoulder. Oh God, that big, strong, world-bearing shoulder. I lifted, my flamingo leg bearing my weight and his briefly, as I lifted, and shoved, and flopped Lucas unceremoniously onto his back.
“Aha!” I whimpered it out, my jaw still clenched, and my waist reminding me that it and its friend the hip were also not happy with me, but I ignored them. Now, check for a pulse. I hopped closer to Lucas’s broad chest like an ungraceful flamingo/stork/ballerina and leaned again, my fingers reaching for his neck. Find a pulse.
His face was turned away, and my hand swerved from its goal to grab his chin and turn his head. His entire face was covered in blood.
“Oh!” It was a moan/wail. My voice a whimper and a sob.
I almost fell but as my stork leg began to give, my right leg screamed, the foot jolting against the ground. I sobbed again, catching myself before I did any damage or passed out. Choking and crying once more, the tears blurring my vision, I reached for his face. There was nowhere to touch that wasn’t covered in blood. I pulled my hand back refusing to look at the morbid scene, Lucas’s eyes were closed and coated in red, his beard soaked and still dripping, small drops landing on the yellow of the raft. A few dropping onto his tan shoulder to run in a lazy line down to join the bloody pool now forming on Ducky. I reached again for his neck. I pressed my fingers up under his jaw, and there, I felt it. A pulse, clear and strong.
I was still crying. I needed to find a way to wash away the blood, find the wound. Stop the bleeding.
“Oh God Lucas, you damn cowboy,” I cursed and looked up at the sky. The rain fell steadily, and I saw no edge to the pearly gray clouds. They didn’t seem threatening, just big, and full of water. Keep coming. I encouraged the rain. Wash us clean. Already the blood on Lucas’s face had begun streaking and running. It was matting into his hair and streaming rivulets into his ears, but it would wash, and wash until I could see clearer, find his wound.
I hopped back, ungracefully, to the suitcases. Splashing into the water, careful to make the splashes delicate, to keep the lightning from attacking again. My leg was growing numb, and I knew that soon I would need to bandage it. Tourniquet or wrap it, help the torn edges together. But right now, I needed Lucas. If I fixed him, then he could fix me, because although I knew my first-aid kit was in my suitcase, I also knew there was no way in heaven or hell that I was going to be able to sew me up.
I lifted and grunted, tossing my suitcase up onto the edge of the raft. Ducky was now almost completely flat, the air in her having escaped through an unseen wound of her own.
“We're all messes, aren’t we Ducky.” I shook my head as I unzipped my bag. I had found my own version of Wilson and understood in that instant, why we all connected to the volleyball, to Tom Hanks and his island friend. We all needed someone, even if it was our imagination imbued into an inanimate object. I actually felt bad, knowing Ducky was wounded too. She had kept me safe. She had done her job. She had held Lucas and me upon the big scary ocean, and she brought us here, maybe to save us. The actual answer was ocean current, but I gave Ducky the credit, and thought it sad that she had lost her life in the process.
I pulled a shirt out of my bag and dug around until my hands found the first-aid kit. Then I hopped back with clumsy ballerina style, to Lucas, whose bloody face was already looking less bloody. Leaning over him, I began to wipe away the red. The rain helped. I wiped his eyes gently, and then his nose and mouth and chin. I cleaned off his brow, running the shirt up into his hairline, and there, I found the wound. A long gash that already had a good mound of a goose bump rising around it. It ran from the center of his forehead into his hair. The entire cut was about two inches, but upon close inspection, with the help of the shirt, and the rain cleaning away the site, it didn’t look too deep. No skull showing. No brains. Ugh. The thought was awful, and I kicked myself for even going there.
“You’ll be OK, babe. I’ll fix you.”
I opened the lid of the first aid kit that I had propped on Lucas’s shoulder, careful not to let any rain into the precious dry interior. Thank God for waterproof boxes. I found a small tube of iodine, and a bottle of super glue. Then I pulled out a square of gauze from a zip-lock baggy and a roll of Ace bandage. The med kit was looking weak. I should have restocked before the trip, but honestly, I had never imagined I would need all the meds. I closed up the medical kit and set it inside the raft. Holding the shirt draped over my head and Lucas’s, I leaned into his shoulder. Letting his body bear most of my weight, I made a roof over us with one arm, then with the other I parted his hair along the gash, and tore open the iodine pack with my teeth.
The bleeding had almost stopped with the pressure I had applied while cleaning the cut and sopping up the blood. I knew that head wounds always bled a lot, but until today I hadn’t seen the full force of that adage, and I hoped never to again.
Carefully, I aimed the torn edge of the package over the wound and squeezed the ugly yellow iodine into it, being sure to get a liberal amount around the wound. I didn’t want any sneaky germs trying to crawl in later. I waited a few minutes. Breathing slowly, clenching my jaw. While the iodine did its trick and began to dry, I attempted to stay focused.
I was getting dizzier, and started to think maybe I should have bandaged myself first. Maybe I was losing more blood than I had thought. The hot coals were still smoldering in my leg, and my lips had begun to tingle, but I couldn’t think of what that might mean.
Back to Lucas’s wound, I twisted open the Super Glue, again with the assistance of my teeth, and drew a line in his scalp where the skin had torn, careful not to touch the glue with my fingers. I pressed the edges of the wound together, holding it while the glue proved its super, and set. Better than stitches. Within a few minutes I was able to put the gauze on the site without worry the glue would make it a permanent fixture to his scalp. Then I wrapped the Ace bandage around his head to hold the gauze, not having any other way to attach it without shaving the site and using tape.
With no energy left, and the numbness in my lips slowly spreading to my nose and face, I leaned over and kissed the crown of Lucas’s head and whispered, “All better.” Then I felt myself falling, very slowly, and a tunnel of darkness met me at the bottom.
Chapter 14
Someone was holding something to my mouth. It tasted sweet and refreshing, so I drank. I felt groggy and hot all over. My eyes burned and felt like they had been sealed shut. My entire right side, from the waist down, burned in a th
robbing pulse that kept time with the pounding in my head.
I concluded I had been hit by a truck and decided to go back to sleep, let the doctors do their thing, patch me up. Give me some aspirin, man, I would kill for some morphine. But something in my mind -- I concluded it was a nasty little voice that had moved in without permission -- whispered that there were no trucks on the island.
The island. Land! I woke up with visions of waves and blood, and a deflated raft. I tried to sit up. A strong hand pushed me back down gently, and I turned my head to see Lucas hovering over me.
“Lucas!” He was alive, and whole and gorgeous, and dressed. I registered that fact just as I registered that I too had something covering me, a blanket. I glanced down. No, my dresses. They were damp and a little crusty with salt, but it was a nice feeling. As if I were tucked into a bed. Albeit a wet bed, made of leaves and palm fronds. On the ground. But I didn’t care. Lucas was there, and the sight of him lifted the worry and made the pain just bearable.
“Hey.” His voice was low and full of concern. I saw that he had stripped off the Ace bandage, but the gauze I had applied was still in place on his brow, probably glued there with blood. “How are you feeling?”
I almost laughed. What kind of question was that? I felt too much to name them all, but decided to try, if nothing else, to see if I could figure them out. Attempt therapy via acknowledgment.