by Drew Jordan
“No.” He didn’t even turn around to look at me.
Just no.
I waited for an explanation but knew that was a waste of time. “Why not?”
“Because you can’t walk. And I have other things to do than carry you on my back for forty miles. The river isn’t frozen yet so I can’t take the snow machine.”
My whole body was stiff and when I swung my feet over the side of the bed, I knew he was right. My ankle was still hugely swollen and sore. I couldn’t bend it. There was no way I could even walk twenty feet, let alone forty miles. Jesus. Forty miles. The sense of being trapped descended on me. “Don’t you have a car?”
That had him turning around to look at me incredulously. “To drive on what? There’s no road, Laney.”
“Oh, right.” City girl alert. I guess I’d known that, but it was still just incomprehensible. We were cut off. Totally alone. “I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. Is there a way you can radio for someone or… something?” I hesitated, afraid whatever I would say was totally wrong. It was intimidating not to understand anything about a way of life.
“No.” He came toward me again.
I felt fragile, vulnerable. I needed him to say it was okay. That everything was okay. I needed him.
Whatever he was thinking was a mystery to me. But he bent over in front of me, his thighs brushing my knees, his palm cupping my cheek. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ll take care of you. And all you need to do is get better.”
I nodded, and I felt five years old. I felt like a little girl seeking a father’s approval and reassurance. It was an unpleasant need that swirled inside me, even at the same time I was grateful for his attention, comfort. I’d never thought of myself as needy, per se. I’d been single more than I’d had boyfriends, because I wasn’t someone who sought out a guy the minute one relationship went south, because when I was in, I was all in. I was used to being alone emotionally.
But then I’d never been in a plane crash before. It was okay to be needy.
“Thanks, Devin.” I don’t even know why I called him Devin. It felt like a name of a nice guy. A guy who would be there for you. I wanted him to be a Devin.
He smiled. “Good. I like it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me what you want.”
After he moved away from me, he pulled on the jeans he’d been wearing the night before. They had just been tossed over a chair. Then he brought a few things over to me on the bed. “Your phone. You should turn it off. I didn’t see the charger so it’s going to run out of battery. Your wallet. And your birth control pills.” He set everything on the nightstand.
“Thanks.” I caressed my phone, checking for messages and notifications, even though I knew I wouldn’t have any. It indicated I didn’t have a signal, so I scrolled through the last few messages I’d gotten. Michael, telling me he’d be at the airstrip to meet me. Victoria, sounding petulant about my departure. My stepfather telling me to let him know when I got to Fairbanks, which I hadn’t done. I felt guilty for blowing him off.
Then I busied myself looking at pictures I had in my camera roll. Me and my friends on my birthday, wearing Downton Abbey inspired hats. Then later in the night, dancing at a club, looking a little drunk, but happy. Our family dog. My baby sister. I wondered what everyone was thinking.
Devin had a flannel shirt on now and was sitting down, stuffing his feet into boots. “Do you want coffee?”
“Coffee would be great.”
“I’ll make some when I come back in.”
“I can do it.” I felt weird having him wait on me.
“In a day or two you can. Just rest today.”
Except that wasn’t what I did. After taking my pill, worrying about spotting and a lack of feminine hygiene products in a mountain man’s cabin, I hobbled around the room, slowly, taking better stock of my surroundings. It was sparse, but it seemed to be well built. There were no whistling winds coming through cracks and the floor was even and well sanded. I could have walked barefoot without risk of getting a splinter. The possessions were utilitarian in nature. Iron pots. The gun rack. A whole row of hunting knives on a shelf. Three pairs of boots by the door. One lone rug in front of the wood stove, and as I got closer to it, I realized that dark textured shag I’d thought was flokati was actually a bearskin rug. He had a bearskin rug. Damn. It made me shudder for some reason.
The only drawers were in the dresser, and glancing out the kitchen window to see if I could visually spot Devin, I debated opening them. I wanted to see if I could find something with his name on it. I located him in the yard, feeding the dogs. He was scooping some chunky liquid with a ladle out into their bowls. Keeping him in my sight line, I carefully opened the top drawer. It was underwear, socks, and T-shirts. The second drawer was flannels shirts and jeans. The third was miscellaneous crap that most people would have in a junk drawer in their kitchen. A post it pad, some pens, a pair of scissors, duct tape. The bottom drawer had a present in it. A wrapped present, about the size of a book. Just tucked into the drawer next to a couple of sweatshirts.
Standing up I glanced out the window. He was chopping wood now. I could hear the dull thud of the ax as he swung. His strength was obvious. The wood split in two, the pieces flying. Feeling guilty for my nosiness, but unable to resist, I bent down again and lifted the gift box, shaking it a little. It didn’t make any noise. The paper looked a little yellow, the edges soft. Underneath it was a newspaper clipping. An obituary. For one Chelsea Anne Newcomb, a pretty blonde who looked to be in her early to mid-twenties.
I did the math quickly. Twenty-four. My age. Her death had been five years earlier. Which was when the stranger said he had moved here. Was she his sister? His girlfriend. I quickly read the information listed. A nurse. Beloved daughter of Chad and Janice Newcomb. Survived by brother Jason and sister Kiki. No mention of how she had died, just where the funeral was and how to donate flowers. I crammed it back exactly the way I’d found and set the gift on top. After shutting the drawer, my palms sweaty from fear I’d get caught, I glanced out. Still chopping wood.
Was he Jason? Chelsea’s brother. I should have studied her picture better to see if I could find any similarities in their features. Sister, lover, friend. No matter who she was she’d been important to him and I felt a wave of compassion for my stranger. He had loved this girl. Lost her. He’d retreated to isolation in the wilderness. That spoke more about him than the words I’d managed to wrest from him.
Crouching had made my foot hurt like hell and I was out of breath so I limped to the chair next to the table. I didn’t want to climb back into bed. I had to use the outhouse, which gave me a choice. I could wait for him and who knew how long he’d be, and then have him grope at my pants again like he had the night before, or I could put on one of his coats and hop there myself. I hadn’t been wearing my coat on the plane and it was lost now to the wreckage, along with my adorable Kate Spade handbag. I didn’t care other than I would have liked a coat that fit me to better keep the warmth close to my body. His coats hanging on the hooks were huge. I chose a black puffer coat and sat back down to pull it on and zip it up. I knew it wasn’t even that cold out there by Alaskan standards- he was chopping wood just in his flannel shirt- but I was chilled to the bone. I would have loved a hot bath, but I didn’t even see anything that could qualify as a shower.
I also only had one boot. The other boot must have been abandoned on the plane when he pulled my foot out from under the crushed seat. So I gingerly put my foot into his huge boot and tested my balance. This was a stupid idea. It would have been awkward on a regular day, but with the inability to really bend my ankle, it was bordering on dangerous. Once I got to the door I would ask him for help. Jason. I would ask Jason for help. I tried the name on for size, but then I realized I couldn’t call him Jason without him realizing what I had done. Damn. That sucked.
Besides, my gut told me Chelsea had been his girlfriend, not his sister. That feeling was based on
absolutely nothing, but I still had it. I limped to the door then out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind me. I had the immediate concern that I’d just locked us out of the house, so I tugged on it again to make sure it would reopen. Maybe he didn’t even have locks, but it was just a natural reaction. To me. The child of the mini-mansion suburbs.
The dogs were howling again. I wasn’t sure how he could stand that. They sounded so urgent, yanking on their chains. Then I heard him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I turned around quickly and grabbed for the porch railing. I took the steps down carefully. He had put his ax down and was wiping his forehead.
“I have to use the outhouse.”
Picking my way carefully across the snow, I realized that the sun was shining and it was actually starting to melt. The yard was showing patches of mud and grass. The outhouse was to the right of the cabin, buffered by a copse of trees.
“Laney. Stop moving,” he commanded.
“I’m fine.” It made me feel in control to be walking, taking care of my needs myself, even though my gait was uncertain in his oversized boots.
“Now! Fucking stop moving.”
I froze and looked over at him.
All I saw was the barrel of his gun pointed directly at me. “Oh, Jesus,” I managed, my hands going up automatically. “Please. Don’t. I’ll stop.” Doing what I didn’t know. But I would stop everything. Anything he wanted, I would cease and desist immediately. My heart was in my throat and I thought for a second I would faint.
Then the gun fired.
CHAPTER FOUR
I closed my eyes in panic, too terrified to duck or run, but my mouth opened on a scream. My voice was drowned out by the shot and the sound of the dogs barking ferociously. I waited for the pain, for oblivion, heart jumping in my chest. Death wanted me desperately, it seemed. I had survived the crash, but not the rescue. I hoped it would be over fast so I wouldn’t have to see my own blood staining the snow.
But after a split second my eyes flew open and I saw that the stranger was running toward me, his gun up. “Get down, Laney!” he yelled at me.
I did, out of instinct, obedience. I turned to see what he was looking at and saw it then- a burly, thick furred bear, still moving, but down on the ground. “Oh, my God!” I tried to run and fell from the oversized boots and from my injury. I landed hard on my knees, a stupid girl who fell at the worst moment ever. Panicking, I started crawling, scrambling, away from the bear.
The second shot still scared me, causing me to jump, an involuntary yelp escaping before I could prevent it. The stranger had rescued me yet again. A frantic glance back showed he had a boot on the hide of the bear. He put the rifle to the animal’s head and this third shot was muffled, less frightening. I lay on my hip, heart still thumping, throat dry from screaming. I just lay there, panting, waiting for him to tell me what to do. I was so rattled, I couldn’t think. I had thought I was going to die. Twice in two days I had thought I was going to die.
Tears threatened, those same all-encompassing sobs I had humiliated myself with the day before and I bit my bottom lip hard to stop them, digging my fingernails into the snow and the muddy clay beneath it. I ground my fingers in, nails bending back, ripping off, my ankle throbbing as I dragged it out from under me. I couldn’t give in. I couldn’t. I needed to hold it together. Dirt and slushy snow covered my fingers as they sank, my skin splotchy and red above my wrists. I yanked them back out, watched the slide of moist earth down my arms, under my coat sleeves. The irrational action brought me back from the edge of hysteria.
The stranger’s arm went under my chest and he hauled me to my feet. “You okay?”
I raised my gaze to his blue eyes and nodded rapidly. It was then that it occurred to me the reason I had fought so hard to keep the tears at bay was because I suspected he wouldn’t have patience for them. I hadn’t wanted to anger him. “I didn’t know…” I said then clamped my lips shut again.
He didn’t say anything else, but he was angry with me anyway, I could tell. His jaw was set. His eyes narrowed. I’d done what he had told me not to. But I wasn’t sure if he was angry that I’d put myself at risk or just annoyed by my disobedience. It didn’t matter, really. I just knew he was angry and I hated it.
“I’m sorry,” I said simply. Over explaining wouldn’t change anything. “Thank you for saving me. Again.” A shudder rolled through me. I felt nausea rise in my throat but I fought it.
“Let’s get you inside.” He easily swung me up into his arms.
I wanted to wrap myself around his neck but my hands were filthy so I let them dangle away from him so I wouldn’t muddy his jacket.
“I have to take the bear down to the river and butcher him there,” he said. “There’s already too much blood. Any more and the predators will start coming in too close to the house.”
That forced me to look back, at the bear still on the ground. The blood that splashed the snow was his, not mine. I breathed in and out, a sharp staccato, my breath a quick vapor that appeared only to disappear immediately in front of me, over and over. No words came out. I felt like this must be what a panic attack was- this inability to focus on anything other than my anxiety.
The stranger opened the door and brought me into the house. He set me on the chair. “Take the boots off,” he said. “You’re going to have to wait on coffee unless you get it yourself. I have to take care of this right now.”
“Okay. That’s fine.” I bent over to undo laces but my hands were still caked in mud. They were ice cold from the snow and I debated what to do with them. There was no sink that just turned on and off but I didn’t ask. I wasn’t going to ask. I’d already made more work for him. I’d come into his world, an inconvenience and bother, disturbing his routine, offering him nothing but aggravation.
The weight of my situation rested on me, heavy, and anxiety melted into a deep, jarring depression. I didn’t know what to do. About anything.
He left without another word, yanking the door shut. I wanted to stand up and watch him, so I went ahead and used my filthy hand on the laces. It hurt to pry the boots off, pain in my ankle and my scraped up raw fingers feeling stiff, uncooperative. I picked my way carefully across the room to the window above the sink. He was wrapping a chain around the bear, then winching it to the back of an ATV. His movements were strong, confident, but it was obviously a seriously heavy animal. Just moving a leg seemed to require a serious effort. Once it was attached to the ATV, he got in and drove, dragging the bear across the yard and down out of sight. The river. I wondered if I could hear it. I couldn’t see it, not from the house.
I was aware of the fact that I still had to pee, but I wasn’t going back out there. Fuck that.
Limping, I tried to figure out how to wash my hands and make coffee, but I couldn’t seem to puzzle out how the pump on the sink worked. The drinking water in the cooler was obviously not for washing up so I didn’t touch it. I just let the dirt dry on my hands slowly, moving a chair in front of the stove to accomplish it faster. Time ticked by with anemic, sluggish speed. It felt like he’d been gone a long time. My bladder hurt from fullness. My stomach growled. I felt the dizziness that came from lack of food and caffeine. After an indeterminate amount of time I got up again and foraged, drinking some water and finding some jerky in the cupboard. I tore into the salty meat with my teeth, saliva flooding my tongue.
There were things in his makeshift kitchen that I didn’t know how to use. Didn’t even know what they were. A glance out the window showed him coming back toward the house. My spirits lifted, but then I saw he was just covering the blood in the snow with something. Sawdust? I wasn’t sure. Then he went back in the direction he had come from. When he turned, I saw it. The blood. On his jacket, his jeans.
That should have had me looking away, but I studied him. Jason. I studied Jason. The man who had lost his sister. Or the nameless man who’d lost his girlfriend. He moved with purpose, every stride powerful, p
lanned. What brought a man to the middle of the wilderness? Who would want to live in a daily struggle for survival? Completely isolated.
I hated being alone. It didn’t take an expensive therapist to pinpoint the how or the why. It came from all those nights when my mother put me to bed then went out. I assume she went out to bars or on dates, but I don’t really know. We’ve never talked about it. Maybe she’s convinced herself I don’t remember or that I was never aware. But I was. I knew every single time. It was like the click of the front door ripped me out of sleep and then I would lie there on the bed, the darkness encroaching on me, smothering me. I heard every creak and groan of the walls and floors settling, every sound from the apartment upstairs. The toilet flush, the footsteps. I heard the wind outside, the windows rattle. I heard cars drive down our street and the occasional siren. If fear had a sound, I heard that too. It was the beat of my heart, the thump of my pulse in my veins, the shallow rhythm of my breathing, the scrape of my feet on the bottom of the bed, a weird self-soothing technique I picked up along the way.
One night I had to use the bathroom and eventually wet the bed rather than get up and go, too scared. In the morning, I changed my own sheets. I was six.
Then mom married Dean and everything got better. But being alone still scared me and I avoided it. I went from home to a dorm to roommates.
To Alaska.
The silence in the cabin crawled over my skin. It was alive, absence of sound creating a hum in my ears, the noise of anxiety, rising panic. It was like the plane after I woke up- the stillness obvious, unnatural.
He was gone a very long time. So long that I picked the dried flakes of mud off my fingers. So long that I found crackers and ate three of them. So long that I thought I would go insane. There were no books in his cabin. None. I thought about a meme a friend had sent me awhile ago that said “If he doesn’t have books in his apartment, don’t fuck him.” That made laughter, irrational giggles, erupt from me. The need to go to the bathroom was so urgent, everything inside me hurt from the pressure. I was a jiggling leg, cramping gut, tense mess and I decided that if I couldn’t go to the outhouse, I could still go. I put the boots back on and cautiously opened the front door, looking both ways. Then I scuttled out onto the porch, feeling self-conscious and criminal. I went to the very edge and sat down, easing my legs through the railings. Then I pulled my pants down and peed. I sighed in relief as it ran out, not even caring that it splashed my leg.