Lost Girls

by Ann Kelley

  “Jody’s here, Carly. Mikey’s here,” Jas says.

  “No, he isn’t. Don’t be silly. Mikey’s dead,” Jody tells us.

  “Is he, Jody? How did he die?” I ask her.

  “A wild boar ate him.”

  There is an uncomfortable silence. I go cold. The juniors are better at expressing their fears than the rest of us, it seems.

  “Aren’t you going to look at your presents?” says Mrs. Campbell.

  “Presents?” Jody’s eyes light up. We have all found treasures to give her. I have found the skeleton of a tiny bird, bleached white, wing bones still attached. Jas has found a pile of tiny pink tellin shells and tells Jody they are mermaids’ fingernails. Carly gives her a white feather. May says she will do her hair for her until they are rescued, and Arlene has plaited a bracelet from coconut husk and threaded it with little blue shells. Mrs. Campbell has strung the inner tube up to a leaning palm to make a swing.

  We all sit around on the beach and drink coconut milk and eat figs and a really special treat—eggs. I found eggs in the nest above where the baby-bird skeleton lay. I don’t know what bird the nest belonged to, but whatever it was laid six tiny blue-green eggs. I took five and left one. It’s a terrible shame we have no fire; we have to eat them raw. But to make them more palatable we mix them into the coconut milk and pretend it’s a milk shake. Jas has made a sand cake decorated with shells. Eleven twigs represent candles. We gather around it and tell Jody to blow out the candles. She puffs out her cheeks and blows hard and we sing “Happy Birthday” again and all clap for Jody, who does look pleased. Little rituals like this are important for our well-being. A comfort, where comforts are few.

  “I must keep an eye out for birds’ nests,” I tell Jas. “Eggs are a good source of protein. Toucans’ eggs must be really big.”

  She smiles at me. We haven’t spoken much of late.

  “Jas, where do toucans nest, do you know?”

  She bursts out laughing. “You really want to know?” I nod. I can tell she’s enjoying this.

  “Well, after mating the male walls up his mate alive inside a tree hole and feeds her through a small opening, which is just big enough to take his bill. When the young fledge, the mother breaks out, and they follow.”

  “It would be like breaking and entering!” So no toucan eggs for us.

  Mrs. Campbell pretends to play the ruined guitar, drumming with her knuckles on the surface and plucking the remaining string.

  “Name a tune!” she calls out to us.

  Jody chooses “Teddy Bears’ Picnic.” We all choose “Imagine,” “Let It Be,” and “Bridge over Troubled Water.” We dance together in pairs like old ladies at old-fashioned dances. I partner Jody and Jas dances with Carly standing on her feet. I remember suddenly that I did that with Dad when I was little. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

  Mrs. Campbell finishes with a solo—“My Sweet Lord.” We’re all crying by the time she finishes singing “Hare Krishna, Hare, Hare.” The sand has been churned up by our dancing feet.

  It’s been a successful party, even without real cake, candles, or fire.

  Jas isn’t content to leave the bird skeleton simply as something beautiful to look at; to Jas it’s a teaching tool. We all sit around under the banyan’s spreading branches, where we spend most of our time these days, and she points out to us the various bones and what they are called, and their purpose.

  “You see this bone here? That’s the radius. And that’s the ulna, and that’s the humerus. We have the same bones in our arms and elbows.”

  “Humerus? Is that where the funny bone is?” I ask.

  “I suppose that could be where the expression originated.” We laugh.

  “You make a good teacher, Jas,” says Mrs. Campbell.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Campbell. What did you do before you were married?”

  “Me? Not a lot. After I left drama school in London I went to Los Angeles—tried to be an actress, but spent most of my time working as a waitress in a diner.”

  “Were you in Hollywood?” asks May.

  “No, I never got any parts in movies.”

  A failed actress—that figures. “What made you interested in survival skills?” I ask.

  “What makes you think I am?”

  “Someone said you were.”

  “Well, people say a lot of things about me that aren’t true.” She laughs and pushes her sticky hair away from her face. “Anyway, isn’t it time you called me Layla? Mrs. Campbell makes me feel so old.” I look at her. She has bags under her swollen eyes, her arms are thin, her lips are cracked, and her clothes are ragged, but her beauty surfaces with her smile. It’s the sort of smile that makes us all smile.

  “Is that where you met your American husband, Layla? Los Angeles?” I ask.

  “Yes, he’s… he was from L.A. Used to come to the diner and couldn’t resist my Scottish accent.” She smiles sadly. I’d like to ask her more questions, but before I can, she changes the subject. “While we’re all together, I really think we should be making a plan.”

  “What sort of plan?” asks May, who is weaving Jody’s straggly hair into dozens of tiny plaits.

  “We have a choice: We either make life as comfortable as we can on the island, assuming we are going to be here for a very long time—”

  “But we are going to be found,” I interrupt. “You all seem to have become resigned to being here forever.”

  “Or,” she says, ignoring me, “we make a plan to get off.”

  “We’ve tried a raft, and you know what happened.” I am suddenly angry with her again. She has reminded me of my part in Hope’s death. Not that I need reminding. I’ll never forget the arm raised for help and the scream like a lost seabird.

  “Yes, and it was very brave of you and Hope. Very courageous. But we have to try again. Or attempt to light a fire without matches. Yes, yes, I know, it’s my fault we have no matches. But the weather hasn’t helped.”

  “What do you suggest?” asks Jas.

  “Well, what about one of us using the inner tube as a flotation aid and swimming off for help?”

  By “one of us” she has to mean me, as I’m by far the best swimmer. The shark speeds through my head and strikes me. I shudder. Why should I have to be the one who risks my life again?

  “That’s a stupid, crazy idea. You’ve forgotten the shark,” I tell her.

  “I think we should try to light another fire,” says Jas.

  “How do you intend to do that?” I say, listening to the rain on the corrugated roofing—it sounds heavier than it did on the thatch or bamboo roof and runs in waterfalls onto our floor as we huddle together in the middle.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I remember a boy’s book I read once. I think it said you could scratch a knife blade on a rough rock to make a spark,” Jas replies coolly.

  “Sounds worth a try. Okay, girls, let’s go find the perfect rough rock.” Mrs. Campbell jumps to her feet and leads the way out into the rain. We follow, like good little girls. After about half an hour we have a little pile of likely looking rocks in the camp. I choose a blade from the Swiss Army knife and practice scratching it on the roughest stone. Nothing happens.

  “It doesn’t work. I’m just blunting the knife.”

  “Let’s try the other knife—the boatman’s knife. It’s got a bigger blade.” Mrs. Campbell hands it to me.

  Nothing happens for a while, then there’s a smell of scorching. All eyes are on my hands, scraping back and forth. I keep on and on, and in the darkness of the enclosure I see a tiny spark.

  “Jas, it works. You’re brilliant! Get lots of wood and twigs, the drier the better. Let’s get to work.” I’m so excited that my voice squeaks. I am desperate to build a fire right away.

  But Mrs. Campbell holds up the palms of her hands and my mood plummets.

  “I suggest we build a fire on higher ground and keep it going,” she says, oozing calm. As far as I’m concerned she might as well have s
aid, You’re just kids and know nothing. I want to scream at her, but one look from Jas and I rein myself in.

  “That was what we were trying to do ages ago, for goodness’ sake,” I say.

  “Yes, but this time we know a bit more about the island and can choose the best place for the fire. And we can all tend it.”

  “That’s what you said last time.” I can’t believe her cheek. Doesn’t she realize that I nearly died trying to build that fire? My Quality fire.

  “Bonnie, shh!” Jas slaps my arm.

  “What about wild animals?” says Jody.

  “We’ll take weapons and make a lot of noise,” says Mrs. Campbell.

  “I’ve got a bow and arrow,” Jody says, her eyes dark with excitement.

  We have spears, a bow and arrow, a catapult, and a slingshot that Jas has made of string and a flip-flop toe piece. The boatman’s curved steel blade can be strapped back on the cork handle, once we’ve finished using it as our sparking steel.

  “Bonnie, where do you think is the best place for a signal fire, remembering that we have to make camp nearby so we can keep it going?”

  Ha! Now she thinks my opinion is worth hearing. I want to yell abuse at her, but something tells me that now is not the time. There are other people to think about. I take a deep breath.

  There follows what can only be called a civilized discussion in which we weigh our options. Jas keeps smiling at me, encouraging the Nice Bonnie to stay in touch, to contribute.

  So, after a while, it’s decided. Layla, Jas, and I will trek to Fire Mountain, light a signal fire, and keep it going night and day as long as the weather holds. The juniors will stay on the beach with May and Arlene.

  “Who’s looking after the juniors, then?” I mutter to Jas, and she just smiles, thankful there hasn’t been another argument.

  “You wouldn’t want that pair moaning their way through the island,” she says. “This is definitely the best solution.”

  We watch Carly and Jody run off to make an SOS on the sand, and the rest of us start organizing things for the big trek.

  I decide to practice with the sparking while we’re still on the beach, as there really should be a fire here, too. Then any fish or shrimp can be cooked, and the girls who stay here will have more security from wild animals. I scrape and scratch the steel blade onto the rough side of a large rock in the shelter of our encampment.

  “We’ll have to find a smaller stone,” I say to May, who is watching.

  “Okay.” She wanders off and comes back with just the right size and type of rock.

  I’m surprised, and she hears it in my voice when I thank her.

  “We’re not as useless as you think, Bonnie MacDonald,” she snaps.

  Having gathered a small amount of tinder—lichen mostly, and moss—I set fire to it with the sparks. Oh, the magic of fire! I set twigs on top, calling to the juniors to help, and soon we have a decent campfire. The recent dry spell means some of the timber is dry. We throw coconut husks on; they burn well.

  The fire brightens our faces and lifts our mood.

  “Don’t just stand looking,” Jas shouts. “Let’s catch some supper!”

  We have a frenzy of fishing with the net on a stick, the spear, and the arrow. Before long we have several small fish and shrimp—a feast. I spear the fish on sharpened sticks and roast them on the fire. We boil the shrimp in a shell of water.

  The juniors have stuck feathers in their hair and painted their faces with lipstick and ash. They look tanned and skinny and fierce. After the feast they chase Jas and me around the beach, whooping and yelling and brandishing weapons. It’s good to see them cheerful. I think about Hope and how she gave them towel rides on the sand. I think about what has changed—no Sandy, no Natalie, and no Hope.

  But I’m glad we have a plan.

  Mrs. Campbell writes out a list of campfire watchers, and the rest of us go to bed with optimistic thoughts for once.

  thirty-two

  Hope is calling out, screaming, her face half eaten, one arm and leg gone, the water dark with blood. She swims toward me, brain matter spilling out of her half-eaten head. I turn away. I’m sinking.

  My own strangled groan wakes me. Sweat runs down my forehead into my eyes. I struggle out of my sleeping bag. I can’t smell the fire, but it’s all right. Mrs. Campbell is sitting close to it, her eyes fixed on the glowing ashes. I go into the forest and wash using a tiny dribble of detergent. It’s wonderful the difference soap makes; I feel almost human again. I clean my teeth with a twig, and swill out my mouth with water. Clambering over a fallen tree, I rip off a dead branch and carry it back to the fire.

  “Did you sleep?” Mrs. Campbell asks.

  “Yes, thanks, fairly well.” I sit with her in silence. I wonder how it will feel to be an adult. Is everything as easy as I think it is, black and white, right or wrong? How would I feel if I had lost a husband? I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine what it would be like if my parents were dead. I would be lost. I suppose that alcohol and drugs might seem like the best escape from that sort of pain.

  “You don’t really think there’s been an air strike on the base, do you?”

  “I hope not, Bonnie. But, you know, I heard rumors before we left. More than rumors. The North Vietnamese army is pushing south at a great rate. Cambodia is involved, too.” She points at the nearest coast. “The South Vietnamese can’t hold out forever, and America is no longer prepared to support them—they’re moving troops out. It’s going to end badly.”

  “You mean they’ve lost the war against the communists?”

  “America is getting out.”

  “Abandoning them?”

  She shrugs. I try to digest what she’s saying. We sit silently, watching the glow of the embers.

  “I don’t believe they’d just abandon them,” I say eventually. “My dad says that they’re fighting for freedom, fighting against the communists and their repression.”

  “I’m sure… I’m sure that’s what he believes,” she says quietly.

  I don’t want to take offense, but I don’t understand what she means.

  “Beware of loving a warrior, Bonnie.”

  “A warrior? What do you mean?” It sounds like a quote from a history book, or from Shakespeare or someone. “Like a soldier?”

  “Yes. They become brutalized by the casual violence of war.”

  Was that another quote? “My dad’s an instructor….” I say, and she nods.

  There is a long silence.

  “Is that what happened with your husband?” I ask. She nods slowly, her face hidden from me.

  “But I thought you loved him?”

  “I did… at first.”

  “Did you love Jas’s father?” I can’t help myself.

  She stares at me, shocked. “How did you—?” She breaks off and sobs, her face in her hands. She shakes her head and doesn’t answer right away. “It’s over, anyway,” she says eventually. “I was mad. Stupid. It should never have happened. If we get out of here I’m going home to Aberdeen.” She takes a deep breath and says, “God, I need a cigarette. Does Jas know about…?”

  I shake my head. We sit for a while in silence.

  “Mrs. Campbell, Layla…”

  “Yes, Bonnie?”

  “The raft… Hope built it…. She wanted me to wait until the wind dropped, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to be heroic, to save everyone. I made her come with me, and I couldn’t steer through the reef, and we wrecked. She had no chance, you see, once she was in the water. She couldn’t see… couldn’t see where she was swimming. Her eyes… She had no chance. And it’s all my fault, my fault.” Emotion overwhelms me.

  She gathers me in her arms and I smell her hair and sour sweat. Tears and snot flood my throat. I’m choking. I want my mother and father. In my mind I see little Sandy with her teddy and Natalie with her comfort blanket, and poor brave Hope who overcame her stutter and built a raft. I sob for all of our dead and for myself, for my g
uilt and my arrogance, for Jas and her mother, for what feels like the end of my childhood.

  When my sobbing subsides, I pull away from Layla. She looks exhausted and old and sad.

  “You must be tired. Better get some rest. We’ll be setting off today, won’t we?” I say to her.

  “Thanks, Bonnie, I will.” She touches me on the shoulder as she rises.

  The fire has a solid base and I check that there’s enough wood and coconut husks to last as fuel for several days. I gather figs and freshwater for breakfast, and the others wake and join me. Layla sleeps on.

  “Let her sleep,” I say. “She’ll need all her energy for the climb.”

  Jas raises an eyebrow at me.

  We are traveling light. Just the weapons, the knives, water, of course, and sleeping bags. I carry my backpack, which holds my journal, my pencil, and what’s left of my Robert M. Pirsig. I can’t travel without them. We’ll gather food when we need to; no point in loading ourselves unnecessarily. We have the broken mirror wrapped in a banana leaf, and the sparking stone, and some twine.

  Arlene and May, Carly and Jody wave good-bye to us. The juniors’ war paint is smudged over their faces. I think Jody is about to cry. She hugs Jas, and then me.

  “This time, stay here,” I say sternly.

  “It was Mikey’s fault, not mine—he made me go.”

  “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” I say.

  “Bonnie!” Jas says, smiling at me. Then to Jody she says, “Okay, okay, just be good and help with the fire and do what you are told, all right?”

  “Yes, Jas.”

  “You must be sure to keep the fire going, girls; don’t let the juniors go into the sea; and pray it doesn’t rain,” Mrs. Campbell says to them.

  “Yes, Layla.”

  “And if anything bad happens to Jody or Carly while we’re away, I’ll kill you,” I add.

  “Oh, piss off, Bonnie MacDonald,” May snaps.

  “They’ll be okay, don’t worry,” says Arlene. “We’ll look after them.”

  We have two flashlights, and the beach group has two. They have their own spears and bow and arrow, but we have both knives and the other weapons.