Stranded

by Melinda Braun

  Who were they talking about? Me? Just like in the hospital, talking about me like I wasn’t there, like I can’t hear them, like I don’t have a say. The voices in my head were back again. And this time I couldn’t make them shut up.

  It wasn’t my fault!

  Oh, yes it was.

  No, it was an accident.

  Maybe. But it happened because of you, Emma.

  It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t me. That old man! He had a stroke. He died. He crashed his car into us!

  That’s a pretty cheap shot, Emma. Blaming the dead. Remember, you weren’t supposed to be driving that road.

  But it was his fault!

  He would have had the stroke, yes, but he would’ve crossed the median into an empty lane. He would have hit the guardrail, flipped his car over it, and landed upside down in the holding pond. He would have been lucky—he could’ve gone out with a bang. But you took that away from him, didn’t you? Now he’s the old man who had a stroke and killed a little girl, his whole life reduced to another cautionary tale.

  I’m sorry.

  And you couldn’t even save your sister. Really, Emma? The champion swimmer couldn’t save her own sister from the backseat of an underwater car. Really?

  It wasn’t like that. I couldn’t get the door open. It was so dark. I didn’t know which way was up or down.

  Excuses, excuses.

  I went back, but I couldn’t find the car. It was so dark.

  It was only nine feet of water, Emma.

  I tried. I kept going back down. Finally, I found her, I pulled her out.

  But it was too late, wasn’t it?

  Stop it!

  No.

  Why won’t you leave me alone?

  Isn’t this what you wanted? Isn’t that what you’ve been thinking about for over a year? For it all to be over? It can be that way, you know.

  Not like this. I don’t want to die like this.

  Who says you get to choose?

  But I don’t want to now.

  We don’t always get what we want, do we, Emma?

  * * *

  Light swelled behind my eyelids, which were difficult to open, being crusted shut with sleep. Or possibly something infectious.

  I pulled pieces from my eyelashes with some effort, my fingers fluttering over my face, and when I finally opened them, I saw two things: the edge of the creek bed and Oscar’s back. He was dressed in his turquoise-blue T-shirt I’d seen him in the first day, but now it looked like a completely different person was wearing it.

  I rolled my head to the side. I was sitting, semipropped up against a tree trunk, zipped securely in my sleeping bag, like a swaddled infant.

  “Well, well, well. Look who’s awake.” Isaac dropped a pile of sticks next to the fire.

  “How are you feeling, Emma?” Oscar must have heard Isaac, because he was now hovering over me, his eyes roving around in a long clinical stare.

  “Like death.”

  “You sure look it,” Isaac replied. “At least I thought you came pretty damn close.”

  My lips cracked with my smile. I still felt light-headed, but thankfully the nausea was gone. “How long was I out?”

  Oscar looked away.

  “How long?” I demanded, trying to sound strong, but my voice reminded me of a mouse getting stepped on.

  “A day,” Oscar whispered, and crouched down. “You’ve been out for a whole day and night.”

  I shrank back, but there was nowhere to go. I was horrified, and not just because he was seeing me in this condition.

  Isaac shook his head slowly. “We thought you were a goner, Dodd. We all did. Well, everyone here except Wiener.”

  Oscar looked like he wanted to disagree. “I’ve never seen anyone that sick before. I had no idea what to do.” He stood back up. “I guess boiling the water wasn’t overkill, was it?”

  The water. He thought it was the water. I didn’t mention the mushrooms. How could I have been that stupid? I know how; I was starving.

  “Did a plane . . . ,” I began.

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No.”

  “They’re not coming, are they?”

  Oscar swallowed. “Don’t know.”

  “It’s been over a week, Wiener. You do know.”

  “Shut up, Isaac.”

  “Make me.”

  “I’m thirsty,” I said. “And hungry.”

  “Good,” Oscar said. “That’s good. If you’re hungry that means you’re better.”

  “I had horrible dreams.” I shivered, remembering.

  “Fever dreams?”

  “No. Not dreams even. I was just remembering.”

  “You screamed,” he said finally. “You kept screaming the same thing over and over.”

  “What did I say?”

  Oscar didn’t answer me but shrugged as if he couldn’t remember, and it was Isaac who finally told me. “Lucy,” he said. “You kept screaming for Lucy.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, somehow knowing he was going to say that.

  “Who’s Lucy?”

  “It’s your sister, right, Emma?” Chloe was crouched down on the far side of the fire, tossing yellow and green things into the cook pot. Dandelions. She stripped the leaves from the gold flowers. “Leave her alone, Isaac.”

  It wasn’t a suggestion. Isaac dipped his head and pursed his lips at her.

  “It’s okay,” I said, and pushed myself up against the tree. “Chloe’s right. Lucy’s my sister. Was my sister. She died last year. Drowned.”

  Oscar sank down, sat back on his heels. “I’m sorry.” He put his head down, holding it between his hands as if it were a fragile thing that might shatter.

  “I’m the one who killed her.”

  It was only a whisper, but loud enough for all three faces to jerk up in surprise.

  I shouldn’t have said that—whether or not it was true, whether or not that’s what I meant to say. I shouldn’t have said that. Not ever. “What I mean is, it was my fault she died.”

  “Can I ask what happened?”

  The words came out slow, calm, the first time I explained what had happened out loud. I sounded like I was telling a story about someone else, like I was talking about the weather. “It was a car accident.” I swallowed hard. “An old man had a stroke, drove his car into ours.”

  “Oh.” Oscar blinked. “God.”

  “We flipped over a guardrail and landed in a holding pond,” I continued. “My little sister was in the backseat. I got out.” I dropped my chin. “She didn’t.”

  “Damn,” Isaac said suddenly. “I remember that.”

  “What?” Oscar turned. “How do you know about it?”

  “It was in the news last summer. Even made our local paper. Just a paragraph though,” Isaac clarified, looking grim. “That was you?”

  Just a paragraph. That’s all a life comes down to, I guess.

  “Yeah, it was me.” I bent my head back down to my knees.

  No one spoke. There was really nothing else to say.

  Day 12

  Late Morning

  Chloe made me drink a canteen full of dandelion tea (not nearly as disgusting as it sounded) and told me what happened during the past twenty four hours when they thought I was going to kick the bucket.

  It wasn’t a long list.

  No planes.

  No food, except for blueberries.

  Oscar’s wrist was still injured, and everyone had decided it was, in fact, broken.

  Chloe could walk. Walk walk. Not just gimp around with her crutch.

  I hadn’t noticed when she got up to fill my canteen that she wasn’t using the crutch Oscar had made for her, but I watched her now. Her eyes had that gleaming look (hunger) and the same sunken sockets we all did, ringed with dark shadows, but her smile was as bright as ever.

  “It’s better? You can walk now?” I leaned forward, felt dizzy, then leaned back. At least I no longer smelled. Well, not like I did. Because we d
idn’t have any more soap (only shampoo), I had used handfuls of sand to scrub the filth from my body, and it had worked surprisingly well. My sweatshirt and pants, however, were beyond saving. I left them under a sumac, the lime-green leaves already tinged at the edge with red. The weather is changing; the trees know it. How much longer do we have before the storm arrives?

  Chloe stirred more dandelions into the pot. “You know it. Almost good as new.”

  “Which is why we now need to get the hell out of here,” Isaac replied. “We’ve already wasted a day waiting.”

  Waiting for me. Either waiting for me to die or waiting for me to recover. I flushed in embarrassment.

  “Nobody’s going to rescue us. They aren’t,” he added quickly, as though expecting immediate disagreement, but no one argued. “Plus the storm . . .” He didn’t need to elaborate. The storm could happen any day—actually, it was already a few days late. It could happen any minute. We needed to keep going. How many more miles would it be? Ten? Fifteen?

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to move Emma yet,” Oscar said, as though I were some large, difficult object. “She’s barely eaten anything in two days.”

  “None of us have eaten in two days,” Isaac pointed out, before glancing up to the sky. “We maybe have another day before that fucking blizzard drops on us.”

  “It might not happen. Remember?”

  “Christ, Wiener! Everything that can happen to us has! At least everything that’s super shitty. Don’t you get it?” Isaac hollered. “This is no time to become an optimist!”

  “I’m not,” Oscar said slowly, glancing at me. “We just have to go slow is all I’m saying.”

  “Well,” Isaac huffed. “You guys are certainly experts in that.”

  “Here.” Chloe turned to me with cupped palms. “Eat these.” She opened her hands to reveal a pile of dusty blue pebbles. “Blueberries,” she said when she saw my confusion. “And I’m pretty sure they’re organic.”

  I picked one up and turned it over in wonder, as if I’d found a diamond. A blueberry. Just like the ones my mom would buy in those plastic pints from the grocery store. We’d go through a pint in a day sometimes, and I remember tossing ones that were wrinkled or smushed on one side. It never occurred to me that there would be a day when there wouldn’t be any more. There had always been more.

  I put it in my mouth and pressed my tongue up, the taste of sugar immediate and euphoric. The best drug there was. I think I might have actually moaned.

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  Good didn’t even begin to describe it. “Where did you find them?”

  “When I was looking for dandelions to make tea.”

  “Where did you learn about that?”

  “You weren’t the only one reading the plant book.”

  “I only read about fungus.” I guess I get an F-minus for reading comprehension.

  “I found them on accident.” Chloe poured the rest of the berries into my hands. “I used my shirt and made a pouch. Figured if I left I’d never find them again, so I stripped those bushes clean.”

  “Yeah, you should’ve seen it, Dodd.” Isaac did his dirty-old-man grin. “Johnson here comes back just in her bra, carrying a huge sack of berries.”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t like what you saw,” she shot back.

  “Okay.” His grin widened. “I won’t.”

  Oscar looked a little uncomfortable with the conversation. “We saved you an even portion.”

  “Thanks.” I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come.

  “Drink more; you’re really dehydrated.” Chloe gave me my canteen. “Careful, it’s still hot.”

  I took my time sipping it. Oscar got up and walked back down to the creek. Isaac went over to the shelter to gather up the supplies, and only when they were both out of hearing distance, did Chloe speak.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Huh?” I took a gulp and singed my throat.

  “Huh, what. You know what.” She poured another handful of berries into my palm. “What’s going on with you two?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Riiigght.” She narrowed her eyes. “So what are you waiting for? Divine intervention?”

  “I don’t even know what that is,” I said, forcing myself to eat the berries one at a time, even though I wanted to cram the whole pile into my mouth. “And anyway, I don’t think it exists.” At least not here.

  “I think you make a good couple.”

  “What’s the point?” I wanted to laugh. “We’re all going to die out here. Isaac’s right. Nobody’s going to rescue us.”

  “Maybe he is right,” Chloe said, shaking her head. “But maybe we can rescue ourselves.”

  Day 12

  Afternoon

  The cliff wasn’t as high as the last one, but it was high enough, and it was steep enough that there was no easy way down. I stared for several minutes at the rock face, looking for a clue of a trail, something worn and obvious, something that showed people had gone this way before. Trampled grass, bent branches, a hole in the brush, a smooth stretch of dirt. Nothing.

  “We’ll have to go around,” Oscar said, dejected.

  “At least we have a good view up here,” Chloe replied.

  “Yeah, a view of trees,” Isaac said. “Trees, trees, trees. Hard to tell if there’s any water.”

  “There’s lakes everywhere. We’ll find something.”

  I put my sunglasses back on, examining the horizon. “Which way is east again?”

  “There.”

  “I don’t think we’ve come this way before. I would have remembered this cliff.” There was something heavy and full about the view of the woods. The silence bothered me. It was dark, even with the bright white sun beating down. The forest seemed to swallow the light; it disappeared into it like a hole, reminding me of a grave, and I didn’t like the way I felt when I looked at it for too long, like I had bugs crawling underneath my shirt. “I don’t want to go down there,” I said, glancing at Chloe. Her face held the same creeped-out expression as mine.

  “Well, that’s east,” Oscar repeated, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time.

  Isaac pointed farther down the cliff face. “It’s not as steep over there. If we go that way, it will take us back down into the woods.”

  “Okay,” Oscar said. “Let’s go. I’m sure there’s going to be water down there.”

  I scanned the tree line again, looking for an open spot, but the forest seemed to stretch unbroken in every direction. How many miles could I see? Ten? Twenty? Shouldn’t we be able to see Lake Superior from here? The vastness was disconcerting, messing with my depth perception. The horizon could be ten miles away. It could be one hundred.

  We went on in silence, single file, our eyes on the ground.

  * * *

  Unfortunately, the silence didn’t last long. Curse words filled it, mainly from Isaac. I think he even started to invent new ones.

  “Effendoodlebugsonofabitch!”

  “You all right, Isaac?”

  “Do I sound all right, Dodd?”

  “You sound interesting.”

  Isaac snorted. “You guys are going too slow.”

  We were about halfway down the cliff, which was about a sixty degree angle, but much better than trying to climb down a vertical wall of rock. We were slow. Oscar was a bit ahead of us, pointing out places we should step, places we should just sit down and scoot, places we should avoid. The last thing we needed was another sprained ankle or broken wrist.

  “Fine, go ahead of us,” I snapped. I waved my hand at him to let him pass. As I did, I pulled out my knife from my back pocket; every time I had sat down, it poked uncomfortably against my tailbone. I moved to let Isaac get around me, and in doing so, I dropped it. It skittered down a few feet and came to rest against a rock. “Dammit.”

  “I’ll get it.” He crawled around us like a crab to get in front, retrieved it from the rock, and smiled back up at me. Or was it a sne
er? “Finders keepers,” he snickered.

  “Give it back.”

  “Keep your panties on, Dodd.” He flipped the blade open and examined it. “I was just kidding.” Isaac started to climb back up to me, but as soon as he did, his boots slipped on some loose gravel. He dropped the tackle box to regain his balance, but his feet shot out from underneath him so quickly he had no time to catch himself. “Oh shit!”

  We were still twenty yards from the bottom when he slipped, and he bounced and skittered down the entire way on his butt, gathering speed and sending down an avalanche of pebbles and dirt. He nearly clipped Oscar as he went past, cursing a streak of something completely unintelligible before he disappeared through a wall of bushes. They shook and bent and snapped and waved from the force, shivering back into place after a few seconds. There was a person-size hole in the branches, like something from a cartoon.

  “Oh my God!” I said. Watching Isaac bounce and fall down the cliff like a rag doll made me feel both sick and amazed.

  “Isaac!” Chloe screamed.

  No answer.

  Oscar was the closest. “Isaac?” He slid and scurried down the rest of the rocks, as fast as he could go safely with one bad arm, and then, after what seemed like an hour, reached the place where Isaac had gone. He looked back up at us, then ducked his head and climbed through.

  “C’mon.” I grabbed Chloe’s arm. “Don’t worry. Oscar will get him.” I stepped so that I was in front, like a buffer. “I’ll go slow. Just take your time, okay? If you lose your balance, sit down.”

  “I already am.” Chloe squatted, ready to crawl down the rest of the way if she needed to.

  I did the same. “Better safe than sorry.”

  * * *

  By the time we reached the hole in the bushes, we were covered in dirt and dripping with sweat.

  “Oscar?”

  “Over here!”

  “You okay?”

  No answer. Then, “Yeah.”

  “Where’s Isaac?”

  “Over here,” he repeated, somewhat softer. “Be careful coming through.”

  “Okay.” I entered into the hole—the bushes weren’t as thick as they looked, and soon enough I was down on the bottom, back in the shade of trees, though it didn’t seem noticeably cooler. No breeze in here. The trees were stubby and bare, sickly looking. No birds chirping in the branches. No sound at all.