On the Island (9781101609095)

by Graves, Tracey Garvis

I looked in my suitcase and found a long white tank top. After twenty minutes, I helped him sit up.

  “I’m sorry, I know it hurts.”

  I bent his arm at the elbow and tucked the sling underneath, tying it gently at his shoulder. Easing him back down, I brushed the hair out of his face and kissed his forehead. “Try not to move around.”

  “Okay, Anna.”

  Maybe it didn’t hurt that bad though, because when I glanced back at him before leaving the life raft, he had a smile on his face.

  I woke up that night to put wood on the fire.

  “Anna?”

  T.J.’s voice startled me. “Yes?”

  “Can you help me out of here? I have to pee.”

  “Sure.”

  I helped him through the doorway of the life raft and then built up the fire. When he returned, I gave him more Tylenol.

  “Have you been able to sleep at all?” I asked.

  “Not really.”

  The next morning, a lump and purple bruise showed where the bone had snapped. He grimaced when I tightened the sling, and I gave him a third dose of Tylenol.

  He wouldn’t let me give him any more pills after that. “I don’t want to take too much, Anna. We might need it again.”

  He felt better after three days, and he followed me around like a puppy. He came down to the beach when I was fishing, he tagged along when I went to get breadfruit, and he wanted to help empty the water collector. When he tried to go with me to gather firewood, I sent him back to the blanket under the coconut tree.

  “You aren’t going to heal if you don’t stop moving around, T.J.”

  “I’m bored. And I really need a bath. Will you help me when you get back?”

  “What? No, I’m not giving you a bath.”

  Awkward.

  “Anna, you can help me, or you can smell me.”

  I sniffed him. “You’ve smelled better. Okay, I’ll help you, but I’m only washing certain areas and only because you stink.”

  He grinned. “Thanks.”

  We went down to the lagoon as soon as I got back with the firewood. T.J. left his shorts on and sat down in water that covered his lower body. I knelt beside him and rubbed the bar of soap in my hands.

  “Hold this for me,” I said, handing it to him.

  I started by gently washing his face with my soapy hands and then scooped up water in my palm to rinse it off, my fingers touching the stubble on his cheeks and jaw and above his lip.

  “That feels good,” he said.

  I filled up the plastic container I brought and dumped it on his head, then washed his hair. It had grown a lot, and he constantly flicked it out of his eyes. He preferred my straw cowboy hat for keeping it out of his way, which suited me fine; I had long since claimed his baseball cap as my own.

  “I wish we had scissors,” I said. “I’d give you a haircut.”

  He handed me the soap, and I lathered up my hands again. I washed his neck and moved down to his chest, my fingers gliding over his hardened nipples. He watched me silently.

  I washed under his good arm, and his back. He couldn’t raise the other arm so I did the best I could, touching him gently near the bruise.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, when he winced.

  I made the mistake of looking down when I got ready to wash his legs. The water in the lagoon was clear enough to see that he had a hard-on sticking up in his shorts. “T.J.!”

  “Sorry.” He looked at me sheepishly. “I can’t hide this one.”

  Wait, how many have there been?

  I suddenly didn’t know where to look. It wasn’t his fault though; I had forgotten what would happen if you rubbed a seventeen-year-old all over with your hands.

  Or any man, actually.

  “No, it’s okay. It just caught me off guard, that’s all. I thought you were in pain.”

  Appearing genuinely confused, he said, “Well, I didn’t break that.”

  Okay, moving on.

  I washed his legs, and when I got to his feet, I discovered he was ticklish. He jerked his foot away, and then said, “Ow,” when the movement jostled his upper body.

  “Sorry. Okay, you’re sorta clean.”

  “You’re not gonna dry me off?” He gave me a hopeful smile.

  “Ha. That’s funny. You must be confusing us with people who have towels.”

  “Thanks, Anna.”

  “Sure.”

  I helped him bathe for the next two weeks, until he healed enough to do it on his own. Each time, it got a bit less embarrassing for me. I never glanced down again, to see how it affected him.

  “This doesn’t totally suck for you, does it?” I asked one day while washing his hair.

  “Not at all,” he said, with a big smile on his face. “But don’t worry,” he added with mock seriousness. “I’ll pay you back someday. If you ever get hurt, I will definitely give you a bath.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I made a mental note to be extra careful. Bathing him might have been awkward, but it was nothing compared to how I’d feel if it were his soapy hands moving over my skin.

  Chapter 16

  —

  T.J.

  Anna was standing next to the life raft. I handed her the fish I’d caught and stored my pole in the lean-to. “Is there anything in the water collector?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’ll rain later.”

  She looked anxiously at the sky and began cleaning the fish. “I hope so.”

  It was November, and we’d been on the island for five months. Anna said the rainy season wouldn’t return until May. It still rained, about every other day, but not for very long. We had coconut water, but we were still thirsty a lot.

  “At least we know never to drink from the pond,” Anna said, shuddering. “That was awful.”

  “God, I know. I thought I was gonna crap out my spleen.”

  We couldn’t control the rain, but the Maldives had plenty of marine life. The coconut and breadfruit barely took the edge off our hunger, but the brightly colored fish I pulled out of the lagoon kept us from starving.

  I stood in waist-deep water and caught them one after the other. None measured longer than six inches—an earring and a guitar string wouldn’t hold much—and I worried about hooking something bigger and snapping the line. It was a good thing Anna had packed a lot of earrings, because I’d already lost one.

  Even though we had enough to eat, Anna said our diet didn’t have a bunch of important stuff.

  “I’m worried about you, T.J. You still have some growing to do.”

  “I’m growing just fine.” Our diet couldn’t have been that bad, because my shorts were down to my knees when we crashed, and now they were at least an inch higher.

  “The breadfruit must have vitamin C, otherwise we’d probably have scurvy by now,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What the hell is scurvy?” I asked. “That sounds gross.”

  “It’s a disease caused by not getting enough vitamin C,” she said. “Pirates and sailors came down with it on long voyages. It’s not pleasant.”

  Anna should have worried more about herself. Her swimsuit bagged in the ass, and her boobs didn’t fill out her top like before. Her collarbone stuck out and her rib cage showed. I tried to get her to eat more, and she made an effort, but half the time I ended up finishing her food. Unlike her, eating the same thing every day didn’t bother me, and I ate whenever I got hungry.

  One morning, a few weeks later, Anna said, “Today is Thanksgiving.”

  “It is?” I didn’t pay much attention to the date, but Anna kept track every day.

  “Yes.” She closed her datebook and put it down on the ground beside her. “I don’t think I’ve ever
eaten fish on Thanksgiving before.”

  “Or coconut and breadfruit,” I added.

  “It doesn’t matter what we eat. Thanksgiving is about being thankful for what we have.”

  She tried to be cheerful when she said it, but then she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and put on her sunglasses.

  Neither of us mentioned the holiday for the rest of the day. I hadn’t thought about Thanksgiving; I’d assumed someone would find us before then. Anna and I hardly ever talked about rescue anymore though—it depressed us both. All we could do was wait and hope someone flew overhead. That was the hardest thing, not having any control over our situation unless we decided to leave on the life raft, and Anna would never agree to that. She was right. It probably would be suicide.

  That night in bed she whispered, “I’m thankful we have each other, T.J.”

  “So am I.”

  If Anna had died after the plane crash, and I’d been alone all this time, I wondered if I would have made it.

  We spent Christmas Day chasing a chicken.

  Early that morning, when I bent down to gather some sticks for the woodpile, I screamed like a girl when a chicken shot out of a nearby bush and scared the shit out of me.

  I took off after it, but it disappeared into another bush. I thrust my hand in and felt around, but couldn’t reach it.

  “Anna, that flapping sound we keep hearing is from a chicken,” I said, when I returned with the firewood.

  “There are chickens here?”

  “Yes. I chased one into the bushes but it got away. Lace up your tennis shoes. We’re gonna have chicken for our Christmas dinner.”

  “It’s over there. I heard it. I’m going to kick the bush, so get ready to catch it when it runs out the other side,” Anna said, as Operation Catch a Chicken went into overdrive. We’d been tracking it for over an hour, from one end of the island to the other, and we were finally closing in.

  “There it is,” she yelled, when it came flapping out of the bush next to me.

  I tried to tackle it and came away with nothing but a handful of feathers. “Goddammit, you motherfucker!”

  I chased after it. Anna caught up to me and we cornered it in a cluster of bushes. It started to wiggle through a gap in the leaves, but Anna lunged and held on to it. I grabbed its legs, pulled it out of the bush, and slammed it down on the ground.

  Anna didn’t miss a beat. “Good job, T.J.” She patted me on the back.

  I slit its throat and hung it upside down until most of the blood drained out, then pulled the feathers off, trying not to look at its head.

  Anna cut it apart with the knife.

  “This is not at all what it looks like at the grocery store,” she said.

  “It looks fine,” I said. She totally mangled it, but we put the pieces on several rocks and placed them close to the fire.

  She sniffed the air. “Smell that,” she said, as the chicken cooked.

  When it looked done, we let it cool and then pulled the meat apart with our fingers. It was burned in some spots, and a little undercooked in others, but it tasted awesome.

  “This chicken rocks,” I said, licking my fingers.

  Anna finished her drumstick and said, “Yes, it does.” She threw her chicken bone in the growing pile next to the fire, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and said, “I wonder how many more chickens there are.”

  “I don’t know. But we’re going to find every one of them.”

  “This is the best chicken I’ve ever eaten, T.J.”

  I burped and laughed. “No doubt.”

  We picked the bones clean and spread our blanket on the ground, away from the fire.

  “Do you open your presents on Christmas Eve, or Christmas Day?” I asked her.

  “Christmas Eve. What about you?”

  “Same. Sometimes Grace and Alexis beg to open them on the twenty-third, but my mom makes them wait.”

  We lay side by side, relaxing. I thought of Grace and Alexis, and my mom and dad. They were probably having a hard time, celebrating their first Christmas without me.

  If they only knew that Anna and I were alive and holding our own.

  The rain returned in May, and Anna and I relaxed a little. But it stormed more often, and we couldn’t do anything but huddle in the life raft, listening to the crash of thunder while we waited for it to stop.

  We had a bad one that brought down a tree, so I cut it into firewood with the handsaw. It took me two days, but by the time I finished, the woodpile filled the lean-to.

  I went down to the beach afterward to cool off. Anna splashed in the water, playing with six dolphins. Wading in, I petted one of them on the head, and I swear it smiled at me.

  “Six, wow. That’s a record,” I said.

  “I know. They all came at once today.” The dolphins swam into the lagoon like clockwork, late morning and late afternoon. There were always at least two, but this was the first time there had been so many at once.

  “You’re sweating,” she said. “Were you sawing again?”

  I ducked my head under and shook like a dog when I came back up. “Yeah, it’s all done though. We won’t have to gather wood for a while.” I stretched, my arms aching. “Rub my shoulders, Anna. Please?”

  “Come on.” She led me out of the water. “I’ll give you a back rub. Mine are world-famous.”

  I sat in front of her and almost groaned when she touched my shoulders. She wasn’t kidding about being good at it, and I wondered if she rubbed the boyfriend down a lot. Her hands were stronger than I would have guessed, and she massaged my neck and back for a long time. I thought about her hands touching me other places, and if she’d been able to read my mind she probably would have freaked.

  “There,” she said when she finished. “Did that feel good?”

  “You have no idea,” I said. “Thanks.”

  We walked back to the lean-to. Anna poured a capful of Woolite into the rainwater she collected in the life raft container, and swished it around with her hand.

  “Laundry time, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  I had offered to split laundry duty, but she said she’d do it. She probably didn’t want me messing with her underwear.

  She put our dirty clothes in the container and washed them. When she took them out one at a time and set them aside for rinsing, she said, “Hey T.J., where’s all your underwear?”

  Speaking of underwear.

  “It doesn’t fit anymore, and it mostly fell apart.”

  “So you don’t have any?”

  “No. I didn’t have a whole suitcaseful like some people.”

  “Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

  “It was at first, but now I’m used to it.” I grinned and pointed at my shorts. “Totally commando here, Anna.”

  She laughed. “Whatever, T.J.”

  Chapter 17

  —

  Anna

  We had been on the island a little over a year when the plane flew over.

  I was gathering coconuts that afternoon, and the roar of the engines, so loud and unexpected, startled me. I dropped everything and ran to the beach.

  T.J. exploded out of the trees. He raced toward me, and we waved our arms back and forth, watching as the plane flew right over our heads.

  We screamed and hugged and jumped up and down, but the plane banked to the right and kept flying. We stood there, listening to the sound of the engines fading away.

  “Did it tip its wings?” I asked T.J.

  “I’m not sure. Did it?”

  “I couldn’t tell. Maybe it did.”

  “It had floats, right?”

  “It was a seaplane,” I confirmed.

  “So, it could have landed out there?” he asked, mo
tioning toward the lagoon.

  “I think so.”

  “Did they see us?” he asked.

  T.J. wore gray athletic shorts with a thin blue stripe down each side and no shirt, but I was wearing my black bikini, which should have been visible against the white sand.

  “Sure, I mean, wouldn’t you notice two people waving their arms?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “They wouldn’t have seen our fire, though,” I pointed out. We hadn’t knocked down the lean-to, or thrown any green leaves on the flames to create extra smoke. I wasn’t sure we even had any green leaves in the lean-to.

  We sat on the beach for the next two hours, not talking, straining to hear the sound of approaching airplane engines.

  Finally, T.J. stood up. “I’m gonna go fishing.” His voice sounded flat.

  “Okay,” I said.

  After he left, I walked to the coconut tree and gathered the ones I’d dropped on the ground. I stopped at the breadfruit tree on my way back, and scooped up two, then put everything in the lean-to. I stoked the fire and waited for T.J.

  When he returned, I cleaned and cooked the fish for our dinner, but neither of us ate. I blinked back tears and sighed in relief when T.J. wandered off toward the woods.

  I lay down in the life raft, curled myself into a ball, and cried.

  All the hope I’d clung to since our plane went down splintered into a million tiny shards that day, like a glass block someone pounded with a sledgehammer. I thought that if we could manage to be on the beach when the next plane flew over, we’d be rescued. Maybe they didn’t see us. Maybe they did, but they didn’t know we were missing. It didn’t matter now because they weren’t coming back.

  My tears ended, and I wondered if I’d finally run out of them.

  I crawled out of the life raft. The sun had gone down, and T.J. was sitting by the fire, his right hand resting limply on his thigh.

  I took a closer look. “Oh, T.J. Is it broken?”

  “Probably.”

  Whatever his fist connected with—my guess would be the trunk of a tree—had left his knuckles bloody and his hand horribly swollen.

  I went to the first-aid kit and brought back two Tylenol and some water.