“Stop!” Gerry said. “Just stop.” He pushed my hand away and then shoved at my chest. “It’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” asked Dylan.
“I’m stupid in all those stories.”
“No. You’re a baby,” Dylan said. “Babies do stuff like that. They’re babies.”
“Wait,” I said. “Don’t feel bad, Gerry. I’ll tell one on Dylan. This is when he was about two, so I was about seven. He was just starting to talk, and he played this game called ‘What’s in there?’ He would go around and point at cabinets and boxes and pots and say ‘What’s in there?’ and Mom, of course, would always show him. So one night Mom and Dad are having this party for only grown-ups, but Dylan and I are hanging around with them until bedtime. And all of them are standing in the kitchen drinking beer and Dylan cruises in and looks up at Dad leaning back against the counter. And then Dylan points right at Dad’s fly and says, ‘What’s in there?’”
“Did not!” Dylan shouted.
“Did too,” I said. “I remember because this one guy standing right beside Dad had a mouthful of beer and he spewed it out all over me. And they all started laughing and slapping the countertop and Mom was wiping me off with a kitchen towel and Dylan was standing there staring and Dad scooped him up and said, ‘That’s my boy,’ and—”
And then I remembered that Dad had had on jeans. I remembered hugging up next to his leg. I remembered his hand in my hair. I remembered he had reached down and rubbed me between my shoulder blades and then his hand came up and curved over my shoulder and squeezed and he looked down at me and smiled and said, “Bedtime.”
“And what else?” Gerry asked.
“And it’s the truth. The whole story is the complete, absolute truth. I didn’t make up one word.”
We lay back down again and laughed a little more and watched the stars.
Then out of the night came Gerry’s voice. “Was Mom as pretty as I remember?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Did she smell good?”
“Always.”
“Did she really give me Blankie, Dylan?”
“God’s truth,” said Dylan.
“I miss her,” Gerry said, but Dylan and I said nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
SO WE SETTLED into living on the island. We carefully rationed our water from Chrysalis, but we also knew how to find water in secret places in the rocks and the palm-frond crotches. Dylan’s three water stills each made about a cup a day and sometimes more. Gerry got good at fishing with a line and hook as well as with his spear. Dylan could catch an iguana and even brought home several birds. He was always harvesting something from the hill. First it was the cactus and then some kind of plum from a bush with fierce thorns. I, of course, fished the reef. One night we watched from under the spinnaker as a turtle made her way up the beach, dug a hole with her flippers, and laid her eggs. We agreed to let the turtle go, but we did eat the eggs.
We weren’t hungry anymore. We weren’t thirsty. We knew how to live on the island. It had taken a long time, but we had figured it out.
Then the day came when it all started to unravel. When that day dawned, we did what we always did. Dylan set off up the hill to explore and forage. Gerry took Blankie to the secret beach to build pebble forts, watch crabs, and maybe catch something. I went to the reef to fish, now always mindful of the sharks.
I came back a little later than usual with three good-size grouper. Gerry was already back at camp, but he was empty-handed today. He sampled a sea grape while I cleaned the fish, cutting two of them into paper-thin strips to hang on a branch to dry. Gerry spit out the grape. “Yetch. Sour.”
“Dylan said it would be a while.”
“He’s right.”
“Gerry, do you remember how Mom used to do that fish thing where she wrapped it in paper to cook it?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, well.” I cleaned the third fish and decided that maybe I’d try wrapping it in sea grape leaves. I’d ask Dylan what he thought when he got back.
But he didn’t come back. We waited and waited. After it was dark, I realized we’d waited too long. Dylan wouldn’t come back in the dark. There were too many places he could fall. He was out on the hill somewhere now, sitting out the night. But why hadn’t he come back while it was still light?
“When is Dylan coming?” Gerry asked.
“After a while,” I said.
“I’m hungry. Can we go ahead and eat?”
I forgot about the sea grape leaves and cooked the fish quickly in the frying pan with a little water. Of course, by now we didn’t really care whether or not it was cooked. We could eat it raw and still enjoy it. That night we chewed our fish silently and then cleaned up. I banked the fire and sent Gerry to bed. “I’ll wait up for Dylan,” I said.
I didn’t sleep that night. As tired as I was with fishing and swimming, I thought I would surely doze. But every breeze, every clack of leaves, every slither of a lizard or patter of a crab was Dylan coming home. I kept planning what I would say. “How dare you stay out late. Gerry’s been so worried. I finally sent him to bed. You can apologize in the morning.” Then the hours passed, and it was, “We’ve been worried sick. Don’t ever do that again.” And later “Thank God you’re back. Are you okay?” Then the sun started to come up and the world turned the flat, charcoal gray of a cloudy sunrise.
It’s surprising how long it takes the sun to come up all the way when you’re waiting. Complete sunrise took about two hours, I guess, from the time I noticed the sky starting to get light until the time I figured it was light enough for me to go wake Gerry and break the news. He understood at once.
“You stay here,” I told him, “in case he comes back into camp. I’ll go look.”
Gerry nodded.
“Don’t even go over to the secret beach. Just stay here.”
He nodded again.
“And if he comes back, make a lot of noise. Bang the hammer on something or whatever. You figure it out. I may hear you. I may not. But try.”
“Okay,” he said.
I tied the jar of water and a knife into my shirt and put on my shoes. “Good luck,” Gerry said. I lifted my hand in good-bye and headed up the hill.
I hadn’t thought until that long, long night about how big our island was. I was standing there just beyond the band of trees and looking up the hill, thinking that searching by myself was going to be like trying to color in a whole piece of paper with a ballpoint pen. It would take me hours to cover the whole island. Did the hours matter? Was there a quicker way? I had no choice, and the only way to start was to start. So I did, plotting a low, zigzag trail that would carry me back and forth across the face of the hill, slowly climbing, slowly searching.
Of course, I called his name as I walked. I called his name and I looked all around me, 360 degrees. Up and down. At big bushes I stopped and looked underneath. All over the hill were signs that he had been there. I found his snares. I found two traps. I saw where he had cut the leaves from the prickly pears. I saw scrabblings in the dirt that must have been a chase. Maybe after the birds. The hillside had changed since we first hiked it. Now it was Dylan’s. I saw signs of him everywhere, but I didn’t see him.
Then I remembered the cliffs on the southeastern side. The cliffs that dropped straight into the water. “Oh, my God,” I said out loud. I stopped in my tracks and looked up to where the island’s summit met the sky and I knew. I knew exactly where Dylan was, and my throat closed in while my feet started pounding straight up the hill.
My brain was in overdrive. Ledges. Were there ledges? I could swear I remembered ledges. How far down? How wide? How many? Why would any fool go close to the edge? Dylan was too smart to do that. I was panicking. I was crazy. He would never—Oh God, I’m sure he did. That’s where he is. Please let him be okay. Please let him not be hurt. Please let him—And my mind froze at the image of him plummeting straight down into the water, the waves picking up his body and th
rowing him back against the rocks. Once. Twice. Stop! Stop! A rope. I should have brought a rope. But I never imagined. Never. Never.
And then I stood on the edge of the cliffs, and I was dizzy. I fell to my hands and knees and called, but the wind swept my voice away. A little closer to the edge and I looked down. Straight down. No ledges. Straight into the waves below. I felt my stomach clutch, and I rolled over on my back and closed my eyes.
“Steady,” I told myself. “Steady.”
I rolled back over and forced myself to look right and left along the cliffs. And then I saw his shirttail fluttering in the breeze. He was lying on a wide ledge about thirty feet to my left and ten feet down. Above him was another small ledge about two feet down. On that ledge was a hawk’s nest. Suddenly I understood. He had been looking for eggs and he fell. He had crawled up against the cliff face—in fear or cold—and lay there, curled into a knot with only his shirttail flapping in the wind.
I stood. “Steady,” I said. “We can do this.” I walked toward him and lay down again. When I looked over the edge, I could see his face. His eyes were open. He was blinking and staring at the rock. “Dylan,” I called, and he looked up.
“I knew you’d come,” he said.
“I’ll have to go back and get a rope,” I said. “Then I can help you climb back.”
“I can’t climb,” he said. “My leg.”
Only then did I notice—the sickening bend in his leg halfway between knee and ankle and the terrifying sliver of white bone breaking through the skin and surrounded by torn flesh and dried blood.
“My God,” I said.
“I broke it,” he said. “It hurts.” His voice choked and he sucked in air suddenly.
“Steady,” I told him. “We’ll get you. Be calm. I’ve got to go back for supplies.”
He nodded.
“I’ll be back soon. I mean, as soon as I can.”
He nodded again.
“You’ll be okay? I mean—”
He nodded again. “Go,” he said.
So I did, flying and jumping and crashing and sometimes even rolling down the hill. At camp I gathered lines and Gerry. “Bring your spear,” I told him. “And Blankie.”
When we got back, Dylan was still staring at the rock, and the sun was a lot higher and hotter. I tied Blankie and the spear together in a tight package with the smallest line. “When I ask for them,” I said to Gerry, “let them over the edge.”
“You’re going over?” Gerry asked.
“Somebody has to go.”
Little stubby, dwarf trees grew near the cliff edge, but they were all we had. I grabbed one and pulled as hard as I could. It came up, roots and all, and I fell over backwards. I stood up, threw it away, and tried another. That one held. I was praying for a taproot that went all the way to China while I tied the line into a saddle around my thighs and waist. I wound the rope twice around the tree and held the loose end. I’d never done any rock climbing, but I’d seen it on TV. And we’d had to climb the rope in gym. My arms were strong, I knew. I looked over my shoulder at the empty space behind me.
You have to, I told myself. It’s all up to you.
“Steady. Steady. Steady,” I whispered over and over as I inched over the edge of the island and bumped my way down to where Dylan lay.
“Okay, Gerry,” I said. “Send them down.” I couldn’t look up. It would have been too scary. But I knew Gerry’s eyes were showing just over the edge, watching us.
“Dylan,” I said. “I’m going to hurt you.”
“I know,” he said. “Is it okay if I cry?”
“Fine by me,” I said.
One thing I will never be is a doctor. I felt dizzier than ever looking at the sharp white point of Dylan’s bone and the gash in his skin. The blood was dark and dried up all over his leg and on the ledge too. His hands were bloody where he had felt his wound. There was blood on his face and in his hair where his wet, bloody hands had touched.
“Okay,” I said to myself. “Okay. Let’s go. Let’s do this thing.” And I reached out and scooped up Dylan just enough to turn him over on his back so I could straighten out his knee. Tears were pouring out from under his closed eyelids and his lips were quivering. “Cry,” I said. “Cry out loud.”
Then I lifted the broken leg and Dylan groaned. The bone moved and new blood came out. “Please. Oh, please,” I said. “Oh, God.” I wrapped his leg in Blankie, pulling the thin worn fabric as tight as I could. Then I tied the spear alongside the broken bone and then up above his knee, too, so even that joint couldn’t move. I tied the lines tight, trying to cut off the blood supply because I knew the worst was still to come.
Dylan’s face was white and he was staring at the rock. “You can’t faint yet, Dylan,” I said.
He nodded.
“We’ve got to get you back up.”
He nodded again.
So then I started tying a saddle on him. “Can you hold on?” I asked.
He nodded again, but this time I didn’t believe him. I took the line off his thighs and started tying him around his chest and under his arms. “We’re going to drag you up,” I said. “I’m going back up now. You’ll feel us pulling soon.”
I don’t remember pulling myself back over the edge of the cliff. It must not have been hard. Gerry was waiting there for me, and I handed him the end of the rope that was now tied around Dylan. He wrapped it around the same tree. Then we walked to the edge of the cliff and began to pull. Instantly we felt Dylan’s weight and heard him groan.
I was praying Dad had taught me right about knots. I was praying the tree held. I was praying Dylan didn’t bleed to death before we got him up. We dragged him to the edge and saw his hands grabbing at the grass. We pulled him a little farther and there was the top of his head and then his face and his arms stretched out across the dirt and then finally his chest was up and he was lying hanging halfway over still and I grabbed him under his arms and pulled him completely to safety and then he fainted.
I carried Dylan back to camp. Gerry walked beside me, carrying the ropes. His face was white, but he kept going. Dylan stayed out the whole way down and it was just as well because it was a pretty rough ride. I laid him flat on the beach and built up the fire and got all our clean water and started it boiling. Then I unwrapped him and cleaned him up as best I could and looked at the bone, trying to decide what to do.
Or I should say trying to decide if I really had to do what I thought I had to do. From somewhere back in some TV-WESTERN memory I thought that what I had to do was to pull on his leg really hard so that the bone would slide back into place. I couldn’t do that. It would hurt him too much.
I looked at his face and he was watching me. “You have to jerk it,” he said. “You have to grab my foot and jerk really hard.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No. In fact, you probably ought to tie me up to a tree or something and then jerk or else I’ll just go dragging through the sand and it won’t work.”
“Dylan, I can’t hurt you like that.”
“I’ll try to pass out again if that will make it easier.”
So I did what he said. I sat him up next to a tree and tied him at the hips as tight as I could. I had to tie him at the chest, too, though, because fortunately he did pass out again—and without trying. Gerry wanted to help, but it was too much for him. All he could do was cry. I finally told him to go in the tent and leave me alone.
When I had Dylan tied as tight as I could get him, I lifted up his foot. I knew it wouldn’t do any good to pull gently and slowly. The pain would kill him. The only way to do it was to pull suddenly and hard. I felt myself sweating. I felt his round heel in my hand. His face was streaked with blood and dirt and sweat and tears. His hands were limp in the sand. And there was this bone still staring at me.
“Now!” I shouted, and pulled with all the strength I had left in my body, and the bone slid down into the gash and disappeared.
And Dylan screamed. The pain broug
ht him to and he screamed.
And it started bleeding again. Oh God, how much blood could he lose?
I pushed Blankie against the wound and Dylan screamed again. I washed him and started jabbering. I don’t know what I was saying. I took long sticks and tied them to either side of his leg. I talked and talked and talked. But Dylan didn’t hear a word because he was out again.
Thank God.
Then I was done. The bone was inside, the wound was clean, and the straight sticks were tied to hold it secure.
Now all Dylan had to do was heal. It would take time, but that was one thing we had plenty of.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EXCEPT DYLAN DIDN’T heal. We didn’t know it at first. At first he did a lot of sleeping. For about a day, he would rouse up for just a minute and we’d drip a little water into him and maybe squeeze a little prickly pear pulp between his teeth. He’d get the stuff down and look around and smile like a goofball. Then he’d turn his head sideways and go back to sleep. I figured his body knew what was best, and if I’d been camping on an exposed rock ledge for almost twenty-four hours with a compound fracture bleeding all over the place—well, I figured I would want to sleep too.
Then he was awake. He was feeling so much better, he told us. Gerry became Mr. Entertainment for him and brought him shells to admire or plants to identify. Gerry took over the water-making thing and brought the water to Dylan every day. I fished harder than ever and caught plenty. I wished we had milk—milk for strong bones. Dylan said he would eat the fish bones if I would quit talking about milk.
After a few days, Dylan said he felt good enough for me to carry him down to the water. He said he needed to soak his leg. He thought that would be good for it. So I picked him up and set him back down very gently in the edge. It must have hurt. His face was white again. He said he felt fine. So I started taking him down every day. We fixed up a place where he could lean back against a rock and let his leg rest in the water. We even made him a little shade with palm fronds.
The Great Wide Sea Page 17