Wicked River

by Jenny Milchman

  She could chat with him, at least see what he was up to. How cool would that be? Of course I’m on Facebook, Mia would tell her friends. All the hot older guys hang out there. She looked up from her phone. The scrimmage had just ended, and the girls were running off the field, trading high fives with Mia’s dad.

  Mia sent the request, then texted a welcome home message—with the cutest emojis: bride, groom, wedding cake, even a boat—to Aunt Nat.

  A few minutes later, her phone pinged and she felt a rush of happy anticipation. Mark Harden, accepting her request? Or could Aunt Nat have gotten home already? Mia wondered if she would comment on the adorable emojis Mia had sent. Probably not—Aunt Nat had been in the woods for a week and probably felt pretty tired and gross.

  But the text was from Mia’s mom.

  What are you up to?

  not much miss u, Mia texted back fast, both to end the exchange and because it was true, she did miss her mom when she spent time alone with her dad. Her parents made more sense together, as far as Mia was concerned. She looked out at the field again.

  It was clear of people, a broad, empty stretch of grass. Where had her dad gone?

  Mia’s phone buzzed again. Another text from her mom. Mia ignored it—and the next one too—so she could continue looking for matches for Mark.

  A hand dropped down on her shoulder from above, and she yelped.

  “Mi, it’s just me,” her dad said. “Boy, you’re on edge.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry. It’s perfectly understandable that you would be.”

  “No,” Mia said, slipping her phone into the pocket of her jeans and hoping her dad hadn’t seen either the photo of Uncle Doug’s friend or the unanswered texts from her mom. “I’m not edgy, I’m just cold.” She wanted this whole incident business behind them. It was like the fourth most important thing on her mind these days.

  Back at the apartment, her father hung around. Her mother had agreed to cover another shift, which meant she wouldn’t be back till after dinner. Only once she and her dad had eaten did he finally start getting ready to go. “You’ll be okay for a half hour?”

  Mia gave him a look. “Sure I will, Mom,” she said.

  “Don’t bad-mouth your mother,” he said automatically.

  Mia rolled her eyes, but inside she felt like smiling.

  “I know you don’t need a bodyguard,” her father added.

  “More like a prison guard,” Mia replied. She kissed her dad goodbye before running to her room. It’d been hard to sit still all afternoon, visiting with her dad like he was some kind of guest, making conversation so the incident wouldn’t come up. Now she could go online, watch videos, do whatever she wanted by herself for a while. It was so peaceful, she lost all track of time.

  The front door banged. Mia heard the clack of all three locks, and then her mother called, “Mi?”

  “In my room!” Mia shouted back. She slid her thumb across the screen on her phone one last time before shutting it off. No new texts. Hurry up, Aunt Nat, Mia thought.

  Her mom came in to give Mia a hug. “Sorry I missed your father.”

  Mia fake coughed. “Yeah, right.”

  Her mom looked hurt. “It’s not like the two of us hate each other,” she said.

  Mia stared down at her phone. Darkened, it made her feel so lonely. No reassurance or company from it at all.

  “When you start looking at your phone in the middle of a conversation,” her mother said in the voice that meant she was serious, “is when I know to take it away.”

  Mia couldn’t lose phone privileges now of all times. She had to come up with something that would justify what only her mother would describe as a major transgression. “It’s shut off, Mom. And anyway, normally I wouldn’t while we were talking, but Aunt Nat hasn’t texted me yet. She’s coming home today.”

  “Already? My, that went fast.” Her mother gave a nod. “Fine. Text Aunt Nat to say welcome home. But nothing else, okay? You’ve probably been on that thing all day.”

  How did her mom even know? “I already texted her,” Mia said sullenly. “I told you, she’s not responding.”

  Her mom headed toward the door. “She probably hasn’t gotten within range.”

  Mia jumped off her bed, putting out a hand to stop her mother. “It’ll be dark soon, though,” she said, glancing out the window. “They wouldn’t leave the woods this late.”

  “The signal is terrible up there, remember?” her mom replied. “And their phones were left in the car so they probably need to be charged. Give Aunt Nat another hour or two. Then we can give her a call.”

  “How old-fashioned,” Mia said sarcastically, although the idea actually comforted her in a way, the prospect of hearing her aunt’s voice.

  Her mom turned around at the doorway to give Mia a smile. “I didn’t exactly suggest sending a telegram.”

  But two hours later, Mia had postponed bedtime as long as was allowed, and her aunt still wasn’t responding to texts.

  “I’m kind of worried,” she told her mother before she went off to bed.

  “Mi,” her mom said, sounding exasperated. “Maybe they’re having a wonderful time and decided to camp out an extra night. Maybe they extended their honeymoon with a room at some bed-and-breakfast and don’t want to take calls. Maybe their phones went on the fritz from being unplugged for a whole week. Maybe—”

  “Maybe you don’t care about your sister anymore, just like you don’t care about Dad!” Mia broke in.

  “Mia,” her mother said, her breath all whistly. “That isn’t true.”

  “Which part?” Mia muttered. “About Aunt Nat? Or Dad?”

  Her mother didn’t answer.

  Mia’s phone buzzed then, and both their gazes shot to it, Mia almost as glad for the chance to look away from her mom as she was to hear from Aunt Nat. She snatched her phone up, out of view, realizing instantly that it was lucky she had.

  “Where are they?” her mom asked.

  “It isn’t Aunt Nat,” Mia said, frowning at the screen.

  She clicked on the message she’d received before her mother could reach for the phone.

  Mark Harden had accepted her friend request.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Natalie assumed she was dead.

  Heaven was a warm, soft mat with a pillowy top draped over her. And a trickle of the most delectable substance she’d ever tasted being dropped, silvery molecule by silvery molecule, into her open, waiting mouth.

  A sleeping bag.

  That was what she lay on. A bright-red synthetic fold of fabric enclosed her.

  Did they have sleeping bags in heaven?

  And the liquid she was being fed came from a spoon, its base broad and dented, not a bejeweled vessel of gold as she’d pictured.

  It was water. Plain, old tepid water, with a slightly tinny aftertaste. And so delicious that Natalie thought she might cry.

  She began to struggle and strain, gulping the contents of one spoonful before looking wildly around for the next.

  “Careful,” a voice told her. “If you drink too much at once, you’ll get sick, and we can’t have that. You can’t afford to lose the salts.”

  Natalie sensed the legitimacy of the warning, even if she couldn’t quite understand it. Glints of meaning arrived, propelled along by singleton words. Electrolytes. Shock. Dehydration.

  Memories swam to the surface of her mind.

  She’d been terribly, dangerously dehydrated. Still was, to judge by the sandiness in her eyes, and the tissuey interior of her mouth, which didn’t secrete any moisture. How had she gotten to such a state? She couldn’t think back.

  “Here’s another,” the voice said, and tipped the spoon.

  A man was ministering to her. Natalie tried to bring him into focus as she obediently swallowed a second sip, blinking and looking around. It f
elt strange for some reason to be inside. She was occupying a structure for the first time in—days? Weeks? Months? She had no idea. How long had she been here, wherever here was, while this man brought her back from the brink of death?

  He wore a faded shirt that fit snugly on his well-muscled body. His hair was badly cut but had a beautiful sheen, hanging well past his collar. And his face, his eyes, plus his voice, his whole demeanor, in fact, were the most placid Natalie had ever known.

  Her belly gurgled, and the man set down his spoon.

  “Ah,” he said. “That’s our sign. Enough for now.”

  Natalie wanted to protest—she felt as though she could have downed the contents of an entire pitcher, if not a whole water cooler, without pausing for breath—but the man possessed a wisdom and expertise that wouldn’t be denied.

  She settled back among the folds of fabric. Her head had been raised that entire time, she realized. She was regaining strength, just from a few sips of water. She wondered if she had eaten anything yet. Probably not, to judge by the yawning emptiness in her belly. Her sense of hunger had been deadened, but was coming back to life.

  Sleep exerted a more powerful pull, though, dragging Natalie away with nowhere near the gentleness and care that this man had shown when he’d helped her to drink. She slipped underneath, and was gone.

  The next thing Natalie became aware of was some kind of slippery, viscous balm coating the ravaged ruins of her face. The injury had reawakened itself mere seconds before the substance was applied, a fiery rush of feeling returning to the area, like a volcano erupting inside her cheek. The balm, though, was wonderfully soothing, quieting the nerve endings as they came back to life.

  Some kind of Native American remedy perhaps, boiled root or slippery elm. Something that befit such a man, whose unevenly chopped hair might until recently have been worn in a rich, glossy braid down his back.

  “It’s Neosporin,” the man said.

  She must’ve been mumbling aloud without even realizing it. She hoped the man wasn’t insulted, that she hadn’t been culturally insensitive.

  “Sometimes hikers pass through, leave things behind. Or else we barter,” the man explained. “Make some sort of trade.”

  How nice, Natalie thought, images of another land and time coming to her. Smoke-filled huts and vision quests, tepees made out of corn sheaths. Men with feathers on their chests and arms. It is like the Indians.

  Then she was hurtled once more into sleep.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Natalie woke to the glorious smell of food and some kind of snapping, popping sound: meat being cooked over an open fire. Squinting outside into shadowy darkness, she saw sparks shooting into the sky.

  Her cut throbbed, and she started to bring a hand to the side of her face, before promptly dropping it back down. Something deep inside told her what would happen if she touched her cheek right now.

  “We have to be sparing with the Neosporin,” the now-familiar voice said, speaking as calmly and evenly as ever. “But I’ll apply more before you fall back asleep.”

  The man squatted beside her, holding out a battered cup. “Here. Try some of this. It’ll cure what ails you even better than antibiotic ointment.”

  Natalie accepted the cup. She tilted it toward her mouth, flinching as soon as the contents struck her tongue.

  “Careful. It’s hot.”

  Natalie took a more judicious sip. The liquid rolled down her throat and hit her belly, triggering a clamor so great that she thought she would pass out.

  “Can I…can I have some of whatever’s on the fire out there?” she asked.

  “Oh ho,” the man chortled. “Getting greedy, aren’t you?”

  Natalie felt her face flush, making the wound in her cheek throb. “I’m sorry…” she began. But she couldn’t help a moan from forming and working its way out, unbroken, almost sexual in longing. Her face heated again. To hide it, Natalie gulped the rest of the contents of the cup, lapping up drips with her tongue.

  “That’s broth,” the man said. “From the meat I’m cooking. Broth is much easier to tolerate when you first return to eating.”

  “I’m just so hungry,” Natalie said helplessly. “Can’t you see how hungry I am?” Company manners—not to mention gratitude for her rescue, although she didn’t yet recall what it was that she’d been rescued from—were beyond her right now, luxuries of a life she’d been forced for some reason to abandon.

  “I do see.” The man reached out and gave her shoulder a pat. “And I know that you are. You’ve been through hell, I think.”

  Natalie nodded, feeling like a small child. “I think I have too,” she said. If only she could remember. “And now I just want something to eat—to really chew, I mean. I want that so badly.”

  “All in good time,” the man replied. He was studying her face, peering directly into her eyes with an expression of curiosity and scrutiny.

  Natalie blinked.

  “You’re crying,” he informed her. “That’s a good sign.”

  Natalie reached up, shocked to realize he was right.

  “Once certain other bodily functions have returned”—the man turned, letting out a discreet cough—“then we can think about giving you some solid food.”

  Natalie shook her head, not understanding.

  The man looked back at her. “You’ll have to let me know,” he said. “When you experience the urge. I wish I had a bucket to give you, but there’s nothing like that here. So I’ll have to carry you outside the hut and offer whatever assistance you might need.”

  Now Natalie understood. She still hadn’t used the bathroom. In how long?

  And what did it matter? She wanted a hunk of that broiling meat whose scent continued to drift in from outside so badly that Natalie thought she’d be willing to claw right through the man to get it.

  He continued to examine her. “Shh,” he said soothingly. “It’s okay to be angry at me. That’s only natural; your emotions are all over the place right now. But I’m just trying to exercise appropriate caution.”

  His words triggered something Natalie was forgetting, or failing to think of. Whatever the matter might be hovered foggily at the edges of her consciousness. Try as she might, she couldn’t get hold of it.

  The man stooped to take the empty cup out of her hand, walking off and leaving Natalie to the tantalizingly near aroma of meat.

  • • •

  In the middle of the night, Natalie was seized by a spasm in her lower back and groin, and she let out a scream.

  The man was at her side almost instantly, and wordlessly helped Natalie outside where a cloudy lid of sky obliterated the moon.

  She tripped over a rock—her feet seemed to have forgotten the mechanics of walking—and the man righted her. She couldn’t wait another second then, and though she wasn’t near a tree or hill or any sort of apt spot, Natalie dropped into a squat, yanking at her shorts without a glimmer of modesty.

  Her body voided itself in a hot, gushing stream.

  Natalie wobbled, too weak to remain crouching, and the man steadied her, politely averting his face.

  She finished, and he silently handed her a clump of leaves.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “They’re safe.”

  She dabbed.

  “Now,” the man said. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

  He watched as she feasted. Natalie sat on the ground, resting against a rock and devouring morsels from a tin plate. The act of chewing caused her mouth to cramp viciously and her cheek to throb, but she hardly registered either source of discomfort. She licked the plate clean: stray threads of stringy meat, little burned dabs of its skin.

  “What kind?” Natalie asked.

  The man understood. “Chipmunk,” he told her. “These woods are thick with them, and will be until winter.”

 
“Is there any more?”

  “In the morning,” he told her. “It’s best to go slowly. And you need some greens too. Roughage is crucial if you want to get your system back to normal.”

  Chipmunk should always be served as part of a balanced diet, Natalie thought.

  “What’s funny?” the man asked, watching her.

  She shook her head, politeness having returned along with that one shard of humor—she didn’t want this man to think she was criticizing his lifesaving offering—when another part of her mind kicked into gear as well.

  Her memory.

  “My husband!” she cried out.

  The man looked at her through the dark. He reached for her plate, then stood up. “Best not to leave dirty dishes,” he said. “They attract wildlife less pleasant than chipmunks.” The smile he offered was bland and benign. “Don’t worry about any washing up or chores yet, of course. I’ll take care of everything for now.”

  Natalie was about to respond to his statement when a slipstream of memories suddenly took hold. “We were here together.” She reached up and grasped the man’s wrist. It was strong enough to pull herself to standing. “On our honeymoon.”

  “Is that what it was,” the man said. He gave a polite shake of his head when she made a move to follow him into the trees. “Please don’t feel the need to come. The creek’s too far for you right now. Do you need my help getting back to the hut?”

  Natalie felt tears well in her eyes, and whisked them away with the flat of one hand. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Silence from the man.

  “Did you find my husband too? Is he all right?”

  “Perhaps in the morning,” the man began, “you’ll be better equipped to hear what I have to say.”

  “Please!” Natalie cried, and at the moment that her shout floated up to the sky, a barrier of clouds parted, sending down a silvery streak of moonlight. “Tell me where Doug is.”