by Kay Bratt
She turned, “Lauren, you can use the straw to get some rain off the leaves.”
“I can’t hobble around, Mom,” Lauren replied. “I’d rather be thirsty.”
Sadie went to another leaf, and carefully she held the box under it and then touched the end of the leaf, letting the rain roll into the box.
It accumulated only a minuscule amount, but it was a start.
She found more leaves holding small droplets and tried to gather all that she could, one drop at a time, into the box.
Lauren watched her, silent and sullen.
After more than fifteen minutes of gathering, she peered in and saw she had maybe an inch of water.
She took it to Lauren and urged her to drink.
“What about you?” Lauren said, reaching for the box.
“I got a little bit with the straw, but I’ll drink the next round.”
Lauren turned the box up, draining it and tapping on the bottom to get every last drop. She handed it back to Sadie.
“That was the best water I’ve ever tasted.”
“And it didn’t cost an arm and a leg like that fancy stuff you kids drink,” Sadie said.
She rose, then returned to gathering more. When she had her own inch, she drank it, then spent another twenty minutes or so to get more for Lauren. It was slow going, but she knew that once the sun came out in the morning, the rain would dry up, and they’d be left with nothing. The dwindling light was gone, and Sadie suddenly remembered her pepper spray–flashlight combo. She prayed it wasn’t too wet to work.
“Told you this would come in handy,” she called to Lauren, fishing it out and holding it up. She flipped the switch, and a dim light shone.
“Yeah, too bad you didn’t use it on the bear,” Lauren called back. “Though if you had whipped it out, he probably would’ve ate it and then you.”
The joke fell flat.
They were too frightened to laugh. And Sadie didn’t want to waste any more energy raising her voice. She needed to concentrate.
It was awkward, but somehow she juggled the flashlight and the juice box until she had about two inches of water.
She returned to Lauren and handed it over, then tucked the flashlight back into the bag.
“We’re sharing this time,” Lauren said, cradling the box carefully.
“I drank my second shot and then refilled it for you,” Sadie lied.
Lauren shot her a doubting look, but she drank the rest before releasing a long, frustrated breath.
“Mom, what’re we going to do? We can’t see to keep walking, and even if we could, I think my ankle has had it. It feels swollen.”
Sadie reached down and felt underneath the sweater she’d tied around Lauren’s boot. She ran her fingers around the ankle but couldn’t tell if it was swollen. Before she said the words, she already regretted them, but she felt she had no alternative. Tom wasn’t even here, and he was winning an argument.
“We have to stay put here until first light,” she said, feeling defeated. “We’re too disoriented to go any farther.”
“Stay out here all night?” Lauren asked incredulously.
“What else can we do, Lauren?” Sadie tried not to think of the bear or any other wild creatures that could be lurking literally feet from them in the dark.
Lauren didn’t reply.
They both knew that their decision meant they were about to begin the longest night of their lives.
CHAPTER NINE
Their predicament was one that Sadie would’ve never anticipated, but once she’d come to grips with the fact that they couldn’t go any farther until sunlight, she jumped into action. No matter how much she wished someone else was there to take control, the simple fact was that she was the adult—the mom—and it was up to her to figure out the next steps. Whatever she was going to do, she needed to do it fast.
“First, I want you to sit back and elevate that foot,” she said, reaching over to rub Lauren’s leg just above her ankle. “I’m going to find something to prop it on.”
Without a reply from Lauren, Sadie moved on, scouting around until she found a rock the size of a loaf of bread, then returning to set it down in front of her daughter.
She gently picked up Lauren’s leg and guided her foot to rest on it.
“What are you going to do now?” Lauren asked. She looked almost camouflaged, blending into the surroundings because of the dark and the muck that covered her, the remnants of the thunderstorm evident on her clothes and face.
Sadie gazed down at herself, realizing she looked the same. They were both a sodden mess.
“I’m going to say a prayer of thanksgiving to your hippie hiker after you hand me that baggie of his.”
“You want to smoke his pot?” Lauren asked, her voice incredulous.
“No. I’m going to start a fire,” Sadie said. “There’s a lighter with it, right?”
Lauren laughed lightly. “Since when do you know how to start a fire?”
Obviously Lauren thought her a complete idiot. The biggest problem was that Sadie was secretly inclined to agree with her. “I’ll figure it out,” she answered. “Now hand me the lighter.”
Lauren dug around and then found the bag, pulled out the lighter, and dropped it into Sadie’s outstretched hand.
“I know how to build a fire, but it’s too wet out here, Mom.”
“How do you know how to build a fire? Cooper?”
“No. I’ve seen Dad do it many times,” Lauren said.
Sadie stood, tucking the lighter into her back pocket before searching her front pockets and coming up empty.
“Lauren, check your jeans pockets and see if you can find any lint down in the bottom,” she said. “I saw that on a survival show once.”
Lauren rustled around for a minute. “Nope. No lint,” she said.
Sadie sighed. “We can either use the pages of your book or your journal, Lauren. You pick.”
“I really think burning John Muir’s famous book is blasphemy, but I can get another. I’m not burning my journal unless we absolutely have to,” Lauren said, then dug in the bag and handed the book over to Sadie.
Sadie tucked it behind her, pushing it down into her waistband.
“You’re going to need more than a few book pages, Mom. Those’ll be nothing but ash in seconds. What’re you going to do for the real firewood? Everything’s wet.”
“I’ll find some wood. There has to be something around here.”
Lauren leaned forward, suddenly at attention. “Wait. I remember something Dad told me. He said if I were ever in a desperate situation in the woods and needed a fire, to try to find heart pine. It’s a natural accelerant. It’ll burn easy and keep a flame going.”
“Heart pine?” Sadie said. “And where is that? In the heart of a pine tree, I suppose?” She looked up at the tall, imposing pine trees around them. How high up would a heart be, and how was one supposed to get to it without an ax or a chainsaw?
“He said . . . wait, let me think,” Lauren said.
“While you think, I’m going to look for some dry wood.” Sadie moved around the tree that Lauren leaned against, going toward a thick bank of thickets. Sadie would’ve guessed that it had been Tom who had taught Lauren about the heart of a pine. He’d taken her camping quite a bit. They’d argued over it. Many times. Sadie had wanted to keep her daughter under her wing, guarding her against anything and everything. Her pleas had worked for the first few years, but when Lauren had begun to show interest in Tom’s outdoor adventures, Lauren had begged to go, and he’d finally gone against Sadie’s wishes. He’d tried to paint it as a good thing for Sadie—a nice break from taking care of them. What he hadn’t known was that those weekends they’d gone away had been some of the hardest of her life, and their absence had nearly paralyzed her. She’d been useless, waiting and watching for them to return, her terror conjuring up all sorts of doom-and-gloom scenarios until the second they were home and she’d pretended that she’d enjoyed her time alone
.
She could’ve gone. He’d invited her many times, but that was not an option either. The outdoors took her back to a place in her mind that she didn’t want to go. Now she wished she’d been able to overcome that fear and had been a part of their outings.
At another dense stand of trees she bent, feeling underneath the branches, moving leaves aside.
She found nothing dry.
It wasn’t going to be easy. She stood, straining to see as she turned in a half circle, contemplating direction. It was dark now, and she didn’t want to go too far, or she’d lose Lauren from her line of sight.
“I remember,” Lauren called out.
Sadie went back.
“He said it’s when the sap or resin settles down near the base and turns into sapwood. You can find it in a tree that has died off or is scarred from lightning or something.”
It didn’t sound feasible to Sadie, but what did she know?
“It’ll look and feel like a piece of petrified wood,” Lauren continued. “The inside of it will be red or orange and will smell like turpentine. It’s also called fatwood.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open for it,” Sadie said, attempting to hide the doubt in her voice.
She turned on the flashlight and prayed the battery would hold out. She moved quietly, going from tree to tree, checking the bases for kindling. Slowly she began to gather a few semidry branches and sticks, then happened upon a live oak that had moss hanging from a few limbs. She reached up and felt a small bundle, relieved to find the substance was such that it dried quickly. She hoped it might make good sparking tinder.
“Find anything?” Lauren called out. “I’m going to come help you look.”
She came back to Lauren as quickly as she could without stumbling. “No, stay there. I want you to keep that ankle up so you can walk when we’re ready to move. I got some moss and a few sticks.”
She laid the sticks on the ground, and Lauren scooted closer.
“I’ll stack them. Dad always let me do it.”
Sadie shrugged, then turned to go for more wood.
At about ten feet away, she peered farther into the brush and thought she saw a stump. Quickly she made her way over, keeping one eye over her shoulder every few paces.
It wasn’t a stump. It was a fallen pine tree that had split at the bottom, leaving the base of the tree open.
She shined the flashlight inside.
It was filled with ants. Big fat ones that crawled in and out, clambering over one another as they moved determinedly, some carrying small bits of what appeared to be sap.
Could it be the heart of the pine that Lauren had spoken of? Or was it plain sap? Did it matter? Would regular sap burn too? Sadie knelt and peeked closer, seeing there were several dried pieces, some still attached to the base of the tree. When she spotted a chunk that appeared to have a reddish tint to it, she reached in and grabbed it, pulling it loose with a quick jerk.
The ants went wild, but Sadie didn’t care. A few stuck to her arm, their pincers like knives as they defended their territory. She brushed them off and stood, hurrying back to Lauren, who had quickly arranged the sticks and limbs into a circle, the moss sticking out from underneath it.
Sadie felt exultant, even with her forearm stinging like fire.
“I think I might’ve found it,” Sadie said, her breath ragged from the exertion.
“Found what?”
“The heart of the pine,” Sadie answered, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice. She handed the bark to Lauren.
Lauren held the bark to her nose and inhaled.
“It smells so strong. Reminds me of walking through a Christmas tree farm,” she said, then reached over and dragged her bag closer and retrieved the zipped canvas satchel from it.
“What are you doing?” Sadie asked, then sat down.
“We need to get shavings, and I’ve got a scalpel in here.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out a metal tool about as long as a pencil.
“We can’t just throw the whole piece in? And what are you doing with a scalpel, Lauren?”
“I already told you, Mom. It’s a botany kit. Comes with a scalpel.” She put the chunk of bark between her knees and started scraping at it. “We’ll see if this is the right stuff or not.”
“But why do you have a botany kit? Is it Cooper’s?”
“Does it really matter? I have a lot of stuff I use for school,” Lauren mumbled, her concentration on the bark. When she had several small shavings from it, she tucked them into the moss. “I’m ready to try.”
Sadie passed her the lighter. “Wait—let’s put some paper in there too.” She took the book out and tore a dozen or so pages from it, crumpled them, and stuffed them under the wood pile too.
“I love that book,” Lauren said sadly, but she held the lighter to the pile, and soon they had a flame.
When the first flame blew out, Lauren tried again. This time it held, and Sadie let out the breath she was holding. They’d have fire. Fire meant warmth. And hopefully it would keep away critters.
“Lauren, you’re brilliant,” she said. “The heart of a pine . . . who has ever heard of such a thing?”
“I have,” Lauren said, her voice laden with pride.
“Your dad would be proud.”
Sadie was glad to give Lauren the credit. Build up your children; let them see their worth. That was what she’d always tried to do. Even if Lauren thought it was only her mom trying to push her toward perfection, Sadie always had a plan. She was determined that Lauren would have the tools she’d need to get by on her own instead of having to lean on someone else.
They were a team again, and perhaps Lauren was regaining her confidence, which should help her get her bearings again.
But first they had to get through the night.
An hour later the night had turned considerably colder. Sadie took off her shoes and socks and laid them over rocks to dry. She felt the back of her heels, wincing as her fingers explored the blisters there.
They sat next to the flames, huddled together, listening to the night sounds. More than once Sadie heard a noise that startled her, setting her thoughts rampaging in the wrong direction.
She needed something to keep her from thinking too hard. And to keep them both warmer.
“Lauren, we can’t just sit here and get cold. We’re going to have to keep moving to stay warm,” she said.
She could see Lauren shaking her head. “Go ahead. I’m not moving. My ankle is killing me.” Her features were exaggerated in the light of the fire, making her look like some sort of Halloween ghoul as she scowled her disapproval of her mother’s latest bright idea.
“Come on,” Sadie said, standing. “I’ll help you up. You can lean on me, and we’ll walk around the fire.”
“Seriously, Mom? Can’t we just be still?”
Sadie pulled on Lauren’s arms, helping her up. “What would your dad say if he were here?”
Lauren didn’t answer other than a groan of dismay.
Carefully, Sadie led her, circling the fire. They rounded it a few times; then Lauren struggled to sit back down.
“I’m done,” she said.
“No, you’re not.” Sadie felt done, too, but she knew getting complacent wasn’t what they should do. “If you’re going to sit, then use your arms like windmills.”
She stood in front of Lauren, showing her how to do the exercise. She felt foolish. The closest she’d come to exercising in the last year was taking all last year’s Christmas decorations to the attic. Now here she was, suddenly in the role of a drill sergeant.
“If you don’t do it, then I’ll just drag you up again,” she said, her voice at its firmest.
Lauren started spinning her arms. Grudgingly, but at least she was moving.
She remembered the first time that Lauren ever rode a bike without training wheels. She’d resisted, even cried because she had been too afraid of tumbling over onto the sidewalk. But Tom had persisted, and Sadie had coached fr
om the sideline as father and daughter had taken off. He’d finally let go, letting Lauren grab her first taste of freedom as she’d soared around the block.
Then she’d done it again. And again.
You couldn’t stop her once she figured out how much faster and smoother her ride was without the support of the extra wheels. Sort of the same way she’d been once she’d come out of her shell and stopped letting ignorant people push her into the shadows. There was always the possibility that Lauren would encounter racism—in this world, bigotry would never be dead—but she tackled it head-on, and these days, she didn’t let other people’s insecurities slow her down.
Sadie was so proud of the woman Lauren was becoming.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Lauren said, heaving a sigh of exhaustion. “I really just want to sleep.”
“But what about hypothermia?” she asked, finally putting a name to her fear. Beating around the bushes wasn’t getting her anywhere.
“We have a fire. We’re not going to die of hypothermia.” Lauren lay down, curling her body toward the fire. “We’ll sleep in shifts. Give me an hour.”
Sadie sighed. She’d heard that before. If she knew her daughter, an hour from now there’d be no waking her. It would be like poking a bear in the middle of winter.
There were some fears Sadie would never get over.
CHAPTER TEN
Sadie guessed it was now close to midnight. She lay there, uncomfortable, her head on her arms and her back facing out to the elements, but she was at least somewhat warmed by the fire. She looked at Lauren, her form only an arm’s length away but barely visible in the moonlight. She was silent—asleep or just lost in her own thoughts, Sadie didn’t know which. Though they’d accomplished a fire and spent more than an hour moving to keep their blood going, it wasn’t enough.
They should still be getting up every half hour to move, but Lauren refused to cooperate now. She’d had enough of both talking and moving.