by Aborn, A. L.
There, at the far end of the incision, I can see the broken shard of bone. It’s large; about the size of my pinky nail. When I set the joint the night before, it must have sheared off. Extending the wound with the knife, I get a better look: it’s crushing a blood vessel against the bony prominence of the ankle.
It’s possible that the bone shard is keeping the vessel from openly bleeding. Cutting the needles off two of my sutures, I decide to tie the delicate vessels off above and below the shard. The rubber gloves are too big for this work. There’s no help for it, so I discard them onto the towel. Feeding the sutures around the areas is tedious and takes me a few tries, but eventually, I’m able to tie them off with the knots that were taught to me in what feels like a different life.
The forceps grasp the shard and I hold my breath while I pull it free.
The knots hold.
I exhale loudly.
“What’s wrong?” Shay demands.
Not trusting myself to speak, I just shake my head in response.
Joann is mumbling, but I can’t make out the words. I hope that she passes out soon.
The bone shard on the posterior vessel explains why I couldn’t get a pulse there. Now, to explore the other area. Gently, I use the hot edge of the butter knife to separate the fascia toward the top of her foot. The strips of wet towel and the turkey baster, alternated with the heat of the knife, allow me to slowly gain access. Finally, I’m able to lay eyes on the other major vessel feeding her foot. It’s there and unharmed; at least, as far as I can see.
There isn’t anything else that I can do but close her up and cross my fingers.
“Almost done,” I tell them.
The curved shape of the needle pierces the layers of skin and brings the edges back together. It’s therapeutic really, to close the wound as best I can. When it’s fully closed, I ask Shay to go outside and bring me back a branch of pine, with visible sap.
While she’s out, I feel Joann’s forehead and take her pulse. I’m not sure when she passed out, but I’m glad she did. Her hangover will be miserable, but I resolve to give her a few of the last Tylenol to ease her pain. When Shay returns, I smear some of the sap across the wound. When it dries, I deem the procedure complete.
Grabbing the whiskey bottle from the floor, I uncap it and take a long draw. The amber liquid burns my throat, but I don’t care. I take a second, and then a third. As my heartbeat finally slows and I can chase away the thought that I should have just let her lose her leg or die, I motion to Shay to come join me outside.
Chapter Thirteen
Sharing
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I never had much of a tolerance for alcohol and it’s only gotten less since the power went out. My head is swimming twenty minutes after Shay and I sit on the ground around the outside fire. It’s not much more than ash, but Shay gets it going with some of the kindling and logs stacked neatly by the shelter.
It’s pleasant really, to sit here and feel numb. To not worry about them trying to kill me or me trying to kill them. I just sit and veg out and let Shay take care of business. She sits across from me, skinning the rabbit with that hunting knife that’s practically a machete. She makes quick work of it; the hide comes off in one piece, which she sets aside carefully.
Removing the organs, Shay spits them over the fire, turning them frequently. When they’re cooked through, she throws them to Meekah, who is waiting patiently nearby. Again, I feel myself getting emotional. Fucking whiskey. But I can’t help being touched by someone else feeding my dog in a world where food is more valuable than cash.
I can tell that Shay is no stranger to breaking down small animals. There are no wasted movements as she works. The head and bones go into a pot of water over the fire. She asks if she can use some of my seasonings and I do little more than wave her into the shelter. With the alcohol making me feel floaty, Joann resting in my bed, and someone else cooking dinner, it’s like I’m on an unexpected vacation.
Returning to the fire, she adds a healthy dose of salt to the boiling water. She thumbs through the box of seasoning containers. Adding a bit of the precious vegetable oil into a hot skillet, she adds the chunks of lean rabbit meat. When the meat is browned, she takes it out and adds a bit of water and flour to the browned bits and oil. A can of mixed vegetables go in next. Slowly, she adds in water and seasonings, and finally, the cooked rabbit meat.
How long has it been since I’ve watched someone else cook? How long since I’ve taken the time to appreciate the aromas of campfire and food mingling around me, stirring me to hunger?
The portions she ladles out into two bowls, sprinkling a little salt and pepper on, seem to me the most heavenly meal imaginable. I spoon the hot stew into my mouth slowly, savoring it. Opposite me, Shay is still working between mouthfuls. Amazingly, she pulls a colander out of her bag, her last item taken from the house. She strains the boiled head and bones out of the liquid into another pot. It’s pale-yellow, shining with bits of fat. Ladling the liquid into one of my mugs, she brings it inside to give to Joann.
I sit for a moment, considering my situation. It’s probably just the booze talking, but I feel happier than I have in a long time.
***
Joann’s not the only one who wakes up with a hangover.
My back hurts from sleeping on the ground in the tent with Shay. I was too drunk to even feel anxious about sleeping close to her by the time I crawled in and passed out. Meekah, of course, had slept on top of me. Thankfully, Shay had watered Beau and tucked him into his end of the shelter before bed.
By the time I rub the sleep from my eyes, Shay is gone from the tent. My head is pounding. Ugh.
Shuffling to the fire, I find Shay scrambling some eggs in a pan. The chickens are happily pecking their way around the clearing, Beau is grazing, and a little bowl with some leftover rabbit and a scrambled egg are waiting for Meekah. I could cry with relief.
Turning to me, Shay holds out what my mother would have called a ‘ditty bag.’ It’s a little zippered bathroom bag that lives in every American woman’s beauty arsenal. Unsure of why she’s handing it to me, I open it to find an assortment of over the counter and prescription pain medications. “We collected them from every house we stayed in,” she volunteers.
I opt for the extra-strength acetaminophen with caffeine. Swallowing them with a gulp of water is almost enough to turn my stomach, but after a moment, it calms. Shaking a Percocet into one hand, I head into the shelter to check on Joann.
She’s half sitting up; Shay must have piled up the extra blankets to get her comfortable. Her face is a bit pinker than I remember, which I take as a good sign. Fishing out a few antibiotic pills, I hand them over, along with the Percocet. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
Shutting my eyes against the pounding in my temples, I feel Joann’s forehead and her pulse in her wrist. She feels cooler than yesterday, but her pulse is still weak.
Lastly, I check her injured ankle and incision. The sap is still covering the wound. The flesh around it doesn’t look too red, though the foot is still too swollen for me to feel a pulse. I’m confident though, after visualizing it yesterday, that she will be okay.
“You know what would make me feel better?” She asks as I stand to leave.
“What’s that?”
“A cloth to clean up a little. And some of that broth.”
“That, I can take care of.”
Back out by the fire, I see that Shay has beat me to it. The pot of broth is already simmering over the flames. She hands me a bowl of scrambled eggs and a mug of coffee as I sit down beside her. “Joann’s about ready for that broth,” I say into the cool morning.
“I figured she might be. How’s she looking?”
“Better, I think.”
Chewing on my eggs in silence, I wonder what the next few days may hold. Will they stay? Go? Realistically, Joann shouldn’t travel for weeks… But will they listen to my advice and stay? Do I want t
hem to? Do I care if they leave and chance it on the road?
I don’t have to dig deep to realize that I do. I do care. Why else would I have used my own supplies to help Joann? Or share with Shay? I’m a little surprised at how easily I have taken to these strangers, but I suppose all the months of no one to talk to but Meekah and Beau have left me eager for company. How nice was it to leave the evening meal to someone else? To trust my back to someone else, even so I could take a few swigs and relax? How long has it been?
I know how long it’s been. Since the day that we’d been attacked at Ally and Brad’s to be exact. But I shy away from the thought. Best to think about the here and now, instead.
“Why don’t you live in the house?” Shay asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“Too easy,” I say, taking a bite of eggs. “If someone is looking, they’ll look on the road, in a house before they’ll look here. Besides, I’d never be able to keep up with the wood stove in the winter.”
She considers my words for a moment. “Is there someone looking for you?”
“Not anymore.”
Shay doesn’t answer right away. I can only imagine what she’s thinking. I wonder where she and Joann came from, while I’m sure that she wonders why someone may have been searching for me.
“How did you catch that rabbit?” I say finally.
“I had some wire in my bag. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and set some snares. Just got lucky.”
I let this sink in for a moment. Having no idea how to set snares, I am jealous of her skills.
Looking around the camp, I search for something to pull me away from the fire and Shay. Seeing Beau, I make a lame excuse about going to find him food. “Stay here,” I tell her. “Tend to Joann. I’ll be back later.”
I don’t wait for her to respond before I stand up and make my way to Beau. Only wanting to be away, I hurriedly slide his halter over his nose and use a tree stump to push my way up onto his back. Clicking my tongue to Meekah, I squeeze my heels and we’re off.
***
The trails whip by me in a fury of leaves and branches. Though the peak of the fall foliage is weeks away, the leaves are just starting to turn. I lose myself in their beauty as I gallop away from camp toward the fields where I harvest most of the hay. Focusing on the landscape in front of me, I let reality seep in, only a bit at a time.
Am I being crazy? Stupid? Should I trust them so quickly?
My thoughts chase themselves around in circles. A dull headache pounds out the rhythm. Beau guides me down the wide trail, and then to the smaller one that leads to the fields of grass. He knows the way toward food. Meekah lopes behind us, content to stop and smell along the way, trusting that we won’t go where she can’t follow.
I feel myself relax into their easy acceptance of what is.
Finally reaching the fields of grass, I slide off Beau’s back, letting him be free to follow his nose. Folding myself into knee high greenery, I try to be still.
So still that the wind and cold don’t bother me; so still that I won’t be seen by anything passing by. Is this what it means to survive? To try and disappear into the landscape so that no one and nothing can hurt me?
I ponder this for a time.
The sky is mostly clear, with a smattering of wispy white clouds above me. I feel like I’ve lost my identity, my purpose. But does it have to be that way? Does letting someone in mean that I am no longer myself? No longer this hard, impenetrable version of myself?
The thought of staying hard and, inevitably, alone for the rest of my life is almost enough to make me throw in the towel. Why bother surviving, if I never plan to rejoin humanity? What if surviving is more than just existing… what if it means letting in two women who may need me as much as I need them?
As I’ve already decided that I’m all in, I guess it’s time to act like it.
***
Returning to camp a few hours later with my bag full of grass to dry for Beau’s winter stores, I’m not surprised to see Shay making herself busy around the clearing. Orange flames lick the twilight from the fire ring and a line of smoke trails from the shelter’s stone chimney. The smell of meat roasting greets us as I ride through the informal gates. Meekah trots on ahead, meeting Shay by the fire.
After dismounting and watering Beau, I inspect my surroundings. Three squirrels are skinned and roasting over the flames, Joann is snug in my sleeping bag in the shelter, sipping on the last of the rabbit broth. Everything seems to be in order.
A little part of me relaxes that I didn’t know was tense. How nice to come home to dinner and a tidy camp after foraging for winter stores.
Joining Shay, I’m surprised when she goes into the shelter and returns with Joann. Under Joann’s arm is a crude crutch; a sturdy limb with a fork, woven with cloth to create the underarm brace. She hobbles painstakingly to the fire before seating herself on a rough-cut log that Shay has placed for her. I chide myself for not thinking of the crutch myself.
Biding our time in silence, I watch Meekah as she moves from person to person, sniffing and begging for scraps. Once Shay serves us dinner, she noses off for her own bowl of roasted innards. The squirrel is a little tough and gamey, but I’ll take it.
Joann has her bad leg straight out in front of her, wincing every now and then when she shifts her position. Shay has replaced the splint, mimicking how I had put it on initially. “You okay?” I ask.
“Better now, to be out of bed,” she responds.
A few minutes later, full darkness is around us. That’s how it is in the fall here in New England. One minute its light, and the next minute its dark. It will be worse in a month, but for now, I’m thankful for the daylight hours.
When the last dinner dish is taken to the stream by Shay and me, and rinsed in the steady stream, we return to the fire where Joann is entertaining Meekah with a few scraps in one hand and rubbing Beau’s nose with the other. Shay disappears behind the shelter’s doors for a moment, returning with Joann’s antibiotics and a pain pill. After she swallows them down with a swig of water, Shay materializes the bottle of whiskey from her bag. Raising an eyebrow, she wiggles the bottle at me.
Why not?
***
Though I’ve only been hangover-free for a few hours, I take the bottle and take a deep drink of the bitter amber liquid. Relishing the burn in my throat and chest, I pass the bottle to Joann, who takes a much smaller drink. With a full belly and my faithful pup at my feet, we could be any group of friends on a girls camping trip.
After the bottle has made a few quick rounds around our small circle, I ask the question I’ve been dying to ask: “So, how did you guys end up here?”
Joann answers right away. “Mine started in kind of a funny way.” She tsks sarcastically before continuing. “I hadn’t seen some of my college girlfriends for years, and the night before the power went out, a bunch of us had gotten together and driven to Boston for a bachelorette party.” She stares into the fire as she describes what happened next. “It was really late, maybe one am, we’re all pretty drunk, and my old roommate decides to hug one of the female bouncers at a club. She meant it to be funny, but the girl took it as a threat. I tried to break them up, and long story short, all seven of us ended up in the drunk tank. They took our cell phones and keys of course and told us that since none of us have criminal records, we could sleep it off, pay a fine in the morning, and be on our merry way. We all passed out and a few hours later, we wake up, no big deal, except for our headaches. We all thought this would be a big laugh, no harm done, but… of course, that’s not how it turned out.”
She takes a longer pull off the bottle this time. I can imagine the scene as she paints a vivid picture of waking up with no power in the jail. They had a backup generator, which hid what was happening outside even further. It should have been a quick process, but they were held up in the morning trying to pay their fines. And then again trying to get a cab back to their hotel, and so on, and so forth. It was late afternoon before the
y were finally making their way out of the city and back toward one of their houses where the rest of the cars were.
“It was dark by the time I got home, and the house was empty. My husband and son had gone away to stay in a cabin for the weekend for a quick ‘boys’ trip while I was away with my girlfriends. My house had a gas stove and a generator, so I was warm with my candles and a good book. When I woke up the next morning, the power was still out, and by that time, my cell phone was dead.
“It was like my neighborhood- the whole country, for that matter, was holding its breath. What could it mean? How the hell had we all lost power at the same time? Everyone around me was hunkered down in their homes, waiting to see what would happen. I waited and waited, but my husband and son never came home. After a few more days, when those without generators or heat started moving toward the city, I figured that I should go too. My family would have had to drive through Boston to get home, and I thought that they may have stopped in the city and not been able to make it the rest of the way. I packed the car, left a note, and hit the road.
“Getting into the city was a nightmare. By this time, people were panicking, and couldn’t decide whether the city or the countryside was safer. There was so much traffic going in and out, that a lot of people ran out of gas just waiting in line. Eventually, I got into the city and signed into one of the temporary camps. They were scattered throughout Boston and they posted the lists of everyone who signed up each day, to check and see if your loved ones were there somewhere. I checked every day for weeks.”
She didn’t need to finish that thought for me to know that she had never found them. My heart aches for her. After clearing her throat and wiping her face, she continues. “Security was tight in the city, at first. The city officials and police had locked everything down right away, to avoid looting and panic. It helped, but little by little, the police were slipping away to be with their families, and the camps grew more and more unruly. I tried to leave after a while, to see if my family had gone home, but that direction was closed. They were letting people go north, but not directly south out of Boston. Apparently, there was some sort of explosion or something that took out the main highway, and the rest of the roads had been blocked. To head south, you have to go north and circle around God knows how far. So, I stayed.
