The Survivors

by Will Weaver

  “New snowmobile helmet,” he answers. “Sarah’s wearing it until I’m back in the saddle.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Herb says.

  Ray clears his throat, then speaks up. “Ah, is Sarah around, by the way?”

  “She’s outside,” Nat says.

  “Fishing. Should be,” Miles says. “Probably in the spear house. Upriver.”

  “Don’t worry, son, we’ve got plenty of food,” Nat says.

  “I’m here, too, as a backup—I deliver groceries,” Herb says.

  “The idea was … we do it ourselves,” Miles says, turning to his mother.

  “But you have friends now,” Herb explains. “Our family is happy to help yours.”

  “Don’t need help!” Miles exclaims, then squints from a sudden arrow of pain inside his head.

  “Please—come lie down, Miles,” his mother calls; he lets her help him into the kids’ bedroom. There, in the cool semidarkness, he pulls a blanket over himself and concentrates on thinking nothing at all. Beyond the thin, wooden wall his mother and Herb murmur.

  “—should see a neuropsychologist,” Herb says. “There’s a good one I know who rotates through our hospital.”

  His mother says something Miles can’t make out.

  “Some tests would probably give us a better idea of what he needs,” Herb says.

  “—needs more rehab than staying quiet in a dark room,” she says.

  “I agree. I’m not a doctor,” Herb says, “but Miles has symptoms in common with people who have migraines. Bright lights, sudden movement, major changes in temperature—all those things can trigger the headache.”

  “But what if it’s more than just a headache?” His mother’s voice falters at the end.

  “Well, that’s what we need to find out,” Herb says.

  There’s a long pause. “Can I make you a cup of coffee?” Nat says. “That, at least, I know how to do.”

  There’s a pause. “Sure,” Herb says. “Ray and Sarah probably won’t mind.”

  “Yes, those two,” Nat answers in a what-can-I-say voice.

  There’s silence, during which Miles drifts off. He blinks awake only seconds later—at least he believes it to be seconds.

  “—chopping and splitting wood with his axe. He’s gotten quite good at it,” Nat says. Her voice has changed; it’s like some time has passed. “For Artie, it’s something concrete.”

  “Caregiving is concrete,” Herb says. “You just can’t see the results like you can with a stack of firewood.”

  “Could you drive Miles to town?” his mother says. “I mean, when we get an appointment?”

  “Sure. I’ll check the doctors’ schedules tomorrow,” Herb says. The conversation continues about the weather, the climate predictions (more sunshine all the time). Yeah, right! Coffee cups clink, and then there are thumping sounds as his father returns with wood. A blast of cold air from outdoors. Clank of the stove door, squeak of the damper inside the stovepipe. Adult talk continues. There is a fine line between brain damage and boredom, so Miles allows himself another little nap.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  SARAH

  BRUSH, WHO’S IN THE LITTLE spear house with Sarah, lifts his head from the thin floorboards.

  “What?” Sarah says.

  He growls—a low rumble.

  “It’s just ice noise,” Sarah says. “Don’t worry about it.” They are upriver from the cabin, in a bay where the ice is thicker and safer. The cramped, dark house is situated at the edge of the wild rice bed, where northern pike cruise, looking for baitfish. She works her red-and-white decoy fish in the water below. The glowing hole is like a television in the floor but with a blank screen. A luminous, pale square of light. A spear (Mr. Kurz’s) leans against her right shoulder, and its retrieve cord is tied to the wall. The skinny iron rod, about four feet long, ends in a wide hand of five sharp tines. She keeps the spear close by the open hole in the ice, which is a smooth, glowing, blue-white slab about a foot deep. She’s ready but has seen no fish.

  The only entertainment is the talking ice—intermittent groans, ripping and booming noises that used to scare her, but now she understands them. It’s not the ice breaking; it’s the ice growing. Thickening. Getting stronger. In the last few days, when the temperature has fallen to twenty below zero, she has had to chip away several inches of new ice in order to keep the spear hole open. Fish are skittish during loud ice days; even minnows flinch and dart away when the ice speaks.

  Inside the tiny shack it is dark except for a candle for a bit of warmth; Brush is the spear house heater. She couldn’t stand the cold in here if not for his big body. He’s gotten mostly used to her—though not to anybody else. He’ll never be a house pet, but he makes a good spear house dog.

  He’s restless, however; he cocks his good ear—and growls again. He sits up, and soon Sarah hears footsteps crunch on snow, growing louder as they approach. Her left hand goes to the shotgun in the corner; her right hand goes to the little sliding peephole board.

  The figure approaching is backlit by sun—it’s a bright day, maybe another reason that the fish aren’t moving—and she squints one eye to see better. Slips a shell into the chamber and gets ready to step outside.

  “Ahoy in the spear house!” a voice calls.

  “Ray!” she says suddenly.

  Brush growls for real this time.

  “Stop that,” Sarah says.

  He quickly lowers his ears, and she opens the door and shoos him outside; then she yanks off her stocking cap and tries to fluff up her hair.

  “Are you in there, Sarah?” Ray calls.

  “Yes! Come on in,” she answers. She swings open the little plywood door, and Ray bends low to step inside. She quickly closes the door behind him.

  “Whoa—I’m blind!” he says, and stumbles against her old wooden bench.

  “It takes a while for your eyes to adjust,” she says with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall in the hole.”

  “Thanks!”

  “We have to share my bench, though,” she says, scooting over.

  He gets situated closer beside her and leans forward to look down. His breath steams above the greenish light from the ice hole. He turns to her, smiles, gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Your dad’s doing his thing with Miles?” Sarah asks as she leans against him.

  Ray nods.

  “How does he seem today?”

  Ray shrugs slightly. “Better, I think. Just a couple of slips into Mr. Kurz-world, though you never know when he’s kidding.”

  “Tell me about it,” Sarah says.

  “And you?” Ray asks. He puts an arm around her and pulls her closer—a friendly, one-armed hug—and anyway, they’re both wearing gloves and big parkas.

  “The fish must be sleeping today,” Sarah says.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Ray says.

  “My parents are really worried about Miles,” she blurts.

  They are silent for a long time. “When this is all over, you could write a book,” Ray offers.

  “Suburban Chick Turns Woodswoman,” Sarah mutters.

  “Meets northern boy who doesn’t hunt,” Ray adds.

  She manages a tiny smile.

  “Actually, my family could go for some red meat,” Ray says.

  Sarah glances at him.

  “I mean, if you’re out hunting someday,” he says with a shrug.

  “No problem,” Sarah says.

  And suddenly they’re kissing—hard, fumbling kisses in the tight space, with no room to move. They hold each other until her heart slams like a bass drum and she is sweaty all over beneath her winter parka. For some reason she opens one eye to look down at the green square hole in the ice—and quickly pushes Ray away.

  “I’m sorry!” he says.

  “No—not that. I saw a fish. A northern! A really big one!” She quickly lifts the decoy fish string—makes the little wooden fish dart.

  “Oh no, it�
�s my fault!” Ray says.

  “Shhhh,” Sarah says. “He might come back.”

  But in the next minute or so he doesn’t.

  Gradually they relax. “There’s always next time,” she says. They are silent; it’s as if neither knows what to say about the kissing.

  “Spearing decoys are cool,” Ray says.

  “This one’s new,” she says, hoisting it closer to the surface. “We made it.”

  “How’d you know how?” Ray asks.

  “Miles,” she answers.”

  “Duh,” Ray replies.

  “It was kind of fun, actually,” Sarah says. “Especially the wood carving.”

  “If the decoys are wooden, what keeps them from floating up to the surface?” Ray asks.

  “They’re weighted with lead. After you carve them, you drill out a hole in the belly, then pour hot lead inside.”

  “And the fins?”

  “Cut from tin cans, then stuck into the wood with little nails.” She lifts the decoy still closer to the surface so Ray can see it better. “You just bend the tail fin a half turn, and that makes the fish turn in a circle.” She demonstrates, which is when the big pike, jaws wide and gills flared, lunges back at the decoy.

  “Jeez!” Ray shouts, and almost tips over backward on the bench.

  “Stay still!” Sarah whispers. “He missed the decoy—which means he’ll circle back.”

  “It was huge!” Ray breathes. “Looked like an alligator!”

  “At least ten pounds,” Sarah whispers. “Here—you handle the decoy and I’ll get ready with the spear.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Nothing. Let it hang there but be ready to jerk it away if he tries to bite it.”

  The gray torpedo drifts in from a different direction this time, finning slowly toward the motionless decoy. His beady eyes focus on its colors, and his wide gills fan slowly in and out. Sarah carefully lowers the spearhead and its needle-sharp points, then thrusts it hard—a powerful, jabbing throw. The tines nail the pike just behind his head.

  “You got him!” Ray shouts.

  “Not yet!” Sarah shouts. She grabs the retrieve cord, which is tied to the end of the spear, and slows down the run of the fish. When the cord grows slack, she pulls it in, hand over hand. The fish is not a fighter or a flopper; the center tine has hit him in the spine, and he comes in quivering and heavy.

  “Open the door,” Sarah calls to Ray.

  He fumbles with the latch, and the sunlight floods in.

  “You go out first!” she calls.

  Ray vamooses, and, with a grunt, she heaves the dripping, heavy pike from the hole and pitches him onto the snow. Scales as big as quarters glint on the spear tines.

  “I can’t believe it!” Ray says. “You got him. I could never have done that.”

  “Sure you could,” Sarah says. Even as they look, a film of ice glazes over the shiny green-and-white-spotted sides of the northern pike. Sarah’s heart is pounding.

  “Now what?” Ray says.

  She wants to go back into the spear house with Ray and forget about fishing. But she says, “If we leave the fish outside, Brush will eat it.”

  Ray shivers. “We’d better head back. The fish will be frozen as hard as a rock within five minutes.”

  The drag him, tied by a twine looped through his gills and out his mouth, across the snowy edge of the river and onto land. Brush limps along close behind. Sarah has to be on guard that he doesn’t bite the fish, but soon they arrive at the cabin.

  “Supper is served,” Sarah announces as they come inside the cabin; she hoists up the big northern pike.

  “My God!” Nat says.

  “Wow,” Artie says, and Herb O’Keefe begins to clap.

  Miles can only smile at the big fish and Sarah. “That’s my sister,” he says to everyone. It’s a cool moment, even though he’s looking at her oddly, as if he doesn’t quite recognize her. As if he’s saying it to convince himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  MILES

  SARAH DRIVES THE SNOWMOBILE. HE hangs on to her from behind. Riding on the jump seat is totally annoying, but at least he’s not stuck in the sled with his mom and dad. It’s a bright, cold day in early January; tiny crystals of frost glitter in the air like little pinpricks of light. They are heading into town for his appointment with a visiting neuropsychologist. But first they have to catch their ride.

  “Maybe he won’t come,” Miles says against the side of her helmet.

  “Of course he’ll come,” Sarah calls back.

  “Ray, too?” Miles.

  Sarah turns her face sideways. “Why don’t you like Ray?”

  “Watch the trail!”

  She does.

  “Not sure. Never thought you’d have a boyfriend.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Sarah says.

  “That came out wrong,” Miles says. “Never thought you’d be …”

  “A big girl?” Sarah finishes.

  “Yeah. Big.”

  “Well, get used to it,” Sarah says. She cracks the accelerator just enough to get a shriek from her mother and to make Miles grab on tighter.

  “Stop that!” her mother calls from behind.

  “Cool,” Miles says as she drives on through the snowy woods.

  The O’Keefe vehicle is waiting at the highway. An older Dodge minivan with a Blue Star sticker plus hospital parking tags. Windows mostly frosted over except for a thawed oval on the windshield. Black melted spot on the snow beneath the tailpipe.

  “See? Told you,” Sarah said.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Miles says crabbily. “Stop here. Park in the woods, out of sight. We walk down the bank. Be sure to cover your tracks.”

  They do, then all pile into the O’Keefes’ van. Miles sits up front, Nat and Artie in the next seat, and Ray and Sarah in the far back. They cozy up together under a lap blanket. It’s sickening.

  “Great to see the sun!” Herb says cheerfully as they motor off. “Right, Miles?”

  “Not really,” Miles says. He’s wearing sunglasses against the light. Light kills him—it’s like little needles poking into his brain.

  “Anyway,” Herb says, “you’re going to like Dr. Chadron. She’s lively, fun, and very sharp.”

  “Like me,” Miles says.

  No one says anything.

  “Joke,” Miles says. His headache is a tiny motor in a far corner of his brain. Idling. Always there. He scrapes frost on his side window so that he can see out. See where they’re going. It feels good to be moving. To be on the road again.

  At the clinic, which adjoins the hospital, he waits with his family in a small examining room. He has never been claustrophobic until today. He concentrates on reading the wall posters that have generic information about the skull. The brain locked inside it. His mother hums nervously and his father taps.

  “Knock-knock!” says a foreign-sounding voice. The doctor is young and pretty in a dark-eyed, silk-scarf-loose-over-her-hair, Muslim kind of way. There’s something to be said for women without tattoos or piercings, or a lot of bare skin.

  “The Newells?” she says.

  Nat nods. “That’s us. And this is Miles.”

  Miles shoots his mother an annoyed look.

  “Hello, Miles,” the doctor says cheerfully; she has small fingers but a very strong grip. Then she sits and turns sideways in her desk chair as she types something into her computer. Long black skirt, thin and silky. Great ankles. After some chitchat and background about the accident, she opens a notebook. “Okay, Miles, we’re going to do a few cognition exercises.”

  Miles glances at his family. Sarah, mother, father—all stuck in the same room.

  The doctor says, “I’m going to read you some things—directions, actually. You try to remember as many as you can. Then repeat them back to me.”

  Sarah giggles.

  “Excuse me?” the doctor says.

  “Sorry,” Sarah says quickly. “It’s sort of an inside joke with our family. Memo
ry Boy, I mean …” She trails off.

  The doctor pauses a moment, then moves on. “In my field, memory is a key indicator of neuro health,” she says, turning to Miles.

  “Hit me,” Miles says.

  “Pardon me?” the doctor says.

  “I mean, give them to me. I’m ready.”

  The doctor glances once more at the family, then begins. “We head north on Elm Street, take a left turn on Second Avenue, and cross the railroad tracks. Then we turn right on Jefferson Street.” She pauses to look at him. Walnut-brown eyes, pencil-drawn eyebrows, the silk head scarf. Her slightly weird English. Pink lipstick and great teeth.

  “That’s it?” Miles asks.

  “Yes. Could you repeat them to me?” she asks.

  Miles nails it exactly.

  “Good. Now another one, longer this time.” This route includes two intersections, a bridge, and two stoplights.

  He shrugs—nails it again word for word.

  “Very good,” she says, “though it was a left turn at the last stoplight.”

  He blinks. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She leans over to show him the chart. She jots some notes on her pad; Miles frowns and glances at his family.

  “Give me the next page,” Miles says quickly. “Harder directions.”

  “All right,” she says evenly.

  This time Miles closes his eyes and really concentrates.

  “Very fine,” she says when he recites the route, “though you transposed the bridge and the tunnel.”

  There is silence in the room. “Are you sure?” Miles asks.

  “Yes,” she says, a trace of annoyance in her voice. “I use these charts all the time. They’re not easy.”

  “Give me your hardest one!” Miles blurts.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The toughest one, the most turns—I want to try it.”

  She pauses, then shrugs. “All right. If you wish. But don’t be surprised if you—”

  “Go ahead, I’m ready,” Miles says, and leans forward on his chair.

  She stares at him, then begins. It’s a half minute’s worth of directions that, like words in a spelling bee, get funkier and more complicated as they go along.

  Miles scrunches his forehead, feeling his eyebrows bunch together over his nose, as he listens to the doctor read. He can see the streets, the signs, the turns, the exit numbers; inside his head he strings them together, one by one. The route goes outward, then comes gradually back around, turn by turn, a crazy pattern that gradually reveals its logic: The trip ends where it began.