by Jane Henry
I fall to my knees beside him, the pile of first aid supplies falling onto the ground beside him. “Oh, God,” I choke. “God, I thought you were going to die.”
He grimaces when he moves, but a corner of his lips tilts up. “Can’t get rid of me that easily, babe,” he says in a husky rasp, then coughs so hard his body shakes with the force.
“Just chill,” I tell him. “I’m going to clean your wounds.”
“Chill,” he repeats, but he leans back and lets me tend to him. “What the hell happened?”
I shrug, speaking in short, choppy sentences since I’m concentrating on bandaging him. “There was a pop and a boom,” I say. “Then flames.”
“A pop and a boom,” he repeats. “Makes total sense.”
“Oh, hush,” I say, but even I can’t help but smile. I do sound ridiculous. “Something exploded,” I say, shaking my head.
“Now you know why you’re not allowed to touch the goddamn propane,” he mutters. Thankfully, it looks like he’s more damaged from falling debris than the fire, and his burns aren’t as bad as I suspect. He winces while I bandage him, but says nothing. I take my time dressing every wound until he’s bandaged up like a patchwork quilt.
“There,” I finally say, resting back on my heels. I wipe the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on these and keep them clean, but it doesn’t look like anything beyond second degree burns.”
Frowning, his eyes skate down my arms and to my hands. “Yeah, I’m all bandaged up. But what the fuck happened to you?”
I brush off his question. “Can you get up and walk?” I ask him. “We need to get you inside.” I don’t want to talk about my injuries. For Christ’s sake, he could’ve died.
“Nadine,” he says with warning in his voice. “I asked you a question. Answer me.”
“It’s nothing. Now get up on your feet, and we’ll—”
“Answer me.”
Even injured and bloodied, he’s bossy as fucking hell.
“Oh, fine,” I breathe out. “I had to put out the flames. I used water, and that worked at first, but only a little. The rest I had to…” My voice trails off. He’s not going to like this.
“What?” he barks out.
“Well I had to put some out with my hands.”
“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he growls. I ignore him and turn my hands over. The burns are pretty damn bad, blistered in parts and the skin has peeled clean away from my skin in other parts. I have a few splinters, which I pull out with a frown. he sits up and takes over the bandaging job.
“You’re injured,” I protest.
“Your ass is gonna be injured if you don’t let me do this,” he growls back.
I huff out a breath and let him bandage me up with painstaking care, though it takes him time to move, and I can see it hurts him to do so. Finally, we help each other stand, like the blind leading the blind, and go inside.
“Thank God this place is okay,” I tell him.
“Thank God you’re okay,” he responds.
And you, I think to myself.
Why is it so easy for him to admit he cares about me? I just put out fucking flames with my bare hands to save him, and yet I can’t bring myself to admit it.
I saved him because I need him, and it was my natural rescue instincts that kicked me into motion.
This is what I tell myself anyway.
We split pain relievers between the two of us, eat some leftover food we had from the day before, and both manage the bare essentials with our injuries. We don’t say much. What could have happened looms in my mind, and I can’t bear to think about it. I surmise he’s thinking about the same thing.
We finally fall asleep and stay asleep until the unmistakable sounds of a helicopter wake us up.
Chapter Twenty
Adrian
I’m dreaming. At least I think I am. My body throbs in pain, my neck and arms aching from the burns and cuts. At first, I wonder if I’ve imagined the sounds, but Nadine’s voice shakes me out of the residual effects of slumber.
“That sounds like a helicopter,” Nadine says.
I open my eyes to see her jump out of bed, tossing the covers to the floor. She runs to the window and covers her mouth with her hand, then turns to me with wide eyes. “It’s a helicopter. Oh my God!” She goes to run out of the room.
“Stop!” she freezes and looks at me.
“If I don’t go now, they could keep on going and leave us!” she says, desperation laced in her voice. “Please.”
“Jesus, go,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. “But Nadine…”
She turns and comes to me, as we both suddenly realize what this means. This is it. I’m not going with her.
“Come with me,” she whispers. “You’re… we’ll make something up about who you are.”
“They’ll find me,” I protest.
She shakes her head. “They won’t. They never will. I’ll lie, and tell them that you were someone—”
“You did.”
She blinks as it dawns on her. I couldn’t hide even if I wanted to.
“I died in the crash,” I whisper, watching how her eyes grow pained when realization dawns on her.
I’m not going.
“You died in the crash,” she repeats, her voice cracking, then she reaches her hand out to cup my cheek. “Of course you did. Yes. You died in the crash.”
She closes her eyes and a lone tear escapes. It’s the first tear I’ve ever seen her shed. I want to capture it, hold it in a jar and keep it beside me forever like it’s the elixir of life. I brush it away with my thumb, letting it soak into my skin so it’s a part of me.
When she opens her eyes, they brim with tears and her lips tremble. “You died,” she said. “And so did I.”
I lean in and kiss her, but it’s too brief, too simple, and there aren’t enough words to say what I need to.
“Go,” I tell her. It’s an order. The last command I’ll ever give her. “Fucking go.” I spin her around and practically shove her out of the door. She could miss her only chance of escape. She gives me one final, pained expression, and runs.
It’s not enough of a good-bye, but what could be? Is there ever enough time to really say good-bye?
I hear her shouting as the sound of the helicopter draws nearer and I slink deep into the forest. From where I crouch I wait for what seems like hours. Days even. Where will they take her? Are they people who can be trusted? What waits for her when she leaves this island? Will they care for her the way she needs to be cared for?
Finally, the copter lifts off the beach. Irrationally, I wonder at first if she stayed, if I’ll come out of hiding and find her here. But as the sound of the helicopter fades, I don’t need to look for her.
I feel the loss like I’ve been bled dry.
She’s gone. Nadine is gone.
I can’t breathe. My world is darkened, the pain of the fire the day before paling in comparison to the physical loss that draws me to my knees. I bury my head in my hands.
It’s the first time since the crash I wish I’d died.
Chapter Twenty-One
One week later
Nadine
They finally let me out of the fucking hospital room. I tried to tell them I didn’t need it, but they wouldn’t listen to me. I’m beyond really caring, though. I should be happy that I made it, that I’m still alive and back on American soil. I’m not, though. I’m numb.
I tell myself that I’m in shock. Or… something.
I can hardly even piece together the memory of my rescue.
Three uniformed people landed on the larger beach. They were just getting out of the helicopter when I ran to them, screaming like a fool and waving my hands in the air. Who could blame me, though? I was desperate.
Distraught.
One of them, a woman who looked just like I may have in my last life, her hair in a tight bun and starched uniform covering her well-built frame, stared at me and hel
d her hands up for me to halt. She asked me who I was. Two men stood beside her.
“We’re from the United States Air Force, sent to aid the scientists on the Palmyra Atoll south of here,” she explained. “We were told a plane went missing in this area six months ago, and when we saw smoke, we gained permission to come here.” She sobered, giving me a piercing look. “Are you a survivor?”
I answered on auto-pilot. “I’m Nadine Fontaine. I’m a U.S. Marshall who was sent to apprehend a convicted felon. On our return trip to the States, we crashed on this island.”
The man standing next to her gave me a piercing look, then scanned the island around me when he spoke. “Were you the only survivor?”
Adrian is dead, I tell myself. He’s dead. And I embraced this truth when I responded, needing to be sure I gave no evidence of a lie.
“Yes,” I said.
They took my word for it, helped me onto the helicopter, and the only time I almost lost my shit was when the woman asked, “Is there anything left on this island you need to retrieve before we leave?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
Everything.
I was taken to a hotel in Hawaii first, and treated for my burn wounds and injuries. They give me IV fluids and nutritional supplements, and even send a psychiatrist in to talk to me.
I don’t talk to anyone, though.
Adrian doesn’t have IV fluids and nutritional supplements or a fucking psychiatrist.
I overhear a whispered conversation, the woman who rescued me telling the others to give me space. I catch the words trauma and shock.
She has no idea.
I answer a few questions posed by some professional-looking people in uniforms, but I don’t much care who they are or what they want. They explain how the island where I was found used to be inhabited by research scientists who’ve since relocated to the Palmyra Atoll, an island in the Pacific owned by the U.S. specifically for research purposes. It makes sense. I nod, accepting what they tell me. Do I have a choice?
After I’m cleared, I’m given a phone by someone, but I keep it off. I don’t want to call anyone. I don’t want to speak to anyone. Everything is too bright, too noisy. I close my eyes and sleep, until they tell me it’s time to go home.
Home.
Do I still have a home?
It’s been nearly six months. How can half a year seem like a lifetime?
Am I still me? Or did a part of me die in that crash? On the island?
I arrive in California at dusk. I think I may have eaten something they gave me on the plane, but I don’t remember. It was only a little, though. I can’t handle the processed food they serve on planes like I used to. My body’s too used to fresh fish and ripe fruit. I thought I’d never want to see another piece of grilled breadfruit again, but after trying to eat the food they gave me, it’s all I want.
I am not prepared for my welcome home.
I’m led off the plane by armed guards, uniformed military who keep the throes of reporters away from me. I blink at the blinding camera flashes, and wince when someone steps too close. I’ve never been so thankful for my brothers and sisters in the military. They’ve stepped up as one to defend me and keep the reporters and questions away. I’m led to a car that’s waiting for me with a wide-open door. Numbly, I slide into the car.
It feels so weird to be riding in a car again, but I’m grateful for the silence when the door shuts. I lean my head back on my seat and close my eyes.
I can’t think of the island.
The entire time I was there, all I could think of was how badly I wanted to go home. How I wanted to escape my captor.
I tell myself it’s just a psychological game my mind is playing on me.
But I know better.
And I can’t think about what I’ve done.
In the second hospital when we arrive in California, I’m asked an endless array of questions, but thankfully the questions involving Adrian are minimal. I repeat my story so many times, it becomes rote.
We had a fuel leak.
They tried to land our plane.
We crashed.
There’s only the last line that occasionally trips me up.
I was the only survivor.
I somehow end up on some sort of news station. I’m sitting on a stool and they’re doing crazy things to my hair, applying makeup with large brushes under bright lights before we go live.
“Stop,” I tell the person running a brush across my cheeks. “No more.”
“Just highlighter here,” she mumbles to herself. It’s wrong. It’s all so stupid and wrong.
“I said stop. No more,” I tell her, but she keeps at it until I finally slap her brush from her hands and it flies across the room. The team that’s dolled me up stares at me in silence and I issue a command with as much patience as I can muster.
“Don’t fucking touch me again.”
They don’t.
I sit in a stupid fucking fluffy chair with lights blinding me, and field questions from the reporter in a daze. I’m not me. I’m some dolled-up plaything they’ve put in front of the camera to entertain people, but what they’re really doing is using me to make money. I don’t want to be here, and I hate being used, so when they ask questions, I finally give them the bold truth.
“We crashed and everyone but me died. I saw body parts torn from limb to limb and strewn on the beach like the aftermath of war.” The audience they’ve gathered hushes and somewhere in the distance a baby cries. “I pulled shrapnel from my own leg, prevented myself from bleeding out with a handmade tourniquet, and survived on fish and fruit I found on the land. After we crashed, there was blood and gore and vacant eyes that will haunt me until I die.” The reporter flinches, but I meet her gaze squarely. “Any more questions?”
They don’t ask me on news stations after that.
My apartment has been rented out to someone else and my things have been put into storage. It’s my boss, Alex, who relays this information to me, and he’s deeply apologetic.
“For Christ’s sake,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Should be giving you the goddamn celebrity treatment, and instead I’m telling you we thought you were dead.”
I shake my head and tell him I don’t care. I had minimal things to begin with and didn’t love my apartment. To his credit, he pulls some strings and gets me a nice, swanky place in the heart of San Diego, but I fucking hate it.
I can’t stroll to the seashore without remembering the beaches I walked. Everywhere I go there are people. So many people. They talk and walk and laugh, and it makes me crazy. I end up going back to my apartment, ordering groceries to be delivered and doing everything I can online.
I find myself looking up Adrian. I find his old Facebook page, one he hasn’t kept up since before he was sent to prison. A deep, abiding pain hits me in my belly when I see him. I shake so badly I have to shut off the laptop.
What have I done?
It shocks me how easily I’m forgotten. I had few friends before I left, and every one of them reaches out to me, but I can’t bear talking to anyone. They don’t really try after that. I never really was a people person. Thankfully, I have no family to speak of. Either my few friends understand that I need space, or they don’t want to talk to a somber shell of a woman who doesn’t engage in conversation or remember what it is like to laugh.
I thought I was in hell on the island. But here… here is where the real hell lies. People walk around in too many clothes and say too many words, pretending. To like each other. To care about things. They do what the others expect, and care about what others want.
It’s fucking disgusting, and I can’t stand it.
Three weeks after I’m back my supervisor calls me.
“Nadine, we’d like you to return to work,” Alex says. He clears his throat. “But we have some conditions before you do.”
“Yeah?” I say.
I want to go back to work. I need something to do to keep me away from thi
s miserable existence.
I open a container of coconut water I had delivered here in green plastic grocery bags. I tell myself my body grew accustomed to coconut water, and maybe that’s what I need to feel good again. I open it and stick a straw into the opening in the cardboard container, but after one sip I spit out the entire mouthful into the kitchen sink. God. It tastes fucking awful compared to the real stuff. I whip the rest of the container in the trash.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie. “What’s the condition?”
He clears his throat. “You go to therapy.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I say, rolling my eyes heavenward. “What the hell for?”
He doesn’t say anything at first. “They… think you may have post-traumatic stress from the plane crash.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
“Nadine…” he pleads. “Just listen.”
I push myself up against the counter of my kitchen and cross my arms on my chest. Post-traumatic stress my ass.
I left the only person I’ve ever cared about on a goddamned island and pretended he was dead so he could live the rest of his life in peace. I left him for dead.
I was a fool. A fucking fool.
He goes on and on about making sure I’m okay, and the effects of trauma on performance, and blah blah blah. I don’t even remember what I agree to, but I have a date and address scribbled on a post-it note when I hang up the phone. I throw the phone across the room and it lands on the couch, fortunately unscathed. It’s a pain in the ass to replace a cell issued by the government.
I go to my room, suddenly tired. The walls look too white, the bed too large, and way too soft when I sit on it. A cold front has come in, bringing with it rain and lightning, and I’m suddenly cold, but I need these clothes off. I strip out of my pants and shirt and whip the clothes into the basket across the room. I left most of my things in storage and gave permission to the owner to sell it. I think I donated the money to charity. I don’t much care. The place they rented for me is furnished and sparse in a sort of utilitarian, modern fashion, but it’s too much. There are too many useless things taking up space in this room.
