Curveball

by Teresa Michaels

  “Guilty for what, not being there?” he asks.

  “I do feel terrible for not being home, but that’s not what I was thinking about.”

  “Then what?”

  This time I stop to face him. “It was nice to be held. Really, really nice. For the first time since Mark passed I felt safe, which is crazy given what’s happened. But it was more than that. I didn’t want you to let go, and that made me feel guilty,” he gives me a shy smile and for a few seconds we walk in silence. Crap. Did I make him uncomfortable?

  “I feel used,” he tells me, feigning hurt.

  “How’s it feel to be on the receiving end?” I quickly reply. His eyes widen and I regret my comment. “Sorry.”

  The corners of his lips turn up and he gives me a sexy smile that could literally make me melt. “Don’t be. I love that you’re unfiltered. But you can’t use me and rub it in my face. A man can only take so much…you’ll have to choose. Take my body or wound my ego,” he tells me.

  His smile is infectious and I imagine using him for more than warmth. I’m pretty sure your body would bring me way more satisfaction than verbally chastising you, I think to myself. It’s only when Drew trips that I realize my string of thoughts weren’t said in my head. As he recovers, Drew lowers his eyes and lets out a forced laugh, then purses his lips and turns his attention to somewhere off in the distance. Shit, how embarrassing! I try to think of something witty to say but decide if I let it go then he’ll think I was kidding. When our eyes meet again his demeanor is serious and he hesitates twice before he speaks. In anticipation of his response, I’m mortified at the possibilities of what he could say.

  “If we hadn’t crashed would you have met me out for a drink?”

  “Honestly? No,” I tell him and then admit, “But I’d have wondered what it would’ve been like the entire time I was there and maybe longer.” In all honesty, I’ve already wondered.

  He considers this for a moment before continuing. “So you haven’t dated at all since your husband died?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I tell him.

  “Have you wanted to?” he presses.

  “No,” I confirm adamantly. “I meant forever when I said ‘I do’. Just because forever for him was far too short it doesn’t change anything.” I haven’t wanted to date, although I’ve wanted other things since I’ve met Drew.

  “So, what, you plan to be alone for the rest of your life?” he scoffs in disbelief.

  My gut tells me that there is no mal intent behind his questions, but they still rub me the wrong way.

  “It’s only been two years. I haven’t really thought about it, Drew,” I say more vehemently than intended, my good humor forgotten. “I have three kids to take care of and now a job,” I snap, flailing my arms out to the side. “I don’t have time to think about anyone else. These last two years have been hell! Besides, starting a relationship is hard enough. Can you imagine the addition of three kids and a dead husband to the mix? And what if things got serious and the guy had kids or wanted them? I don’t want that, I have my family. Right now I need to focus on them and finding out what happened to Mark.”

  “What if the roles were reversed? Would you have wanted him to do the same?”

  I consider his question as I try to regain my composure, keeping my eyes on the ground ahead. “No,” I admit, raising my gaze to meet his. “I’d want him to be happy.”

  “What about your happiness?”

  We stare at each other for a long minute. My happiness? I have no response. What the hell is the point of this conversation? Wanting to change the subject I open my purse and take out a bottle of water. Drew walks a few feet away and leans against a tree near the foot of a rocky cliff and waits while I fish through my purse for another bottle for him.

  “I bet I could make you happy,” he says.

  “Yeah, for a night,” I glare at him. His face contorts before he quickly looks away. I was harsh, but I’m too pissed to say sorry. In any other context his reference to him and I being happy together would be funny or even material for a good fantasy. Now, it feels too personal even though he’s kidding.

  “I had no right to ask you those things,” he apologizes, looking slightly uncomfortable.

  I cock my head to the side. What is that noise?

  “Shhhhh,”I say when Drew tries to restart our conversation. “That. Do you hear that?” I ask. “It sounds almost like a sprinkler.”

  Drew shrugs and shakes his head. He holds his hand out for the water. Too far apart for a hand-off, I toss the bottle of water in the air catching him off guard. It fumbles from his grasp to the ground, rolling into a pile of leaves and sticks. He throws me an exasperated look as he bends to reach for the water. As he does, I hear the noise again; and then, without warning I watch two fangs shoot through the leaves towards his hand and sink into his flesh.

  “Run!” I shriek.

  Lunging forward, I grab his arm and pull him towards me with all my strength. He stumbles in my direction, eyes filled with freight. Hearts racing, we dart into the woods, fleeing the scene. Shit! Think, what should I do? Random thoughts flip through my mind as we continue to run. Calm down, I tell myself.

  Ok, Aubrey just completed her wilderness badge and during a recent field trip we visited a reptile sanctuary. Good, keep thinking. The park ranger said something about snake bites among other things. What did he say to do?

  Dodging branches and moving away from the snake I mentally recall his tips for survival. First, get away from the snake. I look over my shoulder and see we’ve covered several yards. A snake can’t go this fast, can it? Unsure, I decide it’s best to push further. Again, I glance over my shoulder. When we’ve covered several more yards I slow to a stop.

  “Holy shit! Was that a rattlesnake?” Drew screams in panic.

  “I think so,” I admit, grabbing his hand to examine it. His hand trembles as I turn it from side to side. In the flap of skin between his pointer finger and thumb clear as day is one puncture wound. Hmm, it must have only gotten one fang in. If I hadn’t been so caught up in the audacity of his line of questioning I may have been able to pull him away faster. This is no time to let your emotions distract you, I remind myself.

  I watch Drew raise a trembling hand towards his mouth. “What are you doing?” I question.

  “I need to suck the venom out,” he explains.

  “No, don’t!” I slap his hand away before it reaches it’s destination. “That’s only a myth,” I say, recalling the ranger’s lecture. “You need to relax and stay calm,” I say, slowing my words and volume in hopes he’ll breath.

  I kick leaves around on the ground next to a fallen tree to make sure there are no other snakes lurking nearby. Still holding his hand, I guide him to the log and gesture for him to sit.

  “Ahhh,” he releases a primal cry. “This is my fucking pitching hand. What the fuck!” he exclaims. “Shit, am I going to lose my hand? After everything, this is how I’m going to die?” All the blood drains from his face.

  I grab his face with my free hand and move so I’m only inches from his face. I’ll have to force him to focus on my words. I look him square in the eyes. “Drew, you need to breath.” I repeat this several times softly and slowly to be sure he’s understood. “If you keep panicking we won’t know for sure if venom was injected or not.”

  As the words roll off my tongue I’m not even sure there’s an option, though the conviction in my voice is enough to convince me there’s a chance. “Do you understand?” I ask.

  He shakes his head yes and I’m reminded of what it’s like to speak to a small child; one who doesn’t have many words. I demonstrate taking deep, slow breaths and he soon mimics my motions. After a handful of mirrored inhalations and exhalations I release my grip on his face and place his wounded hand on my leg.

  “Keep your hand here while I look for something,” I instruct.

  I need to find something to tie around the area above the puncture site. I vaguely remember
something about how the symptoms of venom present within a few hours of being bitten, and that if you weren’t able to get medical treatment within an hour you should tie off the area above and below the wound to prevent the spread of venom to other areas of the body; not as tight as a tourniquet though.

  Digging through my purse turns up nothing helpful. What the hell am I going to use? The ribbon that was around the blanket would have been ideal but I can’t find it. I rummage through my purse once more and again turn up empty handed. I could use his shoelaces but I’ll need him to be steady when we walk, not tripping. Frustrated, I throw my hands in the air and groan, and then drop my head dramatically in my hands. Think, think, think!

  Raking my fingers back through my hair in exasperation I expose my face and sneak a look at Drew who is watching me intently.

  “What are you looking for?” Drew questions weakly.

  “I need to tie something above the wound to prevent the spread of venom. I thought I could use a hairband but I can’t find one,” I explain and look around for inspiration. Not knowing what else to do I shrug off my suite jacket and rip one of the sleeves off my silk blouse. I tie the fabric tightly above his wrist, leaving just enough room for my finger to slide between it and his skin.

  “Ok,” I huff moving my eyes from his hand to his face. “We need to keep your arm immobile and below your heart level. I think I should make some kind of splint so you don’t move your arm around when we start walking. Help me think of something to use,” I command. I hadn’t noticed until now that his face has become almost green and I’m concerned he’s going to pass out. When I had passed out he slung me over his shoulder and carried me off. If he goes down, I have no hope of moving him at all.

  Sweat has accumulated across his forehead and above his lips. Turning my gaze to his wound I barely contain a gasp. The wound and surrounding area within centimeters of his wound have swollen and become red with infection. Only a small trace of blood oozes from the puncture and I hope that’s a good sign. I swallow hard and try to think of what to do, what to say.

  “Are you ok?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question, so I quickly rephrase. “How do you feel?”

  “I’m tired. I can hear my heart pounding in my head and my hand throbs.”

  “Anything else?” I ask, and he simply shakes his head no.

  I gently set his hand on his own lap and stand to look for some object to use as a splint. Placing my foot on the log Drew’s still sitting on, I snap a piece of bark. It’s longer than I intended but I can use it to stabilize his arm, keeping it parallel to the ground. Without a second thought I rip of the other sleeve of my shirt, and rip it again at the seam.

  Using the sharp end of a stick, I firmly press into the fabric making a slit that extends almost the entire length as I drag downward, which doubles it’s length. I tie a knot and toss the connected scarf like contraption around his neck, and gingerly slide one side behind the shoulder of his wounded arm and then underneath. Holding the piece of wood in place, I tell him to rest his arm on top. As steady as possible I loop the fabric twice around his arm and the wood. When I’m done, the weight of his arm pulls on the fabric causing it to rest perfectly in place as if it were a hospital issued sling. Mentally, I pat myself on the back impressed with my rarely seen creativity.

  “Does that feel ok?” I ask, to which he nods.

  I wish I’d thought to check the time when I started fixing him up. I can’t remember exactly, but I think if he were injected with venom there would be more signs by now. Maybe since only one fang sunk in, he’ll be ok; I hope.

  I don’t think he’s supposed to move but if we sit here we’re both at risk. We’ll be no closer to medical treatment and he could potentially die. Selfishly, I don’t think I can handle losing someone else or being here alone. No, it’s more than that. In the short amount of time we’ve known each other I’ve started to care for him. It’s not that it would be losing someone; I can’t stand the thought of losing him. I take out our second to last bottled water and offer him a drink and then dab the sweat from his forehead with a tissue.

  “I need to clean your hand so it doesn’t get any other infection. I’m going to use a wipe and the antibacterial ointment and cover it with a bandage,” I tell him. As I clean the wound I can tell the swelling has increased. By the way he flinches it must be extremely tender to the touch, so I complete my triage as quickly as possible.

  “I know you’re tired, Drew, but we need to start moving again. This is ok for now,” I say gesturing to my amateur medical work, “but we need to get you to a doctor.”

  With an unreadable expression he flatly says, “Maybe I was supposed to die yesterday.”

  The sweat I just wiped away has returned and his complexion is getting more discolored. I see the fear in his eyes and realize that although he was stoic yesterday it was probably just because I needed him to be.

  “Drew, you survived for a reason. We both did. No one is going to die. We’re going to get help. We’ll walk slowly but you have to try.” He swallows hard and stares at his bandaged hand, shaking. I grab his face in one hand to make him focus. “I can’t do this without you Drew. I need you.”

  He leans his head against mine and mumbles something unintelligible about ‘anything to make me happy’ before passing out in my arms and knocking me to the ground.

  Chapter Ten

  Clarity

  Drew

  I am stuck in some kind of Purgatory.

  I can feel pain and hear muffled sounds, but I can’t move or open my eyes. Where am I? I remember the plane crash and being on the run with Breanne. Wait, what if I didn’t survive? Did I image that whole thing?

  The wound from the snakebite throbs, sending pins and needles shooting up my arm that stops just above my elbow and I immediately recall the events of the last day and a half. But why can’t I move, I ask myself? I have this heavy pressure on my chest; so much weight that I can barely breathe and for some reason my face stings and my ear is wet. I think how odd these symptoms are, especially the last one, just as my senses grow stronger and I’m able to make out Breanne sobbing. When I’m finally able to open my eyes, the pressure on my chest becomes clear.

  “Not that I mind, but if you’re going to make a move on me can you make sure I’m conscious? I’d like to enjoy it,” I struggle to get out.

  Breanne, who is straddling me and lying collapsed on top of me with our heads side by side, shoots straight up to a sitting position.

  “You’re back!” she proclaims in disbelief, pounding her fists into my chest before throwing herself back down, squeezing me.

  “I’m here,” I reassure her, rubbing her back with my good arm. “What happened?”

  “You passed out. I couldn’t hear you breathing and your pulse was weak. I tried so many times to wake you up,” she sniffles.

  “Shhh, it’s ok,” I console her and wait for a break in her sobbing. “Hey, look at me,” I command.

  Reluctantly, she sits up and wipes her nose with her forearm.

  “Don’t you have tissues?” I ask in mock disgust.

  God, the sight of her like this is a combination of heaven and hell. Despite her red, blotchy face she’s beautiful. I feel my body responding and try to think of anything other than the position she’s in. And even though this reaction is physical I’m fully aware that’s not all that’s going on. After she fell earlier and we were lying on the ground, I felt like I was looking at her for the first time. I can’t explain it but something has definitely changed within me and it’s because of her. I tried to ignore it and I thought it was mostly physical. Man, was I wrong.