by J. Round
He laid his head back. “When I was in the cave, that night, by myself, I wished everyone would just disappear and it would be you and I, alone. I guess I got my wish.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know, but I took it as fate, a sign we were meant to be together. I ran with it and eventually it became too much. I was too deep into the lie.”
“That’s why you rejected me, last night on the roof.”
“Yes.”
“Is it true what you said then, about seeing me at the beach that night, with Xavier?”
He dipped his head, which I took as a yes.
“I think the others might have seen you, thought you were a ghost.”
“I just might be yet.”
I pulled closer. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just–” He trailed off.
“How’d you even know where I was that night?”
Logan pulled back his sleeve. He pressed a button on the side of his watch and it lit up neon green. I’d never noticed it before.
“It’s so I can track you. The actual tracker itself is in the pendant on your necklace.”
“Mom’s necklace? The one Dad gave me when he got into office?”
I reached down to the pendant on my chest.
He nodded again. “You never take it off. It’s how I knew you were out of the dorm, how I followed you down to the beach. I saw you and that guy and couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to invade your privacy.”
“I really wish you had.”
“No,” he reaffirmed. “It wasn’t fair of me to deprive you of your life, so I left. I know this whole island inside-out. I’d researched it for three weeks solid before we even arrived. I knew about the cave, so I went there, away from it all.”
He sighed. “I should have protected you. I should have stopped him.”
“It’s okay,” I said, trying to comfort him. “You couldn’t have known.”
I looked at his watch, the screen. There was a digital compass, a needle pointing in my direction, ‘3.5FT’ beside it. Real James Bond stuff.
“That’s how you knew which direction the Eagle had taken me. That’s how you found me out there.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think the kidnapping was connected to me?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. No one knew who you were except the principal and I. You just happened to be here. Bad luck. That’s all it is.”
Story of my life.
I could see he was mentally preparing himself up before he went on. “If you don’t want to be with me, I’ll understand.”
This put me on the back foot, pissed me off even.
“No. I want to be with you.”
I felt a small pang of anger he’d lied to me when I thought we’d drawn so close. But the truth just seemed so abstract, and in a way I liked that, being bound together by circumstance and secrets.
“We’re in it together,” I said, concentrating more on keeping him calm than arguing out fine details. “Before you I was drowning, but the last few days you’ve saved my life, in more ways than one. I can’t live without you. I won’t.”
We sat there together for a while. Plenty of questions came, but I tried to pick out something easy, casual.
“When’s your birthday?” I asked.
“You’re still trying to work out how old I am?”
“Well, what did you put down on your application?”
“I said I was seventeen.”
“But you’re in your teens, though?”
“Of course,” he laughed.
I was still shell-shocked, sorting my way through this information dump. My head was stuffed with so many revelations, surprises and secrets that one more and ‘poof’, I’d disappear.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Sixteen, seventeen, twenty-seven… I don’t care. Nothing matters as long as we’re together. Besides, I’ll be eighteen soon.”
“You never told me what that teacher said to you, the one that went through the window,” he said ruefully, changing tact.
“What, you don’t know? I thought you were all Mr. Smith and everything.”
“I don’t, honestly.”
I breathed in. “She thought I was doing her boyfriend, one of the English teachers.”
“Were you?”
I slapped him on the arm.
“No, I’m a virgin.” I blushed as I said it. “It was Lisa White, the bitch, trying to frame me.”
“That was it?”
“Not really. It dragged on. She starting talking shit about my family, my father, saying what a disappointment I must be. Then she mentioned my mother, and that was it.”
It wasn’t. I knew there was more to it. I knew that when she’d mentioned my mother, how much of a disappointment I’d be if she were alive, I’d tried to picture Mom in my head. But I couldn’t remember her face. For the first time I couldn’t remember my own mother, and it scared me. It scared me so much that with the class yelling, the teacher in front of me raving on and on and on I couldn’t take it any more. I lashed out at whatever had been closest at the time – her.
“Was worth it?” Logan said.
I looked to him and knew that how horrible that situation may have been it had brought me to the island. “It was. What about you? I bet you’ll never put your hand up for babysitting duty again.”
“I would, in a heartbeat.”
“Are you sure? As I see it, all you got was a good stabbing.”
He looked hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I take it back.”
He reached out to my face, running his finger down the ridge of my cheek.
“I’m sorry we didn’t make it to number five on your list.”
“Don’t worry. We have our whole lives for that.”
There was comfort in saying the words aloud.
A genuine smile crept across his face. This time, there was no pain in it.
He put his hand to his chest. “I might have been stabbed in the stomach, but you’ve healed my heart.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fuck me. Do you have any idea how cheesy that sounds?”
That smile again. “I do, but it’s true. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He sat up as best he could so we were inches apart. “You’re the right reason.”
We kissed. It tasted salty and metallic.
When I pulled back his face was so beautiful, so utterly smooth and perfect, for a moment I seriously considered if he was a fallen angel.
“I can’t believe Dad sent you here. I guess I’m glad, but, I don’t know. You’ve met him then, my Dad, ‘El Presidente’.”
Logan shivered, even though it wasn’t getting any colder. “He interviewed me personally.”
“Oh? Good.” I shifted slightly. “We had a fight before I came here. I left after calling him by his first name.” Another tear fell onto my cheek. I brushed it away. “Well, you’ve already met ‘the father’ then. Isn’t that the hardest part?”
Logan laughed. “I have a feeling if he knew what had happened here, if he knew I’d kissed you, he’d probably have me shot on the spot.”
He winced and moved his head to the side, whispering in my ear. “Whatever happens, I want you to know this wasn’t your fault, okay?”
I couldn’t nod. My neck was locked into position.
He sat back. “I have a list, too. I’ve had it for ages, before I even knew you existed. It’s in my trouser pocket, the left one. I took it out before I swapped clothes. I want you to have it.”
He pulled my free hand towards his pocket.
“Okay,” I said. “Hang on.”
I carefully reached into his left pocket. The material inside felt silky, foreign and artificial. I drew out a folded square of paper with my fingertips. The top edge was bloody.
When his next words came, they were weak. “Open it later and think of me.”
“We’ll read it later,” I said, turning to face hi
m dead-on. “You’re not going anywhere. We’re going to open it together and laugh later, right? Everything’s going to be okay.”
I started to sob and realized I must have looked like a complete mess. In low light you could only ever see one of my eyes. The darker one was always lost in my face, turning me into some midnight Cyclops.
I watched Logan’s eyes flick out over the water. He looked pale, but his voice found a sudden burst of steadiness. “I could think of worse places to die than on an island beach with a beautiful girl.”
My emotions were everywhere. I was angry he was considering the possibility, but that mixed with peace, and joy.
He tried to laugh again, but the action of it caught somewhere in his throat and it came up more like a gargle. “At least I didn’t have to drug you.”
I smiled for the first time in hours, but like a summer rainbow it was all but a shimmer on my skin, a trick of light.
I placed my forehead against his and felt his breath fall slowly and softly on my cheek. “I love you,” I said, and waited.
His eyes moved from the ocean and plunged deep into my own. A strand of silence drew out so long I thought the words would never come and then, “I love you, too,” before his eyes closed.
Soon I could only just feel him breathing against me, his chest rising and falling so shallow it was barely perceptible and his skin such a pale shade of white I was sure some specter had occupied his body.
“Logan?” I spoke.
“Logan?” I whispered, but there was no response.
I wept and sobbed in silence, the warmth of the burning school behind me and that which was by my side fast ebbing in and out like the tide.
I shifted my leg slightly, which had started to grow numb, and felt the folded piece of paper he’d given me poke at my side through the pocket. I carefully removed it with the tips of my left fingers, pulled it open and started to read what I could in the coming light.
It was a list, just as he’d said. It was similar to the DNB in length, but each item seemed more philosophical, deeper, as if it’d been penned by someone staring down death. The fact he’d crossed off the last item broke down any kind of barrier of composure I’d been keeping in place.
As I read, tears fell from my eyes and impacted the paper, sending spider webs of wetness spiraling out on the surface. A play-by-play of our time together, it read:
1) Do something reckless
2) Teach someone something they didn’t know
3) Make a girl smile
4) Save a life
5) Find something worth dying for
16. LIMBO
I’d still buy lottery tickets if I were a statistician. I liked to believe there was some measure of luck in the world, some inherent intangibility that gave people a break now and then, no matter what the odds. ‘One in a million’, my mother used to say, referring to my heterochromia. ‘You’re not different, you’re special.’
Along with ‘unique’, I grew to despise that word because I always believed it inferred there was something wrong, not right, with me. I believed my condition set me apart for a reason. I was destined for greater things. Maybe that’s what these last few days with Logan had been about after all. But was it the start, or end?
The night was long enough to explore such avenues. I rocked with Logan in my arms until his body was limp and cool as marble. I was sure he was dead. The blood on my hands was cold and dry, but I dared not let go. I was certain my presence alone was all that was stopping him slide into the precipice. I scanned the hill every so often, but no more men came.
Help didn’t arrive until dawn.
When they did come, when they took him from me, I screamed until my lungs burned. They had to peel my hand, finger by finger, from his arm. Don’t die, I repeated in my head, don’t die, as people in primary colors flitted about me like strange, exotic birds.
#
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Standing there in the hospital restroom I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t believe what was staring hawk-eyed back. It looked like I’d been dragged through a swamp. My hair hung either side of my face matted together like fetid seaweed. There were scratches all over my arms and legs. Someone had dug shallow graves under my eyes. I still clutched Logan’s list in my hand.
He was in surgery. They’d taken him in almost immediately.
Two hours later, while I counted cracks on the walls and the remaining jumbo cookies in the vending machine, a doctor came to tell me the stitching, while basic, had saved Logan’s life.
“Extremely lucky” was the phrase he used when he told me the knife missed major organs by fractions of an inch. It was a “miracle” he’d survived, hand on my shoulder, “one in a million”.
Logan would be out of surgery later in the afternoon for what the doc imagined to be a quick recovery. Someone had already looked over me, to my protest, so he suggested I clean up and have a shower, directing me to a nearby nurse as if I were a lost child.
Tiles turned to coffee when I stepped into the shower. Dirt and grime streamed from my body, meeting at my legs before pooling around the plughole. I watched it wash off and with it some of the worry that had settled there. My right hand was still shaking. I didn’t know why. Maybe it would shake forever.
The no-brand bottle of shampoo the nurse had given me smelled good, if nothing else. I washed my hair three times, twisting it tight in my hands and wringing it out over the floor.
The nurse provided clothes. I placed the dress I’d been wearing in a plastic bag and threw out the rest. My new threads were a motley mash-up of all-too-tight jeans, a regular cotton T and a white tight-knit jumper. I didn’t have the guts to ask her where, or who, they’d come from. I just hoped it wasn’t the morgue.
The doctor returned to the waiting room that afternoon. Logan was out of surgery. I could see him.
I’d never liked hospitals. They smelt sanitary, but sour. I could taste sickness in every square foot. Whenever I stepped into one I’d hold my breath and hurry forward. Not today. I had to make do.
I wasn’t sick. In fact, the wiry medic who’d checked me out was amazed I’d come out of this entire scenario so unscathed. Apart from a few minor scratches and a mild abrasion on my foot, he said I was good to go. The only place I wanted to be, however, was with Logan.
The room was private, at the back end of a ward on the lower floor. The curtains were pulled wide, which let warm, cinnamon sunlight spill into the space. Logan was in bed, a sheet drawn tight around his torso. I was relieved the pale look I’d grown accustomed to the night before had been replaced by his usual olive complexion. I could almost see the corners of his mouth curl up in delight as I stooped down towards him, planting my lips lightly on his forehead.
“He should be awake sometime tonight or tomorrow,” the doc said from the doorway. “We’ll be keeping a close eye on him, but you’re welcome to stay here. I’ll try and keep the reporters away.”
Reporters?
There was a small throng when we arrived, hardly surprising given the nature of the attack, but now that someone had leaked my real identity the whole journalistic world would be camping outside. They were sharks. If I hung my head out the window it’d be a frenzy.
It wasn’t long before the hospital was swarming with Secret Service. I was visited by a couple of heavy types. They insisted we talk outside. I suggested otherwise, stubborn as always, so, we sat there together at the end of Logan’s bed, the men in suits on one side and lonely ol’ me on the other.
They didn’t seem overly enthusiastic. I imagined they’d rather be dunkin’ donuts than talking to a glitchy teen for any length of time.
They introduced themselves as Brown and McMann. Whether those were their first or last names I couldn’t be sure. One was thin and narrow, a dressed-up fence paling; the other overweight with deep-sunken eyes and the sort of avuncular lines I assumed came from having to wade through melancholy matters on a daily basis.
I felt some
degree of comfort no longer looking like the Swamp Thing. Yet I was outnumbered. It actually felt like a job interview, not that I’d even had one, but I imagined this is how it would be. Each man laid his leg on top of the other, relaxing back and clearly trying to give off an air of casualness but instead coming across smug.
I answered their questions as best I could. Brown would start with a surprisingly light voice, trying to engage me at what he must of thought was my level. We were best friends, really. Then McMann came in, impassive, going for the tougher angles and looking for any holes of implausibility that might pop open in my memory of events. Brown the nail, McMann the hammer. They were particularly interested in Logan.
McMann handed me his business card before he left. I practically laughed aloud when they gave me the ‘we’ll be in touch’ line. The card was plain white with a simple, uncluttered font and almost as expressionless and emotionally empty as its owner. It had a name and number – nothing more.
Later still, a government counselor came. She introduced herself as Dee and was nice enough. She also handed me a card. “Call me if there’s anything you need. There’s a phone right there,” she’d said, pointing to the phone by Logan’s bed. “Whatever the hour.”
I had been expecting a call from Dad. I got an aid instead. She said he was the Middle East on business but assured me he was doing everything within his power to return to the country and see me. I didn’t believe her. I didn’t know if I cared.
It was almost nightfall before I got to spend time alone with Logan. I imagined us conversing, maybe sliding the curtain across for a quick make-out session while the nurses weren’t looking. Instead, he lay there, still as a rock, while I clutched his hand and willed his return to me.
#
I hadn’t slept well. Sleeping upright was too weird. I was on my way to the cafeteria for a midnight snack when the main hallway doors burst open. At once, students in varying states spilled into the corridor. Some were being guided by attendants, emergency personnel. Some were crying, screaming or both. All wore grey woolen blankets around their shoulders with such sullen, empty expressions it wouldn’t have been hard to imagine they were homeless children escaping the elements for a cup of soup and a shoulder to cry on. Secret Service members were shuffling them here or there and looking completely confused. I was actually quite enjoying seeing them scatter-brained for once.
