I don't know how I did it.
I honestly don't.
But I do know that my body was suddenly filled with something like molten knives, because I could feel every cell of it again.
I could feel my blood cutting through my veins: yeah, I was all here.
I threw my body weight onto my elbow—if I broke it, I didn't care; I would endure a body full of broken bones if it gave me the chance to tell George and Gina what I thought of them.
The river gave me nothing, no respite. It was not going to cough me up on its own.
I swung my legs upward and from there, I couldn't tell you. I was on all fours on a flat rock, facing upstream to see George haul Gina from the river by the shoulders.
Chapter 21 – Our Strong Place
Since those moments in the river, I've thought many times about anger.
OK, I have an unpredictable temper—to other people. But in fact my temper is predictable—whatever sparks it, sparks it. I'm never surprised by it. What sparks it? Any threat to Petey. Either of us being dissed.
Getting passed over for a role, however, never sparked my temper. God, actors can't afford that—the gutters of Los Angeles would be running with blood every single day if the tens of thousands of us got mad whenever we didn't get a part.
I've had to manufacture anger for parts in a couple of commercials and one radio voice-over.
The best one was probably an instant-latte commercial in which I portrayed a crazy mom about to crash her minivan into the school principal's office but who gets turned aside at the last second by a crossing guard proffering a steaming cup of nonfat hazelnut Arabica. The crossing guard was the spokesman for the product, so my part was small. But it had to be intense.
I remember preparing for my key shot in the vehicle mock-up on a soundstage. It was fun to use some Method, dredging memories of Jeff calling me a whore when he was drunk.
Every time, his anger and the release of it was the most important thing in the world to him. Ah, how he underestimated mine!
When you act, you have to sort of digitize emotional samples and have them ready at an instant's notice.
If you need to begin a scene in a calm mood, then work up to anger, the scene itself should give you what you need. But if you need to start hot, so to speak, it's good to use Method.
I loved being that crazy mom, foaming at the mouth without simultaneously scolding myself, Get a grip; you're going to regret this. I veritably chewed that steering wheel, flinging my hair, my eyes practically squirting blood. It was great.
But my moments lodged against a root mat in the Harkett River rocketed to the top of my rage queue.
Never had I been so angry.
Ever.
Petey—God bless my boy—ran to me with Daniel's parka as soon as I reached the brink. The wisp of warmth from Daniel's body made it feel like an electric blanket, for the moment.
I'd retained my jeans and oatmeal wool sweater, though the sweater was ripped to hell. My clothes clung to me icily. I suppose I'd been in the water five minutes.
I had stormed across the stones at the lip of the falls, then upclimbed that rock face barefoot, my teeth rigid in my head, on pure adrenaline—surprised that my rage surge had lasted that long, but I guess it just lasted as long as it knew it had to. I had no fear of falling, no intention of it. I didn't even feel confidence. I had no thought at all as to what I was doing.
That was interesting.
I seized a tree branch and was ready to brain George with it as he struggled up from the gorge, helping Gina with the use of the climbing rope Daniel had thrown him.
Petey screamed, "Mom!"
I dropped the branch but flung myself at George, raging and crying. I wanted to destroy him for abandoning me, and I wanted to lose myself in him.
Panting, he pinioned my flailing arms.
"Rita! Listen to me." He shook me roughly. His voice thundered in my face. "Goddamn it, pull yourself together!" He held me still.
I blinked up at him.
"I knew you couldn't live without her." His voice was savage. "Since it was impossible to save you both, I saved the person you would have saved."
He kissed me hard on the mouth, then released me.
Gina was safe. I turned to her.
Dear God, there she was; she was safe.
By rescuing her, George had just given me the biggest gift he possibly could: my sister's life.
On the farm whenever somebody barely missed getting run over by the mower, or plunged screaming from a treetop only to land on a soft juniper, Gramma Gladys would say under her breath, "All's tits that ends tits."
Except all was not tits.
I knelt to Gina on the forest duff where Daniel had laid her. Her condition seemed similar to Joey's when we'd pulled him up: a glassy expression plus a messed-up limb. In Gina's case it was her left arm that had taken the brunt of something, or, more accurately, her shoulder.
Her pink down jacket had gotten shredded by the rocks and the current, and all that remained of it was part of the front with the zipper, and the collar. Clumps of wet down stuck to her like a chick just out of the shell.
Her arm was skewed and her shoulder had a horrible weird bump in front. "That's the head of the humerus," Daniel muttered. "It's dislocated. Petey, stand away."
Her face and head looked all right, no obvious gashes, anyway. Her legs looked OK; she was moving them, writhing in pain. Her jeans had stayed on, but she was barefooted like I was.
Like Lance was.
Daniel, carefully removing the remnants of the jacket, spoke quickly. "I don't like the looks of her side here."
Her belly and breasts were red in great blotches, where they'd been pounded against the rock she'd been hugging, and a frightening swelling was coming up on her left side above her hips and around her back.
Her eyes briefly met mine. She registered recognition—she smiled, sort of, and then I could see a bruise rising on her cheek, the swelling already causing her mouth to lop to the side.
Other than that, her beautiful face was unharmed, her whirly chestnut hair a sleek wet mass next to it.
Then I noticed the ring. An honest-to-God eyepopper, it was a starburst of white diamonds surrounding a pink pearl the size of a champagne cork, on her left ring finger. Daniel worked it off her finger, saying, "Her hand could swell; here, hold this."
I zipped it into Daniel's parka pocket.
George turned to me. "Are you really all right?" The hoarse hope in his voice reached straight through my chest wall to my auricles and ventricles.
By now I was totally freezing, but I said, "Yes. I can wait here while you guys take her back."
Daniel had brought little in the way of first-aid supplies. He unrolled a bandage he'd stuffed into his pocket.
"We came running as fast as we could."
"But why?" I asked.
"Petey got a feeling," was all he said.
My boy reappeared with two good sticks about two feet long. He handed them to Daniel without a word.
"Good," said Daniel. "I like a man who sees something needs doing and does it." He bent to my sister. "Gina, you're safe now." He spoke in a low, clear tone. "You're going to be all right. Can you talk to me?"
"Uhhnnnhhh," a guttural sigh.
"Check her tracking," George quietly suggested.
Daniel glanced at him, a little surprised.
He held his finger a foot in front of her face. "Gina, follow my finger with your eyes."
She was able to do so.
"OK. Her pupils are the same size," noted Daniel.
A rasping sound came from her throat, and she opened her mouth. We made out the words, "It huuurrtssss."
"It hurts where?" Daniel asked, feeling her neck, her shoulders, running his hands beneath her back. "I've gotta reduce this dislocation."
"Everywhere." She gave him a faint look, like, Moron.
I understood. As I knelt there, my body coming back to itself, I felt like a bus h
ad slammed me full-on. My front hurt; my back hurt. It wouldn't be until nightfall when I'd realize the extent of my pulled muscles, bruised ligaments, and general beat-uppedness.
"My dine?" she mumbled.
"What?" Daniel strained to hear.
"No, you're not dying, honey," I said, deciphering her words just as I used to do with Petey's baby talk.
"No, not yet!" said Daniel, forcing humor into his tone. "We're gonna carry you home, but first I'm gonna help your shoulder so it'll feel better."
George, kneeling at her head, pushed down on her collarbone. The nail on his right index finger had gotten torn; blood from it smeared Gina's white shoulder.
"Deep breath, Gina," said Daniel. She took a ragged gulp of air, her scared eyes on his face. "Now let it out real slow." With a smooth, fast move, Daniel pulled her arm straight out, and with a slightly creamy sound that mingled with her cry, the ball slipped back into its socket.
I grabbed her other arm to keep it from flying into the guys' faces in reaction. She fainted.
Stone-faced now, Daniel probed her shoulder with his fingers. "I think she might have a fracture in there too, maybe a piece of scapula's broken off, I can almost feel something in there. I don't know." He laid the arm across her stomach.
"As it turns out, Petey," Daniel told him over his shoulder, "we're going to reserve these good splints you cut. The long bones of her arm are OK. But I'll need you to carry them with us and add them to the surgical supplies back at base."
"How 'bout her legs?" Petey queried hopefully, wanting his splints to be put to use.
"Her legs are OK."
"OK."
The pain that put her out brought her around again. My stomach turned to see her suffering so.
"You gotta..." she mumbled.
"Yes?" I encouraged.
"You guys gotta get Kenner."
"Kenner? You mean Lance?"
"...Kenner..."
"Where is Kenner?"
"Over...over..." She faded out. Then she came around again, getting agitated. "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die." She thrashed, and George covered her legs with the silver space blanket. Her eyes were scared as hell.
Looking at her, facing the grimness of the situation, I was getting ready to freak out myself.
Seeing this, George took my arm and talked to me in a low voice. "You've got to calm her down and make her think she'll be all right."
"But will she?" When I crouched so that Daniel's parka hem touched the ground, I stayed warmer, so I did that.
"She'll have a better chance if she believes it."
I knew he was right.
I creaked upright, went to her, and crouched again. "Hon." I took her hand and smiled, loving her. Jesus, I thought, I have to act as if. Act, I told myself. Just act. "We're taking care of you; you don't have to worry about anything. There's just one new rule, though: no talk of dying." I couldn't merely mouth the words; she was searching my face for the truth.
So I made myself believe them.
"No," said Gina. "I feel so bad."
I continued to smile, not overdoing it. My Method at the moment was remembering the way I reassured Petey when he needed it: totally calm, a totally fearless benevolent force for good. "Your system's been through a shock. Believe me, you're going to feel better. We're going to get you to a doctor as soon as we can." I stroked her head and promised, "It's all going to be all right. You'll see."
"Gina," said George, "who was that man who was chasing you?"
"Uhnnh. Bone." She made an effort. "Tshop."
"What?"
"Choppeh."
I said, "Bone chopper? The guy's a bone chopper?"
"Uhm."
"Good Christ," muttered George.
"Wuz Lance," she said, finding my face.
Where's Lance?
When I didn't answer immediately, she focused her eyes on me harder.
Right there, Method failed me.
She saw.
I could do nothing.
She dragged in a breath and I thought she'd never let it out.
When she did, eyes closed, its weakness was louder than a shriek.
Daniel said, "We have to move."
In spite of his parka and my crouching strategy, I was very cold, my bare feet almost numb as I crouched on the forest floor, my toes gripping the moist earth.
I was aware that the ground was no longer sopping wet, it was simply wet, the vegetation still dripping. But the porous duff beneath the big trees was only damp. A little breeze had come up. I shivered, my neck rigid against the cold.
Daniel shucked his fleece shirt and said, "Guys, socks off."
In unison, the three put butts to ground, stripped off their shoes and socks, their naked feet comically white there in the dimness of the foggy forest, then replaced their shoes.
Yes, it was getting foggy—the breeze was pushing it in, just like I'd seen it come over the hills of Marin from the ocean—I could almost feel it on my face.
I took Petey's socks and forced my feet into them, shocked that they almost fit, albeit stretched to their limits.
I then placed Daniel's socks on Gina's feet, while George worked his over her hands. "Fresh this morning, anyway," he muttered cheerfully, and I saw that he had, as well, quickly stripped to his bare chest, handing Petey his jacket and two shirts. Petey turned to me with them.
"Keep your T-shirt," Daniel advised.
"Won't need it between here and camp, we'll be sweating. Put them on, Rita."
"Take my secret-agent coat, too, Mom," said Petey, anxiously stripping like the big boys.
"No, stop."
George held Daniel's parka open to shield me somewhat, and I peeled off my sopping sweater and donned his clothing, still warm from his body. His overshirt, of thick wool similar to Joey's army coat, felt sublimely toasty.
Keeping my wet jeans on, I stepped into the sleeves of Daniel's fleece pullover and wrapped the shirt around my butt and waist.
"I'll be fine," I said, "thanks, guys," knowing my job was to hunker here until they could come back for me with my spare clothing and, more important, footwear. "My river sandals are at the bottom of my bag," I told Daniel.
George then draped Daniel's parka over Gina's back and tucked her good arm into it. She came more alert.
"Lance," she muttered hopelessly. "Lance."
Daniel cleared his throat. "We don't know for sure what happened to him. We found him in the river. There's a man we rescued who said he was walking along, saw Lance in trouble, and tried to help him, but he couldn't, and Lance fell into the gorge. That's all we know."
Gina nodded faintly.
"This guy's name is Joey Preston. Did you meet up with him?"
She gave him a confused look.
"Petey," said George, "your assignment is to take care of your mother while we get your aunt Gina to safety."
Petey looked up at him and nodded. He stared at George's powerful torso. He had loved to wrestle with George, who'd gently shown him a technical move or two.
George had shown me some moves as well. Not that kind, the self-defense kind. He'd been shocked one night when I'd related how a sketchy-looking guy had shoved me in the parking lot at the Ralph's on Sunset and then tried to grab my purse.
I'd shoved him back, and he was too drunk or too sick from needing a fix to hurt me enough to make me relinquish the purse.
If you live in L.A. very long, you'll be accosted for money so many times you get used to yelling, "Back off!" really loud to the ones who get too insistent. The unarmed ones, anyway.
Your radar gets a workout, trying to sense which screwed-up, filthy bums are harmless and which one in a thousand will come after you, eyes furious and implacable.
You're never supposed to resist in the event of robbery, but I'm like fuck you. Especially if it's a purse I really like.
So George had made me practice the eye gouge, the nose push, the throat slam, the groin grab-and-twist (easy, girl), the backward head butt, a
nd the knee blowout, over and over, until I felt pretty comfortable with them. And basically, he confirmed what my gut already knew about dealing with a determined attacker, be he robber or rapist: fight back every time; fight with everything you've got; fight like a rabid animal.
I wished I'd known those moves when I was married. Isn't that just an insane thing to think? But if you've tried making a life with an unpredictable alcoholic, you know exactly where I'm coming from.
George told Petey, "Make sure your mom rests and stays warm, OK? Don't let her run around."
With a pointed glance upstream toward the log bridge and the dark woods beyond, he added, "It looks a little warmer over here, deeper in the shelter of the trees."
"OK!" said Petey, escorting me in my awkward getup to a grove of young firs.
The men set off, George taking the first turn carrying Gina, piggyback. She was able to hold on to his neck with her good arm. Daniel spotted her from behind lest she fall backward. As they began to move, she moaned.
Hearing her, seeing her distress, and realizing what she was going to have to go through to get to camp, Petey turned gray.
"Mom, oh, gosh, Mom."
I hugged him, and instead of pulling away as he'd been occasionally doing—growing into such a big guy and all—he buried his head into my side. I told him, "Honey, she's going to be OK. When somebody gets hurt, it always looks bad at first, doesn't it? Remember when you cut your arm on that broken glass door?"
"Yeah!" He looked up. "There was blood all over the place!"
"You bet there was."
"I thought I was gonna die!"
"You bet you did."
"But I made it!"
"That's right, and so will Aunt Gina. We just have to stay in our strong place."
"Our strong place." He understood.
Chapter 22 – Gina, Buddha, George, Whiskey
Badger Cabin was rapidly becoming Bandage Cabin, given that now Gina was ensconced there opposite Joey Preston.
Using a length of rope and some of the tent canvas from the storeroom, George rigged up a privacy curtain across the cabin.
I helped Daniel remove the rest of her shreds of clothing and figure out how to keep her warm. She was only semi with it.
On Location Page 19
