by Erin Teagan
Not ghosts. Deadly wildfires. Man-eating predators. I want to throw up.
“Aren’t you tired?” I ask, as Isabel finally quiets. I want to tell her that when we wake up, we’ll go home in a helicopter. That her mama will be waiting for her. But I can’t promise any of that. So I say, “We’ve had a really full day. We should sleep.”
“I’m thirsty,” she says, hiccupping and digging herself into my lap again. Adam sits facing me, both of us cross-legged, our knees touching. “Can I have some water?”
“Soon.” I feel the dryness in my own throat, raw and tight from coughing so much. “Close your eyes. Get some rest.”
I recite what I can remember of Where the Wild Things Are, stopping and repeating the part where Max tames all the wild things on the island. It’s the part that Dad always liked the best too. He’d read it over and over to me and Jake, sitting together on the couch, Mom upstairs laying out our pajamas and putting toothpaste on our brushes. A working, functioning family.
Isabel is quiet at the end of the story. Something touches my hand and I jump.
“Just me, sorry,” Adam says shyly.
But he doesn’t pull his hand away. He squeezes mine and then we sit in the dark like that for what feels like eternity, the silence pounding in my ears. I try not to think about how this is the first time I’ve ever held a boy’s hand.
There’s no amount of sleep in my body. Not even after all the running and bobbing in the water and hiking through ravaged woods. Not even when I’ve had nothing to eat or drink for hours and hours. How can someone sleep when you don’t know if your brother and father are safe? If you have no idea if you’ll be lucky enough to be rescued? If maybe you’re being hunted by a wolf or a mountain lion dark as midnight wearing a pink collar?
“Adam?” I whisper.
Isabel is out—her breathing raspy and loud—and I wish I were her, sleeping through this horror story.
“Adam, are you awake? Adam?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you sleep?”
“Nah.”
My head is aching under my bandage. Maybe from lack of water or from all the smoke I inhaled, or maybe because I’ve been listening so hard for whatever danger might be lurking outside of our shelter. Adam lets go of my hand and slides beside me. Isabel stretches, and Adam pulls her legs into his lap and I cradle her head. Our own little family.
“Do you think they’ll wait for us?” I say. “The helicopters? It will take us awhile to get back to the set.”
“Of course.”
“I mean, our dads must be so worried.”
He snorts. “Nah.”
“What do you mean, ‘nah’? Of course they’re worried.”
“My dad doesn’t care. I’m only here because the court said he has to spend time with me. Part of the deal when my parents got divorced.”
My stomach tightens. “Dads always want to spend time with their kids. It’s part of nature,” I say quickly. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. “You think there will be another storm?”
Adam rubs his arms. The temperature is dropping in our little tree shelter, and we’re still damp from the rain.
“Not nature for some people, actually. This is the first time I’ve seen my dad in four years. He’s always on a shoot or traveling. You know the deal.”
“Nope, not really,” I say. “Don’t know that deal at all.”
“My mom finally got fed up and took him to court again. The judge said he had to take me this summer.”
I picture Mom and Dad in the Jeep in our driveway, arguing, and how Mom told Dad he never spent any time with me. But, four years? I don’t know what to say, so we just sit with this bubble of silence between us.
“I’m starving,” I finally blurt out of nowhere, startling Adam. “Where’s the chef when we need him, right?” I force myself to laugh, but it hurts my body, and I end up coughing. Isabel stirs, then goes back to sleep.
“Jake said your parents are divorced, too.”
“Separated,” I correct, thankful for the darkness all of a sudden.
I feel him move a little, his legs shuffling on the dirt floor as he tries to get comfortable.
“Separated? Or divorced?” Adam says. “Because there’s a big difference.”
He doesn’t have to tell me that. Separated means there’s a bitty light of hope left that they’ll stay together. “Doesn’t matter anyway, since he’s moving across the country.”
“You didn’t know that was happening?”
I shake my head, even though I know he can’t see.
“Jake said he tried telling you a thousand times. That you never wanted to hear it.”
“No, he didn’t.”
Adam sighs. “I know how you feel. It’s like if someone doesn’t say it out loud then it’s not really going to happen.”
I’m holding my breath, trying not to cry.
“Or pretending something isn’t true that’s really actually true,” Adam goes on. “That’s not exactly lying, you know.”
Now he’s just being nice to me, and I wonder, when did that happen? “Of course it’s lying.”
It’s what I’m so good at. What makes me just like my dad. I lie to my friends at school about being the next Survivor Girl, and to my dad about archery awards that don’t exist, and to my own best friend about my parents. It’s like I don’t even know how to tell the truth sometimes.
“Actually, they’ve been divorced for three months,” I say, not even whispering it, declaring it loud and clear to whatever man-eating predators are out there. Because maybe I don’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps. Maybe I’m done with all the lying. “And also, I suck at archery.”
Adam laughs, and then I’m laughing too. And maybe it’s just the fact that I haven’t eaten for twelve hours, but I’ve never felt lighter in my life.
“Do you ever feel like you might have everything wrong?” I say. “Like how it is with your dad. Like maybe your dad’s not completely the bad guy all the way?”
I hear him sigh. “I don’t know. Pretty sure when you leave your own family, that makes you the bad guy.” He shifts, our shoulders now pressed together. “And then out of nowhere after four years he wants to pretend he’s my dad again.” He snorts.
“Like, wabam! he’s back?” I say, and Adam snickers.
“Yeah, like, wabam! And, the problem is, my stepdad is awesome. Really, really awesome. So what if I’d rather spend the summer with him, you know?”
I move Isabel, her head lolling onto my shoulder. She’s warm and I hold her closer, rocking her back and forth.
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “Your dad’s not all bad. Maybe at being a Survivor Guy, but—”
I punch him in his shoulder. But after a few seconds, I say, “He’s not the Survivor Guy I thought he was. I always thought everything was my mom’s fault. I thought she was causing all the problems and my dad was working so hard.”
I wait for Adam to say something mean about him again, but he’s quiet.
“I actually thought he was changing the world. Teaching people how to survive in the wild. Saving lives. Like my grandpa did.”
“Well, maybe he did teach you something,” Adam says. “We survived a swamp fire on our own, didn’t we?”
I think about this, wondering who gave me my survival instincts. Because, actually, it was my mom who gave me all those books. Took me to used and rare bookstores all the time to find cool survivalist books you can’t buy in regular stores anymore.
“Wabam,” I say.
“Wabam,” Adam says back.
We pass the rest of the night telling truths about ourselves—how Adam secretly respects my dad, how he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive Rick, how he’s afraid of snakes, and that his middle name is Rooney, not Jonathan. I tell him that I always thought I’d go into the family business, not Jake, how I’m not the greatest best friend in the world to Harper, and that it was me, not Michael, who flushed the sock down the
toilet in school causing the Great Toilet Flood in third grade.
Eventually I think we drift off, Isabel, Adam, and me all clustered together under our tree, Adam and me leaning our heads against each other. The swamp and the fire are still there when I close my eyes, and I can’t tell if I’m awake or dreaming. Sometimes I think I hear a helicopter, or the howl of a wolf, or even my mom’s soft whisper. It’s hard to sleep because my throat burns from the smoke and the thirst. And just as the sky is starting to lighten up and I’m finally falling off into real sleep, a sound pierces through the forest. It’s not a howl or a snarl, or even a helicopter.
It’s a whistle.
Thirty-Three
“They came back for us!” I’m up so fast, I toss Isabel onto the dirt floor.
“Ow!”
Adam is halfway out of the tree already. “They’re looking for us.”
“Mama?” Isabel crawls out and tries to stand up, a layer of soot on her face from yesterday’s ordeal, but Adam hoists her onto his back before she can put weight on her foot.
I scramble out after them, and then we’re running away from our shelter and into the Dismal Swamp, back toward the set, leaping over fallen trees and dodging debris. The whistle comes every few seconds and Adam tries to respond by whistling through his fingers, but it’s not loud enough.
“We’re here! Wait for us!” I call, but my voice cracks, hoarse from the smoke. I try again and again. We will not be left behind this time.
Adam stops. “It’s not coming from the set.”
We listen.
“We’re going the wrong way,” he says.
“No.” I shake my head. “The helicopters can’t land anywhere else.”
“It’s coming from over there.” Isabel points into the distance. But it sounds like it’s coming from everywhere, bouncing off the leafless trees.
“Maybe we’re not the only ones who didn’t get out,” Adam says.
We walk, carefully now, all of us listening, afraid our crunching through the scorched woods will drown out the sounds of whoever’s out here with us.
“We’re walking deeper into the swamp, away from where the helicopters will be,” I say nervously. “That whistle could have come from anywhere. We’ll never make it back in time. They won’t know we’re here.”
Adam stops. “Should we just go to the set? Hope whoever is whistling will make it there too?”
We hear the whistle again, and it’s closer. We’re heading in the right direction. Adam takes off toward the sound, Isabel getting bounced and jiggled all over the place. I jog after them, kicking up soot and cinders.
The whistle is louder now, more insistent. Isabel yells, “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah!”
We hear a faint “zip-a-dee-ay” back, and I can’t believe it, my body nearly giving out, my knees tingling, and I can’t run fast enough. Adam and Isabel disappear through a cluster of trees. I sprint, tripping over a log but managing to stay upright. When I catch up to them, Adam is standing over the gully where I hit my head. Where we taped a scene of Survivor Guy like it was no big deal just a few days ago. Claire is hurtling herself out of the ravine. She runs straight for Isabel, sobbing and panting, her clothes muddy and soaked. “Isabel,” she chokes, pulling her from Adam’s back into a trembling embrace, Isabel wrapping herself around her mother, calling, “Mama, mama, mama . . .” over and over, like she can’t even believe it’s her.
“Where’s my dad?” I look around, panicked.
“You’re hurt?” Claire says to Isabel, checking her all over, pausing at the blood-soaked wrapping on her foot.
“He’s over here!” Adam shouts, pointing into the gully.
I run to the ravine, dropping to my butt to slide down the side. Adam is already in there, next to Dad, who’s propped against the muddy wall of the ditch, unmoving. “Dad? Are you okay? Dad?”
“Do not move him!” Claire yells, following us into the gully with Isabel on her hip. “It’s his leg. Don’t touch.”
His leg is in a splint made out of sticks and ripped-up pieces of netting from my bug helmet. He’s pale. Breathing too fast. And sitting in a shallow pool of water that’s collected at the bottom of the ditch.
“George Kensington?” Isabel says shakily.
He opens an eye. “My girls.”
“They’re okay, George,” Claire cries, her face mud- and tear-streaked. “They’re okay.”
“How did you—” I can’t find the right words, looking all around, taking in the scorched forest. “But, the fire—”
Claire pats me on the back. “When it caught up to us, we had nowhere to go. We just started running. We didn’t even see the gully until George fell in.” She fidgets with the bandage on his leg. “Obviously we didn’t avoid injury completely, but the fire passed over us.”
Dad’s trying to get up, to hoist himself off the ground.
“Stop! Wait, George.” Claire hands Isabel to me. “Adam, help me get him upright. We need to get him out of this gully and back to the set before the helicopter comes.”
They try to lift him up, but Dad is silent, limp, foggy. How are they going to get him out of here?
Isabel pulls on my shirt and points off to the horizon, and then I hear the sound of a helicopter approaching. Our rescue. And we’re still in the middle of the swamp where they’ll never find us.
“Helicopter! Helicopter!” Isabel shouts.
Claire and Adam look at each other, still holding on to my dad, but barely able to move him. The wall of the gully is too steep. He moans.
“Claire,” I say. “How bad is it?”
She looks at me, helping Adam sit my dad down again, propped up against the side. “You really want to know?”
I exchange glances with Adam. “Yes.” I need to know the truth. No matter how bad.
“His leg is broken in several places and he’s going into shock.” She wipes her nose. “He has a rapid pulse, and it’s weakening. We need to get him out of here.”
Everyone watches as our helicopter, our rescue, flies over the lake and lands, disappearing into the woods.
“Mama! It’s going to leave without us! Mama!” Isabel is hysterical, and I can barely hold on to her flailing body.
Claire takes her, shushing her, holding her tight.
“You guys go to the helicopter. I’ll stay here with Dad,” I say.
Adam crosses his arms. “Yeah right, like we’re leaving you here alone.”
Claire paces the gully, her boots splashing through the water. “We need to stay together.” She stands firm in front of me.
“If we stay here together, they’ll never find us.” I look at my dad. “If you don’t go now, none of us will be rescued.”
“Mama, it’s going to leave us!” Isabel cries again, struggling out of Claire’s arms and landing hard on her injured foot. And we can see that it hurts, but she doesn’t even stop, clawing her way out of the ravine. “Please, Mama!”
“I’ll go. Adam, you stay here,” Claire says, scrambling up after her.
“No,” I say. “The set is pretty far away. What if you get lost? Nothing looks the same since the fire.”
“Alison—”
“Number-one survival rule is to use the buddy system. I stay with Dad, you guys go together.” I hand Adam my compass. “Take this with you.”
They’re all staring at me, and then looking at Dad.
“If there’s anyone with the skills for sitting and waiting and doing nothing, it’s me,” I say. “No stunt double required.” I try to laugh, but nothing comes out.
Adam studies me seriously for a second.
“Let her do it,” he says.
Claire sighs, looking at me for a long time, her face creased with worry. But then she nods. “Someone will be back for you in twenty minutes, tops. Keep your dad still.”
Adam and I climb out of the ravine together. Claire kisses my forehead. “I’m proud of you, Alison.” Isabel gives me a hug from her mom’s arms, and then they’re gone. I watch them un
til they disappear into the torched swamp. Adam turns to wave goodbye one more time, holding up the compass. “Wabam!”
“Wabam,” I say quietly. Then I slide back down into the gully and sit with my dad, putting his head in my lap, trying not to look at his battered leg.
For a moment he opens his eyes, and then, just before he drifts off again, he mumbles, “My Survivor Girl.”
Thirty-Four
I’m sitting and waiting and doing nothing, just like I said I would, relieved that Dad doesn’t seem to be in too much pain, relieved that I can see his stomach moving up and down with each breath. He’s breathing so fast. But at least he’s breathing.
With each crackle of leaves or branches moving in the wind, I wait for an animal to appear above us. We’re so deep in the gully I can’t see anything from here. Nothing except for the blue sky and some green treetops that were high enough to escape the fire, as if nothing happened to this Dismal Swamp. As if everything is as it should be.
It’s been so long, I’m sure Adam and Isabel and Claire have reached the helicopter by now. I strain to hear the beating of its propellers, but it’s too far. I hear nothing. And I feel like we’re the only two people on this whole entire earth. My heart pounds with the emptiness.
Dad stirs, wincing, his eyes watering.
“Don’t move, Dad. You’ll hurt yourself worse.”
He stops, but his body is tense.
“Does it hurt really bad?” I ask.
He moves his head up and down, slowly.
“They’ll come for us soon. Don’t worry.”
“I put everyone in danger, Ali,” he says, opening his eyes. “We had nothing for fire protection.”
“How could you have known?” I say. “You can’t predict a forest fire.”
“It’s June, Ali.” He tries to sit up, but I stop him. “All it takes is one lightning strike. That’s it.”
“It’s not your fault, Dad.”
“I have thirty people working on set. They trusted me,” he whispers, each word a great effort. He shakes his head, and are those tears in his eyes? Or maybe it’s just from the pain?
“Dad . . .”
