Instinct

by Mattie Dunman

  A chill settles over me that has nothing to do with the weather. I look to the river, toward the smudge I’ve been making for, and I notice with a sickening sense of inevitability that it has shifted; the current is slowly plucking it from the safe harbor of the rocks. I forget everything, the pain in my body, the pounding of my head, the ominous driver, and I run full tilt, a last surge of adrenaline giving me new life.

  I emerge into the empty parking lot, marking where the outcropping is, and pitch into the thin fence of trees separating the riverbank from the lot. Miraculously, I don’t trip over anything, but come to a screeching halt in the pebbles that mark the edge of the water. The smudge is fully visible now, only a hundred yards away, and every part of me is screaming.

  A leg is hanging out in space, tugged by the current.

  Plunging into the freezing water chest deep, I push forward drunkenly, reaching out to grab the leg before it is pulled away. When I reach it, it is just in time; the rest of the body has nearly been dragged into the deeper section, soon to be lost to the river.

  With a choked sob, I pull on it, the weight nearly towing me underwater. After a moment, it gives, the current releasing its hold, and she floats toward me complacently.

  Even as I recognize the sodden coat, I am denying it.

  I cradle the body to me and turn it over, revealing her death mask, the blue lips and wide staring eyes frozen in an expression of anguish.

  My knees give way and I sink, clinging to her. Clinging to my only friend.

  “Nicole,” I whisper, and everything goes dark.

  The moment the water hits my throat I gag, arms flailing to bring me back to the surface as my feet sink in the muck of the Shenandoah. Nicole’s body drifts subtly toward the current and I grab for her, pulling her back toward me by her arm. I am oddly disconnected as I tug her along beside me, struggling back toward the riverbank. Deep mud around my ankles snatches and grasps, trying to drag us both back.

  I crumple on the pebbled bank, hauling Nicole up one last inch until she is resting face up on the ground, gazing unseeing at the heavily falling snow. I just stare at her for a moment, too shocked for anything else, and watch sickly as a snowflake settles on her open eye.

  She doesn’t blink.

  I swing around just in time, heaving acid and bile, my entire body revolting against what I have just seen, the wooden frigidity of Nicole’s arm, the taste of dirty water on my tongue.

  When I finally stop, gasping, curling around myself like a wounded animal, my mind starts functioning again, and I force myself up and over to Nicole. Even though I know it is useless, that it is far too late, I begin CPR, pounding on her chest with as much strength as I can muster.

  I cannot bring myself to breathe into her mouth.

  Moments pass and I sag in defeat, finally acknowledging what all my senses have long known.

  Nicole is dead.

  Dead.

  The racking sobs that grip me are painful, huge gulps of frozen air rending my insides, ripping me open. I lie there on the bank next to my dead friend, utterly spent.

  There is no reason to hurry now.

  After a while, I begin to recognize the signs of my body shutting down. I am tempted to let it.

  There is a soft rumble and I imagine the earth is opening up to take us in; hard clumps of dirt will strike my face and everything will finally be quiet. The rumble grows louder, recognizable.

  With dizzying effort, I lift my head and register the gleam of lights through the trees. As though in a dream, I am suddenly on my feet, grabbing at the scraping bark of winter-dead branches, propelling myself forward, toward the light.

  You’re supposed to go toward the light.

  When the trees give out, I fall, my legs refusing to support me. My hands are in front of me now, fingers digging into the snow to reach the hard surface of the asphalt beneath, pulling me on toward the light.

  “Wait,” I shout, but it is no more than a breath, a dry rasp that dissolves into the snow.

  The rumbling pauses and there is a muffled thump. Crunching sounds, slow at first and then faster. I pull myself forward one more time and my face sinks into white. It doesn’t even feel cold anymore.

  “I’m going to save you,” a disembodied voice says above me. I feel warmth on my face. “I got you, I got you,” the voice continues, and I am rising, rising, the white all around me. My eyes crack open, lashes tearing, frozen together. A concerned face looks down at me, chin covered in stubble, dark brown eyes wild with anxiety.

  I am laid on a soft surface and tucked under something heavy. It is warm, hot, blistering. Tears fill up my eyes, but they don’t freeze. There is another thump and then the rumbling is all around me, the man’s voice soothing and hurried at the same time.

  “I’m going to get you to the hospital right now. You just hang on,” he promises and picks up a radio attached to the dash, speaking forcefully as the car begins to move.

  “Shanholtz here, headed to the hospital. Got a hypothermic girl in the backseat…”

  “Stop,” I beg, the sound of my voice like rusty nails. “Stop, stop, stop!”

  We stop moving and the man turns around to look at me. “What, what is it?”

  “S-she’s there…she’s s-still there,” I manage, and lift my arm enough to point toward the frozen bank where Nicole still waits. “Please.”

  He hesitates a moment and then cranks a dial on the dash, blowing out more blessed, burning heat before he jumps back out of the vehicle, the sound of his steps faint. Minutes pass and I am becoming more aware of how badly my entire body hurts. Thick needles of fire pierce every inch of my skin, striking clear to the bone, and I shiver uncontrollably.

  The car door swings open and the man jumps back inside, picking up the radio again as he forces the car up the hill and out onto the road.

  “Shanholtz again. There’s another girl on the right bank under the Shenandoah Bridge. Dead. Notify the authorities,” he barks, his voice calm and crisp.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, and close my eyes for good.

  Chapter 10

  “I don’t know what else to tell you,” I say wearily, my throat dry and aching. The shivering has stopped now, and I am wrapped in a pile of heated blankets, an IV pumping fluids in my arm, and a warm air humidifier by my hospital bed. The cold is still there, and I am terrified that it will never leave me, that underneath everything, my bones have iced over.

  “It’s quite common for patients with severe hypothermia to have memory loss and confusion, Detective. It’s only been an hour, and she needs rest,” my savior says stoutly, stepping closer to me. He hasn’t left my side since he found me, and seems to have developed a keen sense of responsibility for me. If it hadn’t been for his dedication to his job patrolling National Park property, I would’ve frozen to death by morning.

  “I know that, Shanholtz, but we’ve got a dead girl here, and…”

  Shanholtz gasps in protest and the police officer who has been questioning me since I regained consciousness pauses, shooting me a chagrined look.

  “Sorry. I know you’ve been through a lot, Miss MacKenna, but we really need to figure out exactly what happened.”

  With a sigh, I rearrange myself, feeling the stiffness in my neck thanks to the over-fluffed hospital pillows. I look over at the detective, a tall, middle-aged man with the frame of a former football player gone to seed. One leathery-skinned hand rests on the rail of the bed, the yellowing fingernails betraying a predilection for cigarettes. He scratches his short, full beard with the other hand, mud colored eyes fixed on me in frustration.

  “Detective Radcliffe, I’ve told you everything. Several times. Nicole called me a little after one, told me she confronted Phillip about Miranda and he flipped out. She told me she was calling from the rafting center and to come pick her up at the river access. She wasn’t there, and I couldn’t get my car back up the road, so I headed back toward town and I…saw her from the bridge. I wasn’t thinking straight�
�I just wanted to get her out of the water. And then Ranger Shanholtz found me. That’s everything.” Inside I am laughing hysterically at my dispassionate summary of the past few hours. Tonight will play over and over again in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

  “And you said you saw a car? You think it might have been this Phillip,” Radcliffe says skeptically. “How sure are you?”

  I look at Radcliffe directly, meeting his eyes. Even though I didn’t recognize the car, even if I had been too out of it to make a real identification, I am not lying when I answer him.

  “I’m sure.”

  “She said that already,” Shanholtz replies hotly, taking a step toward Radcliffe. “Maybe you should start checking out what she’s told you instead of harassing her while she’s trying to recover.”

  Radcliffe’s lips tighten and he opens his mouth to argue, but takes another look at me and just shakes his head. I must look pretty bad.

  “Know your place, Shanholtz. This is a police investigation, not a park matter.” His phone squawks abruptly and he turns away to answer, nodding at whatever news he hears before ending the call. With another glance at me, he yanks back the curtain that hides my bed from the bustle of the emergency ward, his shoes squeaking on the tile floor. “They found the girl’s car at the gas station. I’ll be back later. Rest up, Miss MacKenna.”

  When the officer is gone, Shanholtz’s shoulders relax slightly and he turns to me, his warm brown eyes surveying me with concern.

  “How are you feeling, Derry?” he asks quietly.

  Shanholtz is a study in shades of brown with russet hair, coffee colored eyes, and the standard National Parks Service uniform in beige. His cheeks crinkle tightly as he smiles down at me, softly rounded features making his weathered features appealing, friendly. He told me he has a daughter my age. I guess that’s where the protective streak comes from.

  “Better,” I say, giving him my best effort at a smile. He takes one of the chemical heat packs waiting on the counter and breaks it open, placing it gently behind my neck, where the stiffness has turned into a steel rod. “Thanks,” I whisper, tears coming to my eyes yet again. I’ve either been crying or unconscious the entire time he’s known me.

  “Don’t worry, kid. They’re going to check into things. They’ll find out what happened to your friend. Radcliffe can be kind of…brusque, but he’s a good cop,” he assures me. I just nod and then close my eyes against the stabbing pain in my temples. “You get some rest. I’ll be waiting right outside until your mom gets here.” He pats my free hand gently and steps out, closing the curtain behind him.

  Tears leak from under my eyelids. Nicole’s frozen face paints my vision, the gaping mouth, frosted skin, glassy eyes. Her voice rattles inside my head, her frantic plea, her terror.

  ‘Hurry,’ she begged me.

  I wasn’t fast enough.

  I must fall asleep again, because I next open my eyes to find my mother standing over me, her face streaked with tears.

  “Mom?”

  She bites down on her lips and nods, reaching out to stroke my cheek. “I’ve failed you.”

  “What?” I ask, gradually waking up.

  “Don’t ever do this to me again,” she whispers, her voice wobbly. The cold in my bones loses a little of its biting edge.

  “Nicole…” I start and then the sobs come again, deep choking gasps that riddle my aching muscles with pain.

  “I know, baby. I know. I’m so sorry. Hush…hush. You’re safe now, it’s over.” She murmurs softly to me, her words nonsensical and reassuring, holding me while my body rids itself of the guilt and grief. After a while, I am quiet again, and exhaustion pulls me under once more.

  My mom’s arms around me jerk and I blink myself awake. Fluorescent light drives into my skull with appalling force as the curtain is yet again yanked aside, revealing Nicole’s mother, her face drawn in pallor, eyes hollow.

  “Beverly, I’m so sorry,” Mom says, standing. Nicole’s mom nods absently, her eyes fixed on me.

  “I killed my daughter,” she says bleakly, taking a step toward me. Mom gives her a wary look and draws closer to me.

  “Beverly, I’m sorry,” she repeats, her voice becoming firmer, “but Derry’s been through a lot.”

  Beverly laughs, a strangled, croaking sound. “You still have your daughter.”

  I struggle to sit up, ignoring Mom’s restraining hand. “Mrs. Sharp, I’m so sorry. I tried to get to her in time, but I didn’t know…”

  “And you couldn’t call me? You didn’t call the police?” she shrieks, her tone shrill and unyielding. “You let her die, you stupid girl!”

  “I’m tired of dealing with grieving people,” a nurse says soothingly, appearing behind Nicole’s mother and taking her by the arm, gently tugging her away from me. “Come on now, Mrs. Sharp. You’re upset and saying things you don’t mean. We need to let this girl get some rest now.”

  “Let her rest, let her rest. I hope you never rest again,” Beverly snarls, spinning out of the nurse’s hold and stalking down the hall, her shoulders shaking violently.

  “Oh god,” I whisper, guilt crashing over me, knowing she is right. “Oh god.”

  “Sweetie, stop it. None of this was your fault. She’s just upset and needs to blame someone. She’ll get over it, I promise,” Mom says, stroking my hair and trying to calm me.

  But I know Mom is wrong. In all the confusion of my rescue I haven’t had time to really think about how I handled the situation. It’s not just that I didn’t get to Nicole in time; I made a terrible mistake by going to get her in the first place. I should’ve called the cops. When she didn’t show up to meet me, I should’ve called. If I hadn’t left my damn cell phone in the car like the worst kind of idiot, I could have called.

  Shame descends on me in a blistering flood, coagulating in the pit of my stomach like a dirty sponge, radiating nausea and the sick realization that I cannot go back, I can’t fix this hollow place where a life should be.

  I wonder how I am going to live with myself after tonight.

  I bite down hard on my lower lip, not caring when I taste the salt and copper of blood on my tongue. My throat is stiff with sorrow and I can’t swallow; my jaw aches with the effort and my eyes are hot with unshed tears.

  I have never truly understood what it is to make a mistake. Last year, when I was working in my mom’s store alone one afternoon, an older man overpaid for his purchase by fifty dollars. I was busy putting the cash register in order and didn’t notice until the man was gone. I looked for him out in the street, and when I couldn’t find him, checked to see if he had left a number or address in our correspondence book, but there was nothing. I told mom about it, but she shrugged it off, saying that if he came back we would refund it, but that sort of thing happened all the time, not to worry about it. I stayed up all night thinking about that man going to buy groceries or pick up his prescriptions and finding his money short, being humiliated or worse, unable to purchase his heart medication or something. Because of my inattention, my carelessness. He never came back, even though I kept his fifty dollar bill in an envelope at the bottom of the register for months. Even now, when I think of him, my stomach twinges with the guilt.

  But that was not a mistake. Forgetting to turn off the coffee pot, telling a lie and getting caught, failing an exam; these are not mistakes.

  Letting my best friend die is a mistake. A devastating, catastrophic mistake that can’t be rectified. I can’t hold onto her life the way I held on to that fifty dollar bill, putting it in reserve in hope of returning it to her someday. I can’t apologize, or make amends, or do anything that will ease the overwhelming wrongness of what I have done. For the rest of my life I will feel the empty space next to me where Nicole should be, I will hear the hollow whisper of her conversation when I speak, I will see the irrevocable mortality in her eyes in my own reflection. I will hear her words, the desperation in her voice when she begged, “Come get me, Derry. I’m scared.”


  I push my fist against my teeth, biting down hard to keep from howling. For the rest of my life, her shadow will haunt me, forever recriminating, forever asking why I didn’t save her.

  I feel my mother’s hands on me, touching my face, trying to pull my fist away, but it is no more intrusive than a quiet voice in another room. The ache in my throat is unbearable now and I can hear a thin, reedy keen resonating in my chest, trapped beneath the weight of my guilt.

  I am still screaming silently when the nurse puts the tranquilizer in my IV and I am tugged underwater again, pulled down and down, Nicole’s accusing eyes my anchor.

  I am sitting up in bed, trying to keep down the watery scrambled eggs the nurse has just forced on me. Mom is outside my little curtained room talking to the doctor before I am released, and the soft hum of their voices blends with the steady beeping of the machine attached to me with wires and tubes. My hand is one great throb of pain, as though the IV needle has found its home in the marrow of my bones rather than the veins just below the surface. I try to stretch my fingers, but they resist, wrapped together with an invisible string that forces me to keep still.

  My mother’s voice rises slightly and a new baritone rumble joins the conversation for a moment before the curtain is pulled aside to allow a new visitor.

  “I’m angry with myself,” Jake says quietly, standing at the bottom of the bed, his hands behind his back. Fear spikes in my chest at the sight of him, but after a moment it fades and I am left surprised and disturbingly pleased to see him.

  “What are you doing here?” I croak, my voice still thin and scratchy from the night before.

  “The cops called my dad this morning to tell him about Nicole. I’m so sorry, Derry.” Jake’s shoulders twitch and I can see how he is restraining his movements, as though he knows one false move will edge me over into terror.