by Alex Morel
Dad,
I love you. I’m sorry.
Paul
Chapter 31
I wake first and morbidly put my hand on Paul’s chest to make sure he is alive. His heart still beats and I can hear his breathing, though it sounds wheezy and shallow. The long rest has rejuvenated my body a bit, and I feel strong and determined, if also stiff and cold. I will find help for Paul or die trying.
While he sleeps, I pack up my sleeping bag and my bottle. I grab the hiking sticks, though I hope I won’t need them.
When I’m ready, I shake Paul and he reaches with his hand and holds mine.
“Come back for me. Even if it is long after I’m dead. Promise you’ll come back here.”
“Stop it. I’ll bring back someone who will help you. You’ll be alive when I come back.”
My voice chokes on the word alive. I’m looking at his body, and I can see how cold and pale and beaten he is. My hope is draining moment by moment, like the blood in his body. I feel helpless and angry, but I buck up and show him that I’m not afraid for myself or for him and that I’ll be back.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Maybe fate has plans.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe we found each other.”
“Like we were meant to.”
He nods.
“Before my mother died, she told me she’d be a star in the night and I could always look up and find her. I believed that for a long time.”
“That’s so sweet,” I tell him.
“If you need me,” he says, lying back as if he lacks the strength to stay upright.
“Okay,” I tell him, “you too. If you need me.”
I kiss him one more time as deeply and lovingly as my dry lips and bereft heart can muster. He cradles my cheek against his. Then he kisses me one more time on my eyes and whispers, “Goodbye.”
A short cry bursts from my chest, and I feel his chest heave, and we hold onto each other for just a moment longer. Then I turn and walk.
“I love you, Jane,” he calls out.
I stop walking and turn around. I take him in deeply with my eyes so my heart and brain never forget this moment or this beautiful boy who will always be mine. “I love you too,” I cry out. I bring a big mitten to my mouth and blow him a kiss. He smiles his big, crooked, awkward, lovely smile. I will never forget that.
• • •
I walk away from our shelter. He is alone with his brother’s words, the memory of my kiss, and the fear that this is the end of his time on earth. I will find help.
I walk along the ridge, and it’s like walking through clouds. The mountain fog rolls around me, and it is impossible to know where I’m headed. Paul directed me to walk straight on the ridge, and from the daylight before the last storm, it appeared to descend and flatten out near here. If I can get to ground level, in an open space, and if the snow and cloud banks clear, I’m certain I’ll be found by a plane or somebody searching for us.
It’s a lot of ifs.
The ridge quickly flattens out and then descends into a steep, long slope that isn’t nearly as rocky as the valley. The tree line comes into view, and I am grateful for its protection from the wind. I often look up in the sky, hoping to see a plane. At one point I hear a faraway something, and I allow myself to imagine an airplane that will find me and then swoop in to save Paul. I push out all thoughts of him lying there alone and simply replay our night together, over and over.
By early afternoon, my legs shake and wobble. Each step requires strength my body no longer has. I fight to focus on moving and just keep Paul’s name as my mantra. If searchers were to find me now, they’d think I was a homeless person mumbling some psychotic chant about a long-lost relative. But it is the chanting, the repetition of just his name, that keeps me going.
By late afternoon I’ve reached the bottom, and I look out across a long stretch of flat terrain. It is open, and my mind tells me it is where I’ll be found. My gut checks me, though. Shelter. I can hear Paul’s voice saying that after water, shelter is everything. The trees and rocks offer me shelter and my best chance of survival if the weather turns, but the open grassland offers the greatest chance of being found and Paul being saved.
My first step into the open grass is deep and I realize the snow here accumulates in a way that isn’t true of the mountain slope protected by trees. Nor is it cold enough to create hardened snow, like on the top of the mountain. It isn’t a warning, I tell myself as I take another step and then another. It is the hardest walking I’ve done since this journey began. My legs are so tired it requires every ounce of energy to pull my feet free from the snow. The farther out I get, the deeper the drifts become, and I find myself becoming frustrated by my progress as night falls quickly around me.
The wind picks up and is vicious like never before. With each gust, I feel the temperature dropping. Here I am again. One way or another, I keep reliving that moment on the plane with the pills in my hand. I’m never going to make it across, and the cold is so severe I simply won’t survive the night.
I stop and turn my back to the wind and look back toward Paul. I’m sorry, I think. A tear freezes right on my cheek and I imagine his face before me. Words come and connect us. The snow is your friend, I hear him say. I don’t recall that he ever said that to me before, but the word snow reverberates throughout my head and heart. I start to dig and dig until I hit the earth. It is perhaps three feet deep. I work my way back toward Paul, digging out a grave the length of my body. I unfold my sleeping bag and stand in it. I zip the bag up to my armpits and sit in my snow grave.
I quickly shovel snow onto my feet and my legs and eventually cover my chest. I zip up my bag all the way and use my right hand to pull as much snow over me as possible. I pull my hand in and listen and feel for my fate. The wind is gone, or at least its chill does not touch me in the same way here. The bag is keeping my heat inside, and the cold from the snow is not enough to penetrate, at least not yet.
I smile as I hear Paul say, Solis, well done. I close my eyes and, just before I fall off, I have one thought: He spoke to me. It wasn’t memory.
Chapter 32
Another night without dreams. Dead. Soundless. I wake before dawn and hear nothing. No howling. No wind. I am warm, but the chill of the snow is there, and I immediately claw my way out and stand up.
“I’m alive,” I shout. “Paul, wherever you are, I’m alive.”
I roll up my bag and drink the small amount of water that melted in my overnight bottle. My legs have not recovered, and I can feel the pain and ache in them from the very first step.
I push across the open grass and the farther I go, the more endless it seems. I fear my mind is slipping as I keep looking around, feeling that somebody is following me. For a minute I imagine it is Paul, who recovered and decided to come find and save me. But he never comes. You can dream all you want, Jane, I tell myself, but this is just about you. Focus, Solis, focus.
I near the wooded forest on the horizon. I’ve trudged for most of the day in knee- and thigh-deep snow. My legs are dead and frozen in a way they’ve never been. I look back and there’s a sight so horrific, I gag.
It isn’t Paul that’s been following me, but a wolf. A lone black wolf, moving sideways and forward. I watch it zigzag along, and at first I think it might be hunting for rabbits or prairie dogs. But now I feel its eyes on me; it’s walking slowly, stalking me, waiting for me to falter. Then it will pounce on me and rip the meat from my bones.
With each step, I see the wolf coming closer. The closer the wooded area is, the nearer the wolf comes to me. Does he know that safety might lie just beyond the flat snow grasses for me? I experience a burst of adrenaline and move through the final twenty yards of snow and grass faster than I would have thought possible.
I glance behind me often. As my pace increases, so does the wolf’s. He trots and seems to be following a straighter path than before. He pauses when I look directly at him. I sense there is some
fear in him as well. The thought of that emboldens me. The big bad wolf is afraid of me! Well, maybe not afraid, but he’s being cautious before he launches an attack.
I reach the wooded area and turn quickly, sizing up the wolf. He is bone thin. He stops in his tracks, and for the first time, he doesn’t turn his head. I want to run, but something in my gut tells me to stand still, if even for a second. His eyes are yellow and his fur is mostly black with grayish patches. He leans awkwardly on his left paw, lifting his right. Is he injured? I can’t tell. I’ve yet to see any other wolves. Has he left his pack or been left behind?
With his probable injury, I suspect his speed is limited and his limited ability to climb is further diminished. I reach a large pine tree about fifty feet into the woods and begin climbing it. I stop for a moment to look back, but I don’t see anything. If he had wanted to attack me straight on, it would have happened already, right? Just climb, Jane, climb.
The tree is thick with branches and each snow-encrusted branch takes a minute to navigate, but I make steady progress up the trunk. I think I hear a soft growl below me, but I do not look down. Then there’s some scratching on the trunk, but I convince myself that his injury will prevent him from climbing. And even if he can climb, I’d rather fight him from above in a tree then in an open field, where he would surely overpower me.
I slip and slide my way a good twenty feet up, find a good perch, and stop. I pull out my two climbing sticks and sit and wait to do battle. I’ll probably die up here, but at least I’ll die fighting. Is that a little bloodlust moving through my veins? I almost relish a fight at this point. I sense an uninhibited craziness brewing inside me, but it’s so different from what I felt at the hospital. It has purpose, and I’m in control of it.
I wait and listen but hear nothing except the normal night sounds of the forest. The wind whistles softly, a branch breaks and falls in the distance, and I listen to the rustling of trees against one another. A little fear snakes up my back as I imagine the wolf making its way up the branches, slinking slowly and methodically.
Would I hear it? In this darkness, will I hear it climb? I push the thoughts from my head. Don’t let the voices take over again, Jane. I think of Paul, and I wonder if he’s alive. The wind blows and I imagine that’s him sending me a hug from afar.
But what am I going to do? I can’t go down now.
I unroll my sleeping bag and perch on a clump of large branches, hooking my feet under and over them to brace myself. I snuggle down into the bag, zip and seal the top, and press my back against the trunk as firmly as possible.
As I sit in this tree, I contemplate the cold. I am freezing now beyond comprehension. I know that the temperature outside is mild compared to what we faced before, so the chill in my bones frightens me. I’m cold now because my body is running out of energy, and it’s damaged by my exertion and exposure for the last few days. I may be stronger than I thought I was, but I’m weakening too. I can only hope that somebody finds me soon.
Chapter 33
I’m awake all night. Adrenaline is pumping through my body, which has gone into a serious protection mode, with all my sensory powers on full alert. I register every twig snap from miles away, and I find myself twitching constantly until the sun rises.
From up in the tree, I watch dawn begin to spread across the sky. It is clear, and I think it will be warm. This is it, I promise myself. This is my day. This is the day I walk out of here. This is the day I find help for Paul.
I climb down slowly and have my sticks at the ready. When I touch ground, I look around carefully and see that there are paw prints all around the tree but no sign of the wolf. I start to walk west, resuming the direction I’ve been traveling.
It is slow going. The forest is thick, hilly, and full of rocks, large and small. I’m tired and my nerves are shot from last night, so I trip and fall more than usual. Each time I fall, I panic and anticipate the wolf. My knees buckle several times as my legs weaken from the stress and lack of nourishment. My body, which has been working harder than I ever asked it to before, craves water more than anything else. It is the first time I fear dehydration, but if I choose to eat the snow, hypothermia will kill me. Despite its early promise, the sun disappears behind a cloud bank. I shake my head at my earlier optimism. But I don’t feel pathetic or disgusted the way I might have last week. It’s better than having no sun at all. I celebrate its warmth even as I feel disappointment. I’ve just got to hang on until the clouds move by again. I keep moving, one foot in front of the other.
My hands are starting to freeze. They’ve been cold for days, but this morning I notice how numb the fingers on my left hand feel. I look at the tips of my fingers, and they look darker. I can’t decide if it’s paranoia; I’m pretty sure it’s real, but I’m not sure if it means I’ll lose my fingers.
My mind flashes on the knife in my hand and the time not so long ago when I thought slicing myself would bring me some kind of joy. Now the thought of losing even an ounce of my blood repulses me. I wiggle my fingers for a second and pray that I can keep them in the end.
At around noon, I stop walking. I’ve been fighting for hours, and I don’t feel like I’ve made much progress. I find a large stick and pick it up. It’s about six inches taller than my head, fits nicely in my hands, and feels sturdy. I walk with it, and it provides the balance and support that I desperately need. I only wish I’d stumbled on the idea earlier.
When I first hear the sound of the river, it comes as a dull roar. At first there is a low tone, like the moan of tired television in a distant room. But it grows louder with each step I take, and eventually the correct synapses in my brain fire and connect, and I get it. River. Water. I pick up my pace and quickly find myself standing on top of a ravine, looking down at a thick, lush, flowing river.
I look north and south, up and down the river, but there’s no entry point. I could try to walk along the river, but I’m not entirely sure my body can carry me any farther. With water, yes, I could keep going. But between the lack of food and dehydration, I’m dead on my feet. It’s so close. I look down. The drop is maybe fifteen feet down a sloping hill that would take me to the river’s edge. I try to calculate how damaging the fall will be, factoring in the snow and the slope, but in the end, it is less complicated than the algebra exams I always failed. If I try to walk the edge of the ravine, I will definitely die. If I jump, I’ll probably die. I weigh my options and opt for probably die.
I walk a few yards in each direction, looking for the ideal place to jump. I know from gym class I’m supposed to bend my knees when I land and roll forward. I toss my stick down and it hits the ground and rolls toward the riverbank. It doesn’t snap or break. It bounces and tumbles a bit, but it survives intact. I’ll be able to use it to walk with me another mile or two.
I’m going to count to three and then leap. God, please help me, I think. One. Paul, stay with me. Two. Paul, I’m coming back for you. Three. Jump, Jane, jump. I leap and for a long, sick second, I hover in the air before my body yields to the force of gravity. The downward rush takes over and I just fall until—bang!—my feet hit the ground hard. Although my legs are bent and some of the fall is absorbed by my thighs and calves, it still jolts my body like a lightning bolt. I pitch forward through air, banging my face into the snow, then flipping again, landing on my feet momentarily and finally collapsing as my ankles give way and I roll over. I roll and tumble until I hit the riverbank.
Finally, I stop rolling and lie there panting, on my back, afraid to move. I open my eyes and watch the gloomy, gray clouds low in the sky.
I’m alive, I say quietly to no one. Or maybe I just think it; I’m not sure. My wrists and hands are, amazingly, unhurt, but my left ankle swells immediately and the pain is enormous. I can bend it a bit, so I know it isn’t broken. I try my best with my frozen hands to tighten the boot. The loud roar of the river fills my ears and suddenly the cotton feeling of my mouth blooms into my consciousness and crowds out any other thou
ghts. I get on all fours and crawl the rest of the way to the river. The water moves very quickly, and I’m careful not to lean too far in for fear of getting swept away. That’s a headline I’d rather not imagine: GIRL HIKES OUT OF VALLEY ONLY TO FALL INTO RIVER.
I get to the edge of the river and gulp down the water. Food. Drink. Candy. Rabbit. You name it. Nothing has ever tasted as deeply refreshing as the river water. The thick, icy water splashes into my mouth with such force that I nearly choke on it. I try to keep as dry as I can, but water flows down my throat and spills into my jacket and onto my chest and stomach. I pull back for a few seconds before I lap up some more. I repeat this scenario until my stomach swells, and I simply roll onto my back and pass out.
When I wake, I am still thirsty, but a few more pulls off the river soothe me. My stomach is in knots, though. I feel the full effort of the day in my bones, and the hell of the journey still ahead of me looms. A single sit-up is needed, but the energy and desire have dissipated. Rest, then try. Rest, then try.
I close my eyes, and my mind drifts until my father appears. He’s young, like in the photo on my mother’s dresser. He’s wearing a white sweater with dark blue-and-red trim around a small V-neck, the same one he wore on his last Christmas Eve. He’s very tan and wearing sunglasses that hide his sad eyes.
“I’m okay,” he says.
I reach out to touch him. His face is smooth, and the smell of Old Spice lingers in the air. I move his face to the side so I can look at his profile, but what I really want to see is the hole in his head. It’s black and scabbed over with dark, wine-colored blood. I place my fingertips over the hole, and I dig in gently and remove a silver bullet and blood starts to flow down his cheek.
He turns back and puts his warm hand on my face. “Thank you, Jane. I’m okay. Go ahead without me. I’m okay.”
