“Beck! Wake up! I need yourhelp!”
I need amiracle.
* * *
The next twoweeks are the hardest of mylife.
I spend every waking moment by Ian’s side. I neglect food, ignoring my own bodily needs in favor of his. I barely sleep, afraid to close my eyes for longer than a moment in case he wakes in need of help. Not that there’s much I can do at this point, besides hold his hand and wait for him to…to…
I can’t even say the word in my ownhead.
Night and day, I lie by his side on the sleeping pallet, in the off chance he wakes. At best, he’s conscious for a few scant moments before falling back under the pressing weight of fever. At worst, he does not wake atall.
Each day, he slips a little farther from us; I fear, soon, he’ll be entirely out ofreach.
He doesn’t speak to me, except to murmur feverish nonsense under his breath, the meanings of which I cannot fathom. Sometimes, he calls out for his mother, his father, the girl who broke his heart back in Oklahoma. I hold his hand and assure him they’re here with him, hoping he can’t hear the devastation in my voice. His cracked lips form more incoherent syllables, babbles of a man lost to theworld.
Beck stares worriedly at the ever-darkening shadows beneath my eyes and the ever-shrinking margins of my waistline, but I avoid his stare. He brings a constant supply of food and fresh water, stacks our cache of firewood so high there’s no chance I’ll ever have to leave Ian’s side in search of more. We communicate in wordless gestures and loaded glances, hardly speaking aloud at all as the days passrapidly.
You should eatsomething.
I’ll eat when hedoes.
Stubborngirl.
Bossyman.
I change coconut-infused bandages and sponge hot broth down Ian’s throat, until there comes a point he can’t swallow even the smallest beads of moisture without choking. I look up, eyes moving to the edge of our camp where Beck is lashing yet another tree trunk into place. The first section of our log-cabin is nearly complete. Within a month or so, he should be able to construct the remaining sides, until we have a real, actual house with walls and aroof.
It’s impossible to believe Ian won’t be here to see it. Andyet…
I’m beginning to doubt he’ll see the other side oftomorrow.
Listening to his labored breaths, I wrap his cold hands within mine and squeeze. There’s fluid in his lungs. Pneumonia, most likely. Each inhale is a struggle, each exhale rattles from his emaciated throat like death itself, whispering in myear.
Beck appears at my side, somehow sensing I was about to call for him. We’re so attuned to each other at this point, I wonder if he can hear the private thoughts inside myhead.
I hope not. I still have few secrets I’d like to keep tomyself.
Green eyes find mine. His brows arch.How ishe?
I shake my head.Notgood.
My heart is so heavy inside my chest I can hardly catch a breath. I turn my head away from Ian, so he won’t see the tears trickling down my cheeks if his eyes crack open. I thought I’d cried every tear left in my body, that eventually the well would run dry, but still more come — an endless waterfall of grief seeping out over hours and days andweeks.
A big hand reaches toward me, as if to brush them away. I freeze. He halts a few centimeters from my cheekbone, catching himself just before his fingertips makecontact.
There’s an apology in hiseyes.
I turn my gaze out to sea, so I don’t drown in him. It’s stormy today. A rare overcast afternoon. The ocean is riled up with waves. I watch them crashing against the reef break a hundred yards offshore and wonder what we’ll face when hurricane season arrives in the fall. I can’t quite summon the energy to care what happens to us. Whatever we must face, at least we’ll still behereto face it. We’ll still bealive.
The tears flowfaster.
On a normal day, with the bright sunshine turning the Pacific into a vast sheet of cerulean, it’s impossible to make out any details on the horizon, with the exception of the occasional heat mirage or optical illusion. But today, under the dim cloud cover, my eyes snag on an incongruous shape. A white block, drifting at the farthest limits of myvision.
“Beck.”
He flinches. It’s the first time I’ve spoken aloud in days and my voice sounds torn to shreds. Clearing my throat, I tryagain.