DAY TWO
I wake as the sun pokes over the horizon…in my case, almost literally, pokes right in my eye. There's something to be said for being right at sea level—no extraneous lazing about allowed here. Unlike some people. My gaze fearfully slides to Andrea. She's still on her side; her head now burrowed into Derrick's folded jacket.
"Andrea, wake up. You've had a day to rest. I now require you fully functional and alert." My best La Priestly voice. It would chill the clackers in the halls of Runway.
Nothing.
I roll over and crawl across the sand to her side, checking her pulse. Strong, even, steady. She's pale though, but that's not new. No change. Well. That counts as something. Besides, it'd be insubordinate of her to die on me without permission. Maybe she knows that.
I've been deliberately avoiding looking behind me, to the spot, twenty feet away, where I dragged Derrick before "bed" last night. I use the term bed advisedly. I neither slept nor felt like rest of any kind occurred. The weight of too many thoughts pressed in on me; worrying about Andrea and what the girls have been told. How they handled it. And I sensed a dead man's stare on me all night.
At that thought, I stand, brush off the sand, and head over to Derrick. Hunger gnaws at me and my throat is dry and scratchy. I ignore both sensations with impatience. Duty first. Planting my feet behind his shoulders, I heave.
Pain sears through my lower back which is already enraged at me after yesterday's exertions. I cry out and drop Derrick, reaching around to rub the small of my back. With a grimace, I lean over and try again.
This time it's even worse.
He might be a small Filipino man, but he's still heavier than my assistant and weighs two-thirds again what I do.
Please, I tell my mutinous body, just let me do this. Just force through it. Remember when you were seventeen? Remember what you endured then?
I grit my teeth and this time I suppress, through sheer force of will, the agony and lurch Derek's body away from our camp. There's a small inlet around the bend in the shore line. After some huffing and grunting, I manage to leave him there, far from the shore line, straight and ordered. I fold his arms neatly across his chest because it seems the respectful thing to do, and consider offering a prayer for him, even though it goes against my grain. There's a good reason I'm an atheist. Instead, I pause for a long moment, and wish his little girl a good and happy life that won't be too stained by her father's loss.
I turn and stare at the sea. The way the cove is shaped seems to lure the waves in. They're stronger here, all churned up like a blender set to 'full'. That just reminds me of how much Caroline loves her strawberry smoothies for breakfast. Cassidy prefers banana. I hope Greg is looking after them. Not letting them fret too much. They have a tendency to work each other up. I hope he remembers that.
My stomach growls again, well, more than that; it churns. Gnaws like talons.
Fine, fine. I will look for food. But first, I need to ensure Andrea needs no further assistance.
Maybe she's woken up since I left her? I quicken my pace.
I round the rocky corner and gaze along the main shore line. Even at this distance, I see her posture is unchanged. Well, I might live on hope, but there's a limit.
When I reach her side, I check her pulse. "Andrea? Could you open your eyes for me today? Hmm? Getting your boss to do everything is not what your contract stipulates, you know."
I smirk until I notice the yellowing wet patch spreading between her legs. Oh.
Wouldn't it be nice if this could be like in the movies where unconscious people 'hold it' for days on end?
I sigh. It's just pee, for God's sake. And it's not like I haven't dealt with all this before with my daughters. But still. I hesitate. If I wait long enough, maybe she'll wake up and take care of her hygiene requirements herself?
I give Andrea a hopeful look and wait a few moments.
Or not.
Fine. I remove Derrick's jacket from under Andrea's head, flapping it out straight and place it beside me, like a surgeon prepping her tools. Unzipping her skirt at the side, I ease it down her legs, admiring the material's cut. Really, Donna Karan has done an excellent job with this collection. The seams alone look sturdy enough to survive a gale. There's not a tear or nick in sight. I'll have to send her a note on my return. "Delighted to confirm your A-line holds its form well under Robinson Crusoe conditions. M."
Pointedly not looking at anything Andrea would prefer I not see, I shift the jacket to cover her lap, then find the edges of her panties and remove them too.
After a quick dip of Donna Karan's finest offering in the sea, the skirt is clean. Andrea's black La Perla panties follow suit. Within minutes, both items have been staked to kindling sticks planted in the sand, and are drying by the fire.
The kindling sticks give me an idea. Rooting around my wood pile, I find the longest stick I can, and rub one end against a rock, forming a point. Perhaps breakfast isn't that far away after all.
"Do you enjoy fish, Andrea?" I inquire as I work. My stomach's own approving grumble reminds me I'd eat anything right now. Curiously, the moisture of the flesh in my imaginary future breakfast is something I crave almost as much.
Swallowing feels only dry and dusty now. Like I've been licking sand and ash.
Andrea doesn't reply. Funny how much I miss her chattering existence.
Heading for the shore line, I walk until I see the small ripple of lightly cresting waves, indicating a sandbar. Somewhere for me to stand without being too deep, while I get a good look at my prey. I try to remember any wildlife documentaries I've watched with the girls. Or that Bear man, Grylls? Is there some special technique required for spear fishing? Surely not. Besides, I've survived a three-hour-long Jackson Leinert showing of polka-dot boots. This cannot possibly be harder.
It is. After a few hours of fruitless energy expended on the darting creatures, I stagger back to camp, defeated. I sling down my sharpened stick and turn to Andrea. "I'm afraid seafood's off the menu today. I hope you're not too disappointed."
She says nothing. Her pulse, her breathing, her coloring remain the same.
Hmm.
Finding her garments now dry, I slip them on her again, do up her skirt, then return the shielding jacket to behind her head.
"There, good as new." I regard her. "If you tell anyone I did this, I will deny it. We can pretend you were like one of those movie coma patients."
She says nothing.
Wise girl.
It's past midday. I feel weaker, and am well aware that's not going to improve as the day goes on. I need to properly assess the resources available. In some ways this is no different to running a magazine. Find your resources. Deploy your resources. I explain this concept, which is growing on me by the minute. Finally, I have a measure of control.
"You see what I'm saying? Managing an island or controlling Runway, it's all the same concept. I hope you're listening, Andrea. This could be important one day. When you're home, and you have future plans down the track. It's all simply management."
At that moment, it feels inconceivable for us not to get home; for Andrea not to shine and grow. I wonder about her family situation. She hasn't mentioned her father in some time. I frown, remembering some form of emergency leave a year back. Was there…a funeral? I do recall a brother in the picture. And some boyfriend? Before Paris? Except, if Andrea's picking up random redheads, it's likely my information is woefully out of date.
My cheeks redden at the reminder of how I found her two mornings ago…was it really only that long? I sigh at myself. Priorities, Priestly. I must scout now. Assess fully the island, and what it has to offer. I glance at Andrea.
"You know the rules. You will stay here. You will not die. And we will discuss your need to keep sleeping away the day when I return." Leaning forward, I lower my voice to a softer tone. "Okay, Andrea? I'll be back soon."
The island is small, I realize as I work my way, barefoot, up one rocky incline to its peak. It lacks any natural water sources, no fruiting trees, nothing remotely vegetable-like, and no animals. Not even insects buzz around as I clamber up and down the crevices, rocks, and beaches on the far side.
Most importantly, there are no other people. It's about as barren as Runway chairman Irv Ravitz's soul. Which, regretfully, may be an understatement.
On my return, I recount this to my still-sleeping assistant, unable to prevent myself stroking the hair which has flowed into her face, curling it around one ear.
Andrea doesn't seem interested in my tales. She's looking a lot less white, though, I'm satisfied to see. Which is good. I need her stronger, especially for tomorrow.
"Well," I say as I review her. "I've found us a better camp. It's higher up, there's some shelter from a rocky outcrop, but we can still look down to this part of the island. Beach views, Andrea," I drawl. "I'm sure you'll appreciate that. Besides, we should be closer to trees for firewood, and I just don't like being so exposed down here. Of course, my main issue is getting you up there." I gaze down at her. "Any chance you'd volunteer to help?"
Silence.
"Well." I purse my lips. "You are nothing if not consistent."
The sun's starting to edge down in the sky. I'm still starving. But Andrea's a little better, I think. So, I'll get some firewood, get our heat source stoked up. And try to get the sleep I was denied last night.
The next four hours are spent thinking of my girls. Somewhat pathetically, I lick at the moisture of my faint tears, and desperately wonder what my darling girls are doing now.
I don't get much sleep at all.
DAY THREE
I wake, hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and feeling oddly warm in one hand. I realize I've been clutching Andrea's fingers. Or did she clutch mine? At that thought, I snap my head to look at her. "Andrea?"
Not so much a twitch.
Oh. Well.
I extricate myself from her clasp. I really need food.
A certain smell hits me, and my eyes fall to her lap. "You know I'm not running a laundromat," I tell her, eyebrow cocking, even though that's exactly what I've been doing for three days now. This time, though, the yellowing stain is much darker. A sure sign of dehydration. Damn it. This is not good at all.
I really am sorry, Andrea.
Well, that's what I would say if I was any sort of decent human. But I'm not.
I rinse her clothes lightly in the sea, and remind myself I'm the person who left her for dead on a plane. I also let Derrick die feeling responsible. A kind word would have cost me nothing. But I withheld it. That's what I do. Maybe Stephen was right. I'm ice to the core.
Screw Stephen! If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't be here. And Andrea wouldn't be in this state. Or, you could have just ignored your ex-husband's wedding and Andrea would still be well, my evil little imp whispers in my head.
I scowl, as I hang out Andrea's underthings on my kindling sticks. There's a good wind whipping around today. Incredibly strong, judging by the whites chopping over the waves. These will be dry again in no time. Which is good. I don't want to haul Andrea anywhere while inadequately attired.
"Standards, Andrea," I say, with a wry tone. "No moving house while you're not dressed for it." In truth, I faintly tease because her vulnerability unsettles me greatly. If our positions were reversed, I would hate this and resent her for seeing me this way. But it's a practical issue. It must be done and that's all there is to it. On that note, being practical, I add, "I need you strong today. It's moving day. Yes, Andrea?"
She sleeps on; the whip of her La Perla snapping in the fierce breeze.
"All right, Andrea, we're taking a stroll," I announce, having re-dressed her and checked she's as ready as possible. "It would be delightful if you'd join me, of course." I wait, wondering if her sense of excellent timing will take hold.
No such luck.
"Fine." My back is still brutally sore from yesterday; not to mention the soles of my feet are chopped up from scampering over underbrush and rocks barefoot. I had briefly thought of acquiring Derrick's shoes, but my size-six feet would slide out of his tens like clown shoes.
"I wish you came with handles," I tell Andrea, as I scoop my hands under her armpits. "Perhaps we should look into that. A new fashion line. The Handles Collection." I tug her, and oh, it hurts, so much worse, as all my strained muscles are re-engaged and protest like moody teenagers.
I wince, growl, and remind myself it's only pain. I've survived worse.
Progress is slow going as I inch her along the rough path I mentally mapped out yesterday, edging ever slowly up to higher ground.
Walking backwards is the only way moving a dead-weight is achievable, but the result is that I stumble occasionally over the unfamiliar terrain. I am managing quite well, despite stopping three times for crippling back spasms, until I step on a pile of leaves.
Only the pile isn't lying on the ground.
My left leg plunges into a hole, about a foot deep, and I fall flat on my back, losing my grip on Andrea. The knife-like arc of pain up my leg is nothing compared to the terror of watching Andrea's body bounce, twist, and tumble. Her head and neck flop about, before she lands, stomach-first, in a jagged pile of rocks.
I half scream, half shriek, an unholy sound I've never made before, and scramble after her, every step further jarring my tortured ankle. I reach her in an inelegant skid.
Turning her over, red is all I see at first. Blood covers her skirt, her blouse. I wrench up her shirt, exposing a hand-length gash, deep and ragged, scored above her belly-button.
I stare at it, and the softest whisper of "fuck" drops from my lips. So Andrea survives a bulkhead hitting her, a plane crash, an ocean swim, almost drowning, but now I almost kill her?
Almost kill her again, my demonic imp whispers in my ear. Don't forget how you never went back for her the first time.
As if I could forget that.
My hands are covered with her blood, and I don't know what to do. Running a magazine, puzzling out pieces, no matter what I convinced myself of before, it's nothing like this. It's not…it's not like this.
I, Miranda Priestly, have no damned clue what to do.
Pressing my hand futilely over that gash, blood spills out between my fingers. There's so much of it. I examine my own clothing. I could use my pants as some sort of bandage, but they aren't thick enough. Blood would be through it in minutes.
A strangled sob spills out of my lips, a sign of my rising panic, and fury fills me instead. Now's not the time to lose it. Andrea needs me.
Think!
Derrick. If I used all his clothing, all of it, shirt, pants, hell, socks, all folded and packed down tight, maybe it would be enough? I glare at Andrea, even as my fingers tremble over her wound.
"This is no time to die," I warn her. "I have to fetch you bandages, and you must not bleed out while I'm gone. Do you hear me? Is that quite clear? Now I will loan you my pants, but I'll be requiring them back when I fetch something thicker for you."
I stand, shakily shucking my M&S Spring/Summer collection flared pants. As they reach my feet, I gasp. My left ankle is purple and swollen. Well, great. Add it to my list of annoyances. It's the least I deserve for almost killing Andrea.
Gently, I pull her off the rocks, laying her on the path's incline. I remove her skirt which is soaked with blood. As quickly as I can manage, I tie the legs of my pants around her stomach then knot them. Just as I predicted, the blood seeps through almost immediately. It's slower though. Just a little. I've bought us a small amount of time.
I run like I haven't in years. I fly down the slope, back toward the beach, ignoring the wrenching stab of pain in my ankle with every step. Twisted or sprained, I don't care. I dodge a branch of a tree, push past a scratchy bush, slither past two rocks and hit sand. Then, with no impediments beyond the skin and muscle in my body, I pump my arms and legs till they feel raw. I pound down the sand, as wrenching pain spirals up from my ankle, toward the cove where I left Derrick. I hope like hell he hasn't been washed away; but with the wilder weather today, especially in that choppy tidal inlet, anything's possible.
Even if I get to him, it may not be enough, I warn myself. Derrick wore a thin outfit. A typical airline uniform. The jacket I'd been using for Andrea's pillow might be better; it's thicker. But it's the wrong shape. Pants are ideal. And we might need that jacket later for warmth if the weather changes. Planning ahead is essential.
My breath is coming in jagged, stabbing gasps; I'm dizzy from lack of food and the exertion, and my throat's so dry and wretched, I keep wanting to cough.
I skid around the bend, into the cove and my breath catches, turning from puffed gasps into grotesque, choking ones.
Derrick's there. But he's not alone.
There's a sea of yellow bobbing in front of me, swept into the cove on the tide.
Before me are dozens and dozens of passengers. Maybe forty? Have they been here all day or just arrived? Does it matter?
Their bodies are decaying, blue lips, and several are bloated. Crimson, sunburnt skin is peeling. Sightless gazes stare at me, bodies still bobbing in their life jackets, like some ghoulish mockery.
Oh God.
I fall to my knees, and dry retch. There's nothing inside to throw up. It doesn't matter. I retch again and again.
A flash of red catches my eye. Oh no. No, no, no! I glare at the source, in rage with the universe. A Red Sox cap is on the head of a little boy. The one I'd seen on the plane. He's on his back, lying on the shoreline in an odd puzzle of a shape, beside another man, in jeans.
My eyes settle on the jeans, unable to absorb the child any longer. Focus, I tell myself. Those jeans are thick, heavy, ideal for purpose, and a far superior material to Derrick's thin dress pants.
Swallowing back the bile that still presses against my throat, urging me to vomit again, I force myself forward on shaky legs.
The dead cannot be saved.
With the efficiency of a Formula 1 pit-stop mechanic, I'm on my knees, shucking off the dead man's enormous soggy sneakers, then undoing his belt with a practiced flick, before wrenching down his denim. I pause and stare at the belt for a moment. My eyes flick to Derrick, higher up on the sand, out of the water's clasp. He also wears a sturdy belt. An idea forms.
Well. All right. I dump the man's sodden jeans and belt into a heap and rush to Derrick. I whip off his belt, too, and return to my stash.
The dead cannot be saved. My mantra keeps me focused.
Andrea cannot be allowed to lose too much blood. What did I read somewhere? Four liters and a person's dead? How much has she lost? One? Two?
No time. Faster. Faster!
Clothing flipped onto my shoulder, I'm about to run once more when the flash of red catches my eye again. My heart slams against my chest as I stop to regard the dimple-cheeked boy. He'd been so full of life. Now look at him.
I take one step toward him, then three, and finally lean forward, to remove his cap. I hope he understands. It could be useful. A cup, maybe, or to…
His eyelashes flicker.
I gape.
He's alive? How?
Dropping the clothes once more, I drop to a crouch and check his pulse. So thready; barely there. But it's definitely thudding away. He's gray though, colder than ice. I lower my cheek against his mouth. Not even a hint of breath.
The dead cannot be saved.
No, but the living can.
What do I do? I could try and save him, but there's Andrea. She's definitely alive. This boy is knocking at death's door. Pounding on it, more like.
"Sixty seconds," I tell him, ripping off his life vest, and checking his airways. "I will give you one minute to be a miracle. You can do it."
I begin CPR, I press my lips to his, I thump his little chest, I do it while whispering. Come on, come on.
Nothing happens. I stop and hold my breath, waiting. Well, what did I expect? I only gave him a minute. I could give him another minute. Five? Five minutes could be the choice between life and death, couldn't it?
Well?
I'm in agony. Andrea needs me. She hasn't much time left. Every second, her life blood flows out of her.
My tears plop onto his little face, as I know what my decision will be. It's Andrea. It's always going to be Andrea. A tag is sticking up at the back of his shirt, and without even thinking, I tuck it back in, like any mother would, catching sight of a name in black, thick handwriting. Toby.
"Forgive me, Toby." More tears land on his cheek. I lay him down, purse my lips into a grim line, and pick up the handful of clothes.
I stumble into a shaky run, flying back to Andrea. Andrea who is definitely alive. Or was, at least, when I left her.
What if she's gone? that annoying voice in my head demands. What if you've just left them for dead? You could have just killed them both. All for your own selfish desires to hurt your ex-husband.
I'm crying openly now, salt water streaking down my cheeks, and I hate myself so much I can barely see through a wall of tears. My ankle is shooting white-hot pain up and down my body. I don't give a damn.
Andrea needs me.
Toby needed you too. You let him die. You played God. You always thought you were one, didn't you? At Runway? This is how it really feels. Deal with it.
I hate that voice in my head. I hate myself.
Focus.
Andrea, be alive. You will be alive, damn it. Don't make my terrible choice be in vain.
My sprint becomes a furious, wretched thing, flinging myself past scraping flora, and bounding over rocks. My bare legs are getting shredded and scratched, but all I can think of is how little time she has.
Focus, focus, focus.
She's there. In front of me. Her entire body is red-stained by the time I find her again. Because she's on an incline, the blood from her stomach wound is now running down both her legs, and it's an image I know I'll never shake. I brutally wipe the tears from my eyes, and force my mind into complete, deadly clarity.
"Andrea," I hiss, dropping to my knees at her side.
No reply. Her face is so pale now, she's almost translucent. With trembling fingers, I seek out her pulse, and it's…it's… oh thank God.
"Good, girl," I tell her over and over. "Good girl." I unknot and wrench my pants off her stomach, tossing them aside. Then I carefully wrap the jeans' legs around her stomach, relieved the owner was so tall. It allows me to knot them as best I can, below one hip. I pull and strain, making it tighter and tighter. Then I wring out her skirt, until it no longer feels wet, and slide it up her legs.
"I apologize for putting this back on you," I tell her quietly, drawing it up her body, and start jerking up the zip at the side. "I promise there's a method to my madness."
The skirt is so tight at her waist with the jeans wrapped around her stomach that I can only just slide up the zip. Doing up the button, I'm satisfied. There's no way either jeans or skirt are budging. It's as tight as any compression bandage can be. Or it will be…until I start dragging her again. That's the big problem. Fortunately, I've already thought of a solution.
"Now, Andrea, here's the madness I spoke of." I take Derrick's belt, thread it through a few belt loops on the left side of her skirt and pray Donna Karan's double stitching is as excellent as it appears. Then I loop the belt around itself and buckle it up. Hoop one, complete. I repeat this with the belt and some belt loops on the other side of her skirt. Hoop two.
"There. Didn't I say you should come with handles?" I offer her an almost smile. "You're good enough to take shopping now."
Leaning forward, I slide my hands into each belt hoop, and give a testing tug. Everything stays solid and Andrea's body lifts from the ground. Thank God.
Yes, she'll drag at the feet and the arms when I move her, but not at the waist. I'll have to stop often to rest. It will be much slower going. But she'll be protected where it matters.
We might actually have a hope in hell of getting somewhere.
Andrea is appropriately situated at our new campsite. I've set up a fire; thanks to Derrick's lighter. She's warm, safe, and secure. She is not, however, awake. But she's also not dead.
Dead. I bite my lip. How long has it been? Maybe, it's still possible? How long can anyone stay alive in Toby's condition?
I have to know. I'm going back. It's the practical thing to do, I tell myself. Besides, I need to wash out Andrea's blood-soaked clothing, not to mention my own ruined pants.
I don't hang around questioning myself. I fly down the path to the beach.
The next time I round the corner to the cove, I'm no more mentally prepared. It's worse, actually, because there seems to be a dozen more of them. I glimpse the elderly woman who'd been so excited to be on her first flight. Despair rises up as I see their faces anew.
This could easily have been me. Or Andrea.
I run to the boy's side, dropping to my knees. My fingers shoot to his throat, seeking a pulse.
Nothing.
I try his wrist. "Toby!" I bark at him.
Only the impatient sound of rushing waves fills my ears.
Experimentally, I try a few chest pumps, a few more breaths against those small blue lips. But there's something about his sightlessness this time that seems far more final than before.
"I'm sorry," I tell him, using the word I loathe most. "I'm so sorry." Pulling him into a hug I had no idea I was about to give, I rock him back and forth, taking him in my lap. An old Jewish lullaby comes to mind, one I used to sing to my girls when they were small. One my Papa sang to me before... Before.
I hum it for a few moments, but the rising wind tears it from my lips, dragging it away. It seems to be saying, you are not wanted here.
I don't blame it. I let Toby die. I chose that.
Pulling his little body up the beach, I lay him gently beside Derrick and kneel before them both.
"Toby, I'd like you to meet Derrick. He'll look after you now, until your parents come and find you again one day. Derrick's a g-good man. You'll be safe."
My eyes well up.
Hell. I don't even believe in an afterlife.
I sit and bury my face in my hands and start to sob. It feels endless, the unremitting depth of it; my shoulders shuddering up and down. My grief is for everything, all the lost souls, and my part in being on this cursed flight. My own guilt.
It has nothing to do with Stephen. None of it. What conceit. Then again, I was always superbly talented at denial. I tell myself I hate lies. But I don't mind lying to myself when it suits.
What's the line from Shakespeare? The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
This was my fault. All of this was my choice. And the guilt is now mine to bear.
My tears change, become less ragged, more about loss. Grief for my daughters who could soon be motherless because of my ego that refused to let Stephen win. For Andrea's family who could be robbed of a beautiful, sweet young woman. And then Toby, who had a whole life to live. What was his death for?
Why was I forced to choose that?
Incredulity slows my tears and I glower at the unfairness of it all. Why not just take me? I'm fifty-two now… why let me live? Does that mean something?
Does it have to?
My Jewish orthodox father would have found some flowery theological passage and claimed it was part of God's plan. But then the hypocritical bastard also threw me out on the street at seventeen when he caught me kissing my first (and only) girlfriend. So, his profound words are hardly worthy of further thought.
I wipe my eyes. Sitting here raking over my failings and scars won't help. Andrea needs me. That's what matters now.
I rise, take one long look around at a picture of despair, and trudge back to the beach.
The dead cannot be saved.
Andrea can.