She's awake again. I'm not sure how smart it is of me to let hope surge, but there it is, quickening in my chest as I watch her eyes flutter open. The sun's down and I've banked the fire, checked her dressing, and am contemplating our vast array of dinner menu options.
Berries? Or berries? They don't taste too terrible when washed down with water. I've had pâté that's tasted worse. Admittedly it had been off.
Cautiously, I watch as Andrea stirs, unable to stop myself from wondering how long it will be before she slips back into unconsciousness.
She has been in and out of awareness for the past three or so hours and we successfully navigated a drink and another wordless bathroom break.
This time she did actually seem more with it; evidenced by the bloom of pink flooding her cheeks when I led her to the "facilities". That was new. Her embarrassment, however, for some reason drained my already paper-thin nerves. This is not about sensibilities. It's a matter of practicalities, More than that; it's life and death. I absolutely will not tolerate her tearing her wound any further than it already is. That is non-negotiable. Doesn't she understand how close she keeps coming to dying? Doesn't she grasp how intolerable that is?
My jaw steels at the reminder of her pitiful whimpers earlier when she'd first tried to stand. It worsens my mood, and my tone becomes more brusque when I talk to her.
I don't mean it. The problem is she keeps scaring me. Which only makes me grumpier.
To distract myself and not think too hard about how disappointed I'll feel when she lapses back into unconsciousness for another day or two, I help Nigel in our Closet. I can keep an eye on her, as I'm behind her. She has the disadvantage given where she's lying. Which is good. She doesn't need to wonder how I've come by four T-shirts, a rope made out of men's neck ties, and eight jeans pant legs.
"She looks better," Nigel tells me, nudging me.
Not surprisingly, I don't feel his ghostly elbow. "Mmm," I say. "We'll see." I've been tricked before by the viciousness of hope. It's a luxury no survivalist can dare afford. Still, though, it rises again in me. Damn it.
"No, I mean it. I think our Six is coming to."
That gets my attention. Sure enough, she's twisting this way and that, as if trying to work out where I am.
I wonder what her first words to me will be? Accusations about why we're here? Or worse, why I never went to get her on the plane?
Shame fills me. I know, all things considered, it was the safest thing to do; to exit when I did. But still. It took me too long to remember her. Too long to wonder.
Too. Long.
Her head turns a little, an abbreviated, prematurely halted movement that I realize indicates she still has an injured neck.
"Miranda?"
I pick up Toby's half-filled cap, step into her line of sight, and offer it to her. "Water?"
"No, thank you." She shakes her head and winces. After licking her lips as though to speak, she hesitates.
Here it comes. I brace myself, nostrils flaring as I take in a deep breath.
"Have you seen anyone yet? Boats or helicopters or…?"
Oh. My eyes dart all around, trying to dredge up some reply filled with diplomacy, a skill that has long fled me after a decade or so as the god in my particular domain. I shoot Nigel a look, but he's gone again. Really. What is the point of conjuring up an ally if he insists on departing any time the going gets tough? "No one," I finally say.
"Have there been any other survivors around?"
"There was one other. However…" Derrick's dead eyes fill my mind and I force out the next words through gritted teeth. "He passed away."
"Derrick."
She remembers him? Well. He was a decent man. He should be remembered. "Derrick," I repeat, feeling hollow. My breathing is getting deeper, harder, as not just his eyes, but Toby's now stare accusingly at me.
Get out of my damned head!
"Miranda," Andrea says in a perfectly pleasant tone. "It's been a whole day. And… and we can't be that far from the crash site at all."
A day? She thinks we've been here a single day? I want to laugh. Or cry. What I wouldn't do for it to have been only that long in our little vacation spot at Camp Tohellandback.
My mouth works but I can't find the words to explain. Will this be when the judgment begins? When she realizes we're not only lost but left for dead? When the finality of what's been happening hits? Will the soft confusion swimming in her eyes turn cold and bleak?
"This fire… this smoke… They have to have seen it. Right? Why haven't they found us yet?" She's twisting to try and get a better look at me.
I angle myself slightly away. It's the coward's choice, but I can't let her see the answers that must surely be plastered all over my face.
Her gaze darts all over me, cataloguing, analyzing. Glancing down at myself, I wonder what she sees. I'm barefoot still, although now used to it, which is fortunate as I've discovered I'm unwilling to wear dead people's footwear. My maroon pants, sturdy though they are, are flecked with dirt and dust from the calf down, with greenish patches at the knees.
The swatch of color at my waist which I was using as a belt is gone. And I still mourn the beautiful fringed scarf Nigel gave me before I left. An up-and-coming designer we agreed I would champion to greatness. Well, those days are gone. Much like the scarf.
Andrea's expression falters as she takes in my Anna Sui blouse. I don't blame her; the apricot-colored garment has been through the wars. There's a pinkish stain near the stomach, from one of the times I tended to Andrea's wound. It never entirely washed out despite multiple attempts. The sleeve is ripped on the left, and the cuff torn from when I fled the plane.
What does she see when she looks at me? A vanquished leader? A woman who lead Andrea off the edge of a cliff? Does she ponder how the mighty have fallen? Even as I say it, I don't believe her first instinct is to jump to bitter, verbal rebuke. Besides, that's more something I'd do. When there's someone to be blamed, you can be very sure I let the whole world know about it.
And on the topic of blame, I can't help but wonder when we're going to get to it. In her own, halting, carefully worded, passive-aggressive style. The waiting is… difficult.
"You, um… We don't have to talk about it. I mean, um, if you don't want to."
God. I should have guessed. Far worse than Andrea's blame is her compassion. My stomach clenches.
"No," I tell her. I definitely don't wish to fill her in on what has transpired. I don't want her to share my nightmares. And even if she didn't, her empathy or pitying stare would be atrocious to endure. It's bad enough she sees me like this. Lessened. Mortal. So very weak.
I drag my gaze over her, forcing myself to meet her eye. I. Will. Not. Be. Pitied. I am still strong. Despite what's happened. Despite Derrick. And the other passengers. A-and... Tob…
Oh hell. Tears prick at my eyes. Damn it. She's still staring at me. Oh. She expects an answer. Of course she does. 'We're here now, the past is the past, get used to it' is likely insufficient, even for me and my famously pared-back conversational style.
Fine. She has to be told something. I purse my lips and order my thoughts. "You deserve to know." Not everything, of course. I'll never tell her that. An edited truth? Yes.
"Miranda?" Her shoulders tense, waiting.
"There was an explosion on the turbine, I believe, because I looked out the lavatory window and the wing was gone. And then we were spiraling out of control. We were off course for an hour before… prior to the crash." There. She's a smart girl. I told her that once, didn't I? She should work out the rest for herself. What an hour off course means in real times. In terms of our…rescue. Or decided lack of one.
I can't take her probing gaze and glance away as I finish. "I wasn't aware of our circumstances in the beginning, when I arrived at the beach. I waited with you for hours, expecting any minute to be rescued. When I realized it was about to become dark, I decided to use the remaining daylight to walk down the beach and search for civilization. Then I discovered Derrick's fire, that he'd started with a lighter."
Briefly she closes her eyes, as though placing some memory. "The flight attendant. He told you what happened."
I nod. She'll understand in a minute. And then, well. I'm not sure how I'll be able to manage the flickering light of hope in those eyes fading out. Andrea has always had such remarkably expressive eyes. Brown, beautiful, sincere, kind.
"But they know we're out here. They can track planes, right? There has to be some kind of GPS or black box or –?"
She prods me for the nuts and bolts of our situation for a few minutes, checking details. But even so, quite mystifyingly the hope remains.
"It's only been a day," she says in exasperation.
Oh. That's why there's hope.
"We can't have been that far off," she continues. "We just have to keep the fire going and… "
I can't bear it any longer. "Andrea, it is Friday night." I give her a loaded look, then bite my lip.
"No, it's Sunday," she shoots back, almost surprised. As if I'd gotten some fundamental detail totally wrong and she knows that's not like me. "We left on Saturday, Miranda."
Now or never. My jaw firms. "I am well aware of when we left, Andrea." With my eyes boring into hers, I'm almost demanding she gets it this time.
Those soft brown eyes widen. Then her face drops. Finally her mouth falls open as panic sweeps her expression. Clanging her mouth shut, she purses her lips. "Oh."
"Yes. Oh." Okay, so that came out a little mocking. But really. As if I'd ever get any fundamental detail wrong. In a way I resent her for making me spell it out to her. The reminder of how bad things are, is like nails shredding at me. That's not what's really eating at me. This is all my fault. And sooner or later, she'll remember it too.
With that in mind, I park my inner bitch, and try to briefly detail the size and shape of the island, and how we are all alone.
Her face falls for the second time in a minute.
"I… oh."
Finally. Thank God for that. A hunger headache that's been plaguing me off and on for much of the day decides to sink it's talons into my head right then.
Edging myself to the ground beside her, I gingerly rub my forehead, praying for the pain to release its grip. I don't look at Andrea, focusing instead on the throbbing. I desperately hope she doesn't want to talk any more. Maybe she can process all this without me. The conversation is making me feel worse by the minute. Now the pain is making me nauseous.
Andrea turns from me and mutters, "I'm going to sleep."
Peering at her, I wonder if she expects a response. A few sarcastic rejoinders rise to my lips along the lines that she's had plenty of experience of that lately. Instead, I control my tongue.
I wonder if she'll wake tomorrow? Or maybe she'll return to the land of subconsciousness? Or worse. A nasty tendril of doubt creeps in. Maybe she'll desert me the way Derrick did. Now she knows there's no hope, maybe she'll simply decide it's not worth it to come back. I'm not worth it.
I can't blame her. I've come to the same conclusion more than once since I've been here.
At that depressing thought, my headache digs in harder. I turn on my side and close my eyes. But instead of sleeping, I spend much of the night listening. For the sound of her breathing.
It doesn't stop once.