Dry, page 5
For him, things move a bit slower. He lies there for a long time, staring blankly up at the bluish-black night sky above them, wondering if there is some mean-hearted god up there, finding this amusing.
And how much such a god must loathe him in order to force him to be brave for others and cling to a hope that is as fragile as a lone thread in a cobweb.
Again.
CHAPTER 9
"Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Mrs. Bray?"
No answer.
The doctor's gaze moves from Michelle's face to Nathan's, but there isn't much to be found there either. He's just as paralyzed as his wife. In fact, it feels as if the doctor's message has pushed Nathan's consciousness out of his body, leaving him to float freely in the air of the small office. Leaving him unable to do anything but stare in bewilderment as the doctor says words his brain can't or won't decode.
Words like scan results, lymph nodes, spread, malignant, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and surgery.
Words like cancer.
"Mrs. Bray?" the doctor repeats, and although it's Michelle the words are directed at, it's Nathan who wakes up with a twitch in his chair.
"I think we need a moment, if it's okay, Doctor?"
The doctor squints his eyes and stares at him hesitantly. Then he nods and gets up.
"Of course. Take a minute. I've also got some papers I need to hand in, so …"
He says something more before walking out the door, but Nathan has stopped listening. His full attention is on Michelle, whose hand—ice-cold and trembling—he now takes in his own.
"We're gonna get through this, babe. I promise."
Michelle nods, but above the two wet lines on her cheeks, her eyes just keep staring blankly into the air.
"And you heard what he said, right? They have gotten really good at treating it with both chemo and … and rays and everything."
"She's only two," Michelle whispers, still not looking at him.
"What was that?"
"Jessie. She's only two. If I die now, she won't remember me at all when she grows up."
"N-now, stop saying stuff like that, Michelle," Nathan says in a voice fragile as glass. "Of course, you're not gonna die. We … it's going to be tough, sure, but we'll make it through. You'll get well again. I promise you."
Michelle pulls her hand away as if she's burned her fingers and looks at him, stares at him, her eyes colder than he's ever seen them. It's as if they have somehow become devoid of life. As if she already—
No! he scolds himself inside his head. Don't you dare finish that thought!
"You and your promises," Michelle hisses out between her clenched teeth. "You don't know anything, Nathan. Anything!"
It would be a lie if Nathan claimed that those words didn't hit him like a fist in the diaphragm. But he understands where her anger is coming from, and he's willing to take both that punch and all the others that will inevitably follow in the time to come. Because that's what a partner does.
Therefore, he doesn't defend himself. He simply takes her hand in his once more and gives it a squeeze.
For a moment, Michelle looks down at his hands with the disapproval you'd expect to find in a schoolteacher who has just found a thumbtack on her chair. Then her tough facade crumbles, and she breaks down in tears.
Nathan puts an arm around her shoulder and leans closer to her. He says nothing because he doesn't have to. He just needs to be there.
Behind them, the door is opened with a faint creak. It's Dr. Pearson, who has returned. He sends Nathan an inquiring look, and when the answer is a small nod, he pushes the door shut behind him and walks over to his office chair.
"I realize that it can be very overwhelming to get a message like this," he says. "But as I said earlier, there's been a lot of progress in cancer research over the past years."
He hesitates for a moment as he leans in over the table and rubs his hands against each other. Then he spreads them to the sides and sits back in his chair.
"Now, don't get me wrong," he says. "I obviously can't give any guarantees."
"N-no, um, obviously."
"But if we start treatment asap, there's a fair chance we can prevent the cancer from spreading further … or at least prolong her life considerably."
Out of the corner of his eye, Nathan sees his wife put her hands up in front of her mouth as she lets out a gasp. His own hands remain on the armrests of the chair, but their knuckles turn white as chalk.
"And, um … what now?" he manages to stutter. "I mean, what's next?"
"The next step is that we make a plan for the treatment. This also includes a detailed outline of the entire process, so you know exactly what's going to happen and when it's going to happen."
"Okay. That's … that's nice."
"Yes, it's easier for the patients that way," the doctor says, nodding in a slow, pensive manner that for some reason really pisses Nathan off. Maybe it's because Dr. Pearson sounds more like a robot reading from a textbook than an actual human being right now. "Furthermore, you will be put in touch with a specialist who will accompany you throughout the process, and we also have psychologists and social workers who can help you with all the practical and emotional challenges."
"Well, that sounds good, doesn't it, babe?" Nathan says, caressing Michelle's shoulder.
She doesn't answer him.
"But even though we will do what we can to make it easier, you should of course expect that your life will be turned upside down in the coming months," the doctor continues. "For instance, you'll need to do the heavy lifting at home, Nathan."
"Yeah, of course. That's no problem."
"As I said, it's perfectly normal to feel overwhelmed and scared. But remember that you have each other. And you have your family and friends. You should never be afraid to ask for help or talk about your feelings. That's important."
The doctor pauses as he rubs his thumb over a large, dark brown knot in the wood under the glossy surface of the desk.
"Do you have any questions?" he then says.
Nathan and Michelle exchange a glance, and again the thought crosses Nathan's mind that her eyes look as if all signs of life have already seeped out of them.
"When does treatment begin?" he asks.
The doctor nods with his lower lip shot forward as if to say, 'excellent question.'
"At least within the next two weeks," the doctor states, with an uneasy grin. "It's a legal requirement. However, my guess would be that Michelle will get a call as early as the beginning of next week."
"So, you'll contact us?"
"Yes, of course. Any other questions?"
"No, I think we just need to get home now. Give it a chance to sink in, you know?"
The doctor nods. Then he reaches out his hand.
Nathan takes it, shakes it, and says thank you.
Michelle doesn't.
DAY 2
CHAPTER 10
When Nathan opens his eyes the next morning, none of the others have woken up. Jessie is still lying with her face pressed against his chest, breathing in long, heavy sighs, while Earl and Meredith lie, each under their own blanket, on the other side of yesterday's fire, now just a depressing pile of gray ash.
The sky is also gray and depressing. Dark clouds everywhere and no sign of the sun or wind to chase them away.
Carefully, as to not wake her up, he lifts Jessie's head slightly so he can pull his arm free, after which he slithers out of the blanket by rolling sideways in a gentle, controlled motion.
Once up in a sitting position, he pauses, partly because his spine feels like it's been twisted a few times around itself, and partly because he spots the shell of a conch half-buried in the sand in front of his foot.
He picks it up, studies it—and is hit by a deep sense of discouragement when a thought strikes him. It comes in the form of a phrase that most parents at one time or another have said to their child, and that he himself has also said to Jessie.
If you hold it up to your ear, you can hear the song of the sea in it.
The song of the sea, waves rolling in on the shore. One of the world's most soothing sounds … and now a thing of the past.
He sighs and throws the conch back into the sand. Then he gets up and starts gathering wood for the fire so they can have a warm breakfast when the others get up.
His first impulse is to gather some fish and fry them, but after thinking it through, he realizes that it's probably best to stick to the shellfish. Sure, they have a Swiss Army knife in the emergency bag that he could use for gutting the fish, but if he intends to wash his hands clean afterward, the only solution is to open a water pouch, and that's off the table.
So, looks like it's crab again this morning.
While Nathan is building a pyramid of small pieces of wood and strips of dried seaweed, Earl wakes up with a jolt. He looks at Nathan, then at the dry, gray landscape, and finally down at the bandage on his leg.
"Good morning," Nathan says.
Earl raises one eyebrow and squints at him as if to say: What's good about it?
"Uh-huh, good morning. Sorry that I'm not thrilled to see you. I might have hoped it was all just a bad dream."
"That makes two of us. How's the leg?"
"Not too good," Earl says, contorting his face as he touches the dressing. "It feels warm. I'm starting to worry that it might be infected."
Nathan nods, biting his lower lip—which prompts Earl to quickly raise his hands and add:
"But don't worry, I can still walk if that's what you're thinking about."
"No, no, it wasn't."
That is an outright lie. That was exactly what went through Nathan's head. Because he has his daughter to think about, and he's eerily aware that their chances of surviving long enough to make it to the islands are close to nonexistent. And if, on top of that, Earl can't even walk …
It's an unpleasant thought, but it's nothing compared to the one that now briefly swims by in his subconscious, like a scaly crocodile beneath a muddy water surface.
The president himself could pick you up in Air Force One right here and now, and it still wouldn't make a difference. No water equals no life. As a marine biologist, you should know that. It's page one of the textbook.
"How's the little astronaut doing?" Earl asks, nodding toward Jessie.
"Pretty good, all things considered. She woke up once last night feeling a little scared, but other than that, she's slept like a log."
"That's a tough gal you've got there. Did you, um … I mean, are you alone with her?"
"Yeah, I raised her myself. We lost her mother when Jessie was four. Cancer. Since then, it's just been me and her."
"Fucking shitty disease."
"Oh, yeah," Nathan says bitterly, after which he checks the fire and starts placing their breakfast on the round stone in the middle. "We can start waking up the others, I think."
"I'm awake," Jessie mumbles, but it seems to be only partly true. Her voice is slurred, her eyes are still closed, and instead of sitting up, she curls up in a fetal position under the blanket.
Meredith, on the other hand, sits up immediately when Earl gently places a hand on her shoulder and asks if she's awake. And like him, she starts the new day by looking around perplexed, only to let out a heavy sigh once the pieces fall into place.
"Yeah, sorry," Nathan says. "We're still here."
Meredith makes a labored swallowing motion and nods. She looks like she's struggling to hold back tears.
Nathan opens his mouth to say a few words of encouragement to her, but when none comes to him, he closes it again and turns to Earl instead.
"Would you mind taking the chef's position for a sec?"
Earl nods and scooches closer to the fire. In the meantime, Nathan walks over to Jessie and strokes her hair.
"Are you coming, sweetie? Breakfast is just about ready."
"I don't want crabs again," Jessie mutters, pulling the blanket up in front of her face. "I want to go home, and I want cornflakes."
"But what about the mission? We haven't found out if there are sea turtles on Oceania yet."
"Oceanus," Jessie corrects.
"Oh yeah, sorry. My bad. But won't you please get up? I don't know if I can handle the mission alone."
He leans down to her, lowering his voice to a whisper, and adds:
"Especially if I have to keep an eye on Earl and Meredith as well. They're like two unruly toddlers, those two."
"Hey, I heard that," says Meredith, who—to Nathan's relief—seems to have regained control of her emotions.
"What do you say, Astronaut Bray? Don't you want to help me find a sea turtle? Wasn't that the whole reason you went on the trip in the first place?"
Slowly, the silvery aluminum blanket slides downward, revealing Jessie's beautiful, freckled face, whose expression gradually moves from one of hesitant skepticism to one of excitement and anticipation.
And there, at that very moment, it's clear to Nathan. Whatever happens, his daughter is gonna get to see a sea turtle in the wild. No matter the cost.
CHAPTER 11
When the hour hand on his wristwatch jumps to the number three half a day later, Nathan has just completed a depressing calculation in his head.
If a person is in good health, has energy, and a full stomach, he or she will be able to walk approximately fifteen miles in one day on level terrain. He believes he has read that somewhere. And on average, a human being will only be able to survive for three to ten days without water. He believes he has read that too.
His memory could be betraying him, of course. The problem is that he can add a margin of error of about fifty percent on both factors, and it still leads to the same result: They're screwed.
Why? They were about sixty miles from shore when the ship went down. The terrain is anything but level. They covered a maximum of three miles yesterday. They have an injured man, a child, and an old lady in the group.
Not to mention that they, despite fairly strict rationing, have already emptied four of the twelve water pouches that were in the emergency bag.
Big-time screwed.
Aware that he has to get off that train of thought if it isn't to drive him mad, Nathan slows his pace, so he ends up walking next to Meredith, who is studying a cluster of dried red algae.
"Why were you even on that ship? I have been meaning to ask you. Because you weren't part of the crew, were you?"
"No, I wasn't. I … well, I guess you could say I was on vacation."
"On a cargo ship?"
Meredith shrugs and smiles.
"It was my friend who arranged it. She knows … no, she knew Captain Matthews, and she knew I'd like to experience life on board a ship."
She pauses, staring thoughtfully into the air. Then she shakes her head.
"Actually, it was a very old dream. My old man was a sailor, you see, and he passed away when I was quite young. I think that's why I've always been attracted to the idea of sailing. I guess I figured that it would bring me closer to him. But sailing on a real ship, you know? Not one of those holiday cruisers."
"And why only now?" Nathan asks. "If it was such an old dream, I mean."
"Well, good question. The course of life is probably the short answer. In my youth, I never got around to it, and when I found me a husband who suffered from both fear of flying and fear of water, well … I kind of shelved the idea. But after I lost George last year, it started popping up in the back of my mind again. Then one day I happened to mention it to my friend. And yeah, the rest is history, as they say."
She squints her eyes as if rewinding her story in her head to check that everything was correct. Then she nods and lets her gaze wander over the barren and desolate plain they are on right now. A plain strewn with dead sea creatures and parched plants.
"Had I known that I would end up here, that dream might have stayed on the shelf. But oh well, I've lived long enough to know that it's a waste of time to worry about things that you don't have the power to change anyway."
This last sentence leaves Nathan speechless. For it's one thing to throw out an expression like that. They do, after all, come in countless variations. But to deliver it in such a calm and serene voice when caught in the middle of this hell … that's no small thing.
And he finds that he buys it. He truly believes that the little, gray-haired lady walking beside him—slightly hunched and with her coat tied around her waist because the temperature has risen during the day—actually means every word. And accepts them.
Part of him wishes he could do the same. Another part of him—a larger part—prays that he will never get to that point.
Instinctively, his gaze slides over to Jessie. She is walking alongside Earl a little farther behind. It looks like she's showing him something. Maybe a pretty stone or a seashell.
"What's the situation in the rearguard? Can you keep up?"
"I wouldn't complain about a break and a sip of water," Earl replies. "The yellow fireball up there is brutal today."
Nathan raises his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes as he squints up at the sun. It has come out now, yes, and the temperature is higher than it was this morning. Still, calling the sun brutal today is a stretch. Moreover, Nathan strongly suspects that it's not the sun that bears the primary responsibility for the ship mechanic sweating like a horse. A more likely explanation is that the wound under the bandage on his lower leg has become inflamed and that his body, in an attempt to fight the infection, has entered into a state of fever.
"We can take a rest once we get over the hill, so we don't have to start out with crossing that right after," Nathan says, pointing. "Does that sound fair?"
Earl frowns but nevertheless answers with a raised thumb.
In the end, they don't make it all the way across the rocky hill before they stop. Because upon reaching the top, they get a view of the landscape on the other side. The next stretch of their journey. And the next obstacle.
"Someone up there really hates us," Earl groans.
