Protecting the Flame Page 11

  So, if I had to, I might make it…if I knew where I was going, if I tried hard enough. And to hell with his stories of experienced hikers caught in snow. She was already in the shit. They all were. “We can’t wait too long, Will. We’ll never be stronger or in better shape than we are right now. Waiting means we only break down more.”

  “As anxious as you are to be moving and doing, and believe me, I understand that, I’m saying that if we do decide to leave, we need to pick the right time. We shouldn’t leave too soon, but we don’t want to wait so long that we’re boiling bark to stay alive either.”

  Or eating each other. She pushed the morbid thought aside. “Well, we’re not there yet. We may not get there at all.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ear.” He paused, and she sensed he was thinking about the menorah, how she’d not said the blessings or even admitted there were any to say. Or that could be her guilt talking but, seriously, no matter what Mattie said, miracles were in kinda short supply. Finally, he said, “Okay, we’ve had enough doom and gloom for one night, don’t you think?” She was about to agree when he went on. “Before we settle down, I want to do a quick exam, make sure you’re okay. Good time for it, now that Mattie’s asleep. Just because you keep saying you’re fine doesn’t mean you are. Trauma’s funny that way. You can have a splenic or liver tear and not know it until you’ve bled enough into your abdomen where you’re in more pain than you can possibly imagine.”

  She thought back to that tiny pink smear on her panties. “But blood is an irritant. If I was bleeding into my belly, I’d be pretty sick already.” She remembered this from basic. “Besides, I don’t have stomach pain. My ribs hurt, that’s all. They might be cracked, but there’s nothing you can do about that either, right?”

  “No, not really. You get a pneumo because one of your ribs makes shish-kabob out of your lung, that I can treat. Is there a reason you don’t want me to examine you?”

  She lied for the second time in as many minutes. “No. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Is it a diversionary tactic?”

  “Yes.”

  He let out a low laugh. “At least you’re honest about it. Shoot. I’ve got nothing but time.”

  “How come you switched from oncology to wilderness medicine?”

  “I told you,” he said, easily. “I got tired of death.”

  “But why? You must’ve known going into it from the beginning that you’d see a lot of death.”

  “I did.” He was silent so long she was about to ask more when he said, “I started out in the military, too, as a matter of fact.”

  “You’re kidding. Which branch?”

  “Air Force. I know, small world. I was a flight surgeon for a while because what I wanted to be an astronaut. Actually, I really wanted to hang out with Captain Kirk or Jean Luc-Picard, but I was about two centuries too early, so…you take what you can get.”

  “No way.” She laughed, though it was cut short by a needle of pain. “I wanted to be Luke Skywalker, and that wasn’t happening, plus I needed college first, so…” She concentrated on taking a breath that didn’t hurt. “I went in because I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “That was my dad’s story. He was originally Air Force, mostly so he could go to school. Once he took his first college biology class, I think it was all over. I guess the military wanted scientists back then for the space program, so they footed the bill for grad school, too. Eventually, he switched over to the Public Health Service. Worked out at Fort Detrick on stuff he never could tell me about because it was all top secret bioweapons stuff. He’s retired now, but if you google him, you’ll find my dad on a couple conspiracy websites. Anyone in your family military?”

  She shook her head. “Media studies professor and English teacher. Total pacifists. I think they were appalled, actually. They wanted me to go straight to college, but I wasn’t ready yet, I guess. I didn’t see the point of going into debt without a direction. I think they were relieved I chose the Air Force, though.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Because I looked a lot better in navy blue than khaki.”

  He let out a short bark of laughter he quickly smothered. “Where were you stationed?”

  “I was detailed to D.C. as a photojournalist, but they send you all over.” It struck her that she hadn’t checked out her camera or lenses at all. Well, she had been a little busy surviving a crash. Besides, other than a few glimpses of the terrain below snatched between clouds, there really hadn’t been much to take a picture of. Even if the clouds hadn’t been so thick, the best terrain for aerial photography was south in the Dakota Badlands. She’d taken, maybe, five or six pictures, max, before they crashed. “What about you?”

  “Besides wanting to be in the astronaut corps? Money. College was bad. Medical school was obscene. There was no way I’d afford it without help, so I joined up. The Air Force put me through and then I became a flight surgeon for a while. Went all over with my guys. Everything they did, I did, too. It was a good experience. I might even have stayed in.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I got married. We wanted kids. Remote assignments aren’t exactly conducive to a stable life, and a flight surgeon…well, you go where your flight goes. Don’t get me wrong. I really loved it. By and large, pilots are a healthy bunch. If I did my job, I kept them that way.”

  “So, why leave if you liked it so much?”

  “Becca. My wife. Some people are good at managing the separation, the long tours, the unexpected calls when your flight’s ordered somewhere you can’t tell your spouse about. Becca wasn’t good that way, and she…like I said, we wanted kids. So, I got out and did a fellowship in oncology. Don’t ask me why. It was a weird choice for someone like me. All that death. Yes, there are cures, and you do the best you can, but there were a lot of days when I realized my job was also to help people die.”

  “How many kids do you have?”

  “None.” Before she could respond, he clicked on a penlight. “Okay, enough chitchat. Come on, let me take a look, and no more deflecting. It’s a good time now, anyway, with Mattie asleep. Nyuh-uh.” He shook his head when she started to roll up her shirt. “All the way off.”

  Crap. “Why? I’m cold.”

  “You’ll be warm a lot faster if you stop arguing and do what I ask. Come on, shirt off.”

  “Can I leave my bra on?”

  “No, but it doesn’t have to come off right this second.”

  Damn. Shrugging out of her shirt and then her tighter-fitting thermal was harder and more painful than she’d thought it would be, but she worked at keeping that off her face.

  “Okay, that’s good,” he said, screwing his stethoscope into his ears with his left hand. “Stay sitting for right now.” She kept her eyes averted as he listened to her heart and lungs and then stiffened when he took her left arm and began to walk his fingers down its length. “Any discomfort?”

  “No.” But she felt when he came to the scars midway up her forearm and over her wrist. Her scars weren’t sensitive. The ER guy said she’d trashed a couple cutaneous nerves and would probably always have a few dead spots. But she could feel his surprise and then the questions in his fingers, as if he were parsing something drawn in an unknown language. The scars on her right forearm were fewer and not as deep because she was right-handed, and by the time she’d gotten to her left wrist, her hand was slick with blood, and it was hard to hang on to the razor. The ER guy said that was lucky because she’d clearly meant business, cutting up and down over the arteries instead of sawing straight across the way most people did. Amateurs, he’d said.

  She waited for a question or a remark, but Will only scooted around to her back. “Let’s have a listen.” After a few moments with his stethoscope, he said, “You’re going to feel my hand now.” He began walking the fingers of his left hand along her ribs, first the right and then left. “Tell me when…okaaay,” he said as she grunted and cringed away from his touch. “I guess t
hat hurts.”

  “Well, yeah, when you bother it.”

  “Uh-huh. How did it feel when you were on your back?”

  “Not great.”

  “Is it better when you lie on your right side?”

  “Yes, although I noticed I can’t take a really deep breath either and…ouch.” She flinched away again. “Go easy, would you?”

  “Sorry.” He was still behind her. Finally, he sucked in air between his teeth, exhaled, and said, “Listen, you’ve got some pretty impressive bruising here. It’s not only your left chest in front but the shoulder, too, and along your back. No wonder your bra is killing you.”

  “I was going to lose the bra when I was building the barricade, but then—” She pulled up abruptly, the words but then I thought I heard a scream jamming up behind the gate of her teeth. “There hasn’t been the right time.”

  “You might be more comfortable out of it.” And then he added, more gently, “I also need to get a better look. I would do it for you, but I’ve only got the one hand.”

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll get it.” Her muscles screamed as she reached around to work her bra’s hooks. Sliding down the straps, she shot a look down at her chest and felt her mouth drop. From the top of her breast down to the angle of her rib cage was one large purple-black bruise. “Wow. I didn’t realize it was so bad.”

  “Yup.” Still behind her, he feathered his fingers over her ribs. “Might be nothing more than soft tissue, but…sorry, sorry,” he said as she flinched. “You’ve got a great big hematoma here, too.” He touched an area farther down, right below her left ribcage, and then abruptly gave it a thump with his fist. “Does that hurt?”

  “Yes.” She shifted forward, blinking back sudden tears. Jesus. “Why did you do that?”

  “Trying to figure out if you’ve got an injury to your kidney. Any blood in your urine?”

  She remembered that pink smear. “Why?”

  “Well, it’s your left flank and where your kidney rests, and you near about jumped out of your skin, that’s why. The kidney is actually retroperitoneal…nestled outside your abdominal cavity and along your spine. A blow or even a well-aimed kick can sometimes bruise or even fracture it. I honestly think you’d be in a lot more pain if the latter were the case, though, but that, in addition to your ribs, probably explains why you can’t get comfortable on your back. Listen, I know this sucks, but I do need you flat. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. Give me a sec.” After she slowly worked her way onto her back, she kept an arm draped over her breasts as he gently probed and prodded. “Well?”

  “Like I said, we might not know anything about rib fractures unless you drop a lung. You’ve done a lot of heavy lifting already, though, so you’ll probably be okay if you take it easy from here on out.”

  “Says the guy with one functional arm,” She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s an option.”

  “Truth, that.” Fitting in the earpieces of his stethoscope again, he said, “I’m going to take a quick listen to your belly. You haven’t been sick, so you’re probably fine but…”

  “Yeah, yeah, better safe than sorry.” She studied him as he closed his eyes and bowed his head to listen. “Well?”

  “Some squirts, some growls.” Then he smiled and opened his eyes. “Noisy in there.”

  She was starving. “That’s a good sign, right?”

  “Better than silence.” He breathed in his left hand and then placed his palm on her stomach. “Going to palpate here, see if there are any areas of tenderness.”

  “Okay.” She kept a careful eye on his expression as he pressed and prodded from the bottom of her ribs to her pelvis and hips. She caught something as he felt around her navel: a slight but sudden cock of his head which was what a person did when surprised. “Is there a problem?”

  He answered her question with another gentle prod, his hand cupping the slight swell of her belly. “Any pain?”

  “No.”

  His face was in shadow. If suspicion or sudden knowledge or even curiosity played on his features, she couldn’t have said, although she felt the questions forming in his mind from information her body might have yielded without her even knowing. He was silent for another beat and then took his hand away.

  “Well, then,” he said, drawing the sleeping bag over her belly, “I guess no news is good news.”

  Chapter 11

  Which was not true.

  Their golden time window passed, the snow kept on, and Rachel didn’t wake. The next day, Will insisted they all wash and brush their teeth; they had toiletries and plenty of warm water. It was, he said, the little things that would help boost their morale, and they’d feel better. Emma had her doubts, but after dashing out with the excuse of having to pee but really because she needed a few minutes’ peace to puke, brushing her teeth seemed awfully attractive.

  While Will shaved, an operation Mattie watched with interest, Emma took care of Rachel. While she was drying Rachel’s face with one of Will’s camp towels, Mattie came up with a small toiletry bag in hand. “She likes to put on a little lipstick,” she said.

  “Sure.” Emma backed up. “Why don’t you do it?” She watched as the girl carefully applied the color, a soft muted russet, to her mother’s lips. “That’s a nice color.”

  “It’s my mom’s favorite.”

  “I bet it would look nice on you, too.”

  “Me?” Mattie scrunched up her nose. “It would be weird.”

  “It might also be fun.” Reaching for her pack, Emma rooted around and came up with a small travel toiletry case. “Or we could use mine. It’s mauve, which is kind of soft purple.”

  “I know what mauve is.” Popping the top, Mattie twisted the stick and inspected the tip for a long time. “It’s pretty.”

  “Thanks. I think it’s best for girls like us with dark hair. Go on, give it a whirl,” she said, opening a small compact of powdered blush and turned it so Mattie could see herself in the mirror. “I promise, I only have a couple cooties.”

  “Cooties are for kids,” Mattie muttered. She worked the lipstick with all the concentration of a brain surgeon. “There. What do you think?”

  Emma cocked her head. “I think mauve is your color. How about a little blush with that?”

  “Like our cheeks aren’t going to be red enough?” But Mattie let Emma feather a muted taupe blush along her cheekbones. Peering into a mirror, she said, “Not bad.”

  “Are we missing something?” Emma came up with another compact. “Eye shadow?”

  “Maybe. Do you really wear all this stuff, like, every day?”

  She shook her head. “Only if I’m going to interview someone. The rest of the time, a little lipstick, a little blush, I’m good.”

  “Then I think we’re good right now,” Mattie said.

  “I think you both look terrific.” Will grinned from the front. “And now if you are done preening, probably time we get to work.”

  They worked all day. Emma and Mattie built a lean-to with Visqueen and stout branches then gathered wood for the fire they couldn’t start because of the thick snow while Will stayed by the fuselage and kept shouting so they had a point of reference and couldn’t wander off. They kept the tail and ELT antenna clear—and the second day passed, with no helicopters, no rescue teams, no miracles.

  By the third day, the snow was getting deep enough to cover up the shelter’s opening, so they carved a tunnel to the surface the way the Inuit do. The rest of the time, they huddled together, melted snow in the Jetboil and with their body heat, and tried to stay warm. They still washed, and Emma and Mattie put on makeup (Mattie even allowed for shadow), but that day, they ate almost nothing at all. Will had a deck of cards, and they played a lot of gin rummy. Mattie started a journal in a composition book she’d brought along. They read every scrap of the Minot Daily News and The New York Times, even the obits and ads, and pored over the crossword puzzle (thankfully the tougher Saturday offering) and the word scrambles and sudoku and
even the bridge hints with the intensity of archaeologists studying hieroglyphs. They took turns reading Mattie’s book on quantum realities. Will and Mattie started The Waste Land, rationing stanzas, trying to make the poem last, though Emma couldn’t bring herself to read it. For starters, she knew the thing better than her own name. For another, a poem about limbo suddenly felt too damn real. In a way, they also were in the same pickle as the cat in Schrödinger’s box: gone and yet not-gone, dead and alive at the same time. To the world beyond their box, they would stay that way, too, until someone—a helicopter, a drone, a rescue team—crawled through that tunnel, looked inside their box, and collapsed probabilities.

  They lit a new Hanukkah candle every night. They all said “yehi ’or,” but that was it. She wasn’t feeling it. Like, surviving the crash only to slowly die of starvation or maybe freeze to death if they tried to walk out? Some miracle. On the other hand, when people did find them, she and Mattie would look good.

  By the evening of the third day, when still no helicopters had descended and no rescuers braved the mountain and the deadening snow was unrelenting, Emma decided Will, who was right about so much, was wrong about one thing at least.

  No news was bad.

  AFTER THE STORM

  Chapter 1

  “Emma.”

  She came awake but slowly, her awareness swimming up from a deep, dreamless well of unconsciousness, as if attached to a ball and chain and as likely to sink again as break the surface.