My Last Continent: A Novel(75)

There are more wrinkles around his eyes than I remember, or maybe it’s because he’s smiling in a way I’ve never seen before. “No, I didn’t hang up on you. Communications went down.”

“Am I okay?”

“You’ve fractured at least one bone in your ankle and have four stitches in that thick head of yours. But Susan says there’s no evidence anything’s wrong with the baby. Nothing she can see. She’s eager to get you to a hospital, though.”

“I’m glad you two have talked this over. Apparently you’re both assuming it’s yours?”

He laughs, and I squeeze his hand, tightly, despite the pain that shoots up my arm. Now that we’re sitting here together, it all feels more real. “You’re okay with this? You really do want this baby?”

“Don’t you?” he says.

“Yes, of course, but—how do we manage it? Between our work, and coming down here, and—” I’m rambling, thinking aloud.

He puts a finger to my lips. “Later, Deb. There’s plenty of time to figure it all out. Now’s not the time.”

“Why not now?” I ask. “It’s not as if we’re going anywhere.”

I stagger to my feet and limp to the porthole again. Over on the island, a long and narrow hut built by the British Antarctic Survey is serving as a temporary refuge for rescued passengers. I’ve been inside enough times to remember its weathered gray walls, its cold bareness but for a few remnants: the tins of Scotch oats, rusted cans of sardines, shelves of books, long underwear and socks still strung above the stove to dry—and I try to picture this small snapshot of history crowded with twenty-first-century survivors.

As I watch, another Zodiac full of passengers lands on the beach, and the porthole becomes a panorama of Detaille’s past: the ghosts of the British researchers, the skeleton of their shelter, the tracks of nearby Adélies in the snow—and now, this scene from the island’s gruesome new history as a temporary home for survivors.

“What a nightmare,” I murmur, and I feel Keller behind me, his arms gently sheathing my shoulders.

“You need to rest,” he says. “Another cruise ship just arrived, and more boats are on the way. We’ll be heading north soon.”

I ease myself back down on the bed, with Keller’s help, but this time he doesn’t join me. I look up at him. “Aren’t you staying?”

“I’ll be back soon,” he says. “They need extra hands—”

I sit up straight. “Are you kidding? You almost died out there.”

“I’ll be careful. I always am.”

I struggle to stand again, galvanized by fear, by hormones, determined not to let him go.

“Don’t worry,” he says. He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering there, and then he’s turning to leave.

I grab his arm, holding fast through the sting. “No, Keller. Don’t even think about it.”

As I get to my feet, I tighten my grip, fiery pain screaming through my fingers, and when I look down at his ungloved hand, through a blur of sudden tears I see jagged penguin-bite scars in the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

“Come on, Deb,” he says gently. “You would do the same thing.”

“I f*cking did, Keller—I was out there looking for you. I almost died, remember? By some miracle, we both made it—and now you want to go back?”

“Yes, we made it,” he says. “That’s my point. Don’t you think those who are still out there deserve a chance, too?”

I’m still holding tightly on to his wrist. “I won’t let you. Not without me.”

“You can’t even walk.”

“That’s my final offer—stay here, or take me with you.”

He sighs, his whole body pausing, and he leans his forehead against mine. While I don’t relax my grip, I let myself savor this shred of time, the impossible fact that he’s here. I’m barely breathing, not wanting to break the spell, to turn this moment into a memory—we have so few as it is.

He’s still and silent for so long that I think maybe I’ve convinced him. Then I feel his hand on mine, trying to loosen my fingers. I’m losing strength but clamp my hand down as firmly as I can.

He raises our hands. “Your ring held up,” he says.

I look down at my hand, flushed and swelling with frostnip, the ring more snug on my finger than ever.

“It’s tough, like you,” he says. “Like us.”

“Everything has a breaking point.” I turn away from him and look out the porthole. “Don’t you know how lucky you are?” I say, more to my reflection in the glass than to Keller. “You’re not even supposed to be here.”

I hear him behind me, his breathing slow and steady, as if he’s waiting patiently for my permission, which I’m not about to give. I jerk backward as a wave leaps up and slaps the glass.

“Remember Blackborow?” Keller says.

The stowaway on Shackleton’s journey.

“He wasn’t supposed to be there either,” Keller says. “And he worked longer days than anyone.”

“Yeah, and didn’t he lose all his toes to gangrene?”

“But he made it,” Keller says. “They all did—because that’s what it takes. It takes everyone.”