Be Not Far from Me(12)
No mattress had ever been as comfortable as that snow, and I had never been as tired in my life as I had been in that moment. I’ve heard that drowning people hear singing, and then have a moment of calm before the end. I don’t know if it’s the same for everyone that’s almost frozen, but I saw cans of tomato soup.
Meredith laughed when I told her that, but Kavita got quiet and looked at me hard.
“Why did you see soup?” she asked, her intensity drawing Meredith’s attention away from trying out new braids in her hair.
“I don’t know.” I had shrugged, body still sore from the experience. “I guess maybe I knew I wasn’t going to make it, and my brain wanted to give me a good thought, let me think of something warm to make me feel better as I went out.”
Tomato soup was the best it could come up with, one nice memory I still have of my momma before she split. She wasn’t much of a cook, but you really can’t screw up tomato soup. So that was a winter-weather meal at our house, complete with grilled cheese that Dad usually did because Momma’s tended to be burned.
Dad spotted me lying in the side yard, seeing lines of soup cans that weren’t there. He hauled my ass inside and put me in front of the kerosene heater until I unfolded my limbs, each one of them still shaky and weak. We couldn’t really afford the copay on our insurance unless one of us was bleeding out, so he just did what made the most sense to him for someone with hypothermia—kept me warm and fed me chicken broth. I slept forever once I found the couch, maybe could have even faded on out if Dad hadn’t kept waking me up to ask me if I was alive.
I was alive then. I’m alive now.
So I know I’m not freezing out here under this tree, because I sure as hell haven’t seen any tomato soup, and if I did, you can be damn sure I’d have eaten it already.
I’m not starving either, that’s the other thing. I’m hungry, which means I’m fine. I’ve gone a day or two without food in my life, always playing up like I’m on a diet or something when I show up to lunch without anything to eat. Meredith would make a joke, say she’s getting chubby anyway and slip me half her sandwich. I’d try not to eat it in three bites, really focus on not tearing into bologna and cheese like it was the best thing that ever happened to me.
But sometimes it would be because Dad wasn’t getting any overtime.
Meredith might be dumb, but she’s not stupid—there’s a difference. She was always watching, and if I went a couple of days on one of my so-called diets she’d have me over for the weekend and order in everything, from pizza to Chinese to the one questionable Thai place that’s totally run by a white guy.
“So I’m not starving,” I say aloud, breaking up the memory of Meredith and piles of food. Because while I’m grateful to her and always will be, thinking of that food and not having it in front of me hurts.
No, I’m not freezing and I’m not starving, and I know both these things are true because I’m in pain.
When you can’t feel anything is when you need to worry.
My foot doesn’t look any better in sunlight.
The day snuck up slow, and I watched it come, along with a momma raccoon leading her babies back to their den, the smallest one stopping to pick up things with its little hands. It turned over a few sticks just to see what was under them, then its momma came back for it, rounded it up with the brothers and sisters, and the little family filed out of my sight.
Those things are so cute you’ve got to remind yourself that they’re actually nasty little bastards that’ll tear kittens into pieces while they’re still alive just to get to the tasty bits. It’s a good reminder that my own tasty bits are hanging out of my foot, so I crawl out from under the spruce once daylight is full-on.
My foot is wrinkly from having a wet sleeve wrapped around it all night, the skin pulling back from the wound even further. I have to tug on the sleeve harder to take it off than I did to put it on, so I must be swelling. Everything looks clean, but I know by the time I can see an infection, it’ll already be too late.
The sun gets high enough that I can feel warmth from its rays, so I strip down, taking everything off. I throw my clothes over branches and let the breeze do the rest while I sit, hunched and naked on a downed tree.
My skin is mottled, red and white, the sun not doing enough against the chill of the wind. I look like marble, blood and flesh instead of rock and mineral, and I wonder if anyone were to come along if I’d yell for help or ask them to admire me for a minute first.
It’s funny, and I laugh again, wondering if this is part of the process of losing it, which is something I don’t get to do.
I don’t get to, because I thought about my situation while I lay in the moonlight under the tree and realized not only did I get left behind but also no one’s coming to look for me either.
Dad’s pulling a double shift and then crashing at a buddy’s, probably pulling in more pay if he can, and headed right back to the factory after grabbing a few hours of sleep. I can assume my friends thought I headed for home, and somebody picked up my pack for me, my phone buried deep underneath layers of clean underwear and more than likely dead by now.
Whoever took my stuff might drive it over to the house and leave it there for me, not thinking anything of the fact that I’m not home. If Dad’s there—and awake—there might be a conversation where two and two gets put together, but I can’t count on that. To be honest, Duke’s probably the one who would’ve thought to grab my gear, and I doubt he’s in any hurry to come face-to-face with me or anyone I’m vaguely related to any time soon.