Uncharted(46)

The Tree of Life — that’s what they call coconut palms, here in the South Pacific.

There must be some truth to that claim.

There must be. Please, God. Please.

As gently as possible, I prop up Ian’s damaged leg and turn, calling out for Beck as I run for the closest palm.

“Beck! Wake up! I need your help!”

I need a miracle.



The next two weeks are the hardest of my life.

I spend every waking moment by Ian’s side. I neglect food, ignoring my own bodily needs in favor of his. I barely sleep, afraid to close my eyes for longer than a moment in case he wakes in need of help. Not that there’s much I can do at this point, besides hold his hand and wait for him to… to…

I can’t even say the word in my own head.

Night and day, I lie by his side on the sleeping pallet, in the off chance he wakes. At best, he’s conscious for a few scant moments before falling back under the pressing weight of fever. At worst, he does not wake at all.

Each day, he slips a little farther from us; I fear, soon, he’ll be entirely out of reach.

He doesn’t speak to me, except to murmur feverish nonsense under his breath, the meanings of which I cannot fathom. Sometimes, he calls out for his mother, his father, the girl who broke his heart back in Oklahoma. I hold his hand and assure him they’re here with him, hoping he can’t hear the devastation in my voice. His cracked lips form more incoherent syllables, babbles of a man lost to the world.

Beck stares worriedly at the ever-darkening shadows beneath my eyes and the ever-shrinking margins of my waistline, but I avoid his stare. He brings a constant supply of food and fresh water, stacks our cache of firewood so high there’s no chance I’ll ever have to leave Ian’s side in search of more. We communicate in wordless gestures and loaded glances, hardly speaking aloud at all as the days pass rapidly.

You should eat something.

I’ll eat when he does.

Stubborn girl.

Bossy man.

I change coconut-infused bandages and sponge hot broth down Ian’s throat, until there comes a point he can’t swallow even the smallest beads of moisture without choking. I look up, eyes moving to the edge of our camp where Beck is lashing yet another tree trunk into place. The first section of our log-cabin is nearly complete. Within a month or so, he should be able to construct the remaining sides, until we have a real, actual house with walls and a roof.

It’s impossible to believe Ian won’t be here to see it. And yet…

I’m beginning to doubt he’ll see the other side of tomorrow.

Listening to his labored breaths, I wrap his cold hands within mine and squeeze. There’s fluid in his lungs. Pneumonia, most likely. Each inhale is a struggle, each exhale rattles from his emaciated throat like death itself, whispering in my ear.

Beck appears at my side, somehow sensing I was about to call for him. We’re so attuned to each other at this point, I wonder if he can hear the private thoughts inside my head.

I hope not. I still have few secrets I’d like to keep to myself.

Green eyes find mine. His brows arch. How is he?

I shake my head. Not good.

My heart is so heavy inside my chest I can hardly catch a breath. I turn my head away from Ian, so he won’t see the tears trickling down my cheeks if his eyes crack open. I thought I’d cried every tear left in my body, that eventually the well would run dry, but still more come — an endless waterfall of grief seeping out over hours and days and weeks.

A big hand reaches toward me, as if to brush them away. I freeze. He halts a few centimeters from my cheekbone, catching himself just before his fingertips make contact.

There’s an apology in his eyes.

I turn my gaze out to sea, so I don’t drown in him. It’s stormy today. A rare overcast afternoon. The ocean is riled up with waves. I watch them crashing against the reef break a hundred yards offshore and wonder what we’ll face when hurricane season arrives in the fall. I can’t quite summon the energy to care what happens to us. Whatever we must face, at least we’ll still be here to face it. We’ll still be alive.

The tears flow faster.

On a normal day, with the bright sunshine turning the Pacific into a vast sheet of cerulean, it’s impossible to make out any details on the horizon, with the exception of the occasional heat mirage or optical illusion. But today, under the dim cloud cover, my eyes snag on an incongruous shape. A white block, drifting at the farthest limits of my vision.

“Beck.”

He flinches. It’s the first time I’ve spoken aloud in days and my voice sounds torn to shreds. Clearing my throat, I try again.

“Beck… is that a ship?”

I hardly dare speak the hope aloud, half-afraid just acknowledging it will make the vessel disappear from view. I never shift my eyes from the horizon as I slowly rise to my feet.

“Where?” He’s right by my side, hand lifting to shield his eyes. “I don’t see anything.”

I extend my arm, index finger shaking as I point to the tiny blob. “There.”

“Your eyes must be better than mine,” he murmurs. “I can’t see anything.”

“It’s there.” I jerk my chin stubbornly. “It’s a ship.”

He takes a few strides down the beach, eyes cast outward. I can almost hear the thoughts whirring around inside his head.