Love Her Madly (17 page)

I choked back a sob, and then bit my tongue hard, trying to snap out of it.

I had two options: find Cyn myself or get off the island and get help. Either way, I'd have to cross through the jungle.

I followed the footsteps up toward the path. The palm leaves were crashing together in the wind, practically waving me away. I lost my footing in the loose sand that led up to the path, landing on all fours, and as I slid, I was certain I glimpsed a beam of light cutting down the trail.

I scrambled sideways, into the meager cover of the scrub palms. I embraced the spiny fronds like a lover, trying to blend into the darkness. Something stung my wrist, and I inadvertently rose and stumbled sideways, toward the trees. Momentum carried me to the cusp of the jungle, but a crunching sound from close by—footsteps—spurred me deeper.

A few feet into the trees, everything went pitch-black, but I didn't dare use the flashlight and risk giving myself away. Barbed ferns ripped into my flesh, a sharp reminder of why Cyn and I had abandoned the jungle for the water, and the frayed ends of my wet cutoffs quickly became entangled on burred branches. I shredded my fingers trying to free myself, but the tough denim fibers wouldn't give, leaving me anchored where I stood. I heard a crashing sound coming from where I had entered, and I grabbed the branch that held me captive and ripped it off near the trunk. With the bramble still dangling at my side, I took a few frantic steps only to realize that I had gotten turned around during my struggle with the plant. I wasn't sure which direction I had come from, or which way I ought to flee. Fighting panic, I attempted to shuffle in the direction I judged to be uphill, dragging the branch with me as I climbed. A limb snapped behind me, and I impulsively ditched the shorts and the branch in one easy step.

Down to my wet bikini bottom, I moved more carefully. The horror of my situation was threatening to shut me down completely. The dark jungle was more terrifying than any night
mare I'd ever suffered. I knew every step in the darkness risked disturbing deadly, poisonous creatures, and a million other torments. Branches carved deep gashes into me, and I sensed that my skin was crawling with insects. The jungle pulsed with the clamor of wholly unwelcoming species. The noise would periodically quiet, only to rise again in a deafening roar of clattering wings and feverishly twitching membranes. I cowered and covered my ears, waiting for it to pass, trying to think of anything but where I was, trying not to feel my skin where it tickled from god knows what touch, or the burn of the ants that were savaging my feet, or otherwise register any sensory information about my increasing collection of wounds.

In the jungle, I forgot about Cyn and I forgot about the men. If one had suddenly popped out in front of me, I think I would have welcomed the distraction. My fear receptors were saturated beyond capacity. On the brink of losing it, I forced myself to take step after step, graced by the sudden fantasy that I was moving through snow; a photonegative snow world, where black was white and hot was cold. I forced myself to believe in the snow. I told myself that the snow was deep, which was why walking was so difficult, but it was pure and white and there was nothing in it that could harm me. The pain didn't go away, but after a while, pain is just the same message over and over. I could ignore it. My imagination, on the other hand, could undo me. Call it a feat of concentration or a holy hallucination, but for a few crucial moments, there was only me and deep, soft snow.

My polar survival fantasy kept me lifting left after right, and I eventually arrived at the base of a small plateau. I grabbed roots and vines and climbed. As I pulled myself up to the top, the collected jungle chorus was rising into another frenzy of deafening vibration. I fell into a squat and covered my ears, clenching my eyes shut. I reminded myself that I was on a small iceberg, and that if I snowshoed far enough, I would reach the
water and I could take an icy plunge, erasing everything. When I eased my hands off my ears, the jungle was quieter. I opened my eyes and saw that I was kneeling on the edge of what might have been a trail. I crawled onto it and brushed myself off frantically, head to toe, in a fitful spasm. I still felt things crawling on me, but not being as closely surrounded by a crush of hostile life was a monumental improvement.

I edged along the trail, moving quickly but still freezing at every sound like a hunted doe. The trail seemed to twist on forever. I startled at shadows and at the ground, which now that I could see it illuminated by patches of moonlight, appeared to be slithering. The path grew sandier, and I prayed that I wouldn't find myself back at the sunset cove. Up ahead, moonlight poured onto the path, I rushed toward it. Nothing can compare to how beautiful the shimmering water looked to my eyes at that moment. I advanced onto the beach and saw a depression in the sand where a boat had recently rested. Jorge had left us. Maybe they all had left us.

I stared across at the twinkling lights on the mainland. The jungle swayed ominously behind me. The island was so small. If the men were looking for me, they would find me on the beach. It was only a matter of time.

I wanted very badly to scream, but there were many reasons not to. Instead, I tried to access my brain—at that point, a very dicey proposition. I was fairly sure that tides changed every twelve hours, and it'd been sunset when we'd crossed. I didn't have the foggiest idea what time it was. The sky was inky black in all directions, no hint of sunrise. I couldn't fathom idly waiting for the tides to change while Cyn needed my help, and I couldn't for a second stomach the idea of hiding in the jungle, waiting to see if the men would hunt me down.

That left only one option.

I ripped open the Velcro on my sandals and kicked them off.
It had taken about twenty minutes to walk across the channel. It couldn't be that far, even if I would be coming from a slightly different point on the island. I'd also have the waves to help carry me in toward the end.

I began to do a few basic stretches, trying not to think about rip currents, or jellyfish, or sharks. At the thought of the latter, I felt my resolve weaken. I had greedily consumed countless shark documentaries in my short life, never thinking that they would come back to haunt me at my darkest hour. I took a deep breath and tied my hair into a fat knot behind my neck as I waded out into the water, the salt igniting my lacerations.

Then I began to swim.

At the start of my crossing, the wind had stilled and the ocean was calm. I employed my basic crawl, a stroke as second nature to me as walking. I would count off fifty strokes and stop to check my orientation. There was a bright orange light on the shore that I made my beacon. Any thoughts that rushed to my head of sharks, or disappearing brothers, or missing friends were quashed. My job was only to count strokes and keep breathing; habit took care of the rest.

After my sixth cycle of fifty, I began to worry. The land wasn't getting any closer and the wind had picked up. Waves began to slap my face when I tried to breathe. Each time, I'd have to stop and tread water for a few moments, giving my imagination the opportunity to conjure up some choice
Jaws
scenarios. Dorsal fins phantomed in and out of my peripheral vision, scaring me back into motion. Eight more sets of fifty and I caught my second wind, but I still didn't seem any closer to shore. The thought that I might be trapped in a current that could whip me around the island and out into the Pacific, never to be seen again, shot me full of fresh terror. Using the extra burst of adrenaline that came when I pictured my skeleton picked bare by barracudas, I kicked into a sprint. I stopped counting after one
hundred strokes. Waves were slapping me, my hair was wrapped around my neck, and to my horror, one of my feet began to tingle with an incipient cramp. I rolled onto my back and floated, trying to relax and rest my foot. Floating, I saw the moon and the shadowy eye sockets of the goddamn man in it, very small and very far away. I bobbed on the choppy waves, newly conscious of my exhaustion. I could hardly feel my shoulders, and my upper arms felt like logs. As I flipped over to continue the swim, I noticed that one corner of the sky had begun to blush ever so slightly. No night is ever truly endless.

Either the muscle in my foot relaxed or I got used to the pain. I kept pushing forward, and before long, land was not looking so impossibly distant. My knee hit a sandbar, and I collapsed there, gasping for my breath. The shore directly before me was undeveloped, rocky headland backed by jungle. My orange light was far off to the right, illuminating a stretch of empty beach. Further along, almost beyond the reach of the light, I could make out the faint outline of boat hulls on the sand. Hopefully, that meant people were sleeping not far away. I got to my feet on the sandbar. The water was shallow enough that it was easier to wade along it than swim, and I dragged my exhausted body toward the light. As if in answer to my wishes, I saw a cluster of electric lanterns appear on the beach: fishermen, heading out for the morning catch.

I began shouting for help as I sloshed toward them along the sandbar. The fishermen swiveled in confusion, not understanding where the sound was coming from. When they finally spotted me beyond the surf, they began to call out. I was so wrecked and so full of relief, that I can't be certain what I was shouting. I'm sure it included the words
“police,” “boat,” and “help
.
”

A few fishermen rushed into the water, and I flung myself off the sandbar and began swimming for the shore. Two men helped carry me onto the sand.

In my confused state, what I wanted was for them to take me right back over to the island in their boat, and to help me find Cyn. The fishermen gathered around me on the sand as I raved and pointed. Examining their shadow-lined faces in the darkness, I wasn't sure if they understood anything at all. I kept repeating “
¿Comprenden
?
” over and over until one of them lifted me and carried me up to a beach shack where there was an electric light and a phone.

They took a look at me in the light, with my cuts and bruises and undoubtedly wild look. I saw one of them cross himself. Someone forced a bottle of water to my lips and told me to be calm. I emptied the bottle and in an instant, felt a million times stronger. I sat up from the couch where they'd placed me and began re-pleading my case. As they stared at me in wonder, I explained that my friend had been taken by strange men,
dangerous
men, and that it was up to me to save her. I pointed at the phone and told them to call the police.

With all of that out, I closed my mouth and lay back in exhaustion, waiting for my wishes to be put into action. Instead, to my horror, everyone in the room began to argue at once. No one made so much as a move toward the phone. Instead of waiting for a consensus to be reached, I resolved to make the call myself. I stood up and headed for the phone. The room went spinny, and streaks of red and black raced across my vision. Lost in their debate, my rescuers didn't notice I had moved. I saw my finger graze the handset of the wall phone, then everything went dark.

When I came to, it was daybreak and the rain was pouring down. I was in the back of a covered pickup truck. A young woman was sitting on a bench near my head. Two men and another woman with a baby also gradually came into focus. They
weren't speaking, and they looked tense. The car hit a bump and I felt a wave of nausea. I closed my eyes.

Cyn was there in the cab with me. I hadn't turned my head, and I hadn't seen her, but I knew she was lying there beside me. I could smell her. If I wiggled my fingers, I was certain to touch her arm, but I was too tired. They must have rescued her, or maybe she swam away, too. I wanted to tell her that I couldn't wait to hear what her story was, that I was so glad she was safe. I could tell her later. I closed my eyes and relaxed into unconsciousness.

The sound of the rotating fan was the ocean, and the pages of my chart fluttering in its wake, palm leaves, swaying in the breeze. When I opened my eyes, or I guess I should say, my eye, since one was so badly scratched they had taped it closed, I was amazed to discover myself not beachside, but in a hospital bed. There was someone in the room, a woman.