My Last Continent (24 page)

At the end of the passageway, I see something red on the ground. I pull myself upright, ignoring the pain this time, and start crawling toward it. Using my arms and my one good leg, I move slowly, crab-like, toward the spot of color.

When I get closer, I see that it's only a scarf, a red scarf. It's absurd to think I could find Keller in this mess—and now I'm not even sure I'll be able to make my own way out.

I wrap the scarf around my ankle, yanking it tight, gritting my teeth against the pain. Then I sit up straight and draw a deep breath into my lungs. I shout as loudly as I can, calling for Keller, for help, hoping that there's still someone, anyone, on board who can hear me.

But there is no one here.

With a burst of renewed energy, I get to my feet, pain searing through my ankle, though at least it's stable now. At the rate the
Australis
is sinking, I'll have to climb quickly, against gravity, and somehow make it out to the starboard side—the only side still above water.

Using the handrail, I begin to drag myself up first one companionway, then another. Eventually I reach a long passageway that leads to a narrow deck. I struggle to haul myself up the steep incline, using the side railing for support as the ship wavers, rapidly filling.

Finally I manage to crawl out onto the deck, where I observe, with an odd sort of detachment, that I'm almost completely trapped. The ice immediately surrounding the ship is broken and churning, and the nearest floe is five, ten feet
away. If I were able-bodied, the distance might be swimmable, but right now it looks like the English Channel. In order to do what I know I have to do, I can't allow myself to think—about Keller, about the baby, about the black water below, about anything.

I drag myself to the edge of the railing, and I lower myself over the side, where I hang for a long, dreadful moment. The ship suddenly shifts with an enormous sigh, and I let go, tumbling twenty feet down along the side of the vessel and into the sea.

The cold rips the air from my lungs, and immediately I force myself to move. I paddle toward the ice floe, my life preserver keeping me afloat. I focus on moving steadily; I don't let myself flail, don't let myself waste energy on unnecessary movement. I have mere moments to make it to that ice, and every second counts.

It amazes me how time slows during moments like this. I think of Keller, of the look on his face when I left McMurdo, the sound of his voice when we last spoke. Of our argument last season, how I should've been kinder, more understanding—and how I only seem to realize such things when it's far too late to take anything back.

My limbs are quickly numbing—and by the time I reach the ice, I can only grasp and hold on. The floe is large and solid, but the edge I'm gripping is slick, and I don't know how I'll drag myself out of the water.

Scanning the ice, I glimpse a small hummock rising a few feet away from where I'm holding on. Hand over hand, I slide across the floe and take hold of the ridge of ice, which gives me the leverage to heave myself up.

I lie there a moment, shivering, then turn my head toward the
Australis
. All I can see is the underside of her hull, dark and curved like a whale floating on the water. Bubbles run alongside as she exhales her last breaths.

I see no signs of life. Floating past are empty parkas and life jackets, gloves and earmuffs—the hollow shells of passengers who once inhabited them. I smell diesel fuel and smoke. I curve into the fetal position, to save what body heat I still have, to try to protect this baby, who may be all I have left of Keller.

I don't have much time before the shaking stops, before hypothermia sets in, before my limbs cease to respond to my brain's commands. I think I hear the sound of a motor, and I lift my head. But I don't see anything resembling a Zodiac, and there's no movement in the water except the gurgling of the sinking ship and the flow of debris and bodies.

I catch a glimpse of color and prop myself onto my elbow for a better view. I scrabble to the edge of the floe before I realize it's nothing but an empty hat. My eyes trace the ice, the water, everything, for the sight of something more—but there's nothing.

I try to claw my way back to the center, to sturdy ice, but my strength's gone, my body useless. And that's when I realize that I can no longer feel my hands.

Detaille Island
(66°52'S, 66°47'W)

I
've long thought of Antarctica as a living being, like Gaia: the deep breaths of her storms, the changing expressions of her ice-sculpted face, the veins of algae and flora that survive under her snow-covered skin. Now more than ever, the continent seems far more person than place, with a temperament that's unpredictable, resourceful, and wild.

On the other side of the porthole, Detaille Island stares back at me with haunted eyes. For the first time I can relate to the words Robert Scott scrawled in his journal: “Great God! this is an awful place.”

I'd woken alone in a cabin on the
Cormorant
—I ­remember a wavy feeling, like being on the water, the sensation of a body next to mine. I'd felt a strong sense of Keller, and when I opened my eyes, I lay there for a long while hoping it was still possible that he was alive somewhere. Then, reality hit—a jolt of panic as I realized we still hadn't found him—and I tried to stand, to get up and return to the search. But my legs
buckled, the pain in my ankle seething under my weight. I noticed then that my ankle had been wrapped, the wound on my head cleaned and bandaged. My hands were red, and they stung like fury, as did my ears and face. I pressed my prickling hands against my middle. I felt a subtle ache, and it wasn't long before the feeling spread through my entire body, fueled by images of Keller on the ice, under the ice. I managed to get out of the bunk and prop myself near the porthole, and I've been unable to tear my eyes away, despite the devastation ashore.

Passengers gather on the uneven terrain. Beyond them, the black hills, marbled with snow, frame a threatening sky. Huddled in blankets and moving mostly in pairs, the survivors remind me of penguins braving a strong wind; their figures mirror the Adélies a few hundred yards away. Circling, shoulders bent toward the ground, they're looking for spouses, children, friends; they call to one another, hoping for reunions. Some sit alone, like birds on empty nests.

I feel my own body closing in on itself, hunched toward the porthole
. I just wish I had more time,
Kate had told me on Deception Island, and I hear her words echo in my head. If only we could, somehow, have more time—the other ships would be here by now, more passengers could have been saved, perhaps even the
Australis
herself could have been salvaged. And we could have found Keller.

We never had enough time, Keller and I—he didn't get the chance to learn he would be a father, and I had only begun to embrace the idea of having a family. My throat closes up, making it hard to breathe. I rest my forehead against the glass and start to weep.

The cabin door opens, but I don't turn around, not even when I feel a hand gently touch my shoulder. I don't want to see anyone.

Then a voice—a deep, familiar voice, though hoarse—says my name, and soon I'm looking into the moss-strewn eyes I thought I'd never see again.

“Oh my God.” I try to catch my breath. “Are you real?” I smack my burning palm against Keller's chest—he's solid, all warmth and fleece, and under that, as I press my hand as close as I can bear through the prickly pain, I feel his heartbeat. He's real. He's alive.

“You don't remember?” he asks.

“Remember—what?”

Keller brushes his fingers across my face, still wet. “How we found you. On the ice.”

So it wasn't a dream but a memory, and still hazy. “Tell me.”

He eases me back into the narrow berth and sits beside me. Though it hurts my still-warming hands, I can't stop touching him, afraid he might vanish.

“I was stranded on the ice,” he says, “and saw a Zodiac weaving around—really erratic. I thought some
Australis
passenger had commandeered it, but it was crew, someone in an orange parka. I tried flagging him down. He ignored me at first—it seemed he was looking for someone—then finally came over.”

Keller's voice is raspy but strong. “Turned out the guy wasn't a crew member at all—he was a passenger. From here.”

“Richard,” I manage to say. How the hell had he gotten back out on the water?

“How'd you know that?”

“He nearly killed himself—and me—earlier. He's crazy on seasick meds.”

“That may be, but he's a hero in my book,” Keller says. “He picked me up, and it's thanks to his delusion about someone else being out there that we found you. He wouldn't give up the helm, was going in circles, and I was just about to take him down and tie him up in the Zodiac when he spotted you.” Keller grins. “He seemed disappointed it was you, not who he was looking for, whoever that was—he wouldn't say. But if we hadn't found you just then—”

“I was out looking for you.”

“I know.”

There's so much to ask, and so much to say—and even as I begin to repeat what I'd told him on the phone, he's smiling, his hands coming to rest softly on my belly, and I stop. “So you did hear me. You didn't hang up on me.”

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 fucking
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.”

“What about
us
? Would it kill you to stay behind for once?”

“I'll be fine,” he says, his arms around my shoulders again, his cheek against mine. “I'm impervious to ice, remember?”

I know he's trying to make me smile, but I can't. “It's not just me you need to come back for.”

“I know that,” he says. “And there are still parents and chil
dren out there who need help. You know why I have to do this.”

I do, just as he knows I'd be out there, too, if I could. And I know he won't leave without my blessing, and that not giving it to him would change everything that we are.

I turn around and let my forehead fall to his chest. I feel his hands in my hair, and I shift my head to the side. Through the fleece I can hear his heart beating, reminding me of the rhythm of Admiral Byrd's heartbeat as he'd sprawled in my lap.

I look up at Keller. There's so much I want to tell him—how helpless I'd felt, being unable to locate him; how lost, thinking he was gone—but my thoughts are nothing more than a mental mirror of the bay outside, a mix of brash, of hope and fear floating and cresting and crashing until they'll either merge or melt away, and I don't know which.

ALONE IN THE
stateroom, I stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep, even to close my eyes. I turn my head and look around. Unlike our utilitarian crew's quarters, this is like a hotel room, painted a warm, soothing green. Photographs of whales and albatross adorn the walls.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I test out my ankle, which hurts, but not as much as before. I stand up, feeling dizzy, and wait for it to pass. Once I feel steadier, I look around for my jacket. I don't see my naturalist's jacket—in fact, I'm not wearing any of my own clothes—but when I open the closet door I find a red cruise-issued parka, and I put
it on. It's big on me, a man's size, and it makes me wonder whose room I'm in and why the guy isn't wearing it himself.

As I make my way up to the main deck, I peek into the lounge. I recognize many of the
Cormorant
passengers who are now helping Susan care for the injured, or comforting the distraught, offering blankets and cups of coffee and tea. I glimpse Kate applying a bandage to a woman's scraped and bleeding hand. I walk past to the port deck, where I can see the island and watch the crew unload Zodiacs down below. I know at this point they are doing more recovering than rescuing.

I see Keller in a Zodiac near the beach at Detaille—at least I think it's him. I reach for my binoculars before realizing they're gone—lost to the sea, probably. I can't bear to think about how much detritus from the ship, from its passengers, is going to end up at the bottom of this ocean—and, worse, floating on its surface, and later in the bellies of penguins and seals and whales. The victims we're seeing now are only the very first of what eventually will be too many to count.

I hobble my way up one more level to the crew deck, the one Keller and I sneak off to for moments free from tourists, questions, demands. It offers a better vantage point, and from here I continue to look for him. The Zodiac I'd thought he was in has disappeared.

I try to breathe slowly through the tangle of anxiety in my chest. When my ankle begins to throb I lean heavily on the rail with my forearms. My hands, in dry gloves, are still burning, and my face is unprotected from the cold and wind. I shouldn't be outside in this condition, but I don't know how else to be.

I'M STANDING AT
the porthole in the stateroom when the nausea hits. I stumble to the cabin's tiny bathroom just in time. Afterwards I sit there on the floor for a few moments to catch my breath.

I hear a knock on the cabin door. I get to my feet just as Kate enters.