Sadie Walker Is Stranded (17 page)

“I’ll be fine,” I said valiantly.

Whelan raised a thick eyebrow at me as if to say “It’s your funeral” and then shrugged and squirted some of the clear liquid onto my right foot. Hydrogen peroxide. He hadn’t even picked up the tweezers yet. I yowled like an alley cat shoved into a bath tub.

“
By the horns of Satan
.” He pulled the bottle away. Talking became difficult with my teeth clamped together like a vice. “You win. Please go get someone.”

“I’ll get Banana,” he said, climbing to his feet. I didn’t see how that could help.

“Sorry—did you say you’ll get a banana?”

He chuckled, setting down his tools at the foot of the bed. “Yes, Banana. She was a dancer.”

That was not nearly enough of an explanation, but Whelan left before I could ask what that had to do with being named after a fruit. When Banana joined us I felt something hot and wibbly in my stomach—jealousy or maybe lust. She was by far the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. Men started wars over faces like this. She was tall and voluptuous, not MySpace voluptuous, but built like a long, sexy hourglass. The only resemblance she held to a banana was her shining blonde hair, which was pinned up away from her face and cascaded back down to her shoulders. Even dressed in sweats and makeup free, she was stunning. And intimidating. She had a bowl in her hands. Steam rose off of it in tiny white curlicues.

“Sadie?” she said. Well, that was one bubble burst. She wasn’t perfect, and I suppose no woman is. Her voice was sharp, gruff, barbecue tangy like a trucker’s. Maybe it was part of her dancing act or whatever she did. She strode over to the cot and pumped my hand. Man, what a grip. “I’m Banana.”

“Hi … Banana.”

That’s it, I thought with a sigh, I’m actually living in a Japanese game show. Banana dropped down next to me, kneeling. I accepted the bowl she offered. It was instant oatmeal, warm and perfectly cooked. There was even a swirl of maple syrup on top. I wolfed it down, abandoning what was left of my dignity. I was so hungry and nervous I could barely even taste the food. Whelan and Banana were thoughtful enough to hold a muted conversation while I ate. Meanwhile, I plotted, thinking that maybe I’d be able to sneak out after Whelan had cleaned my wounds. But contending with the darkness … he was right. Plunging out into the forest at night was suicidal.

When I was finished eating, Banana took hold of my right hand with both of hers. I looked at her nails. They were chipped, but had recently been manicured. She smelled faintly of salt water. I know I reeked of it.

“What exactly happened to my feet?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Sea urchins,” Whelan stated. “They graze on seaweed. You can see them better when the tide goes out. They’ve got nasty spines. Either they were generous enough to share them with you or you’ve been playing footsy with porcupines.”

“Yeah, I really need to stop doing that,” I muttered.

Banana laughed, loud and throaty.

Whelan looked up from my feet—which were propped up on his forearm—and grinned crookedly. He had changed out of his wet T-shirt into a clean navy polo with an embroidered crest on the left chest. SPD. Seattle Police Department.

“These are most likely green sea urchins,” he added.

“So what were you doing out there?” I asked. It wasn’t the time for twenty questions, but I was eager to prolong the procedure.

“Clamming.”

“I think there’s a cream for that,” I said quietly.

Banana laughed again, tossing her hair. “Whelan used to surf and snorkel,” she said, beaming down at him. Ugh. “He knows where all the tastiest sea life hangs out.”

“Educational,” I muttered. “Now please make the pain stop.”

“Here, sweetie pie,” Banana said. There was no patronizing in it. She called me that as casually as you might call a good friend your buddy. Her perfect rosebud lips split into a smile and she winked. “You squeeze as hard as you want. I can take it.”

To Banana’s credit, she really did let me do that. And I needed it. Whelan was careful, even artistic with those tweezers, but it didn’t matter. It felt like every sea urchin pin had grafted to my skin, fusing to my feet in the time it took to walk from the beach to the cabin. They were holding on for dear life. I wanted to die. There was nothing stronger than a Tylenol for me to take and I felt every last searing jab of those tweezers. I screamed and groaned until I was hoarse and then just sort of grunted like a dying horse for the rest of it. The fact that neither Banana nor Whelan asked me to please shut the fuck up raised them both in my estimation.

Whelan wore a deeply pained expression through the whole ordeal, as if making me twitch and screech caused him actual physical discomfort, that or I was slowly making him deaf. By then I had half-forgiven him for the stunt he had pulled in the water. Sure, it had almost gotten us killed, but he was going about regaining my esteem with real pluck (pun intended). Between tweezes he would pat my ankle or the top of my foot and say things like, “It’s okay now” or “You’re doing great, babe.” In any other situation, being called “babe” would have me fuming, but it made me feel better because—at that moment—any measure of comfort helped. I would do the same thing for Shane when he burned his tongue on a hot drink or got a splinter.

I could feel his warm breath on my toes and the tensing of his shoulders each time he yanked out another pin. It was a slow process and I passed out more than once.

“We’re almost there,” Banana said. Her voice was dim, distant. “We’ll get those little fuckers out of your feet.”

For a minute, when I regained consciousness again, I wondered why pain so often led to euphoria. I’m not a glutton for punishment, not at all, but after a while I began to feel giddy and hysterical and even
happy
. The whole debacle suddenly struck me as ludicrously funny, like some harebrained setup for a romantic comedy gag. Woman purposely trounces through sea urchin bed to get a gruff but handsome man to bend over her feet for two hours. It did seem vaguely romantic, actually, the fact that someone I had known for less than a day cared so deeply about what was—more or less—my own fucking problem. I was the moron who threw off my shoes before dashing into the water, even if it was with the best intentions. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had done something so gross and unpleasant for me. Carl brought me a stale muffin once from a Dumpster. That was his idea of romantic.

Pick—ouch—pick—ow!

Luckily, my face was so red and the tears flowed so readily that neither of them noticed that I was blushing. Whelan’s forehead was wet with perspiration, his face less than two inches away from my stinky, bloody feet. It was awkward and disgusting, but I couldn’t picture being more comfortable given the situation. To show my gratitude, I shrieked and squirmed less and tried to catch Whelan’s eye to give him a reassuring smile. He was too focused on my feet. No matter how many times I mentally commanded him to just take a minute and look at my face, it didn’t happen. I closed my eyes and the missed connections ad flickered across my eyelids.

Under The Sea w/ PTSD w4m—29 (Some Island)

You: Tan, blue eyes, nice shoulders, tall drink of Jack Daniels. Me: Dark hair, irritated, sea-urchined, blacking out with pain. You picked spines out of my toes after I saved you from a zombie. Next time, let’s do Uni.

I considered what the Ketch’s wide-open deck might be like if the world were a kinder, gentler place. Suddenly my head was filled with the smell of coconut-scented tanning oil and steamed mussels, and before I could stop myself I was imagining Whelan on that boat, getting a perfect, line-less tan. Either those spines were poisonous and I was tripping balls, or the tingling all over my body was from something different. Different, but equally troubling.

“Sadie?”

“Mm.”

“Sadie! Sadie? Damn it. Is she all right?”

“Hi. Yes. Yes?”

I was lucid again but the room was spinning. Poor Banana’s hand was turning blue from me squeezing it so hard. I relaxed my grip, finding that the pain wasn’t so bad anymore.

“All finished,” Whelan said, holding up a palm-full of spines, as proud as if he’d just won first place at the Science Fair. White teeth, one deep dimple.

“Thanks!” I said, out of breath. “Should my feet still hurt?”

“It’ll take a few days for the skin to heal. You should try to stay off them as much as possible.” He slathered the soles of my feet in antibacterial gel and began wrapping them up with strips of white fabric, T-shirt strips maybe.

“Don’t be stupid. You promised,” I said. “I have to get back to my camp and my friends. I’ve been gone too long already.”

Whelan and Banana exchanged a look. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and quickly excused herself. So much for sisterly solidarity. Whelan tossed the sea urchin spines into an empty tin cup and offered them to me. “Souvenir?”

“Oh, I think I’ve got plenty,” I said, glancing at my feet.

He sat down on the cot next to me. I had to scoot over to make room.

“You can’t leave tonight,” he said. He didn’t sound sorry or mean, just firm. “I know you’re worried about your friends, but this is serious. I’m not going back on my promise. I’ll take you back to them tomorrow morning, first thing. If you get an infection there’s no one here who can treat that.” He grinned, showing me that dimple again. “I’ll chain you to the bed if I have to.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Don’t give me a reason.”

Whelan stood, stretching his shoulders. He had been hunched over my feet for two straight hours without a break. I heard one of his vertebrae crack back into place. Looking at his face, at the hard set to his jaw, I knew he was dead serious. I could either start up a screaming match or wait patiently and nod along to everything he said and sneak out later with or without his blessing. Guess which one I chose?

“I’m exhausted,” I said, flopping back on the cot.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” he said. “Good night.”

“’Night,” I said. “Thanks.”

“Back atcha.”

The door closed and the cabin felt empty. I hadn’t realized how much physical space Whelan took up until he left. He had provided me with one lantern and I would need it. The soles of my feet throbbed, but if I stayed on my tiptoes I might be able to walk long enough to reach the harbor. And that’s all I needed to accomplish. Once I reached the docks there would be the canoe and the canoe would take me around the island without having to walk. I still had the compass on a string around my neck, and if I pointed the canoe due south then I’d be home free. My arms ached. It didn’t matter; I couldn’t abandon Shane and the others.

The sounds outside the cabin died down about an hour later. Staying awake proved challenging, but bumping my foot against the mattress was enough to keep me wired. I pushed myself out of the cot and limped to the door, alternately placing the pressure on my tiptoes and heels. The pain sizzled and forked up my ankles like stabs of lightning. But I had a plan and, more importantly, I had determination. Arturo was dead—Shane, Andrea, Mortiz, Noah and Cassandra would run out of water and food any minute and now I was missing in action. I didn’t think, not really, but I sure as hell acted.

Outside it was pitch black. The clouds rolled in, obscuring the moon behind a veil of blurry gray. I turned the flame on the lantern down as low as I could, since they must keep a watch, too, and if they spotted my flame the plan would be foiled even before it began. Without the aid of moonlight or stars I’d be stranded, but once I rounded the corner and passed out of sight I could turn up the flame on the lantern to light the way. The fire pits continued to burn. I hobbled as fast as I could, swallowing the jabs of pain with each step.

I made decent time, even with my disfiguring injuries, and soon found myself at the bottom of a low hill, facing the canoe and its safety rope. Water lapped at the dock pilings, splashing and receding with a lazy rhythm. Freedom and home seemed close enough to taste. And I wanted to savor them, even if they sort of tasted like ass and old Shasta.

The knot wasn’t too difficult to figure out but, of course, escape couldn’t be that easy. The paddles were missing. Great. Time was running out—if I dashed back up the hill I would risk being seen and making a commotion as I searched for the paddles. But maneuvering the canoe with only my hands was out of the question. I needed those paddles.

I turned to limp back up the slope and stopped, finding myself face-to-face with a solid wall of blue polo shirt. Oh, hell. I tipped my head back to look up at Whelan. He didn’t look happy, no sir. He ducked down and shot forward before I could utter one word of protest. I fell forward over his shoulder and he nonchalantly firemen-carried me back up toward the cabins.

“Going somewhere?”

“Just admiring the view.”

He laughed and shifted his hand closer to my ass. “Me too.”

“Fuck you, dickhead.”

“Not going to ask me to put you down this time, are you?”

I couldn’t answer that.

“Didn’t think so.”

This was the second time I had ended up in his arms against my will. I promised myself it wouldn’t happen a third time. Banana stood outside the central cabin, her arms crossed over her ample chest, her teeth worrying along her bottom lip. She gave me a sad little wave, as if she knew I was in for an earful.

Whelan was less careful about tossing me onto the cot this time around. I couldn’t blame him. I had, after all, just tried and failed to steal their canoe after he took two hours to pick itty-bitty sea urchin spines out of my flesh. I’m sure I’d be mightily pissed off too.

“Stay here,” he said. His voice was flat and dull, heavy as an iron bar. Clearly, he was trying not to lose his temper.

I heard him talk to Banana just outside the door. Their voices rose and fell but I couldn’t make out a single word. Whelan stomped into the cabin a minute or two later and came straight for me. I recoiled, backing up onto the bed. He dropped down suddenly, kneeling. Whatever anger filled his eyes before had softened to concern. He brought his face very close to mine, close enough to feel his breath on my face. There was a mole on the back of his jaw by his ear. I wanted to look away from his gaze but blue had never looked so blue before. He smelled the way an apple orchard feels at sunset.