Authors: S. A. Bodeen
The Raft (19 page)
He shakes his head. “You were lucky to survive all that, you know.”
“I know.” I open Max’s bag. “Do you think someone will want the manifest?”
He nods. “Probably. I assume they’re going to ask you a lot of questions.”
“I figured that.” I sigh.
He glances at his watch. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. You okay by yourself?”
“Yeah.” I watch him go, then step over to the raft. I push the edge with my flip-flop and the rubber rustles. The raft is airless. Lifeless. It has nothing left.
Is it even a raft anymore? Or just colored rubber?
I squat down beside the raft and grasp an edge.
How many hours had I sat in that thing, hoping? Hoping to be rescued?
And Max. The raft was the last place he’d been alive. The place he’d spoken his last word. And I’d been the only one there to hear it.
I pick up the ditty bag, reach inside, and pull out the spiral notebook. I sit down, cross my legs, and turn to the last few unread pages, the last time Max would speak to me.
Brandy’s mother blamed me. Why wouldn’t she? She didn’t want me at the funeral. I had to wait until it was over, until the service at the cemetery was done. I went there after dark, kneeled beside the fresh mound of dirt. There wasn’t a headstone yet, just that pile of earth. I put my face in it. My tears turned some of it to mud.
I stayed there until the sun came up.
I enlisted in the National Guard the next day. I needed out of there. Not just college. Somewhere farther. A few weeks later, I was packed, ready to leave. A car pulled in the driveway and the doorbell rang. I answered it, and discovered the art teacher standing there. I didn’t even know her name. I never took art.
She smiled and handed me a small velvet pouch. She said it was Brandy’s. There was a small card with my name.
I pulled open the drawstring and stuck my finger in. I pulled out a black cord, on the end of which dangled an oblong piece of silver. A pattern of black swirls covered one side and I held it closer. A thumbprint.
Reflexively, I held it to my lips, then felt her looking at me. I lowered it. It was beautiful.
The teacher reached for the necklace. I handed it to her. She turned it over and showed me the blank side. Then she explained that Brandy had meant to add my thumbprint.
My vision blurred and I realized I was crying. I held the necklace to my heart.
And that’s why I wear it. It’s all I have left of her. It makes me feel like she’s still with me. Like a little part of her soul is still hanging on.
I’m all choked up, and I swallow. I close the cover of the spiral notebook and, for the last time, read the magic marker note scrawled on the cover.
Max Cameron: Therapy Journal
I stuff it back into the ditty bag. Then and there, I decide to contact Max’s family, give this to them. Tell them that Max saved my life. And not just when he pulled me out of the water.
I start to get up. Then I notice something nestled in the creases of the raft.
I reach out …
… and pick up the black cord, the silver thumbprint dangling in the air.
My breath is a choke, a sob.
Impossible.
Impossible.
The necklace had never been off Max.
He had never taken it off.
“It can’t be real.”
I fold my hand around the silver and it’s warm. From my touch?
“Max.”
I open my hand and turn the silver over to the blank side. But it’s not blank. There’s a thumbprint there as well. I put my thumb over it, but it’s much bigger than the other. It’s the size of a man’s thumbprint.
Max?
I put a hand over my eyes and sit there, clutching the necklace.
Someone knocks on the door and I jump up, holding my fist with the necklace to my chest.
A guy pokes his head in. “About two hours to Midway.”
I kind of smile and nod. Then I lift the glass ball into my arms and cradle it, ignoring the salty, mildewed scent of fish and sea and old barnacles.
He starts to leave, then says, “You okay, alone in here?”
He leaves once I assure him I am okay.
Because I’m not alone.
I open my hand and look at the necklace.
At least I think I’m not alone.
Maybe I never was.
MY THANKS GO OUT TO:
My agent, Scott Mendel, and my editor, Liz Szabla. Without them, this book wouldn’t have happened. Seriously.
All the wonderful people at Feiwel and Friends/Macmillan who spend time and effort on behalf of me and my books. I am so grateful.
Matt Jaeger, for always telling me the truth about my words, especially when I don’t want to hear it.
Tracy Bodeen Wachtler, for her firsthand description of body piercing, so I didn’t have to take my research down a painful path.
Stephanie Boman, for providing me with a mountain cabin retreat, where I pounded out the first 10,000 words of the draft, complete with Skittle counting.
Karen Dinsmore, for patiently listening to me ramble on about pointless plot lines for miles, literally.
The Thompsons and the Becks, for making me realize I can always find fun people to hang out with, even in the desolate high desert of Eastern Oregon.
Maranda Robbins, owner of the fabulous indie bookstore The Book Parlor, in Burns, Oregon, for being so supportive of my books.
* * *
Finally, this book could not have been written unless I had happened to live on a remote Pacific atoll, an experience I owe to my husband, as well as our two smart and beautiful daughters, who made that adventure an unforgettable family affair. This book is my somewhat-twisted love letter to Midway, a place that stole my heart the moment I stepped off of the G-1. (Which, lucky for me, never crashed when I was on it.)
ALSO BY S. A. BODEEN
The Compound
The Gardener
A F
EIWEL AND
F
RIENDS
B
OOK
An Imprint of Macmillan
THE RAFT.
Copyright © 2012 by S. A. Bodeen. All rights reserved. For information, address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
ISBN: 978-0-312-65010-0
Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto
eISBN 9781429955478
First Edition: 2012
