If only, if only, if only.
I know I should be celebrating. Doing cartwheels at our good fortune. The wreck has provided an unexpected windfall. These items will make survival far easier than it’s ever been. We’ll have a supply of food and plenty of warm clothing. A bona fide tool kit with hammers and wrenches and a handsaw. There’s even a miniature charcoal grill.
Yet… there’s a strange, inexplicable heaviness inside my chest I cannot shake off. Instead of a triumphant conquest, this feels like a pyrrhic victory — the first rotation of a crash course about to spin entirely out of my control.
“Violet. Look at this.”
My eyes swing to Beck. His eyes are on his hands, and his hands are shaking.
He’s holding a portable VHF radio.
I don’t think either of us breathe as he lifts his fingers to twist the power button into the ON position. With a beep and a quick buzz of static, the screen lights up and the antenna begins searching for a signal.
Suddenly, something that once seemed desperately out of reach solidifies into a firm reality beneath our feet.
We can call for help.
The thought has barely entered my mind when Beck lifts the radio to his mouth and presses down on the transmit button.
“Can anyone hear me?” he says into the speaker. “Is anyone out there? If you’re listening… this is an emergency SOS call…”
Wrapped in a warm wool blanket, I sit on my favorite driftwood tree trunk tracing the many tallies I’ve carved into its surface over the past few months. There’s a can of half-eaten peaches by my side, steaming in the sun. A freshly-applied coat of red polish glitters on my toenails. My body has been scrubbed head to toe with an unfamiliar body wash that reeks of roses. A stranger’s t-shirt drapes me like a dress.
I am a princess on her throne, reveling in the spoils of war.
It’s been five days since the sailboat washed ashore.
Five days of waiting.
Five days of watching Beck pace ever-deepening trenches in the sand before bed each night, calling for help into the damn radio on every channel imaginable. He allows himself only fifteen minutes per day, terrified the batteries are going to run out at any given moment.
I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he realizes this obsession is going to drive him insane. I would, if I thought he’d listen.
To me, the sailboat is nothing but a twist of fate. Seems that spiteful bitch had one final game in store for us — dangling the tantalizing hook of rescue, only to snatch it out of reach at the last moment.
I’ve begun the slow process of sorting through the wreckage, taking stock of the damage to the hull. There’s a pretty serious hole in the fiberglass after being bashed repeatedly against the reef. Water has flooded the entire bilge. I doubt, even if we could repair the engines or re-rig the mast, she’d make it more than the length of a football field before filling with water and plummeting to the bottom of the Pacific.
When I reveal this news to Beck, his nightly radio calls become even more frenzied.
Every time he catches me carrying something from the boat to the site of our former camp, I see a bit more despair creep into his eyes. He’s delayed his efforts to rebuild, convinced someone will hear our distress calls and charge full-throttle to our rescue.
Over a dinner of saltine crackers and cold tomato soup, I broach the topic.
“I was thinking, tomorrow, we should start collecting wood for a new cabin. Maybe this time we should build it closer to the caves. The beach on that side isn’t as pretty as this one, but it’s definitely more sheltered. If another storm comes, we’ll be safer there.”
Beck is silent.
“Hello?” I wrinkle my nose at him. “Did you hear me?”
“I just don’t think we need to start rebuilding yet. I still think…”
“That help is coming?” I say, voice a bit sharper than I intended. I soften it before adding, “I know you believe someone is on their way as we speak, but maybe it’s time to face reality.”
Brows lifting, he stares at me for a beat. “You’re the one who’s been telling me since day one that I need to have hope. That I need to believe, in spite of the odds, some things actually work out.”
“And you’re the one who told me to stop thinking that way!” I throw back at him. “I believe your exact words were, you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that this story might not have a happy ending.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?” I yell, exasperation bleeding into my tone.
“Before I fell in love with you!” He yells right back. “Before everything changed! Before you taught me that some things are worth fighting for, worth dying for.”
“I don’t…” I shake my head. “I can’t…”
“Violet. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. You haven’t been yourself since that ship washed ashore.”
“I’m fine.”
“You aren’t fine. You’re distant. You’re distracted. You’re even sad. But you’re definitely not fine.” He runs his hands through his hair, at a loss. “The thing is, for the life of me I can’t figure out why. Seems to me, the possibility of getting off this damn rock — the real possibility, not some faint flicker of a mirage on the horizon — should be something you’re a little more invested in.”
I try to conjure a denial, some sort of distraction to keep him from seeing through me to the shameful truth, but it’s too late. He knows me too well. He cares about me too much to let this slide without unearthing the source of my discontent.
“Beck…” I start. Horrifyingly, I can’t get out more than his name before emotion overwhelms me. Burying my face in my hands, tears explode from my eyes. I try to staunch their flow, but it’s no use.
“Shit! Violet!?” A few seconds later, Beck is at my side, his arms sliding around me. His mouth hits my temple. “What’s the matter? Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Hurt.
What an inconsequential word to describe such a feeling.
“No, I’m not hurt,” I murmur.
“Then what is it? Tell me.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Violet. You can tell me anything. You know that by now.”
Looking up at him with watering eyes, I force out the words that have been haunting me for days. Words that have been tearing my insides to shreds since the instant I spotted that sailboat. Words that claw up my throat and threaten to burst forth every time he turns on that damn radio and starts to pace.
I can’t hold them in any longer.
“I don’t want to go.”
His face flips through a series of expressions so fast I can hardly keep up. Confusion. Rage. Disbelief. Sadness. Shock. Love. When he speaks, his voice is carefully empty.
“What did you say?”
“I said I don’t want to go!” I reach up and dash the tears from my eyes, pulling out of his arms in one violent gesture. “I don’t want to leave the island.”