Yesterday, Conner had earned a lashing from my tongue. He’d taken it upon himself to swim offshore, far, far, farther than his young body should. I hadn’t noticed until it was too late, his head bobbing in the turquoise drink.
Galloway cursed like a pirate when the dripping, broken-wristed boy finally waded back to shore. But Conner merely straightened his back and said someone had to try. Someone had to swim out to the reef-break and see if there was another island close by, a ship hidden behind an inlet, some sort of hope that we couldn’t imagine.
But just like our island...there was nothing.
We were in a snow globe. The centre figurine surrounded by invisible walls.
We faded into despair after that.
Conner didn’t mention rescue again. And Galloway erected impenetrable partitions around his soul. Pippa was the only one who spoke, but the childish belief that things would work out faded quickly as repetitive sunrise and sunsets stole us into an unsurvivable future.
I sang snippets of my songs-in-progress to lull her to sleep. I stole precious moments to scribble in my crinkled notepad, outlining sonnets that would never be heard.
With nothing else to do, the children kept themselves occupied—building an occasional sandcastle, swimming where I could keep an eye on them, and napping in the shade.
We’d all lost weight.
Galloway’s cheeks were gaunt but that was from agony as much as the lack of food. His facial hair grew thicker every day, the same chocolate brown as his head.
My hipbones steadily made themselves known and the broken ribs I kept strapped slowly protruded from my flesh.
We needed to fish. To learn what other food we could find. We needed to think long-term, rather than pin our hopes on a fantasy of rescue.
As the sun slowly set on yet another day, we shared the collected water like we did every night, and settled in to rest. Once darkness fell, there wasn’t much to do apart from sit around the fire and talk.
But tonight, we couldn’t even do that.
We didn’t have the energy to form conversation.
Galloway curled up in his bed, finally succumbing to his body’s need to heal and his incorrigible mood. The children decided to dig a bed together, falling asleep in each other’s arms. And I stared sleeplessly, long after they’d left me for dreams.
Ever since we’d put up the memorial cross and given the children the bracelet and pen, they’d been closer. Less argumentative and more compassionate. They’d grown up faster in a few days than in years of their happy childhood.
Unable to lie still, I pulled out my cell-phone. I kept it hidden as I couldn’t stomach the looks of despair whenever anyone looked at it. The screen came to life, bright in the dark, fully charged thanks to my solar charger.
I tried again to find rescue. Scanning and searching for any hope of connection. I dialled the emergency number in all its variations, listening for anything but the empty silence of unsuccessful outreach.
Silent tears cascaded down my face. Sniffing quietly, I brought up the calendar app and rubbed the sudden ache in my chest.
Yesterday, I had a lunch date with Madeline.
The day before, I had a vet appointment for Shovel-Face and his yearly check-up.
Next week, I had a Skype conference with my agent to discuss the songs I’d agreed to pen and perform for my producer.
A life waiting for me to return.
A life thinking I was dead.
I can’t look at it anymore.
Closing the app, I switched on the camera. I didn’t dare flick through the gallery and torture myself with pictures of the trip in the USA, of funny faces with Madi, and landscape panoramas of the crowds who’d come to hear me sing.
I merely opened the camera, switched it to night mode, and stood.
Silently, I catalogued our beach. I imprisoned heart-splintering pictures of Conner and Pippa sleeping back to back. I guiltily snapped images of Galloway, slumbering with a frown permanently on his face.
I took photos of the moon.
Of the sea.
Of the beach.
Of shells.
And a selfie of me with the campsite behind.
I liked to think I took it so I had evidence when we were found. A picture to discuss with Madeline when she begged for tales of my castaway days.
But the truth was, I took it to monitor how I fared over the next few months.
I took it knowing full well that if we didn’t eat better, drink more, and figure out a way to survive, the selfies would slowly show a young music-writer with hazel eyes and long blonde hair turn into a haggard, skeletal woman walking quickly into her grave.
I didn’t want that.
I won’t let that happen.
I had Galloway and the children to fight for.
We would find a way.
We have no choice.
Chapter Twenty-Six
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G A L L O W A Y
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DAY SIXTEEN
I WOKE UP drowning.
My muscles hauled me into a sitting position; I opened my eyes to a bloody miracle. “Estelle!”
Estelle flew upright, her eyes wide and unfocused from sleep. Understanding registered instantly, and the brightest smile I’d seen in days spread across her lips. “Oh, my God!”