broken bone to take care of.”
“Listen,” I said, kneeling down in front of him. “I will never criticize anything you do if it helps you cope, okay?”
He finally looked at me, nodded, and took the Tylenol from my outstretched hand. I handed him the water bottle, and he swallowed them down. I sat cross-legged next to him, staring at the sparks that drifted into the air when I dropped a log on the fire.
“How do you cope, Anna?”
“I cry.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes.”
I stared at his broken hand and fought the urge to wash the blood off and hold it in my own. “I give up, T.J. You once said, ‘It’s easier if you don’t think they’re coming back’ and you were right. This one’s not coming back either. A plane will have to land in the lagoon for me to believe we might actually get off this island. Until then, it’s just you and me. That’s the only thing I know for sure.”
“I give up, too,” he whispered.
I looked at him, so broken, both physically and mentally, and it turned out I had some tears left after all.
I checked his hand the next morning. The swelling had doubled the size of it.
“It needs to be immobilized,” I said. I grabbed a short stick from the woodpile and rummaged in my suitcase for something to wrap around it. “I won’t put it on tight, but it’s going to hurt a little, T.J.”
“That’s okay.”
I put the stick under his palm, and gently pulled the black fabric over the back of his hand, winding it around twice and tucking it underneath.
“What did you wrap my hand with?” he asked.
“My thong.” I looked up at him. “You were right; it’s totally uncomfortable. Awesome for first aid, though.”
The corners of T.J.’s mouth turned up slightly. He looked at me, his brown eyes showing a trace of the spark that had been missing the night before. “It’ll make for a funny story someday,” I said.
“You know what, Anna? It’s kinda funny now.”
T.J. turned eighteen in September of 2002. He didn’t look like the same boy I crash-landed in the ocean with fifteen months earlier.
For one thing, he really needed to shave. The hair was much longer than a five-o’clock shadow but shorter than a full beard and mustache. It looked good on him, actually. I wasn’t sure if he liked the facial hair, or if he just didn’t want to bother with shaving.
The hair on his head was almost long enough to pull back in one of my ponytail holders, and the sun had bleached it light brown. My hair had grown, too. It hung past the middle of my back and drove me nuts. I tried to cut it with our knife, but the blade—dull and nonserrated—wouldn’t saw through hair.
Although very lean, T.J. had grown at least two inches taller, bringing him to about six feet.
He looked older. Having turned thirty-one in May, I probably did, too. I wouldn’t know; the only mirror I had was in the makeup bag in my purse, which was floating around in the ocean somewhere.
I forced myself not to ask him how he felt, or if he had any cancer symptoms, but I watched him closely. He seemed to be doing okay, growing and thriving, even under our less than desirable conditions.
The man in my dream moaned when I kissed his neck. I slid my leg between his and then kissed my way from his jaw down to his chest. He put his arms around me and rolled me onto my back, bringing his mouth down to mine. Something about his kiss startled me, and I woke up.
T.J. was on top of me. We were on the blanket under the coconut tree where we’d lay down to take a nap. I realized what I’d done and wriggled out from underneath him, my face on fire. “I was dreaming.”
He flipped onto his back, breathing hard.
I scrambled to my feet, then went down to the water’s edge and sat cross-legged on the sand.
Way to go, Anna. Attack him while he’s asleep.
T.J. joined me a few minutes later.
“I am completely mortified,” I said.
He sat down. “Don’t be.”
“You must have wondered what the
“Listen,” I said, kneeling down in front of him. “I will never criticize anything you do if it helps you cope, okay?”
He finally looked at me, nodded, and took the Tylenol from my outstretched hand. I handed him the water bottle, and he swallowed them down. I sat cross-legged next to him, staring at the sparks that drifted into the air when I dropped a log on the fire.
“How do you cope, Anna?”
“I cry.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes.”
I stared at his broken hand and fought the urge to wash the blood off and hold it in my own. “I give up, T.J. You once said, ‘It’s easier if you don’t think they’re coming back’ and you were right. This one’s not coming back either. A plane will have to land in the lagoon for me to believe we might actually get off this island. Until then, it’s just you and me. That’s the only thing I know for sure.”
“I give up, too,” he whispered.
I looked at him, so broken, both physically and mentally, and it turned out I had some tears left after all.
I checked his hand the next morning. The swelling had doubled the size of it.
“It needs to be immobilized,” I said. I grabbed a short stick from the woodpile and rummaged in my suitcase for something to wrap around it. “I won’t put it on tight, but it’s going to hurt a little, T.J.”
“That’s okay.”
I put the stick under his palm, and gently pulled the black fabric over the back of his hand, winding it around twice and tucking it underneath.
“What did you wrap my hand with?” he asked.
“My thong.” I looked up at him. “You were right; it’s totally uncomfortable. Awesome for first aid, though.”
The corners of T.J.’s mouth turned up slightly. He looked at me, his brown eyes showing a trace of the spark that had been missing the night before. “It’ll make for a funny story someday,” I said.
“You know what, Anna? It’s kinda funny now.”
T.J. turned eighteen in September of 2002. He didn’t look like the same boy I crash-landed in the ocean with fifteen months earlier.
For one thing, he really needed to shave. The hair was much longer than a five-o’clock shadow but shorter than a full beard and mustache. It looked good on him, actually. I wasn’t sure if he liked the facial hair, or if he just didn’t want to bother with shaving.
The hair on his head was almost long enough to pull back in one of my ponytail holders, and the sun had bleached it light brown. My hair had grown, too. It hung past the middle of my back and drove me nuts. I tried to cut it with our knife, but the blade—dull and nonserrated—wouldn’t saw through hair.
Although very lean, T.J. had grown at least two inches taller, bringing him to about six feet.
He looked older. Having turned thirty-one in May, I probably did, too. I wouldn’t know; the only mirror I had was in the makeup bag in my purse, which was floating around in the ocean somewhere.
I forced myself not to ask him how he felt, or if he had any cancer symptoms, but I watched him closely. He seemed to be doing okay, growing and thriving, even under our less than desirable conditions.
The man in my dream moaned when I kissed his neck. I slid my leg between his and then kissed my way from his jaw down to his chest. He put his arms around me and rolled me onto my back, bringing his mouth down to mine. Something about his kiss startled me, and I woke up.
T.J. was on top of me. We were on the blanket under the coconut tree where we’d lay down to take a nap. I realized what I’d done and wriggled out from underneath him, my face on fire. “I was dreaming.”
He flipped onto his back, breathing hard.
I scrambled to my feet, then went down to the water’s edge and sat cross-legged on the sand.
Way to go, Anna. Attack him while he’s asleep.
T.J. joined me a few minutes later.
“I am completely mortified,” I said.
He sat down. “Don’t be.”
“You must have wondered what the
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