waited a minute and then I asked, “Who was that guy at the airport?”
“My boyfriend, John.”
I remembered the kiss he’d given her. It looked like he was trying to jam his tongue down her throat. “You must miss him.”
She didn’t answer right away, but then she finally said, “Not as much as I probably should.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing. It’s complicated.”
I turned on my side and shoved my seat cushion under my head. “Why do you think that plane didn’t come back, Anna?”
“I don’t know,” she said. But I thought she did.
“They think we’re dead, don’t they?”
“I hope not,” she said. “Because then they’ll stop looking.”
Chapter 9
—
Anna
The next morning, T.J. used the knife to whittle the ends of two long sticks into sharp points.
“Ready to spear some fish?” he asked.
“Definitely.”
When we reached the shore, T.J. knelt down and picked something up.
“This must be yours,” he said, handing me a dark blue ballet flat.
“It is.” I looked out at the water. “Maybe the other one will wash up.”
We waded into the lagoon, hip deep. The heat wasn’t as intolerable in the morning, so I wore T.J.’s T-shirt, instead of just my bra and underwear. The hem soaked up water like a sponge and clung to my thighs. We tried unsuccessfully for over an hour to spear a fish. Small and quick, they scattered as soon as we made any kind of movement.
“Do you think we’d have better luck a little farther out?” I asked.
“I don’t know. The fish are probably bigger, but it might be harder to use the spear.”
I noticed something then, bobbing in the water. “What is that, T.J.?” I shielded my eyes with my hand.
“Where?”
“Straight ahead. Do you see it bobbing up and down?” I pointed at it.
T.J. squinted into the distance. “Oh, fuck. Anna, don’t look.”
Too late.
Right before he told me not to look, I figured it out. I dropped my spear and threw up in the water.
“He’s going to wash up, so let’s go back to the shore,” T.J. said.
I followed him out of the water. When we reached the sand I threw up again.
“Is he here yet?” I asked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Almost.”
“What are we going to do?”
T.J.’s voice sounded shaky and unsure. “We’re going to have to bury him somewhere. We could use one of our blankets, unless you don’t want to.”
As much as I hated giving up one of our few possessions, wrapping him in a blanket seemed like the respectful thing to do. And if I was being honest with myself, I knew there was no way I could touch his body with my bare hands.
“I’ll go get it,” I said, grateful for an excuse not to be there when he washed up.
When I returned with the blanket, I handed it to T.J., and we rolled the body up in it by pushing it with our feet. The smell of decomposing, waterlogged flesh filled my nose, and I gagged and buried my face in the crook of my elbow.
“We can’t bury him on the beach,” I said.
T.J. shook his head. “No.”
We picked a spot under a tree, far away from the lean-to, and started digging in the soft dirt with our hands.
“Is that big enough?” T.J. asked, looking down into the hole.
“I think so.”
We didn’t need a large grave because the sharks had eaten Mick’s legs and part of his torso. And an arm. Something else had been working on his bloated white face. Scraps of the tie-dye T-shirt he’d been wearing hung from his neck.
T.J. waited while I dry-heaved, and then I grabbed one edge of the blanket and helped him drag Mick to the grave and lower him into the hole. We covered him with dirt and stood up.
Silent tears rolled down my face. “He was already dead when we hit the water.” I said it firmly, like a statement.
“Yes,” T.J. agreed.
It started to rain, so we went back to the life raft and crawled inside. The canopy kept us dry, but I shivered. I pulled the blanket over us—the one we’d now be sharing—and we
“My boyfriend, John.”
I remembered the kiss he’d given her. It looked like he was trying to jam his tongue down her throat. “You must miss him.”
She didn’t answer right away, but then she finally said, “Not as much as I probably should.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing. It’s complicated.”
I turned on my side and shoved my seat cushion under my head. “Why do you think that plane didn’t come back, Anna?”
“I don’t know,” she said. But I thought she did.
“They think we’re dead, don’t they?”
“I hope not,” she said. “Because then they’ll stop looking.”
Chapter 9
—
Anna
The next morning, T.J. used the knife to whittle the ends of two long sticks into sharp points.
“Ready to spear some fish?” he asked.
“Definitely.”
When we reached the shore, T.J. knelt down and picked something up.
“This must be yours,” he said, handing me a dark blue ballet flat.
“It is.” I looked out at the water. “Maybe the other one will wash up.”
We waded into the lagoon, hip deep. The heat wasn’t as intolerable in the morning, so I wore T.J.’s T-shirt, instead of just my bra and underwear. The hem soaked up water like a sponge and clung to my thighs. We tried unsuccessfully for over an hour to spear a fish. Small and quick, they scattered as soon as we made any kind of movement.
“Do you think we’d have better luck a little farther out?” I asked.
“I don’t know. The fish are probably bigger, but it might be harder to use the spear.”
I noticed something then, bobbing in the water. “What is that, T.J.?” I shielded my eyes with my hand.
“Where?”
“Straight ahead. Do you see it bobbing up and down?” I pointed at it.
T.J. squinted into the distance. “Oh, fuck. Anna, don’t look.”
Too late.
Right before he told me not to look, I figured it out. I dropped my spear and threw up in the water.
“He’s going to wash up, so let’s go back to the shore,” T.J. said.
I followed him out of the water. When we reached the sand I threw up again.
“Is he here yet?” I asked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Almost.”
“What are we going to do?”
T.J.’s voice sounded shaky and unsure. “We’re going to have to bury him somewhere. We could use one of our blankets, unless you don’t want to.”
As much as I hated giving up one of our few possessions, wrapping him in a blanket seemed like the respectful thing to do. And if I was being honest with myself, I knew there was no way I could touch his body with my bare hands.
“I’ll go get it,” I said, grateful for an excuse not to be there when he washed up.
When I returned with the blanket, I handed it to T.J., and we rolled the body up in it by pushing it with our feet. The smell of decomposing, waterlogged flesh filled my nose, and I gagged and buried my face in the crook of my elbow.
“We can’t bury him on the beach,” I said.
T.J. shook his head. “No.”
We picked a spot under a tree, far away from the lean-to, and started digging in the soft dirt with our hands.
“Is that big enough?” T.J. asked, looking down into the hole.
“I think so.”
We didn’t need a large grave because the sharks had eaten Mick’s legs and part of his torso. And an arm. Something else had been working on his bloated white face. Scraps of the tie-dye T-shirt he’d been wearing hung from his neck.
T.J. waited while I dry-heaved, and then I grabbed one edge of the blanket and helped him drag Mick to the grave and lower him into the hole. We covered him with dirt and stood up.
Silent tears rolled down my face. “He was already dead when we hit the water.” I said it firmly, like a statement.
“Yes,” T.J. agreed.
It started to rain, so we went back to the life raft and crawled inside. The canopy kept us dry, but I shivered. I pulled the blanket over us—the one we’d now be sharing—and we
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