Instinct (16 page)

A leg is
hanging out in space, tugged by the current.

Plunging into
the freezing water chest deep, I push forward drunkenly, reaching out to grab
the leg before it is pulled away. When I reach it, it is just in time; the rest
of the body has nearly been dragged into the deeper section, soon to be lost to
the river.

With a choked
sob, I pull on it, the weight nearly towing me underwater. After a moment, it
gives, the current releasing its hold, and she floats toward me complacently.

Even as I
recognize the sodden coat, I am denying it.

I cradle the
body to me and turn it over, revealing her death mask, the blue lips and wide
staring eyes frozen in an expression of anguish.

My knees give
way and I sink, clinging to her. Clinging to my only friend.

“Nicole,” I
whisper, and everything goes dark.

The moment the
water hits my throat I gag, arms flailing to bring me back to the surface as my
feet sink in the muck of the Shenandoah. Nicole’s body drifts subtly toward the
current and I grab for her, pulling her back toward me by her arm. I am oddly
disconnected as I tug her along beside me, struggling back toward the
riverbank. Deep mud around my ankles snatches and grasps, trying to drag us
both back.

I crumple on the
pebbled bank, hauling Nicole up one last inch until she is resting face up on
the ground, gazing unseeing at the heavily falling snow. I just stare at her
for a moment, too shocked for anything else, and watch sickly as a snowflake
settles on her open eye.

She doesn’t
blink.

I swing around
just in time, heaving acid and bile, my entire body revolting against what I
have just seen, the wooden frigidity of Nicole’s arm, the taste of dirty water
on my tongue.

When I finally
stop, gasping, curling around myself like a wounded animal, my mind starts
functioning again, and I force myself up and over to Nicole. Even though I know
it is useless, that it is far too late, I begin CPR, pounding on her chest with
as much strength as I can muster.

I cannot bring
myself to breathe into her mouth.

Moments pass
and I sag in defeat, finally acknowledging what all my senses have long known.

Nicole is
dead.

Dead.

The racking
sobs that grip me are painful, huge gulps of frozen air rending my insides,
ripping me open. I lie there on the bank next to my dead friend, utterly spent.

There is no
reason to hurry now.

After a while,
I begin to recognize the signs of my body shutting down. I am tempted to let
it.  

There is a
soft rumble and I imagine the earth is opening up to take us in; hard clumps of
dirt will strike my face and everything will finally be quiet. The rumble grows
louder, recognizable.

With dizzying
effort, I lift my head and register the gleam of lights through the trees. As
though in a dream, I am suddenly on my feet, grabbing at the scraping bark of
winter-dead branches, propelling myself forward, toward the light.

You’re
supposed to go toward the light.

When the trees
give out, I fall, my legs refusing to support me. My hands are in front of me
now, fingers digging into the snow to reach the hard surface of the asphalt
beneath, pulling me on toward the light.

“Wait,” I
shout, but it is no more than a breath, a dry rasp that dissolves into the
snow.

The rumbling
pauses and there is a muffled thump. Crunching sounds, slow at first and then
faster. I pull myself forward one more time and my face sinks into white. It
doesn’t even feel cold anymore.

“I’m going to
save you,” a disembodied voice says above me. I feel warmth on my face. “I got
you, I got you,” the voice continues, and I am rising, rising, the white all
around me. My eyes crack open, lashes tearing, frozen together. A concerned
face looks down at me, chin covered in stubble, dark brown eyes wild with
anxiety.

I am laid on a
soft surface and tucked under something heavy. It is warm, hot, blistering.
Tears fill up my eyes, but they don’t freeze. There is another thump and then
the rumbling is all around me, the man’s voice soothing and hurried at the same
time.

“I’m going to
get you to the hospital right now. You just hang on,” he promises and picks up
a radio attached to the dash, speaking forcefully as the car begins to move.

“Shanholtz here,
headed to the hospital. Got a hypothermic girl in the backseat…”

 “Stop,” I
beg, the sound of my voice like rusty nails. “Stop, stop, stop!”

We stop moving
and the man turns around to look at me. “What, what is it?”

“S-she’s
there…she’s s-still there,” I manage, and lift my arm enough to point toward
the frozen bank where Nicole still waits. “Please.”

He hesitates a
moment and then cranks a dial on the dash, blowing out more blessed, burning
heat before he jumps back out of the vehicle, the sound of his steps faint.
Minutes pass and I am becoming more aware of how badly my entire body hurts.
Thick needles of fire pierce every inch of my skin, striking clear to the bone,
and I shiver uncontrollably.

The car door
swings open and the man jumps back inside, picking up the radio again as he
forces the car up the hill and out onto the road.

“Shanholtz
again. There’s another girl on the right bank under the Shenandoah Bridge.
Dead. Notify the authorities,” he barks, his voice calm and crisp.

“Thank you,” I
whisper, and close my eyes for good.

“I don’t know
what else to tell you,” I say wearily, my throat dry and aching. The shivering
has stopped now, and I am wrapped in a pile of heated blankets, an IV pumping
fluids in my arm, and a warm air humidifier by my hospital bed. The cold is
still there, and I am terrified that it will never leave me, that underneath
everything, my bones have iced over.

“It’s quite
common for patients with severe hypothermia to have memory loss and confusion, Detective.
It’s only been an hour, and she needs rest,” my savior says stoutly, stepping
closer to me. He hasn’t left my side since he found me, and seems to have
developed a keen sense of responsibility for me. If it hadn’t been for his
dedication to his job patrolling National Park property, I would’ve frozen to
death by morning.

“I know that,
Shanholtz, but we’ve got a dead girl here, and…”

Shanholtz
gasps in protest and the police officer who has been questioning me since I
regained consciousness pauses, shooting me a chagrined look.

“Sorry. I know
you’ve been through a lot, Miss MacKenna, but we really need to figure out
exactly what happened.”

With a sigh, I
rearrange myself, feeling the stiffness in my neck thanks to the over-fluffed
hospital pillows. I look over at the detective, a tall, middle-aged man with
the frame of a former football player gone to seed. One leathery-skinned hand
rests on the rail of the bed, the yellowing fingernails betraying a
predilection for cigarettes. He scratches his short, full beard with the other
hand, mud colored eyes fixed on me in frustration.

“Detective
Radcliffe, I’ve told you everything. Several times. Nicole called me a little
after one, told me she confronted Phillip about Miranda and he flipped out. She
told me she was calling from the rafting center and to come pick her up at the
river access. She wasn’t there, and I couldn’t get my car back up the road, so
I headed back toward town and I…saw her from the bridge. I wasn’t thinking
straight…I just wanted to get her out of the water. And then Ranger Shanholtz
found me. That’s everything.” Inside I am laughing hysterically at my
dispassionate summary of the past few hours. Tonight will play over and over
again in my nightmares for the rest of my life.

“And you said
you saw a car? You think it might have been this Phillip,” Radcliffe says
skeptically. “How sure are you?”

I look at
Radcliffe directly, meeting his eyes. Even though I didn’t recognize the car,
even if I had been too out of it to make a real identification, I am not lying
when I answer him.

“I’m sure.”

“She said that
already,” Shanholtz replies hotly, taking a step toward Radcliffe. “Maybe you
should start checking out what she’s told you instead of harassing her while
she’s trying to recover.”

Radcliffe’s
lips tighten and he opens his mouth to argue, but takes another look at me and
just shakes his head. I must look pretty bad.

“Know your
place, Shanholtz. This is a police investigation, not a park matter.”  His
phone squawks abruptly and he turns away to answer, nodding at whatever news he
hears before ending the call. With another glance at me, he yanks back the
curtain that hides my bed from the bustle of the emergency ward, his shoes
squeaking on the tile floor. “They found the girl’s car at the gas station. I’ll
be back later. Rest up, Miss MacKenna.”

When the
officer is gone, Shanholtz’s shoulders relax slightly and he turns to me, his
warm brown eyes surveying me with concern.

“How are you
feeling, Derry?” he asks quietly.

Shanholtz is a
study in shades of brown with russet hair, coffee colored eyes, and the
standard National Parks Service uniform in beige. His cheeks crinkle tightly as
he smiles down at me, softly rounded features making his weathered features
appealing, friendly. He told me he has a daughter my age. I guess that’s where
the protective streak comes from.

“Better,” I
say, giving him my best effort at a smile. He takes one of the chemical heat
packs waiting on the counter and breaks it open, placing it gently behind my
neck, where the stiffness has turned into a steel rod. “Thanks,” I whisper,
tears coming to my eyes yet again. I’ve either been crying or unconscious the
entire time he’s known me.

“Don’t worry,
kid. They’re going to check into things. They’ll find out what happened to your
friend. Radcliffe can be kind of…brusque, but he’s a good cop,” he assures me.
I just nod and then close my eyes against the stabbing pain in my temples. “You
get some rest. I’ll be waiting right outside until your mom gets here.” He pats
my free hand gently and steps out, closing the curtain behind him.

Tears leak
from under my eyelids. Nicole’s frozen face paints my vision, the gaping mouth,
frosted skin, glassy eyes. Her voice rattles inside my head, her frantic plea,
her terror.

‘Hurry,’ she
begged me.

I wasn’t fast
enough.

I must fall
asleep again, because I next open my eyes to find my mother standing over me,
her face streaked with tears.

“Mom?”

She bites down
on her lips and nods, reaching out to stroke my cheek.  “I’ve failed you.”

“What?” I ask,
gradually waking up.

 “Don’t ever
do this to me again,” she whispers, her voice wobbly. The cold in my bones
loses a little of its biting edge.

“Nicole…” I
start and then the sobs come again, deep choking gasps that riddle my aching
muscles with pain.

“I know, baby.
I know. I’m so sorry. Hush…hush. You’re safe now, it’s over.” She murmurs
softly to me, her words nonsensical and reassuring, holding me while my body
rids itself of the guilt and grief. After a while, I am quiet again, and
exhaustion pulls me under once more.

My mom’s arms
around me jerk and I blink myself awake. Fluorescent light drives into my skull
with appalling force as the curtain is yet again yanked aside, revealing
Nicole’s mother, her face drawn in pallor, eyes hollow.

“Beverly, I’m
so sorry,” Mom says, standing. Nicole’s mom nods absently, her eyes fixed on
me.

“I killed my
daughter,” she says bleakly, taking a step toward me. Mom gives her a wary look
and draws closer to me.

“Beverly, I’m
sorry,” she repeats, her voice becoming firmer, “but Derry’s been through a
lot.”

Beverly
laughs, a strangled, croaking sound. “You still have
your
daughter.”

I struggle to
sit up, ignoring Mom’s restraining hand. “Mrs. Sharp, I’m so sorry. I tried to
get to her in time, but I didn’t know…”

“And you
couldn’t call me? You didn’t call the police?” she shrieks, her tone shrill and
unyielding. “You let her die, you stupid girl!”

“I’m tired of
dealing with grieving people,” a nurse says soothingly, appearing behind
Nicole’s mother and taking her by the arm, gently tugging her away from me.
“Come on now, Mrs. Sharp. You’re upset and saying things you don’t mean. We
need to let this girl get some rest now.”

“Let her rest,
let her rest. I hope you never rest again,” Beverly snarls, spinning out of the
nurse’s hold and stalking down the hall, her shoulders shaking violently.

“Oh god,” I
whisper, guilt crashing over me, knowing she is right. “Oh god.”

“Sweetie, stop
it. None of this was your fault. She’s just upset and needs to blame someone.
She’ll get over it, I promise,” Mom says, stroking my hair and trying to calm
me.

But I know Mom
is wrong. In all the confusion of my rescue I haven’t had time to really think
about how I handled the situation. It’s not just that I didn’t get to Nicole in
time; I made a terrible mistake by going to get her in the first place. I
should’ve called the cops. When she didn’t show up to meet me, I should’ve
called. If I hadn’t left my damn cell phone in the car like the worst kind of
idiot, I could have called.

Shame descends
on me in a blistering flood, coagulating in the pit of my stomach like a dirty
sponge, radiating nausea and the sick realization that I cannot go back, I
can’t fix this hollow place where a life should be.

I wonder how I
am going to live with myself after tonight.

I bite down
hard on my lower lip, not caring when I taste the salt and copper of blood on
my tongue. My throat is stiff with sorrow and I can’t swallow; my jaw aches
with the effort and my eyes are hot with unshed tears.

I have never
truly understood what it is to make a mistake.  Last year, when I was working
in my mom’s store alone one afternoon, an older man overpaid for his purchase by
fifty dollars. I was busy putting the cash register in order and didn’t notice
until the man was gone. I looked for him out in the street, and when I couldn’t
find him, checked to see if he had left a number or address in our
correspondence book, but there was nothing. I told mom about it, but she
shrugged it off, saying that if he came back we would refund it, but that sort
of thing happened all the time, not to worry about it. I stayed up all night
thinking about that man going to buy groceries or pick up his prescriptions and
finding his money short, being humiliated or worse, unable to purchase his
heart medication or something. Because of my inattention, my carelessness. He
never came back, even though I kept his fifty dollar bill in an envelope at the
bottom of the register for months. Even now, when I think of him, my stomach
twinges with the guilt.

But that was
not a mistake. Forgetting to turn off the coffee pot, telling a lie and getting
caught, failing an exam; these are not mistakes.

Letting my best
friend die is a mistake. A devastating, catastrophic mistake that can’t be
rectified. I can’t hold onto her life the way I held on to that fifty dollar
bill, putting it in reserve in hope of returning it to her someday. I can’t
apologize, or make amends, or do anything that will ease the overwhelming
wrongness of what I have done. For the rest of my life I will feel the empty
space next to me where Nicole should be, I will hear the hollow whisper of her
conversation when I speak, I will see the irrevocable mortality in her eyes in
my own reflection. I will hear her words, the desperation in her voice when she
begged, “Come get me, Derry. I’m scared.”

I push my fist
against my teeth, biting down hard to keep from howling. For the rest of my
life, her shadow will haunt me, forever recriminating, forever asking why I
didn’t save her.

I feel my
mother’s hands on me, touching my face, trying to pull my fist away, but it is
no more intrusive than a quiet voice in another room.  The ache in my throat is
unbearable now and I can hear a thin, reedy keen resonating in my chest,
trapped beneath the weight of my guilt.

I am still
screaming silently when the nurse puts the tranquilizer in my IV and I am
tugged underwater again, pulled down and down, Nicole’s accusing eyes my
anchor.

I am sitting
up in bed, trying to keep down the watery scrambled eggs the nurse has just
forced on me. Mom is outside my little curtained room talking to the doctor
before I am released, and the soft hum of their voices blends with the steady
beeping of the machine attached to me with wires and tubes. My hand is one
great throb of pain, as though the IV needle has found its home in the marrow
of my bones rather than the veins just below the surface. I try to stretch my
fingers, but they resist, wrapped together with an invisible string that forces
me to keep still.

My mother’s
voice rises slightly and a new baritone rumble joins the conversation for a
moment before the curtain is pulled aside to allow a new visitor.

“I’m angry
with myself,” Jake says quietly, standing at the bottom of the bed, his hands
behind his back. Fear spikes in my chest at the sight of him, but after a
moment it fades and I am left surprised and disturbingly pleased to see him.

“What are you
doing here?” I croak, my voice still thin and scratchy from the night before.

“The cops
called my dad this morning to tell him about Nicole. I’m so sorry, Derry.”
Jake’s shoulders twitch and I can see how he is restraining his movements, as though
he knows one false move will edge me over into terror.

His chestnut
hair is tousled and his t-shirt is on inside out. I realize that he must have
rushed over here as soon as he heard the news, without taking the time to dress
correctly or worry about his appearance. The thought that it might be concern
for me that spurred his flight weaves a warm tingle through me, a velvet burn.

Irritated by
my irrational response, I close my eyes and hope that he’ll go away without
confusing me any further. Instead, I hear the soft tread of his footsteps as he
approaches. His fingertips brush my arm and my eyes fly open.

“Did you have
anything to do with Nicole’s death?” I ask, watching him carefully, reaching
out with all my senses to evaluate his response.

Black fury
flashes in his eyes, leaving them glassy and unfocused, like a camera flash has
hit him at the wrong angle. He pulls his hands to his side, clenching the fists
as he struggles to maintain control. Finally he relaxes and looks down at me
with a sad expression.

“I deserve
that,” he admits before shaking his head, eyes locked onto mine with earnest
sincerity. “I had nothing to do with Nicole’s death,” he says clearly. My skin
remains quiet and I breathe a sigh of relief. I didn’t really think it was
Jake, but given his history of violence, I had to be sure.

“Good,” I
whisper, abruptly exhausted. I lean back against the elevated mattress,
overwhelmed by the discomfort in my body. Every muscle aches and I am so stiff
I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk.

“How are you
feeling?” he asks and I give a bitter laugh. He flushes and gives me an
apologetic smile. “Sorry. That was a stupid question.”