The Distance Between Lost and Found (15 page)

“Hal—” Rachel starts.

“No.”

“Please?” Now Rachel bats her eyelashes.

“Sorry. It's just that . . .” Hallelujah doesn't know how to explain how singing was the thing that mattered the most, how it was her dream for herself, how hearing her voice soar felt like she was flying for real. How she used to practice until she was almost hoarse and then go on practicing inside her head. How much she'd loved the way her voice harmonized with Jonah's during their duet in ninth grade. How much she'd looked forward to singing with him again.

And she doesn't know how to explain how much she misses singing, even though when she quit in January, it was her own choice. Or how, despite missing it, she's scared of the idea of starting again. Or how she's even more scared that her voice, her raw talent, her training, everything—that it will all vanish. That she's wasting it.

“You don't have to,” Jonah says. “But you should know that there are people who'd love to hear you again.” He pauses. “I mean, I would. But not only me.”

Hallelujah feels a lump in her throat. “I wish,” she says around it, “everything could go back to how it was before. I didn't know how good it all was.”

“I guess we never do,” Rachel says. She sounds tired now. “Jonah, can you build the fire up more? I'm still freezing.”

“That ice bath earlier was worth it, huh,” Jonah teases.

“Shut up,” Rachel says. But she doesn't sound mad. The breeze picks up, and she shivers, looking at Hallelujah. “You're not cold?”

“Just a little,” Hallelujah says.

“Lucky.” Rachel huddles in on herself. “So, Hal, if you don't hang out with friends and you don't do choir anymore, what
do
you do? Don't say homework.”

“Um. No comment.” Hallelujah lets out a small laugh. “I'm kind of into cooking lately. Not, like, culinary school into it, but it's something I enjoy doing.” No one else knows this. No one but her parents, her guinea pigs. Out loud, it sounds stupid.

“Really?” Jonah asks. “You never told me that.”

“I didn't start until . . . until after.”

“Oh.” There's a moment of awkwardness, and then he says, “Maybe you can cook for us? When we get home?”

“Okay,” Hallelujah answers. “When we get home.” It sounds possible, put like that. The three of them together, in her kitchen.

“What'll you make us? What's your best dish?” Rachel asks. “Describe it. I want to hear every last ingredient.” She leans forward, eager. “I want you to make me
taste
it.”

And so Hallelujah tells Jonah and Rachel about the chicken Parmesan she made a few weeks ago. The bread crumbs and the egg wash and the olive oil and the from-scratch tomato sauce. Her mouth waters as she talks, and Rachel closes her eyes and smiles, and Jonah just looks at her like the recipe is the most interesting thing he's ever heard. When she's finished, it's quiet. They sit, and they imagine.

That's when they hear it. A whirring, chopping sound. It disturbs the air. Sends birds bursting from the trees.

Jonah's on his feet in an instant, face toward the sky.

“Is that what I think it is?” Rachel asks, eyes wide.

“I think so.” Hallelujah's voice comes out as a whisper. She stares up, afraid to trust her ears.

It sounds like a helicopter. But she can't tell where the noise is coming from. The sound bounces off the mountainsides, coming at them from all directions. It's getting louder, getting closer. But how close is it? Will it actually fly over them?

She can't see anything. The trees are too thick.

Jonah is waving his jacket at the fire, fanning the smoke into the wind. Rachel is on her feet, jumping and waving her arms. Hallelujah waves hers, too.

They try to make themselves seen. Jonah's blue jacket. Rachel's pink one. The thick, black smoke from their fire. Movement and color where there shouldn't be movement and color.

And they yell, even though they know they won't be heard. Not over the motor, over the propeller. Not from up there, when they're down here.

The chopping sound is softer now. Farther away.

They keep yelling, waving, fanning the smoke.

The echoes fade. The helicopter is gone.

It passed them by.

Jonah drops his jacket on the ground. He stands, looking up, looking defeated.

Rachel bursts into tears. She wraps her arms around herself and sobs. When Jonah reaches out a hand to touch her shoulder, she shrugs him away.

Hallelujah feels numb. She can still hear the violent, thrashing helicopter, inside her head. It was so close, and then it wasn't. It was here, and then it was gone.

They weren't seen.

Jonah sits back down next to the fire. Rachel squats by the creek, splashes water on her face. Runs her wet hands over the angry red welts on the backs of her legs.

No one says anything. There's nothing to say.

The afternoon sun is orange, hanging low in the sky. There's a second sun reflected in the creek, shimmering, moving with the current. The orange sun and the orange reflection and the orange flames remind Hallelujah of rescue that hasn't come.

They're still out here. Still alone.

T
HE SUN DROPS LOWER AND LOWER
. T
HEIR EYES ADJUST
.

The temperature drops too. Hallelujah rubs her hands together, pretending the itch in her palms is the prickle of her skin warming up.

Dinner is the last energy bar and a half, with a side of dandelions. It's painfully small, even by their new standards.

“Tomorrow, I'll try fishing,” Jonah says.

Hallelujah nods. She thinks about her chicken Parmesan. And her empty stomach.

Rachel stares into the fire. She chews, slowly, on her few bites of energy bar. At first, Hallelujah thinks she's just savoring it, but there's something in the movement that's weird. Uncontrolled. Like her head is bobbing along with her jaw. Like she's not quite all there.

The hunger must be getting to her, too. And the disappointment.

The night settles in around them. The world gets bluer and bluer. The creek sounds louder now that its waters are dark. The night birds start to call.

“Hallie, can I ask you something?” Jonah's face is in shadow. His voice is soft.

“Sure.”

“This morning, what you said, on top of that mountain—that you thought maybe you felt God there?”

“Yeah?” The morning seems so long ago. That brightness and hope seem like a dream.

“Do you feel it now?”

Hallelujah takes in a breath. She closes her eyes, thinking.

She doesn't feel the same as she did this morning. Not at all. Up on that mountaintop, looking out over miles of untouched forest, she felt comforted and safe. She felt the promise of great things on the horizon. Now, after a day that didn't live up to the promise of its dawn, she doesn't feel comforted. She doesn't feel safe. She doesn't know what the horizon holds.

But does that mean God has left them alone in the wilderness?

She thinks about the difference between feeling God's presence and trusting that he's there, regardless. Jonah's easy
Yeah, sure
, this morning, when she asked if he still believes God's there. But if God is watching, and there was a possibility of rescue earlier, then what was he doing? How can he just be up there, looking down, and not guide them? How can he not help?

Just like that, Hallelujah is back in her bedroom, talking to the ceiling. To something she hopes for but can't feel. To a God who isn't listening when she needs him most.

Tears prick at her eyes, and she blinks rapidly.

“Hallie?”

The words come out in a rush. “I don't feel God right now,” she says. “If he's there, he's”—she takes a shaky breath—“really far away.”

“Oh,” Jonah says. Then, softer, “Me too.”

Those two words feel like a punch to Hallelujah's gut. She's used to feeling alone, like God—like everyone—is far away. But it's scary to hear that feeling in someone else's voice. Especially Jonah's. So she keeps talking, trying to find something to say that will make it better.

“But we're alive,” she says. “We're alive, and there are a million reasons we shouldn't be. Not after two and a half days out here. So there's that.”

“So you do feel like we're being looked out for?”

“Maybe? I mean—I don't feel safe. I don't feel like we're in this little bubble. But maybe God knows we're here, and he's just waiting for the right moment. . . .” She fades off, thinking about how many times she asked God to punish Luke, to make him stop spreading lies about her, to expose him for who he really was. And she thinks about this morning, when she realized that she didn't want Luke to have power over her anymore. That she was ready to make it stop.

“What if,” she says slowly, “whether or not we feel God, we're where we're supposed to be? Every step of the way, we've ended up where we needed to be.”

“Rained on. With poison ivy. And out of food. And with your ankle sprained.”

“I know, it doesn't make sense. I'm just thinking out loud. But maybe—maybe it's okay that things are so bad because we're where we're supposed to be. Like you said this morning, maybe there's a plan. Maybe something's supposed to happen.”

Something
has
happened. She's changing. She's opening up.

Hallelujah glances up toward the sky, toward the bright stars, thinking,
Really?

“I'm not trying to argue with you,” Jonah says, “but isn't that kind of a stretch? No matter how bad it gets, if we make it home alive, we say it was God's plan?”

“That's not what I meant. Not exactly.” Hallelujah lets out a puff of breath. “You asked me if I felt God. You asked.”

“I did.”

“Well, I don't feel him. Not how I want to. But maybe he's out there, watching. Maybe there's a plan. Though if there is, he's sure taking his time getting us home!” She raises her voice on that last part. The word
home
echoes in the air.

Rachel speaks up suddenly. “I don't think I believe in God.”

“Really?” Hallelujah asks, surprised. “Why'd you come on a youth group retreat?”

“I've gone to church since I was a kid. I'm used to youth group stuff. A lot of my friends in Nashville were from church.” Rachel pauses. “My mom isn't really into church anymore. She hasn't gone since she and my dad split up. When we first stopped going, it was nice to sleep in on Sunday mornings. Then I kind of missed it. Especially being in a youth group.” Another pause. “But if I'm being honest, I missed the social part way more than the God part.”

Rachel is shivering. A lot. She hugs her knees into her chest, rocking a little.

“The more I think about it,” she goes on, “the less I believe that there's a God. It's not that I don't
want
to believe. It can be comforting, right? To believe in something taking care of you. But I don't feel anything watching out for me. I don't feel like I'm praying to anything. And looking at the past year, at what I prayed for—for my parents to stop hating each other, to not have to move over winter break, for my mom to act like she cared, at least a little, about how I was doing—praying definitely didn't help. And now we're lost and starving and I'm scared, and if God is supposed to help, where is he?

“If there is a God, why are we even lost out here? Why would he let this happen? Why are my parents so messed up? Why did he let Luke do whatever he did to you? Why does the world suck so much, for so many people?” Rachel's voice cracks. Now she's really shaking. “It would be great if God was out there. But maybe the only thing that makes sense is that he doesn't exist.”

It's like the night grows darker with that sentence. The air grows colder.

After a few moments, Jonah asks, “So it's all chance? Luck? Stuff just happens?”

“I don't know, okay?” Rachel is slurring a little. But she keeps talking. “I just know that I don't feel anything. And I'm not sure I ever did.”

Hallelujah is struggling to find words. She understands, completely, how awful it feels not to have prayers answered. To feel like you're shouting into a void. But being mad at God and deciding there
is
no God are two different things.

“Just because you don't feel God,” Jonah says, “doesn't mean he doesn't exist.”

“So my two options are that there is no God,” Rachel says, “or that he's there but wants nothing to do with me. Life keeps getting better and better.” She tries to stand up, but her legs don't support her. She crumples to the ground, still shivering all over.

“Rachel!” Hallelujah scrambles to Rachel's side.

“I'm really . . . cold. . . .” Rachel says. She curls into the fetal position. Her eyes look distant, like she's seeing Hallelujah from a long way away.

Hallelujah wraps her arms around Rachel as she shakes and shakes. Rachel's skin is cool. It feels colder than the breeze that's blowing past. Just touching Rachel gives Hallelujah a chill. “Jonah, what do we do?”

Jonah has jumped into action. He's piling more wood on the fire. He strips off his jacket and throws it at Hallelujah. “Put this on her legs. Cover her.”

Hallelujah wraps Jonah's jacket around Rachel's thighs. She pulls her extra T-shirt over Rachel's exposed calves and ankles. And then she wraps her body around Rachel's and tries to absorb the shivering.

When the fire is roaring strong, Jonah squats down next to them. “Rachel?”

No answer. Just the chatter of teeth.

“Okay, Hallie. I'm going to move her closer to the fire.”

Hallelujah rolls away from Rachel. Jonah scoops Rachel up as if she weighs next to nothing and sets her down gently a few feet over. Then he beckons to Hallelujah.