Chapter 11
11
CATHERINE
J acob doesn’t fall asleep. He passes out on the pillow, his body going completely limp.
“Jacob?”
He will not be okay after a nap. He’s been sleeping for hours. According to the clock on my phone, it’s past noon, and Jacob’s not a late sleeper.
I should have known something would go horribly wrong the second I closed my eyes.
Maybe we should get a throw pillow for that, too. Better than nothing and I should have known make a great pair.
“Jacob, wake up.” I shake his shoulder, but he doesn’t stir.
Okay. So he’s asleep again. Deeply asleep.
As it was on the plane, now is the time to remain calm.
I do not feel calm at all, so I get up and run the washcloth under more water, then lay it on Jacob’s forehead.
“In retrospect, I should have gone into nursing. Or taken more than one first aid class. I can remember how to do CPR on a toddler, but pretty much nothing else.”
Jacob doesn’t answer.
I take a deep breath and let it out. “The plan for right now is to see what’s here. We already have the cottage, which is good, and a bed, which is also good. But you need antibiotics for an infection, so maybe there are some hidden ones here. I’m going to look for them.”
No answer. I lean down and kiss his cheek. It’s like kissing a furnace.
“If you remember this once you wake up, just know that I didn’t want to leave you out of the decision-making process.” My throat starts to close up. From fear, I think. Fear based on love. I do not want Jacob to die because of infected scratches. I don’t want to watch him slip away while I sit by with a washcloth and fading hope. I do not want to be helpless. “Anyway, it’s not a very big room, so I won’t be far.”
The cabinets in the kitchen area are the main sources of storage in the cottage. There are three—two narrow ones, and a slightly wider one in the center. I looked at them in a fast, panicky fashion not long after sunrise, when I couldn’t wake Jacob.
I wasn’t, like, entirely truthful with him before. He did wake me up. Obviously, he didn’t do it on purpose. I woke up because I thought the cottage had caught on fire, or we’d left a mirror out and the sun was beaming onto our bed, or we were on an exploding plane.
Then I realized it was Jacob, burning up.
The fever didn’t break as the sun rose. It got worse.
I tried the cool washcloth thing over and over, rummaged through the cabinets without really seeing what was inside, and went back to the bed. It felt unlucky to leave him there.
Plus, he kept talking in his sleep.
I can’t think about how he sounded when he was dreaming. If I dwell on it too long, I’ll sit down on the floor and cry, and now is not the time for crying.
I start with the cabinet on the left-hand side. There are two stacks of cans inside, three—or, no, four rows deep. The label on the closest one says CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP and seems to have, like, no brand at all, only a plain white background with bold, navy blue lettering. It’s weird, but the can doesn’t have any dents. Except for the label, there’s nothing strange about it. There are other soups underneath.
Far better than nothing, Jacob says in my memory. He sounded tired on the plane, but who wouldn’t be? We’d been preparing for the wedding all day, and he’d been making secret plans to fake his death, and then we’d actually gotten married. Still, he’d had that irresistible note in his voice. The one that always makes me feel like we’re in on a private joke.
We are, a lot of the time. Aren’t we? We have jokes together. We have stories together. We have plans to visit the Villa just outside Mougins and have a real honeymoon with themed throw pillows that’ll turn this murder-honeymoon into yet another funny memory.
Someday. Someday it will be funny, or at least not horrifying.
I shut the cabinet, leaving the soup inside. Maybe this will always be horrifying. Maybe we’ll never get over it. But if I’m never going to get over this, I want to never get over it with Jacob.
The cabinet under the sink has fewer things in it. Tools hang from nails on the inside of the door. One of them is a wrench. One of them is a can opener. I don’t know what the third one is. On the back wall, there’s a handwritten sign tacked next to the switch Jacob must’ve used last night. The sign reads FLIP SWITCH FOR WATER. It has a smiley-face beneath the words. I wonder if that’s what made Jacob so sure the water was drinkable. I wonder if Jacob could even see the sign in the dark.
I want to ask him, but he hasn’t moved from his position on the bed. His cheeks are a bright, feverish red. The color goes down to his chest, where it mixes with the darker color around his scratches.
God, that looks bad . It looks like it’s eating him alive.
Is he…
Letting it?
He can’t be. He’s asleep. Even if he wanted to fight off an infection through sheer force of will, he couldn’t do it when he’s unconscious.
Okay. Cabinets. Storage. Maybe, if I look in the right frame of mind, I’ll find the key to saving Jacob’s life in here.
There are a few cardboard containers of cleaning products—mostly powder stuff, like baking soda, the tops sealed with shiny duct tape. There’s an insect-repelling candle with the packaging still on. That, unlike the cans, looks like it came from a grocery store.
I would give a lot to have a grocery store on the island.
I would give even more to have a doctor.
A helicopter would be nice, too.
Everything else in the cabinet consists of two metal plates, two metal bowls, two metal cups, and two bundles of cutlery that look like they’re made from the same kind of metal. Oh—and a little tangle of metal for scrubbing the dishes.
No miracle antibiotics. No miracle ointment that says PUT ON INFECTED SCRATCHES TO SAVE YOUR HUSBAND.
I move to the third cabinet, refusing to feel any kind of sinking disappointment. If there’s nothing here, then I guess I have to rely on a miracle. We heard a loud explosion, and fire shot up into the sky. There can’t be anything left of the plane. That probably means there’s nothing left of the transmitter in the baggage compartment, either. If anyone was looking for us—if they managed to track it—they might have known the plane exploded. Would they still look for us? Or would they decide there was no hurry?
Forget the plane. I open the third cabinet, expecting more cans of food.
A shelf divides the cabinet in two. On the top section, there are more cans of food. GREEN BEANS. CARROTS. FRENCH CUT GREEN BEANS. Some paper packets, too. RICE.
“Okay. We have green beans. We have rice.”
There’s a sealed container of salt, and a similar container of sugar.
“And…sugar? For the green beans? That would probably be better on carrots.”
I sit on the floor to search the lower cupboard, my heart doing that thing where it sneaks upward until it feels wedged at the base of my throat. This can’t be my last hope. This won’t be my last hope. Even though the situation is dire, I’ll find another hope if I have to.
Maybe I have two passionate hobbies: my life with Jacob, and surviving unsurvivable situations. Is it too late in life to settle on those things? Is it too late in this hellscape honeymoon?
“No, it isn’t,” I tell myself, then bend my head to get a clear view of the cabinet’s contents.
A white metal box. A black nylon/polyester-ish zip case. A book.
I take the book out first, since it’s on top.
“Not really a book, then.” Is talking to yourself in a stressful situation a sign you’re losing your mind? I don’t feel like I am. I feel like I’m really, really scared and pretending not to notice. Or just focusing on other things. “This reminds me of elementary school.”
Because the book isn’t a traditionally bound book. It’s not a copy of The Tempest or anything. It’s a collection of laminated pages with a comb binding. When I was in third grade, we wrote and illustrated stories. The teacher made them into books like this. She laminated every page like it was something special.
Those books were bigger—full sheets of paper for every page. This one is about the size of a journal, but there’s no inspirational quote on the front. It’s the same design as the cans of food. White background. Navy lettering that says PROCEDURES.
“Procedures for what?” I flip open the cover. Where else would the answers be?
The first page has step-by-step instructions for the water pump and a diagram. Jacob was right. The water is drinkable, as long as it turns on. There’s a couple of lines about replacing a filter and a list of checkboxes with years next to them. This year’s checkbox is marked.
The second page is a black-and-white map. An island.
This island. It has to be. The name of the island isn’t anywhere on the page, but there’s just no point in having a map of a different island in the secret cabin, which is marked on the map with the tiny outline of a house. It shows the pool next to us.
There are three other markings on the map. One is an X on the beach next to a cove.
The next marking is an N near the top of the page. I guess that’s north. The cove’s north, too, then.
The last marking is closer to where the cabin is, near the center of the island.
It’s a…
Ladder?
It looks like a ladder.
That’s the kind of thing that would be a cute little mystery in a movie and does not seem like a cute little mystery right now. It seems weird and foreboding. Is climbing a ladder the only way to get off the island? I’d climb a ladder for Jacob, obviously, but there’s a major problem with that plan, which is that he’s unconscious. I couldn’t carry him to this ladder even if he helped.
“Weight training,” I mumble to the book. “As soon as this is over.”
There’s only one more page in the book—a booklet, I guess—and it’s…
“Horoscope shit?” I read it twice to be sure I don’t also have a fever.
I was wrong. There are no horoscopes. But there is a list of astrological signs arranged in a column, starting with Aries and ending with Pisces. A second column is just numbers. The third and last column is…random objects.
“I’ve learned something from this experience.” I put the book aside and pull out the black case next. “I’ve learned that people still make comb-bound books with weird lists inside. It’s not a dead end, it’s just not miracle antibiotics.”
The black case has heft, so I rest it on the floor, then unzip it.
My heart zooms back into place.
“Jacob, there’s a radio.” He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move. But this is definitely a radio. It’s nestled into the case with another heavy-duty plastic box with switches on it. I take the walkie-talkie part—it feels like it could survive being blown up by a bomb, or, like, exploding in an airplane—and the black box out to see if there’s anything underneath.
There isn’t, but there’s a ladder etched into the slot in the foam that held the black box and a slim cutout in the foam that holds a mini compass.
“A compass is good.” I put it on the floor next to me and turn some switches on the walkie-talkie.
The screen lights up.
“Holy shit.” Another dial changes the volume.
Static. A ton of static.
I push the button. “Is anybody there? Can anybody hear me on this?”
Nobody answers. The static doesn’t change. Maybe that has something to do with the ladder. Maybe this only works if you climb the ladder. I could do that. We could do that if Jacob gets better.
The switches on the black box don’t do anything, as far as I can tell.
I turn off the walkie-talkie—the radio—whatever it is in case it doesn’t have much battery and put everything back in the case, then zip it up. My hands shake. I’m excited, I think. I’m hopeful.
I have one more thing to look through, and it’s the white metal box.
When I pull it out from the cabinet, my hope turns into hope confetti and, like, trumpets playing. On the case’s slightly battered lid is a big, red cross.
“Please. Please don’t be empty. Please have something good.”
I undo the latches on the front of the box and open it.
It’s full.
The box is full of first-aid stuff. There’s a bottle with disinfectant and some gauze and some bandaids and even a collection of smaller glass bottles and—and needles? Syringes and needles and three pill bottles and a packet of water purification tablets and a packet of electrolyte tablets and a packet of?—
Radiation tablets?
“Good!” I don’t know I’m crying until my tears fall on the packet of radiation tablets. “Good. This is good. We can figure it out from here.”
The first thing I do is look at everything in the first aid kit piece by piece. There is, thank God, a tiny guidebook smaller than the palm of my hand. It doesn’t have instructions for our specific scenario, but it does have suggestions.
And there are antibiotics.
They might not be the right kind for what’s happening to Jacob, but it’s better than?—
But we’ll try them. I’ll try them.
There isn’t a thermometer, but there’s supposed to be one in the kit. I don’t need it to tell me that Jacob’s fever shouldn’t be this high, so I move on.
He’s still out when I’m done going through the kit, and that’s long enough. I have to do something.
I start by cleaning the scratches with the antiseptic. He frowns in his sleep, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, but doesn’t wake up.
I sponge his chest with a cool washcloth.
Then I gather up one of the tiny glass bottles, labeled with even tinier print, and a needle and a syringe.
We were just in a plane crash. We just survived a plane crash. But no matter how hard I try to stay calm while I read the booklet and follow the directions for sterilizing the needle and wiping his arm with an alcohol swab—provided with the kit—and measuring out how much of the miracle antibiotic he’s supposed to have based on a chart that’s no bigger than my pinky finger. I have a headache when I’m done reading it.
I read it again anyway.
The sun is at a different angle now, and I’m not waiting another night to do something about this, so I pretend healthcare is actually my real-life passion and inject Jacob right in his arm with the antibiotics.
And then I sit down on the floor and lose it. What if I’ve poisoned him? What if I did it wrong and killed him? What if I’m about to be a murderer because I couldn’t read an instruction booklet?
What if this entire cabin and its first-aid kit and radio were just a trap to lure us in and make us think we had a chance?
I cry so hard I make my headache worse, then remember I haven’t eaten since we had snack mix on the plane.
“If the medicine is poisoned, the food might be poisoned too,” I tell Jacob, who once again doesn’t answer. “So, whatever. Whatever. I’m going to have soup. There’s no way I can eat snack mix right now.”
I eat cold chicken noodle soup.
It’s fine.
It doesn’t seem poisoned, either, or at least I don’t die right away, so that renews my hope in the antibiotics.
I use the metal scrubber to clean the dishes and put them away.
I wash my linen outfit in the sink. It’ll never be the same again, but at least it’ll be clean.
I do my best with Jacob’s clothes and hang them up. They’ll take forever to dry. I will never take our dryer at home for granted ever again.
I hover over Jacob.
His fever doesn’t break.
The clearing gets dark. The sun’s going down.
I’ve just turned on one of the flameless candles when Jacob lurches out of the bed, staggers across the cabin, and braces himself over the sink.
He’s absolutely still for several heartbeats.
Then he’s sick.
I rush to Jacob’s side and take his arm. He’s sick into the sink again, then a third time. It sounds so painful that I could cry, but I don’t. He’s the one who’s sick. When it seems like it’s over, I keep my hand on his arm.
“You’re all right,” I tell him. “You’re okay. I’m glad you’re awake. Can you hear me?”
Jacob turns and looks at me like I’m a stranger. “Catherine?”
“It’s me.”
“I don’t feel good.” His blue eyes are enormous in his face. “Catherine, I don’t feel good.”
“Come back to bed. Everything will be all right. I promise.”
I can’t keep my promise.
Everything isn’t okay. Jacob gets back into the bed. I get the decorative bowl from the wall and stay at his side. He doesn’t fall asleep again, but he’s not lucid.
“Catherine,” he says, over and over again, his hand tightly around mine. “Catherine, please, I want to go home.”
“I know. We’ll go home soon.”
“Please. Don’t make me stay here.”
“I won’t.”
“I promise I won’t eat anything.”
I don’t know where that promise is coming from, but it breaks my heart.
I convince him to drink water.
He’s sick again.
I beg him to swallow some Tylenol. He keeps it down, but the fever is stubborn. My eyes sting and burn and finally my eyelids are so heavy that I think I can’t do it—I can’t stay awake another second—but then Jacob reaches for my face or my hair or my hand, and?—
“I’m sorry.” His voice rasps, all dried out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Catherine. I won’t do it again.”
“I know.” I don’t know. I’ll probably never know exactly what he means. “Don’t worry. I love you.”
In the morning, his eyes roll back in his head and all of him tenses up for so long I think it’ll never end.
In the afternoon, something scratches at the door to the cabin.
“Let the dog in.” Jacob’s head is on my chest, his eyes closed, his hand curled into my tank top. “She wants in.”
“I will.”
The scratching continues.
My heart pounds, but Jacob doesn’t notice. I don’t argue with him about anything he says. Not even the dog that’s not a dog at the door.
I keep my eyes on the window. There’s no curtain. If Raymond Harris is here—if something worse is here—if someone worse is here—then at least I’ll know.
Maybe I’d rather not know.
Now, I think. He’s going to be in the window…now. Now. Now.
No faces appear in the window.
Eventually, the scratching stops.
The night is endless. So is Jacob’s fever.
I can’t stay awake. I can’t fall asleep.
I can’t stop listening for noises at the door. I can’t hear anything but the forest outside. Sometimes, I’m sure I can hear the waterfall. Other times, I’m sure I’ve imagined the waterfall.
Sunrise comes.
I didn’t think it would, but I’m so tired I don’t feel surprised. Jacob’s heavy, curled up on me like this, but that’s what being married is, right? Staying together.
My parents stayed together, though, and that was a mistake.
“Either way.”
Jacob swallows. “What’s either way?”
I look down into his face, and for the first time in days, in forever, he’s not flushed with fever. He has bruises under his eyes, but he’s focusing on my face and wearing a worried frown.
“Kitten? Are you okay?”
“I thought you were going to die,” I tell him, matter-of-factly as I can, and then I burst into tears.