Chapter Seventeen
Milo
Must remember this is work. Must remember this is work. Must remember this is work.
And God, I’m trying. But things are shifting by what feels like the minute.
So damn fast, that I keep getting carried away.
Daydreaming about what this weird, intangible change of vibe – yes, Allie, vibe – might mean.
Could it be something again, us two? And just as I start playing that tune, I’m reminded that there are actually only two days.
Two more days, then it’s over. No more Allie Lake.
No more Captain Lake with her authority and expertise and confidence.
She’s so damn smart, too, and why was it hot when she called me Officer; looked me deep in the eyes and told me to listen to her?
It’s not like I can even distract myself from all these thoughts.
Because it’s just us, and nothing for miles. Total, icy wilderness.
No phones.
No stores.
No hotels. (Haha.)
Nowhere to escape to.
She’s all I’m thinking about, but she’s also all I can see.
And to think when I first landed at the station, the days ahead felt like a horrible, stretching, dark forever. Now it doesn’t feel like anywhere near enough time.
‘Slow down,’ she barks at me. She keeps doing that too, says we shouldn’t rush because the ground is slippery, but there’s something about the endlessness, the sameness, that makes me want to just get it over with; get to the next new thing.
I’d give anything to stumble upon some sort of event right now – a lame thought, I know.
What would it even be? Polar bears with boomboxes?
Geese with blunts? But – something. That’s what I want.
Maybe some loud music, hundreds of chattering voices to drown out everything.
If I was at home now, in my apartment, I’d go straight to Yio’s for pizza.
Nobody bothers me there. I’d sing karaoke – ‘Perfect Day’, Lou Reed, obviously – and drink full-fat Coke with the regulars who are always too focused on singing to remember my name.
Maybe I’d even start Iris’s hat. Place an order for new yarn. She said she wants purple . . .
‘Did you hear me?’ asks Allie. ‘It’s really icy.’
‘I am slowing down,’ I say. ‘Captain. Plus, aren’t you the one with the bad foot?’
‘It’s fine.’ She shrugs. ‘You’re the one acting as though we’re late for something. As if speeding on, will get us there quicker. Officer.’
I laugh. ‘Allie, unless I’m once again missing out on some super important science thing, usually the faster you go, the quicker you do happen to get somewhere, no?’
‘Not if you fall,’ she says. ‘I keep telling you. If you fall, or slip. Or, you know, die, then we’re screwed.’
‘You’re sort of obsessed with me dying out here,’ I say, and she rolls her eyes, although I can sense a little laughter behind them now.
We walk and walk.
The clouds have started to darken now. It’s as close to night as we have experienced since I got here.
I keep seeing Allie look up at them – as if they’re an unwelcome guest. As if the doorbell just rang and we weren’t expecting anyone.
I can imagine that’s how Allie Lake looks toward the door when guests arrive.
Allie likes quiet. She likes peace and organisation.
Allie likes the things she likes and the things that fill her up.
She knows what fills her up too. Whereas I have no idea.
I’m learning, sure, and I’m making progress, but I’m like a fountain that takes coins, but also tyres and shopping carts and perhaps toads and also maybe old power tools.
And I love unexpected guests. Anyone to help me take a break from my busy, noisy mind.
And I can’t help it. As we traipse across the hard, cold ground, as the clouds turn indigo, as the wind starts to pick up, as my brain scrabbles around for something to squeeze in its palm, absentmindedly like putty, I think of us.
Allie and I, living in a cottage or something.
Green going for miles out of the windows, dogs everywhere, always one to walk.
Allie moving around in those pyjama shorts she wore once on FaceTime, with the cactuses on.
Me, a paperback open on my thigh. The doorbell chiming.
Sunlight on her face. Hot drinks steaming on the coffee table, our own place .
. . jeez. I’m almost winded by the vision.
But how would that even work? She lives here a lot.
In nowhereness. I live in New York, I work everywhere.
My life is loud and busy and under the magnifying glass. Allie’s life is quiet and anonymous.
And this is why we were doomed, I guess. But then what is it Jameson says: The coolest things in life are the things that work even though they shouldn’t. And maybe that’s us—
A scream cracks through my thoughts, followed by a thump.
She’s fallen.
Ah, shit, she is down.
Ass planted firmly on the ground; face all winces and hard lines.
‘Fuck. Allie.’
She groans, clasps a hand around her ankle. ‘Oh my God,’ she’s saying. ‘Shit.’
It’s not the foot. It’s not the pain. More than anything, she’s angry at herself. It’s written all over her face.
I drop to her side. My own shoes slip, but I manage not to fall alongside her.
‘Are you all right?’ I rush out.
‘My . . . my ankle – I . . . Argh, it hurts.’
‘Was it me?’ I ask breathlessly. ‘W-was I moving too fast, was I—’
‘No. No, it was me, I— Jesus. Oh. That hurts so much.’
‘OK. OK, let’s . . . let’s just take a second.’
‘I’m . . . just . . . I can’t get up, Milo.’
‘Your ankle’s a little stuck. Sort of . . . jammed between the rocks.’ I slip off my backpack. ‘All right, I’m going to put my hands under your arms, is that OK?’
‘Um . . . just hang on a minute.’ Her voice is strangled, croaking at the edges. She’s in pain. It’s so clear she’s in pain and pretending she isn’t. God, the stubborn ass on this woman.
She tries to move – of course she does – groans. Her ankle is totally jammed.
‘Allie, would you just—’
‘Sorry, I . . .’ She nods, almost despite herself. ‘It just hurts so much.’
‘I know. It’s all good. We can take our time. We’ll go slow. We’ll go gently.’ I bend behind her, and put my hands under her arms. ‘I’m going to just lift you, OK?’
And I lift her. She’s light, and I can feel she’s shaking a little, which kind of breaks my heart.
‘OK – if you can, and only if you can, slowly lift your ankle – that’s it.
That’s right. Good.’ It’s out. I hold her there, her weight against me, her hair bristling against my face.
Watermelon. Always watermelon. We haven’t had access to proper showers, and she smells like watermelon – how?
‘All right, I’m going to lower you now. There we go. ’
‘OK,’ she breathes shakily.
I lower her, so she’s sitting on a rock again. Water has seeped through, staining her pants. I move around to her foot. She hisses through her teeth, trying to lift it and bend her leg towards her.
‘Allie, let me—’
‘I’m OK,’ she says.
‘Will you let me take a look?’
‘I’m going to look,’ she insists, voice still shaky.
‘I’m first-aid trained, Allie. As hard as that might be for you to believe. I’m not a total jackass.’
‘I know lots of jackasses who also know first aid,’ she remarks. She lifts her foot and groans, tries to stifle it.
‘Allie, just—’ I sigh. ‘Just let me look at your goddamn ankle.’
And she gets it then. My stern Officer Ford voice worked.
‘Fine,’ she sighs. ‘OK.’
I peel back the cuff of her pants, and edge down the thick ridge of her sock. It’s fuchsia pink – the letter A in white on the side. And there it is. The wound. An angry dark cut through the skin of her ankle. The skin around it, a cloud of red.
‘There be the culprit,’ I say.
‘There be?’ she asks breathlessly.
‘We’re at sea aren’t we, captain? Well. Kinda.’
She’s pale. I guess she’s in shock. But it gets a tiny smile. Sugar. I’ll get her some sugar, that’ll help.
‘First aid kit in my backpack,’ she says, and I grab it, finding a zip loc bag full of energy bars too. ‘Hey. Can I use this?’
‘The cereal bars?’ She looks worried now. Like some sort of barbarian is in charge of fixing her up. A dog who’s been given human powers for the afternoon, and he’s going to fix up her wound using . . . oats.
‘No the . . . zip loc.’ I smile. ‘It’s just – I have an idea.’
‘For my ankle?’
‘No, for a game,’ I say, laughing. ‘Seriously, Allie, what do you take me for? Yes, for your ankle.’ I break off some ice still thawing on the rocks, and put that in the bag.
‘DIY ice pack.’ I grin as I crouch down.
And I see it. This tiny little glimmer of warmth.
A look of OK, I’m impressed. ‘I’m going to lift your foot now. OK?’
She nods and, slowly, I place her foot on my thigh, fingers grasping the warm skin. I roll down her sock a little more, and freeze when my finger touches a chain – an ankle chain. I don’t know why. But it feels intimate. This part of her, hidden beneath clothes.
‘All right-y then.’ I have never said that before in my life but I have to admit, I feel a little discombobulated. I place an antibacterial wipe down first, then the ice pack on her ankle. ‘That feel OK?’
She nods. ‘Yeah. It does. Thanks.’
Water trickles around us, finding its way down to the ocean, and salty, iced wind picks up. Her hair blows into her face and she pushes it away.
‘I’m going to just rest this here, then I’ll fix up the cut. We should be all good in no time.’
She says nothing, then softly, I hear, ‘Thanks, Milo.’
‘Officer Ford to you.’
She smiles, watching me. Despite the temperature, I feel a small torrent of warmth.
I start to take things out of the kit – more disinfectant wipes, band-aids.
There is something weirdly meditative about this, and a little voice in my head says, ‘I could get used to this.’ And I guess that little voice means looking after Allie.
I want to look after her. I want to take care of her.
‘Sorry,’ she says.