Chapter Forty-Six Mary
Chapter Forty-Six
Mary
Last weekend
Samantha Kay Kinski died sometime in the middle of the night, somewhere in the middle of the Everglades, leaving me truly alone for the first time in my life. She had literally been a part of me since before I was born—even if I was never aware of her existence.
It was only in her absence that I truly appreciated her presence.
I don’t know how long I held her in my arms, crying.
It was the kind of inconsolable anguish that comes when you finally understand that sometimes people you love leave and never come back.
No matter how hard you wish, or beg, or pray.
I held her like that, even as my teeth chattered and my muscles contracted, the chill of the damp night air settling into my bones.
Even as my heart cracked open, spilling its contents into the brackish water under a moonless sky, in my own literal nightmare.
Eventually, the well of salty tears dried up, and the fog of my grief was pushed aside by the most primal instinct of all—the one that was threaded into the code of our very DNA: survival.
I had to live. For Sam.
I promised my sister that I would do for her what she had not been able to do herself. I would find her child, and I would give her the life and the love that Sam had never had. And I would see to it that the man who had done this to her paid for his sins.
With great care, I wrapped my sister’s body in the tent material, tucking and securing it tightly so the bugs couldn’t get to her still-warm flesh. Then I fumbled around until I found a flashlight, putting it in my mouth—cursing myself for not bringing the headlamp on this trip.
As the tide rose, so did the canoe, higher and higher until I was well above the mud, the carcasses of so many fallen, rotting trees swallowed up by the black water once more. The air grew thick, humming with unseen life, the mangroves shifting and creaking as if the swamp itself were breathing.
Then the hull scraped against something—roots, maybe, or a half-buried trunk—and the canoe jolted sideways.
I clutched at the gunwale, heart pounding, but the sluggish pull of the tide twisted us again.
A splash, then another, and I heard the soft thuds of our gear sliding into the water.
The tent poles, the food, the spare clothes—gone, swallowed whole by the dark. The swamp gave nothing back.
I steadied the canoe, wiped the sweat from my eyes, and kept paddling.
I managed maybe another mile before meeting a wall of tangled debris that couldn’t be rowed over, under, or around.
I’d lost the energy required to saw through it hours ago.
My only choice was to tether the boat to a thick branch, leaving my sister behind while I struggled to make my way out on foot.
It was agonizing and slow, branches clawing at me, stumps grabbing me, mud pulling me into its thick, clinging embrace.
I lost a hiking boot and sock—not that I could feel my toes.
More than once, I slipped, falling hard against the mangroves or a felled tree trunk.
The bugs feasted on me every step of the way, clinging to me, buzzing around me, draining me alive.
The Nightmare wanted to keep me, to claim me as it had my twin.
And by the time I collapsed near dawn, I was almost ready to let it.
Almost.
I’m not sure how long I lay there like that on the tiny sliver of shore.
The dramatic events that followed were reduced to a series of snippets strung together in my mind, like a movie trailer packed with the highlights of a film you have yet to see.
The ranger, the swamp rescue team, the floating raft, the helicopter.
Again and again my conscious mind skimmed the surface of reality and time, only to drag me down to its murky depths once more.
The first time I woke, I sat bolt upright, gasping for air, swatting at bugs that weren’t there, my own scream still ringing in the tiny hospital room.
I spotted Sam standing in the corner, watching me silently.
I was just reaching for her, calling out to her, when two nurses came bursting into the room.
One tried to soothe me while the other injected something into my IV.
Sam’s name was on my lips as I floated away once more.
But then she was there with me in the cold, dark abyss, holding my hand as she pulled me toward the surface of consciousness until we were close enough for the light and the sound to permeate my stupor, if not bring me fully awake.
There was a familiar touch of my mother’s hand on my face.
“But why does she need to be sedated?” she asked from somewhere far away.
“When she was awake earlier, she was quite delirious, and it was impossible for the medical team to interact with her and treat her. She’ll be transported later today, and I’ve given orders for her to remain sedated at least until we’ve got her settled in at Miami Killian, where I can oversee her care. ”
The man’s voice niggled away at me. I knew him but couldn’t place him.
“Julian, I don’t know what we would have done without you,” my mother declared.
Julian. The third voice was Julian Braithwaite. Of course. “Uncle” Julian.
“Yes, we are,” my father agreed. But as he continued, his tone turned hesitant.
“But . . . again, do you really think it’s necessary to start the conservatorship process?
I mean, as it is, she hasn’t spoken to us in nearly two years.
I don’t see how keeping her locked up in the hospital against her will is going to make that situation any better . . .”
“As I said before, Doug, Mary is going to need time and support as she deals with everything that’s happened.
And not just this horrible tragedy. I’ve read Samantha Kinski’s file.
She was a very troubled young woman, and you said it yourselves, everything changed when she came into your lives.
Goodness only knows what kind of lies she’s told Mary over the last five years.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the driving force behind your estrangement from your daughter.
No, trust me on this. We cannot risk her taking off and disappearing once more.
Mary needs us. She just doesn’t know it. ”
“Oh, dear Jesus, I hate to do this to her,” Mom cried.
“It will be fine, Terry, I promise. Just leave it with me, and I will take care of everything.”
Powerless to move or speak, all I could do was listen until the darkness that tethered me between the two worlds pulled me back down.
The next time I broke the surface fully, I found myself in the posh VIP suite at Miami Killian, and Uncle Jules was right there at my side. There was no sign of my parents . . . or my sister.
He smiled sweetly, patted my arm, and promised to help me through this “difficult time.”
But I already knew who Julian Braithwaite was—what he was.
And that was exactly what he was afraid of.
So I smiled sweetly, pretending to adore him as I always had even as I started to formulate my plan.
It was complex, and it wouldn’t be easy to pull off, but I had to try.
I’d made a vow to my sister as she lay dying in my arms out there in the Everglades, and I couldn’t allow anything—or anyone—to jeopardize that.
These people were not going to let Mary go so easily.
So I had to stop being Mary.