Stolen (31 page)

I laid my palms against the smooth, cool table as I waited for you to return. I looked across at the fluid bag, empty and deflated and unhooked from my arm. Earlier I’d been walking across the sand, eager to find you. Two hours later I was staring up at the kitchen ceiling with venom coursing through my body. My eyes wanted to shut. I almost let them. It would be so easy just to sink back into that haze that was threatening to engulf me. I focused on the pain in my stomach and listened to you outside, calling to the camel. I didn’t know how you’d get me out of there, still didn’t know if you really would. The room started spinning slightly and sick rose in my throat. I turned sideways and spat.

I pressed my hand to my chest. I could feel my heart.
Boom, ba-boom, ba-boom.
It was going to beat right through my ribs, cracking them all. I tried slowing my breathing. To do this, I tried to determine exactly where my heart was. Left side, or right? We’d learned that at school once. I pressed around, trying to find it, but it felt like my whole chest was made of heart. My whole body was beating. And it was getting faster. It felt like I was going to explode.

I looked over at the cupboards, wanting to focus on something else … anything but death. My eyes latched on to the open drawer. There were sheets of paper spilling out of it from where you’d been searching. I blinked, tried to focus. There was that photograph: the one I’d seen before of the girl and her baby. It was sticking up between the pages.

“Gem?”

Your voice jolted me back. You were coming through the door, your arms full. You let the things you held drop to the floorboards and the noise reverberated around me. You came to my side, saw where I was looking, and extracted the photograph from between the papers. I caught one last glimpse of it before you slipped it into the back pocket of your shorts, seeing the long hair of your mother and the smallness of you.

You hesitated before shutting the drawer, then took out something else.

“I made it,” you said gruffly, “for you.”

You shoved it onto my finger. It was roughly carved, shaped from a lump of something colorful and cold … a ring made entirely from a gemstone. It was beautiful. It glinted emerald greens and blood reds over my skin, and had tiny flecks of gold threading through it. I couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Why?” I asked.

You didn’t answer that. Instead you touched the ring gently and looked at my face, unsaid questions in your eyes. Then you turned my hand over and checked my pulse, leaving your fingers resting against my skin. They felt like flames.

“Now listen,” you said more firmly, your voice in control again. “I’ve got a plan.”

I tried to concentrate on you, but your face was going a little wobbly around the edges. You picked up something from the floor. I blinked when I realized what it was—a long metal saw. Its teeth looked rusty and sharp.

“What are you doing with that?” I said. I felt down to my bandaged leg. You noticed.

“Don’t worry, your leg’s safe.” You nodded toward the table. The corner of your mouth came up in a half smile. “The ones on that aren’t, though.”

You reached into the metal box and pulled out more bandages, starting to unwind them. You placed one across my stomach. Then you stepped back, looking at me like you were measuring me up.

“What now?” I asked.

“I’m going to tie you to the table,” you said. “Then I’m going to tie that to the camel. Then we’re going to walk to where you left the car and get it started.”

There were too many things to object to, so I focused on the car. “You’ll never find it.”

“I will.”

I remembered my last image of the car, stuck deep in the sand.

“You won’t start it,” I said. “It’s bogged.”

You shrugged. “I thought it would be.”

“I don’t want to die out there,” I whispered.

But I don’t think you heard me. You started moving quickly around the room, pulling out another metal box and filling it with different containers of medicine, water bottles, and food. Then in one swift movement you scooped me up and laid me gently on the floor.

“Just while I chop the legs off,” you said, smiling apologetically.

A draft wafted up from a crack in the floorboards, making the dust swirl and tickle in my nostrils. You picked up the saw and started cutting the first leg. I felt the vibration in the floor as you cut, and the saw blurred into a copper fuzz. One leg came off. You started on the next. You worked quickly. But I wanted you to work faster.

Soon the legless table lay on the floor beside me. You lifted me up and placed me on it. Using the bandages you’d taken out just before, you tied my body tightly to it.

“It’s too hot, too tight,” I complained.

You dabbed at my face with a towel; then you laid it across my body. You got me a glass of water and forced me to drink.

“It’ll only get hotter,” you said.

I cried out as you carried my makeshift stretcher outside, my stomach cramping from the jerk of your steps. I shut my eyes against the sun and pulled the towel over my face. From beneath that material, my breath hung heavy and warm, my cheeks hot as coals.

I tensed as you lowered the table to the sand. The camel was beside me, kneeling. I could hear her chewing, and I could feel her body heat. I stretched my arm out sideways and touched the fur of her belly with my fingertips. You were on the other side of her. I heard you there, attaching something: the box you’d just packed, I guessed. Then you slung a rope over her hump and across to me. You wrapped that around and underneath the table, tying me and my stretcher to the side of the camel. You pulled hard on the rope, and the stretcher moved across the sand, drawing me closer to the camel’s stomach so that I was lying next to her. I was so close I could smell the stale dust of her fur and hear the rumblings of her stomach. I pressed my arm against her side, and a tiny insect jumped from her skin to mine.

Then you told the camel to stand. I heard her moan start deep in her belly, rumbling all around me. From somewhere farther away, I heard your words of encouragement, urging her on. Then my body jolted backward as her front legs rose. I cried out, grabbing at her fur. The pain was worse when she straightened her back legs. But somehow the stretcher remained horizontal, with me flat on my back, tied tightly to the camel like a heavy saddlebag.

“Hang in there, Gem,” you said, laying your hand on my shoulder. “This whole thing’s going to hurt a bit.”

The camel took a couple of hesitant steps. I braced myself, gripping the table edge. My body shifted back and forth, sending out stabs of pain. And then we were on our way. Once she was moving, the camel seemed to forget about the weight she was carrying and strode forward easily. I peered out from under the towel. You had a lead rope in one hand, attached to the camel, and a long stick in the other. You were walking fast beside us, almost jogging to keep up with the camel’s huge steps. Sweat was pouring down your bare chest, washing away the last of your paint.

“Up, girl, up,” you called. “Faster …”

The words you spoke were a little like a song, the dull thud of the camel’s steps the beat. The sounds blurred in my mind, getting softer, softer …

I tried to breathe slowly, concentrating on that rather than the cramps in my stomach. The light was burning my eyes, burning them blind. I pulled the towel back over them. You’d put a bottle of water on either side of my head and I leaned my cheek against one, cooling my skin slightly. But soon the bottles were as warm as I was, the water swishing loudly against my ears. My whole body jolted and hurt with each step. My head was pounding, too.

At one point you slowed the camel enough to push something into my mouth.

“Chew this,” you said. “It will help with the pain.”

The substance was soft like gum, but it tasted as bitter as leaves. An earthy smell rose up into my nostrils. A numbness spread out around my lips. I listened to the sound of the water swishing, the camel plodding, and you panting beside us. There was a fly somewhere, too, whining on the other side of the towel. The heat was smothering me, making my breathing shallow. I think I slept.

I was back home, walking down my street. It was a warm spring day. On my neighbor’s front lawn, some kids were splashing about in a paddling pool. I went around the side of the house, leaping the fence and heading for my bedroom window. If I jiggled the window latch in just the right way, it would open. But it didn’t. Not this time. I kept pushing at the window, trying to force it. I slammed my fist against it. A thin crack appeared in the glass. I brought my hand to my mouth and sucked it, checked for glass fragments. Then I looked through the window into the room.

There was a child in my bed. She was about ten years old, with coppery-brown hair and green eyes. She even had my pink rabbit tucked in beside her. Her fingers were clutching the covers tightly around her, and her eyes were open very wide. She was staring at me. As I watched, she glanced toward her bedroom door, assessing how far it was to run to it. She could do it. It was only five steps to that door, and another ten to the kitchen. She reached toward the intercom, but I knew already what was going to happen. Her hand brushed the glass of water beside the bed, knocking that to the floor instead. As her mouth opened into a scream, I pressed a finger to my lips. I shook my head.

“No,” I mouthed. “It’s OK. It’s only me.”

The girl stopped then, mouth open, looking back at me like I was an alien. I gave her a little smile. Then I took something out of my pocket—a bird’s nest—and I placed it on her windowsill.

And then, I knew. I was
you
placing the bird’s nest. But I was
me
looking out, too. I was us both.

There was water on my forehead. The towel was stuck to my skin. I forced my eyes open. I moved my arm from under the towel and felt the water drop onto my hand. I thought I was still dreaming. I grabbed the towel and pulled it from my face. The water dripped onto my cheeks and mouth, cold and fresh. It almost sizzled as it hit me. I stuck my tongue out and licked at it. The sky above me was gray and it wasn’t so hot anymore. I could breathe.

My body was moving more than before. The camel had picked up pace. I turned my head and cried out as pain shot up my neck. It was the first I’d felt since you’d given me the soft leaves to chew. You were jogging beside us, your legs stretching out to keep up with the camel, your eyes darting back toward me. You saw me watching you. I wanted to ask how long we’d been traveling, but my throat and voice were thick and useless.

“Not much farther,” you said, your voice breathless from running.

I looked up at the drops of water, falling more frequently. You grinned, sticking your arms out and twirling as you ran.

“Rain,” you said. “The sky’s crying for you.”

You clicked your tongue and tapped the stick against the camel’s back legs, and she broke into an even faster pace. It made me slip farther back and forth on the stretcher, made me wince. You noticed and slowed the camel. I tilted my head and looked at where we were headed. We weren’t far from an outcrop of rocks and trees. The rain started to get heavier. The towel glued itself to my body with the downpour. The rain ran over you in streams, turning your hair dark. You shook it out of your eyes, flicking more drops in my direction.

“We’re going to need to wait this out,” you panted.

The rain pattered against the sand like tiny claps, or muted drumbeats. I tried to focus on that sound, rather than on the pain in my leg that was becoming worse. My stomach was cramping badly again. But we got to the trees. Quickly, you whooshed down the camel and unloaded the supplies. You made a makeshift shelter from tarpaulin and rope and tree branches. Then, carefully, you carried me to it. You laid me on a blanket inside it. You took the wet towel from me and replaced it with something warm and dry, crouching down beside me.

“You’re feverish,” you said.

You pulled at the tarpaulins you’d tied between the trees, trying to block the rain that was coming in at us sideways. I felt the weight as you put another blanket on top of me. For a moment I thought I heard thunder; a deep growl from the sky. You moved my head so that it was lying in your lap.

“Keep your eyes open,” you said. “Stay with me.”

I tried. It felt like I was using every muscle in my face. But I did it. I saw you from upside down, your lips above my eyes and your eyes above my lips.

“Talk to me,” you said.

My throat felt like it was closing up, as if my skin had swollen, making my throat a lump of solid flesh. I gripped your hand.

“Keep watching me, then,” you said. “Keep listening.” You glanced out at the weather, looking at the sky. “It’s not a full-on thunderstorm, only the side effects of one nearer the coast. Hopefully it won’t be long until it passes.”

I frowned, wondering why it was raining in the desert. You read my expression.

“It doesn’t normally,” you muttered. “Only when it needs to.”

Your words made your face blur. Your eyes swam in a round brown pool of skin. I gasped for more air and a raindrop fell in my mouth. You smoothed wet strands from my face.

“I’ll tell you a story,” you said. “I’ll tell you about the rain.” You poured a little water into my mouth. I almost coughed it back up again. You took a sip of water yourself, before continuing.

“Rain here is sacred,” you began. “More precious than money or gemstones. Rain is life.”

You pressed your fingers to my temples. That small amount of pressure made it easier to look at you, easier to keep my eyes open.

“When rain falls in this country,” you said, “it mixes with the sand and makes new rivers of red. Riverbeds that have been dry for months come alive and run with bloodred water, making veins in the sand … bleeding life over everything.”

You stuck your hand past the tarpaulin into the rain, then pressed it down into the ground. When you brought it back to me it was stained with red clay. You stroked it across my forehead, down my cheeks, and across my mouth. I felt sand grains smear across my skin, and smelled the iron-earth and freshness from the rain. Somehow it helped me stay awake.

“When rain falls here,” you started again, “animals that haven’t been seen for months, years sometimes, crawl up out of the earth and live again. Plants stretch up from the sand. Roots flower.”

Your fingers moved over my chin. I could feel your short nails against my skin, pattering like the rain, keeping me awake. When you spoke next, you whispered. I had to strain to catch your words before they were lost in the drumming of the downpour.

“Traditionally, women dance when the rain falls,” you said, “splashing at the edge of the flowing red rivers. And as they dance, they let blood run down their legs, the rain-blood, and their own. It’s not only the land that bleeds out here … we do, too.”

Your fingers darted up, brushing over my lips. I could taste the salt on them. A grain of sand slipped inside my mouth. You smoothed the red clay down over my neck and onto my collarbone, massaging it into my skin. A raindrop fell on my forehead and I felt it take the clay with it as it dripped down my cheek. For a moment, I felt like the trees I’d seen bleeding when I’d been lost in the sand dunes, with streams of ruby sap on my skin.

Again there was that distant rumbling sound, like the earth was opening up somewhere far away, like it was swallowing something. And quickly you turned your head from me, toward it. You glanced at the tarpaulins, checking everything was secure.

“So, you see,” you murmured, “rain is the desert’s way of changing. All around us, plants are spreading out, insects are mating … things living again.”

Your face swirled. You talked more, but I could no longer hear the words. Your lips were just caterpillars, wriggling on your face. And I was slipping, my skin heavy and swollen like a grub’s, a dull ache traveling through my muscles. I needed the rain to make me live, too.