Stranded

To my father-in-law, John Joseph Braun, who always greets me by asking, “So how's the writing coming?”

Here you go.

And to my parents, James and Susan Dahlstrom, for the countless bedtime stories.

I inhaled and choked. No air. Just cold, dirty water, thick with grit, rushing into my mouth.

Instantly my throat contracted, squeezing shut as my lungs refused the liquid. Gagging, I spit back.

Help me!

Panic shot my hands out, snapping my eyes open. Green fog stared back, everything a watery blur. My arms jerked spastically; my legs followed.

No!
I heaved forward, but the strap across my chest wrenched me back. My fingers fluttered automatically, an instinctual muscle memory, until they found the release button.

My chest burned, despite the cold, and my hands scrambled for the door latch. Unlocked. I slammed my shoulder against it, but the weight of water slowed it to a weak shove. It didn't budge. I shoved again, and my elbow
jabbed out the open window. Rolled down—I remembered it now. But only when I somersaulted out of my seat and my head hit the roof, did I understand I was upside down. I twisted and rolled, my entire brain consumed with finding an exit.
Air. I need air. Just one gulp
. Spots flickered and faded in front of my face like fireflies.
How long has it been? Thirty seconds? Get out! Get out now!

As I pushed myself through the window, something hot stabbed into the underside of my arm. Glass, metal, I couldn't tell, only that it bit into my skin like teeth, the sting clearing my brain for a second.
Up! Go up!
I flipped over again and pulled my head around, forcing myself to keep my eyes open. Light above me. A round golden blob, flickering down on me through the water, shiny as a brass ball. The sun. The surface. My fingers clawed through weeds and grit and muck like an animal escaping a trap.

I pushed off as the last stream of bubbles flew from my mouth, pulling hard strokes, hand over hand, shedding my flip-flops with each kick, and in four strokes I broke the surface. The blue-and-gold light blinded my burning eyes, and my mouth flew open to scream. But the only sound I heard was the howling gasp of relief I made as air rushed in.

Immediately a voice cut through my panting heaves. “I got you! I got you!” Strong hands pulled my shoulders back.

“No!” I lurched away, spluttering. “Stop!”

“It's okay! You're gonna be okay.”

“No! More!”

“You're in shock!” The hands clamped down tighter, swirling the water around me into a dark whirlpool; I was too shaky to fight.

“More people!” I screeched, bending my head down in a weak attempt to bite his hand.

“In the car?” The grip relaxed slightly. “I didn't see anyone!”

“Backseat!” I kicked out, elbowing his chest, using his torso as a wall to shove off. “One more person!”

Down I dove, my eyes strained open in the murk. Everything was shadows, dark gray-and-green blobs. Then below, a darker hulk, but I only realized it was the car when my fist punched the tire.
Where is she?
My ears popped when I swallowed, my fingers ran over the underside of the fender.
Is this the back? Where is the back?

I pushed through an open window and banged my face against the headrest, my hands finding nothing. Empty. But when I grabbed again, thin feathery wisps brushed against my arms. Tendrils like seaweed. Hair.
She's here
. My head throbbed dully as my fingers worked up the length of the seat belt—the click of the button like a gunshot in my ears. I pulled her from the belt, but her arms were already cold and soft, pieces of soggy dough that might come apart in my hands. I jerked her forward, hard as I could, screaming into the water.

*  *  *

A silver ceiling. Hanging tubes and cords and rows of knobs and buttons. Blinking red and yellow lights. I swung my head
around; my eyes rolled the opposite direction, spinning like forgotten marbles. Above my face, in front of white lights, someone said something to another person, a command or question, words that sounded like
Over here. Look at me. You're going to be all right. What is the ETA?
Were they talking to me? I couldn't answer. I didn't even care. I blinked and faded back to darkness.

*  *  *

A low buzz woke me. A hum—a repetitive mechanical beep keeping time with my heart. A cold hand gripped mine, then squeezed tightly as I blinked my eyes open. My mother's powdery perfume, dusty with the scent of lilies and roses, floated over me, and I lifted my head to ask the only thing I still didn't know. The plastic oxygen mask muffled my voice, but my mother knew what I asked. It was only a word. One question.

Under the fluorescent lights her eyes shimmered like rain-soaked pavement, but she didn't speak. She didn't say a word. She only bent her head forward and turned it, hiding her face away from mine.

Then I knew the answer.

“Are you sure, Em? You don't have to go if you don't think you're ready.”

“Christine, we've already discussed this. . . .”

“It's fine, Mom. We're already here,” I said from the backseat, watching the campers unload their gear in the gravel parking lot. They all seemed healthy. Strong and tan. Farm kids? City kids? The kind of kids whose moms probably had milk and cookies waiting for them after their varsity tennis meets or swim club. I focused on the back of one boy, lanky, shaggy hair, wearing a bright turquoise T-shirt and lugging a well-stuffed backpack over one shoulder. It was one of those serious models with a lightweight aluminum cage, waterproof ripstop nylon, and a million different hidey-holes. I had the same one.

I pressed my head against the window. “Besides, you've already paid for it.”

“Honey, that's not important. If you don't feel up to it . . .”

“I know, Mom. But Dr. Nguyen thinks it will be a good thing. So do I,” I tacked on at the end.
What I feel is irrelevant. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything.

“Okay. Well, I'm just saying . . .” My mom stopped. Her voice was thin, stretched tight like a layer of ice over water. It wouldn't take much to break it. But I couldn't stand to see her start crying. Not again. Not here. You'd think a person would get to a point where they had nothing left. Like a well of water. Eventually you have to run dry, don't you?

“It's only a week,” I reminded her. “And when I get back, I'll look into some of those college applications, okay?” There. That should convince her. It convinced my dad. I watched his shoulders sink behind the backrest, as if he was an inflatable device someone just stuck with a pin.

“That's good to hear, Emma,” he said. “You could sign up for a few community college courses. Transfer in next semester.”

I put my hand on the door latch. “That's the plan,” I lied, knowing the deadline had already passed for the local community college fall semester. Over the past year my lies were coming faster and easier, sliding out of my mouth like spit. “It's cheaper to take the prereqs there, anyway.” My dad smiled and nodded at the rearview mirror as he opened his door, satisfied.

I got out too; I didn't want my mom to see my face. My dad was easy to convince. He
wanted
to be convinced. He didn't look too far below the surface of things—I used to
think it was because he didn't believe anything was there, but now I know better. Some people just don't want to turn over the rock and see the worms.

I stepped into the hot sun and stretched my arms over my head. Despite the heat, there was a smell in the air that reminded me of the inside of a freezer. The north woods had its own scent, and after a five-hour drive north we'd gone just about as far as you can go without crossing the Canadian border. Ely, Minnesota, to be exact. Population 3,471. Give or take. The gateway to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, or BWCA, as the locals say. Last dot on the map before the wilderness.

My dad handed me my backpack with a smile. I don't know why he bought something like this; I never camp. Correction: We (the Dodd family) never camp. Have never camped. The closest we got was when I was ten and we stayed in a cabin at Jellystone Park.

But this whole thing had been my idea. I saw the BWCA brochure while I was waiting my turn in the counselor's office. I suppose I could have done homework, but that would have been a responsible use of my time. Instead I went through the stack of pamphlets on the table next to my chair, or, as I called them, illustrated cautionary tales. STDs. Smoking. Drugs. Drunk driving. The entire “don't do it or you'll be sorry” catalog, fanned out for my perusal.

I shuffled them like a deck of playing cards, until a flyer on the wall caught my eye. It was bright yellow, with a large
outline of a bird on the top. A loon, I think. I could barely read the words, so I got up and walked over and ignored the sideways glance the receptionist gave me.

DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES?

Probably not
.

HAVE YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO TEST YOUR LIMITS IN THE GREAT OUTDOORS?

Not especially
.

LEARN TO LIVE OFF THE LAND BY YOUR WITS?

Shit, no. Most of those pioneers died of dysentery. I like my indoor plumbing, thanks.

BE A LEADER IN LIFE?

Uh, I'm a pretty good follower
.

THEN JOIN US FOR A WEEK THAT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE!

Really? Only a week?

I stopped reading right there and ripped the flyer off the wall. I suppose I just could have written the information down and looked it up later, but some part of me knew that if I left the office without it, it would just be one more thing I failed to follow through on. I needed to steal it. Thankfully,
the receptionist was too busy on the phone to notice.

That night I typed the website address into the computer.

It looked to be a non-Jesusy vacation adventure in the Boundary Waters. Very Boy Scouty. Very Outward Boundish. It was for teenagers at least fifteen. I stared at the pictures of perfect forest landscapes, fiery pink-and-orange sunsets, an owl perched up in a pine tree, people paddling canoes over lakes that looked like mirrors. There, I thought. I needed to go there. I hovered the cursor over the reservation tab, already knowing the conversation I would have with my parents. What I would say. What they would say. How I already knew this was a good idea. It was a forgone conclusion, as they say. A done deal. I clicked the button.

But that had been back in the beginning of April, when there were still dirty scabs of snow on the ground. Summer seemed impossible. Now it was the second week of August, and I stood blinking stupidly in the sun, wondering where I had put my sunglasses, while my dad unloaded all the gear from the back, smiling like it was Everest base camp and he was my own personal porter.

“Got everything?” My mom climbed out of the passenger seat.

“Yep.” I didn't have a lot. Tents were provided, as were our meals. According to the website, campers were responsible for bringing a sleeping bag, hiking boots, a canteen, flashlight, warm jacket, gloves, sweatshirt, sweats, quick-dry hiking pants, personal toiletries, socks, sandals,
swimsuit, sunblock, a hat, and of course (and probably most importantly) bug spray.

“Enough Off?”

“Two cans,” I said. “With extra deet.” I slung my new backpack over my shoulders and buckled the straps across my waist and chest. Despite being stuffed to the gills, the thing didn't feel very heavy. “I've got everything I need.”