My Last Continent (22 page)

He doesn't say anything as I pull up alongside the ice. He gets out, and I help the man to his feet. We get him out of the Zodiac, and then Thom looks at me. “Be careful,” he says.

“I'll let you know how things look when I get closer.”

He nods, then steps away. He pulls one of the man's arms over his shoulder, and they begin the walk back to the
Cormorant
. I watch them for a moment, making sure the ice is stable, that it'll hold. We are surrounded by a seemingly endless number of survivors—and these are the lucky ones, the ones who are close to safety. We still have no idea what is happening farther away, on the ship.

I turn the Zodiac around. The ice is thickening quickly, as is the fog, and I can find no direct route to the
Australis
. The Zodiac can handle open water and not much more than a little slush, so I have to traverse around the jagged floes at
a maddeningly slow pace, moving almost parallel to the ice field I've just left, making very little forward progress.

I'm maneuvering through small lakes of water, gray as ash, when I see someone standing a few yards in the distance, alone, turning around in a circle—it's a crew member, in a bright orange parka, but with the hood up I can't yet see who it is. My heart kicks up with a wild, sudden hope, and I'm about to shout over there when the figure slips and falls hard onto the ice, getting up a moment later only to fall again—this time below the ice, into the water.

I make my way there as quickly as I can without puncturing the outer tube of the Zodiac on the rough ice. I can see where the ice is thinning and am surprised that whoever had fallen in hadn't seen it, too. No crew member should be walking anywhere near ice that thin—unless maybe it was to help someone in danger, but I don't see anyone else around. Maybe this means it's not Keller—I doubt he'd make such a mistake. Unless, of course, he was exhausted and freezing and out of his mind, which by now all members of the
Australis
crew must be.

I catch a glimpse of orange in the water and stop the boat. Bracing my legs against the deck of the Zodiac, I reach over and grab the parka by the collar, hauling the body toward me. I'm getting a little help—the body below me is kicking, moving forward and upward—and I manage to get the head and shoulders draped over the rubber side of the Zodiac. I take a second to breathe and see that it's a man, and that he's not wearing a life jacket, but I can't see his face.

“Come on, dammit,” I say. “Help me out.”

I brace my legs against the inside of the Zodiac and pull.
A few more kicks, a little muscle from both of us, and he's halfway in. I lean over, cringing as I feel the pressure on my belly, and drag his legs into the boat, swinging them over the side. He lands hard on the deck, then looks up.

I can't believe what I'm seeing. “Richard? How the hell did you get out here?”

“You wanted my binoculars,” he says, teeth chattering.

“I told Kate to give them to one of us. You have no business being out here. And why are you dressed like this?”

“I borrowed a jacket.”

I look around for the quickest route back to the
Cormorant,
dismayed that I have to take yet another detour, and furious with Richard, who is babbling about something and stealing away crucial moments when all I can think about is finding Keller.

“Once I had—the jacket on—with the hood—no one knew.” Richard's teeth are clattering so hard he can hardly talk. But he continues.

“I went out—onto the ice—in a different direction. Saw two people—stranded—on a piece of ice.” He begins to cough, then recovers. “Tiny piece of ice. I threw them—the rope—and pulled them over. They jumped across—made it. I sent them back to—the boat—and then—looked for more. People—who need saving.”

I look over at Richard and see that he is so detached from reality he has no idea, despite his body's convulsive shaking, how close he'd come to being a victim himself.

“I saved them,” he breathes. “Two people.”

“And you almost got yourself killed, Richard. You could've gotten me killed.”

“But I didn't.” Then he looks at me, and suddenly he appears completely lucid. “What about the other one?”

“What other one?”

He rubs his eyes, his brief moment of clarity gone. “Wait,” he says, then he has to pause to breathe. “There was someone on the ice. Back there.” He tries to stand. His strength is surprising given he'd plunged into the water, and his manic energy alarms me.

“Sit down,” I snap. But I look over my shoulder, briefly, to where we'd been. I don't see anyone.

Richard struggles to his knees, pointing. “He was over there.”

I look at him. “Are you sure?”

He nods, his body shaking.

“Fuck.” I'm not sure I believe him but can't take the chance on leaving anyone behind—especially when this person could be Keller. I turn the Zodiac around, returning to the spot where I'd hauled Richard out. I don't see anyone, or even the trace of someone having gone under, and when I look at Richard, he seems equally confused.

“He was right around here,” he says, swiveling his head.

“Was he passenger or crew?”

“He was right here.”

“What happened? Did you see him fall in?”

“No,” Richard says. “He was—lying—on the ice.”

Whether it's the cold, an adverse reaction to the medication, or his own delusions, Richard isn't making any sense. “You probably saw a seal. That's all.” I turn the boat around yet again.

“No, no, it was a man—a blue jacket—”

I remember the binoculars and look at Richard, my eyes searching for a strap around his neck. “Where are your binoculars? Let's have a look.”

His hand goes to his chest, as if he expects them to be there. “I—I don't know.”

“For fuck's sake.”

“I saw him,” Richard insists.

“Well, I haven't seen anyone but you out here. I've got to get you back to the
Cormorant
.”

“I have to get out,” Richard says and moves toward the side. “I have to look.”

“No,” I say, pushing him back down. I place my rubber boot on his chest to keep him there while I pilot the Zodiac. Ice scrapes against the sides as we cut through the slush, sometimes lifting us entirely as we crest on more slush than water.

“How'd—you find me?” he asks.

“I saw you fall in.”

“But I was—under—for so long.”

“No,” I say, looking at him. “It was only a few seconds.”

He shakes his head. “It was at least ten minutes,” he says.

I want to tell him he'd be dead if that were the case, but there's no point. He babbles on. “The water—so green and clear,” he says. “Stalactites underwater. I saw birds flying—thought I was in the sky—so heavy down there. So heavy.”

“Try to relax, Richard,” I tell him, as gently as I can. “You're in shock. Just sit tight. We're almost there.”

“I saved two people,” he says.

“Okay,” I tell him. “Okay.”

As we head back to the
Cormorant,
I cast another glance behind me, at the devastation I'm leaving behind. I prod the
Zodiac through the ice, thinking about my last conversation with Keller, how we'd been disconnected. I wonder when the phone had cut out, whether he'd heard me tell him I'm pregnant. I wish I'd been able to call him back to make sure he knew. And now, I hope I'll get a second chance.

TWENTY YEARS BEFORE SHIPWRECK

Columbia, Missouri

A
few blocks away from my dorm I meet the volunteer, right where she said she'd be. Before we come into view of the clinic, I hear the voices of the protestors, and as we approach, I keep my eyes downward, avoiding their signs, the photos of fetuses, the huge letters spelling their outrage over what I'm about to do. The volunteer guides me past them, talking softly the whole time, helping me shut out their voices.

Inside, I complete the paperwork, and when I get on the scale on my way to an exam room, I'm surprised to learn I've lost eight pounds, the opposite of what I'd expected. They give me a pregnancy test, and when they do the ultrasound they ask if I want to see it. I say no.

They explain the procedure in more detail than I need or want, and then I put my clothes in a locker and change into a gown. They can't give me anything other than local anesthesia and ibuprofen because I don't have a ride home. I haven't told anyone.

I put my feet in the stirrups and close my eyes. Even when
I feel the pressure, the cramping, I tell myself it's no different than a pelvic exam, a regular checkup, only this one will last a bit longer. I try not to think of the signs I've seen on Interstate 70:
SMILE—YOUR MOTHER CHOSE LIFE
and
ABORTION CAUSES CANCER
. I try to clear my head, but I end up thinking of Pam, of how, if I'd taken my job more seriously, devoted myself more fully to the work, maybe I wouldn't be here at all.

After returning from Rocheport, I'd planted myself in her office, apologized, and sworn I'd never miss another day of fieldwork again. She'd waved it off, but I still felt guilty, as though I'd let her down. After that, I showed up early for class and fieldwork and submitted everything she needed ahead of the due dates, as if to make it up to her. I'm not sure she noticed, or cared, but it made me feel better.

As I lie on the exam room table, unable to avoid the sounds—the movements of the physician and her assistant, the clanking of their instruments against the metal table, the suction of the aspiration machine—I try to pinpoint exactly when it happened, when this cluster of cells being removed from my body first started growing. It had to be right before Chad and I ended, if not our very last time together, and this feels like the cruelest part of all.

I think it was the night we were in the darkroom, developing film and printing photos for our next assignment: a portrait. It was late on a Saturday night, and we were alone, just the two of us under the crimson light, amid the sound of water trickling.

It wasn't long after Rocheport that I sensed Chad withdrawing from me—he was always busy with classes and reporting, and he no longer invited me to events. I began to mirror his behavior, to convince myself we were on the same page. We
still saw each other in class, still ended up in bed at his apartment from time to time, and we began fitting each other into our schedules rather than the other way around. Once, I'd tried to talk to him about it, lightly:
I thought we were going to be ongoing. Present perfect, remember?
He'd looked at me and said,
Present tense and future tense aren't the same thing.

As Chad slipped a print into the developer, I glanced over at him and realized it had been a couple of weeks since we'd been together. Under the warm red wash of the safelight, I felt a sudden pull, the familiar, weak-kneed feeling I got around Chad. I waited until I couldn't stand it a second more.

I moved closer, behind him, reaching around to his chest, his stomach, which tightened under my hands, and then I reached lower, and he abandoned his photo in the developer and turned around. He pressed me back into one of the enlarger booths, lifting me up so that I was propped against the counter, and I could hear the enlarger, heavy as it was, rattling behind me as we banged against it.

It wasn't until just after that I realized I hadn't even thought about a condom, and neither had he. But we were careful most of the time, and I shrugged it off even though I knew too much biology to have been so careless, so cavalier. We were breathing as though we'd just run ten miles, flushed and sated as we found and handed each other the items of clothing we'd strewn across the painted black floor.

Chad returned to the tray of developer, where his photo had turned black. He tossed it out and started again. My portrait already done, I hovered around in a sort of afterglow; I had nowhere else to be.

Chad had spent the day out at Eagle Bluffs, a conservation
area of mostly forest and wetland that, because this was Missouri, was better known for its fishing and hunting than for birding and wildlife. His portrait was of a weathered old fisher­man, and it was exquisite. Chad had captured the man's features, his concentration; he'd caught the history of the man's face in perfect light, shadow, and depth.

It was because I'd recommitted to my work with Pam that I'd chosen her for my portrait. She was among a minority of women on the science faculty at Mizzou, and I thought it would make a nice piece for my portfolio. I'd photographed her in the lab, whipping out my camera with the sole intention of getting the task done, not thinking about the light, the angle, or of taking a variety of shots. When the image first emerged in the developer, I liked what I saw—Dr. Pam Harrison in her white lab coat, bent over a microscope, a wisp of dark hair falling from behind her ear, eye wide open at the eyepiece. But later, when I saw Chad's portrait, I glanced over at mine, already hung to dry, and saw that it looked flat, emotionless, static. Most of all, it seemed to be a symbol of everything I had in store for myself: a dull, colorless life of feathers and data and little else.

I looked away from the image of Pam's face and, trying to distract myself, leaned over the sink as Chad agitated a new piece of photo paper. I watched the image of a bird emerge, a wood duck he must've seen at Eagle Bluffs while he was shooting the portrait.

“Wow,” I murmured. “She's beautiful.” The image was black and white but captured the gray scale of the female of the species perfectly: her smooth-feathered face, her white-shadowed black eyes, her salt-speckled breast.

And then I noticed that the image was a little blurry, that Chad was agitating the photo more vigorously than he needed to, as if to hurry up the process—and that his lens hadn't been focused on the wood duck in the foreground but on a woman, long-haired and smiling, stretched out seductively on a blanket.

I released my prints from their clothespins and stuffed them into my folder. I mumbled that I had to go, and Chad, still busy with his photo, paused and looked at me.

“It's just a photo,” he said, in a weary, halfhearted way, as if we'd had this discussion a hundred times before and he couldn't decide whether to try to convince me to stay.

I flung the door open as I left, flipping on the overhead light, exposing his print. I heard his muffled curses as I walked down the long hallway.

Breaking up, such as it was, happened as naturally and unceremoniously as getting together had, as if it was meant to be all along. He never knew about the pregnancy.

BEFORE I LEAVE
the clinic, they give me a brochure on birth control, as if I hadn't known better, as if this had been a mistake of ignorance rather than impulsiveness.

The weeks leading to my appointment had been excruciating. I felt that everyone who looked at me must've been able to tell; I worried that Chad would find out somehow, even though there was no way he could possibly know. And my choice seemed inevitable no matter how I looked at it, no matter how many ways I tried to imagine another outcome.

As I walk slowly back to campus, I think of Chad's photograph, the wood duck, how lovely it was. It feels hypocritical that I wouldn't dream of eating an animal but that I hadn't thought twice about ending a pregnancy. Maybe I've begun to live too closely by the rules of the animal kingdom, where sacrifice makes sense, where it's necessary and just and often more humane.

THIS YEAR I'M
dreading my visit home more than usual. Alec's family has just moved to Kansas City, so he's spending the holidays there. My cat, Ginger, is gone—she'd disappeared after I left for college. The first time I came home to find her missing, I put up signs and checked the shelter, to no avail. I feel her absence most acutely at night, alone in my childhood bed, and I can only hope that she's found a new family, one that welcomes her more than mine did.

My father's empty seat at the table is filled by Mark's new son, Christopher, the first grandchild. I'm watching the baby examine a soft plush rattle, holding it up to his face, when my mother suddenly says to me, “Deborah, are you all right?”

I swing my head toward her, not realizing until that moment how intensely I'd been staring at Christopher. “I'm fine.”

“You don't look well,” she says. “You look like death warmed over.”

“I'm fine,” I repeat, and a few moments later I get up and lock myself in the bathroom. A glance in the mirror tells me she's right—my face is pale, eyes sinking into dark hollows—
and I prepare myself to tell them, if they ask again, that it's because of work, because of finals. But it isn't.

I turn my back on my reflection and lean against the sink, taking deep breaths. I always feel most alone when I'm here at home, but this year the feeling is sharper than ever, and I can't help but think it's because I've made a dreadful mistake.

The next night is a repeat of every other—it's all about the baby—and for a moment I wonder what it might've been like to have come home pregnant. Though my mother hopes I will one day have a big family, at this stage of my life it would've been scandalous—but it also would've made me less invisible.

When I run this notion by Alec over the phone, he convinces me otherwise. “You don't want that sort of attention, believe me,” he says. “You did the right thing.”

Still, the emptiness I feel goes beyond the solitude I'm used to and often enjoy. It's that something was there, a chance at something, and then it wasn't—I'd had it and given it up, destroyed it, and would never get it back. I'm on the bus heading back to Columbia when I finally figure out what I've lost: the chance to have another person in the world I could relate to, someone who might turn out to be a little bit like me, someone I could love, who would love me back.