Lost in the River of Grass Page 16

  I watch Andy wade into the wildly blowing cattails.

  The copilot opens the side door of the helicopter and prepares to drop a sling-like chair, which is attached to the end of a cable. I hold up one finger, then point to my wrist where a watch would be. A moment later Andy breaks out of the cattails with his big hands wrapped gently around Teapot.

  I take her from him, zip her into the top of the pack, then put it on backwards so I can hold it against my chest. The copilot slowly lowers the chair, at the same time signaling the pilot as he maneuvers the helicopter until it’s almost directly above my head. The downdraft from the rotating blades nearly knocks me off my feet as I try to catch the chair and hold it still enough to get into. Andy comes up behind me and, after two tries, catches and holds it for me. Almost immediately I feel my feet leave the dock.

  When I’m dangling just outside the door of the helicopter, the copilot reaches, grabs the cable, and pulls me and the chair inside.

  “I’m Joe. Nice to see you,” he yells over the whop, whop of the blades.

  “Sarah, and ditto.” I shake his hand. Tears swim in my eyes.

  Joe lowers the chair to Andy, and while he reels him in, I look out at the landscape we’ve crossed. Miles and miles of saw grass, tree islands, and the sparkling patches of nearly open water. I remember how I felt on the observation tower four days ago. How ugly and desolate I thought it was—nothing but a hideous sameness. Now from the helicopter I can see the white ribbon of the levee and the trail that I cut across to the camp, and Andy’s path, less direct than mine. I wonder how long it will take for those traces to disappear. I look down to smile at Andy and see the chili pot and Andy’s socks by the water’s edge.

  Maybe I can find out who owns this camp and call to tell them I hadn’t meant to leave those dirty things for them.

  …

  The helicopter ride back to the Tamiami Trail is thrilling. In spite of how thankful I am to be headed home, I can’t take my eyes off the view from up here. I try to pick out the camp where the airboat sank, but if I’m seeing it, it’s indistinguishable from any other tree island. Still, I feel ownership, somehow. Bits and pieces of me are down there, skin and heart. Nothing can ever take that away.

  The chopper veers off a direct course to the Trail and over an airboat driven by a single Miccosukee Indian. He’s the same one I’d seen skim by the windows of the restaurant that first day. The copilot writes something on a piece of paper and puts it inside a red-and-yellow container that looks like a big fishing bobber. When the Indian stops his airboat, the copilot drops the message to him, then the pilot banks toward the Trail.

  “He’s been searching since Sunday,” he shouts. “I was letting him know we’ve got you.”

  His must have been the lone airboat we heard after we left the dead tree with the coffeepot.

  There are two ambulances parked parallel to Andy’s truck and two police cars pulled lengthwise across the road to block traffic so the helicopter can land. Near the top of the boat ramp, I see my parents. My father is standing by the trunk of our old car, shielding his eyes against the morning sun. Mom is standing beside him, her hands clutching his arm, her forehead against his shoulder. A wave of pity for them both, but especially my mother, sweeps over me. She thought I was dead.

  “Those are my parents,” I yell in Andy’s ear. “Do you see yours?”

  “That’s my father’s truck. I don’t see Mom,” he yells back.

  As badly as I feel for my parents, tears come when I see Mr. Vickers’s red head in the crowd.

  The helicopter puts down in the middle of the road and paramedics run toward it with stretchers. When the copilot lifts me and hands me off to one of them, the crowd that has gathered begins to applaud and cheer.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him when he puts me on the stretcher. “My feet hurt, but I’m fine. Really.” All this fuss is kind of embarrassing.

  I watch Andy let the copilot help him from the helicopter. When he spots his father coming, he hops on the other stretcher and lies down. I guess he figures he’s safer going to the hospital than home with his dad.

  The police let my parents duck under the yellow crime-scene ribbon. I bite my lip. “I’m so sorry,” I say when Dad puts his arms around me. He smells like he always does—of tar and sweat and Old Spice.

  “Nothing matters. You’re safe.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mom.” I hug her, but when I try to draw away, Mom holds on. It reminds me of Andy after he kicked the snake away.

  My mom’s not a very affectionate person. “I’m okay, Mom. Really.”

  Still she holds on.

  “Let her lie down, honey,” Daddy says. “She’s okay.”

  “I thought you were dead,” Mom says. She’s crushing my hand in hers as they wheel the gurney to the ambulance. My mother looks like she’s a hundred.

  “I’m really sorry, Momma.” They’re just about to fold the legs under and slide me into the ambulance, when I see Mr. Vickers standing behind the yellow ribbon.

  “Wait.” I sit up.

  My father looks where I’m looking. “That man is totally irresponsible,” he says. “He deserves to be fired.”

  “No he doesn’t. It was my fault. I lied to him.” I swing my legs off the gurney and hop off. Daddy grabs my arm to keep me from falling when my legs buckle.

  “What are you doing?” He puts his hands in my armpits and tries to lift me back onto the stretcher.

  “I have an apology to make.” I limp down the grassy side of the road.

  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” Mr. Vickers says when I put my arms around him and my head against his chest.

  “I’m sorry I made you worry.” I look up at him. “Do you remember how you said you wanted us to learn to love this place?”

  He nods.

  “Well, I do. It’s beautiful. Just like you said. Scary but beautiful.”

  “Maybe you’ll tell us all about it when you come back to school.”

  “I have to do a report?” I try to look astonished, then smile.

  The Miccosukee from the airboat comes toward us. “I thought you’d like to have this,” he says and hands me the bobber they dropped to him from the helicopter.

  “Thank you. And thank you for looking for us.”

  “You should be very proud of yourselves. I’ve found ’em alive and dead out there, but not many come out healthy. Lack of food, fear, and the mosquitoes have driven grown men crazy.”

  After the Indian pats my shoulder and walks away, I open the bobber, take out the rolled-up note, and uncurl it: Lost souls on board.

  Nothing I’ve ever read could make me feel more alive.

  They’ve put Andy in the other ambulance. His father is standing by the open door with his hands on his hips, watching my father march toward him. I’m afraid of what they might say to each other. “Daddy,” I call, but he doesn’t turn. I limp toward them.

  “. . . mad at you for getting my daughter into this,” Dad’s saying when I come up beside him.

  “I’m sure your daughter is as much to blame as my . . .”

  “Shut up, Dad,” Andy says.

  My father doesn’t even acknowledge Andy’s father. “. . . but I want to thank you for getting her out.”

  “Sir, I didn’t. She . . . ”

  I interrupt. “Andy saved me, Dad. He was amazing.”

  I turn to Mr. Malone. “I’m Sarah, sir, and I’m very sorry.” I put my hand out.

  He looks at me, his eyes blue ice. I drop the offer of my hand.

  My father steps between us and stares down at Andy’s father.

  I wonder how many times he’s held his resentment wadded in his stomach instead of in the fists that are knotted at his sides.

  “It’s okay, Daddy.” I look at Andy’s father. “Your son saved my life, and I saved his, Mr. Malone. Gave him mouth-to-mouth.” I smile.

  The ambulance driver steps forward, puts a hand against Mr. Malone’s chest to move him back so he can close
the doors.

  “Wait, please.” I touch the driver’s arm.

  I haven’t let go of my backpack, and no one seems to have noticed the occasional peep coming from the top portion. I unzip the bottom half and take out the Swiss Army knife. “I don’t think my brother will mind if you have this.” I hand it to Andy. “I’ll save up and buy him a new one.”

  “I’m nothing like him, Sarah.” He’s referring to his father.

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  He holds the knife in his palm then closes his fist around it. “Thank you.”

  I lean and hug him. “I’ll write to you,” I whisper, then back away. The driver shuts the second door.

  Andy’s father watches, tight-jawed, turns and marches toward his truck. The front license tag is also a Confederate flag.

  My dad puts his arm around my shoulders and kisses my forehead.

  The ambulance turns on its siren and pulls out onto the highway.

  “Where are they taking him?”

  “Naples, I think.” Dad scoops me up like he used to do when I was little and carries me toward the other ambulance.

  I put my head against his chest. “Poor Andy. His dad’s a bigger jerk than I’d imagined.”

  “Yeah. I’ve known a million of them.”

  “Was his mother here?”

  “She only left an hour ago. Nice woman. And that teacher of yours has driven out here every day.”

  “I don’t want you causing him any trouble, Dad. It was totally my fault. I didn’t want to go on the field trip ’cause I thought all the other girls hated me. It was all just an accident.”

  “What did happen?”

  “I don’t suppose they found the airboat.”

  “Isn’t it where they found you?”

  I smile. “Not even close. Andy forgot to put the stern plug in after he washed it. We got about ten miles out, stopped at a hunting camp to picnic, and it sank.”

  My father puts me on the stretcher. “You mean to tell me you weren’t where they found you the whole time?

  “We just got there yesterday afternoon.”

  “Why didn’t you stay where the airboat sank?”

  “We couldn’t. Andy said nobody would find us there. We hiked the ten miles to the levee, then to the camp because we thought there would be food there. And there was.” I pull off a boot.

  My father gasps.

  “Ten miles. Three days. No food or water?” He can’t take his eyes off my feet.

  “Andy dug scratch wells, so we had clean water, and we chewed on pieces of his belt to keep from feeling so hungry . . .” The backpack is on my stomach. I unzip the top portion. “And this is Teapot.” My duckling pops her head out.

  Dad laughs.

  “We . . . I ran over her brother with the boat and scared the mother duck off, so we brought her out with us.”

  A camera flash goes off.

  The next morning, on the front page of the Miami Herald, is a picture of me lying on the stretcher, smiling at Dad whose face registers shock as Teapot scrambles from the backpack to snuggle under my chin. The headline reads: Two Students Lost in the Everglades Found Alive. The story followed: “Sarah Emerson, a Glades Academy student, missing in the Everglades since Saturday, was found alive late yesterday afternoon. Emerson, Andrew Malone, of Naples, and a baby mallard duck were found unharmed . . . ”

  …

  By Wednesday morning, I have a huge bouquet of flowers from Mr. Vickers in my hospital room and two stuffed animals, a yellow duckling and an alligator. A few cards arrive in the afternoon mail, and those, to my surprise, are mostly from the kids who’d been on the field trip— Philip, Raymond, and the two Amandas. All were signed, your friend. Mr. Vickers must have forced them to write.

  Andy calls first thing Wednesday morning. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay. How about you?”

  “I’m home already. When are you getting out?”

  “Tomorrow or Friday. The blisters on my feet got infected. Did you get in a lot of trouble?”

  “I don’t think they’ve decided yet. What was cool is my mother cried when she saw me, and Dad’s bragging about me to all his cronies out here. I guess that’s good.”

  “I’m glad, Andy.”

  “I’m still really sorry about what happened, you know?”

  “You don’t have to be. After this I feel like I can do anything. We walked out of the Everglades. What could possibly be tougher than that?”

  “Getting my father to let me out of our front yard ever again.”

  I laugh.

  “Whatcha going to do with Teapot?”

  The question stings, but I shrug my hospital-gowned shoulders. “She’s at home in my bathtub right now.” I don’t want to think about what will become of Teapot. “My parents are having some people over for a little welcome home party on Saturday, can you come?”

  Nothing. Only silence.

  “Andy?”

  “My father would never let me.”

  “Don’t ask him. Ask your mother.”

  “I will, but don’t count on it.”

  “I’ll try not to, but I’ve kind of gotten in the habit of counting on you.”

  There’s only the sound of his breathing for a moment, then he says, “And me on you.”

  I’m holding the bobber the Miccosukee gave me and staring at the pattern in the tile ceiling when my mom comes in a few minutes later. She puts an overnight case on the end of the bed, so close to one of my sore feet that I flinch.

  “That poor little duck keeps peeping for you,” she says.

  I close my eyes.

  …

  When I get home on Friday morning, I go straight to my bathroom and open the shower curtain. Teapot launches herself out of the disgusting looking litter-box pool Mom put on the floor of the tub and tries to pop out and over the side of the tub. I catch her and hold her under my chin. The inside of the bathtub looks as if an avocado has exploded and aged to a golden brown.

  I kiss her head while Teapot runs her bill through my hair, making peaceful little hiccuppy noises. Lewis, our dog, snorts and snuffles, his nose pressed to the crack beneath the door.

  I wipe the tub out with toilet paper, flush the wads of seed, then rinse the litter box and run the shower to wash the tub. I put Teapot back in her clean pool, but when I slide the shower curtain closed, Teapot flings herself against it. Lewis starts to bark.

  “Stop it.” I whack the door with my palm. What am I going to do with Teapot?

  21

  “What are your plans for that duck?” Mom asks when I limp into the kitchen after cleaning the tub.

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Maybe your dad can build it a little pen and we can keep it in the yard.”

  I remember Andy’s pet snake and his purple gallinule. I want that kind of freedom for Teapot. “I need time to think this through, okay?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right, but you have to decide pretty soon. It’s driving the dog—”

  On cue, Lewis begins to bark again.

  “Lewis,” I shout. “Shut up.”

  “I told her she has to decide what to do with the poor little thing before the dog digs under the door,” Mom says, when Dad comes into the kitchen.

  “Actually, I just settled that,” he says.

  Since getting back, I’m always either hungry or, if I’ve just eaten, thinking about what I’d like to eat next. I turn from staring into the refrigerator. “What do you mean?”

  “I did a roofing job at Macaw World a few months ago. I called the owner, and he agreed to give Teapot a home. She can live on the flamingo pond.”

  I stare at him. I’m not prepared for this. In fact, deep down, I’m not ready to accept that I really have to give her up and am still trying to think of a way to keep her. “That . . . that’s wonderful, Dad,” I say, but my expression must have given away how I feel because Mom takes my hand and squeezes it.

  “I’ve got something else
for you.” He opens the Publix grocery bag he’s carrying.

  I try to imagine the world’s largest avocado, which he will fill with his special crab salad. Instead has an envelope of photographs.

  “I’m sorry about breaking your camera lens, Dad.”

  “Do you think that matters? Besides, it’s in the shop, and they said they can fix it. One tough camera; one tough photographer.” He hands me the envelope.

  I open the envelope and take out the five prints. The top picture is of the AABCs. They look like a row of starlets in their perfect little outfits and their perfect hair and teeth, gaudied up like clones of each other. It dawns on me that in a year or two I won’t remember who was who. They will be what they always were, unimportant in my life. I lay the picture down on the counter in front of the toaster.

  The second one is mostly a blur of muddy water and wings, but I can still see the alligator’s jaws have snapped shut on the heron’s legs, and the fish is still skewered on the heron’s bill. I look at Mom, then at Dad; they are standing on either side of me.

  “An action shot of the food chain,” Dad says.

  “I took this picture from a sixty-five foot tower. How could I have ever imagined that by the next morning I would no longer be at the top of that chain, but somewhere in the middle?”

  The next is a wonderful picture of Andy, handsome and smiling at the camera. I don’t know if it’s the old Dodge truck behind him and the Pan Am flight bag he’s carrying, but he looks as if he’s from a different time.

  “That’s a nice picture of you,” Mom says of the next one.

  I feel struck by lightning. I’m smiling at the camera, too, just like the Barbies, except of course, I’m the black one. My makeup is perfect, my teeth are white, my lips and fingernails are red, and I’m wearing an outfit—matched as well as I could match old shorts, a T-shirt, the bandana and my boots. The difference is my eyes are dull and my shoulders are humped up around my ears. I’m looking at a girl who had retreated into herself.

  The Leica focuses differently from the digital cameras the other kids had. When the two images in the viewfinder merge, the camera reads how far the photographer is from the subject. For a moment I consider tearing up the picture of me, but decide I will keep it as a reminder of how far away I am from that girl perched on the seat of the airboat. She and the boat lie forever in the mud at the bottom of a pond.