My Last Continent(79)

“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.