As I get to my feet, I tighten my grip, fiery pain screaming through my fingers, and when I look down at his ungloved hand, through a blur of sudden tears I see jagged penguin-bite scars in the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger.
“Come on, Deb,” he says gently. “You would do the same thing.”
“I fucking did, Keller—I was out there looking for you. I almost died, remember? By some miracle, we both made it—and now you want to go back?”
“Yes, we made it,” he says. “That’s my point. Don’t you think those who are still out there deserve a chance, too?”
I’m still holding tightly on to his wrist. “I won’t let you. Not without me.”
“You can’t even walk.”
“That’s my final offer—stay here, or take me with you.”
He sighs, his whole body pausing, and he leans his forehead against mine. While I don’t relax my grip, I let myself savor this shred of time, the impossible fact that he’s here. I’m barely breathing, not wanting to break the spell, to turn this moment into a memory—we have so few as it is.
He’s still and silent for so long that I think maybe I’ve convinced him. Then I feel his hand on mine, trying to loosen my fingers. I’m losing strength but clamp my hand down as firmly as I can.
He raises our hands. “Your ring held up,” he says.
I look down at my hand, flushed and swelling with frostnip, the ring more snug on my finger than ever.
“It’s tough, like you,” he says. “Like us.”
“Everything has a breaking point.” I turn away from him and look out the porthole. “Don’t you know how lucky you are?” I say, more to my reflection in the glass than to Keller. “You’re not even supposed to be here.”
I hear him behind me, his breathing slow and steady, as if he’s waiting patiently for my permission, which I’m not about to give. I jerk backward as a wave leaps up and slaps the glass.
“Remember Blackborow?” Keller says.
The stowaway on Shackleton’s journey.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there either,” Keller says. “And he worked longer days than anyone.”
“Yeah, and didn’t he lose all his toes to gangrene?”
“But he made it,” Keller says. “They all did—because that’s what it takes. It takes everyone.”
“What about us? Would it kill you to stay behind for once?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, his arms around my shoulders again, his cheek against mine. “I’m impervious to ice, remember?”
I know he’s trying to make me smile, but I can’t. “It’s not just me you need to come back for.”
“I know that,” he says. “And there are still parents and children out there who need help. You know why I have to do this.”
I do, just as he knows I’d be out there, too, if I could. And I know he won’t leave without my blessing, and that not giving it to him would change everything that we are.
I turn around and let my forehead fall to his chest. I feel his hands in my hair, and I shift my head to the side. Through the fleece I can hear his heart beating, reminding me of the rhythm of Admiral Byrd’s heartbeat as he’d sprawled in my lap.
I look up at Keller. There’s so much I want to tell him—how helpless I’d felt, being unable to locate him; how lost, thinking he was gone—but my thoughts are nothing more than a mental mirror of the bay outside, a mix of brash, of hope and fear floating and cresting and crashing until they’ll either merge or melt away, and I don’t know which.
ALONE IN THE stateroom, I stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep, even to close my eyes. I turn my head and look around. Unlike our utilitarian crew’s quarters, this is like a hotel room, painted a warm, soothing green. Photographs of whales and albatross adorn the walls.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I test out my ankle, which hurts, but not as much as before. I stand up, feeling dizzy, and wait for it to pass. Once I feel steadier, I look around for my jacket. I don’t see my naturalist’s jacket—in fact, I’m not wearing any of my own clothes—but when I open the closet door I find a red cruise-issued parka, and I put it on. It’s big on me, a man’s size, and it makes me wonder whose room I’m in and why the guy isn’t wearing it himself.
As I make my way up to the main deck, I peek into the lounge. I recognize many of the Cormorant passengers who are now helping Susan care for the injured, or comforting the distraught, offering blankets and cups of coffee and tea. I glimpse Kate applying a bandage to a woman’s scraped and bleeding hand. I walk past to the port deck, where I can see the island and watch the crew unload Zodiacs down below. I know at this point they are doing more recovering than rescuing.