Call Me Sometime

Sand in my face, in my eyes, in my nose.

Water, in my throat. I cough and try to open my eyes, but the sun feels like knives.

Maybe I could sleep just a little longer; I actually nuzzle into the sand a little deeper. A wave comes up to my waist, and I sit up fast. Too fast. I immediately pass out again.

As I come to, I see someone walking toward me, far away. Woman, I think—strong, thin, with long braided hair. She walks with a little hitch in her step, like an old injury, more out of habit than pain. As she gets closer, I notice her hands; I always notice people’s hands. They look older than the rest of her—strong, with long, elegant fingers, her knuckles a bit gnarled. The hands of someone who is an expert at something. I start to fade out again just as she reaches me.

“Hey!” she yells.

I wake up warm, and dry, and, most importantly, not covered in sand. Love the ocean, hate the grit. I’m lying on the tree line, my many cuts from my argument with the sea cleanly bandaged. I shift; my ribs are possibly broken, but I can take an almost deep breath without too much pain, so I figure no punctured lung.

The mystery woman isn’t around, but there’s a fire burning hot in a pit, a bucket of water clearly marked “clean,” with a woven cup beside it. I suspiciously dunk the cup in the water, thinking of that “hole in the bucket” song where the answer to the hole was most definitely not straw. It’s so tightly woven that not a drop seeps through.

I want to drink deeply, but I don’t know how long I’ve been out or how much seawater I swallowed, so I sip slowly. It’s the most restraint I’ve ever shown in my life. The island is extraordinary—some of the brightest blues are in front of me while some of the deepest greens sit behind. My breathing is deeper and my heart rate slower than I think it’s ever been. I almost died, and now I’m calm.

I hear a rustling behind me, barely, and then, “Good, you’re up.” I jump out of my skin.

“Take a breath, kid, I’m not going to hurt you.” Her voice is quiet, smooth, but there’s power there.

I take a couple of breaths. “Who are you?”

“Well, my name is Rose. Maybe you’ll earn ‘who’ I am in time. And who are you?”

“Sam,” I say, not quite meeting her eyes.

Rose sits down next to me and fills a cup of her own. We’re quiet for a while, and I can sense that that’s okay. What a weird place and situation to feel safe in.

“The cups are impressive. I have to admit, I was expecting to have to drink straight from the bucket,” I say awkwardly.

“If you do something often enough, you get good at it,” she states simply. “What do you do? Not so often someone gets washed up on my island.”

“I was swimming, off a boat, the tie came undone.” I definitely can’t meet her gaze at that one. What’s the harm in letting her know that I pushed the boat away with the oar, and by the time I’d changed my mind, the ocean had had her say.

“Gotcha.”

“Where are we? You said it was your island?”

“It is. I’ve lived here most of my life. I have a home just up the hill.” She points up a mountain to the east of where we’re sitting. “I used to keep the house for a very wealthy man. When he died, he left this land to me. There’s a part of the island that’s inhabited, but I learned how to live off the land, so I don’t have many visitors.”

“Wow.” I’m genuinely amazed and a little bit jealous.

“Can you walk? The sun will set in an hour, and we should probably get inside before it gets dark.” She’s putting out the fire and cleaning up the makeshift first aid area. “Next boat off the island is in three days, since I’m guessing you’re not planning on swimming back,” she says gently.

“Yeah, I think I can. It might be slow going, though.” With a little bit of help, the only painful part is getting up. The first step even feels good. I mentally note: no deep breaths yet; the pain is sharp. “Thank you.”

We walk on the wet, compacted sand closest to the water. “It’s best to feel your feet on the earth, and the water is good for your soul,” Rose says. She insists I take the side closest to the water. It actually is easier to walk there, and the saltwater feels good on my feet.

“So, what happened?” she asks directly.

“What do you mean?” I snap a little too quickly. What, is she psychic? I take a deep breath. Ow. Bad idea. “I was on my boat, and I decided to go swimming. I tied my ankle to the boat, and it came undone.”

“I find that hard to believe—that someone who lives around here, and owns a boat, doesn’t know how to properly tie a knot,” she says gently.

“People have accidents,” I say quietly, my heart pounding in my ears. I don’t want to talk about it. “Can we stop for a sec? I’ve gotta catch my breath.”

“Sure.”

I walk away for a minute and lean on a tree, like I’m trying to catch my breath. She doesn’t follow me. I notice that. When I’ve pulled myself together, I walk back to her.

“Maybe my separation from my boat was not completely an accident,” I say very quickly.

“Okay.”

Okay? Okay?! What kind of reaction to a human telling you they tried to die is that? Then I think: she’s still listening. I have her attention.

I think she notices my pause, and she says, “I’m here.”

“I was trying to get back. I changed my mind, but the ocean had the last word. I don’t want to die anymore.” I say the last few words so quietly I doubt she hears me.

“Well, that’s good, because I don’t have any more first aid experience than what I did for your injuries from the rocks,” she says lightly.

I laugh—a real laugh, for the first time in my memory. “I guess I’m lucky it’s just some bumps and bruises.”

“You should probably see a doctor for those ribs, though. Have fun explaining that one,” she says, pointing at my ribcage.

“I could say I got beat up in the surf. I’m sure they see it all the time, even on the mainland.” I actually wave her off.

She gets quiet. “Maybe that’s not the best idea.”

I know where she’s steering the conversation, but I don’t want to go there now. I don’t want to go there ever.

“Sam,” she says quietly, “you can stay here until the next boat comes and leave on your own, or you can stay here until the next boat comes, and I can come with you and drop you off somewhere.”

“Like where?” I ask.

“Like at a hospital.”

“Is the staying here non-negotiable?” I snap.

“I’m afraid it is. Every three days at 9 a.m. Used to be twice a day, every day, but no one really leaves or comes,” she shrugs, “unless this is an emergency? We could leave now if this is an emergency.”

I stop and look at the setting sun. It’s not an emergency. I’m fine. I’m not bleeding; after making the walk, I know nothing is broken, just bruised.

“No,” I mumble. “It’s not an emergency.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“Let’s keep walking.”