Alex Morel - Survive

At around noon, I stop walking. I’ve been fighting for hours, and I don’t feel like I’ve made much progress. I find a large stick and pick it up. It’s about six inches taller than my head, fits nicely in my hands, and feels sturdy. I walk with it, and it provides the balance and support that I desperately need. I only wish I’d stumbled on the idea earlier.

When I first hear the sound of the river, it comes as a dull roar. At first there is a low tone, like the moan of tired television in a distant room. But it grows louder with each step I take, and eventually the correct synapses in my brain fire and connect, and I get it. River. Water. I pick up my pace and quickly find myself standing on top of a ravine, looking down at a thick, lush, flowing river.

I look north and south, up and down the river, but there’s no entry point. I could try to walk along the river, but I’m not entirely sure my body can carry me any farther. With water, yes, I could keep going. But between the lack of food and dehydration, I’m dead on my feet. It’s so close. I look down. The drop is maybe fifteen feet down a sloping hill that would take me to the river’s edge. I try to calculate how damaging the fall will be, factoring in the snow and the slope, but in the end, it is less complicated than the algebra exams I always failed. If I try to walk the edge of the ravine, I will definitely die. If I jump, I’ll probably die. I weigh my options and opt for probably die.

I walk a few yards in each direction, looking for the ideal place to jump. I know from gym class I’m supposed to bend my knees when I land and roll forward. I toss my stick down and it hits the ground and rolls toward the riverbank. It doesn’t snap or break. It bounces and tumbles a bit, but it survives intact. I’ll be able to use it to walk with me another mile or two.

I’m going to count to three and then leap. God, please help me, I think. One. Paul, stay with me. Two. Paul, I’m coming back for you. Three. Jump, Jane, jump. I leap and for a long, sick second, I hover in the air before my body yields to the force of gravity. The downward rush takes over and I just fall until- bang! — my feet hit the ground hard. Although my legs are bent and some of the fall is absorbed by my thighs and calves, it still jolts my body like a lightning bolt. I pitch forward through air, banging my face into the snow, then flipping again, landing on my feet momentarily and finally collapsing as my ankles give way and I roll over. I roll and tumble until I hit the riverbank.

Finally, I stop rolling and lie there panting, on my back, afraid to move. I open my eyes and watch the gloomy, gray clouds low in the sky.

I’m alive, I say quietly to no one. Or maybe I just think it; I’m not sure. My wrists and hands are, amazingly, unhurt, but my left ankle swells immediately and the pain is enormous. I can bend it a bit, so I know it isn’t broken. I try my best with my frozen hands to tighten the boot. The loud roar of the river fills my ears and suddenly the cotton feeling of my mouth blooms into my consciousness and crowds out any other thoughts. I get on all fours and crawl the rest of the way to the river. The water moves very quickly, and I’m careful not to lean too far in for fear of

getting swept away. That’s a headline I’d rather not imagine: G IRL H IKES O UT OF V ALLEY O NLY TO F ALL INTO R IVER.

I get to the edge of the river and gulp down the water. Food. Drink. Candy. Rabbit. You name it. Nothing has ever tasted as deeply refreshing as the river water. The thick, icy water splashes into my mouth with such force that I nearly choke on it. I try to keep as dry as I can, but water flows down my throat and spills into my jacket and onto my chest and stomach. I pull back for a few seconds before I lap up some more. I repeat this scenario until my stomach swells, and I simply roll onto my back and pass out.

When I wake, I am still thirsty, but a few more pulls off the river soothe me. My stomach is in knots, though. I feel the full effort of the day in my bones, and the hell of the journey still ahead of me looms. A single sit-up is needed, but the energy and desire have dissipated. Rest, then try. Rest, then try.

I close my eyes, and my mind drifts until my father appears. He’s young, like in the photo on my mother’s dresser. He’s wearing a white sweater with dark blue-and-red trim around a small V-neck, the same one he wore on his last Christmas Eve. He’s very tan and wearing sunglasses that hide his sad eyes.

“I’m okay,” he says.

I reach out to touch him. His face is smooth, and the smell of Old Spice lingers in the air. I move his face to the side so I can look at his profile, but what I really want to see is the hole in his head. It’s black and scabbed over with dark, wine-colored blood. I place my fingertips over the hole, and I dig in gently and remove a silver bullet and blood starts to flow down his cheek.

He turns back and puts his warm hand on my face. “Thank you, Jane. I’m okay. Go ahead without me. I’m okay.”

I nod and I start to cry, his hand wiping each tear away.

“I’m okay too, Daddy.”

And I believe it, too. That’s the first time I’ve ever felt that way, dream or no dream, since the day my father killed himself. The blackness swirling through my mind begins to echo with the sound of the shot, my mother’s screams, and the noise of sirens and walkie-talkies, medics and policemen. My father died that night, but something inside of me started to grow, and at first, I tended it, helping it, but then I lost control and it grew into something that existed all on its own: a raging beast inside of me that almost devoured me from the inside out.

“Goodbye,” I tell my father, and I touch his face once more and he leans into me, very close. I can feel the imprint of his kiss. Then his face turns mean and ugly and I can feel his breath on the top of my nose.

I open my eyes, and for a split second I am looking up into the yellow eyes of the wolf. Then suddenly, snap! The icy wind hits my face and I awake.

I’m frozen and panting from my dream.

I stand up and grab my walking stick and look upriver and then down. There’s no sign of the wolf. It was just a dream, Jane. The wolf is only as real as your father. Let them go.

I turn and head downriver with the wind at my back. Walking the riverbank is the easiest walk I’ve had since I started. That’s good, because my body is failing me now, and every hundred feet or so, I have to kneel down and gather my strength. Eventually, with the help of the wind pushing me forward, I feel some energy. I’m thinking about that last climb Paul made and how he came to life on that day, just before he took a turn for the worse.

Is he still alive? How could he be? He just has to be. Don’t give up on him. My thoughts turn to the people who never gave up on me. My mother, Old Doctor, the nurses, some of the other Life Housers like Ben. I remember one day in the hospital; it was a low point perhaps a couple months into my stay. I was looking out at the courtyard filled with snow. I was thinking about how wonderful snow is to a child. Sledding, snowmen, snowball fights. And it must have made me sad, because tears were rolling down my face and Ben came up to me and sat down. He didn’t say much, but he offered me a cigarette. And even though I wasn’t a smoker, I joined him out in the courtyard. When we were done, he said, “Everything I look at has the potential to make me sad.”

“I love the snow,” I said. “But it makes me sad.”

“Yeah. It makes me sad too,” Ben said.

“It makes me miss my father. We played in the snow-I still think about that a lot.”

Then he did something that made my mouth drop but I now realize was perhaps the grandest gesture ever committed at Life House. He pulled down his pants and took a pee in the pristine white snow, spelling his name.