Alex Morel - Survive

This is it, I think, no bag tonight. I’ve got to beat the dark. I trudge forward. The snow is in deep drifts and the ground is uneven. Each step is unsteady, and my mind swirls with memories and fantasies and the two become one. Suddenly, a future appears, and Paul is holding me beside a Christmas tree. There are stockings and gifts, and on the table behind us there are photos of the dead: my father; Paul’s brother, Will; and the photo of Old Doctor and his dad on the fishing boat. Old Doctor is there himself, talking with my mother, and I can see smiles on their faces. He just keeps nodding and grinning as my mother tells him something I can’t hear. Then he winks at me and mouths, “You’re okay, Jane.” I nod at him and put my hand around Paul’s back.

I look up and there’s a light shining in the distance. It is so far away, but I can feel its warmth on my face, as if it were the sun itself. I stumble and fall and see a smear of blood against the snow. Get up, Jane.

I stand, and a big gust of wind hits my back and the snow swirls before my eyes. I focus on the light before me. One step at a time, I think. Walk toward that light. I look up and it can’t be too far, no farther than a city block or two, but no matter how many steps I take, it still feels far away.

I stumble again, and this time I fall face-first into the snow, and my head hits a patch of ice. The knock is hard enough to make my ears ring, but I don’t black out. My chest heaves up and down, trying to draw in oxygen. No matter how much I take in, I can’t seem to catch my breath.

I can’t believe I’ve come this close, but my legs won’t move. I’m dizzy and buzzing with excitement. Just then, I feel somebody lift me from my right side, and I turn to find myself leaning into Paul, who is carrying me. He whispers into my ear, but I can’t understand him.

I’m unable to speak, I’m so happy to see and feel him. He looks fine; he looks amazing. It doesn’t seem right, and yet it’s so perfect and I’m so grateful to see him that it doesn’t matter that I don’t understand what’s happening. I’m looking at him, not in front of me-which is how I find myself walking directly into a fence that separates me from the dark strip of road and the heavy, warm light on the opposite side. I fall to my knees and for a moment I think Paul’s gone, and I fear I can’t rise. I just can’t move anymore. I lie in the snow and listen to my shallow breathing.

But then Paul is here again. He reaches down and picks me up under both shoulders. He whispers-a nothingness, but it is pure love in my mind.

He keeps an arm around my shoulders, and I hold his waist as we trudge our way to the road. I hear voices, both familiar and far away. I touch his hair, his face, his lips. He stops walking.

And then he disappears, leaving me on the side of the road. I hear nothing but the sound of my own labored breath. The clouds have cleared, and I can see stars shining at me in a clear night sky. I scan them dumbly and watch one star sparkle and glow, holding my eye until I lose it or it dissolves into the blackness, I’m not sure which.

6 Months Later

I never returned to Life House Institute after I walked off the mountain.

I remember waking up in a hospital room. It was as if I had never left Life House. Antiseptic air and dull light filled my room. Was it real? The crash, Paul, the long walk, the wolf, the light… I didn’t know. I searched my memory until my head hurt, literally. The plane and the pills and even my obsession with the Plan flooded back to me. Had I actually followed through with the Plan and swallowed the pills? Could this be heaven? Hell?

And then I heard a familiar sound. It was the sound of a throat clearing, discreetly. I looked up to see Old Doctor sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, waiting for me. His sad eyes crinkled as he smiled at me.

“Hey,” I said.

“Jane. I’m so happy to hear your voice again.”

I started to cry.

“I’m happy too,” I whispered.

“Your mother is on her way from New Jersey,” he said. He walked over and put his hand over mine, weighted with all the care in the world. His skin was soft and warm.

“You’re okay, Jane. Your mother will be here soon.”

I looked down at my left hand to find it bruised and swollen. My palms were raw and red. I examined the rest of my body and found it intact. I wiggled my feet and scrunched my toes. All there.

“Where am I?” I asked.

He stood and moved closer to me. He studied my face, and I think he might have been holding back some emotion of his own.

“It’s over now,” he told me. “You’re back in the world, Jane.”

I’ve spoken to so many people since I walked out of those mountains. Doctors, rangers, reporters, hikers, climbers, survivalists, my family, friends of my family. They all want to know how I survived. I wish I knew the answer, but I really don’t. I have developed a pat response, where I draw an analogy to having a gun pointed at my head: move or die. I moved and I chose living. Everyone likes this idea.

The night I was found, a truck driver named William Roberts slowed his truck to a stop and hit the floodlight mounted on the roof of his truck. It was a cold and snowy night. He was seventeen miles from the main road but stopped because something weird caught his eye. He grabbed a pistol from his glove compartment and stepped out of his truck, walking slowly over to my nearly lifeless body. He said he didn’t know if maybe he might have to shoot an animal if it were suffering. Or he thought it might be some kind of strange trick. He looked around, wondering if maybe someone was hiding in the brush.

He knelt down next to me and put his hand over my mouth. Faint, warm air moistened his fingers. Whoever she is, she’s still alive, he thought. And then he picked up my body and carried me to his truck. He laid me down in the front seat, releasing the back of the passenger seat so it lay relatively flat. He turned his truck around and drove back toward town.

He told the press that I never woke the whole time we drove. He took me past town, which was seventy-five miles from where he found me, and then straight to the hospital that was fifty miles farther south. If he hadn’t done it, I’d be dead right now. But he did it. And when they got me into the hospital, they pumped me full of drugs and warm water, slowly bringing my body temperature back up.

Mr. Roberts waited to see if I would live. He sat in the hospital waiting room until a doctor returned to confirm that I was going to survive. He got in his truck and drove back home. Later that week, reporters tracked him down and asked why he didn’t wait for the reward. My mother had offered a small reward to anyone stupid enough to travel up into the mountains to find me during the storm, and there’d been no takers. He said he was just doing what anybody else would have done. It doesn’t amaze me anymore after what Paul and I did for each other, but it is still heartening to know that the world is filled with good souls.

The deep cold made it difficult for the doctors to determine the time of Paul’s death with any accuracy. The coroner’s report said he died a day or two after I left him on the mountain. I believe I know the exact timing of his death, but that is a secret I intend to keep to myself.

A few months after I left the hospital, I received a small package posted from Cambridge, Mass. It was wrapped in brown paper, and the return address was marked in large block letters: FROM WILL HART SR. I felt the hairs rise on my neck. I picked up the package and carefully unsealed the edges and slid the box out of the paper. I wanted to preserve the package-to save anything with a connection to Paul.