Be Not Far from Me

by Mindy McGinnis

No, I’m not freezing and I’m not starving, and I know both these things are true because I’m in pain. When you can’t feel anything is when you need to worry.

Water will always follow the path of least resistance, something I don’t have the luxury of doing. It will split around rocks, make turns to avoid tree roots, then head back the other way like maybe it left the stove on at home. And while this makes for a lovely postcard, it is a bitch of a thing when you need to head in one direction but stay hydrated at the same time.

I don’t fuck around, going right for the same spot that near killed me. I take a deep breath before I press down and am not surprised to see a stream of pus leak out from under what’s left of the skin. Something white coming out of you is only good if you’re a boy. I’ve got an infection.

I remember one time Mom had something on the table I couldn’t quite put a name to. I came in from the creek bed, mudded up to the knees, plopped down to a plate of warm food, and said, “I’m not eating that.” Dad had set down his knife and fork real quiet and said, “Then you’re not hungry enough.” I get it now. I get it because I just ate a worm.

We waited for the water to settle and then laid on our bellies on the bank, Davey plucking a fish out with his bare hands, easy as pie. (Momma always hated that saying. She said pie is actually pretty hard, especially the crust part.)

Once, when I went grocery shopping with our first-of-the-month check I grabbed a can of tuna that should’ve never made the shelf. I was pushing my cart, trying to find a way around the old lady on a scooter in front of me because, damn, she was rank. I drove home with a wrinkled nose and bad words in my mouth because apparently just moving through her stink had been enough for me to carry a whiff around with me. It wasn’t until I was carrying a bag into the trailer that I realized it was my punctured tuna can that smelled the whole time, and that old lady had probably been pushing that electric motor to its limits to try to get away from me.

I guess I was always looking for solitude. I’ve got that now, in spades. “You’ve got to get up,” I say aloud, hoping it’ll be more motivating that way. It’s true, whether I only say it in my head or put a voice to it. There’s no energy left in me, no strength in my legs or my arms, but I do it anyway because I’ve decided that’s what I’m going to do, and I can be stubborn. Living things will fight to stay that way.

Trees are thieves. They take things from you quietly, swiping a bandanna from your ponytail or a hair tie from your wrist. I’ve seen hundred-dollar sunglasses hanging off maples, and water bottles snagged on low-hanging willows, their wispy fingers pulling things from hikers’ packs without them knowing they lost something until they need it.

But there is nothing and no one, and soon I realize I’m singing a song from my childhood, one that I always loved. The bear went over the mountain The bear went over the mountain The bear went over the mountain . . . And what do you think he saw? That poor fucker saw another mountain, and while I’m not climbing peaks exactly they may as well be for all the effort it’s taking.

I find the biggest flask—an Erlenmeyer—a word I learned in sixth grade and liked so much I kept it in my head, and go down to the trickle of water I landed in the day before. It’s higher now, with a pushing strength from yesterday’s rains that threatens to take the flask from my hand if I don’t hold on tight. I clean it out as best I can, shoving a leaf down inside and using a stick to scrub it around, little bits of scum floating free in the water as I work. It’s as clean as it’s going to get, and anything else I do would be procrastination, pure and simple.

I straighten up the line of necessities beside me on the floor: the oxy and whiskey, the flint, Erlenmeyer of water, two granola bars, and Davey Beet’s hat. I position the only pillow I could find right where I’m assuming I’ll fall over afterward and take a good, hard look at my foot.

I pick up the flint, adjust it in my hand so that it feels right, and turn my foot inward. It’s awkward as hell, and I’ve never felt so lonely, but I’m the one that’s going to die, and there’s no one here to stop that from happening but me.

I slip a sandwich bag over my hurt foot and push open the door to the camper. It’s a beautiful day, and I could almost rejoice and be glad in it if I had more than dandelions to eat. I chew for a bit before I swallow, like a cow with cud.

One thing I do know is that Kate Fullerton got a dog out of that whole mess. Her family said she had some kind of stress disorder after seeing her dad put a load of shot into Wayne’s ass, and insurance paid for her to get a therapy dog. She took it to school and everything, and got to pet it whenever she was feeling sad, and all I could think was I’d wanted a dog my whole life and we never could afford one. Maybe I’ll get a therapy dog out of this whole mess. Good thing I don’t have one now though, ’cause I’d eat it.

That’s when I spot the babies. They’re lined up at the edge of the clearing, waiting for the momma’s permission to come in and have some of what she found. Then I showed up and whacked her a good one, and she’s going to fight me rather than run and leave her babies behind. It’s so goddamn sad I can’t take it.

I taught them that there’s nothing worse than humans. And while I learned it young myself, I didn’t ever want to have to be the one bearing the message.

I grab my kill and, after a second of thought, pick up what’s left of my foot and stick it in the bag. I can’t give a good reason other than I keep thinking about the deer skull I found by the trail on the way in, flesh long since rotted into the ground underneath. I love the woods, more than a roof over my head. But damn if it can have me, even a little bit.

DAVEY BEET WAS HERE

pantyhose

But my eyes always wandered over to Psalm 22 instead. While everyone else was reciting the reassuring stuff, I read about real shit going down, the way my life actually was. I can recite it, even now. “‘Be not far from me,’” I say. “‘For trouble is near and there is no one to help.’”

But you, LORD, be not far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help me.’” The sooner the better.

I put away what’s left of the possum in the morning, afraid it’ll go bad if I wait much longer. It goes down easy, my stomach understanding its purpose. I know this means I’ll be in that much more pain if I begin the process of starving again, but I can only hope that’s not in store for me.

I keep thinking there’s got to be an end to this, that we’ve obliterated so much of our natural habitat that sooner or later I’m going to stumble across a road, an ATV trail, a natural-gas operation . . . something. People have never been decent about leaving nature alone, tearing into her with machines of metal teeth and money-hungry mouths.

I’m discovering me out here, for the good and the bad. There’s things I’m proud of and stuff I’d rather forget, but it all makes up who I am and what I was, and what I’ve got to work with if I want to become something else. And I don’t get to do those things or be that person if I die out here. “Yeah, dumb-ass,” I say, by way of a pep talk.

“Tomorrow,” I tell him. “Tomorrow we’re going to get shit done.”

It’s raining again in the morning, but I said I was going to move today. So I will.

“Time to go,” I say, as a way of making it final.

I’m back to being in pain, and part of the reason I didn’t just wrap up in my moldy blanket and stay under that pine until people or coyotes found my body was because if that happens then I killed a momma possum for no good reason. If I decide to just sit down and die, then all she did was give me a few more days to hurt in, and I don’t think that would square with her, or her babies. I’m determined to save my own life, not because it’s worth living but because I don’t want to disappoint a dead possum. It’s a dumb thing to think, but it makes me laugh, distracting me from the gathering storm right up until it almost kills me.

I do not know if I am panicking or if this is the most sane I have ever been. Have I finally lost it, or did I only realize that there is no hope, and to run through a storm is better than to die curled under a tree? There is something freeing in giving up and accepting that I am going to die out here. If the woods will have me, then first I will drink all it has to offer, a child once again, uncaring as to how I look or what others may think. I am utterly alone, untethered. My balance is off, the severed part of my foot no longer there to hold me, but I learn the new steps quickly, ignoring the pain. My lungs burn, rain flies in my face, my legs ache and my foot is a savaged piece of meat, but I press on. I’m punishing my body, angry at it for not being strong enough to get me through, for succumbing to weakness and starvation and wounding. It is only a husk of the real me, deep inside, the Ashley who isn’t done living but whose body can’t keep going.

There is nothing left in me, not food or energy, only willpower. Even my own body has turned on me, and all I can do is force it forward, a breaking-down vehicle for the Ashley trapped inside.

There’s a moment when gravity doesn’t have me yet and I can see clearly through a break in the canopy where a jet leaves a white tail behind it. Civilization is only miles away, but straight up, unreachable.

Now I’m standing here with half a foot and a swelling wrist, a broken rib, and a spreading bloodstain on my jeans from where the whiskey bottle got me, so surely I can gather the courage to undo a zipper. I take a deep breath—which hurts like a bitch because of the rib—and I just do it. It’s a simple action, one that doesn’t reveal anything I didn’t already know. Davey died curled into a ball, either from hunger or pain or the realization that no one was coming for him and the only person he could get close to was himself. His knees are up to his chest, bones poking through the worn cargoes he always hiked in, his skull resting against his kneecaps.

“Shithole,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think of and I’ve already told everything from the sky to the ground to fuck off.

I laid down last night thinking that if Davey Beet couldn’t make it, then I sure as hell won’t. But after a good sleep and a temper tantrum, I’d like to prove otherwise. I think it’s that girl, to be honest.

Some people said Davey Beet came in here never meaning to leave, that she had broken him to a point that he couldn’t come back from. What if they’re saying the same about me? What if Duke’s busted nose and Natalie’s snide little smile make everyone think Ashley Hawkins would rather be dead than without him? “Fuck that,” I tell Davey. “I’d rather be alive with half a foot and a busted rib and a sprained wrist and covered in my own blood and mostly naked and wearing a moldy blanket, but a-fucking-live.” “Damn straight,” I say back to myself, because I think that’s what Davey would’ve said. “And single,” I add. And that’s how I end up taking Davey Beet’s hat back. Because I need it more than he does.

I think about staying one more night. It’d be a few more hours with something between me and the sky, a little bit more time with someone that means something to me, even if I’m not quite clear on exactly what that is. But in the end, I decide that the tent can’t do anything for me that the tarp won’t, and what’s left lying in there isn’t Davey. Not really. Davey’s gone and was never mine to begin with, so I might as well put on a hard face and point it in whatever direction feels best and get on with it.

The last thing I do is zip the tent again, making sure Davey won’t be bothered any more. My hand lingers on the closed flap, like maybe I should say something that isn’t swearing. “I’ll come back for you, Davey Beet,” I tell him. And even though he’s past saving, I imagine there’s some comfort in those words.

The host always offered to let the remaining ones stay, have their parents come get them in the morning. That was my cue to fake sleep, head tipped back, hands open and loose, encouraging a bit of drool to slip out of my mouth. I knew Dad would never leave me; he always felt better if I was home with him, what was left of our family safe under one roof, even if it did leak. So I’d wait for him to come, struggling to keep my body in an approximation of sleep when I was so tense, hoping he’d fall for it. Maybe he knew I was faking it every time, or maybe he’d had so many beers I didn’t need to try so hard. Either way, it didn’t matter. Dad always scooped me up, strong arms tight around me, beard scratching against my cheeks, still sticky with sucker, popcorn butter, or the last swig of juice that I’d missed my mouth with. And even though I’d stayed awake all night waiting for the moment for Dad to come and get me, I always fell asleep on the walk back home, safe and happy with him.

His tent is a mile or so behind me when I stop to examine my foot. I did a number on it when I decided to go crazy in the storm, losing my plastic bag as I ran. The scab that had started to form was torn off at some point, and I managed to nick off a little more of exposed bone in the process. But Davey had some antibiotic creams and extra socks rolled together in his pack, which I lifted from him along with the knife and canteen.

I take inventory, touching each thing as I do. My fireboard and broken whiskey bottle top I couldn’t quite part with dangle from my belt loops, flint and Davey’s knife in my pocket, a reassuring bulge, parts of my dead foot still hanging in a sandwich bag. His tarp is folded neatly and tucked into the back of my jeans, filling the empty space my shrinking body has left behind. My blanket is tied around my throat, what’s left of Davey’s hat clinging around my ears. I’m moving. But Lord do I wish there was someone to carry me.

trout

I’ve got a knife and a piece of tin and I can sure as hell make a fire, but all those thoughts are human and logical, and they pass like a quick rainstorm. A larger part of my mind is desperate and half-wild, fishing like a bear, and eating like one too.

I sleep for an entire day and night under a tree, at one point feeling the soft paws of a squirrel on my face, curious. I wonder if it’s the same one from the beginning of all this, and if he’s been following me all along, wanting to know how it would end. I’m wondering about that, too.

I’m hitting a finish line today. I don’t know which one, or what home is behind it—the one with my dad in it, or the one that everyone at Camp Little Fish kept telling me about—but I’m fucking going. And it’s today.

“That’s fucking weird,” I say, which seems to have some effect on bringing me into the present. That, and the sharp end of a stick that pokes into the soft ridge of my good foot, bringing a bright flash of reality that snaps my mind back from where it had been roaming.

It’s falling in small drops, fat lazy ones like winter flies, but that’s not what has my attention. Somewhere nearby, they’re pinging off metal. I don’t know what to expect when I follow the noise, my path crooked and shaky. I come to a break in the trees and there in the middle of the woods is an oil well. It’s the only sign of humans that I’ve seen in weeks, so I sit down and take it in.

I’m halfway up and both my feet are giving me hell and I’m feeling woozy from the height, but I keep going, because the only thing at the bottom is the ground and I’ve been hanging out there long enough.

When I get to the top I get what I expected, a sea of green, endless trees and rolling hills, their beauty undeniable even though it probably spells death for me. I let out a sigh, determined to enjoy the view if nothing else, when a gust of wind blows away some low-hanging mist and in the distance there’s something new. Electric lines.

I have a destination. For the first time in forever I’m pointing toward something and not going b...

This is my call, and I make the decision. I am running, and I am screaming. I don’t have words or anything close to language anymore, just a plea, a wild sound that I hope carries as I run toward them, willing them to see me, to hear me.