The Stranger in the Lifeboat(6)

“Do you believe I am?”

“Prove it. Let me speak to my wife again.”

I glanced at Yannis, who raised his eyebrows. How quickly we trust someone when the life of a loved one is threatened. All we really knew of this stranger was his wild claim, and that he’d wolfed down a package of peanut butter crackers.

Then I saw little Alice take Jean Philippe’s hand. The new man turned toward Bernadette and put his palms on her shoulder and forehead.

Just like that, her eyes opened.

“Bernadette?” Jean Philippe whispered.

“Cherie?” she whispered back.

“You did it,” Jean Philippe said to the Lord, his voice reverential. “You brought her back. Thank you, Bondyé! Bernadette! My love!”

I have never witnessed anything like that, Annabelle. One moment she was unconscious, the next she was awake and talking. The others began to stir and take notice. Geri poured Bernadette some water. Nina hugged her tightly. Even rigid old Mrs. Laghari seemed pleased, although she mumbled, “Someone must explain how this happened.”

“The Lord did it,” Nina said.

The new man smiled. Mrs. Laghari did not.

Eventually, we gave Bernadette and Jean Philippe their privacy and moved to the back of the raft. The stranger followed us. I studied his face. If this was a miracle, he was taking it in stride.

“What did you do to her?” I asked.

“Jean Philippe wished to speak to her again. Now he can.”

“But she was nearly dead.”

“The distance between death and life is not as great as you imagine.”

“Really?” Yannis turned his way. “Then why don’t people come back to Earth after they die?”

The stranger smiled. “Why would they want to?”

Yannis made a snorting noise. “Whatever.” Then he added: “But Bernadette, you healed her? She’s going to be good?”

The man looked off.

“She is not healed. But she is going to be good.”





Two





Sea





My watch reads 1:00 a.m. Our fifth night lost. The stars are so thick I can’t tell where some start and others end, as if a barrel of glowing salt just exploded in the heavens.

For now, I focus on a single star that sparkles so brilliantly, it’s like someone is signaling us. We see you. Wave. Do something and we’ll come get you. If only. We remain adrift with this magnificent panorama all around us. It has always been a mystery to me, Annabelle, how beauty and anguish can share the same moment.

I wish I were staring at these stars with you, from a beach someplace safely on land. I find myself thinking of the night we met. Remember? The Fourth of July? I was sweeping the floor of a pavilion in the municipal park. You approached in an orange blouse and white pants, your hair tied back in a ponytail, and asked where the fireworks were being launched.

“What fireworks?” I said. And at that instant the first of them boomed in the air (a red-and-white starburst, I remember distinctly), and we both laughed as if you had made them appear just by asking. There were two chairs in the pavilion, and I set them beside one another, and we spent the next hour watching those fireworks like an old couple on their porch. Only when the explosions finished did we say our names.

I remember that hour as if I could walk inside it and touch its edges. The curiosity of attraction, the stolen glances, the voice in my head saying Who is this woman? What is she like? Why does she trust me this way? The possibilities of another person! Is there any anticipation on this Earth quite like that one? Is there anything lonelier than being without it?

You were educated and accomplished and tender and beautiful, and I confess, from the moment I saw you, I felt unworthy of your affection. I never finished high school. I had few career options. My clothes were dull and worn out, and my bony frame and straggly hair were hardly attractive. But I instantly loved you, and incredibly, in time, you loved me back. It was the happiest I have ever been and the happiest I imagine I ever will be. Still, I always sensed I would disappoint you in some future way. I lived with that silent fear for four years, Annabelle, right until the day you left me. It’s been nearly ten months now, and I know it makes no sense writing. But it nourishes me through these lost nights. You once said, “We all need to hold on to something, Benji.” Let me hold on to you, that first hour of you, the two of us staring at a colorful sky. Let me finish my story. Then I will let go of you and this world.



Four a.m. The others are asleep in contorted positions under the canopy. Some snore with gurgling noises; others, like Lambert, are as loud as a buzz saw. I’m surprised he doesn’t wake up the whole boat. Or raft. Geri keeps telling me to call it a raft. Boat. Raft. What difference does it make?

I fight sleep desperately. I am fatigued beyond measure, but when I sleep, I drift into dreams of the Galaxy sinking, and I am back in that cold, dark water.

I don’t know what happened, Annabelle. I swear I don’t. The impact was so sudden, I cannot even tell you the moment I was thrown into the sea. It was raining. I was by myself on the lower deck. My arms rested on the rail. My head was down. I heard a booming noise, and next thing I knew, I was hurtling toward the water.

I remember the splashing impact, the sudden bubbly quiet beneath the surface, the heavy roar when I came back up, everything cold and chaotic as my brain began to process and then scream at me, What the hell? You’re in the ocean!