That Which Binds Us Page 9

  “Jesus, you’re burning up,” Ben mumbles, answering my question.

  I start to laugh. “Where does it come from?” I ask, giggling.

  He watches me, his brow furrowed in concern. “What?”

  “The food. Where’s the kitchen?”

  He nods, understanding. “There’s a storage cellar below my room. I keep a freezer down there, as well as a microwave. It’s not exactly gourmet.”

  “I’ve been wondering…” I trail off.

  “I’m going to bring you some Ibuprofen to lower your fever. Okay?”

  I don’t answer him. Instead, I mumble a mmm and drift off to sleep.

  Not a minute later, I feel strong arms carrying me down the stairs. I’ve never felt this peaceful before. It’s as if all of my worries have fallen away, and I’m overcome with a sense of quiet resolve that I haven’t felt since before my dad died—since before Ben died. My body goes limp in his arms, and I can’t help but smile. I’m feeling pulled back into that blissful, deep sleep again when SPLASH!

  Shrieking, my eyes fly open and my mouth warbles something unintelligible as the icy water turns my skin into needles.

  “What?” I ask, dumbfounded and suddenly way more alert than I was two seconds ago.

  “You need to cool down. The Advil isn’t working.”

  I glance around the room. I can’t even remember how many days I’ve been here. “The Advil? When did you give me Advil?” I say slowly. It feels like my tongue isn’t working.

  “An hour ago.” He stops and assesses me. “You don’t remember?”

  I shake my head. “I was asleep.”

  He sighs and runs his hand through his hair. He has dark circles under his eyes. His face is tight with worry. “You blacked out. Your fever must’ve been really high.”

  I look down at the water. He’s filled it with ice, but it’s almost melted now. “You put me into a bathtub with my clothes on?” My brain is working overtime just to understand the situation. It feels like a mental block. I wonder if I have permanent brain damage from the fever. Rachel once told me that if your temperature goes over a certain point, your blood will start to boil your organs, including your brain. The image used to make me nauseous.

  “I had no choice.”

  “Don’t you want to see me naked?” I ask, a bubble of laughter making its way up my throat. I know I sound delusional. “Or have the years changed your sexual orientation, too?”

  I see a glimmer of anger behind his eyes, but he brushes it off and puts his hands on his knees to stand. Something about the movement—the way his arms flex and the veins pop out on his forearm, plus the fact that I’m asking if he wants to see me naked—stirs something deep inside of me. Until now, I saw him as a trained killer—a dispassionate person set on murdering or kidnapping me. Not a man.

  It can’t be. I cannot possibly be attracted to this man. No matter how much we share, no matter how far our past goes, he’s a vile monster now. He choked me. He is holding me captive against my will. I’ve read all about Stockholm Syndrome. I wonder if that’s what’s happening to me? How is it possible to feel that way about him, after everything he’s done to me?

  Does that mean I’m a monster too?

  The kernel of self-doubt is there. Is it because I loved him once? Even if it was innocent, childhood love, I have no doubt that Ben and I would’ve been an item if we’d been given the chance. You don’t love that wholly, that deeply, without it turning into something during the years of raging hormones. Right? Is that what this is?

  I am just as terrible as he is. The human mind is capable of some terrible things, including this. Ben murdered his father in cold blood. The sight of his muscular, bare forearm—my one weakness when it comes to the male species—sent my mind into a tailspin of lust. I’m a sick psycho, just like him. The line between sane and insane is so thin. I see that now. I see why so many are capable of awful things.

  Feeling light-headed again, I stand suddenly, wanting out. I need to get away from him, from here… I need to feel like a good person again. Garrett is a good person. Rachel, my dad, my co-workers… well, most of them. They’re good people. I need to think of puppies and sandcastles and my impending trip to Turks and Caicos with Rachel next month.

  I manage to splash water everywhere as I stumble out and run to the door. Ben is up in half a second, running after me and wrapping a towel around me.

  “Let me go,” I growl, shoving against him with all my might. To my surprise, I manage to shove him hard enough that he staggers and has to catch himself on the sink a couple feet away. I use the time to run out and into the main room. My head is still swaying from the fever, and my clothes are sticking to me uncomfortably, but none of that matters.

  I am a monster, and I need to get off this island.

  Wet feet slapping against the stone, I make my way to the front door and push it open. Ben must’ve unlocked it at some point, because I tumble out and onto my knees, seeing the sunlight for the first time in three days. It blinds me—the sheer, bright whiteness. It’s that pure, hot, late-afternoon sun. I stand and stumble down the stairs rapidly, holding onto the wooden railing as I go. I hear Ben call out after me so I quicken my pace, skipping every other step. I stub my toes over and over. My legs feel like jelly, and my vision begins to blur.

  “Nina!” Ben yells. I’m too quick. I’m never quick—I’m always the clumsy, slow one. I manage to run faster than him. I jump down the last three stairs onto the beach, and I’m slowed down by the warm, dense sand. My feet get stuck, but my legs are trying to move faster than they physically can.

  Ten more feet…

  Five…

  I run into the water and it’s not much easier. Splashing, I manage to propel myself forward with impressive speed. Maybe my fever gave me superpowers.

  Swim, Nina.

  When the clear, warm water comes up to my waist, I dive in and begin to freestyle. I have no direction—I just move forward, toward the other island.

  I can do this. I have to do this.

  I was a swimmer in high school. I know that in order to maximize your speed, you must kick and use your arms at the same time. Taking breaths has to be almost discrete—such a minuscule movement so you don’t slow yourself down. I haven’t been in the water in this capacity in over ten years. My lungs can’t handle it. My arms can’t handle it. I’ve forgotten what I’m supposed to be doing with my hands. Aren’t I supposed to be cupping them? Four years of being on the swim team have gone out the door the moment I actually need to use them. What a damn shame.

  I feel his warm hands grab my ankle. I cry out, taking in a mouthful of salty water and submerging myself to get away from him. There are no waves here. It’s clear, calm, peaceful. I thrash around, squirming to get out of his grip. I kick something—his nose I think—and he cries out. I flip onto my back, surprised at the red cloud forming around him. Blood. It begins to flow from his nostrils as his eyes get droopy.

  Good.

  “Help!” I warble, aiming my voice in the direction of the other island. I imagine beachgoers lounging on the shore, enjoying a sunny, warm day, then hearing my desperate cries.

  Hear me. Please, God, see me.

  I splash big and wide to make it obvious that I’m in a struggle. “Help!”

  I flip back over and begin swimming away. I get about ten feet before I’m out of breath. The fever… everything is fuzzy. Sobbing, I look over my shoulder. Ben is floating in the water, face down.

  Is he… unconscious?

  How? From my kick? My mind spins slowly. Too slowly. Damn fever.

  I stop crying. I stop kicking and screaming. Looking around, I have a strange moment of clarity. This is it. He’s unconscious, and soon, he’ll drown. I could swim back to shore, grab the boat, and leave this fucking island. Or better yet, he probably has some sort of phone on the island—some way of communicating with the outside world. I am free.

  Fucking finally.

  Smiling, I begin the slow sw
im back to shore. That was certainly easy. I expected to put up more of a fight. I glance back and he’s still floating, the current carrying him to the left.

  My smile droops. I can stand in the water where I am. Neck-deep, I put my hand on my forehead and squint to see him. I can’t explain it, but seeing his lifeless body floating on top of the water sends waves of grief through me.

  Benny.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?” I ask, sensing some sort of doom. I can tell that whatever he is about to tell me pains him as much as it will pain me.

  “Benny…” he trails off. My throat constricts, the threat of tears beginning in the corners of my eyes.

  “What about Benny?” I hop off the bed and look out the window. I don’t know what I expect. The snow is pelting down in silent tufts. Benny’s favorite kind of snow. I don’t want to hear the rest of his sentence. I clutch my chest as a sob escapes. “Dada?” I turn to face him. Tears are streaming down his face.

  “I’m so sorry, little angel,” he whispers, reaching out and engulfing me in a tight hug. He talks gently into my ear. “He got into a fight with his dad and stole the car. He crashed just up the road—fell down the side of the mountain.”

  I wait. I know what’s coming next. “And?” I whisper.

  “The car caught fire. There’s nothing left. Benny was inside.”

  I pull and walk away from my dad. I feel my stomach roll at the thought of Ben burning to death. That was his worst fear—fire. I let out a garbled cry, falling to my knees.

  “No,” I yell, my cheeks stained with wetness. “He was my friend—my only friend! W-w-we had plans to build snow angels t-t-today,” I stutter, sobbing into my pillow. “He can’t be gone, dada. He just c-c-can’t!” I wail, shrieking. “Benny!”

  My dad walks over to me and sets me down on my bed. “I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

  My body is shaking. “Are they sure? Are they sure he’s… d-d-dead?” I spit, not wanting to say the word out loud.

  “I heard on the news that they’re sure. In situations like that, even though there’s no… evidence… they assume the worst. Benny wasn’t in his house. Mr. Axelrod from down the street said he saw Benny behind the wheel. The police mentioned his jacket. You know the one he always wears? They mentioned a watch.”

  I nod, tears sprinkling onto my hands. “He’d never take his watch off. It was his superpower,” I warble, referring to the watch with the lion on it. I got it for him two months ago with my allowance money.

  My dad smiles. “He had a lot of superpowers, huh?”

  I smile too, but my heart feels so heavy. It disappears in half a second. “Dad?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?” He’s stroking my hair now.

  “Can Benny still talk to me from Heaven?”

  I feel my dad stiffen. I know he doesn’t believe in God or Heaven. Not after what happened to my mom. I think I do, but I’m not sure yet. Benny didn’t, but only because his dad used to tell him that the only person who could save you was yourself.

  “No, sweetheart. Benny is gone. Forever.”

  Until now, Heaven and Hell were alien concepts to me. They were so far off. I never really put that much thought into it, except when I’d think of my mom. She was in Heaven—that was a fact for me. My dad didn’t agree, but I didn’t mind. Heaven was a safe place. Benny has that stupid joke about Heaven and Hell. Benny had that stupid joke.

  Benny isn’t alive. He’s in the past tense. He will always be in past tense now.

  I feel a fresh wave of tears start to flow down my cheeks. My chest hurts. Everything hurts.

  He’s gone. Forever. The finality of Benny being gone feels like an ice pick to my skin—except someone keeps hammering, hammering, wedging me open and causing unbearable pain…

  I would give anything to bring him back. I would do anything to see him one last time—to touch him, hug him, tell him that I love him.

  Anything.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m sprinting toward him, arms gliding through the water with more precision than before.

  I remember learning how to carry a body while on the swim team. Everyone on the team in high school had to learn. You were supposed to wrap their arm around your neck to keep their head above water so they didn’t drown. I try to do that, but he’s heavy, and even heavier wet. I manage to drag him behind me, ensuring he’s face up, all the way to shore. I pull him by both arms until he’s on the sand.

  Squatting down, I listen for breathing. Nothing. I feel for a pulse on his neck. Barely. The relief that his heart is still beating, albeit weakly, sends me reeling. Why do I care? This man ruined my life. If he weren’t Benjamin Adler, I would’ve let his body floating on the sea to rot or be eaten by sharks. My hands start giving him CPR. The moves come back to me—five pumps on the chest, two breaths. I’m not sure if those are the right numbers, but I don’t exactly have the resources to check, and I’m not exactly lucid enough to question it.

  I bend over Ben and lace my fingers together as I begin the chest compressions.

  One, two, three, four, five.

  Without thinking, I bend down and seal my lips around his, gently blowing into his lungs until I feel them inflate. Twice I do this. Twice I hold back tears. I ignore the dried blood on his upper lip. That was a result of my kick. This is a result of fighting back. He tastes like lemon and vanilla and blood. I try not to think about that. I continue the rotation, compressing rougher this time in frustration.

  “One, two, three, four, five,” I yell, tears blurring my vision. “Come the fuck on, Ben. Wake up!” I scream.

  Why am I having this reaction?

  Why am I… saving his life?

  I imagine myself there that night—in the forest. I remember driving by the crash site later that day. My dad had tried to avoid that route, but it was the only way to go where we were going. I ran out of the car at the next stop light. I saw the yellow tape first. The firefighters, the smoldering ground. I saw the skeleton of the car. I looked for the skeleton of Ben. I’m ashamed to admit that, but I needed proof. I’ve always been a hold-it-in-your-hands kind of girl. I needed to hold something to believe it was real. I needed to see him to believe it was real. My father explained that the high temperatures of the fire, caused by the explosion of the gas tank, meant that there was no bodily evidence except for some scattered ashes.

  Benny had turned into ashes. How was that even possible?

  “Wake. Up!” I yell, lowering myself again and breathing into his mouth. Just after the second breath, as I pull back, he shoots up and vomits onto the sand beside him.

  Sweet relief washes over me. Then, anger.

  “Fuck,” I whisper, realizing what I’d done. I saved my kidnapper’s life. It meant there was no way I was leaving this island now.

  Ben coughs and turns to me, his breathing ragged. He rubs his face and sits cross-legged. His face is streaked with blood. The blood seeps into the lines around his eyes. His face oily and sweaty. Rugged. He carefully observes me. I physically sag, feeling light-headed from the exertion.

  “Yes, I saved you,” I say quietly. “It’s only because I need help rowing the boat off this damn island.” My head is still spinning. He doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, confused, as if I’m a hallucination. I continue. “I easily could’ve let you drown, and I almost did. You can thank me by letting me go.”

  I’m struggling to focus… Need to leave…

  He coughs again and rubs his face as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

  Eyes wide, I stare at him. “I was… I was joking. Are you serious?”

  He doesn’t say anything as he pushes himself up. I stand too, following him to the shelter that he built for the boat. Removing the palm fronds, he uncovers the boat and then takes a step to the side.

  “She’s all yours.”

  Stunned, I watch him. His nose has stopped bleeding, but he’s in bad shape. His eyes aren’t focusing. I remember learning in health clas
s that if something knocks you unconscious, it very well could be a concussion. Did my kick cause a concussion?

  “How will you leave?” I ask, stepping toward the boat, my steps uneven. This could be my chance. It can’t be that hard to row a boat, and besides, the next island is pretty close.

  But… I’m unwell. How could I row a boat in this state?

  “I won’t.” He watches me but doesn’t make eye contact. He just licks his lips and touches his nose, wiping more dried blood onto his hand. He’s shaking.

  “You… won’t leave?” I ask timidly.

  He shakes his head. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” His voice is raised. “Go! Before I change my mind.”

  I take another step toward the boat. It’s small and metal. Flashes of the night he took me flood my memory. The terror. The uneasy slumber. The darkness. But, common decency requires I keep probing until I know he’s going to be okay.

  Common decency? For my kidnapper?

  “You’re just going to live here forever?” I ask. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. I don’t have the mental reserves to ponder it right now.

  “Not forever. Until I run out of food. Then I’ll hunt for fish and gather rain water until I die.”

  His answer startles me. “But… can’t you go back?”

  He loses it. He drops his hands—the ones running over his lips—and lets out an exasperated sigh.

  “No, I can’t. I’m dead either way, so I’d rather die here, alone. It’s a much better option, trust me.”

  “Because you didn’t kill me?” I squeak.

  “Yes. Because I didn’t kill you,” he says mockingly. “Also, I’ve been MIA for almost four days. I have a station to run here. And I killed my dad. They won’t be happy about that—the mess I caused them. I’m as good as dead. They like me, but not that much. If I fuck a job up, if I’m believed to have deserted my post…” he trails off. “They don’t take desertion lightly.”

  The information makes me sway. If I leave, he’s dead. If I stay, he’s dead. How do I make a decision like that, knowing the outcome? Knowing I left him to die alone, to starve and wither away until he succumbed to dehydration or starvation? I forget about the fact that he killed his father. I forget about the fact that he kidnapped me and took me to this island. Would I leave another human, ever? I don’t think so. Satan himself could be drowning, and I would save him. Humanity is built into me.