I’m clumsy, but I get my clothes and jacket on and keep my frozen hands close to my heart underneath my clothes. They’ll never warm up under these conditions, but my hope is to stave off hypothermia as long as possible. I drape the wet sleeping bag over my body, propping the top shielded corner over my head. From a distance I must look like a sheik or nomad with a long, dark green cape, tromping over the snow.
I can see the dark line in the distance. I look to the sky and suddenly, for the first time since the crash, the sun comes out in full force. It warms my face.
I have to cross this field before the sun falls. A night under the snow-under a wet sleeping bag with soaking pants-will find me gone by morning.
My body shakes with chills. Early on, the exercise created warmth, and I could capture that heat to melt water or warm my hands or, with Paul, to heat our bodies at night. But I’m no longer able to generate heat. I may make the horizon, but if nobody is there to help me, I’ll be dead by dawn.
Chapter 35
I walk, and the sun sets around me. There’s a low ceiling of dark clouds circling me. Snow is falling-at first lightly, but then the heavier stuff moves in and the wind starts to pick up. Luckily the wind remains at my back. I focus my mind on one thing I know is true: behind the clouds, the sun was as bright today as it has ever been. Clouds come and go, so do storms and rain and wind, but the sun will rise every morning.
I imagine it rising backward, breaking through the clouds, warming me and drying my clothes. I imagine its light pouring across the river, making it sparkle, and filtering over the valley and the mountains, making them glow. I imagine Paul standing up on the mountain, bathing himself in the warmth of the sun. I smile at the thought, and I imagine feeling the warmth of his body against mine and see us standing together in sun. He is whispering my name over and over, “Jane, Jane, Jane.”
A tear wells up in my eye and I feel its warmth roll slowly down my face, and then another falls. I don’t why I’m crying, but I know somewhere inside I’m melting. The long path I’ve walked since crashing into that mountain has brought me to this moment. Old Doctor would say that I’ve been on this journey for a lot longer than my six days in this frozen apocalypse. A week ago, if I were in session with him or the group, I would have snickered, probably to myself, about what a load of crap it all was. But today, I can see the long arc on which I’ve been walking.
Before I reach the thick black line against the horizon, I actually come to a barbed wire fence. I lay the sleeping bag over the wire and just flop over it. I have no strength or agility left to be cautious, and a sharp wire hooks into my left forearm, ripping a long gash from elbow to my thumb. The stuffing pours out of my jacket, and the material turns dark as it soaks up the blood. I try for a moment to untangle the sleeping bag from the wire, but it is completely enmeshed. With every tug, it tears.
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.
Epilogue
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.