Page 42 of The Wild Beneath

The bottom of the ocean was dredged up and hurled at the mountain.

The three of them navigate birds’ nests of telephone cable and trash to reach Ruth’s cabin. The yard is strewn with junk; Ruth picks things up—an empty potato chip bag and a sprinkler head—even though there’s nowhere to put them. The stairs down to the beach and the jetty are now a jumbled heap of broken wood strewn against the rocks. Next to the flattenedvegetable garden, the chickens squawk in their coop, wandering around a puddle of salt water. Eerily, the songbirds are silent.

But the cabin survived. Walls, a roof.

“It’s a miracle,” Ruth says over and over as she walks the circumference. “It’s still standing.”

Things that withstood the tsunami look strange now: Ruth’s bright white propane tank, electrical wires still strung up to the roof. The Honda in the driveway, its rusting gold paint and wheels sunk in the muck. Colourful buoys still hanging off the porch rafters.

When they stop walking, Annie’s brain takes over: This never should have happened, she shouldn’t have gone to that party, it’s all her fault somehow. If she hadn’t gone, she’d still be with her parents.

Ruth’s feet are planted in what remains of the grass, her hands on the handle of the old water pump. She throws her weight into each downward push, trying to get the pump to yield.

Annie sits down on the porch in front of Ruth, searching for a gut feeling, some sensation that her mom and dad are alive. Her instincts are muddy and missing. “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

Evan sits down next to her. “We don’t know that.”

“We can’t get ahead of ourselves,” Ruth says.

“Your parents are the strongest swimmers I know,” Evan says quietly.

“We have to take this one step at a time.” Ruth pushes down on the handle again. What initially comes out is thick, silty grey and doesn’t look like water at all.

“No one could swim that,” Annie whispers.

Time falls out of order.

The wall clock lies shattered on the floor. Evan took off his watch last night, and can’t find it now. The microwave and stovetop clocks are blank.

Ruth is collecting bandages and antiseptic wipes, Polysporinand Tylenol. She places a pair of scissors in the front zippered pocket of her backpack.

Annie sits on the kitchen island—­the only dry place—­and stares out the cracked bay window. Her grief is a jellyfish with tentacled stingers, taking over her body, ready to reach out and lash her anytime she thinks of her parents.

“Can you get pants on,” Ruth says, as if Annie has legs to put into pants, instead of jellied appendages. Her mind can’t process Ruth’s request, or which day of the week it is, or how far out her mom and dad must have been. Could they have been far enough out to survive this? The jellyfish stings her.

Ruth is in front of her, now. “You’re still bleeding, Annie.”

Annie manages to look down. Yes. The gash on her right kneecap.

Blood pools on the counter, but Ruth is gone again. Annie remembers the butterfly decals on the side windows to warn the birds. The glass shattered in one of them. The decals must be somewhere on the shattered pieces. Will birds fly in now? Will they get trapped in the house?

Ruth returns with a wad of gauze in her hand. “Hold this.” She takes Annie’s hand and presses the gauze over the bleeding area.

“I feel light-headed.”

“You’re in shock. Put your head between your knees,” Ruth instructs.

Her head bowed, Annie turns to watch Ruth fish out a can of roasted almonds from the top cupboard and wipe off the mud with her sleeve. How did mud get into the top cupboard? “Eat these. You need salt.” Ruth turns. “You, too, Evan.”

Across the room, Evan is standing still, holding a broom. Blood trails down his forearm—is it hers or his?—and onto the back of his hand. He still looks like he might faint or vomit. The brim of his Hale Timber hat is caked in dirt. Annie vaguelyremembers they’re low on washing detergent onAmphitrite. She puts her forehead back on her knees, and all she can see is the fine hair on her muddy thighs. Mom never wanted her to shave her legs. Why not? Mud is caked under Annie’s fingernails. Mud everywhere. Will her hair still grow if her parents are dead?

Ruth hands her a granola bar, one of those gluten-free, peanut-free, low-sugar ones in mauve packaging. “Eat this, too.”

Can she still eat if her parents are dead?

“Keep pressure on the gauze, eat the almonds, then find pants.” Ruth lists the instructions on her fingers. “And put the granola bar in your pocket. We’re heading to Hale’s in a few minutes.”

“I’m holding it,” Annie says, unsure which instruction she’s referring to. It does not matter.