Geri was a guest on the Galaxy, but in the raft, she is the steadying force. She did some sailing when she was younger and she comes from California, where she spent much time on the ocean. Initially, others looked to Jean Philippe or me for answers, because we worked on the yacht. But Jean Philippe says little now. He is grieving his wife. And I only worked one other boat before the Galaxy, as a junior deckhand. I had to learn fire prevention and some basic first aid. But mostly I was cleaning, sanding, waxing. And attending to guests. None of that prepared me for what we are enduring now.
Our last can of water, according to Geri’s calculations, will be gone by tomorrow. We are all aware of what that means. No water, no survival. Geri has been working on a small solar still from the ditch bag, a conical plastic thing that is supposed to use condensation to produce fresh water. She set it up so it drags behind the raft on a cord. But so far it has been ineffective. A rip, she says. The truth is, with ten of us, how could it come close to producing enough?
I did just write “ten of us.” I realize I have not told you of Bernadette’s fate. Forgive me, Annabelle. I could not bring myself to write it the last two days. The shock took time to absorb.
It was Mrs. Laghari who finally got an answer from Jean Philippe. He had been silent for hours, softly crying. The Lord, sitting next to him, twirled a raft paddle between his palms.
Finally Mrs. Laghari rose to her knees, still wearing the long pink T-shirt Geri had given her, her salt-and-pepper hair pushed back behind her ears. She is a short woman, but she commands respect. With a determined voice, she said, “Mr. Jean Philippe. I realize you are grieving. But you must tell us what happened to Bernadette. We cannot have secrets. After this man revived her”—she pointed to the Lord—“did he do something else?”
“The Lord did no harm, Mrs. Laghari,” Jean Philippe whispered. “Bernadette was dead.”
Several of us gasped.
“But she had woken up,” Nevin said.
“She seemed fine,” I added.
“We thought he healed her,” Nina said.
“Wait,” Yannis said. “I asked if he healed her, and he said he didn’t.”
He turned to the Lord. “But you did say she was good.”
“She is,” the Lord replied.
“She’s gone.”
“Someplace better.”
“You smug bastard,” Lambert said. “What did you do?”
“Please, stop,” Jean Philippe whispered. He put his forehead in his hands. “She was speaking to me. She said it was time to trust God. I said, ‘Yes, cherie, I will.’ Then she smiled, and her eyes closed.” His voice quivered. “Didn’t she have the most beautiful smile?”
Mrs. Laghari leaned forward. “Did anyone else see this?”
“Alice,” Jean Philippe said. “The poor child. I told her Bernadette was sleeping. Just sleeping. Beautiful … sleep.”
He broke down. Most of us were crying, too, not just for Bernadette but for ourselves. An invisible shield had been shattered. Death had paid its first visit.
“Where’s her body?” Lambert said.
I don’t know why he asked that. It was obvious.
“The Lord told me her soul was gone,” Jean Philippe rasped.
“Wait. He told you to throw her over the side? Your own wife?”
“Stop it, Jason!” Mrs. Laghari barked.
“You dumped her in the ocean?”
“Shut up, Jason!” Yannis snapped.
Lambert sat back, smirking.
“Some God,” he cracked.
This evening, when the sun went down, a group of us were sitting outside the canopy. Nightfall brings fear. It also brings us closest together, as if we are huddled against an invader none of us can see. Tonight, with Bernadette’s absence, we seemed particularly vulnerable. A long time passed without a peep from any of us.
Finally, out of the blue, Yannis began to sing.
Hoist up the John B’s sails
See how the main sail sets …
He stopped and looked around. The rest of us exchanged glances but said nothing. Nina offered a feeble smile. Yannis let it go. His voice is high-pitched and warbly, not something you want to listen to for long anyhow.
But then Nevin shifted to his elbows. He coughed once and said, “If you’re gonna sing it, lad, sing it correctly.”
He lifted his neck. I could see his protruding Adam’s apple. He cleared his throat and sang.
Hoist up the John B’s sails
See how the main sail sets …
Mrs. Laghari took the next line.