Untraceable

Survival Skill #50

Hope, belief, and the willpower to survive can be the difference between life and death.

~

As the noises grow faint, Dad moans softly from the corner. I slide over next to him and position his head in my lap. “Ssshhhh. We have to be quiet.” His shirt is blood-soaked; I take out Tommy’s knife and cut it loose in the front to assess the damage. Once I see the wound, my throat clenches. It’s a stomach wound and much worse than I thought. My SAR skills flood back as I tear his shirt into strips and press them on the wound, hoping to slow the bleeding.

I quickly assess the rest of his body for signs of major injuries. A few gashes line his forehead and stretch down around one ear. His pants are torn, revealing a huge gash on one leg. Blood lines the border of the wound. Doesn’t look fresh, but I tighten a few strips around his leg, just to be safe.

By the time I finish, the bandages on his stomach are soaked.

I stop and stare at the blood on my hands before wiping them on my pants. I hear myself talking, “What else can I do?” Tears stream down my face and splash on his cheek. But he doesn’t answer me. There’s nothing else to do now but pray.

Stroking his matted hair, I focus on Dad’s gaunt face. It’s the first moment I’ve had a chance to see who he’s become. I stare at the person who raised me in these woods.

His sallow face is white like the moon and as thin as a skeleton. He’s no longer the strong man I once knew. Now he’s scary thin with a scattered, gray beard, and he stinks.

I grip his bony hand. He gives me a weak squeeze. This is not the dad I lost three months ago. This is a man who’s struggled. A man who’s been betrayed by almost everyone he trusted. This man is no longer just my dad; he’s a survivor.

I bite my lip and cry quietly, not wanting him to hear or see me break down. Suddenly, I’m scared. He’s been held captive for over three months, tortured, and starved. But this bullet wound is much more serious and needs urgent medical care.

Panic rips through me. I’m out here miles away from anything or anyone that can help him. I kiss his forehead and whisper, “I knew you were alive.”

He smiles up at me without opening his eyes. “Felt like I was dead, sometimes.” His voice is raspier than usual, as if a thousand pine needles have scraped along his vocal chords. He reaches up and touches my face, but not without wincing.

Emotions rise like a high ocean tide, but I force them to recede. Dad doesn’t need any more stress, especially from me. I stroke his clammy forehead and can tell he’s burning up. I pour some of my water onto my cloth and press it against his head.

He lifts his fingers and touches my face. “Thank you, Gracie.”

I shrug. “For what?”

He eyes me. “Gee, I wonder. For finding me. For not giving up after all this time. For putting yourself in danger.”

“Yeah. You owe me, big time.”

“How’s Mom?”

“Not good. She’ll be so happy to see you. But you should see your ‘to do’ list.”

His brief laugh becomes a fit of coughs. A drop of blood speckles the corner of his mouth.

I rub his forehead. “You sure do pour it on thick, huh?”

He closes his eyes for a moment before answering. “It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“I may be hurt, but my brain still works. I know you.”

“Dad, what are you—”

He interrupts me. “I know you cared about Morris.” Hearing Mo’s name gets me right in the gut.

My eyes flood. “Don’t be silly. All I care about is you.”

He lifts his head up and forces out words. “He did what he did for his father. Will was a good man and a good friend. I don’t blame Morris—or Mo—and I don’t think you should either.” Dad lays his head back on my lap and stares at the ceiling. “It’s such a shame he got dragged into all this. He’s such a smart young man.”

I chomp down on the inside of my cheek to keep from choking up.

Dad studies my face. “I want you to know that when I was down in that pit, Mo was there for me. Even though it compromised his cover, he helped me whenever he could.”

“Then why didn’t he rescue you?” I press my lips together, creating a barrier to remaining sobs.

Dad stares at the ceiling, a distant look wipes over his face. “He wanted to, but I wouldn’t let him. What he was doing was more important than me. It was everything Will and I worked on for a year. Until they killed him. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Mo. He convinced Fields to keep me alive in case they needed leverage. Mo even took that bullet for me.”

“I guess.”

“His heart was in the right place. I’m sure he cared about you. Knowing him, I’m pretty damn positive that was real.”

I press another strip of cloth to his stomach, hoping to stop the flow. “Shhhhh. Get some rest. We can talk later. We’re not out of the woods yet, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“No pun intended.” Dad touches my face. Tears appear in the corners of his eyes as he studies my face. “All I wanted was to see your sweet face again. To tell you how much I love you. I didn’t get to do that when I left.”

I sob into Dad’s shoulder. “I love you too, Dad. But you gotta stop talking like this. You’re going to make it. I promise.”

He shakes his head slightly. “We both know that’s not true.”

My heart aches as I sit helpless in the fading light, awaiting our fate, the adrenaline that once pumped through my veins now replaced by pure exhaustion.

Dad mumbles in the darkness. “Take care of your mother. Tell her how much I love her.”

I shake my head no and act strong no matter how I feel inside. “No! You tell her yourself. I’m not doing your dirty work for you.”

His face drops to one side, and his breathing quickens. Tears trickle out of his eyes, pooling in the dirt. “Tell her … I’m sorry for leaving her.”

I shake him. “Don’t you dare start saying goodbye. You’re going to be fine.” Horrible thoughts invade my mind. What if he dies right here in my arms? After all this time? After I just found him? That would mean everything I did, everyone that’s died, would all be for nothing.

I watch his chest rise and fall like an accordion, willing it to continue. Soon, his breath becomes short and erratic.

“Dad?” I pat his face a little to wake him up. Sobs take over my body. His head flops to one side, and his body goes limp.

Tears spring to my eyes. I cradle his face with my hands and shake him a little. “Dad, stay with me.” I press my ear to his chest. “No, please no.”

I lean over him and perform CPR. “Dad, don’t leave me!” While pumping his chest with my hands, I scream out the opening, not caring who hears me. As long as it gives Dad a chance. “Help me! Please!” I perform a few more rounds and check for his pulse again. This is not happening.

I clasp my hands together and slam down his chest several times. “Don’t you dare leave me! Do you hear me! I’ll never forgive you!”

Silence fills the cavernous space as I abruptly stop fighting. I hold my breath waiting for him to take another breath. Waiting to see his chest rise and feel his heart beat. Waiting for him to live.

But it’s too late. He’s gone.