The motor droned on through the darkness. At some point I roused myself and unfurled the jib, trying to make up more distance. I went below to check on the children. They were sleeping in the same berth again that night, their bodies softly rocking against each other. I returned to the cockpit. There we were, inching across the ocean. The boat plugging along across calm seas. The sky was swabbed clean. In the storm’s aftermath, the heavens sparkled.
I set the kitchen timer, and I nodded off. I slept knowing that rescue was coming. Once or twice, I blearily imagined that I saw the powerboat. But the white deck disintegrated into spindrift.
So when Michael touched me—when he squeezed my arm and drew my wet hair aside—he pulled me from a heavy sleep. I rolled into his arms. For a moment, I thought we were together in bed. Back home. If I opened my eyes, I was certain I would see the top-heavy crab apple out the bedroom window, sunlight streaming through it. For one brief week in May, this otherwise ordinary tree burst into blossom and rained white petals like tickertape.
Juliet.
He shook my arm.
Juliet.
I sat up and looked at him. His eyes looked different. Clearer. Clear and sad and returned. He wore a sweater, his hair a messy, grimy tuft. I dropped my face against his chest and smelled him. There. But he gently lifted me off, his face twisted.
Oof, he said.
What is it?
I’m tender there.
I’m so sorry.
It’s OK, he said, taking my hand. I feel a little better.
You do?
I felt his forehead, cool and damp as a stone.
That’s good, I said. That’s great. Your fever is receding.
So you can call off the fishing-boat rescue, he said. We’re OK now.
I took my hand back and sat up. It was dawn. To port, a pink incandescence. To starboard, the crown of the sun strained at the horizon line, one faint ray of light canting upward through loose clouds.
I’m sorry, I said. I’m not going to do that.
He laughed. Then he saw that I was serious.
We don’t need to be rescued, he said, sharply.
Listen, I said, if you’re feeling better, please sit here. Just keep watch while I go take a pee without having to worry. I need coffee. I need to brush my teeth. I need to change my shirt.
I moved quietly below in the galley. I lit the stove for coffee and drank a quart of water straight out of the jug. I looked in on the children. Still asleep, legs tangled.
You won’t reconsider? Michael said, when I sat across from him with my coffee.
You could have secondary symptoms. That’s what the medic said.
I don’t want help. I don’t want to use taxpayer money to rescue my sick ass. I hate this. I hate the sound of my own complaining.
I’m sorry you feel that way, I said.
Calling the Coast Guard was an admission of failure, he said.
Getting sick is not a failure, Michael.
It’s a failure of my body, he said.
I stood up and walked to the other side of the cockpit.
A million years ago, it seemed, he had given me a little wooden boat with my name painted on it. He had said, You don’t need to know how to sail. All you need to know is which way to point the boat. And I said no, no, no. But then I said yes. I had said yes, despite infinite misgivings.
I turned and stared at him, furious. What do you think you are, a god? You think you can’t die?
I’m not scared of dying, Michael said. I’m going to die. I’m scared of weakness.
Well then maybe getting dengue fever is just the thing you need, I said, fighting back tears. You need to be taught a lesson. We need one another, Michael. It doesn’t matter what you believe. We