I squatted down, felt for Hope’s leg and found her left foot. “I’m just going to take this shoe off,” I said. “I don’t want to take the other one off because your ankle is swelling and I’m afraid we won’t get it back on.”
I stripped the insole out of Hope’s running shoe, picturing it in my mind because I couldn’t see it. The curve of metal was held between two pieces of leather. This might just work. I put Hope’s shoe in her hands. “Cross your fingers,” I said.
She caught my fingers and gave them a squeeze. Her grip was weak. “Thank you,” she said.
I stood up and attacked the wall with the heel end of the insert. Dirt fell onto my arm. “It’s working!”
“Yay . . .” Hope’s voice petered out.
I felt behind me with one hand. I touched the top of her head. “No, no, no. You have to stay awake. I can’t do this by myself.”
“It’s . . . wet.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’m going to get us out. Just don’t go to sleep on me.”
I dug awkwardly with my makeshift trowel. It was slow going and it still felt like the ground was pushing back, trying to fold around us. I started to breathe hard. Were we running out of air? “Talk to me, please?” I asked, my voice as shaky as I suddenly felt.
“You afraid of . . . the dark?” Hope said.
I started to dig again.
“Closed spaces,” I said, grunting with the effort it took to dig. I moved my foot, guessing there must be two inches of water at my feet now. Rain slid down my face. At least that’s what I told myself it was.
I dug what I hoped was a good enough handhold and then reached farther up the wall and began digging again. And I kept talking to Hope, telling her stories, asking questions, trying not to let panic overwhelm me.
Finally I had four steps etched into the wall, the last at the limit of my reach. I crouched down next to Hope. She was sitting in several inches of water. I felt for her arm and put my hands on her shoulders. “We’re going to get out of here,” I said. “I need you to stand up. I’m going to climb up and push the cover out of the way. Then I’m going to help you up. Right now I need you to stand up so I can show you where to put your hands and feet.”
I helped her to her feet and had her feel the wall for the small indentations I made. They suddenly seemed very small.
“When you run a marathon what do you tell yourself when you’re facing those last few miles?” I asked.
“That . . . I’m . . . crazy.”
I smiled even though she couldn’t see it in the darkness. “Okay, three crazy miles to go,” I said. “See you at the finish line.” I felt for my two handholds and put one foot in the bottom indentation I’d made. It slipped out but I kicked my foot in hard and the second time it held. The wall of the cistern was wet and slippery. I hugged it with my body, lifted my right arm and pulled myself up a little higher. Finally after what seemed like an eternity I was right below the wooden cover.
I pushed up with one hand. The cover moved maybe a couple of inches and cold dirty water poured onto my face. I spit and shook my head and pushed again. The wooden square moved a little more this time. I took a deep breath and pushed one more time, groaning with the exertion, and this time the cover lifted and slipped to the side. There was just enough space for me to fit my hand, but that was enough. I pushed, the wood sliding over an inch at a time, but it moved. And finally there was enough space for me to get my arm up over the top. I felt around for the iron ring, grabbed it tightly and flung my other arm out of the hole, grabbing at the ground. For a moment I was suspended by one arm, my body weight pulling at my shoulder. Then I caught a tree root and held on for dear life. I kicked my legs out from the wall of the cistern and used the momentum I’d gained to push back against it when we reconnected, pulling with every last bit of my strength. And somehow I got the top half of my body up onto the wooden cover. I kicked my legs again, rolled hard to the right and I was out.
I lay there for a moment like an overturned bug, rain falling on my face. Then I rolled to my side, got on all fours and pulled the cover all the way back from the opening of the hole. I crouched at the edge but I couldn’t see anything. Or anyone.
“Hope,” I called.
She didn’t answer.
I leaned closer, bracing myself with my hands on either side. “Hope,” I yelled again.
What if she’d collapsed? What if she was lying facedown in that water right now? Just looking onto that yawning opening made me shake, but if I had to go back down into it again then that’s what I was going to do.
And then I heard her. “Kathleen.”
I pulled the scarf I was wearing under my jacket off my neck. I tied a slipknot at one end and tightened the loop. I looked around for somewhere to brace my feet. The trunk of a nearby tree was going to have to do. “I’m dropping my scarf down to you,” I said. “Put one wrist through the loop and pull it tight. I’m going to pull and help you up.”
I hung as much of the top half of my body down in the hole as I dared, planted my feet, toes down in the mud, against the tree and let the scarf down, swinging it a little so Hope could find it. Given the length of the scarf, Hope’s height and my long arms, this should work. Please let the math be right, I prayed. Finally I felt her grab the scarf.
“Keep your weight on your left foot as much as you can,” I called. “Ready?”
After a moment I heard her voice. It may have been weak but I could hear the determination. She began to climb. I pulled and I prayed and somehow by some miracle we did it. One of Hope’s hands was close enough to grab, and then the other, and we screamed with the effort but together we got her over the top. She was on her stomach in the mud and I was on my side and the rain pelted us like tiny stinging fists, but we were out.
It wasn’t until I sat up that I realized Hope had passed out. I felt for a pulse and leaned my face close to hers. Her heart was beating and she was breathing. She was just unconscious. Somehow I had to get her down to Wisteria Hill.
I could make some kind of sled and drag her, I decided. I looked around for a couple of long, sturdy branches, thinking I could tie my raincoat to them and drag her. Off to my left for a moment I thought I saw a wink of light. I shook my head. It was just a trick of my overloaded brain. Then I saw it again. A bobbing light. I wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. A voice called my name. “Kathleen!”
I stood up and waved my arms over my head. “I’m here,” I shouted, relief making my whole body shake.
The light bounced again and turned in my direction and Elliot Gordon came out of the trees, trailed by a very wet black-and-white tuxedo cat. I pressed my hand to my mouth and sobs shook my body.
Elliot caught me by the shoulders. “Oh my God, Kathleen, are you all right?” he said. He was soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his skull.
I nodded. “Hope’s unconscious,” I said, gesturing behind me.
“Hang on,” Elliot said. He moved past me, crouching to check Hope.
I kneeled on the ground and gathered Hercules into my arms. He craned his head up and licked my chin. “I’m so glad to see you,” I said, half laughing, half crying. I unzipped my jacket and put him inside, zippering it around him, holding him against me with one hand. Even wet he was better than any electric blanket.
“Can you take this?” Elliot said, holding out the flashlight he was holding. “I’ll carry her.”
He had a gash near his eye, angry and red, I realized.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” he said with a hint of a smile. “It wasn’t your cat. I had a small altercation with a tree branch. I’m okay.” He was still holding out the light.
I took it from him, swinging it to look down into the cistern. The water had to be chest-height now. I could make out the remains of what looked to be a raccoon on the bottom. My hands trembled and I turned the light away.