I’M LYING ON THE BEACH, NAKED, staring at the infinite heavens. Instinctively, I understand three truths:

I am in Crusoe’s tale again.

I am myself and not the castaway.

The story ends here.

Am I dead? I know something happened, something sudden and grave. Was it here on the island, within the fog of delusion? Or in the real world, which has no shape or character I can presently invoke? If there is an answer, it likely won’t fall out of the clear blue sky above.

I can’t move my extremities. I sense they still work—just not at the moment. They’re cut off, oblivious to any commands issued from the brain. My only movement is from the neck up. I turn my head to the left. The island is bare, stripped of any and all identity. Every tree, every rock, every bird, every bug…gone. Even the mountains are absent; the cavernous spaces where they once stood are filled with dead air. Nothing remains except the beach and barren ground. I turn my head to the right. A single ship is visible a mile out from shore. It’s the rescue vessel, the one that transported the castaway back to England after twenty-eight years off the map. Is it anchored, waiting for me? No. A short observation confirms it is unfastened and on the move. The realization I am being left behind triggers panic. I want to shout out, yell and scream across the water. I want to jump to my feet and sprint into the shallows, waving my arms above my head. I can do neither. I am bound to lay here, mute and motionless, tears streaking the sand, until the ship fades into the horizon.

It should not be happening like this. Mutiny has overrun the story. If I were returning to the homeland, I would be off the island and sailing the high seas. If I am destined to remain in exile—as several men did following Crusoe’s departure—then why am I here on my own, unable to speak or move, surrounded by desolation, without a prayer of survival? The answer would appear obvious:

This isn’t a dream.

I am dead.

In the instant the thought is confirmed, I hear a sound. Sand scuffing and squelching, quiet at first, then loud, rhythmic. Feet. Bare feet. Leaving imprints on the beach. The sound is directly behind me, in line with my head. I turn left and right, trying to glimpse my companion in death, to no avail. Is it a friend? The captain, volunteering to stay on with the commander? One of the search party, already succumbed to isolation’s madness? Is it a foe? A Moor, perhaps? Or a cannibal? Or is my finder the very source of my former existence—my man, Friday?

The visitor moves to my side, kneels next to me. I turn. The sun is blinding. I blink several times and a face materializes. A young face, yet hard, worn from conflict and subsistence, a childhood endured rather than gifted. A face fashioned from the unforgiving earth.

Xury. He grasps my hand, and the contact revives my sense of touch. Three fingers. Middle, ring, pinkie.

“ARE YOU SEEING ME?”

I breathe, nod my head. “Yes.”

“Positive?”

“Yes.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Perry holds up two fingers, positions them close to my nose.

“Seven.”

“Excellent. You are making good progress, Miss Just Jeans.”

My brother flicks his head, squeezes my hand. His eyes are drawn. His nose is red. He’s rocking from foot to foot. I look around. The wall to the right is a nest of switches and knobs and lights and cords. A floral curtain separates us from the sighing, grousing creature I can hear in the next bed. A saline drip runs into my wrist.

“How are you feeling?”

I take stock. “Bit groggy. I’m guessing I’ve got a fair few drugs in me.”

“That’s correct. I don’t need medication, but my sister does.”

I laugh, and a steel trap closes over my chest. “Aaaah, bad idea. God, what the hell happened to me?”

“You don’t remember getting hurt?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you remember?”

I tell him. In the shower, I pressed my forehead to the tiles and wept. And maybe my sorrow possessed an energy powerful enough to move objects because the shower-curtain rings started to rattle on the bar. Then the little shampoo bottles fell off the shelf. The soap hit the drain hole with a thump. Water spat and gurgled and choked the pipes. Everything shook and shimmied and pulsed like a plucked guitar string. His warning rode the crest of the oncoming seismic waves: 37 percent chance of an 8.2-plus event and a 10 to 15 percent chance of a 9.0-plus event… sometime in the next fifty years…

The earth couldn’t wait fifty years; it figured now to be as good a time as any, lives were due for a shake-up. I tried to shout out to you as the rumble grew. I tried to yell at the top of my lungs. I went to step out and slipped. My feet had no purchase. The ground had given way. I fell. And Hell’s own pain caught me. By the head. Across the chest.

“Next thing I know, I’m here,” I conclude. “There’s obviously more to the story.”

Perry nods.

“Do you want to fill in the blanks?”

Perry gives three big shakes of the head. “Not me.” He releases my hand, begins wiping his palms on his thighs. “I want to pretend someone else rescued you. If it’s someone else, it’s easier to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to relive what happened, Pez.”

He takes a few deep breaths, whispers the pranasomething word Mum taught him.“I think it’s important you know what happened, so I want to pretend someone else helped you. If it’s someone else, it’s easier to talk about it.”

I nod as tears kiss the corners of my eyes. No crying. Gritting my teeth, I sit up straight, lift the pillows supporting my back. He needs to see I am focused wholly, absolutely, on him. He begins, and I’m not at all surprised by the hero he chooses to save the day.

“…THEN A DOCTOR CAME TO SPEAK to Jackie Chan in the corridor. Dr. Michelle Craig. She apologized for taking a long time; the earthquake meant there were more patients to treat than usual. They had done a second set of scans on Just Jeans’s heart and brain—everything appeared okay. There was no evidence of major internal injury or bleeding. No spinal concerns. She had a badly bruised sternum, three broken ribs and a heavy concussion. They’d given her drugs. She would need to stay in ICU for a day or two, then maybe a day in the regular ward. But she would be okay. She would have her fair share of pain to deal with, and a flight back to Australia was out of the question for a time, but she would be fine. Jackie Chan asked Dr. Craig if he could see her. The doctor nodded and said he ought to be her first sight upon waking.

“He walked into her room. He placed the seismometer on the bedside table. He waited. As the minutes ticked by, he told her what to expect when she woke up:

“Just Jeans, it’s a good thing I am not moving to Fair Go and we are staying together. You need a caregiver. Not just for your recovery, but for the rest of your life. The earth won’t stop—at any time it can shake you up, throw you down and leave you for dead. I wish it wasn’t unstable and unpredictable, but that’s how the world is. So, someone has to look out for all of us. Someone has to look out for you. Someone who knows you and loves you. Someone brave and strong. Someone who practices first aid. Someone excellent at telling jokes. Someone special.

“Jackie Chan let her know he would always be there for her. No lie.”

I WANT TO DO EVERYTHING in this moment. I want to climb out of bed, hold my brother and never let go. I want to dam the tears streaming down my face. I want to find words to sum up my boundless gratitude. I can’t do any of it. I can only hope I’m not dreaming again.

“There are two more things you need to know,” continues Perry, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t need to pretend for these—I will talk about them as myself. The first is this: Marc is on his way over here.”

A small mortar detonates in my chest. I wipe my cheeks with a tissue.

“Once I knew you would be okay, I phoned him. He saw a story about the quake posted on the website for The Australian. He said he didn’t want to call you because you wanted nothing to do with him—”

“I was an idiot.”

“He said he was too. He called himself many bad names, actually. Then he got very upset when I told him what had happened to you. He said every fiber of his being wanted to jump on a plane and come over and see you and take care of you. But he wasn’t going to do it.”

“How come?”

“He said he respects you too much and he can still learn some things, despite having been to university. He also said he believed you were in good hands.”

“I am. So, he wasn’t coming…but now he is?”

“I told him when an earthquake happens, people need as much help as possible. We could use his help, if he could give it. I felt this was appropriate to say because you had written Call Marc and apologize on your to-do list. He took a long time to convince—almost twenty minutes. He didn’t want to screw everything up and make you mad again.” Perry forms a fist with his right hand, squeezes it till the knuckles blanch. “I hope you’re not mad at me.”

“Mad? You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“I am not mad at you, Pez. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Perry uncurls his fist and bounces the butt of his palm against his forehead. “That is a very bad joke. Now, the second thing—”

“Is it Mum?”

“Yes. She is here. I phoned her on the way to the hospital and left a message that she needed to be here. She came.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s in the waiting room. She said she’d see you whenever you were ready.”

“She’s been waiting a while.”

“Yes. She’s hurt.”

“What?”

“She was injured. In the earthquake.”

Another thorn lodges in my chest. “Is she okay?”

Perry tips his hand back and forth. “She was brought to the hospital by a neighbor. She was dizzy and nauseous for a while. Her face is the worst. She has cuts, maybe a broken nose.”

“Has a doctor seen her?”

“I don’t believe so. She refused, said she didn’t want help. She said there were other people who needed treatment more than her.”

I suck in as much breath as my ruined ribs will allow. Dad’s words descend like open parachutes: Love is reliable. You can depend on it.

Perry coughs into his hand. “I think Mum should come in now, yes?”

I nod. He turns, takes three steps, pauses. He hunches his shoulders and wheels around to face me once more.

“I asked Mum if you and I and Marc could stay at her house until you are well again and we can get another flight back to Brisbane. It seemed like a logical solution.”

“What did she say?”

“She said of course and then she cried. She said we will always be welcome at the Ne’er Go residence. Ne’er…Do you know what that means?”

“It’s an abbreviation of never.”

He thinks it over for a few seconds, then breaks into a smile. “Ne’er Go instead of Fair Go—it’s a joke!”

“It is, sort of. We’ll work with her, help her be better.”

“Yes,” says Perry, clapping his hands. “We will help her be better.”

I’M DONE NOW. I NEED TO REST.

Our trip is done too. We’ve arrived at…well, here. In a few short moments, brother and mother will stand at the foot of my hospital bed. Three remnants of the Richter family: separated but together, injured but healed, directionless but moving on. Spared by Fate. And all of it just as we’d planned.

Yeah, totally.

I let my head fall to the right. The seismometer sits watch on the bedside table. With the last threads of energy in my body, I want to reach out and touch it, tap into its secrets. What information does it hold? What will it reveal as the dawn becomes the day? Only Master Disaster knows—or, at least, retains the capacity to know. That’s as it should be. The future is best kept in his hands. He is quite capable.

Floating now.

Floating toward sleep.

Toward night.

In the past, I scoured the dark for revelations. No more. Every epiphany I ever sought has been exposed, not by the night sky above my head but by the shifting earth beneath my feet.

I hear footsteps on linoleum. I think it’s linoleum. Maybe it’s sand. The door creaks open and the footsteps close in. I smell the print of a new book, taste cigarette smoke. I can’t see, though. Can’t focus. Sleep is taking me away, but it’s okay. I know they’re present.

Love is reliable.

Everything is still.

1 October 2008

This is the last entry, Justine. We’re still a few weeks away from your birthday, but I want to give you this journal first thing in the morning. Actually, I need to give you this first thing in the morning. I’m not feeling too good, Jus. Stuff is slipping away—fast. Reckon I’ll be knockin’ on the pearly gates sooner rather than later. I’m ready. I hope you are, too. I think you are.

There are two things I want you to know. The first is that I love you and Perry more than I can say or write or even breathe with these jiggered lungs of mine. I loved you, Jus, from the second you were born. From the moment the nurse put you into my arms and you looked up at my ugly mug with those searching eyes. And nothing’s changed since. That’s the way it’s stayed. If any father has loved his kids more during his time on this earth, then I tip my hat to him.

The second thing is about your brother. We’ve talked a lot and I know you said you’d take care of him. And I’ve got no doubt in this world and the next that you will. To me, Jus, your word is as solid as steel. But here’s the thing: I want you to take care of yourself too. I want you to find the middle ground, where you’re not just keeping him happy but you’re creating some happiness of your own. That was the way I tried to be over the years. I hope that comes through when you read this journal. Perry was never a chore to me. Master Disaster was never a weight on my shoulders. I never felt I was denied anything because he was my son. I had it good. I had it bloody good.

Life is short, my little tree frog. Make it your only complaint when all is said and done.