Free Caribou Island by David Vann

looking at the boards of the ceiling. Her husband out on that island, her children working, the Vicodin making her nauseated and weak, clammy. The room too bright in the sun, but she didn’t have the energy to get up and close the curtains. No one cared what happened to her here. She might as well die.
    Self-pity, she said aloud. Not a pretty thing. And this felt too close to the years after her mother was gone, after her father was gone. Moving from one distant family member to the next, shuffled around in Canada and then California, unwanted, too often alone.
    She popped another Vicodin, the pain mounting to a breaking point again, and she didn’t feel anything at first, but after fifteen or twenty minutes, she could feel the cold, prickly slide into nausea and oblivion, a welcome relief. Her head went away, or her awareness of it, and she was left pooling in the rest of her body. She’d gone heavy, sinking deep into the mattress.
    Almost like diving when she closed her eyes, the surface far away above. An ocean with a heartbeat, slow waves of pressure, water compacting but no edge to it. No contact with the surface. The world of air a world of myth only, storms and lightning and sun. The only reality the density of the water, the coolness of it, the pressure and weight of it.
    Irene awoke hours later. The pain returned, sharp and jagged, slicing through her head.
    Gary, she called out, and this time she heard a response. A rustling in the kitchen, and he opened the bedroom door.
    How are you feeling? he asked.
    I need another Vicodin. I’m really scared. The pain is something else.
    I think you should wait a while if you can. You’re not supposed to have more than four of those per day, according to Rhoda. And the doctor didn’t think you needed them.
    The pain is too much, Gary.
    Maybe some hot food. Maybe some food and water and that will help a bit. What would you like?
    Irene couldn’t breathe. She turned on her side, and that only made the pain and breathing worse. I can try, she said. I just want this to end.
    I’ve been thawing out some venison. I’ll cook that up with mashed potatoes. You need to eat more.
    Okay, she said, closing her eyes again, and heard him close the door. She tried to breathe away the pain, let it go away on each exhale. Tried not to panic for air. But her ears were ringing, a high buzz, the frequency of the pain, and it would not be ignored. She could think of nothing else. She took another Vicodin. It didn’t matter what Gary or anyone else thought.
    The wait for relief was longer than before, fifteen minutes an extraordinary length of time, and then she faded away for some easier length and Gary opened the door again.
    Ready, he said. How you doing?
    I had to take another pill.
    Irene.
    You don’t know. You have no idea what this is like. If someone had told me, I wouldn’t have believed them.
    Well I have dinner ready.
    Irene sat up slowly at the edge of the bed, feeling dizzy. My slippers and robe. Can you help me with those?
    Do you really need help?
    Yes I do.
    Okay. He helped her and they were sitting soon enough at the table, a fire going. Breaded venison steaks, from a kill last fall in Kodiak. High up on the flank of a mountain, and her arrow had punctured both lungs. Irene hunched over her food, cut a small piece of meat, and it tasted delicious. She was starving. But she also felt on the verge of throwing up. The meal would be an odd walk of that line.
    Thanks, Gary, she said.
    I’m sorry, he said. I’m really sorry for taking us out in that storm. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you get better. But I’m worried about the painkillers. You could get hooked on those. You may already be hooked.
    That’s not what I’m worried about. What I’m worried about is that the painkillers may not be enough. Even now, they’re not cutting all the way through the pain. And what if that gets worse? What do I do then?
    I think you’re panicking.
    Damn right.
    * * *
    Jim and