Outcast and the Cast Away

Outcast and the Cast Away

Tragedy and timing change lives

This one twists a rarely used trope. If not for the actual tragedy, it could have been titled "Out of Sync." Enjoy the story.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

[copyright 2025, all rights reserved, including section 107 of US and international copyright law. Conversion of this work to audio file is strictly prohibited.]

I was utterly exhausted, but I couldn't sleep to save my life. That was partially because I was sitting in a waiting area at LRMC, a US military hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. Another reason was that my wife was sleeping soundly in her room down the hallway. I'd spent thirteen weeks, fearing the worst.

You see, my wife, Stella Dawson, had disappeared on the job in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Her job, or at least her duties, had expanded recently. When we first met twenty years ago, she was a student in marine biology. She had told me she knew exactly what she wanted to do since she was thirteen. That was the year her family vacationed at SeaWorld, and while waiting in line to see Shamu, she and her family were picked to star in the show, as was a tradition at the park.

When she first got the position at NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration), Stella was as excited as I'd ever seen her, right up there with our wedding and honeymoon. But, within two months, she was reassigned to a team meant to study ocean wind patterns in the Indian Ocean.

That far removed my wife from her love for sea mammals. I, Tom Dawson, had not seen her that distraught since we discovered we couldn't have children. She was charting and graphing ocean water temperatures, which I thought had to be mind-numbing.

Back then, we solved the pregnancy issue by deciding to adopt. Our daughter Caitlyn, now 23, was in her final year of college. But Caitlyn didn't come struggle-free.

As I sat there, tired and alone, I thought about our lives; little snippets crossed my mind.

I was one year ahead of Stella at UNC, even though we were the same age. I probably walked past her dozens of times on campus. She was in the Applied Sciences building, and I was earning a degree in accounting. Somehow, our paths crossed at the homecoming football game when I was a senior. During a long touchdown pass, the guy next to me got overly excited and sent my beer flying, mostly all over Stella, who was seated two rows below me.

Something about that face, her eyes, specifically, got my attention. I remember thinking, "If she can be that beautiful when angry, what kind of treat must she be when she's happy?"

I calmed her, offered to pay to clean her clothes, and left with her number. The rest, as they say, is history. I waited for her to graduate, and we saw each other often, since my hometown had always been twenty-five minutes from campus. We were married less than a year after she finished school.

Both sets of parents were happy, or if they weren't, neither Stella nor I knew it. Stella's inability to find meaningful work in her field was the one thing that brought difficulty to our marriage during those early years. There were just too damned many marine biologists.

Stella finally took a job on campus for one of her old instructors. I knew it wasn't what she wanted, but Stella did her best to make lemonade with lemons. She threw herself into her job and was promoted twice within the department.

In the meantime, we put our efforts into starting a family. Unfortunately, something was wrong. In our second year of marriage, we decided to get tested, since we'd gone a year trying unsuccessfully to get pregnant. Stella had an issue that meant we could never have the children we both desperately wanted.

One year later, we made some decisions, retained an attorney, and were in a room waiting to meet our new four-year-old daughter. Stella took an indefinite leave from her entry-level job - no one there expected her to return - to raise our daughter.

And we were happy. Caitlyn was a joy that brought meaning and purpose to our lives, just like we'd talked about for so long. Our parents were ecstatic. Both sets had kids later in life, so their clocks were ticking.

But, as our pride and joy grew, she became quite the handful. Sassiness turned to rebellion and then outright indignation. Counseling helped only to the point that we learned about her possible reasons for acting out. Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD) was the long-awaited diagnosis. That only helped me a little bit. RAD was a relatively new diagnosis, less than a decade old. There was very little information about how to treat her.

We did our best, or at least I think we did. I don't know what more could have been done. I think we officially lost Caitlyn when her friend in high school got a car. We wouldn't buy one for her because she was always in trouble or grounded.

Stella wanted to return to her field of study when Caitlyn started high school, but that was another byproduct of our daughter's behavior. My wife remained home, with stunted dreams, while trying too hard to get our wayward girl on track. I kept encouraging her to update her resume and start looking, telling her we'd done all we could for Caitlyn.

When Cait left the family home in a sudden and spiteful way that devastated both of us, Stella went into a funk for several weeks. She then sent her resume to NOAA and was hired just three weeks later. I was both proud and happy for my wife. She deserved something for herself after all the tribulations our adopted kid had heaped onto her. My reminiscing was interrupted by someone calling my name.

My deep thoughts were interrupted by a young, good-looking doctor who came into the waiting area. He explained the litany of Stella's injuries, but her malnutrition had triggered a cascade of organs to deteriorate and begin to shut down.

"The good news is that we caught all of this in time," he reassured. Why couldn't he have started with that and saved me the chest pain? "Two to seven more days on the island, and I don't think she would have survived. She has lost nearly forty pounds and is gaunt. You can see her for a few moments now, and then she needs her rest. Her feeding is being assisted with tubes. You can see her again in the morning, and we'll play it by ear."

Stella really looked like shit. I mean that in the most compassionate way possible. I tried not to show the shock on my face for her benefit, but I knew even in her grogginess, she could see it.

I moved quickly to her and hugged her malnourished body while trying not to dislodge the tubes and leads. Stella gave me a weak, yet brave smile that I'd come to know well over the years. She touched my face.

"Bet you thought you were rid of me," she said with a wan smile. Something seemed off, but I chalked it up to everything that had happened.

"I could never want that," I said, choking up. "I'm so happy to see your face, Stella. I was worried sick that I never would."

Tears immediately formed at the corners of her eyes. For many years we had only ever used our pet names for each other or 'babe.' Hearing me call her by her proper name triggered that emotion.

"I wanted to... no, I HAD to see you," I admitted. "I know you must rest now. Everything is going to be okay. You sleep now, and you can tell me all about it tomorrow when I return."

Stella looked at me lovingly, which sparked more tears of happiness as she put her hand weakly against my cheek. I held her hand there as she closed her eyes and drifted off.

I didn't want to leave the hospital, so I told the lead nurse at the desk. She said it was irregular for them to put me up, but under the circumstances, they had a vacant room with a shower. I made a few calls to let people back home know what was happening.

I needed to make four calls to update the crucial people in our lives. My sister talked a mile a minute, wanting to know everything, even things I didn't know. Caitlyn sounded happy that her mother was alive and improving. Carol, a good friend of Stella's from the institute, deserved a call because she was instrumental in liaising between them and me as the search progressed.

I hesitated making the final call because I suddenly felt... ashamed. Someone I knew very well had been invited into my life again to help me through Stella's disappearance. I hadn't done anything to be ashamed of, so why did I feel that way?

Tammy feigned joyfulness and asked how I was doing at every turn. Later, as I lay in bed, I thought about the last thirteen weeks. My sister, Sabrina, was my only living relative. My parents had both passed during the previous five years, as well as Stella's father. That last part cascaded into deep loneliness for Stella's mom, who ended up in an assisted living center. Sabrina was there for me when we got the news that Stella's ship looked to have been commandeered by pirates and had somehow exploded.

But my younger sister had her own family, two small children, and a husband who loved her dearly, enough to send her to me in my hour of need. Sabrina took in the situation and analyzed it for what it was. Nine days after the dreadful news, on a Saturday, there was a knock on my front door and I was shocked when I answered it.

Tammy stepped right into my arms without fanfare. Even in my puzzled state, her familiar perfume lit up my senses as it had in days long passed. Breaking the embrace, we pulled back slightly, studying each other's faces.

Tammy was my high school girlfriend for the entire senior year of high school. In a small town like ours, our paths had crossed many times until she married and left the area ten years prior with her husband. Stella trusted me and our marriage but I always felt she was glad to see Tammy go. She seemed lighter for a few weeks after she found out, as if some weight had been lifted.

The funny thing was, Tammy and I were pretty vanilla in our relationship. We had sex a total of three times, and none included intercourse. She insisted on that, wanting to preserve her virginity. I would have to describe both of us as awkward. That's not to say we didn't enjoy ourselves because we had plenty in common.

After meeting Stella, I actually had to relearn how to just 'be' around a different woman. They were both so different to me. Stella was more high-strung. She needed to feel, or maybe experience my love, would be a better way to put it. Tammy and I always just 'were.' We both knew where we stood with the other and had no need to verbalize it. Of course, Stella and I were deeply in love and, with a little time and effort, started a great life together.

"I'm so sorry," Tammy told me with a deep sadness.

"Don't be," I said a little more elevated than I meant to. "People are still missing, and Stella is one of them. I'm holding out hope."

That was all I could say without breaking down. I invited her in, and we all sat in the kitchen as Sabrina poured coffee. She admitted that she'd known Tammy was back in town, her husband having passed in an industrial accident at his place of employment. I was the one to offer condolences then.

"I can't stay forever," Sabina confessed. "I thought of Tammy as someone to help you get through this. I know you were very good friends."

"We were more than that," I said, not knowing where that came from. Tammy blushed and Sabrina gave a knowing smile.

Tammy was indeed there for me. We went out to dinner most nights, especially after I went back to work. My job as a forensic accountant was pretty mundane after all those years, and Tammy occupied my evening time. No, it wasn't like that; we sat in some restaurant reminiscing about our early years, and other things to keep my mind distracted.

Regardless of my sister's good intentions, I wasn't entirely sure of Tammy's motives. We were getting very close again, and it felt like it happened organically. After about the eighth or ninth week, Tammy seemed to disappear from my life slowly. I'd call and she would make appropriate excuses, usually catching up on domestic duties.

At first, I wondered and even felt guilty that I may have done or said something to drive her away. The more I considered it, the more I think she was pulling back because she didn't like how things were going. Surely, she'd have thought about that when Sabrina asked her to keep me company.

Maybe she'd felt what I did. Women are more intuitive about those things. She may have realized it was a bad idea, like a runaway train. We never discussed sex or flirted, at least not like a couple on the make. We did drink a lot of wine one night, joking and laughing about our poor attempts at sex back in the day. For all I knew, that was the thing that tossed her over.

I fell asleep thinking about those weeks with fond memories.

Stella was getting stronger and it happened quickly. For the next two days, I sat with her, a bit longer each day. We still hadn't talked about the details of what happened, but I knew I should let her do that in her own time. We held each other like our lives depended on it, offering our words of forever love.

On the third day, I walked into her room after breakfast, almost floating. My Stella was back, and she was going to be alright. Everything was going to be okay.

"Where is my wife?" I asked, surprised she wasn't in her bed.

"I believe a nurse took her to Mr. Boesman's room." That made sense. She wanted to check in on the man who probably saved her life. I also wanted to meet and thank Broderick Boesman, so I asked her to point the way to his room.

Finding the door closed felt odd to me. Maybe 'odd' isn't the right word. I didn't suspect anything nefarious in those milliseconds, just off.

That feeling heightened rapidly as I looked through the long, thin window in the door. Stella had her wheelchair turned facing the foot of the bed. While her feet hung off the side, her upper body was mostly on the bed beside Boesman, lying on her side, cuddled up to him. I felt immediately nauseous. It wasn't anything they were doing; it was just a hug, but rather the confident ease, the same as Stella had with me. All the things that ran across my mind then, the thirteen weeks they'd been together, entirely alone--the apparent intimacy, not just familiarity.

I couldn't say how long I stood there, stunned. At some point, the man opened his eyes, and I felt like he was staring right at me. I turned and walked away.

Sitting back in the waiting area, my mind was in turmoil. What I wanted to do most was leave but that would have made me appear callous and petty. A part of me cared less what anyone thought just then. There was another part that was already overriding my confusion and pain, wanting an explanation from my wife.

If he had seen me and told Stella, I would have thought she'd gone directly back to her room, sending someone to fetch me. That didn't happen. I sat there for another hour and ten minutes before the nurse came to tell me that Stella was back in her room, asking for me. While providing that information, her look of pity spoke volumes about what everyone else on that floor knew.

Honestly, the extra time was a godsend. Besides the anger and the feeling of betrayal, I'd had some time to empathize rationally, even by putting myself in her place. I could easily see it. People who undergo extreme stress thrive on comfort. I could envision that comfort naturally leading to more. They were there alone, after all. Even if Boesman's relationship with his wife was perfect, it was still plausible that he and Stella would fall into each other's arms. Hell, my Stella was a nice person. She probably would have offered herself to ease his pain and relieve her own.

I determined that I could live with it as long as she said goodbye to him in a private way. Unfortunately, I still had an awful feeling that there might be more. Standing, I felt decades older than I was and made my way down the hallway.

As soon as I entered Stella's room, I got that same look of pity, although in a lesser way. A nurse was one thing, but Stella and I were so familiar with each other that I could immediately see that she was worried about whatever she had to say.

"Hello, Tom," she said. I think she was expecting me to run to her or something. I just stood in the doorway, looking forlorn.

"Please," she continued. "Bring a chair over here by me. I want to tell you my story."

After getting close to her, propped up in the hospital bed, she took my hand. I looked down at hers, holding mine as if it were unnatural somehow. That made her frown.

"The first day of our... ordeal," she began with a heavy sigh, "I can't say much about. I was in and out of consciousness, my upper body hanging onto driftwood for dear life and my legs kicking when I had the strength and the point of mind to do so.

"I'm pretty sure Rick and I slept most of the second day, just lying there on the sand." She saw my expression change at the mention of his shortened name but bravely trudged on.

"The first conscious thing I remember is that putrid smell. It shocked me into consciousness. I sat up, bewildered by the environment around me, unsure where I was or why. Next to me was a sleeping Mr. Boesman. His leg looked to have been badly burned in the ship's explosion. Sand flies were all over the wound, feasting on it. Before me was a vast ocean, but behind me was some vegetation. I walked into the sparse brush, relieved myself, and began looking for anything that I might be able to wrap his wound in. I found a plant with large leaves, and when I rubbed them, they left oil on my hands. I had no idea if they would help or hurt, but I had to do something to get rid of the flies. He had to heal if we had any chance of survival."

I knew better than to interrupt further. Stella was desperate to confess everything that happened to her on that tiny island.

"Tom," she squeezed my hand. "During that first, small act, I knew that the man had saved my life and that I'd do anything possible to save his. It wasn't until a few days later that we talked - really talked - about how badly we would need each other if we wanted to live."

Stella could see that I had questions or comments but waved me off.

"We needed food," she continued. "We needed a shelter and fire, not only for ourselves but as a signal and to boil water. Rick taught me to forage. I found a branch suitable for a crude walking stick and he lumbered along with me, showing me what to do and what to look for.

"He'd taken care of the burn with sand before applying the leaves. Each night for the first week or so, I poured hot water over it to wash away pus and debris. Rick was no survivalist, but he'd had some training. There was very little fuel to maintain a fire, other than to boil water, so we slept, cuddled tightly together for warmth."

And then, what?" I couldn't help it any longer. "You fell in love with your proverbial savior?"

"No," she answered immediately. "We were completely dependent on each other for our very survival. We had no time for that, although I heard him weep for his deceased wife, who died in the explosion, at night when he thought I was asleep. Every small or large success we had, every day we worked out something, like him talking me through climbing a tall coconut tree, came with jubilation. We were elated to fill our bellies, or later, to create a basket with palm fronds to catch fish.

"Naturally," she said with trepidation, "we became very close. Fourteen days in, we were alive, he was getting stronger, his wound was healing as best we could expect. We talked more at night. He knows everything about you and Caitlyn. I know everything about him and his family. The first night we had sex together was pure desperation. We were letting go of anything and everything unknown. Tom, I need you to know, after that first time, we did it... a lot. We needed each other in that way, too."