The Secret History of Us

by Jessi Kirby

  There’s a loud buzz from the kitchen island, and we all look that way as it buzzes again.

  “Do you need to get that?” my mom asks my dad.

  He shakes his head. “No. Not right now. This has been going on all day long.”

  I stay quiet, feeling like I’m missing something. The phone stops buzzing.

  My mom puts her hand on mine and looks at me with her smile still in place. “Anyway, I was thinking that after dinner maybe we could get out your yearbooks? Or videos? We have all your volleyball games, and graduation, of course. And I think we may even have the video from before your last prom, when the limo picked you up and you all took pictures here.”

  Sam glances at me, then puts his big hand on top of both mine and my mom’s, mimicking her in his good-natured way. “Or . . . we could just let her chill and enjoy her first night home,” he says. “You know. Let her ease back into things.”

  Yes. Yes, please. I’m more thankful for my brother in this moment than maybe I’ve ever been.

  “I mean, at least until I put her back to work.”

  I look at him. “What?”

  “Oh, that’s another thing you may not remember. As of this summer, I’m your boss.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Sam looks at me like I’m crazy. “Man, this is gonna take some getting used to.” He smiles. “At the Fuel Dock. Where we’ve worked every summer for the last three years. I start back early tomorrow, since I’m home anyway.”

  I look at my dad. “Is he telling the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “We work together?”

  “Yes.”

  I look at Sam. “What do I do there?”

  “Mainly take orders and deliver food to the boats. But we may have to rethink that one if you don’t remember your way around. We can see how it goes when you come back next week.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” my mom says. “She needs a few days to rest and be home, and to get reacquainted with things.” She looks at me now. “So when you’re feeling up to it, maybe we can start to walk you through a few pictures of those big moments, with your friends, and with Matt . . .”

  The corners of her mouth turn down, and she leaves his name hanging in the air between us all. I tense.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just—he’s been calling, checking up on you, and asking if . . .”

  If I remember him yet.

  I remember his face there in the hospital, apologizing over and over, pleading with me to forgive him for not being able to get me out of the car, and not understanding why I didn’t know him. I still don’t understand all the details of what happened. I set my empty fork down. “Who pulled me out of the car?”

  “What?” my mom asks, but I know she heard me.

  “At the hospital—when Matt came to see me, he kept saying sorry that he couldn’t get me out.”

  “I know,” my mom says. “I wish he wouldn’t feel so guilty about that. He’s been apologizing to us, too.”

  I look to my dad. “So . . . who pulled me out of the car? Was it the Harbor Patrol?”

  He glances at my mom, finishes chewing, slowly, then shakes his head. “No.”

  “Then who?”

  My mom shifts in her seat. My dad clears his throat. Sam stuffs half a taco into his mouth.

  “You guys. What?” I look around the table, trying to figure out what is going on. “Who got me out of the car?”

  When my eyes land on my dad, he finally answers. “A kid named Walker James. I don’t know if you’d remember him.”

  Walker . . .

  The note. I know the name from the reporter’s note. But when my dad says his last name, I know it from somewhere else too. I reach back, beyond the big stretch of emptiness, to the names and faces I do remember.

  Walker James . . .

  “He lives on one of Charlie’s old boats at the marina. Saw your car go off the bridge and hopped on a fishing boat to go help.”

  I try to take in what my dad is saying, but at the same time, from the place in my brain that still remembers, I can see a face. It’s the face of a boy, twelve or thirteen years old—one I didn’t know, but would see around school or town, always with an older group who usually hung around the skate park or outside 7-Eleven.

  “Did he . . . was he the one who . . . ?”

  My mind tries to form a picture from these new details, and my hand goes to my chest, where I can feel the squeeze of pain with every inhale. I remember what Dr. Tate told me about the CPR and my broken ribs. For the first time, it feels like it’s something that actually happened.

  My dad nods. “Yeah. He jumped in and got you out. Started CPR and kept you going until the paramedics arrived. We’re lucky he was there and that he knew what to do.”

  “Have you talked to him? Did he come to the hospital?”

  “No,” my mom answers. “He didn’t come to the hospital. But your dad and I went to see him a few days after the accident, and we let him know how grateful we are for what he did.” She smiles at me. “Can you please pass the hot sauce?”

  It’s right next to my hand, but I don’t reach for it. “Wait, that’s it? What if I want to say thank you? I should say thank you.”

  My mom gives my dad a look that very clearly says, Help.

  He gets the message, along with the rest of us, and leans forward on both of his elbows. “Tell you what. Let’s focus on getting you well and strong again, and moving forward. This town is small enough that I’m sure you’ll see him around, and you can thank him when you do.”

  “It was pretty badass, what he did,” Sam says, taking down the other half of his taco in one bite. “It didn’t even look like he—”

  “SAM.” The urgency in my mom’s voice snaps all our eyes her way. “Can you please pass the tortillas?” she asks, even though there are plenty on her plate.

  “Oh. Sure.” He holds the tortilla warmer out to my mom, and I see her give him a look now. Only, this one I can’t read. He shrugs an apology.

  I try to figure out what just happened, what I’m missing, because it feels like we’re back to that game of catch-up that I’m beginning to hate. Then I remember what the hospital volunteer had said, and I know there’s something my mom is trying to keep from me.

  “Is there a video of the accident?” I ask.

  They all go still.

  “Did someone film it?”

  My parents look at each other, have a conversation with just their eyes. Then my dad sets his fork down and looks at me.

  “There is a video, but not of the accident. A bystander caught the rescue on his camera.”

  “Rescue?” I let this sink in, that there is footage out there somewhere of what happened to me. “Is that . . .” I pause, trying to figure out what to ask next. “Is that why the newspeople have been around? Was it—was I on the news? People have seen it?”

  My dad nods. Sam stays quiet. My mom reaches out her hand to mine and I take it away.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this?” I ask. My voice is shaky with anger.

  “We didn’t want to overwhelm you, sweetheart.” She looks to my dad for help, then back at me. “You have so much else you’re dealing with right now, and I didn’t think it would be . . .” She drops her head. “I’m sorry. I thought it might be too much for you right now.”

  “Well, it is. All of this.” I gesture to the Welcome Home banner and all the flowers, and then at the plate in front of me. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

  I push my chair back from the table and stand up too fast. They all look up at me, and I try not to let the pain in my chest show on my face.

  “I’m going up to my room.”

  They all look a little unsure of what to say. Finally, my dad nods. “Okay. You need help up the stairs?”

  I shake my head.

  My mom reaches a hand out and brushes my arm. “If you need anything, we’re right here.”

  “I know,” I say. “Thanks.
”

  I turn and walk out of the dining room, around the corner to the hallway where the stairs are, but I don’t go up them. Not just yet. I stand in the same spot I used to stand to try to overhear whatever grown-up conversation was happening at the dining room table. And just like I remember, they have no idea I’m right there.

  My mom’s voice is too hushed to hear the words she speaks, but her tone is upset.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I didn’t know she didn’t know. But you’re not gonna be able to keep her in a little bubble forever. The accident made national news. The first time she goes anywhere or talks to anyone or turns on her computer, she’s gonna find out about it.”

  “Oh my God, I should’ve taken her computer out of her room.”

  I hear my mom’s chair slide across the hardwood floor and I practically leap up the first step, but my dad’s voice stops me.

  “Suze, stop. He’s right. We can’t protect her from everything. She’s gonna see the video at some point. And it’ll be okay.” He sighs. “Let’s take it one day at a time. Liv’s home, and she’s safe, and that’s what’s most important right now. I’ve got a guy on every shift looking out and making sure nobody bothers us here at the house. Shouldn’t take more than a day for things to calm down, and for the media vultures to lose interest. We’ll figure out the rest as we go, okay?”

  My mom’s answer gets lost in the sound of a chair moving against the floor again, and plates clinking together, and I know I have to go. Now. I climb the stairs as quick as I can, and I feel every step in my ribs, but I don’t stop until I get to my room and close the door behind me.

  It takes me a moment to catch my breath, and for the pain to subside. Once it does, I cross the room as quietly as I can, sit down at my desk without making a sound, and switch on my computer.

  EIGHT

  I START TO type my name into the search bar. “Olivia Jor . . . ,” and the auto search fills in the rest:

  Olivia Jordan drowning

  Olivia Jordan car accident

  Olivia Jordan hospitalized

  Olivia Jordan dead

  A chill runs through me.

  There are what look like headlines: “Accident on Carson Bridge, Teens Rescued from Submerged Car,” “Teen Pulled From Harbor in Miraculous Rescue . . .”

  The list goes on, but my eye goes immediately to the link with a dark, indistinguishable thumbnail image next to it, and a video time of three minutes, fourteen seconds in the bottom corner. I have a strong, certain feeling that this is the video my mom doesn’t want me to see, which makes me feel even more certain that I need to see it.

  Still. I hover over the play arrow with the mouse for a long moment before I click, afraid to know why. I wait. Breathe. Tell myself that it’ll help to see it.

  And then I click.

  The video takes a moment to load, and I hold my breath as I watch the circle spin.

  And then it starts abruptly, and too loud.

  There’s yelling. The echoing rush of wind. And feet, running on the wooden planks of the bridge. The camera jumps around, shaking wildly, and it makes me a little dizzy.

  “Oh my God,” a voice says off camera. I don’t recognize the voice, but I can hear the panic in it. “Call 911!”

  The running stops, and the camera swings up from the ground. The railing of the bridge goes by in a quick flash, and the guy holding the camera finds the water. The camera shakes as he catches his breath, finds what he’s looking for, and focuses.

  It doesn’t look real.

  The night and the edges of the screen are inky black, but the water of the harbor is lit with the lights from the bridge. And from beneath? At first I can’t figure it out, but then the words from the story I’ve been told, and from the search screen, come back to me and I understand. The greenish circle of light shining beneath the surface is from the headlights of the submerged car. My car.

  There is more yelling. Splashing in the water. An empty boat drifting just off to the side of where the car is sinking.

  The camera zooms in on the splashing, and I can make out a person swimming—no, two people. They make it to the boat, and one pushes the other one up the side, dumping him onto the deck. Now the camera gets even closer, and I can see that the person lying on the deck of the boat is Matt. He lies still on his back for a moment, but then sits up and coughs and retches seawater. Still coughing, he grabs the side of the boat and pulls himself to his feet, then leans over and points frantically, trying to yell to the person who’s still in the water.

  The wind drowns out his words, but the camera swings back to where he’s pointing, back to the sinking car, where the other person is already swimming.

  “Holy shit,” the voice behind the camera says. “I think there’s someone else in the car. There’s someone still down there.”

  I watch as the swimmer dives back down under the water. For a moment, I can see a blurry silhouette in the eerie green light, but then it disappears completely. Seconds tick by, and I wait, along with the person filming, for him to come back up. It seems like he’s under the water for an impossibly long time, when all of a sudden he breaks the surface.

  I strain to see if he’s come up with the other person, but it’s just him.

  He takes a big breath and dives back under. Time slows down. One . . . two . . . who knows how many seconds go by. I’m holding my breath, suffocating right here in my bedroom, waiting for him to come back up, and it makes me wonder if I tried to hold my breath at all, or if I even knew what happened. If I was even conscious when we hit the water.

  After what seems like forever, two heads break the surface. One of them scrapes his way to the boat, dragging his heavy load to where Matt stands helpless, hands on top of his head, raking through his wet hair over and over.

  I inhale sharply. Wince both at the pain, and the image on the screen.

  The girl Walker James pulls from the water is dead. That’s what anyone would say, looking at her.

  The camera zooms in, shaking a little, and she comes into focus. Even in the golden lights shining down from the bridge, her skin is an unnatural shade of blue. Her top hangs loose and heavy with water from one shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. Long, dark hair streaks down her face in waves, covering her eyes, nose, mouth, and I want one of them to brush it away so she can breathe easier, but the blue of her skin says it doesn’t matter. She isn’t breathing. She can’t feel the hair covering her face, or the water that moves in her lungs instead of air.

  She can’t feel anything.

  Not his arms that drag her dead weight from the dark water, or the crack of her skull against the boat as they lift her into it. Not his hands that lay her down roughly on the deck, then search her neck, her wrists, anywhere, for a pulse. She doesn’t feel the bite of the night air against her bare skin when they rip her shirt open, straight down the center, without hesitating.

  I watch, relieved that she can’t feel the force of those hands as they come together, one on top of the other, in the middle of her chest, and thrust downward. Deep enough to produce a contraction in her motionless heart. Hard enough to send a rush of blood and oxygen through her body, to her brain. Strong enough to crack her ribs.

  I wince at this, and at those hands, that come down again and again, the full weight of the person behind them compressing her chest, her lifeless body convulsing under the force of them each time. Over and over.

  I think I might be sick.

  But then, like a reprieve, the hands stop, brush the hair from her face, almost gently, and tilt her chin to the sky. The camera zooms in on her face just as he pinches her nose and brings his mouth to her blue lips. He breathes his own air into her lungs before his hands move back to the center of her chest to start the cycle again.

  This time they come down harder. His movements are less controlled. The compressions more powerful.

  Matt paces frantically, hands still running through his hair.

  Then something stops him still.
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  He yells something at Walker, then takes a few steps toward him.

  Walker doesn’t even look up. Just keeps at the compressions. Doesn’t see Matt coming.

  Matt yells something again, then goes at Walker with the full force of his body. The impact knocks them both to the deck of the boat, and they tumble, away from my body. Walker comes out on top, cocks a fist back, and swings hard and fast. One punch, and then he’s back to his feet, and then down on his knees, next to where I lie, motionless.

  And then, in stark contrast to what he just did to Matt, he brings his mouth back to mine and breathes air into my lungs before he starts again with the compressions.

  Matt lies in a crumpled pile a few feet away.

  Sirens whine in the distance. Voices off camera murmur urgent words that are lost in the wind. Someone is crying.

  “My God,” the voice from behind the camera says. “There’s no way she’s going to live.”

  Another off-camera voice weighs in. “She was down there way too long. That girl’s too far gone.”

  It cuts off, just as abruptly as it started.

  I sit there, staring at the blurry black screen and catching my breath.

  And then I get up, check that my door is closed all the way, turn my light out, the volume down, and restart the video. I watch it all again.

  And again.

  I watch it over and over, each time trying to feel something, anything. I watch it until I have it memorized, second by second, frame by frame. Walker getting Matt onto his boat. Walker diving down and coming back up with my limp body in his arms. Walker bringing his lips to mine, trying to breathe life back into me.

  This. This makes me feel something.

  It’s intimate. And he’s just as much a stranger to me as Matt is, but after seeing these things, I don’t want him to be. I want to know him. Or thank him, at the very least, regardless of what my parents say. I owe him that much.

  I search his name next.

  I double-check my search, because the list of results that comes up is almost identical to the one displayed when I searched my own name. It’s as if the accident was the point of intersection where our lives converged, when they otherwise wouldn’t have.