by Anna Davies
When Miranda had been in the hospital after the accident, she’d been on the orthopedic floor, where she’d shared a room with a college cheerleader who had a broken ankle and hosted what had sounded like—in Miranda’s hazy, painkiller-induced fog—a sorority social in the room. In contrast, the ICU unit was quiet, except for the hiss of ventilators and the hushed tones of family members.
Miranda closed her eyes and crossed her fingers as they stepped off the elevator. It was a habit before she did anything, whether it was begin a soccer game or take a chemistry quiz. Now, it was a gesture to hope Fletch’s parents weren’t there, and that they were taking a nap at the mainland hotel they were staying at or grabbing a cup of coffee at the hospital coffee shop or even having a closed-door meeting with his doctors, anything so she could actually say what she wanted to Fletch—that she was sorry, that she wished she’d said I love you when it mattered, and that she’d do anything for him to get better.
“Miranda.”
Miranda whirled around as Fletch’s mother, Lily, emerged from the tiny kitchen next to the nurses’ station clutching a Styrofoam coffee cup. Tears were drying on her high cheekbones and instead of wearing her usual pastel sweater set or flowered Tory Burch dress, she was wearing a pair of oversize blue doctor’s scrubs. Her blonde hair was pulled in a low pony-tail and she wasn’t wearing any makeup. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, she looked almost childlike.
“Hi,” Miranda said, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Before the accident, Lily had always been friendly to her, constantly asking Miranda to dinner with the family and inviting her for lunch downtown for girl talk. She was a little flighty, but mostly fine, to talk to. Now, Mrs. King was only icy.
“How is Fletch?” Miranda asked in a small voice. As if the answer would be different than what it had been the last two weeks.
“Hello, Lily,” Eleanor said, stepping in front of Miranda to offer the basket to Mrs. King. “We’ve been praying for Fletch. And of course, if there’s anything we could do . . .”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Lily said coldly. Miranda stared at the dirty linoleum. The unspoken rest of the sentence was clear . . . Because you’ve done enough.
The first time Eleanor and Miranda had visited was right before Miranda had been discharged from the hospital. She’d been on a potent combination of pills for pain, sleeping, and anxiety, and had felt like she was in a dream. She knew she was supposed to be upset—no, devastated—but she couldn’t cry. Whenever the doctors, or the police, or her grandmother had asked her if she remembered the accident, it had felt like she was remembering a scene from a movie. It hadn’t felt real. And she couldn’t make sense of it. All the questions the police raised were the same that tossed in her own mind: Why had she been the only survivor who’d ended up on shore? How had she gotten disentangled from the cables? And why hadn’t anyone else followed her lead to safety? I don’t know! She wanted to scream.
“He’s in his room, if you’d like to stop in,” Lily said stiffly. As if Fletch could be anywhere else. Miranda felt like she was an actress in a movie, unsure of what her next line was. On her first visit, she’d made the mistake of telling Lily how Fletch had saved her, how the last thing she remembered seeing was Fletch helping the girls get off the boat and into the water. She’d thought Lily would have liked hearing that, but later she realized that of course, that was the last thing Mrs. King wanted to hear. Because if Fletch hadn’t stayed on the boat, he wouldn’t have inhaled so much smoke. He wouldn’t have passed out in the water. He wouldn’t be brain dead. Which of course, was what he was, even if Mrs. King refused to use that term.
“Of course,” Eleanor said somberly as she patted Lily’s shoulder. Lily recoiled as if she’d been slapped and Miranda felt a sliver of rage slice through her stomach. Didn’t Eleanor realize they weren’t wanted here?
“The doctors say it’s good for him to hear from people he loves,” Lily said stiffly, as though talking to herself. “They feel that Miranda should visit,” she added to herself as she pushed open the door to Fletch’s room.
“Thank you,” Miranda said as she walked into the room, steeling herself to see Fletch. Each time was harder than the last. Half his head was shaved and there were staples in his scalp from where they’d set up a pressure-relieving drainage tube in ICU. His face was puffy and there was a green bruise under his eye—faint, but still visible. Fluid from two different IV bags dripped into his arm and there were several monitors beeping at the head of the bed.
She walked through the entranceway of the room and stopped in her tracks when she saw Alan sitting on the far side of Fletch’s bed. He turned to face her, his mouth twisting in an ugly grimace. Tears were running down his cheeks and his face was pale.
“Hi,” Miranda said tentatively. Even though physically he was fine, having survived the accident with only a dislocated shoulder from when he jumped overboard, he looked nothing like the goofy guy who once rented alpacas from the farm on the other side of the island and set them loose in his house during a particularly epic party.
“Why are you here?” Alan asked, his eyes glittering with tears.
“I . . .” Miranda paused. “I’m sorry,” she said finally.
“You’re sorry?” He nearly spat the words. “Why? You have nothing to be sorry about. It was an accident,” he said, barely making eye contact with her.
Before Miranda could say anything, Alan turned toward Fletch and started speaking. “Hey, bro, I’m going to leave. I love you, man. Stay strong,” he said, awkwardly rubbing Fletch’s shoulder beneath the thin cotton blanket on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” Miranda mumbled again, the words coming out like a whimper.
“I’ll be back later,” Alan said to Mrs. King as he stormed out, accidentally-on-purpose bumping into Miranda’s shoulder. Miranda winced and forced herself to focus on the waves and valleys displayed on one of Fletch’s many monitors.
“That was Alan Osten, right?” Eleanor asked, after a beat. “He looks well,” she added helplessly.
Miranda cringed. Remarking on Alan’s healthy appearance only made it even more apparent how critical Fletch’s condition was.
“Well, Miranda?” Lily asked, her voice icy underneath her Southern accent. “Say whatever you have to say.”
Miranda grabbed Fletch’s hand. It was disconcerting to touch it and not have him grab her own hand back.
“Hi,” Miranda said. “I missed you,” she continued, glancing over her shoulder at Lily and Eleanor. Neither were looking at her. Lily had her arms crossed over her chest and refused to meet her gaze, while Eleanor’s hands were clasped, as if in prayer.
“It’s getting dark earlier. It’s definitely fall . . . ,” Miranda started again, before trailing off. She was supposed to be talking to her boyfriend, who knew she had a constellation of freckles shaped vaguely like a star on the small of her back, who saved her life, and she sounded like she was giving a weather report. Worse, she felt entirely detached from herself, as if she were watching herself from across the room. She knew she seemed confused and scared and entirely at a loss for what to say.
“I love you and I want you to get better soon. Okay? Just get better. Because if not, then I’ll be mad and I won’t have anyone to go to prom with, and you know that’s a teenage tragedy,” Miranda said, wishing that she could take it back when she saw Lily wince. If Fletch were here, really here, he’d have smiled and shot back a joke. But without him, the joke fell flat, making it sound like all she cared about was having a date. “You know I’m kidding, babe. I just want you to come back. I’ll make you cookies.”
Miranda winced. I’ll make you cookies? She was sounding worse and worse. She squeezed Fletch’s hand tighter and fixed her gaze on the watery IV bag that dangled from a pole on the other side of the bed.
“I’m sorry,” she said thickly. “I’m not good at this. I just wish you were here, like, here here, because you’d know what to do. And I don’t,” Miranda sai
d finally, more as a message to Lily and Eleanor than anyone. “I love you. I love you forever and a day,” she added, brushing her lips against Fletch’s forehead. It was a phrase she remembered her mother using with her, although it was never something she’d said to Fletch before. But somehow, it sounded right.
She turned toward Eleanor and Lily, hoping they would appreciate her performance. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk to Fletch, it was that she felt so numb inside that she felt like anything she said wouldn’t be right, would be just one more way to let him down. She just wished her every move wasn’t being scrutinized. She knew it was dumb, but she somehow felt if only she had a chance to be with Fletch, alone, then maybe she could say something that would bring him back from wherever he was. But of course Lily would never allow that.
“We should go,” Eleanor murmured. Miranda’s head snapped up, relieved Eleanor had offered an out. “I don’t want to overstay our welcome. And please let us know if you need anything. Please,” Eleanor said, pressing her hand on Lily’s.
“Yup,” Miranda parroted. As if she had anything else to offer.
“And I suppose you’ll come back tomorrow?” Lily asked, a note of resignation in her voice. Miranda noticed that the table at the far end of the room was crammed with plates of cookies and baskets of flowers Eleanor had brought over the past few days. Everything was untouched, the flowers still wrapped in plastic.
“If you don’t want us to . . .”
“Of course we will,” Eleanor interrupted. “And he’s looking much healthier than before. It’ll only be a matter of time.”
“Thank you, Eleanor,” Lily said stiffly.
“I don’t care what Dr. Ollins says. He needs to be at a real hospital,” a voice boomed. Mr. King walked in the door, yelling into his phone. Miranda looked away, embarrassed to see Mr. King so helpless. Before, he’d been a larger-than-life force, the type of guy who loved getting behind the grill at parties and who was always tapped to serve as emcee at island events. Now, his voice was tinged with hysteria and the oversized sweatshirt hanging from his shoulders made him look far less imposing than he had been. “Now, I need to be with my son,” he said loudly into the phone, hanging up and glancing around the room.
“Miranda O’Rourke,” he said, his lips curling into a sneer. Miranda winced. Mr. King had never called her by her full name, usually calling her pet nicknames like “baby girl.” Coming from Mr. King, it had been endearing rather than creepy, and Miranda always felt like he was the type of dad she wished she’d had.
“I just came to see Fletch. We’re leaving, sir,” Miranda said, shooting her grandmother a look. It was clear that Lily wanted them out, but Eleanor seemed to show no sign of leaving. Instead, she wandered over to the table and set down her basket.
“John!” Eleanor said soberly, placing a hand on Mr. King’s arm. “I was just saying to your wife how well Fletch is looking. You can see the color coming back to his cheeks,” she said.
Miranda couldn’t take it anymore. Was Eleanor serious? Fletch looked exactly the same as he did yesterday, which was the same as he looked last week. Didn’t anyone understand that Fletch wasn’t there?
Miranda stood up, her chair making a loud scraping sound against the floor. “I have to go. I feel sick. I’m sorry, I’ll be back. I just . . . if I’m sick, I can’t get him sick,” Miranda babbled, running out of the room. She got as far as the nurses’ desk and doubled over, nausea coursing through her stomach.
As soon as she got out of the room, her stomach calmed down. It was being in the room with the Kings that made her feel sick. She took a deep breath and was about to leave when she saw a nurse standing behind her, holding a miniature cardboard box of tissues. Her nametag read Olivia.
“You okay? I’ve seen you visiting every day. It must be hard,” she said, resting her hand gently on Miranda’s shoulder.
Miranda nodded. It was a change to hear someone actually be nice to her. Miranda gingerly accepted one of the tissues, steadying herself on the desk. Her stomach was still rolling, and she was unsure whether or not she was going to throw up.
“It’s important that you visit. You know, even if he doesn’t seem to be there, I think it makes a difference on some level. I truly do,” Olivia said, nodding to herself.
Even if he doesn’t seem to be there. It was what Miranda had sensed since the first time she’d seen him but that no one would say. Fletch was somewhere far, far away. And he wasn’t coming back. “Is he . . . he’s not . . . he won’t get better, will he?” Miranda said finally, stumbling through the words. Saying it out loud made it seem so real.
“Oh, darling,” Olivia said briskly, yanking her hand away from Miranda’s shoulder as if she’d been burned. “I can’t answer that. You need to speak to his parents or doctors,” she said. But even though she hadn’t told her everything, the pain in Olivia’s green eyes told her everything she needed to know. Fletch was already gone.
“I have to go,” Miranda said, feeling her stomach reeling all over again.
“Wait. You’re not looking great. I’ll find you a ginger ale or something . . . stay here,” Olivia said hurriedly, turning on her heel.
As soon as Olivia turned her back, Miranda rushed as fast as she could out the automatic doors and retched, repeatedly, in the bushes next to the hospital. Tears from exertion pricked her eyes, and she was almost disappointed when she stopped throwing up. She wanted to suffer, wanted to feel something instead of the always-there blankness she’d felt since the accident.
No such luck. She straightened up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The sky was a brilliant blue and birds were chirping in the background, which only made her feel more exhausted and out of place. She wanted darkness and rain, weather that made it that much easier to climb under the covers and try to sleep.
“If you have to get sick, get sick at a hospital,” a low voice murmured behind her.
Miranda turned to face an elegantly dressed woman. Her hair was light blond and her eyes were an odd violet color. She was wearing a black dress that hugged her curves and looked like she was going to a cocktail party instead of the hospital.
“Here, take this,” the woman continued, rooting through her black quilted handbag. She passed Miranda a white linen handkerchief, with an elegant S monogrammed on its corner in royal blue thread.
“Thanks.” She staggered to the curb and sat down as her crutches fell to the ground beside her with a clatter. She dabbed the corners of her mouth with the square piece of fabric as the woman peered down at her curiously.
“I’m fine. My boyfriend’s sick. Well, he’s not sick, but he’s in the hospital. I mean, I guess he’s sick. He’s in a coma?” Miranda babbled, ending the sentence like a question.
“That must be so devastating,” the woman murmured, perching on the curb beside her, trailed by a cloud of sweet, pungent perfume.
“Yeah, so I’m here visiting. And I’d be here longer, it’s just that it’s a small room and his parents are there . . .” Miranda stopped herself. What the hell was she doing? She was obviously so starved for conversation she’d talk with anyone.
“What happened to him?” the woman asked.
“An accident,” Miranda said wishing as soon as the words left her mouth that she hadn’t said anything. She knew exactly where the conversation was headed.
“What kind?” the woman pressed, her eyes widening.
Great. Two more questions and this woman would know exactly who she was. And that, Miranda realized, was exactly why she shouldn’t get into the habit of talking to random people—because she could never be anonymous, not really. “On the water.” Miranda mumbled, wondering where Roger was and why her grandmother was taking so long saying goodbye to the Kings.
“The ocean’s dangerous,” the woman said, as if she were talking to herself. “Were you in the accident as well?” she asked, nodding toward Miranda’s crutches.
Miranda nodded, staring at the ground. The train on the
woman’s dress contrasted to the dirty cement sidewalk. Who was she?
Finally, Miranda looked up, surprised to see the woman there, still curiously gazing down at her. Wouldn’t she immediately want to disappear like everyone else, certain that some type of curse followed Miranda? That’s what everyone else believed. Even when Miranda had been a patient in the hospital, she’d noticed that the nurses never lingered like they did with her sorority-girl roommate. One time, she’d seen one of the orderlies cross herself before walking into the room, as if to ward off any type of evil eye.
It underscored what everyone had always thought about her, but what she’d never believed until now. She was unlucky. Before, whenever she was reminded of that, like when she told Coach Devlin she lived with her grandmother because her parents had passed away or when she overheard an elderly gardening club member loudly whisper that Teddy and Miranda were doing so well, considering they were orphans, it was disconcerting how tragic it sounded. Now, her life sounded like it was fodder for a crappy television drama. It didn’t sound real.
“Well, you’re a lucky girl, to have survived something like that,” the woman murmured.
Miranda glanced up sharply. Lucky? Was she kidding? It was the opposite.