by M. Leighton
“Get her clothes off,” Cole says quietly. “Then we’ll cover her with blankets.”
When I glance up at him in question, he’s looking at me. In his eyes are the pain and loss and utter devastation that hovers around the corners of my heart. And in these few seconds, I know why. I know why he is here. I know why he won’t leave. I know why he can’t give up.
His daughter. My daughter. Blood of our blood. Death doesn’t change that kind of love. It doesn’t really separate parent from child. Not in the heart. Not in the soul.
I set to work on getting Emmy’s clothes off her without disrupting Cole’s life-saving cycles of pumping her heart and filling her lungs with air. I don’t know how long has passed when the knock sounds at the front door, followed by a harsh, no-nonsense voice, announcing, “Emergency Services.”
From the moment I open the door, I’m in a nightmare. I watch men in thick jackets and white shirts assess and treat my daughter, exchanging words like “near drowning” and “hypothermia.” I watch from behind the bars of my own personal hell as the two men place tiny pads on my child’s chest and feed electricity into her heart, watching for a viable rhythm to appear on the small screen. After the second attempt, I hear the reassuring blip. I hear a strangely haunting howl and I feel arms come around me. It isn’t until Cole turns my face into his chest that I realize it was me.
The two men work as efficiently as one, preparing my daughter for transport, continuing every measure to save her life, her brain, her organs. To bring her back to me in as much the Emmy state that she ran away in as possible.
I watch, heartbroken and horrified, wanting to help, wishing I could. Yet knowing there’s nothing I can do except stay by her side and pray that she wakes up.
The ride to the hospital is a blur. Speeding and sirens, monitors and vital signs, warm IVs and warm blankets. I vaguely remember Cole saying he wouldn’t be far behind, but the memory is as fractured as my mind seems. As my heart feels.
I torture myself with thoughts of my life without Emmy, with memories of her most precious moments, with questions about her recent fixation on me being happy without her. Could she somehow have seen this in her future? Could she somehow have known that God would take her from me?
The thought sends me into silent sobs that wrack my entire body. From my perch beside Emmy’s stretcher, I fold over at the waist, pressing my forehead to hers, fighting off the hopelessness and nausea that pulls threateningly at my insides. She’s not dead, I remind myself. And she’s not going to be. Her heart is beating now. Her chest is pumping with her rapid, shallow breaths. Those are signs of life. Life. She can still make it.
“Emmy, it’s Momma,” I whisper, smoothing the backs of my fingers down her cold cheek. “You are strong, baby. So strong. You have to fight to stay with me. Listen to my voice. Feel me touching you. Know how much you are loved. More than any little girl in the whole world. We have too much left to do, sweetpea. We have sandcastles to build, stories to read, cartoons to watch. And Christmas will be here soon. I have so many things for you. I want to watch you open all your presents,” I tell her, thinking that I will buy her the moon if she’ll just come back to me. “Breathe, baby. Breathe and heal, get warm and cozy, and then you come back to me, okay? Okay, Emmy?”
Tears drip from my lashes into her damp hair. I would give her my blood if it would help, my life if she could use it. If she’ll just wake up and ask me for it, I’ll give her anything her heart desires. Anything. Anything at all for my little girl.
⌘⌘⌘⌘
They let me stay in the corner of the emergency room bay as they work on my daughter. I’m relieved when I hear things like “sinus rhythm” and “clear lungs” and “core temp is rising.” They toss back and forth a thousand terms that I don’t understand as they hover over my daughter’s still body. All I can do is watch. And listen. And pray.
When she is declared stable, the doctor comes to talk to me. I give him my attention in a way that reminds me of watching a television show–thinking with only half of my brain and listening with ears that hear as though I’m standing at the other end of a tunnel.
I struggle to process what he’s saying, latching onto bits and pieces here and there.
Dry near drowning.
Hypothermia.
It doesn’t appear she was submerged very long.
Her body slowed blood flow to her limbs first.
Arrhythmia.
Perfusion.
Oxygenation.
Compromised.
Reacting as you did probably saved her life.
Breathing on her own now.
The next eight hours are critical.
Pediatric intensive care.
Talk to her.
Hope she regains consciousness soon.
Take you upstairs with her.
I thank him.
I think.
Calls are made. Report is given. The same keywords used.
A nurse dressed in all blue asks me to come with her. She and another nurse wheel Emmy to the elevators. I follow along behind them.
She’s taken to the pediatrics wing and we walk along a hall painted in soothing greens and yellows, and bordered with bears dancing on big red balls. I glance in each door that we pass. I see exhausted parents, some crying, some not as they watch their critical children sleep. They vary in age, the children, but the one constant is in the eyes of their parents. Dejection. Desperation. Frantic worry. It’s there in every room, hovering like an unwanted guest.
We turn into the room that will be Emmy’s. They ask me to have a seat in the chair in the corner as they move my unconscious child into a different bed and transfer her various tubes and cords to another monitoring station.
When the commotion dies down, I’m left with one nurse, probably ten years my senior. She approaches me with a kind smile, squatting down at my side as she speaks.
“May I call you Eden?” she asks. I nod. “Alright then, Eden, I’m Vera. I’ll be watching over Emmy tonight. Would you like to come and tell me about her?”
I do. I walk with Vera to Emmy’s bedside and I tell her all about my child as she assesses her from head to toe, gently uncovering small sections of her body as she checks things and then covering them back up. She asks me questions, questions that one mother might ask another. Questions that bring tears to my eyes and panic to my heart. This can’t be it for my Emmy. It just can’t be.
With Emmy covered and settled in her cheerful room, one soft light shining over the corner where I’ll be sitting, Vera takes my hand. “She’s going to be fine, Eden. You just spend your time talking to her, being comfort and strength to her. I’ll take care of the rest. Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink? Coffee?”
She must know that I won’t be sleeping. I nod. “That would be great, thank you.”
She squirts some antibacterial foam in her hand as she approaches the door, and then turns to me again. “Is there someone I can call for you? Anyone that you’d like to be here? For you or for Emmy?”
She’s asking about her father.
But I’m thinking of Cole.
Cole.
My heart, my battered, tattered, aching heart squeezes at the mention of his name. It slips off my tongue like a plea. “Cole,” I tell her. “Cole Danzer will probably be here soon.” How long has it been since Emmy and I left the house in the ambulance? How long has it been since he said he’d be right behind us?
Another shot of panic wrecks my chest, sending bone and blood spraying. What if…? I suck in a breath and hold it to still the throbbing of my insides.
Please God, don’t let him be hurt. I couldn’t take anything more right now. Nothing more. Please.
“I’ll send word to the ER waiting room. He’ll probably show up there first.”
I try to smile. I’m not sure how effective my efforts are. “Thank you.”
She nods. “Of course. I’ll be right back with your coffee.”
As soon as the do
or is closed, I head for Emmy’s bed. I perch one hip on the edge of the mattress. “Emmy, it’s me,” I announce quietly.
I listen for a response. Anything. A word, a moan, a whimper. I hear nothing but the soft whir of the Bear Hugger machine that pumps warm air into the plastic blanket that rests between her skin and the cloth ones.
“Can you open your eyes and look at me, baby?” I try to keep my voice steady, even though it wants to tremble. As does my chin. But I hold back the shaking and the tremors, the tears and the sobs. I want to wake her up, not scare her.
“Emmmy. Emmmmaline Saaaage,” I say in a sing-song voice. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”
She doesn’t stir. I reach under the covers and take her slowly-warming hand, stroking each tiny finger from base to tip, massaging them, trying to help coax blood back into them.
I start to hum her favorite song. It’s from a cartoon that she loves. She always sings along to it when it comes on, and then again when it goes off. I stop every few bars to speak her name. To tell her I love her. To ask her to open her eyes.
I smell the coffee before I hear Vera bringing it in. But when I turn to thank her, it isn’t Vera holding the steaming cup. It’s Cole.
He’s pale. His hair is mussed like his run his fingers through the longish locks a thousand times. His eyes are flat when they meet mine.
“Is it okay that I’m here?” he asks, his voice a low, soothing balm to my frazzled nerves.
I nod, unable to form the words that would tell him how very grateful I am that he came when he did tonight, that he helped me find my daughter, that he helped save her life.
“I saw the Sheriff at your house, so I stopped and got that squared away.”
Ryan. I’d forgotten about him since Emmy went missing.
Emmy.
My precious Emmy.
I nod as one sob escapes. I clamp it off before it can boom out into the room by tucking my head against my arm and smothering the sound. The coffee smell gets stronger as Cole approaches. And then all I smell is him. Cold ocean and warm skin. Salt and soap. Cole.
He wraps me in his scent even as he pulls me into his arms. I bury my face against his neck and I cry. Silently. My whole body shaking with my efforts to stay quiet. I pray and I scream, I beg and I blame. I love and I hate, all without uttering a sound other than my breath hitting Cole’s throat.
When my outburst has run its course, I pull away, sniffing as quietly as I can and then turning back to Emmy. I take her hand back into mine and, together, Cole and I guard her, we shelter her, we love her back to life.
In the stillness of the room, with the muted beeps and whirs of monitors and machines as his only backdrop, Cole tells Emmy a story.
“Once upon a time, there was a lonely man building a sandcastle on the beach. He was used to the cool sand and the cool wind, but never had he felt a warmer breeze than he felt on this one particular day. It wasn’t coming from the sea or from the southeast as it so often did. This one was coming from somewhere closer. With his hands in the sand, the man stopped and turned around. Standing right behind him was the most beautiful little girl. She looked so much like someone he loved and lost. She had shiny black hair and big green eyes. She looked just like her mother, who was standing beside her. Both of them took the man’s breath away. He started to turn away, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t turn his back on them. Instead, he gave the little girl a daisy. They were the favorite flower of the child he lost. And then, the little girl and her mother walked away. The man knew when they did, that he would never be the same again. He knew he would never forget the two beautiful girls on the beach that day. And he didn’t. He thought about them every day. He even dreamed about them sometimes, dreamed about laughing with them, playing with them. Loving them like families should love each other. He started to worry that he’d never see them again, but God had a different plan. The little girl and her beautiful mother moved into a house nearby and the man got to see them every day. Sometimes just through the window, but it was enough. He knew then that he would fall in love with the little girl and her mother. And he did. Just like he dreamed that he would.”
Cole doesn’t look at me until his words have died, until they’ve given way to the heaviness of silence and fallen noiselessly to the floor. But when he does, when he drags his eyes from Emmy’s pale face to mine, I feel all the love that he professed to have. I feel it like heat from a flame. I see it like color from a painting. Vibrant splashes of red and green, blue and yellow, dotting the bleak landscape. Cutting through the clouds.
His eyes are on mine when he next he speaks. “I love you, Emmy. And I hope you can love me, too.”
A lump swells in my throat and tears well in my eyes. There are still so many things to say, so many questions, so many things to work out, but Cole loves me. He loves us. It’s there, plain as day. And I love him, too. I have to believe that the rest can be sorted through later. Right now is a time for love and unity and strength. For Emmy. She needs us right now.
It’s the twitch of her fingers within mine that stops my heart. But it starts running again, at breakneck speed, when Emmy makes a low whimpering sound.
I stand and bend over her, rubbing my hand across her forehead. “Emmy? Can you hear me, sweetpea?”
She doesn’t respond, but her brow wrinkles. I turn to Cole. “Get the nurse.”
He leaves immediately, jogging from the room.
“Emmy, can you open your eyes?” I watch. I wait. I hold my breath. Nothing. “Emmy, please, baby. It’s Momma. Can you open your eyes and look at me?”
Her eyelids twitch. Or do they? I stare at them. Hard. As if willing them to move. Did I imagine that? Or did they actually move?
Cole comes back with Vera, who moves to the bed and starts checking things. When she goes to lift Emmy’s left eyelid to shine the light in, Emmy flinches and turns her head away.
The nurse lowers the light and reaches beneath the mountain of covers. “Emmy, my name is Vera. Can you squeeze my fingers?” No response. “Emmy? Can you squeeze my fingers?”
I feel like my life, my entire existence, is balanced on a pinhead. My heart is beating so hard and so fast, I feel winded. Like I’ve climbed a hill or run a race. And, in a way, it feels as though I have. And that I’m not yet done running.
“Emmy, ca–” Vera’s words are cut off and she smiles. “Good girl. Can you wiggle your toes for me?”
I see the slight movement under the blankets, but it’s not until a full two minutes later that I feel true relief. That’s when my daughter opens her jewel green eyes, searches until she finds my face and whispers a hoarse, “I got to stay, Momma.”
THIRTY-ONE
Cole
IT’S BEEN A week to the day since Eden and I brought Emmy home from the hospital. I’ve seen them every day. I can’t stay away and Eden doesn’t seem to want me to. Neither does Emmy for that matter. She’s opening up more and more every time I see her.
They invited me over for dinner tonight. The table is set and Eden is waiting for the bread to finish baking. Emmy has been on the floor drawing since I got here. Everyone from doctors to nurses to Eden and me were all amazed and grateful that she had no neurological deficits of any kind. Your rapid response, getting her out of the water and starting resuscitation immediately, are to thank for that. A few minutes longer and she might not be here today.
I shudder to think what that might have felt like. I know I couldn’t stand it again. And Eden…it would’ve destroyed her world. And that would’ve even further destroyed mine.
All of a sudden, Emmy hops up and walks a picture over to me, holding it out for me to take. “Is this for me?” I ask. She nods.
There are eight hands, each at a different place around a sandcastle. The positioning is a little clumsy, but for a six year old, it’s amazingly accurate and detailed. I can easily make out what it is.
I slide off my kitchen chair and squat down in front of her, intent on thanking her. But before I can, she
surprises me by throwing her arms around my neck. Hesitantly, I curl my arms around her thin body and hold her to me. She doesn’t move or wriggle or seem uncomfortable. She just squeezes me as tightly as her little arms will allow.
When she lets me go, she puts her thumb in her mouth. “Thank you, Emmy. This is beautiful.”
She watches me intently, then, after a few seconds, she reluctantly takes her thumb out and surprises me even more. By speaking her first words to me.
“Do you know who they are?” she asks.
I hear Eden gasp behind me. I don’t have to turn to know that she has tears in her eyes or to know that she’s wearing a breathtaking smile. One, I’m sure, is hidden by hands covering her mouth. I can picture her standing in the kitchen behind me as clearly as I can see the drawing Emmy made for me, held between my hands.
“No, who are they?” I answer.
She points to the two bigger pairs of hands. “These are yours and Mom’s,” she explains. “These are mine. And these are your little girl’s.” Shyly, she raises her eyes to mine. She’s standing so close and staring so deep, I can count every darker green fleck around the center of her irises. I smile. I don’t say anything for several seconds. I don’t quite trust myself to speak yet.
“We’re all four building a sandcastle,” I surmise when my voice feels steadier.
“Like a family.”
I nod to her. I can see her clenching her toes in the rug. She’s nervous.
“Like a family. I love it, Emmy.”
She doesn’t say anything else; she just turns and runs off, leaving me a little mystified as to what I did to make her go. She comes running back, just as fast, a few seconds later, though, and something is dangling from her hands.
She stops in front of me to sift through the necklaces, taking the longer, thicker one from the clutch of chains she holds. “This one is yours,” she says, holding it out to me. It’s a dog-tag type chain, and at the end of it swings a clear hourglass filled with sand. “We made them for us. So you don’t have to put sand in your pocket anymore. You can have it with you all the time. Even at the grocery store.”