Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

“Thank you. For thinking of me.”

  “I love you. I want you to be taken care of.”

  I smile. “I am. I don’t need a house for that.” I stick out my tongue playfully, and the serious moment is broken. He tugs at my hand, and we return to his car, and then to his condo. Which we christen also—just for the hell of it.

  A normal person would ask themselves who they prefer. If both men were standing on a cliff, and I had to push one of them off, who would it be?

  But I’m not normal, and neither are they. Eventually, one of them will tire of this relationship. One of them will want a full-time girlfriend or mother to his children. And then I will ask myself if that is what I want. I’ll ask myself if I can be happy with one man. If I can be happy saying goodbye to the other man. And if those answers are yes, then I’ll go that path. It seems strange but, despite their differences, there is a bit of each other in these men. And even if I leave one, I will always have part of him in the other.

  Paul knows that one day that question will come, and he avoids it.

  Stewart doesn’t have time to think about it.

  32

  Venice Beach, CA

  DIDDY MOW: [noun]

  the worst kind of wipeout. One that causes broken bones, missing teeth or loss of life

  The weather has turned and it’s deceptive, the water sparkling, sun bright. From the view, it looks like bathing suit weather, but the draft feels like the open door to a fridge. I get out of bed shivering and run through the house, working the rusty windows closed. Diving back under the covers, I curl up tightly to Paul’s warm body. He mumbles something, his arms wrapping around me, and he pulls me closer to his chest.

  We wait until noon, when the sun has been out long enough to take the chill off the day, and then head out, the initial shock of cold water goose-bumping our exposed skin. After an hour, our muscles are warm and we are contemplating the incoming waves.

  I love the anonymity of being out here. The sand and water don’t care if you are a spoiled rich kid or a foster child. The current doesn’t yield to society’s expectations or discriminate. And there is little you can buy that will improve your ride of a wave or lower your risk of death. In the water, we are all equal in the wave’s eyes. All opponents that will either conquer the surf or succumb to it.

  I rode a surfboard before I ever did a bike. The waxed feel of epoxy underneath my soles is as familiar as sand. I’m not Paul. I don’t ride on the edge of death, don’t tackle the monsters that rise to the height of a building and then crash down on innocent souls. I ride the waves I know I can handle and don’t bite off more than I can easily chew. And this gradual curve that approaches, is a wave I can handle.

  I watch it coming, feel the tug as it pulls from behind me, the subtle awakening of the surrounding water as we all prepare for its arrival. I glance around, Paul sitting up and gesturing for me to go, no other surfers around. A collision on a wave is dangerous, the hard impact of boards brutal at a time when the smallest mistake can mean danger.

  I count the seconds, watching the curve of water, feeling the pull of current, and then lean forward, lying flat against the board, and paddle. Quick, strong strokes, the rush of excitement entering my muscles as I pick up speed.

  It is coming.

  I am ready.

  33

  PAUL

  I love her. She knows it. I don’t hide the fact. But I don’t think she knows how much I love her. How my chest expands to a point of pain when she smiles. How I ache when I leave her, how my hands sometimes tremble when I finally get to touch her again. She is everything I don’t deserve and everything I could ever hope to attain. I watch her, the glint of sun off her hair, her blue wet suit bending as she leans forward, her legs swinging onto the board, her movement as she paddles away from me.

  Her hair is loose, long, wet, blonde tendrils, falling off her shoulders, her yellow board cutting through the water. The wave lifts me, coming in strong, my feet pushed and pulled as it moves by. I frown, not liking the kick of water that spins beneath my feet. It is stronger than it looked, deceptive in its strength. I narrow my eyes and watch her form, her graceful leap onto the board, her arms steadying out. My angel.

  I see her form rise and fall, and then she is gone, hidden by the curve of the wave.

  34

  MADISON

  The board vibrates under my feet as I move forward, getting my footing and balancing, my arms outstretched, legs bent. I hit my spot and feel the lift of the board. I lean a little right, the board responding, and we hit the swell and slide down, gliding along the surface, picking up speed, my hair whipping in front of my eyes, stinging my face. I bend deeper, resisting the urge to tuck my hair back, every movement on a board attached to consequences. Then the world tilts, this wave stronger and faster than I had expected. The board shoots from underneath my feet, and I am yanked by my ankle strap, my feet flying outward. Unforgiving water smacks against my back, a teeth-shattering impact, and I am yanked down, a stolen breath captured before I am engulfed by ice cold water.

  White noise.

  The current is strong, unexpectedly so, and I tumble, pulled underwater, my eyes blinking rapidly as I am tossed around—the rough push and pull of water disorienting me, my struggle against the current useless. My lungs are beginning to burn, panic setting in, and I’m being dragged by the tether attached to my ankle. I hope to God it’s pulling me toward the surface. The board should float, that should be the direction up. But I’m caught in a rip current, and I should go limp, but black spots are appearing in my vision, my lungs stretching and bursting in my chest. I fight despite my training, and when my hand breaks into the air, and I kick hard, my foot unexpectedly free, and suddenly I have too much to process and not enough oxygen to react.

  I realize it all a second too late. A second before my head breaks the surface, fins come slicing through the water, the yellow flash of my board, rubber-banding back, its recoil effect headed directly toward me.

  Impact.

  35

  PAUL

  I cannot see her. The wave came, she stood, she rode, and then she fell. We all fall. I fall into five-foot monsters, the kind that eat up and spit out surfers like gum. It is okay. She knows how to fall, knows what to do if the current pulls her under. Knows to go limp and let it spit her out. But this one had a strong kick. I felt its pull, worried over its strength. But still. She will find the surface. I’ll see her bright yellow board, her mess of sunlit hair. I paddle forward, my gaze skimming over the surf, and another wave is coming, its back draw pulling me briefly away.

  On the left, a flash of yellow. Her board, bobbing to the surface. I pause, searching carefully, then frantically, for a sign of her body.

  Dark blue expanse, occasionally dotted by colorful bits of surfer. White foam, dark seaweed, her yellow board. Nothing else. Dark blue expanse.

  Then I see her suit bob to the surface, facedown in the water, and my entire world ends.

  I fly through the water, aided by the wave, and am at her side in seconds, flipping her over. Her body moves easily, without resistance. Without life. I pull her onto my board, and bend over her, undoing the velcro of her ankle leash, hesitating as I hold the cord. She will kill me if her board is lost. It’s an extension of her, of her life on the water. We have fucked on these boards, kissed, dozed on them, and fought the demons in these waves. Then I push it aside and lean over her body. I pump at her chest, I breathe into her mouth, and I glance frantically to shore, struggling with the decision of whether or not to paddle her in.

  It is a horrific decision to make. Continue working to save her life, or to take her somewhere where she might get more help. The shore holds paramedics, defibrillators, oxygen. Shore means at least two minutes of paddling. Maybe longer, my speed hampered by her additional weight on the board. I pray to a God I have ignored for too long and push air into her still mouth.

  The first time I kissed her was on the roller coaster. Hard plastic underneath me,
the scent of sunscreen coming off her skin, she had reached over and pulled me to her like it was nothing. Like it was natural that we would spend that moment, as strangers, exploring each other’s mouths. She had been so gorgeous, so vibrant. It was like she had been so pumped full of life that it was spilling out, she overflowed with it. Just being with her—in line, on that ride, her hand in mine… it was intoxicating. That kiss was my first injection, and she became my addiction from that point forward. Addiction made me come back after she told me about the other man, broached the scenario where I would be only own half of her heart. I mentally worked through it then, and I don’t care now. I only need her in my life. The rest can be made to work.

  It isn’t working. I push harder on her chest, her wet suit slick beneath my palms, my movement awkward on the thin board, a large wave knocking me off balance when I lift from her chest. I look to shore and lay down, as gently as I can, atop her body, and paddle as fast as my arms will go.

  I have paddled hundreds, if not thousands, of miles. Accelerated bursts of speed to catch up to a wave. Long sprints to race another surfer back to shore. But never has my stick moved this fast. I gasp for air, my heart squeezing in my chest as I move my arms, listening, straining my body for a hope of air, a movement in her limbs, a sigh. Something. I try to calculate time, to know how long it has been, but panic sets in, and I push those thoughts to the side. I notice the blood halfway to shore. Beads of liquid streaming down the board, coming from her head. Do the dead bleed? I scream, the shore approaching, and heads look up. Feet move along the sand toward us, and I clear the final distance until it’s shallow enough to stand, and I sweep her cold body into my arms.

  Her lips are blue. Her face is slack. I have failed her. I hold her tight to my chest and sprint out of the water.

  36

  HACK SHACK: (noun)

  Hospital

  PAUL

  I have only ever loved four women in my life. The first two are dead. I’ve lost communication with my sister. I am praying fervently for Madd. The paramedics surround her, their red polos bent, voices crawling, and all I can see are her feet, sticking out, her toes pointing to the sky in an unnatural way. She curls into a ball when she sleeps, her feet tucked, her head often on my stomach or my arm, her mouth curved into a smile even when she is sound asleep.

  I move closer and they push me aside, won’t let me close enough to see, but I can hear their words. There is a siren in the distance, and all I can do is thank God that we are in Venice where there are medical staff present on the beach and ambulances just around the corner. Up in Lunada or out in Malibu it’d be me and a bunch of empty mansions, quietly watching her die.

  There is a cough, and my heart leaps. More coughs. Hard, hacking sounds that she has never made. Her foot moves, and I pray it is her movement, and a medic didn’t bump it. An engine rumbles, and I am pushed aside once again as an ambulance pulls onto the sand. The last thing I see is her limp feet as she is placed on a stretcher. They wouldn’t load a dead person onto a stretcher, wouldn’t send them in an ambulance.

  Right?

  I get the attention of an EMT, grabbing his arm when he shuts the ambulance doors. “I’m her boyfriend. Can I ride with you?”

  The man turns, his thin face looking me briefly up and down. “They won’t let you in the hospital without a shirt and shoes. We’re taking her to Venice Regional. Why don’t you grab some clothes for you and her? Just in case. Also, if she has any identification, numbers of friends and family… grab it and meet us there.” He moves around me and opens the passenger door. I turn, slipping on the hot sand, and run past familiar faces, past a dread-headed stranger who is examining my board, jumping over a handrail and pounding down a path I’ve taken many times before. With Madd and without her. I round the alley corner and bump into a man’s chest, stumbling past him, ignoring his curse.

  Two blocks.

  One block.

  I’m taking the stairs, knocking over the ceramic frog that Madd brought back from Tijuana and grab the key and shove it in the lock.

  Home. It will never be home without her. Even now, with her scent in the air, the sheets twisted from an early morning fuck, it feels wrong. I shut the door, not wanting to let out any of her air, and move to the counter, grabbing her keys, phone, and wallet. I am torn between wanting to examine every item, to grab her sweater and inhale her scent, and the urgency that pushes me forward.

  She may be alive. She may die. I need to get to the hospital.

  I grab a trash bag from underneath the sink and stuff the first two stacks of folded clothes from the top of the dryer into it. Clothes folded by her, her hips swinging, horrible voice crooning out an eighties song as she quartered a shirt. I shove my feet into flip-flops and run downstairs, pocketing the key and yanking the door shut behind me.

  I break at least five laws to get to the hospital. I leave the truck under a red sign that flashes ‘EMERGENCY ROOM’ and grab her things, run into the lobby, and approach the desk.

  She is alive.

  It is the first thing I ask and is answered without hesitation, followed instantly by two words that make my heart drop and chest ache. “For now.” I can’t take this roller coaster.

  The high and intense joy I hear at the announcement of her life.

  Despair at the possibility that I might still lose her.

  They won’t let me back there. Not yet. Not until some future point that is not explained by the haggard receptionists. Then the door opens, and a woman in white steps out, her gaze finding me.

  “Are you the boyfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiles and the motion doesn’t reach her eyes. “She is breathing, but it’s assisted. She’s had pretty severe head trauma. That, combined with the six or seven minutes she was without air… we induced a coma until we can get her stabilized.”

  “Induced a coma? So, she can be brought out of it?”

  She looks into my eyes. “If she still has brain function. She may be at a point where it’s not feasible to pull her out of it. You should call her family, any close friends, and have them come here. She may not survive the night.”

  I ignore the sentence, even as it stands in the center of my mind and shouts, overpowering every thought process I struggle to have. “Can I see her?”

  She glances at her watch. “They’re working on her now. I’ll have someone come out in about thirty minutes.” She smiles grimly and turns, her coat flaring out, the white doors swinging shut behind her.

  They’re working on her now.

  You should call any family or close friends.

  I step forward until I am before a chair, and I turn, sinking into it, my hand loosening around her wallet and phone, the items sliding into my lap. Call family or friends.

  Friends. Madd doesn’t really have a lot of friends. We have a big group who we hang out with—several of the guys professionally surf, and all of the girls hang out together. But they’re the type you call when you are five blocks away and have a flat tire, not when you’re on life support and might not last the night. Madd and I could disappear from this stretch of beach, and it’d be weeks before anyone really noticed.

  Family. Madd’s entire family consists of one drunken individual. A mother who I vaguely remember being in Tuscany. Still, I could call her cell. I unlock her phone and scroll down the numbers, looking for ‘M.’ Just one contact line up from it, my breath stops.

  LOVER.

  Him. If I love half of her heart with my entire being, this man has a claim to the other half. The other half of the heart that is struggling to beat. I’ve seen his name displayed on her phone before, but never have I had the desire to call. I have no need to disrupt our life, no need to rock that boat. I know nothing about him. He may be married. Older. Younger. Black. White. He’s wealthy, I know that. Her wrist and ears often glitter with presents, the new convertible in our garage is proof of that. I don’t understand why any man would want his girlfriend to have another man
in her life. It’s either because he doesn’t care about her—or because he loves her and knows she won’t put up with being played with when he has time and otherwise ignored.

  There is so much I don’t know about this man, so much I never wanted to find out. Yet, here I am, staring at his name in her phone.

  I’m torn. She’s never wanted us to meet. She has this determined plan for our lives to play out separately, and it’s worked for us so far. Now, I’m torn between respecting those wishes and knowing what I’d want, if I were him.

  If I were him, I’d have to hold her warm hand in case it went cold forever. I’d have to hear her soft breath before it stopped.

  If she wakes, she may hate me for it. But if she doesn’t, I might not forgive myself for taking this moment from him.

  37

  PAUL

  I press the CALL button and work through what to say, steeling myself for the unknown. I have no idea if he’ll be friendly or a dick, and will be fucked if I have to leave a message. The female voice surprises me, chirping through the receiver with friendly efficiency. “Hey Madison.”

  I look at the phone, LOVER still clearly displayed on the front.

  “Madison?” she repeats.

  I clear my throat. “I was trying to reach…” I can’t seem to formulate a single articulate sentence, and am stuttering over the fact that I don’t know his name.

  “Stewart? You were calling for Stewart?” the perky voice asks helpfully.

  Stewart. That’s his name. A name that inappropriately brings to mind visions of my brother’s face. A brother I haven’t thought of in some time. I swallow and return to the uncomfortable task at hand. “Yes. Is he available?”