Stranded
Page 19
“Even?”
I nodded. I saved three lives to make up for the one I lost. The one I never should have lost.
Out the window was a view of the Duluth harbor, and the lift bridge was up—a huge steamer waiting for passage. Lake Superior took up the entire horizon; it became the horizon, and in this light it was impossible to tell the line of sky from the edge of water. It was everything, and soon enough the steamer would become nothing but a dark dot inside of it, chugging along on its way to the Saint Lawrence.
Oscar curled my hand up in his and squeezed it, opening his mouth to say something, when there was a commotion out in the hall. Voices rising. A nurse entered the room and, seeing us sitting together, quickly frowned.
“What is it?” Oscar asked.
“CNN, I think.” The nurse blinked. “Ever since you kids arrived, all the news media in the tristate area have landed. The parking lot looks like they’re waiting for the Second Coming.” Her frown smoothed out; imagining this possibility seemed to please her. She looked on the far side of middle age, probably a grandmother, and she crossed her arms in satisfaction of being the first to reveal this news.
Oscar was annoyed. “They can’t come in here.”
“No, of course not,” the nurse replied. “Over my dead body.”
Interesting choice of words.
“Our parents aren’t even here yet,” Oscar continued.
“Some just arrived,” she corrected him. “They’re getting briefed by the medical team.” She nodded, as if this is what she had originally come in here to tell us. “And you . . .” She crooked a finger at Oscar. “You need to get back to your room now.”
“I will.”
She blinked again.
“Five minutes, okay?”
The nurse made a deep humpf in her throat and left, still smiling.
“Have you seen them?”
Oscar nodded. “Chloe’s totally fine, and Isaac . . .”
“Isaac?” I held my breath.
“I passed his room on my way here. He was eating chocolate pudding and watching cartoons.”
“What? So soon? Didn’t he have surgery?”
“I guess the wound missed all his vitals.” Oscar shook his head, amazed. “He waved at me and offered me a spoonful. He even called me buddy.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, I think they gave him a bunch of painkillers.”
“That’s some serious drugs.”
“Yep.”
More silence.
“So.”
“So?”
“Now what happens?”
“I don’t know.” Oscar traced his fingers over mine absently. “Everything. Nothing.” He shook his head. “I guess tomorrow we’ll be famous.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I’ll try.”
The machine beeped low. “You should probably go back to your room.”
“Trying to get rid of me already?”
“Not likely.”
“Good.”
Voices in the hall. I recognized my mother’s high-frequency pitch, my father’s reassuring murmur. Other voices too. Calm and professional, trying to even out the frantic parental rhythm. They were coming, rising toward us like a tidal wave of sound.
“It’s going to be weird,” I said, my eyes suddenly wet.
“I know.” Oscar gripped my hand tighter. “That’s why I’m here. We can be weird together.”
I laughed and wiped my eyes. “Then stay.” Was I laughing or crying? I was happy, but tears were coming out everywhere, everything all at once, straight out of my eyes, running down my face, into my mouth, over my chin.
My face is raining, Lucy.
It’s okay, Emmy, the sun will come out soon.
Oscar held both my hands in his. “You gonna be all right?”
I smiled at him, sure through my tears. Now I finally knew the answer to that question. “I am.”
We squeezed our hands together and watched the door swing open.
Acknowledgments
I have been fantasizing about writing an acknowledgement page for over a decade. Because I knew even then that all things I’ve achieved in my life have never been done on my own. And I’m very lucky and very grateful to be surrounded by good people.
First, a huge thanks to my agent, Hannah Bowman, who not only plucked me from the slush pile, but stuck with me through countless ideas and drafts, and coached me and rallied for me and invested hours, weeks, months, and years firmly believing we would get to this point.
Secondly, to my editor Nicole Ellul at Simon Pulse, for being so incredibly enthusiastic about this story when it was only a handful of pages and a vague synopsis. Your dedication is inspiring and infectious and made this story 1000 percent better than where it started. Readers see the finished project, but they never see all the work it took to get there.
And thanks to everyone on the Simon team who put their time and effort into this book, especially Brian Luster and his insane copyediting skills. Thank you for making my writing sound coherent. Someday I may finally learn how to single space between sentences.
Thank you to my big brother, Jimmy, who took me kayaking for the first time, and told me how to make a watch into a compass. Now I know how to find my way home, as long as it’s sunny out.
And most of all, thank you to my husband, Matt, and my daughter, Sena—my little north star. With you in my life I will never be lost.
MELINDA BRAUN grew up in Wisconsin and received her bachelor degrees in psychology and English from the University of Minnesota. She currently lives in the Twin Cities with her husband and daughter. Although she loves hiking and camping, she does not enjoy portaging canoes. This is her first novel.
SIMON PULSE
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition August 2015
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Interior designed by Mike Rosamilia
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The text of this book was set in Goudy Old Style.
This book has been cataloged with the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4814-3819-3 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-4814-3821-6 (eBook)
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Melinda Braun, Stranded