Fracture

by Megan Miranda

  Fracture

  Megan Miranda

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  For my mother, who says what she means,

  and my father, who means what he says

  Chapter 1

  The first time I died, I didn’t see God.

  No light at the end of the tunnel. No haloed angels. No dead grandparents.

  To be fair, I probably wasn’t a solid shoo-in for heaven. But, honestly, I kind of assumed I’d make the cut.

  I didn’t see any fire or brimstone, either.

  Not even an endless darkness. Nothing.

  One moment I was clawing at the ice above, skin numb, lungs burning. Then everything—the ice, the pain, the brightness filtering through the surface of the lake—just vanished.

  And then I saw the light.

  A man in white who was decidedly not God stuck a penlight into each eye, once, twice, and pulled a tube the size of a garden hose from my throat. He spoke like I’d always imagined God would sound, smooth and commanding. But I knew he wasn’t God because we were in a room the color of custard, and I hate custard. Also, I counted no less than five tubes running through me. I didn’t think there’d be that much plastic in heaven.

  Move, I thought, but the only movement was the blur of white as the man passed back and forth across my immobile body. Speak, I thought, but the only sound came from his mouth, which spewed numbers and letters and foreign words. Sound and fury, signifying nothing.

  I was still trapped. Only now, instead of staring through the surface of a frozen lake, I was staring through the surface of a frozen body. But the feelings were the same: useless, heavy, terrified.

  I was a prisoner in my own body, lacking all control.

  “Patient history, please,” said the man who was not God. He lifted my arm and let it drop. Someone yawned loudly in the background.

  Tinny voices echoed in the distance, coming from all angles.

  “Seventeen-year-old female.”

  “Severe anoxic brain injury.”

  “Nonresponsive.”

  “Coma, day six.”

  Day six? I latched onto the words, clawed my way to the surface, repeated the phrase until it became more than just a cluster of consonants and vowels. Day six, day six, day six. Six days. Almost a full week. Gone. A stethoscope hung from the neck of the man in white, swinging into focus an inch in front of my nose, ticking down the time.

  * * *

  Rewind six days. Decker Phillips, longtime best friend and longer-time neighbor, yelled up from the bottom of the stairs, “Get your butt down here, Delaney! We’re late!”

  Crap. I slammed my English homework closed and searched through my bottom drawer, looking for my snow gear.

  “Just a sec,” I said as I struggled with my thermal pants. They must have shrunk since last winter. I hitched them up over my hips and attempted to stretch out the waistband, which cut uncomfortably into my stomach. No matter how far I stretched the elastic band, it snapped instantly back into place again. Finally, I gripped the elastic on both sides of the seam and pulled until I heard the tear of fabric. Victory.

  I topped everything with a pair of white snow pants and my jacket, then stuffed my hat and gloves into my pockets. All my layers doubled my normal width, but it was winter. Maine winter, at that. I ran down the steps, taking the last three in one jump.

  “Ready,” I said.

  “Are you insane?” Decker looked me over.

  “What?” I asked, hands on hips.

  “You’re not serious.”

  We were on our way to play manhunt. Most kids played in the dark, wearing black. We played in the snow, wearing white. Unfortunately, Mom had gotten rid of last year’s jacket and replaced it with a bright red parka.

  “Well, I’d rather not freeze to death,” I said.

  “I don’t know why I bother teaming up with you. You’re slow. You’re loud. And now you’re target practice.”

  “You team up with me because you love me,” I said.

  Decker shook his head and squinted. “It’s blinding.”

  I looked down. He had a point. My jacket was red to the extreme. “I’ll turn it inside-out once we get there. The lining is much less . . . severe.” He turned toward the door, but I swear I saw a grin. “Besides, you don’t hear me complaining about your hair. Mine at least blends in.” I messed his shaggy black hair with both hands, but he flicked me off the same way he swatted at mosquitoes in the summer. Like I was a nuisance, at best.

  Decker grabbed my wrist and tugged me out the door. I stumbled down the front steps after him. We cut through my yard and Decker’s next door and climbed over a snow drift on the side of the road. We ran down the middle of the plowed road since the sidewalks were covered in a fresh layer of snow. Correction: Decker ran. I jogged anytime he turned around to check on me, but mostly I walked. Regardless, I was fairly winded by the time we rounded the corner of our street.

  When we reached the turnoff, Decker flew down the hill in six quick strides. I sidestepped my way down the embankment until I reached him, standing at the edge of Falcon Lake. I bent over, put my hands on my knees, and gulped in the thin air.

  “Give me a minute,” I said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  My breath escaped in puffs of white fog, each one fading as it sunk toward the ground. When I stood back up, I followed Decker’s gaze directly across the center of the lake. I could just barely make out the movement of white on white. Decker was right. Even if I reversed my jacket, we’d be hopeless.

  Under the thick coating of white, a long dirt trail wove through the snow-topped evergreens along the shoreline. Decker traced the path with his eyes, then turned his attention to the activity on the far side. “Let’s cut across.” He grabbed my elbow and pulled me toward the lake.

  “I’ll fall.” My soles had traction, like all snow boots, but not enough to make up for my total lack of coordination.

  “Don’t,” he said. He stepped onto the snow-covered ice, waited a second for me to follow, and took off.

  In January, we skated across this lake. In August, we sat barefoot on the pebbled shore and let the water lap our toes. Even in the peak of summer, the water never warmed up enough for swimming. It was the first week of December. A little soon for skating, but the local ice-fishermen said the lakes had frozen early. They were already planning a trip up north.

  Decker, athletic and graceful, walked across the lake like he had solid ground beneath his feet. I, on the other hand, stumbled and skidded, arms out at my sides like I was walking a tightrope.

  Halfway across the lake, I slipped and collided into Decker. He grabbed me around the waist. “Watch yourself,” he said, his arm still holding me against his side.

  “I want to go back,” I said. I was just close enough to make out the faces of eight kids from school gathered on the opposite shore. The same eight kids I’d known my entire life—for better or worse.

  Carson Levine, blond curls spilling out from the bottom of his hat, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Solid?”

  Decker dropped his arm and started walking again. “I’m not dead yet,” he called back. He turned around and said, “Your boyfriend’s waiting,” through clen
ched teeth.

  “He’s not my . . . ,” I started, but Decker wasn’t listening.

  He kept walking, and I kept not walking, until he was on land and I was alone on the center of Falcon Lake. Carson slapped Decker’s back, and Decker didn’t flick him off. What a double standard. It had been two days since I broke Best Friend Commandment Number One: Thou shalt not hook up with best friend’s other friend on said best friend’s couch. I slowly turned myself in a circle, trying to judge the closest distance to land—backward or forward. I was just barely closer to our destination.

  “Come on, D,” Decker called. “We don’t have all day.”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I mumbled, and walked faster than I should have. And then I slipped. I reached out for Decker even though I knew he was way out of reach and took a hard fall onto my left side. I landed flat on my arm and felt something snap. It wasn’t my bone. It was the ice. No.

  My ear was pressed against the surface, so I heard the fracture branch out, slowly at first, then with more speed. Faint crackles turned to snaps and crunches, and then silence. I didn’t move. Maybe it would hold if I just stayed still. I saw Decker’s legs sprinting back toward me. And then the ice gave way.

  “Decker!” I screamed. I felt the water, thick and heavy, right before I went under—and then I panicked and panicked and panicked.

  I didn’t have the presence of mind to think, Please God, don’t let me die. I wasn’t brave enough to think, I hope Decker stayed back. My only thought, playing on a repetitive loop, was No, no, no, no, no.

  First came the pain. Needles piercing my skin, my insides contracting, everything folding in on itself, trying to escape the cold. Next, the noise. Water rushing in and out, and the pain of my eardrums freezing. Pain had a sound; it was a high-pitched static. I sunk quickly, my giant parka weighing me down, and I struggled to orient myself.

  Black water churned all around me, but up above, getting farther and farther away, there were footprints—small areas of bright light where Decker and I had left tracks. I struggled to get there. My brain told my legs to kick harder, but they only fluttered in response. I eventually managed to reach the surface again, but I couldn’t find the hole where I had fallen through. I pounded and pounded, but the water felt thick, the consistency of molasses, and the ice was strong, like steel. In my panic I sucked in a giant gulp of water the temperature of ice. My lungs burned. I coughed and gulped and coughed and gulped until the weight in my chest felt like lead and my limbs went still.

  But in the instant before everything vanished, I heard a voice. A whisper. Like a mouth pressed to my ear. Rage, it said. Rage against the dying of the light.

  * * *

  Blink.

  The commanding voice spoke. “And today, she’s breathing without the aid of the ventilator. Prognosis?”

  “At best, persistent vegetative state.”

  The voices in the background sharpened. “She’d be better off dead. Why’d they intubate her if they knew she was brain dead?”

  “She’s a minor,” the doctor in charge said, leaning across me to check the tubes. “You always keep a child alive until the parents arrive.”

  The doctor stepped back, revealing a chorus of angels. White-robed men and women hugged the walls, their mouths hanging open like they were singing to the heavens.

  “Dr. Logan, I think she’s awake.” They all watched me, watching them.

  The doctor—Dr. Logan—chuckled. “You’ll learn, Dr. Klein, that many comatose patients open their eyes. It doesn’t mean they see.”

  Move. Speak. The voice, again, whispered in my ear. It demanded, Rage. And I raged. I slapped at the doctor’s arms, I tore at his white coat, I sunk my nails into the flesh of his fingers as he tried to fight me off. I jerked my legs, violently trying to free myself from the white sheets.

  I raged because I recognized the voice in my ear. It was my own.

  “Name! Her name!” cried the doctor. He leaned across my bed and held me back with his forearm against my chest, his weight behind it. And all the while I thrashed.

  A voice behind him called out, “Delaney. It’s Delaney Maxwell.”

  With his other hand, the doctor gripped my chin and yanked my head forward. He brought his face close to mine, too close, until I could smell the peppermint on his breath and see the map of lines around the corners of his mouth. He didn’t speak until I locked eyes with him, and then he flinched. “Delaney. Delaney Maxwell. I’m Dr. Logan. You’ve had an accident. You’re in the hospital. And you’re okay.”

  The panic subsided. I was free. Free from the ice, free from the prison inside. I moved my mouth to speak, but his arm on my chest and his hand on my jaw strangled my question. Dr. Logan slowly released me.

  “Where,” I began. My voice came out all hoarse and raspy, like a smoker’s. I cleared my throat and said, “Where is—” I couldn’t finish. The ice cracked. I fell. And he wasn’t here.

  “Your parents?” Dr. Logan finished the question for me. “Don’t worry, they’re here.” He turned around to the chorus of angels and barked, “Find them.”

  But that wasn’t what I meant to ask. It wasn’t who I meant at all.

  Dr. Logan prodded the others out of the room, though they didn’t go far. They clumped around the doorway, mumbling to each other. He stood in the corner, arms crossed over his chest, watching me. His gaze wandered over my body like he was undressing me with his eyes. Only in his case, I was pretty sure he was dissecting rather than undressing, peeling back my skin with every shift of his gaze, slicing through muscle and bone with his glare. I tried to turn away from him, but everything felt too heavy.

  Mom elbowed her way through the crowd outside and gripped the sides of the doorway. She brought both hands to her chest and cried, “Oh, my baby,” then ran across the room. She grabbed my hand in her own and brought it to her face. Then she rested her head on my shoulder and cried.

  Her hot tears trickled down my neck, and her brown curls smelled of stale hair spray. I turned my head away and breathed through my mouth. “Mom,” I said, but she just shook her head, scratching my chin with her curls. Dad followed her in, smiling. Smiling and laughing and shaking the doctor’s hand. The doctor who hadn’t even known my first name, who’d thought I would never wake up. Dad shook his hand like it was all his doing.

  I worked up the nerve to say what I had meant before. “Where’s Decker?” My voice was rough and unfamiliar.

  Mom didn’t answer, but she stopped crying. She sat up and wiped the tears from her face with the edge of her sleeve.

  “Dad, where’s Decker?” I asked, with a tinge of panic in my voice.

  Dad came to the other side of my bed and rested his hand on my cheek. “He’s around here somewhere.”

  I closed my eyes and relaxed. Decker was okay. I was okay. We were fine. Dr. Logan spoke again. “Delaney, you were without oxygen for quite some time and there was some . . . damage. Don’t be alarmed if words or thoughts escape you. You need time to heal.”

  Apparently, I was not fine.

  And then I heard him. Long strides running down the hall, boots scuffing around the corner, the squeal on the linoleum as he skidded into the room. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He panted as he scanned the faces in the room.

  “See for yourself, Decker,” Dad said, stepping back from the bed.

  Decker’s dark hair hung in his gray eyes, and purple circles stretched down toward his cheekbones. I’d never seen him so pale, so hollow. His gaze finally landed on me.

  “You look like crap,” I said, trying to smile.

  He didn’t smile back. He collapsed on the other side of my bed and sobbed. Big, body-shaking sobs. His bandaged fingers clutched at my sheets with every sharp intake of breath.

  Decker was not a crier. In fact, the only time I’d seen him cry since it became socially unacceptable for a boy to be seen crying was when he broke his arm sliding into home plate freshman year. And that was borderline acceptable. He did, af
ter all, have a bone jutting out of his skin. And he did, after all, score the winning run, which canceled out the crying.

  “Decker,” I said. I lifted my hand to comfort him, but then I remembered the last time I tried to touch his hair, how he swatted me away. Six days ago, that’s what they said. It seemed like only minutes.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed to croak between sobs.

  “For what?”

  “For all of it. It’s all my fault.”

  “Son,” Dad cut in. But Decker kept on talking through his tears.

  “I was in such a goddamn rush. It was my idea to go. I made you cross the lake. And I left you. I can’t believe I left you. . . .” He sat up and wiped his eyes. “I should’ve jumped in right after you. I shouldn’t have let them pull me back.” He put his face in his hands and I thought he’d break down again, but he took a few deep breaths and pulled himself together. Then he fixed his eyes on all my bandages and grimaced. “D, I broke your ribs.”

  “What?” That was something I would’ve remembered.

  “Honey,” Mom said, “he was giving you CPR. He saved your life.”

  Decker shook his head but didn’t say anything else. Dad put his hands on Decker’s shoulders. “Nothing to be sorry for, son.”

  In the fog of drugs that were undoubtedly circulating through my system, I pictured Decker performing CPR on the dead version of me. In health class sophomore year, I teamed up with Tara Spano for CPR demonstrations. Mr. Gersham told us where to place our hands and counted out loud as we simulated the motion without actually putting any force into it.

  Afterward, Tara made a show of readjusting her D-cup bra and said, “Man, Delaney, that’s more action than I’ve had all week.” It was more action than I’d had my entire life, but I kept that information to myself. Rumors about me and Tara being lesbians circulated for a few days until Tara took it upon herself to prove that she was not, in fact, a lesbian. She proved it with Jim Harding, captain of the football team.