by McCall Hoyle
It’s official. I’ve lost it. My sanity died when I started screaming at a ghost—the ghost of the person I loved more than anything on the face of the planet.
White breakers foam around my calves. For once Hitch doesn’t bound into the water. He stands to my right, frozen on the beach, whining. I ignore him, hauling myself farther into the surf.
A large wave knocks me off my feet. I lose a flip-flop and scramble to regain my footing. The toes on my bare right foot dig into coarse sand and crushed shells. I swallow a mouthful of salty water. My eyes stinging, I stumble back toward shore, try to catch myself, but fall flat on my butt. The wave that barreled over me seconds earlier rushes out to sea, pulling me along with it.
And I realize: I could unclench my fists and heart and go with the flow—let the ocean have its way with me. Mom and Roger could have their happily-ever-after. Chatham could move on to someone else. Someone right for him. Ayla could capture me in her art.
I loosen my grip on the sand, allowing myself to be pulled beyond the white foam and into deeper water. The frigid ocean numbs my pain. Hitch barks and charges into the water. He tugs on the sleeve of my drenched shirt, then retreats when I don’t follow and repeats the rescue attempt—bark, charge, tug, retreat—several more times.
He loves me. He’s always loved me just the way I am. And if I’m honest and quit being a snot-nosed brat, I’d admit Mom has too.
What if I quit worrying about what people think? What if I wasn’t afraid all the time? I’d be happier. I could live my life—really, really live.
Hitch barks like he can read my thoughts.
I brace myself on my arms, hoisting myself out of the sand. The water lifts me. I’m momentarily weightless. I realize I’m floating away from Hitch, and I heave myself over onto my belly and scramble on all fours toward shore. He meets me halfway, pulling me along by my sleeve.
Free of the icy water, I collapse face-first in the hard-packed sand. Hitch crouches beside me, licking and nuzzling my face until I force myself to my knees, wrap my cold arms around his muscular neck, and bury my face in his wet fur.
I pull back till we’re eye to eye. “Hitch, I want to live.”
He lifts one brow, smiles, then lowers his snout. I’d swear he nodded.
“I love you, big guy,” I whisper, glancing out to sea. A sliver of sun peeks through the fog, and I smile, my teeth chattering.
I want to live. And if I want to live, it’s time to start making some serious changes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It was not Death, for I stood up . . .
EMILY DICKINSON
I slow from a jog to a walk as Hitch and I head toward home, way too out of breath for someone my age. If I’m going to start making changes, regular exercise probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. Studying the sand as it squishes between my toes, I draft a mental to-do list. First, try to be nicer to Mom. Second, replace my favorite flip-flops.
A speck of orange catches my eye, and I blink. I pause, holding my breath. Hitch doubles back to check on me, nudging my thigh with his nose.
It can’t be.
I squat, balancing on the balls of my feet, afraid to believe my eyes. A frosty shard of glass glistens against a dark-gray backdrop of wet sand. I reach for it, half expecting it to disappear. It’s not a dream. It’s sea glass.
Orange sea glass.
I pry it loose, turning it over for closer inspection. It’s smooth, almost soft, in my cold palm, sanded and buffed to perfection from tumbling along the ocean floor. The delicate treasure looks more like a shard of orange sherbet than glass.
Finally.
I laugh, holding it up to the sky—to heaven. “Daddy, I found it. I found your orange.”
We spent days, weeks, months before his death searching for orange sea glass. Dad so wanted to leave me with the color of hope. We searched and scoured. Mom and I suggested purchasing a piece from a collector. Dad refused, saying we’d find it when the universe wanted us to have it—when we needed it most.
He was right. It’s like God or the universe or whoever has been waiting for me to open my eyes. Now that I have, I see beauty and possibility everywhere. I focus on these blessings and . . . bam. The universe offers up more beauty and possibility.
I press the cool glass to my lips and hold it up in the fading daylight. “Kisses, Daddy. I love you.”
The breeze caresses my cheek like a gentle hand, and I break into a run. Hitch joins me. Minutes later we’re rushing along the boardwalk, onto the deck, and through the back door. We cross the threshold into a spotless house. Candles glow on the bar and table. All traces of shrimp guts and shells have been cleared away. The smell of chocolate chip cookies hangs in the air.
“Mom, where are you?” I brace myself against a barstool, trying to catch my breath. “I’m home,” I shout. She doesn’t answer, so I head down the hall. Hitch pauses to shake, showering the backs of my legs and the floor with a gritty mixture of salt water and sand.
Mom barges out of her room. “Good Lord. What’s—” She freezes when she sees us.
I open my mouth, but don’t know where to begin. How do I explain to Mom I left an hour ago bitter and lifeless and returned crazy to live? How do I explain to her my out-of-body experience? I can’t. I have to show her.
She steps forward, brushing wet, tangled hair off my face. “Emilie, are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes.” I wrap her in a wet hug. “Great, actually.”
She laughs but doesn’t pull away. “What in the world is going on?”
“I just . . .” I let go of her, careful to hide the glass behind my back. “I love you.” I meet her eyes. “I love you.”
She smiles hesitantly, like I’ve been possessed by a friendly apparition. Or maybe she’s thrown off by the saturated hair and wet T-shirt look in November.
“I have something to show you.” I pull my closed fist from behind my back. Her brow creases.
Flipping my hand over, I present the orange treasure. Neither of us speaks for a long time. Then she pulls me in hard against her chest, our hearts separated from each other by only a thin layer of cloth and skin. We don’t move or breathe until Hitch stands on his hind legs and weasels his way in for a group hug.
I look at her and chuckle. She belly laughs. Then we’re both cracking up—snorting and holding our sides. Hitch smiles, hopping back and forth between the two of us. To an outsider, we’d look happy—normal. Like a family.
The laughing subsides, and I pull her up the hall to the kitchen. Her warm hand clings to mine. She watches as I gently add the final piece to Dad’s collection. Tears stream down both our faces. We stand still, clinging to one another. All is silent, except for the ticking clock over the window and the occasional hiss of a flickering candle.
I turn toward her, smiling.
“Emilie?” Her voice cracks.
“Yes?” The single syllable hangs on the air.
“Do you want me to call Roger . . . to cancel?”
Yes. Yes. Yes, my instincts scream. I inhale, counting to ten. She’s already given me permission to quit school. Now she’s offering to ditch Roger for me—at least for one night.
I open my mouth. My breath catches, and I swallow. Candlelight dances across Dad’s collection. The orange reflects a ray of ginger on Mom’s cheek.
“No, Mom.” My shoulders relax. My fists unclench at my sides. “No. Let me take a shower. Then I’ll help you with dinner.”
She’s smiling, but a fat tear rolls down her cheek when she nods.
Someone’s flipped Wonderland upside down and is shaking us out, sending us back to the real world—or at least something resembling normal.
“Give me like ten minutes. Okay?” I leave her in the soft candlelight, determined to ignore the nerves quivering in my gut when I think about sitting through a meal with her and Roger.
Dinner is a relative success. I don’t roll my eyes at Roger when he holds out my chair or choke on the shrimp scampi when he tells a kn
ock-knock joke that wouldn’t entertain a four-year-old. The three of us clean up in the tiny kitchen. I wash. Roger dries. Hitch lays at our feet, and it’s really not that horrible. We talk about the weather. Roger admires the beach glass in the windowsill above the sink.
And then he picks up the orange piece with his free hand.
Every muscle in my body tenses. I don’t want him touching Dad’s things. I turn, ready to pounce. Mom stands behind him, mouth ajar, eyes wide like a bystander at a plane crash.
Awkward silence invades the room. Roger glances from Mom to me and back. From the look on his face, he knows he’s blundered, but he’s not sure how.
My heart softens. Roger is an innocent victim. He can’t know what he’s done wrong. He’s trying his best.
“The orange is my favorite too.” I smile, willing Dad and the universe to take note of my tentative strokes and flutter kicks. I may not make the swim team, but I’m trying.
The tension in the air dissipates. I exhale. Roger and I wipe down the counters while Mom sweeps. They ask me to watch a movie. I decline—nicely. Leave ’em laughing. That’s what Granny Day says. I don’t want to press my luck on the first attempt, swim out too far, and drown. So I head to my room. Hitch peeks at Mom and Roger on the couch but follows me.
“I put your phone in your room,” Mom calls as I close the door.
I haven’t thought about it since the game Thursday. When I pick it up, it’s almost dead. I check my missed calls—nineteen in less than seventy-two hours. Ten from Chatham. Seven from Ayla. And two numbers I don’t recognize.
Chatham called me ten times. There are a bunch of texts too, mostly from Chatham and Ayla. But also one from Ms. Ringgold, wishing me well. And one from Katsu.
My palms sweat at the thought of returning these messages, much less dealing with these people in person. I’m about to tuck the phone into my desk drawer for safekeeping when the swimming promise pops in my head, followed by an image of orange sea glass glowing in cold, slick sand.
Before I can change my mind, I scroll to Chatham’s last text and hit Reply.
Hey.
He responds a minute later. Hey.
Well, that went well. I sigh, wondering what I’m getting myself into.
Do you still want to talk? I ask.
Several long minutes pass. I pace the floor, the phone clutched in my right hand. Hitch’s head follows me like a spectator at a tennis match. I examine the fingernails of my left hand, contemplate tearing at a hangnail, think better of it, and shove my free hand in my front pocket.
When the phone vibrates, I jump. It slips out of my moist palm. I scoop it off the floor.
Yes.
He said yes. He said yes. He said yes.
I pump my fist in the air while Hitch bounces around my knees. When I throw myself on the bed, phone clutched to my chest, he joins me.
Crap. Chatham said yes. What do I say? I have to respond. When and where? Short, sweet, and to the point. I pat myself on the back.
At school? Can you meet me at
the pool tomorrow morning after
practice? Seven twenty?
School? I collapse onto the pillows while the universe enjoys its sick little joke, then type my response.
Sure.
Here goes nothing. I’m sinking or swimming—literally or figuratively or both.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A Wounded Deer—leaps highest—
EMILY DICKINSON
Mom and I both oversleep in the morning. We were up past midnight. I had to tell her my plans for returning to school. The way her eyes bulged out of her head, I thought she might be the one having a seizure. Then she had to email Principal Brown, the counselors, and all my teachers to explain I’d have Hitch with me and to tell them to call her with questions or concerns.
I see only two concerns: One, I’ll stand out like a prep at a punk concert with an eighty-five-pound golden retriever at my side. Two, Hitch will lick somebody to death.
When we pull out of the driveway five minutes late, my heart beats in my throat. I texted Chatham to say I’d be a few minutes behind, but he didn’t respond. Probably because he’s in the pool. Possibly because he’s tired of dealing with me and my mistakes. Hitch sits in the backseat on high alert, looking official in his red-and-green canine assistant vest.
“I’ll walk you in,” Mom offers when we enter the carrider lane.
I don’t want to hurt her feelings after the progress we made last night, but I have to do this alone. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
Her jaw twitches. She brakes too quickly, and we both jerk forward against our seat belts. I take a deep breath, unbuckle, and swing my legs out onto the pavement.
“Wait.” She places a gentle hand on my arm. “I have something for you.”
She opens the console between our seats and pulls out two tiny boxes wrapped in shiny orange paper. They’re tied one on top of the other with curly yellow ribbon.
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.” She leans over to peck me on the cheek. “I just love you.”
We both jump when a car behind us honks. I hesitate.
“Take it with you.” She presses her hand against my shoulder, gently nudging me out of the car.
I slide the presents into my backpack and step out of the car. The woman behind us holds a massive coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other. I open the back door for Hitch. Her stern expression softens when she sees his smiling face.
I should’ve brought him with me to begin with—well, that and been honest with people.
Mom doesn’t move until I blow her a kiss and wave her on.
Just like that, I’m headed back to school. A wave of déjà vu rolls over me. The halls are mostly deserted like that first day. But today Hitch’s toenails clack out a happy little melody on the tile floor as he accompanies me to the far end of the elective hallway. My pulse throbs in my neck. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry as toast. Hitch glances up at me, smiling reassuringly, sensing my growing anxiety.
When we reach the pool, the place is abandoned, the fluorescent lights turned off. I’m a few minutes late, but I would’ve thought someone would still be here or that Chatham would’ve waited for me. Unless he’s tired of waiting on me.
I’m not that late, and swim team did practice this morning, because the cement around the pool is wet. I sidestep the shallow puddles in an effort to keep my feet dry. Hitch wags his tail at the feel of cool water on his paws. Unlike me, the dog was born to swim.
“What am I doing, bud?” I ask, plopping down on the cold metal seat. He rests his head on my knee, whining sympathetically.
I unzip my backpack to check my phone. The overstuffed compartment is crushing Mom’s pretty packages. I pull them out. Now is as good a time as any to open them.
Hitch watches as I rip open the paper, then pause before opening the tiny white box. I gasp when I see the silver charm resting on a bed of cotton. It’s a lighthouse. I lift it out of the box, turning it over in my hand.
The inscription on the back stills my racing heart. The tiny font reads He will always light our way. I swallow, trying to hold back the tears.
The kind gesture, the reference to Dad—both bring me great joy. I’m smiling. But I’m also crying, and my chest is so tight I think my breastbone might snap.
I wad the paper and shove it into my bag before opening the second package. It’s my charm bracelet. She must’ve snuck it out of my jewelry box and wrapped it during the night. There’s a little note in her neat print: I love you. Mom
It hits me: she’s the one responsible for all the charms. I always assumed it was good-natured, affectionate Dad. If I’d paid attention, I would’ve known the anonymously delivered charms were more her quiet, reserved way of showing love. She might not be as touchy-feely as Dad, but she loves me.
And I’m going to start showing her I love her.
I hang the charm on the bracelet and clasp it around my wrist,
then stow the trash and empty boxes in my backpack. Hitch stands, sensing we’re on the move.
“Let’s do this, boy.” Pushing myself up off the bleachers, I square my shoulders, determined to give this day a shot.
I’m admiring the way the morning sun, shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflects off the water and onto my charm bracelet when my flip-flop hits standing water. My right foot slips underneath me. I swing my arms, trying to regain my balance. I’m going down, and I know it. Hitch plants his feet, ready to break my fall the way he’s been trained to do in case of a seizure. But the water messes with his footing too. I hit him at an angle and knock him into the pool.
My temple whacks the concrete, and I hear myself scream. I lay there dazed for a second. When Hitch barks, I push myself up onto all fours, shoving off my backpack. He’s swimming in frenzied circles near the ladder. I know he’s not afraid of the water. It’s my cry and our separation that’s freaking him out.
I survey the pool—no shallow end. This is no recreational pool. It’s the real-deal Olympic kind and deep—really deep. Over six feet, if I have to guess. I crawl to the ladder.
“Easy, Hitch. Easy.” I have to stay calm for him. If I panic, God only knows what he’ll do to himself trying to drag himself out. I lay flat on my belly, arms outstretched toward him.
He makes a beeline for me, barking low and deep like he’s in pain. My head tells me he’s fine. Goldens were bred for hundreds of years to retrieve ducks in the rough and icy waters of the Chesapeake Sound. An unexpected dip in an indoor pool isn’t going to hurt him.
But the panic in his eyes and the way he’s swimming with his mouth open causes my heart to race.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I repeat, reaching for his front legs and trying to lift him up the ladder. Even if I could dead-lift eighty-five pounds out of the pool—which I can’t—there’s no way I could lift eighty-five pounds of wet, flailing golden retriever.
I have a good grip on his left forearm, not his right. But I dig down deep, grunt, and heave. He shrieks when I yank on the left leg.