These gaps in my memory, or whatever they are, are scaring me. And I haven’t mentioned them to my mom or dad yet because I don’t want to scare them. But I’m wondering: Could my brain somehow have been damaged during those weeks I spent connected to an oxygen tank, never feeling like I had enough? Have I forgotten key moments from my old life?
Then there’s the latest thing: the nightmares. And the headaches that come after.
And it’s not just my memory. It’s my mood that feels off. Shouldn’t I feel happy? Shouldn’t I feel #blessed? This recycled heart, after all, has saved me. There will be more birthdays. College. Travel. A life. If I tell Dr. Ahmadi that I often have an overwhelming desire to reach in and rip it out, pulsing and dripping — a bloody hole in my chest seeming preferable to a piece of someone else pumping away in there — will he think I’m ungrateful? A terrible person? Or will he smile his easy smile and tell me it’s all normal and nothing to worry about?
In the end, I decide not to say anything about any of it. I don’t want any more tests. No more blood draws. No more machines scanning parts of my body. Today, I’m officially free of all that. My parents are free of all that. For a little longer than usual, at least. Dr. Ahmadi types a few notes on his tablet and stands up. “Okay, then! I’ll run out to give your folks a quick update while you change. And keep the copy of the EKG — you might want to frame it.” He smiles. “We’ll see you in four months. Until then, call us if you’re experiencing any pain, shortness of breath, nausea . . . well, you know the drill. Or call us if you just need to talk.”
I know he means this, and if I thought it would help to unload on anyone, he’d be the person I’d choose. But cardiac surgeons are busy, and the last thing I want to do is get everybody all worked up over nothing. My brain is probably just a little scattered from all the meds I have to take. And I have a normal EKG in my hand that tells me I should be celebrating. So I’m just going to make my parents happy and post this on our fridge under that ridiculous MY CHILD IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT OAK VALLEY HIGH magnet that my dad purchased at the school’s fund-raising auction because he thought it was hilarious.
In my most cheerful, everything-is-fine voice, I echo Dr. Ahmadi with a “See you in four months!” as he slips out the door.
If you surf, having a solid understanding of physics is useful. Waves, after all, are one of the best examples of physics in action: energy (wind) moving through matter (water). And if you can get a sense of the origin, intensity, and direction of the energy part, and how the tides and the type of break interact with it, you’ll have an idea of how the water is going to behave. Before I figured this out, I thought catching waves had more to do with luck than anything else. But now I know why Kai is always going on about “checking the surf report.” Turns out you can apply some science to surfing.
“Let’s go!” I barely stop after finding Kai on the beach when I arrive, eager to get out before the tide changes.
“Hold up,” he says, picking up his backpack to retrieve the ankle leash he promised to bring for me last week. “Let’s swap this for the one you have. So you don’t take anyone’s head off out there.”
Ankle leashes do more than just ensure that you won’t lose your board in the surf. They also protect the other surfers around you, especially the more experienced ones from the amateurs. A runaway board can result in a whole lot of stitches for anyone in its path.
Kai hands over the leash and I lay my board down, squatting while I remove the one that’s already attached. “Thanks,” I say.
“They’re a little tricky. Want me to get it?”
I shake my head. “I can do it.” He stands back in a posture that looks as though he expects me to ask for help at any minute. I line up the two ends of the leash string, tie an overhand knot, and push one end through the plug on my board. Then I attach the cord and fasten the cuff at my ankle.
“Ready!” I say, standing up.
“Huh,” he says. “Usually takes me a couple of tries to get that right.”
I shrug. “I once earned a Girl Scout badge for tying knots.”
He nods and squints at me. “Of course you did.”
I squint back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. You just . . . seem like the kind of person who might excel at Girl Scouting.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“I mean, you level up fast.” Kai rakes his hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“Waves should be good today, right?” I ask, changing the subject. “I saw that the swell interval is supposed to be long.” A longer interval between waves means that each one accumulates more energy and peels longer, which makes for a better ride.
“Take a look,” he says, nodding toward the horizon, where a handful of surfers are already lined up, waiting. I watch one pop up and sail across the face of a wave. “The report helps, but nothing’s better than your own eyes.”
“Looks good,” I confirm.
He nods. “Let’s go, then.”
As we paddle out, I’m having a harder time getting through the white water than I did last week. Although the waves look long and clean farther out, they are breaking hard on the beach. Kai is ahead of me, and I watch what he does, mirroring his movements. He’s paddling strong and sure, propelling himself directly into the oncoming waves. The trick is to generate enough momentum to push through the impact zone without getting rolled off your board. I dig deep into the water, trying to pick up as much speed as I possibly can. The spray stings my face, and now I can’t see Kai at all — he’s lost behind the roiling wall of foam that’s surging toward me. I push up hard on my rails and throw all of my weight forward. White water rushes past as I push, paddle, push, paddle, and then I’m through the worst of it, denying the ocean its first opportunity to screw with my surfing plans today. Now I just need to keep it that way.
Kai twists his head around up ahead to make sure I’m still behind him and gives a quick thumbs-up with his right hand. We join the lineup.
“You okay?” he asks as I paddle up next to him, my eyes taking in the size of the swells. They look pretty damn huge up close and I feel like we are floating in a giant bowl of water. All I can see is ocean ahead and ocean behind and the blue-gray sky up above.
“Yeah,” I say, more confident than I feel.
Kai looks a tiny bit anxious as well, which I know is not because he’s worried for himself. I’ve already seen him surf waves bigger than these. Is he worried that he’s got me into a situation that I might not be able to handle?
His eyes connect with mine. “If you can’t get up, just hang on to your board and paddle back in with the wave.”
Yep, I think. He’s already expecting me to wipe out. Again.
I watch the surfers ahead of us as they race for incoming waves, pop up, and then take off toward the shore. Not one has fallen. I’m not going to be the only one who does, I tell myself.
Another wave sweeps toward us, rising and rising and rising till it begins to cast a shadow over our heads. This is the one.
The one I’m going to catch.
“It’s yours!” Kai yells and, as soon as I hear that, I launch.
Left, right, left, right, left, right. I paddle harder than I’ve ever paddled before and get myself into position, the nose of my board pointing toward the beach. I wait until it begins to lift under me. Now I just need to hang on for the right moment. Which is . . . now.
Now!
I place my hands underneath my chest and pop up, so shocked to be standing that I almost topple off again, like last week. The board wobbles slightly, but this time I regain my balance and then, holy shit, I’m surfing, actually really surfing, on my own, for the first time ever.
The wave that I’ve caught is a big one. Bigger even than it seemed when I watched it gather itself up, before I perched myself near the summit of its rising, racing, liquid surface. It whisks me toward the shore, and I feel as though I’m no longer in the water, but flyin
g above it, like a pelican or a gull. Everything looks, and feels, different from this perspective as the scale and scope of the world multiplies, expanding in all directions. The ocean. The beach. The sky. For a split second, I can even see behind the sand dunes, glimpsing the roofline of pastel-painted storefronts that line the road beyond them. I inhale, filling my lungs with salt air, which has got to be some kind of enhanced, extra-intense version of oxygen, because I’ve never felt more awake and alive. My board rises higher.
And higher.
And higher.
Too high.
There’s a surfing term for what happens when the lip of a wave crashes beneath you. It’s called “going over the falls.”
I imagine it in slow motion, but really it’s only milliseconds before I’m tossed from water to air. My board slips out from under me, my foot yanked with it by my new (and hopefully improved) ankle leash. Unlike last week’s tumble, I come down hard and fast with this wave. The ocean alternately muffles sound and then roars around me as I surface, briefly, only to be pushed back under. I struggle up again, gasping for breath. As I do, my head hits something hard. Or something hard hits my head. I can’t tell which.
And suddenly, the death dream is all I can think about. The one where my head smashes into the pavement and my skull cracks. The world, huge and wide and open just seconds ago, is closing in, confusing my senses. It’s dead quiet. The water feels thick and heavy, so thick that I am caught, suspended like a specimen in a jar, unable to move my limbs. I can’t tell up from down, right from left. As the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, along with what seems like gallons of salt water, I frantically try to conjure up Kai’s words of advice for when you are pinned under a wave: stay calm.
Stay calm.
I force myself to open my eyes so I can try to get my bearings. But what I see doesn’t make any sense. Instead of murky water, I see a silver-gray pit bull with a scar above its eye. I see a different beach, a different break, and clear water lit up by the sun. I see a woman lying in a hospital bed, tubes everywhere. Is she the woman I remember? The one wearing the knit cap? I see a cypress tree, a porch swing, an EKG. I see the tunnel from my dream, the motorcycle crash, blood washing over my eyes. Then everything goes blank.
“Chloe.”
A dark silhouette moves into my view, encircled by a white halo of light. I wonder if I’m in the hospital again. Or maybe I never left in the first place. Maybe I never made it to the top of the list and there never was a heart. Maybe I’m dead and all the surfing lessons are just a figment of my disjointed, oxygen-deprived imagination.
“Chloe,” the silhouette says, louder this time, moving in. The blurred edges start to come into focus and a familiar face emerges. Hazel eyes. Black hair dangling, wet, over warm brown skin. Lips dusted with sand. This is no Angel of Death. It’s Kai. And this time, he looks more than a little anxious.
I stare at him.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “God, I feel like an asshole.”
“What? Why?” I push up to my elbows and Kai sits back on his heels next to me. I look out toward the pounding surf, watch the edge of the water bubble up over the coarse sand and then retreat. It’s cold and windy and I’m shivering, but I am on the beach and very much alive. How did I even get here? I wonder.
“Your board,” he says, frowning. “You got cracked really hard by your board. Maybe we should call —”
“No!” I say, louder than I mean to. We are not calling anybody. No professionals. No hospital. The last thing I want is for my parents to get wind of what I’ve been up to these last few Wednesday afternoons, when they think I’ve been at the library catching up on summer school assignments. So far they know nothing about my new and dangerous hobby. And, for now, I want to keep it that way.
My tongue throbs and I realize I must have bitten it, but otherwise I feel all right. Heart is beating. Head is . . . the same. But something seems strange in an out-of-sequence kind of way, like this movie I watched with my dad one afternoon in the hospital, about a guy with a weird amnesia condition who has to write everything that happens to him on Post-it notes. Was there a dog on the beach with us? If there was, it’s gone now. Who was that woman in the hospital? Is she the same one that I’m sure I know but can’t remember?
“I’m okay.” I shut the weirdness out of my mind and focus my eyes on Kai, who looks relieved that I’m at least speaking and moving and hopefully not about to ruin his surf lesson business. “Why do you feel like an asshole?”
He frowns again. “I probably shouldn’t have taken you out there with the waves so big.”
“But I wanted . . . ” I say. It’s not his fault that I nearly got knocked out by my board. I forgot one vital piece of his advice: cover your head when you come up.
“She okay?”
I look over and see two other surfers hovering nearby, packing up their gear. The tall one is talking to Kai.
“I’m okay,” I answer instead, pushing all the way up to sitting to emphasize my absolute okay-ness.
“I think she’s good,” Kai calls back. “Thanks for the help.”
The help? Now I’m wondering just how many people out here witnessed my latest epic wipeout.
“We’ve all been there!” the surfer says to me. “Sucks to get pinned under. That was a sweet ride before you bit it, though.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, still confused about how I made it back to the beach. I don’t remember anything between being underwater and seeing people and pit bulls and places I don’t recognize, and staring up into Kai’s very pretty eyes, which are again studying me with caution.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks. “You were kind of out of it when I caught up to you. Those dudes said you were talking about a dog or something, and you said you were going to take a nap. You could have a concussion.”
“I’m good. Really. I think I just got a little freaked out when I was held under, but I feel okay now.” Just shake it off, I tell myself. Shake it off. I manage a smile despite the fact that my tongue is swelling up. “So when are we catching the next one?”
And unexpectedly, the serious look on his face is transformed by a truly genuine smile. “It was pretty awesome, huh?”
This is the first time I’ve seen Kai smile, aside from the time a small fish had brushed against my foot and I screamed and tumbled off my board in surprise. As I was trying, without much grace, to climb back on in the choppy water, I thought I saw the corners of his mouth turn up. Briefly. But not like this. When he smiles full-on, he has dimples.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s like . . .”
“Flying.”
“Yeah.”
“I was six when I caught my first wave,” he says. “Felt like a superhero.”
“Which one?” I ask.
“Which what?”
“Which superhero?”
“Batman.”
“Batman?” I laugh, imagining a pint-size Kai surfing in a full-body bat suit, black cape flying. “No Silver Surfer?”
He shakes his head. “C’mon. When you’re six, superhero means either Batman or Spider-Man. Maybe the Hulk.”
Batman. I’ve learned more about Kai in the last three minutes than I probably have in the last three weeks.
I make a move to stand. Too quickly, I realize, because I feel dizzy and sit back down in the sand. It’s fine. Shake it off. Take a deep breath. I look at Kai. “Let’s go back out.”
And now I even get a laugh. With the dimples again. It’s like he’s a different person.
“Slow down there, boss,” he says. “Maybe we should call it a day and give your head a rest.”
Give my head a rest.
I wish. I want to tell him that my head feels infinitely better out there than it usually does at home, even after getting bonked by my board. Surfing allows me not to think. Only feel. The icy water. The wind on my cheeks. The movement of the waves beneath my body. In fact, the ocean is pretty much the only place I want to be right now. I ref
use to let one weird moment ruin it.
Kai stands and offers his hand to help me up. I take it. And now, it’s all I can think about. What would that hand feel like in my hair? On my face?
“Thanks,” I say, rising to face him. He’s eyeing me with an intensity that makes me panic slightly, afraid that he can somehow read my mind.
“Ouch. You should probably put some ice on that when you get home.”
Touching my temple, I feel a bruise starting to bulge under the skin.
Ahh. Mystery of the intense look: solved.
“Yep. Ice,” I say, nodding.
I look out toward the horizon, where the ocean meets the sky. The afternoon sun is breaking through spaces in the clouds. It’s beautiful and looks like the kind of thing a person might post on Instagram, with an inspirational quote. But in my case, it just reminds me that I’ve lost track of the time and I’m #late.
“I have to go,” I tell Kai.
Being late used to make my parents, at worst, slightly aggravated. Now, if I don’t show up when I say I will, I know they’re worrying about the heart. Is it still beating? Am I lying on the ground somewhere, grasping my chest? I realize I had better come up with a plausible explanation for the welt on my temple (Falling library book? A run-in with a swinging locker door?) and I still need to stop at my neighbor Mrs. Linney’s house to feed her cat, water her roses, and safely stash my surfboard in her backyard shed. Her summer in Europe is convenient for a girl with secrets.
My phone is in my backpack in the truck of my car — a used Honda that my parents originally intended as a graduation gift until it became more of a we’re-glad-you’re-still-alive gift. I make a mental note to text my mom that I’m running behind. But as I pick up my board, something occurs to me: I hadn’t noticed another car near the path on our section of the beach when I parked earlier.
Everything I Thought I Knew Page 3