Girl Underwater (14 page)

W
hen Colin steps into the cozy lights of the diner, all else slips away. The phone is momentarily forgotten. Lee is forgotten. Everything distills itself to the small space that separates us, a chasm that feels impossible and effortless all at once.

Our eyes meet at the same time. His are that dark, tempestuous blue, intense as ever. Like me, he looks stunned, breathless. I wonder if he's waiting for me to bolt.

“Table for one?” the waitress barks at him like she barked at me, and Colin smiles his shy smile, which softens her up like butter on bread. Or maybe it's the suit—a rich charcoal, tailored to perfection. A slim fit on his lean, powerful frame. The tie matches the flecks of gray in his irises, a subtle, classy color. I've never seen him in a suit before. Never seen him in much other than Speedos, T-shirts, and the army fatigues we salvaged from some stranger on Flight 149. I mean, wow. I just don't know what else to say. He redefines the concept of cleaning up nicely. I pull my dad's coat over my shoulders, suddenly ashamed of my beer-stained dress.

He slides into the booth, holding my gaze the whole time. It is Lee who breaks the silence, his voice coming over the speakerphone. I must have turned it on accidentally.

“Aves? Aves, are you there?”

“Yeah.”

Colin glances at the phone with the slightest bit of something—concern? Disappointment? Anguish?—and then it's gone. I hand him the phone.

Lee sighs with great fanfare and continues to express his grievances, oblivious to what just happened. “Aves, look, this is bullshit—”

“Lee?” Colin's voice is quiet but firm. It surprises me how familiar it sounds, as if I'd been listening to it all day long. “This is Colin.”

The pause is excruciating. “Colin? Colin Shea?”

“Yeah, it's me. I ran into Avery at a diner in my neighborhood.”

This isn't exactly true. According to the address on the menu, we're technically in Quincy, a few streets over from Dorchester. Not like Lee would care about or even understand the distinction. Yesterday, he described Boston as a gravel spiderweb.

“You just ran into her? Was she alone?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” Lee muses on this for a while. “You're sure there wasn't a guy with her? Short, hairy, has a chubby face.”

“I didn't see one.”

“Well, that doesn't change the fact I'm gonna kick his ass—”

I take the phone from Colin. “Lee, don't. It's fine. I got away from him.”

Colin's face pales at the same moment Lee asks, “You what?”

“Nothing. Look, can we sort this out tomorrow?”

“No.” Lee's voice is tight, controlled. “I'm coming to pick you up.”

“In what? You've been drinking.”

“A cab. Gruder'll call me one.”

“On New Year's? Good luck.”

He takes this in, but his grunted response tells me he's not happy about it. I hear Gruder say something along the lines of “You can crash here.” Part offering, part apology.

“Put Shea on the phone,” Lee says to me. “And take me off speaker.”

His clipped tone slices through me, but I do as he asks. Colin takes the phone, rubbing his clean-shaven chin as he listens to whatever Lee has to say. He nods a few times but otherwise says very little.

After a while, he hands the phone back to me. I bring it up to my ear, terrified of what's to come, feeling the sting of sobriety all too soon.

Lee's voice is barely a whisper. “I love you, Aves.”

Then he hangs up.

T
he contrast of color slows my ability to form a coherent thought. A moment passes before I realize this streak of red can't be his shirt because he gave it to me the night before. I woke up with it tucked around my neck and under my arms.

No, the red color isn't fabric at all.

It's blood.

I start heaving. Nothing comes up—I haven't eaten anything substantive in thirty-six hours—but it feels as though my body is rejecting itself, turning inside out. Hard, shuddering spasms bring me to my knees. My eyes well with tears, summoned by cold, or pain, or something else.

It doesn't occur to me that the blood could belong to anyone else. I
know
Colin was here; I can feel it in the empty, limitless silence. Some deep, unknowable part of me senses his absence. He's out there somewhere—hurt, lost. Probably dead.

I wrench a branch off the closest tree and hurl it into the void. There is no response. No angry, mocking growl from the bear that lured him here. No shower of snow from the canvas of tree branches. I don't dare look over my shoulder.

Instead, I look down. The blood has left a trail, albeit mostly buried now, leading deeper into the woods. If I follow it, I may never find my way out again.

In a saner moment, I would forgive Colin for trying to help us. But right then, all I feel is rage. A deep-seated, curdling rage that starts way down deep in my chest and colors every breath I take.
Three boys,
I want to scream.
How am I supposed to choose between you and three little boys?

I know my hour is almost up. Tim won't last much longer than that.

“Colin!” I scream until the pain in my throat matches the agony everywhere else. “Colin!”

A shadow flits through the trees. I look up. The sun, unbelievably, has broken through the clouds, and a beam of grayish light permeates the gloom. It shines on the specks of blood in the snow, causing a ghoulish but captivating effect. I see where the trail leads now.

And there, in the distance, as far as my vision stretches, I see the stooped wavering shadow of Colin's six-foot-four frame.

I start to run.

•

I find him slumped against a tree, the snow saturated with blood. His eyes are closed, his body still. He doesn't stir in spite of the racket I've made trying to get to him.

“Colin.” I shake him hard. “Colin!”

I pinch his fingertips until the skin goes white. “Wake up!”

His eyes flutter open as he draws his hand away. His blue eyes reflect the dazed, glassy look of someone in shock. I put a bottle of water in his left hand because he won't be able to lift anything with his right. The flesh comprising his shoulder is nearly gone.

“Drink this.”

“Avery?”

“
Drink it.
”

He does, which rouses him somewhat. I remove all my outer layers—coat, two sweaters, three T-shirts, two pairs of pants—until I'm down to my underwear, no longer caring so much about “modesty.” I have to stop the bleeding.

He watches with lidded eyes while I tear the undershirts and wrap them around his arm and chest. I can't begin to estimate how much blood he's lost, but it's significant. There are some major arteries that course through the upper arm and shoulder area, and all I can do is pray he didn't nick one.

I try to ease him onto his feet, but it's a comical effort. He's twice my size.

“Can you walk?” I ask, as gently as possible.

“Yeah.” He stands, then promptly topples over. He's barely conscious, and if he passes out, I will have no choice but to leave him behind. It's been an hour. We need to hurry.

“Try again,” I say.

My back screams in pain as he leans on me for support. I grit my teeth and power through those first few steps.
It will get easier after this,
I tell myself. He'll find his rhythm, just like he does in the pool.

Nothing about our agonizing trek through the woods is like the pool, but Colin does find a stuttering stride. Every time his eyes drift closed, I rouse him with a hard shove. Blood oozes from his wound, leaving a trail in the snow. My only consolation is that a hungry bear surely would have killed us by now.

We emerge from the trees to darkening skies. Two hundred yards to the lean-to.
One step at a time.
He stumbles, and I catch him. He bleeds, and I do what I can to staunch the flow. We're almost there.

Almost there.

After what feels like a stretch of eternity, we come upon the lean-to. Colin lacks the strength to yell for the boys, and I've lost my voice, but I try anyway. “Tim!”

I scan the shore for signs of the boys—or even little footprints scattered through the snow. They couldn't have gone far. Even so, a blistering panic wells up inside me.
What if they went into the woods? What if—

“Avery?” Tim pokes his head out. “Colin!”

Tim makes a charge but stops short when he sees the blood. I want to spare him this, but Colin needs to be inside.

“Tim, can you help me with the door?”

He wrenches it open with all the galvanizing force of a six-year-old. Liam and Aayu sit in the corner, their eyes wide. Tim produces the Fruit Roll-Up to distract them. Aayu takes the bait, but Liam starts to cry.

“Colin's hurt,” he sobs.

“I'm okay, bud,” Colin says. “I'm okay.”

“You have blood.”

Aayu's chin trembles. “Blood?” He pronounces it
bwud.

As Colin sinks to the ground, I hand him two more mugs of water. “Drink these.”

He does, but his left arm quivers with the effort. My fingers find his wrist to feel for a pulse. Very fast. Too fast. If he's not already in shock, he's damn close.

“Don't look so worried.” Colin tries to smile. “It's just a little blood.”

A little?
Despite this comment, Colin refuses to look at the wound. He's demonstrated his ability to hike a frozen tundra on a bad leg, but for whatever reason, actual blood seems to unnerve him. Like he'd rather feel pain than talk about it.

“Colin, this is serious—”

He peels my hand away from his wrist—gently, reverently, as though he understands why it was there in the first place, but now he wants me to think of other things. His voice is soft, almost intimate.

“It's okay,” he says.

I try to breathe but can't. The words won't come.

He draws his thumb across my face, catching my tears on his skin. “It's okay, Avery. Remember?” I know he means the flight, but it feels in that moment as if he is talking about my whole life. Swimming. School. The future.
It's all going to be okay.

“Now,” he says, “I have a confession to make.” He cracks a smile—for my benefit, mostly, but for the boys, too.

“What's that?”

“I'm a little afraid of blood.”

“A little?”

“Does that make me a wuss?”

“Definitely,” Tim says, with the utmost seriousness. This brings a much-needed smile to Colin's face, but it doesn't last. His attention drifts to the supplies Tim has gathered per my request: clean socks, floss, a needle, tiny scissors, and water. Thank God for the career woman's sewing kit.

“I need to take a look at the wound.” I keep my voice steady, trying to remember what my dad told me about delivering bad news. Be direct. Don't sugarcoat. Pause for questions. “Based on the amount of blood loss and the mechanism of injury—”

“I haven't told you the mechanism of injury,” he reminds me.

“The suspected mechanism of injury . . .” I say, my first attempt at teasing him. “I may have to close the wound with sutures.”

“Floss sutures.”

“That's right.”

He grits his teeth. “Can't I just tough it out?”

“I don't know. I need to take a look first.”

“Have you done this before?”

“Once. On myself.”

“You gave yourself stitches?”

“Yeah. My dad watched while I slashed my arm from elbow to wrist, threaded the needle, and sewed myself back up.” I act this out in slow motion while describing the steps.

Colin steals a horrified glance at my forearm.

“Kidding.”

“Oh.”

Tim glimpses the look on my face and grins. “Sarcasm!” he says, and Colin laughs.

Aayu and Liam gaze at this hastily assembled medical scene with wonder, their little hands folded together in watchful anticipation. I hope this doesn't scar them for life.

“Okay,” Colin says. “Let's do this.”

“It'll be fine.”

“I know. I trust you.”

My dad taught me to suture when I was seven years old. My first patients (test subjects?) were my brothers. Whenever one of them came home with a nasty cut, Dad had me assess it, clean it, and sew it up if necessary. It felt more like punishment than privilege—both for me and for them. For not the first time, I'm starting to understand why those lessons mattered.

The first step is assessing the damage. In sum, it's substantial. Deep gashes in the skin and muscle, a lot of blood. Exposed tendons and shards of bone. Colin used part of his pants as a tourniquet, and it's worked beautifully; the blood saturating his sleeves is hours old and mostly dry. I have to admit I'm impressed. Most people don't tie a tourniquet tight enough.

I move quickly. A few snips with the scissors finish off the coat, then the fleece, then two cotton shirts. The layer closest to the skin is some kind of wicking material, and it's caked into the wound, purple threads blending into the gristle. None of the boys—including Colin—are looking at this point; Colin tells knock-knock jokes to distract the younger ones, and Tim has his eyes closed. I'm glad. Now that I can actually see skin, it's clear that Colin was attacked by something. A series of deep, finger-width gashes stretch from collarbone to bicep in what looks like a violent slashing motion.

Colin keeps his head turned while I probe the wounds. His rotator cuff has taken the brunt of the damage—the muscles shredded in some places—the tendons shiny, white, and frayed. The shoulder itself has lost its elegant, complex architecture, such that it barely resembles a joint at all.

In sum, it's bad. Devastating for a swimmer, who needs those muscles to cut through the water, to pull the full weight of his frame with each stroke. This shoulder won't be pulling or lifting anything for a very long time.

“Okay.” I take a breath. This isn't just about his swimming career; this is about saving his arm. Maybe his life, if it starts to bleed again.

I go to work the way my dad taught me: slow, steady. Stick to routine. Don't get distracted. Ease off the tourniquet. Apply pressure where necessary. The human body is a machine; all you're doing is helping it repair itself.

“How's it going?” Colin's face is glazed with sweat.

“Good. It looks like most of the bleeding stopped.”

He's lucky. The tourniquet did its work—he won't bleed to death. I unspool the floss and stitch together the exposed muscle and skin.

When the last stitch is placed, I try not to fixate on the messiness of the repair. He could still bleed, which would be catastrophic on top of the amount he's already lost. The wound could get infected. And there is nothing I can do about the damaged muscles, nerves, and tendons. He needs advanced, specialized medical care; he needed it hours ago.

“Can you feel your fingers?” I ask him.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Maybe he escaped major nerve damage—or maybe he's just telling me what we both want to hear. “Can you move them?”

He tries to make a fist, but his fingers are slow and clumsy. He barely manages to touch his forefinger to his thumb before grunting in frustration. “That's as far as I can go.”

“Don't worry about it.” I start wrapping his shoulder in a fresh sock. It takes five of them tied together to reach around his chest. “Give it a little time.”

“Am I . . . Will it be . . .”

“I'm not sure.” I fasten the last of the dressings, desperate for a distraction. I don't want to be the one to tell him he will probably never swim again.

Some distant emotion passes over his face, then fades. “It hurts like the dickens, though.”

“The dickens? That sounds like something my great-grandmother would say.”

“I like that expression. Gives me a chance to reference my favorite author.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I mean . . .” It's strange, this sudden scrambling for an excuse. “I saw you reading
Great Expectations
on the plane.”

“Ah.” He sounds surprised, but the moment passes before I can take it back.

“Anyway, I think I'm done,” I say.

He spares a cautious glance at the socks. They're clean and white, a combination that seems to relax him. “Thank you,” he says. “This looks much better.”

“Much better,” Tim says. “Your arm was practically hanging off your body!”

Tim didn't open his eyes until I asked him to hand me the socks, but his good mood is infectious. “Gross!” Liam says. Aayu nods along. “Gross.”

“It was very gross.” Colin smiles one of those teasing smiles that could thaw a glacier. “But Dr. Delacorte over here fixed me right up.”

“Who's Dr. Del-cor?” Liam asks.

“Avery,” Colin clarifies. “Her last name is Delacorte.”

“A real doctor?” Liam looks at me with skepticism.

“No, I'm just a college student.”

“Do you have kids?” Tim asks.

“Kids?”

Tim frowns. “Married people have kids.”

“Married?” I feel my face flush. “Who's married?”

“You and Colin.”

I'm not the only one scrambling for a response. Colin is doing everything in his power to avoid looking directly at me.

“No, Tim.” I force an awkward smile. “We aren't married.”