Girl Underwater (21 page)

“Look, Dr. Delacorte—”

“I said, gastro in 2. Put on a gown, though—mask, too. Poor guy's got it coming out both ends.”

Kyle trudges down the hallway, stripping off his gloves as he heads for a gloomy arrangement of rooms. The choked sounds of someone vomiting fill the hallway as he opens the door and goes inside.

“Hello, Tim.” Dad extends his hand for Tim to shake, then does the same for Mr. Caldwell. The introductions are brief but professional, colored by mutual respect that was so sorely lacking a few minutes ago.

“She really did it,” Tim says. “She saved our lives.”

“That's not true, Tim,” I say.

“It
is
true. She helped Colin with the big lady and made me feel better when I was sick, and she told us everything was gonna be okay, and it was.”

Before I can manage a word, my dad says, “Well, I can't say I'm surprised.” He holds my gaze as he preps the sutures. “Avery is the toughest kid I've got.”

I start to say more, but my father shakes his head, lets it go. Tim doesn't seem to care about my total aversion to the truth. Maybe Colin doesn't care, either.

Maybe it's
me
.

T
im doesn't leave the ER until I've promised to come to his next baseball game. Mr. Caldwell gives me the details: Friday night, seven
P.M.
Under the lights. In Newton, a ten-minute drive from my house in Brookline, and therefore way too close to use traffic as an excuse. I know I should go. I'd even
want
to go if it weren't for Colin.

I leave the hospital feeling a strange mixture of fatigue and nerves, savoring the heat as it yawns over the city. In the two hours it takes to walk home, I've considered every excuse, fiction, and fake “accident” within the realm of possibility to explain my absence to Tim. Nothing sounds even remotely reasonable. He'll know, and it will hurt him. That's something I'm simply unwilling to do to a boy who watched his parents die.

The rest of the week proceeds in slow motion until finally Friday dawns, springlike and mild. It's the longest day of the year, the first official day of summer. I spend the morning indulging in warm sunshine, reading one of my dad's old medical textbooks on our front porch. In the afternoon, I go for a run—something of a routine since my brisk adventure with Edward, although never quite the same as that first one. When I return, the day has lost its slow, languid pace. The hours rush forward. And then, suddenly, it's after six. Time to catch the train.

I steal one last glance in the mirror before heading out. The cowlicks around my forehead have begun to curl, conceding to the humidity. At least the color is right again: a wistful, almost translucent blond, as close to white as hair gets on the blond spectrum. The chlorine used to give it a greenish sheen, but that, too, has grown out. It's a truer hue than it's been in years.

My mom pokes her head in my room, a frequent event because the door is always open. After waking up a dozen times to find her watching me sleep—
Just wanted to make sure you're still breathing, don't mind me!—
we made a deal. I promised to keep the door open at all times, but no more creepy nocturnal visits. The dreams won't kill me, although it took a while to convince her otherwise. But last night was a good night, a dreamless night, and I'm feeling wide-awake now—on edge, my blood humming with frenetic energy.

“Need a ride?” she asks. The hopeful look on her face never falters. Guilt swims through me. How many times have I said no since middle school? A hundred? A thousand?

“Sure.” I smile, really meaning it this time. “I'd love one.”

“Really?”

“I miss your driving, Mom.”

“No, you don't,” she says, laughing. For the first time in many months—in years, maybe—it hits me: She misses me. She misses me so much, she doesn't want me to leave.

“And you,” I say. “I mean . . . I miss you, too.”

Her laughter fades to a soft, knowing smile as she pulls me into a hug. “I know.”

Because moms always do.

•

She drops me off near the snack bar, where I spent most of my time during my brothers' games. “Call me when you're ready to come home,” she says.

“I think I'm good with the train,” I say. “But thanks.”

“Have fun.” She sends me off with a pat on the arm and a reassuring smile. It helps. Being here sparks a tangle of nerves that have been brewing since that day in the ER.

Aside from the spiffier uniforms and electronic scoreboard, it hasn't changed much: Three Little League fields sit under a dome of white lights, the outfield walls blanketed in local advertisements and kid-friendly green mats. It's the energy, though, that evokes so many memories, that makes me miss those long, lazy afternoons watching my brothers play while my parents bought me my fill of hot dogs and candy.

I gravitate toward the third-base line, searching for Tim's familiar face in a swarm of orange-and-black jerseys. When I finally do find him, he's waving at me from the dugout with a blinding grin on his face. I wave back, warmed by his unabashed enthusiasm. Still waving, he dashes out onto the field with his friends, stumbling over the pitcher's mound as he takes his position at second base.

Tim's grandparents are sitting in the very first row, munching on Cracker Jacks like it's 1952. They call out friendly hellos, and I wave back. They don't seem the least bit surprised or insulted when I head for the top of the bleachers, which feels less threatening than the crowded front rows. I always liked it up here—no crowds, breezy but warm, with a spectacular view. After settling into my chosen seat, I lean back and whistle the way my dad taught me: low and sonorous, carrying above all the others.

Until someone behind me does the same.

Behind me?
There is no one behind me; this is one of the advantages of the top row. The players' families are all clustered up front, chewing on sunflower seeds and snapping photos and texting relatives every time the ball is hit or caught or even completely missed. And then there's me, the random girl in the nosebleed section, rooting for a boy who's too old to be her son and too young to be her brother. No, our connection is different. Unique. And it's mine, only mine, until Colin climbs over the seat next to me and sits down.

And then it's ours.

“Good spot,” he says. “No one throwing sunflower seeds at your head.”

He smiles, eyes shining as he settles in beside me. My first thought is that he looks good,
really
good. Healthy, the sheen of sunburn glowing on his skin. He doesn't favor the right shoulder as he did months ago, though the scars remain.

My second thought is
hair.
Most of it is hiding under his baseball cap, but still, the change is obvious. Beautiful, sun-blond hair cut close to his scalp but well past the domain of bald. He must catch me staring because his face reddens.

“It's . . .” I find myself grasping for words. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” he says, his gaze sweeping ever so subtly over the rest of me. The sudden, unapologetic attention gives me butterflies.

“You look lovely,” he says, and the butterflies turn frantic, the hollowness of our separation suddenly filled. It's such a sweet, Colin thing to say. Nothing embellished about it. A single word, exactly as he intended it.

“I, uh, thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

As before, it takes me a while to reconcile the memory of Colin Shea to the reality of him. I always expect the worst: flashbacks, regret, unbearable tension. Instead, it's relief that sweeps through me—relief and a strange sense of groundedness.

“Better weather up here?” He watches me for a moment, perhaps gauging my reaction to his teasing tone, his shy smile. I see then that he's changed in other ways, too—he seems relaxed, eased of some terrible burden. I don't know if that burden is the crash, or expectations, or even me, but its absence plays on his face.

“Safer from foul balls,” I say.

“I don't know about that.” He gestures to the boy in the batter's box, who wears his uniform like a second skin. “That kid can crush it.”

I smile, thinking of Edward back in his Little League days. He was all finesse: a perfect swing, flawless mechanics. Never the biggest kid on the team but a natural talent. In that way, he reminds me of Colin.

“I hear you come to a lot of games,” I say.

“I try to.” He salutes Tim, who grins as he responds with a salute of his own. It's a curious connection, one that seems developed rather than instantaneous. Colin hasn't spent the last six months writing letters that he never sends, that's for sure. He's been here, in Tim's life. Probably in Aayu's and Liam's, too. Shame floods through me.

“You okay?” he asks.

My vision blurs. “I'm so sorry, Colin.” In spite of the electric energy of the night and a hundred people screaming at seven-year-old boys, the only thing my sensory system can process is him. I put my head in my hands, stealing a moment of calm.

“For what?” he asks.

“For a lot of things.”

There is no anger or blame in his gaze, only sorrow reflected back at me in pools of blue. He's always been this way, but I can sense a change in him now, a kind of letting go. Mr. Caldwell wrote to tell me about Mrs. Shea's death not long after I went back to school, and though I called Colin to give my condolences, he never returned the message.

The crack of the bat reverberates through the stands, and Tim ducks as the ball sails past him into the outfield. His coach gives a whole-body sigh while four players chase it down.

“He's a little afraid of the ball,” Colin says.

“He's not afraid of blood, though.” I keep my eyes on the field, hiding a tentative smile. “Unlike some people I know.”

Colin laughs as he stretches out his legs, inhales a breath of summer. “So.” He pulls off his Sox cap and folds the brim in his hands. “What brings you out tonight?”

“Tim.” I pause to catch my breath. “Saw him in the ER.”

He furrows his brow, worry swimming in his eyes. “The ER?”

“I was just volunteering for the day. Tagging along with my dad.”

“Ah.”

“I probably should have called.” I look down at my bare feet, my flip-flops caked in baseball dust. “You know, give you some warning . . .”

“Nah. Your presence is not the kind of thing you need to warn me about.”

He goes back to watching the game, totally content to just sit here and
be
. During our five days of total isolation, long silences were frequent—and necessary. Every breath was something to be savored, every word a small but undeniable expense of energy. Conversation, when it happened, always drifted to the same things: Food. Supplies. Weather.

But everything is different now.
We're
different. All the pertinent topics are potential land mines: Family. Lee. Recovery. Nothing feels safe, except maybe Tim's baseball career.

And maybe that's the secret—maybe we don't have to talk about anything. I came here for Tim, for no other reason than to support him. Yes, there was always the possibility of seeing Colin. Yes, I took the time to blow-dry my hair. But once it dawns on me that we don't have to talk, that we can sit together like normal people and be okay, the overhead lights aren't so intrusive and the silence feels more natural. After a while, I'm cheering for Tim the way I used to do for my brothers—with silly songs and rhyming chants that only “stupid girls” use. Edward waited until last year to admit that he actually liked those cheers; the whole team did.

The game ends with a mercy ruling, but the players barely notice. After shaking hands with the victors, all fifteen of Tim's teammates make a mad dash for the ice cream truck—but not Tim. He waits for us behind home plate as Colin and I climb down the bleachers.

“Thanks for coming, Avery!” Tim goes in for a hug, then reconsiders when he remembers where he is. The other boys are acting tough, high-fiving one another and kicking up dirt at any and every opportunity. Tim's uniform is the cleanest of the bunch.

I offer him a high five, which he giddily accepts. “Great game, Tim,” I say, meaning it more than he can possibly know.

“Thanks.” He blushes. The lisp is still there, but less pronounced. The ache of a familiar memory grips me, then fades.

“Um, I have to talk to Colin for a minute,” Tim says. “For our postgame chat.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Colin tips Tim's hat as they walk over to the ice cream truck, a playful gesture that reminds me of the bond that used to exist between my brothers. Before any baseball discussion can take place, they get in line behind a rowdy group of boys. I'm not sure which is the priority: baseball tips or the postgame dessert. Either way, they both seem to savor it.

While Tim debates his options, his grandmother spreads her arms wide as she makes her way over to me. “Oh, Avery, we're just so glad you could come,” she says, and pulls me into a hug. “Tim loved your letter. He reads it every night.”

“I'm glad,” I manage. There should have been a hundred letters. A
thousand.

As this thought takes hold, Colin and Tim rejoin our tiny circle. Both their hands are covered in the goopy remains of ice cream sandwiches.

Mrs. Caldwell wipes Tim's fingers. “Goodness, this is going to wreak havoc with your sugars. Did Granddad remember your insulin?”

“
I
remembered, Grandmom. Don't worry.” He looks up at her with one of his warm, endearing smiles, and all she can do is sigh.

Colin offers me an orange Creamsicle. “It's a little melted,” Tim explains.

“Oh, that's fine.” I make a complete mess of myself as I dig in. It's a mild night, almost springlike, but the ice cream doesn't stay solid for long. A part of me wonders if those ice cream trucks are kept at warmer temperatures because everything tastes better semimelted. Or maybe it just feels better, a childhood memory that everyone shares.

“Did you have fun?” Tim asks me.

“
Me?
” I can't help but smile. “How about you?”

“Yeah.” He thinks about this for a second. “I had fun.”

“That catch you made in the fourth inning . . . wow. Everyone gasped.” Which was true, although it might've been because a collision seemed imminent. Fortunately, the beastly first baseman tripped over his own ankles before mowing Tim down.

Tim beams. “Thanks. That one was tough.”

“All right, Timmy,” his grandmother says. “It's getting on to your bedtime.”

“Grandmom!” He bristles, but it's mostly for show. “It's Friday night.”

“Yes, well, you're seven, not seventeen.”

“Okay,” he mopes. With a final lick of his fingers, he hurls himself into Colin's arms and hugs him tight enough to leave arm prints in Colin's shirt. Watching them, I realize this unencumbered display of affection hasn't changed at all since those days on the mountain. Colin hugs him right back, tipping the brim of Tim's cap as they go in for one last high five.