Girl Underwater (5 page)

Colin Shea remains in critical condition. He has been transferred to Massachusetts General Hospital to be closer to family. Please keep him in your thoughts and prayers.

Best,
Coach Toll

“Avery? You up there?”

Mom.
My heart stalls, then ramps back up again. It's a full minute before I can even respond. “Coming,” I murmur.

I close my laptop and make my way downstairs. I don't enjoy these dinners, with Mom overstuffing my plate and Dad asking intensely personal questions (
Does your face still burn? What's the pain like, on a scale from 0 to 10? Any issues with mobility in your fingertips? Tingling and/or numbness?
And so on . . .). Every time I sit down, he launches into a new History & Physical, just like the ones he made me take in high school when he'd drag me into work for an “educational experience.”

For the first five minutes, we dine in silence. Everything tastes the same: like cardboard, sticking to the roof of my mouth while I swirl it around and gulp it down.

“I heard you on the phone, sweetie,” my mom says.

“Yeah.” I take a swig of chocolate milk. “Colin called.”

The silence turns painful. Mom sips her purified water, the ice clinking the glass. Dad slices into his pork chop.

“I meant
Lee
. Lee called.” I swallow hard, but the food isn't just tasteless anymore; it's nauseating. I feel like I'm going to pass out.

“Sweetie, are you okay?”

“Fine.”

Dad puts his utensils down. “Any nausea? Light-headedness?”

“No.” I force a glob of potatoes down my throat. “Where'd you get this from?”

My mom frowns. “Get what?”

“This pork chop.”

“Oh. The butcher's. It's good, isn't it?”

I wince. So many unwelcome thoughts tumble around in my head. The word
butcher
makes me sick, as does the taste of meat, and yet I can't stop eating it. It's there; it's mine; I need to finish it.

Critical condition.

Closer to family.

Thoughts and prayers.

“Honey, if you don't like it—”

“No, it's fine.” I try to smile, but she knows better. Her frown deepens.

“You don't look good.” She glances at my dad, who studies me with his usual intensity. “Right? She looks pale to you, doesn't she? Maybe it's the pork—”

“I'm okay,” I manage.

I stare at my food, arranged neatly in little piles. It's steaming hot, the way any decent dinner should be.

“Avery?” Mom kneels down beside me. She puts a gentle hand on my forearm, but it does nothing to quell the tremor in my hands. “Avery, it's okay.”

I get up, knocking over the chair in my sprint for the bathroom. What follows is a violent, cleansing purge. After seeing the pork chop in reverse, I draw my gaze up to the mirror. The circles under my eyes are gone, and my cheekbones have lost their scary prominence. Even my hair is almost back to its natural hue, a soft, snowy blond.

Yes, it's true: The person staring back at me looks healthier. Robust, even. It's all such a magnificent ruse.

I return to the dining room to find my parents holding their breaths. Mom has that panicky look to her, but my dad manages to rein her in. “Are you okay?” he asks me.

Colin isn't going to make it.

I'm
not going to make it.

Instead, I say, “Yep. Perfect.”

She rises from her chair and reaches for my plate.

“Leave it,” I say.

“Sweetie—”

“Please.” Then, with desperation: “Leave it.”

The nausea returns in full force, even worse than before. But it's not the food, and it's not my sensitive stomach.

It's me.

A
red dawn skims the shadows on distant peaks. Heavy fog swirls around the mountaintops, the summits bald and raw. Even the lake looks monstrous in the daylight. This scene, as savage as it is beautiful, reveals a sobering truth: We're in the Rockies somewhere, probably hundreds of miles from civilization.

Colin takes a few limping strides toward the water's edge. All three boys trail behind him, imitating his every move. He picks up a burned piece of the fuselage, its edges charred black. He hands it to the older boy. It's about the size of a notebook, but there are other, larger scraps floating on the surface. Luggage, too. Things we need. Things that could be the difference between dying and surviving.

“I'll go in—” I say.

“No,” he says, his expression hardening. “It's too cold.”

“We have to try.” I follow Colin's gaze to the boundless swath of the lake. “There could be food, medicines, supplies.”

Colin stands in a contemplative silence, studying the horizon. Something orange, shapeless, and very far away catches my eye.

“Do you see that?” I ask, squinting into the pale sunshine.

He nods. “Could be an emergency kit.”

“I hope it doesn't come to that.” I keep my voice down so the boys don't hear the desperation in that statement.

“It's too far anyway.” He shifts his focus to other, closer objects: A pink purse a couple hundred yards offshore, bobbing next to a giant, shredded suitcase, which appears to be leaking underwear. Beyond that, a plastic box. Boots.

I start peeling off my shoes. “I'm going in.”

“Avery—”

“The sun's out. I'll air-dry.”

“I'll go,” he says. “You watch the boys.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You're hurt, Colin! Has that not occurred to you?”

“It's not that bad—”

“It
is
that bad. Last thing we need is you passing out in the middle of that lake.”

Colin looks at the boys, at their eager, shivering faces. They don't say a word, but the prospect of losing the only man in the group has made them uneasy. “Ten minutes,” he says. “Stop if you're cold or tired.”

I don't tell him about the ache in my chest—probably a broken rib or two, based on my limited skills in diagnostics—but I've swum through pain before.

“I will.” I fidget for a minute, unsure how to broach the next subject. “Uh, can you . . .”

He watches me fiddle with the hem of my shirt. These are the only dry clothes I have, and it seems silly to swim with them on. He swivels his head quickly enough to cause whiplash. “Yeah, definitely. Of course.”

He grabs the boys' hands and turns them all 180 degrees so they're facing the trees. He didn't have to turn
everybody
around, but I'm sure he'd rather overdo it than underdo it.

The lake is huge: over a mile across, bordered by looming pines and rocky shores. I wade in—toes first, then ankles.
Too slow.
I need to just dive in, the way I do every day at practice, but something in me resists. It's a strange, aberrant feeling—an instinct gone bad. For the first time in my life,
I don't want to swim.

Colin still has the boys turned around, facing the trees. I can't bear the thought of explaining why I've changed my mind, so I close my eyes and take a breath and plunge, fingers and hands and head first, under the surface.

The cold swells up my spine and settles at the base of my neck, flowing through me like a drug. The water tastes absolutely pristine, smooth as milk. It is nothing like the chlorinated pools I've been swimming in for years. Like nothing I've ever experienced, really.

The shuddering cold takes a moment to sink in, but when it does, my fingers and toes feel it first. Blood rushes to my core, but it's a battle just to breathe, to think. I can't seem to get enough air, and my muscles are feeling it. Everything starts to cramp up.

Keep going.

The fastest and most efficient way from here to there is freestyle, so I try to find my rhythm, keeping my torso high in the water. Hips roll from side to side; arms follow. Ankles flexible, legs beating to a steady, two-beat kick Coach told me went out of style in the seventies. Out here, it doesn't matter. I do what feels natural because muscle memory is all my mind can process right now.

I breathe side to side, then straight ahead, keeping my chin just above water to see where I'm going. In this case, I'm headed for a tangle of suitcases tied together with a bungee strap. The orange duffel bag is much farther off—a mile from shore, at least.
Too
far. So I settle for the suitcases and swim back to shore, kicking until my legs give out.

Colin watches me until I'm ten yards from shore, his face fraught with concern. “I'm okay,” I say, reinforcing this with an overly enthusiastic wave.

As he turns back toward the trees, I stumble out of the water. With frozen fingers, I put my bloodied clothes back on. Hopefully these suitcases will yield a change of clothes, or at least something dry and warm.

“Okay, I'm decent,” I say.

He turns around. One of the boys runs into my arms, which startles me a little.

“Fourteen minutes,” Colin says with an exaggerated sigh. I know he's teasing me, but worry swims in his eyes.

“I'm fine,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, unconvinced. “Let's see what we've got.” My recovery mission yielded three carry-on-size suitcases and a golf bag. One of the suitcases has standard female professional fare—push-up bras, blouses, dresses, and pantsuits. No coats. And, of course, she had to be a size zero. None of it does Colin any good, but the dresses and pantsuits could work for the boys, if we're creative. I opt for one of her larger, baggier sweaters. The thongs are hastily discarded before the boys can see them or Colin can comment on them.

Another suitcase must have belonged to an Oakland Raiders fan; every T-shirt, sweatshirt, and pair of sweatpants bears its logo. All medium size, which is bad news for Colin, but it will have to do. Overall, it's still a good find.

The golf bag appears to have lost its clubs somewhere along the way, but an assortment of useless crap fills the compartments—golf balls, tees, two golf gloves, and a pair of golf shoes.
Huge
golf shoes. They might even fit Colin.

He smirks as I dangle them in front of him. “You a golfer?” I ask him.

“I guess I am now.”

The smallest suitcase was clearly designed for a child, with a kitten-themed canvas and pink wheels. I swallow a lump in my throat. The clothes are even more indicative of its young owner: pink stretchy pants, purple flip-flops, an unopened package of headbands. The shirts are all tiny, but they'll work for the boys. “I hope you like pink,” I tell them. The oldest one, who told me his name is Tim, reaches for a sweatshirt with a horse on the front.

“I like horses,” he explains.

“I like pink!” screams the boy in baseball gear. His name is Liam, and he's four years old. He tells us this at least once an hour.

The smallest boy isn't quite so selective. I think his name is Aayu, but his voice is so quiet, it's hard to say for sure. He struggles to meet my gaze, even when I hand him the only toy in sight. The tiny smile on his face tells me he likes it.

“Pretty,” he says, and hands it back to me.

Colin sighs as he sorts everything into little piles. “There isn't much here for you,” he says to me.

“Or you.”

“I'll be fine,” he says. “I'm bigger.”

“That's terrible logic.”

He smiles, but it feels strained. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing:
Why are we even
looking
for clothes?
We were on a commercial airliner, which means black boxes and media attention and lawsuits. The NTSB probably started looking for us the second we hit turbulence.

I hang everything on tree branches, while Colin does his best to dry out his bulky winter coat for the boys to sleep in. We find a few other coats, too, but they're all saturated with either blood or lake water. It could take days for them to dry.

Colin tosses me a ski mask. The eyes and mouth are cut out, and I must look like a wilderness-based criminal when I slip it over my head. The two younger boys start to cry.

“I'm sorry!” I yank it off and pull them into a hug. They sniffle into my shirt. “It's not real, I promise.”

I catch Colin watching me during this whole sad display, and he quickly averts his gaze. He must know by now I'm pretty much the worst caretaker ever. When the pregnant lady comes to, I can't wait to let her take over.

“You think it'll be enough for all of us?” I ask, gesturing to the clothes.

“I think so.” He stands back to assess the display. “Let's walk the perimeter, see what else we can find.”

We start at the water's edge and work our way south, returning to camp whenever our arms are full or one of the boys needs a breather. Colin makes at least a dozen trips lugging massive loads of fuselage—some larger than the hood of a car. The boys follow him everywhere. He refuses help, but I do my best to participate anyway, carrying as much weight as my weary arms will hold. Even with Colin's bad leg, he shows zero signs of exertion. The man is a machine, carrying loads that would pose a challenge to three or four men put together. I never doubted Colin's strength, but this is something else; this is adrenaline, and muscle, and the instinct to survive.

By midmorning, we've assembled enough scraps to build a small lean-to against the trees. Colin fortifies the walls while the boys and I sort through everything we found—which isn't much, aside from the fuselage. All told, we retrieved fourteen snack packs, featuring Doritos, peanuts, and Oreos. No vegetables. No protein. The meal trays must have gone down with the plane, along with the bottled water, first-aid kits, and everything else that might have improved our situation.

They'll come for us,
I tell myself for the hundredth time.
They have to.

Once the boys settle down, we all stop to admire Colin's handiwork. He's built us a fine shelter, with thick slabs of industrial-grade material and a durable roof. “Last piece is right there,” he says, gesturing to a particularly forbidding piece of steel. “Can you give me a hand?”

He doesn't need my help, but a part of me swells with pride that he asked. “Sure.”

While he concentrates on placing the slab in its proper place, I can't help but notice the rippling cords of muscle in his forearms and shoulders. His jaw is locked, his expression neutral. It's no wonder he dominates so completely in the pool. His competitive streak shines through even now, and his strength augments it.

He fastens the slabs with bungee cords and rigs the door so it won't blow open in the wind. “Where did you learn all this?” I ask him. “Civil engineering classes?”

“Nope. My dad's a roofer.”

Another surprise, but he doesn't elaborate. The boys are watching us with googly eyes, and for the first time since we crashed, the prospect of bad weather doesn't feel like a death sentence. “It looks amazing,” I say.

“You helped.”

“Yeah, but you dragged half the plane across the shore!”

He shrugs, but his eyes tell me he appreciates the compliment. “Fuselage is lighter than it looks,” he says, with the hint of a smile.

“It's a fort!” Liam cries. The boys pile in, and the makeshift door swings shut.

“I guess they approve,” Colin says.

“I guess they do.”

The moment lingers a little too long, at which point we disperse in a hurry. Colin goes over to check on the pregnant lady, while I join the boys inside.

“Look what I found!” Tim holds up what looks like an old Walkman. He's a cute kid: smart, funny, with the hint of a lisp he's constantly trying to correct by repeating certain words. His parents probably put him in speech lessons at the age of two. His parents who are gone now.

He manipulates the object in his small hands, the pieces of cracked plastic glistening in the morning sun.

“It's a golf GPS!” he says. “My dad has one.” He gives it a hard shake. “Batteries are dead.”

“Can I see it?” I ask.

He hands it over, and I know right away this pocket-size piece of technology has nothing to do with golf.

“See?” Tim says. “It's broken.”

“Tim, I don't think this is a golf GPS.”

He frowns. “Then what is it?”

“I think it's, uh, a transceiver.” I leave out the part about
avalanche
transceiver. Best not to plant the idea of a deadly wave of snow in Tim's mind.

“Oh,” he says, but I can see he's disappointed. The image of him clutching his father's shattered iPad sears through me.

“A transceiver is a fancy name for a radio.”

“Oh!” His eyes brighten again. “Well, I'm going to fix it.”

He digs through the next suitcase with unbridled enthusiasm.
How many people travel with batteries?
And even if he does find some AAAs, the chances of their being dry and functional are close to zero. An avalanche transceiver is the kind of false hope we don't need; its only use is keeping Tim happy.
Forget about it. You won't need it anyway.

Meanwhile, Liam and Aayu have discovered two My Little Ponies from the kitty-themed suitcase. “It's a horse,” Liam announces.

“Horse,” Aayu repeats. It sounds like
huss.

The boys look nothing alike. Liam is freckly and blond, already flush with a mountain sunburn. Aayu is an ethnic mystery: lush mahogany skin, amber eyes, and curly raven hair. He held up three fingers when I asked him how old he was, but he seemed a little uncertain. He's small for his age, with a fragility that worries me.

I'm watching them play when Colin opens the door. “Can you come outside a minute?”