by Jessi Kirby
DEDICATION
To the students and staff at El Rancho School—
thank you for so many fun memories!
I will cherish them always.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Books by Jessi Kirby
Praise
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
The girl he pulls to the surface is dead. I know it the moment I see her.
The camera zooms in, shaking a little as she comes into focus. Even in the golden lights shining down from the bridge, her skin is an unnatural shade of blue. Her top hangs loose and heavy with water from one shoulder, revealing a black bra strap. Long, dark hair streaks down her face in waves, covering her eyes, nose, mouth, and I want to brush it away so she can breathe, but the blue of her skin says it wouldn’t help. She isn’t breathing. She can’t feel the hair covering her face or the water that moves in her lungs instead of air.
She can’t feel anything.
Not the arms that drag her dead weight from the dark water, or the crack of her skull against the boat as they lift her into it. Not the hands that lay her down roughly on the deck, then feel her neck, her wrists, anywhere for a pulse. She doesn’t feel the bite of the night air against her bare skin when they rip her shirt open, straight down the center, without hesitating.
I watch, relieved that she can’t feel the force of those hands as they come together, one on top of the other, in the middle of her chest, and thrust downward. Deep enough to produce a contraction in her motionless heart. Hard enough to send a rush of blood and oxygen through her body, to her brain. Strong enough to crack ribs.
I wince at this, and at those hands that come down again and again, the full weight of the person behind them compressing her chest, her lifeless body convulsing under the force of them each time. Over and over.
But then, like a reprieve, the hands stop, brush the hair from her face, almost gently, and tilt her chin to the sky. The camera zooms in on her face just as he pinches her nose and brings his mouth to her blue lips. He breathes his own air into her lungs before his hands move back to the center of her chest to start the cycle again.
Her mouth begins to foam.
Sirens whine in the distance. Voices off camera murmur urgent words that are lost in the wind. Someone is crying.
“My God,” the voice from behind the camera says, “it’s too late. There’s no way she’s going to live.”
ONE
“LIV?”
It’s a voice that’s familiar. Warm in a way the makes me want to keep hearing it. Comforting, but I can’t place it. I search. Through the water or the fog—I can’t tell which because it’s everywhere, all around me.
But I know this voice. I know her.
Her.
I grasp at the word, reach for something to pair it with. A name . . . a face . . . something, anything, but I come up empty, except for that familiar feeling.
“We’re right here, Livvy. Right here,” the voice—she—says, and I feel a gentle hand on mine. It doesn’t poke or prod, just sits there, still and warm, and I relax at the touch, and the sound of my nickname.
“Hey, Liv,” another voice says gently. A male voice. “Can you hear me?” he asks.
I know this one too. And I can feel the answer, just beyond my reach. I wade through the heaviness all around me, fumble through the haze that seems endless, and this time I don’t come up empty. I find the answer.
Yes, I can hear you. Yes. Yes. Yes.
“If you can hear me, sweetheart, try to open your eyes.”
Sweetheart . . .
I hang on to that word he said.
Sweetheart . . .
That word he always says.
Good night, sweetheart.
I know this.
Be safe, sweetheart . . .
I know him . . .
Wake up, sweetheart.
Dad.
The word materializes from the fog crystal clear, like it’s always been there, and it makes me so happy I want him to keep talking. Keep asking me questions.
“Can you wake up, Liv? Open your eyes?”
My eyes. I remember them too now and try to do what he asks, but they are weighted down—impossible, leaden things that won’t be moved.
“She will,” the first voice says, and I know all at once it’s my mom. Her warm hand squeezes mine and I squeeze back, but she doesn’t notice. “She’ll wake up when she’s ready.”
But I’m awake. I’m here!
I try to say the words. Try to let them know that I can hear them. I need them to know that their voices are so clear, and I know who they are, and I want them to stay with me. I don’t want them to leave me alone in this dream-fog place, with the never-ending beeping and buzzing and muffled voices of strangers, and strange hands that move me around, touching and checking me in what seems like a constant cycle. I summon every bit of strength I have to form the words, but they get lost in the haze between my brain and my mouth.
It’s quiet except for the machines. I panic. I don’t want them to leave me. I need to say something so they don’t leave me.
I try again, harder this time, and after a moment, a tiny sound—cracked and desert-dry—comes burning from somewhere deep in my throat.
My mom’s hand squeezes again, and I remember it’s there. Again I squeeze back, and again she doesn’t notice. Why doesn’t she notice?
“Did you hear that?” my dad asks. “I heard something, Suze. She made a sound.”
I feel the weight of his large hand come to my shoulder. “We’re right here, sweetheart. Your mom and I are right here.”
I try again to speak, and the cracked sound turns into a low moan that I don’t recognize. It burns in my throat, and in my ears, but the harder I try to make it stop, the louder it gets.
“It’s okay, baby,” my mom’s voice says. “You’re okay, you’re just waking up, that’s all. You’ve had a nice long sleep, and you’re waking up.”
Waking up.
When she says the words, I understand that’s what I need to do. That’s what they want me to do. I do my best, concentrate on my eyes. Make them blink, just barely. The brightness sends a flash of pain through my head. I cry out so loud it scares me, and squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can.
“The light, Bruce,” my mom says. “Get the light.”
I hear a shuffle and then the click of a switch, and in my head I try to calm down, but my skull is pounding and my throat is burning and I can’t.
“Sshhh . . . it’s okay,” my mom says, running her warm hand over my forehead now. “It’s okay.”
I realize I’m still making that low, terrible sound, still squeezing my eyes closed so hard it hurts.
My dad is next to me again, his hand back on my shoulder, his voice soft and low. “Hey, hey, hey, you don’t have to wake up yet. You just wait until you feel good and ready.�
��
The lightning strike in my head is gone, but tiny ripples of pain still radiate outward from someplace deep inside. I’m scared to open my eyes again, but I want to wake up, I do. I want to wake up and go home, and leave this place, whatever, wherever it is.
I try to relax my eyelids enough to let them flutter open, just a little, bracing for the pain to come flashing through my head again. But this time it doesn’t. I open my eyes a tiny bit more, and now I can see something. I can see the blurred outlines on either side of me—my parents. And I can hear the sudden cry from my mom, and the laugh that escapes from my dad as he leans over me and kisses my forehead.
“There you are,” he says.
For a few seconds, it feels like someone is turning the lights up slowly. And then it happens.
I wake up.
TWO
A YOUNG-LOOKING NURSE gazes at me. “Do you know who these two people are, Olivia?”
The question seems so ridiculous it confuses me for a second. I study my mom, and then my dad, trying to figure out what I could possibly be missing. They both look tired—the lines on their faces are deeper than I’ve ever seen. My mom’s roots are growing out, and my dad’s hair looks like it’s thinned overnight. Even so—they are, without a doubt, my parents. I look back at the nurse.
“My . . . mom and dad?” My voice comes out unsure. An answer like a question.
“She knew us right away,” my mom says, stepping closer and grabbing my hand again. “As soon as she woke up. That’s a good sign, right?”
The nurse nods. “Yes, it is. Everything about today is a good sign. That she woke up so quickly once we turned the meds down, that she knew you right away . . .”
I glance at my parents. That I knew them right away? I don’t understand.
The nurse pauses and turns to me. Smiles like she knows me. “It’s so good to finally meet you, Olivia. I’m Betina. I’ve been helping to take care of you here.”
My name sounds strange when she says it, and I’m not sure how to answer, so I don’t.
This doesn’t seem to bother her, and she turns, addressing my parents instead. “She’s got grit, this one. No doubt. Dr. Tate is in an emergency surgery right now, but as soon as she’s finished, she’ll be up to check on you, and tomorrow we’ll do a full assessment. In the meantime . . .”
She pauses and looks back at me with warm brown eyes. “You just take it easy, sweetie. You made it through the hard part, and you’re here, and awake, and that is all you need to be right now, you got that?”
I nod, wondering what else I would do, and why she’s been taking care of me, but I don’t want to ask any of these things in front of her, so I keep quiet. She smiles at me before looking back at my parents. “Have you two got that?” It’s more like a command than a question, punctuated with a raised eyebrow and a stern look. “Just be here with her.”
My mom—and even my dad—both nod obediently, like this woman who looks too young to be a nurse is the boss of them. It makes me worry, the way they seem so nervous. They seem to need her reassurance, like I’m a broken, fragile thing.
I try to sit up a little taller to show them I’m neither, but a shock of pain zips around my chest when I move. I wince. Lie back down.
“Olivia,” Betina says, in a firm mom-tone, “I mean it when I say take it easy. You have a lot of healing to do yet.”
I bring my hand to the center of my chest. “It hurts . . .” I can’t finish. Can’t tell her that it hurts to move or breathe, because my throat feels too bruised and raw to say so.
She nods. “You have four broken ribs. If the pain gets to be too much, just let me know, and we can give you something more for it.”
I move my hand from my chest up to my throat, hoping she’ll understand that I mean to ask about the burning ache there. She nods again. “You had a breathing tube, so it’s going to feel like you’ve got a bad case of strep throat for a day or two. But don’t worry,” she says. “Mouths heal quickly, and pretty soon you’ll be right back to eating normally.”
I vaguely wonder what I’ll eat until then, but I don’t have the energy to ask. I nod, careful not to move anything besides my head. I don’t know what else may be wrong with me, and I don’t want any more painful surprises.
Betina turns back to my parents.
“And let’s keep the good news to just family and close friends right now. Soon as those media people hear about it, they’ll be circling right back around here like vultures, and that’s the last thing she needs is to have—”
“Of course,” my mom says quickly.
“Media?” I rasp. But no one answers me.
My mom follows Betina across the room, to the doorway. She glances at me, then lowers her voice, but not quite enough. I can still hear her when she says, “What if she asks . . . what do we—I just don’t want to overwhelm her with everything that’s happened . . .”
Betina looks my way and, when she sees I’m listening, doesn’t match my mom’s lowered voice. “Then don’t. But answer her questions, Mrs. Jordan. She’s been through a lot, but your daughter is a strong young woman.” Now she looks back at me. “You remember that, Olivia. You are strong. A fighter. You’ve already shown us all that.”
I’m not sure if it’s the familiar way she speaks to me, or her words, or my parents’ emotion and obvious trust in her, but it makes me feel good when she says this, despite the growing worry and confusion in my head.
“Liv,” I say, surprising all of us. My voice sounds as raw as my throat feels. “My friends call me Liv.” My throat aches, but a complete sentence feels like an accomplishment.
“Liv. Now that doesn’t surprise me one bit.”
A smile spreads over her face and lingers in her eyes a moment before she turns on one white-sneakered heel and is gone. I am left in the hospital room with the slow, steady beeping of the monitors on one side of my bed, and my mom and dad on the other. They both smile at me, but their smiles are more tentative than the nurse’s was, like they’re not sure what comes next.
Which makes three of us.
We’re all quiet, and I look around the room, taking in the bright bouquets of flowers that burst from the vases that cover every available surface in the room. Shiny bunches of balloons hover in the corners, and a stuffed bear bigger than me props up a Get Well Soon sign that’s thick with handwriting in all different shades of markers. Cards and posters cover the wall facing me. This can’t all be for me. I don’t even know that many people.
“You didn’t know you were so popular, did you?” my dad says with a laugh.
“So many people have been so kind and thoughtful,” my mom adds.
I feel like I’m in a dream. Or watching a movie.
The sun slants soft through the blinds, and I can feel them watching me, waiting for me to say something, or to ask something. There are a thousand questions running through my mind, swirling around unformed, bumping into each other, needing to be answered, but the simplest one is the one I finally ask out loud, in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like my own.
“What . . .” I pause, not entirely sure I want to know the answer. “What happened?”
They both take in a deep breath at the same time. Exchange a glance like they’re deciding who will be the one to answer me. My mom looks from me to my dad and back again. He clears his throat.
“You were in an accident, sweetheart.”
“What . . .” I try to ignore the pain in my throat and the tremor in my voice. “What accident? Why am I . . .”
I look down at myself—at the bracelet with my name printed on it around my wrist, the tubes and wires taped to the inside of my arms. The gown that hides my broken ribs and who knows what else on this body that doesn’t even feel like mine.
“What happened to me?” I ask again, but now my voice is almost a whisper.
My mom presses her lips together, steps toward the bed, and takes my hand in both of hers. Her bottom lip quivers, and she bites it, her eyes wel
ling up. It feels like my fault that she’s crying.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry . . .” Now it’s me who’s blinking back tears, because it doesn’t seem like I should have to ask her that question. I should know the answer because it’s me, lying here. How could I not know what happened to my own body? I search my brain for some feeling or clue, but there’s only a heavy absence. The static hiss of nothing.
My dad wraps his big hand around mine and pauses, looking almost sorry for what he’s about to say. “You were in a car accident, Liv.” His voice is calm, even, like always. It doesn’t match the emotion in his eyes. He clears his throat and glances at my mom, who wipes at her cheek. “You were hit by another driver on the Carson Bridge, and your car went over—”
“My car?”
I feel like I’m playing catch-up, trying to fit his words into a story that makes sense, but none of them feel like they belong to me, and I know I’m missing something, because I don’t have a car.
“The Toyota,” he says, like I should know what he’s talking about. “It went over, and into the bay. In fact it’s still—”
“Bruce,” my mom interrupts. Stop, her eyes tell him.
He nods, just barely. Takes a deep breath, and smiles a weary-looking smile at me. “Anyway. It was pretty serious, kiddo. They had to keep you asleep for a little while to give your body some time to rest.”
“Asleep? Like a coma?”
My mom looks startled by the word.
“Not a coma,” my dad says. “More like what they do when they perform surgery. So you wouldn’t feel any pain.” He pauses, glancing at my mom, whose fist is balled up in front of her mouth. Then he looks back at me. “You aspirated a lot of water that had to be suctioned out of your lungs, so they put a breathing tube in to give them time to heal.”
I feel the sudden need to take a deep breath, but I don’t dare, for the pain. “How long?” I ask.
I’m scared of the answer. The way they’re acting seems like it must’ve been months. The way they look, it seems like it could be years.
