by Anna Davies
“Miranda, come on,” Fletch said, puffing out his lower lip and giving her a puppy dog stare.
“Fletch!” Miranda said, about to kiss him just to shut him up when suddenly, as she leaned in, Fletch’s features began morphing, becoming taut and more angular, his skin more shiny until suddenly, she was kissing the boy who saved her. But instead of pulling back, she kissed him harder and harder, until . . .
Miranda’s eyes flew open. The pink curtains were swaying in the breeze and her room was pitch dark except for the alarm clock on the bedside table, whose luminescent numbers read 2:48 a.m. It was the same thing every night. She couldn’t stop thinking about the guy who saved her, except his face was always blurry in her dreams. Did he have brown hair? Blond hair? What kind of chin? Even in her dreams, whenever she tried to get closer to the guy, he moved away. Even her hallucinations didn’t want to be around her.
“Hello?” Miranda called softly in the darkness. It had been a habit she’d picked up right after her parents died that she’d never stopped doing, especially after a weird dream.
“Fletch?” she whispered, just in case their love—or deep like, or whatever they shared—could somehow transcend comas and distance and the laws of physics. Nothing except for the faint sound of an owl hooting, far off in the distance.
Miranda swung her legs out of bed and padded onto the hardwood floors, her nightgown mopping the floor underneath her. She’d never worn nightgowns before, preferring to sleep in boxers and tank tops, but the boxers irritated her still-healing leg. After the accident, Eleanor had bought her dozens of floor-sweeping silk nightgowns of various lengths, better suited to a Victorian bride than an injured soccer player. She hiked up the nightgown to climb the winding staircase toward the attic, then stepped onto the creaky widow’s walk that sat on top of the house.
Although the narrow lookout that wrapped the southern wing of the house was weathered as if it’d been there since the house was built in the nineteenth century, it was a recent addition put in by Eleanor when she’d inherited the house from her parents. Eleanor had had it built so society photographers could climb up to take panoramic shots of the many midsummer garden club parties that occurred on the land. Or had occurred, before Astrid died. Now, although Eleanor still attended all her historical society meetings and garden club gatherings, she’d stopped having parties.
But ever since Miranda could remember, it had been her place to dream, to hide, and, once she got older, to make out with Fletch. She remembered the first time they came up here. It had been a warm day in October, only two weeks after they’d started dating. Fletch had driven her home from a party at Genevieve’s house and Miranda had surprised herself when she’d invited him in. She’d grabbed the pink duvet from her bedroom and showed him how to access the roof. Even though Eleanor would have given them plenty of privacy if they’d stayed in Miranda’s room—in fact, Miranda had been pretty positive that Eleanor hadn’t even known Fletch was there—it had seemed far more romantic to sneak outside together. They’d watched the stars, and then, at one point, Fletch had leaned over to kiss her.
“That’s it?” She’d wanted to ask in disappointment when they finally pulled away from each other. It had been her first kiss and she’d expected fireworks or magic or at least the knee-jerk thrill she’d always assumed she was supposed to experience.
But she’d gotten used to it, and had learned to find excitement and anticipation in all of Fletch’s embraces. So why couldn’t she tap into any of their history in the hospital room? Miranda sat and hugged her knees to her chest. The dark sky was starless, and the weathered floor was damp. She wished more than anything she had someone, anyone, to talk to. That was the worst part, feeling so lonely and so alone. Why had that boy pulled her across the water and made her feel safe? Who was he? And why did he choose her?
She’d mentioned him once to the shrink, Dr. Dorn, in the fifth or sixth session. He’d nodded, then said it sounded like a physiological reaction that had occurred because of lack of oxygen. Miranda had spent the rest of that therapy hour lying silently on the couch, staring at the water stain in the corner that was at odds with the rest of the stark, almost sterile black and chrome office.
“I think we made some good inroads, don’t you?” Dr. Dorn had asked when the hour was up.
Miranda had nodded, more convinced than ever that the worst thing to do was let Dr. Dorn know what she was thinking. Because she’d known it sounded crazy as she said it. I got saved by a sparkly guy who set me free from a trap. He was beautiful. It was something over-the-top romantic that Miranda could imagine Alexa saying about Jeremiah. It was ridiculous.
But it was also the only thing in her life that had seemed more and more certain the more she remembered back to the accident. She’d felt warmth where his fingers had touched her, remembered the way he’d kept shushing her over and over again, a noise she’d heard above the waves. As soon as he’d begun pulling her to shore, she’d realized that everyone else was drowning around her, and that there was nothing she could do. But even though she’d understood that, at that moment, she hadn’t felt sad. Instead, she’d felt numb . . . but safe. And then, she’d been carefully dragged onto the beach, and she remembered that the boy had leaned down and brushed his lips against her forehead. Then, everything faded, not to black, but to a sparkly silver that was like a dream combination of ocean and sky.
She’d woken up at the hospital.
“Miranda O’Rourke, seventeen. Waiting for swelling to go down to determine the action for right leg. Swallowed a lot of water. Some bad bleeding. So far, in and out of consciousness, responds to light,” a doctor intoned. Miranda felt her eyelids being flipped up; then saw a ridiculously shiny light in front of her. She’d squirmed away, wanting to go back to the boy in the ocean but instead, only saw a sea of white coats.
“Where am I?” she’d asked, but it felt like she was talking underwater.
“Shh!” The doctor said, laying the flashlight on her abdomen. “Shh. She’s awake. I’m Dr. Faville, your neurologist. You’re just waking up, and you’re on some medication for pain, so you may be feeling fuzzy. You were rescued from a boat crash. Don’t try to talk. You’re all right. You’re at the hospital, we’re taking care of you,” he said so loudly Miranda’s ears hurt. “Now, can you tell me your name and the date?” he asked in an even voice.
Miranda had glanced away, his simple request seeming to take far too much motivation and energy. The hospital walls were beige, a TV mounted in the corner wall showed a video of an ambulance, followed by a cut to news reporters. “4 Dead in Teen Boat Crash,” read the ticker across the bottom of the newscast.
That sentence jolted her awake.
“Four dead?” Miranda had repeated, slowly, trying to make sense of what that meant. It was like a math problem: If four were dead, then that meant four people were alive. She glanced from Eleanor, to Dr. Faville, to the two nurses in the room. “Fletch? Genevieve? Lydia . . .” She tried to remember who was on the boat, but she couldn’t get the numbers to add to eight. She flailed, panicking, as two sets of arms had held down her wrists, more awful and definitive than when she was caught underwater. Everything faded to black again.
Suddenly, the window creaked open and Miranda’s heart leapt in her throat. She saw one hairy leg step onto the roof, followed by another, followed by thighs clad in Calhoun Academy soccer shorts. Teddy. His chestnut-brown hair was sticking up in all directions. And even though she’d come out here to be left alone, Teddy looked so much like a toddler waking up from his nap that Miranda couldn’t help but smile.
“What are you doing?” Miranda asked sharply as Teddy squeezed through the window, a bag of gummy worms in one hand.
“Looking for you. Making sure you’re okay. I was awake and heard the door open,” Teddy explained, settling on the creaky floor next to her.
“I’m fine. Or at least I would be, if everyone didn’t think I was going to break,” Miranda said, hugging her knees to her c
hest. “I mean, I’ve done this before. Our parents died, remember?” Miranda asked, just wishing she could be by herself. Of course, it wasn’t the same at all. She barely remembered her parents, and the few memories she had seemed more like a long-ago dream. Her friends were everywhere, and every time she woke up, she assumed they were alive.
“It’s not the same,” Teddy said.
“How would you know? You don’t even remember our parents. And it’s not like you were there for this,” Miranda snorted. Teddy had been at preseason lacrosse camp, and Miranda alternated between wishing he’d been on the boat and being thankful he wasn’t. Maybe if he had been there, this wouldn’t have happened. Teddy always seemed to make things better. He was light and sunny compared to Miranda, who tended to be more serious and brooding. And somewhere in the back of her mind, Miranda couldn’t help but wonder for the millionth time whether she had caused the accident. “I’m fine. You can stop worrying,” Miranda said, more softly this time.
“Well, I do worry. I’m your brother,” Teddy said. It was the one phrase he’d repeated over and over during the past month, and somehow, it comforted Miranda far more than the anti-anxiety drugs that Dr. Dorn had given her.
“You shouldn’t,” Miranda said, gazing out. She felt jumpy. After she’d said she felt sick on the way home from the hospital, Eleanor had watched her like a hawk, making it impossible to sneak away to Bloody Point to swim.
“I’m worried about Fletch,” she said finally, glancing away. Far below them, the ocean was calm, except for one large boat rocking back and forth near the dock. It was odd the way it floated, seemingly neither anchored nor moving.
“Didn’t you and Grandma see him tonight?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m seeing him. He’s in a coma. And I don’t see how it’s helping me to see him every day . . . I mean . . .” Miranda trailed off. She didn’t want to admit the question that had been rattling in her mind ever since the accident: What if Fletch thought it was her fault like everyone else? And worse, what if he was right?
“Worm?” Teddy asked, opening the bag of gummy worms and offering one to Miranda.
“Thanks,” she said, biting off the multicolored candy’s head.
“You got it, sis,” Teddy said, stuffing three more worms into his mouth.
“How’s school?” Miranda asked finally, more to change the subject than anything.
Teddy shifted uncomfortably. “They’re doing parking spot memorials,” he said finally.
“What do you mean?” Miranda asked, stretching her legs out in front of her and smoothing the fabric of her nightgown.
“Like, they don’t think it’s fair to reassign Gen or Darcy or anyone’s parking spot, so they’re making them memorials.”
“Oh,” Miranda said. Just one more thing to serve as a reminder of all she—and the entire island—had lost.
“Gray thought it would be a good idea,” Teddy continued. “You should see Fletch’s spot. They made it look like a mini lax field. I think he’d like it,” Teddy said,
“Fletch isn’t dead,” Miranda said sharply.
“Right, but it’s just a reminder, I guess . . . Gray thought it would be a good idea,” Teddy repeated.
“Gray?” Miranda spat. Gray had been the only person uninjured from the accident; discharged from the hospital only hours after it had occurred. When Miranda had heard that during her time in the hospital, she’d been thankful; convinced that Gray could somehow explain what happened. But Gray hadn’t come to visit, and Miranda’s texts had been unreturned for weeks. But it was obvious Gray had time to do other things, including memorializing Miranda’s boyfriend.
“Yeah, she started a whole charity: Never Forget the Ferries. They’re doing fundraisers and stuff . . . I thought you’d have heard about it.” Teddy shrugged and ate another gummy worm.
“Who would I have heard it from?” Miranda asked, more sharply than she intended. Sure, Gray wasn’t her favorite person in the world, but they’d been friends. Gray had been on the boat. She knew it hadn’t been Miranda’s fault, so why hadn’t she said anything? Why hadn’t any of them? It wasn’t even like she’d abandoned the boat. Fletch had forced her to jump out, had forced everyone to jump out, and Miranda had just happened to have been rescued by someone other than the Coast Guard. She hadn’t asked for it. She hadn’t asked for any of it.
Teddy sighed. “I think it’s really hard for everyone.”
“Right,” Miranda said softly. She wanted to ask whether it was hard for Teddy, but she didn’t want to hear his response. The fact that Teddy had been home so often this past month, instead of hanging out with his own friends, who included Jeremiah’s younger brother and Genevieve’s younger sister, told Miranda everything she needed to know. He didn’t have anyone to hang out with anymore, either.
Miranda cracked her knuckles with a loud pop.
“Don’t do that!” Teddy said reflexively. Miranda forced a grin. She was double jointed, and when they were younger, Miranda used to annoy Teddy by cracking her knuckles or vertebrae as loudly as possible in front of him. It was reassuring to know some things hadn’t changed.
“Just proving I can still freak you out,” Miranda said, as she leaned back against her elbows and closed her eyes. Instantly, her mind was flooded with images from her dream, both the one from last night and the one from the accident.
“Teddy?” She asked, tentatively.
“What?”
“Do you think . . .” Miranda trailed off, unsure of where to begin. Do you think our parents are watching us? Do you think they helped save me? Do you think some guy in the ocean really did save me? Do you think I’m going crazy? Because no matter what, whether she was visiting Fletch or swimming under the watchful eye of Louisa or talking to Teddy, she couldn’t get rid of the image of her sparkly savior on the water.
“Do you think I could have more gummy worms?” she asked finally.
Teddy nodded and Miranda took two worms, tied them together, and popped them in her mouth.
A fat raindrop landed on Miranda’s thigh, followed by another and another.
“I guess we should go inside,” Miranda said uncertainly. She didn’t want to go back into her dark, silent room, where she’d only be tormented by insomnia or nightmares, but she didn’t want to worry Teddy. She remembered the months after their parents died, when Teddy would climb into Miranda’s bed with her. She was supposed to be his protector.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Teddy asked, noticing her hesitation.
Miranda nodded shakily. “I need to go to sleep anyway. I have school tomorrow.” Not waiting for an answer, she unsteadily climbed back through the window, down the stairs, and headed back to her bedroom.
THE NEXT MORNING, MIRANDA WOKE UP TO THE STEADY thrum of rain pelting the skylight above her. This was typical for October, and the reason why year-rounders had disdain for summer people, who left as soon as the seasonal storms rolled in. As the months got colder, the island was surrounded by what the locals called the Sea Witch’s Shawl: a collection of clouds that enveloped the island during the middle of the night and burnt off as the sun rose.
A second later, her alarm began the loud, incessant buzz she’d awoken to on school days for the past eleven years. As if to underscore the time, the door suddenly swung open, and Eleanor charged in. She was wearing a peach silk robe that fell to the oak floorboards, but her hair was pulled up into a neat chignon and she was wearing lipstick and blush.
“Rise and shine!” Eleanor said briskly, clapping her hands.
“I’m awake,” Miranda grumbled, taking in Eleanor’s overdressed ensemble. It was as if it was Eleanor’s first day of school.
“Good. I’ll see you downstairs for breakfast,” Eleanor said, pausing for a moment before she turned and headed out the door. Miranda couldn’t remember the last time Eleanor had woken her up.
Once she was gone, Miranda swung her legs off the bed and gingerly set her feet on the floor. Her whole body f
elt like lead. Every morning, there was a second between dreaming and wakefulness where she forgot about the accident. But then, as soon as she opened her eyes, the full weight of the tragedy fell upon her and it was as if she were watching the boat capsize all over again.
And of course, her bright pink bedroom didn’t match her mood. As a surprise, Eleanor had redecorated Miranda’s room when Miranda was at soccer camp in California the summer between seventh and eighth grades. As a result, the canopy bed was cotton candy pink, and the walls were pink trimmed with bright turquoise. And even though Miranda hadn’t expected much from Eleanor, the room just reaffirmed what she’d always known: that Eleanor expected Miranda to be a carbon copy of her, and was never going to accept that she simply wasn’t.
Now, it was as if the room was actively mocking her, especially when Miranda’s eyes darted from the crutches in the corner to the ugly knee brace propped up against a honeysuckle pink ottoman. If she woke up in some dark attic room with creaky floorboards and dank walls, she’d at least feel like she belonged. Here, it was just one more reminder of how nothing would ever be the same. Eyeshadows, eyebrow pencils, and mascaras littered the surface of the vanity table. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust; the one area of the room that Eleanor hadn’t found any nostalgic items to pack away, and therefore, left untouched. It was always the first place Miranda glanced when she woke up. Seeing everything as it was somehow prolonged that second in the morning before reality came crashing down.
The door creaked open again and Louisa entered, wearing the standard white uniform she’d worn every day since Miranda could remember.
“Missy? Your grandma thought you might need some help?” Louisa pushed open the door and flashed Miranda a sunny smile and set to work opening the curtains and drawing the blinds. Ever since she was moved here, Louisa could always make things sort of better. Until now.
“No.” Miranda stared at the ceiling. Even shifting from lying on her back to lying on her side seemed pointless, and she couldn’t imagine how she’d ever muster up the energy to shower, put on a Calhoun uniform, and head down to make the 7:40 ferry. The idea was ludicrous, as if Louisa and Eleanor were expecting her to run a marathon on her crutches.
