by Shawn Grady
The fifth still flailed in the water.
Three men charged out twenty feet, only to get rocked back by the waves. They stumbled ashore, weeping women waving their hands at them. I pulled my shoes off and ran into the breakers. The first few men had exhausted themselves trying to fight the ocean. But instead of trying to go over the waves, I dove in and down. The water was cool, enveloping me as I swam the breaststroke.
An outflowing current channel gave me a good path to swim until I had to duck dive beneath a series of larger waves. I pushed into them, watching moonlit bubbles form and roll overhead. The waves spat me out the back side, showering down droplets. I swam hard during a short lull, the horizon already rolling with the next silver-painted set.
No more than fifteen feet away, hands splashed. I had a matter of seconds before the waves would be upon us.
I may as well have been swimming in place. I stretched my arms and kicked my legs, but the water lifted, the waves came, and the hands I’d been watching sank beneath.
The pit of the first wave swelled and took me under the arms, lifting me skyward. I was caught off guard, and before I could act, the lip flipped me backward. It threw me head over end, knocking the wind from my lungs as I smacked the surface. Underwater it tossed me like laundry. I fought the urge to kick and flail and fight, instead forcing my body to relax and curl into a ball. The inertia pushed past me. I heard the thump of the second wave in the set. My lungs screamed for air. It felt as if someone had poured concrete down my windpipe.
Wait . . . just wait.
The energy passed over again.
A third wave hit. I couldn’t wait any longer. I struggled for the surface and broke into the open air, gasping and spitting in a violent tossing of white foam and froth. A smaller breaker crashed over my head. The onslaught of the third wave barreled in. I had to get under it. Filling my lungs, I dove for the bottom, for the sweet sanctuary and calm of the ocean floor. I fought to get under the current and felt it alleviate once I was lower. The salt water made eye-opening easy, my way marked by moonbeams and morphing shadows.
And it was there that—as my oxygen waned and my new goal had become simply to survive—I saw the body of a boy, floating in the pallid light.
I wouldn’t lose him this time.
I stroked with everything in me until I tackled his torso, swirling upward, kicking for the surface.
I broke the watery plane, seeing the stars and thinking that I should be able to recognize constellations. I clasped the boy to my chest, trying to suck in air and ending up with a mouthful of salt water, hacking and coughing. For a moment I was holding Hartman.
Water droplets clung to my eyelashes, blurring my vision. Voices shouted nearby. A wave lifted and thrust our bodies forward. We spun underwater. Nothing would separate me from him. Air found my lips again. I saw the dark forms of the rock outcroppings and several men waving and yelling. The tide lifted again, and I wasn’t sure how, but my feet found solid ground. The water receded and a hand grabbed my arm. Men had to pry the boy from me. I couldn’t think. I just knew to not let go.
But they got him. They ran with him. My strength was sapped. I could barely stand. I watched as the fires flickered and the beach stood aglow with the silhouetted shapes of people, and I felt like a failure because I couldn’t take the boy to the sand myself. It was so close. I doubled over and retched, balancing on a nearby rock. I looked up and saw Cormac, his clothes soaked, his eyes wide.
And that’s when I realized that I’d waited too long.
I turned to see a wave double my height towering overhead. The rocky surface I stood upon disappeared beneath the brimming mass. I was powerless to act as it lifted. For a moment I felt as though I were ascending.
The earth raced toward me and everything went black.
CHAPTER
8
I blinked and saw two silver-haired men. I blinked again and the duo unified. His hair grouped together in thick, damp strands combed backward. His gray-tipped eyebrows grew high and long, curving under their own weight, hooking back over brass-rimmed spectacles. Crooked teeth accentuated syllables behind moving lips and a clean-shaven jawline. He repositioned his glasses with his forefinger and thumb and glanced at me.
I clenched my teeth down on a plastic tube protruding from my mouth. It extended deep down my throat. I tried to talk but couldn’t. I twisted and brought a hand to my face to yank it out.
Señor Eyebrows grabbed my wrist. “Alaben al Señor!” His grip was powerful. “No, no!”
I fought, but he held me down. Something like a searing hot cable yanked from my windpipe.
He rolled me to my side as I gasped, hacking and coughing, spitting mucus onto the floor.
Eyebrows pulled a stethoscope from his coat pocket. I felt the cool ring of the bell housing upon my skin. “Respira, amigo. Respira.” I inhaled deeply, moving air into the darkest recesses of my alveoli, opening sacs and stretching sinews. The rumblings of fluid sent me into another fit.
I quieted, chest heaving.
“Bien, bien,” he said. “Es okay. Es okay. Bien.” He patted my back and sat me up. The room started to turn. My head fell against his chest. He embraced me. “Alaben al Señor, amigo. Praise the Lord.”
Everything faded into reddish hues.
My eyes opened to a warm glow on the horizon. I saw a blackrimmed clock on the wall but couldn’t tell time. The numbers didn’t make sense. A plump woman in a dark dress stood beside me. I tried to ask if it was morning or evening, but my voice rasped and choked. She squeezed my hand and placed a needle in tubing taped to my arm. I caught another glimpse of Eyebrows, a white collar encircling his neck, an ebony sweater visible through his unbuttoned white coat. My eyes rolled back and my head sank into the pillow.
The fifth of November (as I was later told) greeted me like a mountain lake—brisk, clear, and new. No one was in the room this time. The tubing was gone from my arm. I sat up and swung my legs off the bed. Hot needles pricked inside my feet, then shifted to the sensation of heavy sand. I stretched and brushed my hand across a roll of gauze wrapped around my head, a dull throb now present in my skull.
A small nightstand held my personal effects: my wallet, car keys, and cell phone. My luggage perched on the floor beside it. A total of seven other metal-framed single beds filled the room: four on the far wall, three others near, all empty, the sheets pressed and turned down. Footsteps echoed from a hallway opposite my bed, adjacent to the wall with the clock. Eyebrows emerged, this time without the white coat, only a black priest’s garment and a book tucked under his arm. He adjusted his spectacles and smiled. “Buenos Días, Señor O’Neill.”
I smiled. “Good morning to you, too.” My voice sounded hoarse and strange. I took a deep breath, the passage of air unhindered by any rumblings. “So, make up my mind, are you a doctor or a priest?” It sounded like a bad joke.
His eyebrows pinched high on his brow. The plump woman, still clad in black, stepped beside him and placed a hand on his back. They exchanged words in Spanish.
She fixed on me a stare like a second-grade teacher. Her voice was stern, her English carrying only a mild accent. “The Lord is both our healer and teacher. Doctor Juarez merely emulates his Master.”
The doctor walked to my bedside and spoke in unsteady English, “Please, call me Abraham.”
I rubbed my eyes. “Okay, where am I, Abraham?”
“Está en La Casa de Vida Hospital, acerca de treinta kilómetros de Lazaro Cardenas.”
Thirty kilometers. Memories of the beach, of the waves and the rocks . . . “Is the boy . . .”
“He is fine,” the señora said.
Doctor Juarez asked her a couple questions in Spanish, a concerned look creasing his untamed eyebrows. He spoke insistently to her in an admonishing tone. She raised a hand and acquiesced, saying, “Basta. Comprendo.” She pivoted and gave me the teacher stare. “He says that you saved the boy’s life.”
Juarez nudged her. “And,” she sa
id, “no one expected you to wake up. It is a miracle that you are alive. Doctor Perez, the only other physician for a hundred kilometers, just happened to be at the beach that night, fortunately for you. He resuscitated you after several men pulled you out of the water.”
Juarez spoke again. Señora Plump translated. “You were dead, Mr. O’Neill. You drowned. Doctor Perez delivered CPR and something called a precordial thumb. With that he jolted your heart back to life.”
I ran my hand over my sternum. “Did he bring me here? Where is my uncle?”
Doctor Juarez spoke a couple sentences. Señora Plump nodded, saying, “Your uncle stayed here two nights by your bedside.” She pressed her lips together. “None of us thought you would even make it through the first night.”
I got the impression that I had disappointed her. The señora was not a woman who liked to be wrong. I rubbed my chin and the bristles of a few days’ old beard.
Doctor Juarez produced a folded paper from his pocket. “Para usted, señor.”
It was a note from Cormac. It said how distraught he’d been. How he’d kept waiting for some positive sign. How he had a prior business engagement he couldn’t break. That he’d be back by the end of the week. That he knew I was in the best hands with Doctor Juarez.
I rested the note on my lap and exhaled. My cell phone vibrated on the table, jingling my key ring.
“Excuse me,” I said, and flipped it open.
Chief Mauvain’s unmistakable voice blurted from the other end, “Aidan, where have you been?”
I cleared my throat. “There’s no quick answer to that one, Chief.” Why is he calling me? “Didn’t you put me on a two-week suspension?” I stole a glance at the señora. She squinted a disapproving stare.
“Forget about it, Aidan. You’re officially back on. We’ve been running like the devil up here. Two, three fires a day. The department’s staffing extra rigs, and we’ve exhausted the overtime list. We can’t get enough people to come in. So show up for work and we’ll consider it early release for good behavior.”
I took a moment to process it all.
“Aidan?”
“One sec, Chief.” I stood, to make sure I could. The throbbing in my head was marginally bearable. My vision wasn’t blurry anymore. I swung my arms across my chest and tilted my head side to side. Self-diagnostic checked out. I was good enough to go.
Juarez put out his hands. “Siéntese, por favor.”
“Aidan?” the chief said again.
“Yeah, Chief, I’ll come in.”
“Great. I’ll see you downtown in an hour.”
I looked out the window, across the dry Mexican landscape. “Um, I’m not going to be able to get there today, Chief.”
“What?”
“I’m in Mexico.”
“Mexico?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, get here as soon as you can. And make sure it’s before shift starts tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER
9
T en minutes after midnight I opened my front door. Candlelight glowed from the kitchen counters. A fire crackled and waved in my fireplace, and the sound of sobbing coursed from the living room. Christine sat on the couch, elbows on knees and her head bowed, fingers woven through raven-black hair cut to sharp angles. Her shoulders shook. A photo album lay open in front of her. An empty wine glass rested on the coffee table with a dark red ring around the base.
I stood where the carpet met the hardwood floor. “Hey.”
She looked up, cheeks glistening, eyes red and swollen. “Aidan” was all she could manage, jaw trembling and cheeks tightening.
I dropped the travel bag I’d been carrying and walked up to her with arms out, tentative at first. She stood and embraced me, burying her head in my shoulder.
“It’s all right.” Words felt inadequate. “Hey, it’s all right.”
She pushed me away. “No. No, it’s not, Aidan.” She wiped her cheeks.
“You’re right. I . . . I haven’t been there like I should. I’ve been wrapped up in other things. But this, us, this is what’s most important.” It came out sounding like I was trying to convince myself.
She shook her head, new tears falling. “It’s too late. . . .”
“No. Don’t say that.” I stepped closer.
She put up her hands.
I held mine out. “Let’s work this out.”
“It’s past that point.”
“I can fix this, Christine. We can be together. I’ll work harder.”
She turned aside.
I tilted my head to see her eyes. “Don’t give up on us. You’re here. We . . . I need you. I need you with me.”
“So, it’s about you, then?”
“No. No, of course not. It’s about us. We need each other.” I ran my hands over my chin, tilting my head toward the ceiling. “You have no idea what kind of week I’ve just had.”
“As if you have the slightest idea what kind of year I have had.”
“I didn’t mean that to be a criticism.”
She turned to me, brow tight. “Then what did you mean, Aidan?”
My mouth moved, but I couldn’t find words.
“How long has it been?” she said. “What, six years? How come I still don’t even know you?”
“Of course you know me.”
“I don’t. I don’t get you, Aidan. You . . .” She pointed at my chest. “You’ve been consumed with something and it hasn’t been me.”
I felt the pot lid clattering inside. “What, so keeping on with Dad’s investigation is somehow equivalent to putting you on the back burner?”
“This is way more than that.”
“I can’t believe you are actually jealous. You’re being so self-centered. Blake and I are the only reason the case is even still open.”
“Don’t try to blame this on your father again.”
“I’m not blaming it on anyone. You’re the one who’s being unbending and uncompassionate.”
“It’s hard to have compassion for someone who’s never there, Aidan.”
An ashen log broke in the fireplace, sending spark flurries up the flue.
“I’m not an eight to fiver, Christine. You knew that getting into this.”
She tightened her lips and looked away.
“You keep trying to fit me into some preconceived notion of a husband in your head.”
“Obviously a role you’ve never seriously considered.”
“You have a ring, don’t you?” This plane was edging toward a nosedive.
She twisted and pulled on her finger and held the diamond up in front of me. “What is this to you?”
I shook my head. “It’s your engagement ring.”
“My engagement ring?”
“Okay. Ours.”
“For engagement?”
“Yes. What? What are you getting at, Christine?”
“Exactly that. That is all this has ever been to you. A never-ending engagement.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Did you ever intend to actually marry me?”
This was ridiculous. “What do you think I gave you the ring for?”
“I don’t know, Aidan. Why haven’t we set a date? Are you afraid? Why can’t you move forward with anything in your life?” She looked down at the table. “You can’t, can you? Not with your father. Not with the case. Not with us.” She held the ring over the wineglass and dropped it, clinking to the bottom.
“You’re not giving me a chance.”
“A chance for what, Aidan?” Her lips pressed in a frown. “You’ve lost my heart.”
I was supposed to fix this. “Let me find it again.”
She shook her head.
“Let’s start again.” I bent my head to catch her eyes. “Let’s . . . we can build again.” I—”
“Nothing’s going to change. Maybe you can’t see that. But I can.”
“Just believe in me.”
“Why, Aidan? Why do I need to belie
ve in you? What do you even believe in?”
Her words stung. “I . . .”
“I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. I can’t . . .” She exhaled and crossed her arms.
I dropped to the couch and rubbed my eyebrows with the heels of my palms. She was just quicker to acknowledge what we’d both known for some time. What I’d always known deep in my heart.
“If you’re not obsessing about your father’s case,” she said, her voice steady and chilled, “you’re working another extra shift, running into fires with no regard for reason or your future. You can’t raise a family that way. You’re in a self-destructive cycle, and I won’t be a part of it. Not anymore.”
Wind funneled down the chimney.
“Your father’s dead, Aidan. Just accept it.”
Anger surged through me. I snatched the wineglass and threw it in the fireplace. It shattered against the brick, shards refracting and flashing yellow.
I stood shaking, turning my hands up in the heat and light, staring at the scar in my palm. I clenched my fist. “I miss him so much.”
Hot tears welled. Everything in my life was slipping from my grip. Out of my control. “He . . . he always knew what to do.” I took a deep, shuddering breath. “With him . . . in everything. It didn’t matter. The world could crumble but he would be standing.” I squeezed my eyes shut and tears streamed down. I opened them to see the picture on the mantel of me at five years old, on my father’s shoulders, wearing his helmet, him grinning that unfailing grin. Shadows flickered. “But it did crumble.” I dried my cheeks with my sleeve. “And now he’s gone. And no one knows why.” The fire popped. Sap bubbled.
I turned around to an empty living room, the kitchen door hanging ajar.
CHAPTER
10
C aptain Butcher’s voice called over Station One’s loudspeaker, “Roll call.”
I crossed the third-floor dayroom and pushed through the blue swinging door to the kitchen. The air wafted warm, filled with the din of laughter and clattering pans and coffee pouring into ceramic cups and the underlying hum of two commercial refrigerators. The north wall was all windows and the city sprawled out beyond with new morning mist and dark diesel exhaust and the quiet motion of small cars on linear streets. Across the room, a red sign with white lettering hung on the pole-hole door: In Case of Fire Use Stairs.
