by Ginger Scott
A sharp breath of a laugh escapes me, and my mouth smiles.
Shannon walks to first, so I move to step out of the dugout, Wes walking along the other side until I get to the gate.
“Fuck ’em, huh?” I say quietly, swinging my bat over my shoulder.
His cheek dimples with his lopsided smile as he pulls his hat from his head once to smooth out his hair. He wiggles it back into place with both hands and lifts his chin at me slightly.
“Yeah, fuck ’em,” he says.
I bite my lip, nodding, and step out to the damp grass alongside the field to begin taking a few warm-up swings. As if the sky is announcing my arrival, the air crackles with a long rolling thunder, the sound no longer far in the distance, but only a mile or two away.
The raindrops start to come down harder, each drop bigger, carrying more weight. The small drumming along the ground and nearby rooftops picks up speed, and within seconds it’s a steady drumroll, with powerful winds coming in behind the fall of water, blowing the rain so hard it stings my face to look at it.
“To the bus ladies,” Coach Adams yells, waving his arms. I run into the dugout for my things, and my father grabs them from me, ordering me to get to the bus while he loads the small wagon with everything he can fit from our dugout. The boys help him, and we all climb inside while the team from Los Banos runs toward the brick building near the outfield fence.
We all climb on the bus, and I look out the back window to see Wes along with the other boys stuffed into the three seats of the cab of Kyle’s truck. The rain is hammering their windshield so much I can barely make out their faces.
My father pushes the gear in through the back of the bus, and Taryn and I climb to the rear to haul bags and bats inside. I drag my bag to my seat and reach into the bottom pocket, pulling out my phone. I try to send a text to Wes, but it only sits in the queue, spinning. No signal.
“That came fast,” my father says, brushing the water from the arms of his jacket as he stands at the main door of the bus. He starts to pull the door closed, but the coach from the other team runs over to talk to him. He climbs up the few steps and we all watch as he talks with my dad.
After a minute, my dad shakes his hand and pulls the door closed behind the other coach, who runs across the field with his jacket drawn tight around his body, the neck yanked over his head to shield him from the heavy rain.
“Cancelled?” I ask, my eyes wincing.
“Yeah, this storm’s pretty deep. The fields are going to be covered in water for days when this is done. We’ll reschedule,” he says, taking the seat in front of me. I like that he sits here, in the middle of the bus. I’m disappointed, and I want him close.
I lean back against the window and slide my feet down, letting them dangle into the aisle. My father does the same, turning his head to the side to face me.
“We’ll face her again. You’ll get your shot,” he says.
“I guess I get more practice now first,” I say, holding the right side of my mouth up. My father’s hand rises to pat the top of mine where I’m holding on to the back of his seat.
“That’s the spirit,” he says. He pats two more times, and before his touch disappears, I reach for him, my fingers catching his before they disappear into his pockets or lap. I squeeze his hand, keeping my eyes on it. He squeezes back. When he lets go, I feel more ready than I did before—ready to face Caitlyn Moore, ready to take the first step with my father.
The bus rumbles to life, and I look out the side window as Kyle pulls his truck next to us before we drive out onto the road. It’s hard to see him, but his hand presses flush against the window as a signal they’re leaving along with us.
We pull out behind them onto the main road, and the rain only grows stronger as we drive slowly through the central part of town, the tires of our bus forming waves that send the water rushing along the sidewalks. The people that were walking outside on our way into town, have now all gone inside. The streets are dark and empty, and the flashes of lightening and roll of thunder is continuous.
I stare at Taryn, both of us with our phones in our laps. She holds hers up and shrugs.
“I can’t get a signal either,” I say.
It takes us nearly twice as long to reach the highway, and the bus vibrates, idling for several minutes while we wait through the line of cars all trying to merge onto the highway. The traffic isn’t thick, but it’s slow.
Eventually, we turn onto the highway and I rest my head against my seatback and the window, closing my eyes and focusing on nothing but the long drag of the windshield wipers along the front window glass and the drumming rain on our metal roof.
I was going to be great.
I let myself have that thought. I’ve fended it off, not wanting to be too confident. My usual comfort on the field wasn’t enough today. I wanted to have that edge, to keep myself ready. I wanted to surprise myself, to do more than I thought I could. I knew I could hit her, but I didn’t just want to get on base hitting from the left side. I wanted to hit that ball over the fence.
I was going to make them all notice me.
Me.
I wanted this. I still want it. I’ll wait. It will come.
My eyes flash open when even my dreams begin to feel off balance. The bus is dark, the wheels are skidding, and nobody onboard is making a sound. We’re all alert as slow motion begins to take over. The river and washes zigzagging under our roadway have all been overcome with rain—the water is rushing fast.
The roadway is gone.
Gone.
It crumples underneath the weight of us, and our driver is leaning hard to one side, trying to keep the wheels right enough to keep us from falling. But she can’t. It doesn’t matter how strong she is. It wouldn’t matter if Wes were driving right now.
This is nature—and it’s violent and aggressive. It goes where it wants, takes what it wants.
It’s taking us.
The bus creaks as the tires give way and our precious balance loses its battle, the giant vehicle slowly collapsing to the side. I see my father. He sees me. Our eyes lock as our bodies both press against the wall, our arms moving as quickly as we can will them to in order to brace us from the impact.
Cracked pieces of roadway smash into our glass windows, shattering everything, crumpling the wall of the bus. The wheels are visible through a gaping hole suddenly opening up in the floor. The bus is rolling. The bridge is collapsing. The water is rushing.
The screaming begins.
“Hold on!” my father yells, his hands pressed flat on the roof. I reach too slowly, and as the bus rolls completely, I tumble around the seats, my head slamming into the bench seat opposite me, my body colliding with Taryn’s.
I blink and my body is on the opposite side from where it was a second before, my leg now pinned between the broken window casing and some piece from the underbelly of the bus. The tires are spinning, and the roar of the rain and water makes it hard to hear anything other than the shrill screams of my teammates.
For the briefest moment—long enough for a single inhale—everything stops. The bus is no longer sliding, the bridge is balanced on its own pieces, and the water is rushing around us, the rest of the roadway high above us. But we’re still. The world is holding on to us.
When I look up, my eyes find Wes’s waiting for me. He’s too far for me to reach him, but our eyes lock. My mouth opens to begin its call for help. The world begins to move again. There’s a very specific sound metal makes when it bends to forces far stronger—that moaning sound, of the aluminum and steel giving way, echoes like a siren right now.
Gravity.
Water.
Weight.
It all pushes at once. My eyes meet my father’s quickly with the snap of my head, and the sureness that was there during our game is gone. It’s fear. It’s familiar terror. It’s far worse than any I’ve ever seen painted across his eyes before.
“Daddy!” I scream, the bus sliding with my call, the rotation slow at first, then hap
pening all at once. The bus tumbles end-over-end into the water, pieces breaking away and water rising around us.
Floods happen quickly. The water explodes in the sky and fills the hungry earth, the dirt too dry to accept everything. It washes everything away, and we go along with it.
My father holds fast to a giant yellow slab of metal, and I work to free my leg, my mind swiveling between panic over the pain and worry for the world I’m at risk of losing. Then, without any effort at all, my leg is free and my body is being lifted from the bus, pulled through the tangled scraps left of the window. My heart thumps wildly, but stops the moment Wes’s arms wrap around me.
I’m home.
I’m safe.
I’m cold.
I see things in small snapshots, as if it’s all unfolding in frames from a comic book: Wes carrying me through the shallow but rising water, up jagged rocks toward the highway, the bridge behind him in half, metal cords dangling—support systems that gave way, failed when we needed them. It’s all broken.
Taryn is pulling herself through the water next to us. My teammates are climbing from the wreckage. Others have already made it to safer grounds.
The rain is coming down in sharp, slanted lines. It’s almost a constant stream of water, as if someone is dumping it on us rather than rain falling from the sky.
The bus begins to jerk loose from the jagged rocks it’s settled on. Wes sets me on the asphalt of the highway, dozens of feet above others still trapped—holding on in the rush of the waters, to what’s left of our bus. The metal beast tears free from the rocks and the water pushes it into the small strip of metal my father and Bria are clinging to for safety.
I blink and they disappear.
“Daddy! Daddy!” I scream so loudly my voice cracks and grows hoarse. My eyes burn, and my throat aches. My heart yearns. It’s breaking.
“I got him,” Wes says, rushing down the edge of the ravine, rocks giving way under each step he takes until his body is caught in a massive slide of mud and debris that crashes into the water. The mud is thick, but I see Wes’s arms pound at the water. I see his body fight.
I begin to scream for him now too.
I try to stand, but the pain is sharp—it sears through my entire body, and I collapse on the ground in tears.
“You’re really hurt, Joss. You’re bleeding. Oh my god, so bad!” Taryn is next to me; she’s holding my leg then covering her mouth. I don’t look down. Whatever she sees makes her sick.
“He’ll get him. It’s okay, Joss,” Kyle says, moving to my other side. He pulls his wet jacket from his body and wraps it tightly around my leg, moving his face in front of my view.
I’m shivering. I can’t see my leg. I can’t see the water below. I can’t see my father or Wes. I only see Kyle. His eyes are drilling into mine. He’s nodding slowly.
“You’re okay. They’ll be okay,” he says, every now and then glancing over me until I feel the hands of others on me and see the blue uniforms of paramedics and firefighters take control of everything that surrounds me.
Kyle stays though. I strain my neck to see—to see anything. But he doesn’t let me look.
“Wes will get him. Don’t worry. Let them help you now, Joss,” he says, his mouth a hard line. His jaw flexes with the grinding of his teeth. He doesn’t want to have to lie to me.
He’s afraid he’s lying to me.
The pain is overwhelming. Everything is so cold. My body can’t feel anything. The world is yellow.
Bright.
And so very quiet.
Seventeen
“She’s going to hate all of that crap hooked up to her,” Kyle whispers.
I don’t know why they’re all whispering. I can hear them. They don’t think I can. They think I’m heavily drugged. I am. But I’m also awake…and so very aware.
Painfully aware.
My body is numbed. The pain was too much. It made me black out. And when the doctors tried to repair me, I fought them.
I’m a fighter.
So they subdued me.
I think maybe everyone was hoping that my memory would disappear with the pain meds too. That it would wash away with the waters that destroyed me.
But I remember.
That’s why I lay here with my eyes closed. That’s why I don’t show how awake I am. I’ll rest. I’ll hide. And I’ll keep hiding until they find him.
I know my father made it. I’ve heard bits and pieces. I’ve heard his voice. He somehow found enough to grab in the rush of waters to cling for life until a rescuer could reach him. He had no idea Wes was searching.
I don’t hear Wes’s voice.
But he’s alive. I know he’s alive.
I feel it.
He’s too strong. Water is nothing to Wesley Christopher Stokes.
“Mr. Winters? It really should just be family in here, sir,” the nurse reminds my father. He has the same answer every time.
“It’s just me. And Kyle is like a brother,” he says. It’s the fifth time he’s said this, second time to this nurse. I recognize her voice.
“Okay, but he’ll need to leave when visiting hours are over,” she says. That’s the same response from her as well.
“Right,” my father says, his gravelly voice a fraction of himself. “Right,” he says, the sound even fainter.
I’m not sure how long it’s been. When I first heard the voices, I thought it had only been a few hours. But I’ve come to realize that it’s really been days. Two…I think? Maybe three.
I can’t feel my body. The drugs numb me. They don’t numb my mind, though. That races, replaying everything that happened, hyper-focusing on the details. The bridge collapsed in the rush of floodwaters. This stupid state and their goddamned budget problems skipped a few inspections here and there. They bet on certain areas never getting rain. And then the rain came.
My father has had the news on in my room. I’ve heard it—the bridge collapse on one-eighty-five. They talk about our bus. They have footage of the wreckage. They’ve tried to talk to my father about me. They’ve ambushed my friends. I was the one injured, the only one injured—other than the bus driver who had a concussion and my father who had a broken arm.
Nobody talks about Wes. Even my father whispers when Kyle asks if he’s heard anything. I heard a small blip, once, that there was a search for one of the students who was caught in the floodwaters. But then nothing.
“It’s late, Kyle,” my father says. I hear a chair shift and Kyle’s heavy feet hit the floor.
“It’s okay. I don’t have to work today. I…he said I could take time off,” Kyle says. His voice is sleepy. He’s losing it. He used to lose his voice when he’d stay awake all night with me at his house. Go home, Kyle. You’re tired.
“Nothing’s going to change, Ky,” my father says. My eyes twitch under their lids hearing him speak to my friend with the familiar name he used to give him—shortened Ky. They have each other. “Go on, get home. You can come back tomorrow. I don’t give a shit what the nurses say about you visiting.”
Good. I don’t give a shit either.
It’s quiet for a few minutes, but eventually the chair slides again, and I hear it move all the way to the opposite side of the room. I feel Kyle step closer. I should open my eyes. But I don’t want to—not yet. I’m going to stay in this dream for a little longer; avoid the nightmare.
“Hey, JJ,” he says. I feel his hand grab mine, and I fight my instinct to squeeze it back. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
His hand slips away, and a few seconds later, I hear the door close. My father’s sigh is long, but he’s not leaving. His own chair moves, and I feel the bed shift slightly as he rests a leg up on the end. He’s getting comfortable for the night. He won’t leave. I heard the nurse say he hasn’t left since they set his arm.
“Are they still looking for him?” I ask. My lips are so dry, the words crack them open when I speak. My voice is a whisper, and it cuts my throat.
My father’s foot rema
ins still. He’s quiet. But I hear him breathe slowly, a long inhale and exhale. I’m pretty sure he knew I was awake, but he’s also relieved. I don’t look at him, but I can hear him tremble when he speaks.
“They’re still looking,” he says.
I don’t say anything more. He doesn’t ask any questions. I feel the threat of my first tear form in one eye, and I let it fall to the cool sheet under my head. After a few minutes, I feel my father’s hand close around mine, and his head falls against my shoulder. The weight of it shakes with small tremors. He’s crying. I squeeze his hand back, and he stops. He leaves his head on my arm, and I hear the sniffles as he tries to be strong.
He’s not ready to tell me the rest. I’m not ready to hear it. But I know my leg is gone.
The pretending could only go on for so long. The next morning, it was time to start the long climb through reality.
Infection. Nerve damage. The bone snapped completely. Everyone who spoke to me gave me the same details and timeline—they had to make decisions fast. They worked to repair what they could right after the accident, but the infection was spreading quickly. It was making me sick, risking more of my leg—risking my life. I had been here for four days, almost five. At the beginning of day two, the decision was made to cut off my right leg below the knee. Mid-calf, I’m told. I wouldn’t know. I won’t look at it. I refuse.
As much as I can’t feel anything…somehow, I still feel my missing lower leg. That’s the first thing I felt when I started to wake—pain. A sensation that wasn’t there because my leg—it wasn’t there. Then that ache shifted to my heart.
“Joss, I’m going to change the dressing. We’re going to set a hard cast over everything later today, which means you’ll get to go home,” the doctor says. He seems really impressed with his work. I hate the way he admires it.
“Okay,” I say. I’ve also learned I have to respond. If I don’t, the adults begin to whisper. They start to talk to me in that fragile voice, the one used on infants and people who are at risk of losing it.
I’ve lost everything, so what does it matter?
