1
Raegan
I expected peace.
After all, I’d just been forced to say a silent and rapid good-bye to those I loved, the chances I had and those I hadn’t, and some that I’d just never taken. It seemed that if I were going to die, peace was a small return to never see the sunrise again over the Puget Sound, or taste freshly brewed coffee, or indulge in a great novel that keeps you up all night, or never to kiss Lincoln Beckett again.
My lungs burn as does the rest of my body. And everything aches like I’ve come down with an acute case of the flu. I’m painfully cold, and my head feels too light.
Nausea hits me like an eighteen-wheeler, and the swarm of panic and fear returns with a surge of adrenaline dictated by my body or maybe my mind—demanding I fight.
“Shhhh,” a soft voice summons me, calming me, and then a gentle caress brushes my arm, a complete contradiction to the pain I feel everywhere. It’s warm and soft, and for a moment, I wonder if this will be my last memory—my last everything.
I ball my hands into fists as I struggle to open my eyelids. Warm sunlight surrounds me, bathing me in a glow I feared I’d never see again, and though it burns my eyes, I can’t force myself to look away.
There’s a loud shudder, and then another sound that is similar to crying. I can’t focus on it for very long, though, because the world has begun to spin, and my nausea is becoming stronger. I close my eyes to ward off everything—the pain, the fear, the discomfort. Going through this twice doesn’t seem fair.
“Rae. Raegan. Rae, we’re here, baby.” Mom’s voice is too muffled and bleary, but I know it’s her just like I know I’m meant to be a cetologist, studying dolphins and whales, providing a voice for them. Like I know Poppy will always be my ride or die to the ends of the earth, and that my older brother, Paxton, is going to be in the NFL one day, and my older sister, Maggie, will win the Nobel Peace Prize for her determination to help others. Just like I know that Lincoln Beckett and his pirate smile stole my heart three years ago and just recently was willing to admit he harbors the muscle that beats for him.
Or did.
Or is?
A gentle rhythm plays against the back of my hand. It’s soothing and warm and calls for me to open my eyes once more. Mom’s dark hair is brushed back into a clip, and her face is red and blotchy, her lips dry.
“What were you thinking?” she asks, her lips trembling more with each word.
I try to talk, but my throat feels raw, and my jaw aches.
Tears spill from Mom’s eyes, but she doesn’t look away or even try to wipe them, likely because more quickly follow like tiny soldiers marching off to battle. “You can’t talk,” she says,” her voice hoarse. “They had to put a ventilator in.” Rounder tears slide down her cheeks, their pace increasing.
“Raegan?” The voice is a stranger’s. I turn my attention to an older man with wiry white hair that’s too long and unkempt. He’s wearing green scrubs and a pair of glasses that are halfway down his nose, and he smells like tacos. “Nice to see you’re awake. This is a great sign.” He looks at Mom, and then behind him, I see Dad. Apart from when Maggie left for Nepal two years ago, I can’t recall having ever seen my dad cry. Not even when Grams died did he cry in front of us. But, tears streak his face now, making the pain in my chest even greater.
“Your vitals are improving as well,” the man with the white hair says, reviewing a set of screens I can barely make out over my shoulder. “All good news. The new doctor on shift is Dr. Grayson, and he should be in shortly. For now, it’s just more rest. If you start to feel any pain, you can press this button,” he says, lassoing a short cord around the hospital bed and sliding a piece of cold plastic against my palm.
I press it instantly, without hesitation, waiting for the medicine to seep in and numb me.
My eyes grow heavier, and the sounds become muted along with my emotions and fears, everything grows warmer, lulling me into a comfort I quickly succumb to.
Hours pass or maybe days. Maybe it’s only minutes until I open my eyes again and focus on the blue balloon tied to the post of my bed. It’s one of those giant Mylar balloons that remain inflated for long periods and written on it in rainbow script are the words ‘Get Well.’ It bobs against the air vent overhead, reminding me of watching something in the waves. Coldness has me trying to move my legs, wishing I could dig my feet under a blanket or between the cushions on the couch—anything that would offer some warmth. But, moving my feet is nearly impossible, my entire body sluggish and stiff. I close my eyes for several seconds in an attempt to appease the throbbing in my head, then open them again to get another look at my surroundings. Tubes and cords are everywhere, hooked to me and winding into a labyrinth that goes over my shoulder, beyond where I can see. Machines beep and echo; one reminds me of the sounds Grandpa makes when he snores. The doors are large, collapsible glass panels, covered with a curtain. In the chair beside my bed is Mom, her neck at an unnatural and painful angle that I’m sure she’ll be regretting tomorrow. I mentally make a note to tell her to sleep at home tomorrow. Then, I focus my attention back on the balloon, watching it bob and weave as it transports me back into the ocean, slowly feeling the coldness fade as I hit the button to escape the aching again.
Pain returns with a hard threat and with it lots of noise. Voices and machines, the sound of wheels and metal. “Raegan!” Someone’s calling my name again, and I debate answering. I don’t want to endure more discomfort. I don’t want to see the agony I brought to my parents.
“Raegan!” A new voice says my name, and though they’re not technically yelling, the tone is assertive and too bossy for my liking.
“We need you to fight, girlfriend.” Another foreign voice joins the chorus, bringing forth memories of the ocean: the utter blackness and the frigid temperatures that had felt like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my flesh, puncturing my lungs and hope. I taste the bile in my throat, the burning sensation in my chest, the fear and frustrating certainty that I was trapped in the same manner I’d been trying to fight against since before I even knew how.
“Dammit,” a terse voice calls out, defeat and peril hanging in the air like a thick fog. It forces a memory to bloom: the cold slice from each stroke as I swam through the dark water, the determination in my chest as I fought my desire to go back to be with him. Lincoln. His anger was evident as he’d yelled the same word. He’d likely felt the same defeat I had when I’d realized the fishing net—the one I dove into the Puget Sound for to free a dolphin named Blue—was wrapped and tangled around me, holding me prisoner several inches beneath the surface and stealing my tiny allotment of air.
Thoughts of Lincoln spread and multiply until every memory of the ocean is replaced by his startling brown eyes, sharp jaw, straight nose, and the short mane of hair I ran my fingers through when he explored my body for the first time. His laughter tickles my ears, and his fierce exterior tests my patience. With each thought, a new pain hits my chest and spreads until all I can think about is Lincoln, and all I can feel is torment.
“There we go, girlfriend. That’s right. You stay here. All these people are here for you, baby. You don’t get to leave that easily.” It’s the voice from earlier, velvet on my ears as she calls me girlfriend. I like the term of endearment. Like we’re friends, though she doesn’t know a thing about me.