I slowly crack my eyes open, regretting the decision instantly as a team of doctors and nurses hover over me.
“Hey, it’s nice to meet you finally.” It’s the brusque voice this time, and though his words sound kind, his tone is still angry and rushed. His face is covered by a hospital mask, sparking an irrational fear I’ve had since I was a child—a fear consisting of waking up during surgery. I’d watched an episode of Dateline or Twenty-Twenty with my parents eons ago, during which they interviewed people who were traumatized by the very nightmare. That fear camouflaged itself and has remained in my memory, popping out at the most random and inopportune times, like now.
“Let’s make sure we don’t do that again, okay?” The emphasis on the word okay, the way he punctuated it brings out an accent that reveals he’s far from home. I’m guessing New York, maybe Jersey?
The doctor brushes his fingers along the line of his brow, then lowers his surgical mask and rolls his shoulders. “Looks like we’re not gonna need you guys,” he says, turning his attention to a blonde woman standing next to a pushcart filled with supplies.
“You want me to leave the ones I’ve got on her there, just in case?” the blonde asks.
The doctor pulls in a deep breath through his nose. “Yeah. Probably should.” He turns his blue-green eyes to me. “They’re only a precaution because I like to have my bases covered. You keep your heart beating this time, yeah?”
My heart beating?
My vision is clumsy and clouded, the same heavy and constant cover of exhaustion urging me back to sleep, whispering promises of the discomfort fading if I just hit the little button encapsulated in my fist.
I slowly stretch my fingers, each of them sore and protesting the loss of the morphine drip. But I don’t want it. Not anymore. I’d rather feel the pain that reminds me I’m somehow still alive.
I spend four days in the hospital.
Twenty-four hours after my heart stopped, they took out that awful tracheal tube that was down my throat. My throat had never been so sore, not even after my tonsils were removed when I was twelve. Ice chips and water were my saving grace. My first words were the request to remove the morphine. I was tired of its constant haze and still fearful of sleep. The doctor on call encouraged me to keep it, but that night, the Northeastern doctor was on shift again. I learned his name was Dr. Grayson. He had straight black hair, a slightly bulbous nose, and olive skin. I asked him to remove the morphine, and surprisingly, he listened. My fourth and final night was spent on the general floor of the hospital, away from the constant checks and lights that consume the ICU. And this morning, they finally signed the discharge papers, stating I was free to go home despite my parents’ concerns.
“What if she stops breathing again?” Mom asks.
“What if she starts going into cardiac arrest again?” Dad demands.
We’re outside the doors of the ICU, visiting Dr. Grayson, the only doctor my parents seemingly trust, and who will likely be receiving handsome Christmas gifts from them this year for saving my life for the second time in a matter of days. They’ve decided his words are gospel, trusting him above the doctor who signed my discharge papers. I’m seated in a wheelchair—hospital policy they told me as they ordered I take a seat, dressed in the yoga pants and Brighton sweatshirt Mom had brought for me to wear.
Dr. Grayson flashes a gentle smile—one he never gave me while I was his patient. “She’s doing great. Near drowning patients have a window of time where there are risks, and once you’re past that, you’re in the clear. Reagan’s in the clear.”
Mom places a tissue to her eyes. “You’re positive?”
Dr. Grayson nods. “You know the signs if anything arises, but her vitals all look great, and she passed her tests with flying colors. Now, it’s just a matter of gaining back some strength and healing.”
I’m fairly positive I’m being wheeled out of the hospital with more injuries than I arrived with, namely due to the chest tube they pushed through my ribs and punctured my right lung with to drain the remains of the Pacific Ocean, I’d brought in here with me.
“I know it’s been a rough week for you guys. But, I promise, we wouldn’t let her go if there were any foreseen risks,” Dr. Grayson concludes.
Maggie places her hand on my shoulder. It’s an assurance to herself rather than me, though. Everyone keeps touching me. Mom slept in the hospital room with me last night with one hand on my stomach. She startled awake a half dozen times with a loud gasp, tearing her eyes to the monitors that were measuring my heart and lungs to ensure neither had taken a vacation. They hadn’t. Instead, she was making them both work overtime. “Mom is so glad you lived because she’s going to kill you now herself,” Maggie says.
Laughter tickles my throat, but in its place comes an ugly and hoarse cough that makes me sound like I’ve been chain-smoking for the past fifty years.
“She sounds like she’s still choking,” Mom points out.
My cheeks redden with embarrassment and the labor of breathing as the coughing subsides, and I use another folded tissue I’ve replaced and kept in my palm as a constant for the past few days to wipe the small flecks of blood from my arm after covering my cough. It turns out, the tracheal tube scratched my throat, and coughing up blood is part of the healing process.
Gross, I know.
“It’s perfectly normal. Her lungs endured a lot,” Dr. Grayson assures her. “It’s like a cold or the flu; the side-effects will take a little time to go away.”
“I feel good, Mom. I want to go home.” My voice still burns a little, but I don’t admit that just like I refuse to admit the nightmares I’ve been having since the morphine stopped providing me the peaceful nothingness.
Mom turns to me. “You also wanted to dive into the ocean and look where that got us.” She’s a little mad—that might be the understatement of the century. I can’t recall Mom ever being upset with me for this long. Poppy assures me it’s normal, but it still comes with a truckload of guilt.
Dr. Grayson smiles. “I know this was really hard on you guys, but everything’s going to be okay. Get home, get some rest, and some real food. In a week or two, she’ll be as good as new.”
My only reluctance with leaving is that it signifies the end of my time here, waiting for Lincoln to stop by. To show up with a cheesy balloon or nothing at all, I don’t care. I just want to see him—need to see him. But, like nearly drowning, that isn’t my choice to make.
2
Lincoln
I live for game days.
The anticipation.
The adrenaline.
The focus.
The scent of leather when opening a fresh pair of cleats.
I’ve been playing football since I was seven and chills still race over my arms before a game.
Paxton, on the other hand, is a jittery fool who often sucks my enthusiasm away until he loses the contents of his stomach and then instantly calms the fuck down. He hasn’t reached that point yet. We all have our routines—the same events and structures that lead us to prepare for a game. For me, game days start early with reps and transitions to sprints. After sprints, I run for two miles and then hit the showers and eat like a king. It’s a double order of eggs benedict every single time, and then I study film until it’s time to ice my shoulder and get my ankles taped. I don’t hang out with others. I don’t answer my phone. On game days, I become a solitary motherfucker.