Girl Out of Water(12)

Dad starts toward the help desk to ask for directions, but Parker tugs his arm. “I know where to go,” he says. “She’s in the same room as yesterday.”

“Oh, okay. Great,” Dad says, and then we all follow the four-and-a-half-foot boy through the labyrinth of hospital halls. Parker maneuvers through about a dozen twists and turns with confidence. I wish I’d inherited the same memory. As we walk, Nash zigzags back and forth across the hallway, knocking on every closed door until I catch him by the shoulders. He grins up at me like I should find his behavior endearing.

Eventually Parker stops in front of room 1109. The door is slightly ajar, but Dad knocks anyway. No response.

“Let’s go in,” Nash says, then pushes open the door and enters without further thought. Nash doesn’t seem to put further thought into most of his decisions.

I hesitate before entering the room, suddenly realizing my mom could be inside. Maybe she somehow heard her sister was injured and flew straight here instead of going to Santa Cruz. Maybe she’s standing by Aunt Jackie’s bedside, a flower from a get well bouquet tucked in her hair and a small Styrofoam cup of tea in her hand. Maybe she’ll turn to me and smile, and maybe I’ll—

She isn’t here.

But I’m fixed in shock in the doorway anyway.

Aunt Jackie is rigged up in so many contraptions, threaded with so many tubes and wires, that she looks like an illustration out of my paperback copy of Frankenstein. I’ve seen a lot of injuries, but this is by far the worst. Her left leg is slung in a metal gurney with some kind of weird plastic wrapping around it, and cuts and bruises cover every inch of exposed skin. Tears prick at my eyes as I realize I actually could have lost my aunt, one of the most important and caring people in my life.

“Fuck,” I say.

“Anise said a bad word!” Nash shouts.

“Shh,” Dad whispers. “Don’t wake up your mom.”

“But we’re here to see her,” Parker says.

“I know,” Dad answers, “but…”

“Cole, Anise? Is that you?” Aunt Jackie mumbles and shifts slightly in the bed, leaning her head toward us and cracking open her eyes. Her dark brown hair is pressed in tangles against the pillow, and I think of how patients on hospital TV shows always look so groomed, like they stepped right out of a beauty parlor and into the ER.

We all scoot forward. Well, Dad and I do, while Parker and Nash launch themselves onto the armchairs by the bed. “Hi, Mom!” they both say.

“Hey, Jacks. How you feeling?” Dad asks.

“Hi, boys.” Her eyes open more fully, scanning the room. “Where’s Emery?” she asks, her voice hoarse from medicated sleep.

I rub my arms and wait for Dad to answer because I can’t think of a positive way to say your daughter’s at home because your life-threatening accident traumatized her.

“She’s just tired, Jacks,” Dad says.

Aunt Jackie’s eyes flicker and she swallows. “Hey boys—” she stops to clear her throat. “Why don’t you run and get some sodas—caffeine-free sodas. Cole, do you have any change?”

Dad nods and hands Parker and Nash a few dollars, which they grab and then run from the room, their sneakered feet pounding down the hallway at a pace much too fast for an establishment of sick and dying people.

Through the stitches and bruises, Aunt Jackie manages half a smile. “They’re pretty cute, aren’t they?”

I nod. “Pretty fucking cute.”

Her gaze lingers on the doorway. Then she blinks a few times. “Sorry,” she says. “The meds they have me on are strong. I’m feeling a bit toasted.”

“Toasted?” I ask.

Aunt Jackie nods. “Oh, you know—stoned, high, baked, riding the green—”

“Okay, okay, word defined,” Dad cuts her off.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Please, Cole. Your daughter is seventeen and lives in California. I think she knows what marijuana is.”

I do know what marijuana is. When I was fifteen, Cassie said I had to try it for this concert we were going to. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a great time at that show, but I’ve only smoked a couple of times since because I’m not really into messing with my lung capacity and edibles are too strong. Still, Dad doesn’t need to know about those rare occasions. Before I have to defend myself, Aunt Jackie speaks again, “Is she okay?”

For a second, I think she’s talking about me.

“Emery will be fine,” Dad assures her. “I think she’s a little shocked, a little scared. She’s still digesting it all.”

Dad would make a great counselor if he ever got sick of construction. He’s very direct and Zen. Apparently back in the day he used to be a bit of a mess. His parents were both elderly and sick when he left for college. His sophomore year, they went downhill fast, so he left school and came home to take care of them. They died within a year of each other, and he never went back to college. Instead, he spent his days drinking and smoking and surfing. My mom told me that’s how she met him, with a can of Bud Light in one hand and a joint in the other. They spent an entire year enjoying the bliss of nothing until my mom found out she was pregnant. Dad knew she was a wanderer from her tales, but she said I was a sign to put down roots, that her family had found her. So my parents got married, and I was born, and everything was picture-perfect. That is, until my mom couldn’t deal, ripped out those roots, and ran.