Pocketful of Sand(75)

Cole doesn’t look at me until his words have died, until they’ve given way to the heaviness of silence and fallen noiselessly to the floor. But when he does, when he drags his eyes from Emmy’s pale face to mine, I feel all the love that he professed to have. I feel it like heat from a flame. I see it like color from a painting. Vibrant splashes of red and green, blue and yellow, dotting the bleak landscape. Cutting through the clouds.

His eyes are on mine when he next he speaks. “I love you, Emmy. And I hope you can love me, too.”

A lump swells in my throat and tears well in my eyes. There are still so many things to say, so many questions, so many things to work out, but Cole loves me. He loves us. It’s there, plain as day. And I love him, too. I have to believe that the rest can be sorted through later. Right now is a time for love and unity and strength. For Emmy. She needs us right now.

It’s the twitch of her fingers within mine that stops my heart. But it starts running again, at breakneck speed, when Emmy makes a low whimpering sound.

I stand and bend over her, rubbing my hand across her forehead. “Emmy? Can you hear me, sweetpea?”

She doesn’t respond, but her brow wrinkles. I turn to Cole. “Get the nurse.”

He leaves immediately, jogging from the room.

“Emmy, can you open your eyes?” I watch. I wait. I hold my breath. Nothing. “Emmy, please, baby. It’s Momma. Can you open your eyes and look at me?”

Her eyelids twitch. Or do they? I stare at them. Hard. As if willing them to move. Did I imagine that? Or did they actually move?

Cole comes back with Vera, who moves to the bed and starts checking things. When she goes to lift Emmy’s left eyelid to shine the light in, Emmy flinches and turns her head away.

The nurse lowers the light and reaches beneath the mountain of covers. “Emmy, my name is Vera. Can you squeeze my fingers?” No response. “Emmy? Can you squeeze my fingers?”

I feel like my life, my entire existence, is balanced on a pinhead. My heart is beating so hard and so fast, I feel winded. Like I’ve climbed a hill or run a race. And, in a way, it feels as though I have. And that I’m not yet done running.

“Emmy, ca–” Vera’s words are cut off and she smiles. “Good girl. Can you wiggle your toes for me?”

I see the slight movement under the blankets, but it’s not until a full two minutes later that I feel true relief. That’s when my daughter opens her jewel green eyes, searches until she finds my face and whispers a hoarse, “I got to stay, Momma.”





THIRTY-ONE


Cole



IT’S BEEN A week to the day since Eden and I brought Emmy home from the hospital. I’ve seen them every day. I can’t stay away and Eden doesn’t seem to want me to. Neither does Emmy for that matter. She’s opening up more and more every time I see her.

They invited me over for dinner tonight. The table is set and Eden is waiting for the bread to finish baking. Emmy has been on the floor drawing since I got here. Everyone from doctors to nurses to Eden and me were all amazed and grateful that she had no neurological deficits of any kind. Your rapid response, getting her out of the water and starting resuscitation immediately, are to thank for that. A few minutes longer and she might not be here today.

I shudder to think what that might have felt like. I know I couldn’t stand it again. And Eden…it would’ve destroyed her world. And that would’ve even further destroyed mine.

All of a sudden, Emmy hops up and walks a picture over to me, holding it out for me to take. “Is this for me?” I ask. She nods.

There are eight hands, each at a different place around a sandcastle. The positioning is a little clumsy, but for a six year old, it’s amazingly accurate and detailed. I can easily make out what it is.

I slide off my kitchen chair and squat down in front of her, intent on thanking her. But before I can, she surprises me by throwing her arms around my neck. Hesitantly, I curl my arms around her thin body and hold her to me. She doesn’t move or wriggle or seem uncomfortable. She just squeezes me as tightly as her little arms will allow.

When she lets me go, she puts her thumb in her mouth. “Thank you, Emmy. This is beautiful.”

She watches me intently, then, after a few seconds, she reluctantly takes her thumb out and surprises me even more. By speaking her first words to me.

“Do you know who they are?” she asks.

I hear Eden gasp behind me. I don’t have to turn to know that she has tears in her eyes or to know that she’s wearing a breathtaking smile. One, I’m sure, is hidden by hands covering her mouth. I can picture her standing in the kitchen behind me as clearly as I can see the drawing Emmy made for me, held between my hands.