Page 72 of Head Under Water

Say it.

Braaaaaaaap.

The air horn pierces the darkness. His hands tense, body goes painfully still. He sets me down as if I’m breakable, taking a step back.

For a moment, I forgot this was a game, forgot it was always going to end.

Reality slams into my chest. There’s no coming back from this.

What did we do?

I stand there, panting. Breathing and blinking and slowly, regretfully, coming back to a surface I’m not sure I wanted to see again.

I can feel the distance between us before he even takes it. The wall slams back into place.

There’s a difference in liking the way someone kisses and liking them.

As if in agreement, the door in front of me opens, and he disappears through the gap. I put my hand on my chest, willing my heart not to give out.

It won’t happen again.

It can’t.

To be sure of it, I don’t talk to Will for a long time, not about that kiss or about any of the rest of it. We move forward like nothing happened, avoiding each other at every turn.

We’re in each other’s orbit, but only because we have no other choice.

Hating each other no longer feels quite so simple.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

PRESENT DAY

It’s the middle of the night when we get the call. Margie’s kidneys are failing, and the bleeding in her brain has started again. She needs another surgery, but they aren’t sure she’s stable enough.

They’re afraid she’ll crash during the operation.

They tell us they’re going to monitor her and make decisions if the bleeding progresses, but that we should get to the hospital and be ready for things to change quickly.

Ready? It feels impossible.

How could we ever feel ready for this?

It’s Mom who talks to the doctors, relaying the message to the boys once she hangs up. I can see it on her face. The panic. The overwhelming sadness.

The resignation. That’s the part that stings the most. I can see her giving up, preparing herself for the worst. Saying goodbye in her head.

We don’t wait. We load into the car at just past two in the morning, and we’re on our way. The roads are mostly empty, but every car we get stuck behind, every red light, and every stop sign surges my blood pressure, raising the volume of the voice in my head, screaming we’re not going to make it in time.

At the hospital, the surgeon greets us in the waiting room.

“We’d like to operate,” he tells us, his eyes steady but tight. “She’s relatively young and otherwise healthy, which is in her favor. The kidney injury from dehydration and blood loss makes everything more complicated, but the re-bleed is still the most immediate threat. She’s very sick, but we believe this is still survivable if we act quickly.”

I don’t like the way he says it’s “survivable.” Because he’s not saying it’s safe, only that she might make it through if everything goes exactly right.

The boys are taken back before she goes into surgery. It’s to say goodbye, I think, but none of us says it out loud. This moment feels radioactive, like the wrong word might turn everything to ash.

Mom and I take a seat in the quiet waiting room, and I reach for her hand.