Lurlene McDaniel (4 page)

Dad crouches and examines the SUV's tire. “At least this isn't ruined.” He looks hard at me. “Was anyone in the car with you?”

Knowing there's a witness will really make him crazy. “Just me.”

He nods and his expression relaxes a little.
“You're All-State, Quin. One of the most sought-after ball players in the country. You've got to hold it together this year, you hear me? You can't go getting drunk and smashing up cars and getting black marks on your record. Not if you want to play college or maybe even pro baseball. Your record's going to follow you all your life.”

“It was a
deer,”
I say in my defense. “I'm sorry. I won't do anything stupid again.”

“You'd better not,” Dad growls.

I watch him get into his BMW, raise the garage door and back quickly onto the driveway. A blast of cold air hits me in the face. I curse the deer and hope it's dead for causing me so much trouble.

Dad calls. “How's my little girl?”

“I haven't been little in years,” I say, not minding the way he thinks of me. He works on the Columbus newspaper as a field reporter. He's always loved journalism and writing but couldn't find work here in Asheville, so he moved there after the divorce four years ago.

“How are the grades?”

“All A's and a B in government. And I got an A-plus on my last English paper.” I tell him this because he loves knowing we have that love of writing in common.

“Whoa! That's my girl! I guess the acorn doesn't fall far from the tree.”

“I guess not.”

“I'm already lining up things to do when you come this summer.”

I visit him for a month in the summer, but
there's not much to do in or around his apartment. He takes off from work, but only for two weeks, and we go on driving vacations. I don't love Columbus, but I feel sorry for Dad because he's all alone. He hasn't remarried and has nothing to come home to. And I feel sorry for me, because I miss him a lot.

“Good, and not to scare you, but I've been reading a Chinese cookbook.” One of the things I do is cook for us when I'm there.

“Not vegetables and rice,” he says, sounding horrified.

“You need to eat something besides pizza and fast food.”

“Says who?”

“Says every doctor in the country. I don't want your arteries all clogged. You have to walk me down the aisle someday.”

“Ah, now comes the question: Anyone in particular yet?”

I'd love to tell him about Quin and our driving accident, but I don't. It'll only upset him. It might also make him call Mom to discuss it. Can't have that. “Not in my high school. I'm not Mom.”

“Low blow,” he says with a chuckle. “Yes, she was popular, all right.”

“I'll never be that popular,” I say, wishing I had a magic wand to turn me into a somebody.

“You are to me.”

“Are you still coming over Christmas?” I change the subject.

“That's my plan. I'll take you shopping.”

“I'd like that.”

“I wish it could be sooner, Laurie.”

He sounds sad, and it makes my heart hurt. “I wish you didn't live so far away.”

“Less than a day's drive,” he says cheerily.

The far side of the universe,
I think. “When I get my license, I'll drive over to see
you.”

“Like your mother's going to let you take her car for a week.”

“Maybe I'll get a car for my birthday.”

Dad is silent and I realize I've said the wrong thing. “Honey, I can't afford a car for you.”

“Did I ask?” My thoughtless remark has made him feel bad. He and Mom used to argue about money—the lack of it—all the time. “Don't worry about it. I'll get a horse instead. Then I won't have to cut the lawn.”

He laughs. “Zoning restrictions.”

I know our conversation is drawing to a close, so I say, “Dad, promise me you'll eat better.”

“And you promise me that you'll have some fun in high school. Great grades are fine, but it's okay to have a good time.”

“You aren't going to tell me that these are the best years of my life, are you?” I mimic Mom's voice.

“I think you get told that enough.”

We say our good-byes, and he makes his usual promise to call me again “real soon.” I hang up, still wishing with all my heart that we didn't live so far apart.

We've searched mountain roads, bike trails and neighborhoods for hours but haven't found a trace of Analise. Jack's pressured the police again and they've put out an alert to their cops on the street. “We need to find her
now,”
Jack says.

Sonya has taken calls all morning from people they contacted last night. Every time, she gives the same message: “No, we haven't found her. Yes, thank you. Keep praying.” My parents have called me twice to check on our progress.

We're at a coffee shop, to grab food none of us want to eat but all of us know we should. My cell rings and her parents look expectant, but I know it's not Analise's ringtone. It's Mark's.

“Where are you, man?” he asks when I answer.

I remember that I was supposed to be at his shop by nine. He's got a huge cabinet job to get out this week and he's counting on me to help. I
shake my head, signaling to the Bowers that the call isn't Analise. “Mark, I'm sorry. I should have called.” I tell him what's going on.

“Aw, Jer, that's awful. Is there anything I can do?”

The irritation in his voice is replaced by genuine concern, reminding me that Mark is one of the good guys. He knows how much Analise means to me. “I wish there was,” I say.

“Well, you keep looking. Nothing going on here that can't keep. And, Jer, let me know when you hear something.”

I tell him I will and hang up.

Sonya begins to cry, and Jack pulls her to him. I look away because I can't stand to see their pain. My eyes feel gritty from lack of sleep, and my stomach feels as if a big cold rock has set up residence. I'm in a nightmare and I can't wake up.

“Come on,” Jack says. “Let's go home.”

Sonya protests, and I don't want to give up either.

“This isn't getting us anywhere. I want to talk to the police,” he says.

We head out the door, me tagging behind like a dog. But I can't leave them. Not yet. They're all I have of her right now.

• • •

It's late afternoon when a patrol car pulls up at the house. We hurry out to meet the two cops coming up the walk. “Jack Bower?” one of them asks.

“Yes.”

The air is sharp and cold, and someone's burning leaves even though it's illegal.

The cop says, “I think we've found your daughter.”

L
ight erases blackness. A high-pitched whining noise jars me and then, suddenly, I'm being pulled out of the darkness of my cocoon. I float up, up into a corner of a room, where I look down on frantic activity. I see doctors, nurses, medical equipment and then me. Me! Lying on a hospital bed. My identity returns in a rush, like water spilling over a dam. I am Analise Bower. I'm seventeen. I live at—

“She's flatlined!” a doctor shouts. He's tall with a red beard.

“Paddles!” another shouts.

I watch from my corner, curious, not one bit afraid. All below me is crystal clear, shot through with color and light. I feel no pain.

“Clear!” the doctor with the paddles says.

He places them on my bare skin, over and under my naked breast. My body jerks as electrical
current surges through the paddles. My body rises in a convulsion, returns to the table. I look like a fish out of water flopping on dry land, where I don't belong.

“No change,” a nurse says, watching a monitor.

“Again,” the red-bearded doctor says.

I'm losing interest in the scene. I become even lighter and without effort push through the solid ceiling of the room and into a long tunnel. I see a bright light and I feel euphoric, happier than I've ever felt before. I hear whispers too, and see Grandma Bower waving to me. I know she's dead, but I want to run to her, hug her. The tunnel begins to fill with the beautiful light, and I long to touch it. Yet I hold back. All at once, I feel unsettled, confused. A part of me wants to go forward, another wants to go backward. I stop moving. I'm suspended in the tunnel.

What's wrong with me? The light is beautiful and peaceful. I should embrace it.

A voice says, “Not yet.”

Another whispers, “Go back.”

I have no voice to answer.

I'm pulled backward through the tunnel, like a high-speed train in reverse. I zip through the ceiling of the room, swirl in circles above my body like water going down a drain. I struggle to remain
out of my body, but it's useless. I'm going back inside, melting like oozing candle wax into my fleshly form. From far away, I hear the red-bearded doctor cry, “We've got a sinus rhythm, people! She's back!”

We're in the ER waiting area and Analise is being treated by trauma specialists. The EMTs brought her in, that's all we know. Jack is talking with the cops who have appeared along with the EMTs, and Sonya is holding on to him. I'm hanging to one side, wishing I could crawl out of my skin and sneak into the back, into Triage, to be with Analise.

“Where did you find her?” Jack asks. When the cop tells him, Jack says, “But we went up and down that stretch of road fifty times. We never saw a thing.”

One of the cops says, “Finding her was a fluke. She was on a little ledge covered by brush. Couldn't see her from the road. A highway crew was picking up trash, and one of the guys stepped over the guardrail for a smoke. He ducked down so he wouldn't get caught, and he saw something shiny
and realized it was the sun reflecting off metal. He saw a foot sticking out from under the metal and called his supervisor, who called the rescue unit. The shiny thing was your daughter's bike.”

“How did she get down there?” Jack's question can't really be answered, but it's something we're all wondering about.