Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (19 page)

“Who found her?” one of them asked.

“I did.”

The voice was beside my head. I turned toward it. Saw skinny legs and thighs. A red bikini. Melanie?

Melanie had saved me? My mind must not have been working. I heard fragments. “—unconscious—cut her leg—some guy’s board slammed her head—saw her empty boogie board—swam down—pulled her out—”

They wrapped something on my leg, lifted the stretcher, and carried me across the beach. People stared. When we passed the pool, I saw Luis at the fence, watching, arms folded against his chest. Then Becky was walking alongside me, asking questions.

“Elle? My God, what happened? Are you all right?”

I tried to answer her, began coughing again.

Becky kept close to the stretcher. Talking to me. Melanie was there, too, her hair loose and sopping. Telling Becky how limp I’d been. How, when she’d pulled me from the water, she’d thought I was dead.

The cosmetic surgeons had a small office in the hotel. Mostly, they used it as a place to do paperwork. But it was also used for the occasional fall, heart attack, or choking incident. Emergencies at the hotel.

Later, I remembered bits and pieces. Being lifted off the stretcher onto a bed. Missing Charlie. Wondering how I’d seen him, where he’d gone. The woman with the stethoscope smelling like jasmine. The rawness of my chest. The relentless, razor-sharp coughing. Framed pictures on the wall—giant plants with big fronds, blood-red flowers. Something pinching my finger. A doctor—not Alain—speaking Spanish to the nurse,
examining my leg. Which was throbbing. And Becky. Becky staying with me the whole time.

“Dear God, Elle. What happened?” she asked over and over.

I couldn’t answer. Could only cough.

“You almost drowned. Jesus God. Elle, you’re such a strong swimmer. How could that happen? Did you go too far out? Get a cramp?”

I remembered a force pulling me down, mouthed the word, “Undertow.”

“What did you say?” She frowned, reformed my lip movements. “Andoo. Doe.” Thought for a moment. “Undertow?” She asked the nurse if there had been an undertow.

“Undertow?” The nurse turned to the doctor who was messing with my leg. “
Que es
‘undertow’?”

He didn’t look up. “
Es una resaca.
”

The nurse said something back to him, took gauze out of a cabinet. “No, señora, there was no undertow. Nobody swims if the water is like that. They tell you. You can only go to the edge.”

No undertow? But she was wrong, there had been. I’d felt it pulling me down, holding me under the shadowy water. I closed my eyes, recalled a dark shape. And big round eyes. Oh God—that shape. Had it been a shark? Had it bitten me? I opened my eyes, looked at Becky. And for a moment, saw a human form, seaweedlike hair. Damn. Maybe it hadn’t been a shark. Maybe someone had held me under the water, tried to drown me. But why? Madam Therese offered an answer. “Your aura is stained with blood.” I blinked her away and told myself to think back to the beginning, to the wave picking me up. I’d banged my head on something and gone underwater, disoriented. Something had caught onto my legs, and I’d tried to kick myself free, but I’d gotten stuck on something and I’d struggled until my lungs couldn’t hold on anymore. And then?

And then Charlie had shown up. But that made no sense. Unless, had I—even for a few minutes—actually died? Had he
come to welcome me to the other side? Was there another side?

No. Of course not. The encounter had been my imagination. A product of panic. A defense mechanism to comfort myself in the face of death.

But if I hadn’t seen Charlie, how had I smelled his scent? Or felt his arms around me, his body next to mine. His kisses on my neck. His voice, calling me Elf. I hadn’t imagined all that. Couldn’t have.

And yet, if he’d shown up—if I’d really been with him—why had he been wearing his tennis clothes? Had he been on his way to a match? Did they have tennis after death?

Something sharp jabbed my leg. I twitched.

“You’ll be numb in a moment, señora. This way you won’t feel the stitches.”

Stitches?

“Thank God that woman pulled her out.”

“Sí. Your friend is very lucky.”

Becky and the nurse were talking. I’d missed most of the conversation. The nurse prepared a curved needle and thread for the doctor. What had happened to my leg?

“I can’t stop thinking about what would have happened if she hadn’t been there.

“Thank the Virgin of Guadalupe. She’s the reason your friend has survived. It’s her festival now, so she blessed your friend. She guided the woman who saved her.”

Really?

“Elle will want to thank her. I didn’t even get her name.”

“It’s Melanie,” the nurse said.

Melanie. I’d seen her when I’d awakened on the beach. Her red bikini. I didn’t remember her pulling me out. But I did remember hair floating into my face, and a dim form in dark water, holding me under. Had that form been Melanie? But Melanie weighed maybe a hundred pounds. She wouldn’t have been strong enough. Besides, why would Melanie want to hold
me down? Again, I thought back to being trapped, trying to escape. Something jabbing my leg as I tried to kick. I remembered flailing, fighting a shadow. And thinking that some dark spirit was drowning me.

But now it made sense: In my panic, I’d been confused. Melanie had been holding onto me to pull me up, not drag me down. I’d resisted my rescuer, in the process slicing my leg and nearly drowning us both.

The doctor had soft brown eyes and brown skin. He checked my heart again, asked how I was feeling. I shrugged, struggling to pay attention, missing a lot of what he said. What I understood was that I’d survived. I would feel better soon, my oxygen levels were already good, but my pulse was still elevated. My lungs were irritated but didn’t seem to have serious edema. My coughing should ease gradually. I might develop a low-grade fever and should rest, drink warm tea, and speak only a little. As soon as he finished suturing the gash in my leg, I could go rest in my own room, unless I wanted to be admitted to the medical center.

I mouthed. “My room.” And, “
Gracias
.”

“What did you do to your leg?” He kept talking as he turned back to my wound, not expecting an answer. “The injury is smooth, not torn or jagged. Hard to believe you cut it on a shell.” He motioned to the nurse that he was ready. “Seriously. This looks more like a knife wound.”

She leaned over, nodded in agreement.

But it wasn’t a knife wound. Couldn’t have been. I leaned back on the bed, feeling dull punctures as he sewed and tied thirteen individual stitches. I tried not to think about the needle penetrating my skin, the thread snaking through, the gaping flesh being reconnected. Instead, I thought about Charlie, how real and tangible he’d been. How comforting. How I missed him. Except that he hadn’t really been Charlie; he’d been an illusion, a creation of my almost dying mind.

Even so, I felt shakier and more alone without his embrace. How could an imagined hug have warmed me?

It was irrelevant because Charlie was dead. Gone. I had to accept it. I closed my eyes, felt the poke, the tingle of movement in my leg. Saw cloudy water and a shadowy figure grabbing me. Tried to shove it away. Had never imagined it was Melanie.

Lord, I’d misjudged her. I’d avoided her, trying to get away from her, but she must have trailed after me like a pesky kid sister. Underwater, I’d punched at her and kicked her, but she hadn’t let me go. Melanie had risked her own life, trying to save mine. When I was able to speak, I’d have to thank her.

And ask her if, when the big wave struck, she’d seen Luis anywhere near me in the water.

The first thing I saw when I woke up was Susan’s frown. She was on the easy chair beside the sofa, apparently watching me sleep.

“You’re up? Feel any better?” Her hand went to my forehead. “Still warm.”

“The doctor told us she might have a fever.” Becky sat on the loveseat across the room, her feet on the coffee table. “It’s from the body trauma, I guess.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” Jen emerged from her bedroom, holding her stomach, looking like a gazelle, her eyes outlined in purple rings, her legs spindly, her hair feathery, her nose splint resembling a long white beak. “Susan, WTF? It’s time for my pill—”

“How did you get out of bed?” Becky gawked.

“Obviously, I had to manage by myself. No one was there to help me.”

“Dr. Du Bois said you need to walk around,” Susan’s voice was flat. She didn’t jump to get Jen’s pain medication. “Your pills are on the kitchen counter.”

“Susan, I’m dying here. Why the hell did you take them all
the way in there?” Jen’s nose didn’t sound stuffed anymore. Had the swelling gone down already? Or had Alain come by and taken out the packing? How long had I slept?

Becky went to Jen, offered an arm for support. “Here, let me help you.”

“Becky, careful. I think I have an infection. The stitches are coming apart—”

“They’re not. The nurse checked them this morning. You’re fine.”

“Oh my God, I am so not fine. Every single part of me hurts!” Jen waved an arm to shoo Becky, took a step forward, wobbled dramatically, grabbed the doorjamb.

“You’re not the only one with problems, Jen.” Susan ignored her histrionics.

Jen glared at her, then at me. “Damn. What the fuck happened to Elle? She looks worse than I do.”

I did? I hadn’t seen myself. I touched my face. The skin felt sandy. And pain pulsed dully in my leg.

“No, she doesn’t.” Becky defended me.

“Excuse me?” Jen put a hand over her belly. Her voice broke. “You’re saying I look that godawful?” She motioned toward me.

“I’m saying Elle looks pretty good, considering that she nearly died.”

“What? What happened?”

They went on talking about me. It felt normal. I listened from a distance as Becky recapped the accident. The rescue. The stitches.

Jen gaped at me. “Damn. I don’t get it. Elle would never drown.”

Indeed. I’d been captain of our high school swim team. Regional champ in breaststroke. But none of that had helped me that morning. I hadn’t been able to surface. Hadn’t known where the surface was. I clutched the sofa cushion, recalling the
panic, the disorientation. I took a breath, my lungs hurt, raw and swollen.

Susan was chiding Jen. “Unlike some people, Elle didn’t choose to get hurt.”

“Oh, here we go again.” Jen let go of the doorjamb, wobbled toward the kitchen. “Why did I ever think it was a good idea to bring you down here? You bitches have no sympathy. Just because I chose to take action against—” She stopped, gasping, grabbing her midriff. She looked into the air. Took a breath.

“You all right?” Becky was at her side.

Jen didn’t answer, just held still. Breathing.

Susan watched her for a moment, then got up and went into the kitchenette, gave Jen a pill and water. Began making tea without comment.

I sat up, moving my bandaged leg. Felt a sharp jab. Maybe I could have one of those pills?

“So you’re all right?” Jen looked at me. “How’d you cut your leg?”

“We don’t know.” Becky answered for me.

“Didn’t anybody ask her?”

“She can’t talk. She gets coughing spasms. Her chest is inflamed.”

“So no one knows what happened?”

“The woman who saved her said a big wave picked Elle up and some guy was too close, so he and his board crashed onto her head, and she went under. She might have been knocked out.”

Had that happened? I had no memory of a guy being too close. I remembered the wave surprising me. And then struggling in deep water. But I must have forgotten what happened in between. I’d read somewhere that people often didn’t remember accidents, that our brains don’t have time to record sudden events like car crashes, gunshots, explosions. Maybe mine hadn’t recorded the impact of a boogie board.

Jen stiffly took a seat at the table. Sat rigid while Susan
brought out tea. Taking a mug, I looked at my hand, saw my fingernails caked with grit. My pores were filled with salt and sand. I put the mug on the table, touched my head. Felt a grainy layer of crust on my scalp. Without thinking, I stood up, putting too much weight on my leg, wincing at the jolt. Three voices simultaneously yelped: Sit down. What’s she doing? Elle, what the eff?