Girl Underwater Read Free Page A

screen for hours on end, picturing the rabid faces of reporters and their sensationalist headlines. The same dated photos of those desolate mountains, recycled over and over again, like an overplayed commercial. I tried to watch different channels. Tried to read books or magazines. And even now, with the hulking thing disconnected, I hear the news and see their faces and wish it all away.
    A lady with fire-red hair came by a few days ago to interview me. They brushed my hair and coated my face in makeup, covering the windburn as best they could. Someone handed me a bright red sweater to wear over my hospital gown; someone else helped me button it up.
    Up until that point, everything felt almost normal, sitting in this room with my TV on and blue skies out the window and my parents perched on the foot of the bed. Nights were long and dreamless, the sleep of the sedated. Days had become a cycle of breakfast trays and lunch trays and naps. I’d been living in a haze—a warm, hollow, wonderful haze.
    Then the lady with red hair started asking me questions.
    What was it like when the plane was going down?
    How did you make it to shore?
    Were you afraid?
    And, of course:
What
happened
out there?
    In the end, I threw the remote clean through the open window, which her hipster cameraman caught on tape. Two nurses ushered them out of the room. The haze, though, had cleared. After that, I dreamed in biting reds and oily blues. I saw pale, frozen faces, their mouths moving soundlessly, like dead fish. I saw belts with no buckles, and flames with no source, and a lake with no bottom. I saw three little boys, all dead in my arms. And I saw Colin saving someone else.
    The doctors tell me this is to be expected. They say forgetting is the brain’s best defense against the psychological devastation of traumatic events, and I’ll be better off if I don’t remember. Maybe the media doesn’t think so, but they don’t have the dreams. They don’t wake up in the dead of night, gripping the sheets and wondering if tonight will be the night we freeze to death. The dreams make me wish I had died in the crash along with so many others. Then there would be no media, no lady with red hair, no questions. There would only be a bleak, logical narrative. A blitz of photos and sad stories. Instead, I’m an asterisk. A question mark. And for all those who celebrate my good fortune, there are others who must be asking,
Why her?
    My dad walks into the room as I’m wiggling my toes. It’s become a habit, a daily check to make sure they still work.
    â€œSleep well?” He hands me a steaming cup of coffee. Black, a little weak. I usually take it with cream and sugar, but right now, all I want is warmth. The hot liquid courses through me, makes me feel human again.
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œIt’ll get better.” Spoken like a true physician. My dad isn’t my doctor here, of course, but my being in a hospital blurs the lines between patient and daughter. He doesn’t say anything to the staff, but he grumbles about my discharge planning to anyone who will listen. Except me. With me, it’s a constant barrage of rehabilitation commands:
You should eat more. I want you out of that bed. Being in bed makes people feel even sicker than they are. Do five laps around the unit today. Six tomorrow.
And so on. No wonder why I’m so exhausted.
    â€œWhere’s Mom?” I ask.
    â€œOutside.”
    â€œOutside?”
    He looks me in the eye as he says, “Avery, I think it’s time—”
    â€œNo.” Coffee sloshes over the cup and pricks my thighs. Dad steals it away from me, noting the little red marks on my skin with a practiced eye. When he decides it’s no big deal, he crosses his arms and glares at me.
    â€œThis is your last chance to see those boys before we leave.”
    â€œI’ll see them in Boston.”
    â€œAvery—”
    â€œI don’t want to