Girl Underwater Read Free Page B

see them.” I turn toward the window, hating the tremor in my voice. “The doctors said they don’t remember much anyway.”
    If I were one of the patients in his ER, he’d get up and leave. My father doesn’t argue with people. If you don’t give a shit, he doesn’t give a shit. But I’m his daughter, and so he stands there in silence, waiting me out.
    â€œFine,” he says.
    â€œFine?”
    â€œYou don’t want to deal with what happened, that’s your choice. But you’ve got to give them
something
.”
    He walks out to the nurses’ station and returns a minute later with his hands full. He’s alone, thank God, but he has that doctorly, no-nonsense look in his eyes.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œGiving you options.” He lays out an assembly of items: his cell phone, a pen, several sheets of blank paper, three envelopes, car keys, and his iPad. He writes down an address and, beneath it, a phone number.
    â€œThat there is all the information you need to contact those boys.”
    â€œDad—”
    â€œI don’t care how you do it. I really don’t. But dammit, Avery, you are not going to leave here like nothing happened. You’re stronger than that.”
    The truth is, I’m
not
strong. A stronger person would have answered the media’s questions in details, and layers, and harsh truths; a stronger person would have found some way to cope. Instead, I told the world a story rooted in denial and self-preservation.
Survival.
What a magnificent lie.
    He nudges the tray table in my direction. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
    â€¢
    Right on time, my parents return with my discharge papers. Dad watches me crawl out of bed, a pathetic effort that humiliates me to the core. Mom knows better than to say anything. The wheelchair disappeared days ago, never to be seen again. I suspect he may have hurled it out the window while I was asleep.
    â€œYou can walk, right?” he asks.
    Not
Can you walk?
The expectation is clear. He hands me a cardigan and watches me fumble with the sleeves. He doesn’t hurry me, but he doesn’t help me, either.
    When the ordeal of getting dressed is over, I tuck three envelopes in my back pocket. Dad gestures to the door. My mother does her best to set the pace, which is slow. Painfully, therapeutically slow. An octogenarian on oxygen passes us in the hallway.
    Together, we make our way toward the elevators. I’m about to push the button when my father starts walking toward the stairwell. He just won’t quit.
    The stairs, as it turns out, are good therapy. My legs feel stronger with each stride, as if my muscles are finally figuring out how to work again. The cold had made everything so stiff: bones, muscles, joints. My body was starting to shut down.
    â€œGood,” Dad says. “Looking stronger.”
    I refuse to acknowledge the veiled compliment as we approach the sliding doors. It’s a long walk to the parking lot, but we take our time. Dad allows breaks—just not very many. He opens the door to the backseat and helps me inside.
    â€œYou know the address,” I say.
    It’s a twelve-minute drive across town to Children’s. Like most hospitals built for pediatric patients, this one boasts a bright and welcoming facade, with windows so sprawling they shimmer with the reflecting sun. Parents and children and babies and doctors flood the grounds, the kind of chaos that breeds hope.
    Dad pulls up to the main entrance; he must have decided I’ve walked enough for one day.
    â€œWe’ll park and meet you inside,” he says, leaving no room for an argument.
    They drive off toward the lot. My first steps are almost mindless, a battle against nerves and impending doom. I shudder at the whooshing of the front doors, which sound different now that I’ve spent so many hours behind ones just like them.
    The waiting room next to the ER pulses with