I throw down the blanket and sprint into the surf.  I pay little attention to the fifty-some degree water when it hits my skin.  I ignore the clench of my stomach muscles when it creeps under my sweater.  I lift my chin when everything inside my chest locks down.  Just a little farther and I can grab her.

Just a little farther.

I turn my body to the side and reach out, stretching my arm and my fingers as far as they’ll go, grasping at the five little digits that float nearest me.  I pinch at one, but my joints are stiff and it slips right out of my grip.  I lunge forward, grabbing again before she drifts farther into the deep.  This time I squeeze the end of her finger as hard as I can and pull toward me until I can get a better purchase.

A finger.  Two fingers. Five fingers.  Her arm.  As I drag her toward me, every small movement is increasingly difficult.  My muscles are sluggish as I finally pull Emmy’s cold, limp body into my arms and turn with her.  My legs struggle to cut through the undercurrent. They scream as I push them to carry us to shore.  But push them I do, step after step.

Closer to shore the waves help force us onto the sand. I fall to my knees, still cradling Emmy’s body.  I barely hear the crying over my own heartbeat.  The world is mute and I can only see Eden when she’s kneeling in front of me, reaching for her daughter.

Until I hear her scream.

“Nooooooo!”

Dear reader,

What if you could have a do-over?  Would you take it?  Would you take your rewrite and see what MORE is?  Or would you just want to ride off into the sunset with your happy ending?  Let things rest as they are?  Well, here, you’re in control.  You get to choose, but choose carefully because your answer will decide the fate of Cole, Eden and Emmy.

Click DOOR NUMBER ONE if you want your happy ending now.

Or click DOOR NUMBER TWO if you want MORE (that will lead to a second book).

Or, if you’re like me, you’ll want both.  And by all means, take them.

DOOR NUMBER ONE

THIRTY

Eden

“NO! EMMY!” I cry, tears blurring her face as I take her out of Cole’s arms and into my own.  “Oh God, baby, open your eyes!  Look at me!”

She’s so cold. Her body feels like ice against mine.  Her hands rest limply atop the dark blue of her wet shirt and her feet dangle lifelessly from her legs.

“Emmy, baby, please wake up,” I wail.  “What am I supposed to do?” I ask Cole, who’s staring at me as though he’s reliving the worst day of his life.

“Eden, let me help. My cell phone is in my pocket and I’m sure it won’t work now, so you need to run ahead to my house. The side door is unlocked.  Call 911 immediately. I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to start CPR and then I’ll bring her on in. Give me five minutes.”

“No, I can’t leave her. I can’t leave her, Cole! She’s my little girl.  She’s my baby.  I can’t leave her. She has to be okay. She’ll be afraid when she wakes up. I can’t leave her.”

I feel more frantic the longer I talk.  I hear my own words. I hear the desperation. The fear. It feeds the terror that’s swelling within me, around me.  Threatening to drown me.  Like the ocean that tried to drown my daughter.

“Eden!” Cole snaps, his fingers gripping my upper arms, digging in.  As his eyes bore holes into mine, I see his own anxiety.  The alarm. The dread.  The hopelessness.  Fighting its way to the surface.  Wrestling him for control.  “We don’t have much time.  Do what I say and do it quickly. Emmy needs our help. Right. Now.”

Without waiting for my agreement, Cole takes my daughter from my straining arms and lays her gently on the dry part of the sand.  With wide, burning eyes, I watch him set to work on her–checking her neck for a pulse, listening to her chest for breath sounds, tipping up her chin, plugging her nose, blowing air into her lungs.

Her chest rises and falls, once, twice.  He spares me one sharp look and one loud word.  “Go!”  And then, with the heel of one hand, he’s pressing into her chest, pumping life-saving oxygenated blood through my child’s gravely still body.

With a sob that’s torn ruthlessly from my throat, I clamber to my feet and run as fast as I can to Cole’s house. I find the side door and fling it open, not even bothering to close it behind me. I race to the kitchen for the phone. Surely this is where it would be.

I spot it immediately and dial 911. With breakdown fighting me for dominance every step of the way, I speak to the operator, directing rescue workers to this location the best that I can without an actual physical address.  She transfers me to an emergency worker who begins questioning me about the circumstances in which we found Emmy. He asks about water and how long she might’ve been immersed.  He asks about her responsiveness and the color of her skin.  He assures me that chest compressions are the best thing we can do for her until they get here, and that warming her very slowly and making sure she stays still and horizontal are important as well.

When I hang up, I start off back toward the side door, only to find Cole rushing in with Emmy.  He takes her into the living room, kicking the coffee table out of the way so that he can lay her flat on her back on the floor.  Without a word, he resumes chest compressions immediately.

As I watch, my eyes are focused on my daughter.  The bluish cast to her skin, the darker purplish color of her lips.  The closed lids, the lifeless limbs.

I’m not even aware of my legs giving out until I’m on my knees within a few inches of her body. I take her cold hand in mine and bring it to my trembling lips.  “Please come back to me, Emmy. I can’t live without you, sweetpea.  You’re my whole world,” I tell her tearfully.  “Please, God, don’t take her!  Don’t take her from me!”

“Get her clothes off,” Cole says quietly. “Then we’ll cover her with blankets.”

When I glance up at him in question, he’s looking at me.  In his eyes are the pain and loss and utter devastation that hovers around the corners of my heart.  And in these few seconds, I know why. I know why he is here. I know why he won’t leave. I know why he can’t give up.

His daughter. My daughter.  Blood of our blood.  Death doesn’t change that kind of love. It doesn’t really separate parent from child. Not in the heart. Not in the soul.

I set to work on getting Emmy’s clothes off her without disrupting Cole’s life-saving cycles of pumping her heart and filling her lungs with air.  I don’t know how long has passed when the knock sounds at the front door, followed by a harsh, no-nonsense voice, announcing, “Emergency Services.”

From the moment I open the door, I’m in a nightmare.  I watch men in thick jackets and white shirts assess and treat my daughter, exchanging words like “near drowning” and “hypothermia.”  I watch from behind the bars of my own personal hell as the two men place tiny pads on my child’s chest and feed electricity into her heart, watching for a viable rhythm to appear on the small screen.  After the second attempt, I hear the reassuring blip.  I hear a strangely haunting howl and I feel arms come around me.  It isn’t until Cole turns my face into his chest that I realize it was me.

The two men work as efficiently as one, preparing my daughter for transport, continuing every measure to save her life, her brain, her organs.  To bring her back to me in as much the Emmy state that she ran away in as possible.

I watch, heartbroken and horrified, wanting to help, wishing I could. Yet knowing there’s nothing I can do except stay by her side and pray that she wakes up.

The ride to the hospital is a blur. Speeding and sirens, monitors and vital signs, warm IVs and warm blankets.  I vaguely remember Cole saying he wouldn’t be far behind, but the memory is as fractured as my mind seems. As my heart feels.