“I saw the Sheriff at your house, so I stopped and got that squared away.”

Ryan. I’d forgotten about him since Emmy went missing.

Emmy.

My precious Emmy.

I nod as one sob escapes. I clamp it off before it can boom out into the room by tucking my head against my arm and smothering the sound.  The coffee smell gets stronger as Cole approaches.  And then all I smell is him.  Cold ocean and warm skin.  Salt and soap.  Cole.

He wraps me in his scent even as he pulls me into his arms.  I bury my face against his neck and I cry. Silently.  My whole body shaking with my efforts to stay quiet.  I pray and I scream, I beg and I blame.  I love and I hate, all without uttering a sound other than my breath hitting Cole’s throat.

When my outburst has run its course, I pull away, sniffing as quietly as I can and then turning back to Emmy.  I take her hand back into mine and, together, Cole and I guard her, we shelter her, we love her back to life.

In the stillness of the room, with the muted beeps and whirs of monitors and machines as his only backdrop, Cole tells Emmy a story.

“Once upon a time, there was a lonely man building a sandcastle on the beach.  He was used to the cool sand and the cool wind, but never had he felt a warmer breeze than he felt on this one particular day. It wasn’t coming from the sea or from the southeast as it so often did. This one was coming from somewhere closer.  With his hands in the sand, the man stopped and turned around.  Standing right behind him was the most beautiful little girl.  She looked so much like someone he loved and lost. She had shiny black hair and big green eyes.  She looked just like her mother, who was standing beside her.  Both of them took the man’s breath away.  He started to turn away, but he couldn’t.  He couldn’t turn his back on them.  Instead, he gave the little girl a daisy.  They were the favorite flower of the child he lost. And then, the little girl and her mother walked away.  The man knew when they did, that he would never be the same again. He knew he would never forget the two beautiful girls on the beach that day.  And he didn’t.  He thought about them every day. He even dreamed about them sometimes, dreamed about laughing with them, playing with them.  Loving them like families should love each other.  He started to worry that he’d never see them again, but God had a different plan.  The little girl and her beautiful mother moved into a house nearby and the man got to see them every day. Sometimes just through the window, but it was enough.  He knew then that he would fall in love with the little girl and her mother.  And he did.  Just like he dreamed that he would.”

Cole doesn’t look at me until his words have died, until they’ve given way to the heaviness of silence and fallen noiselessly to the floor.  But when he does, when he drags his eyes from Emmy’s pale face to mine, I feel all the love that he professed to have. I feel it like heat from a flame.  I see it like color from a painting. Vibrant splashes of red and green, blue and yellow, dotting the bleak landscape. Cutting through the clouds.

His eyes are on mine when he next he speaks.  “I love you, Emmy.  And I hope you can love me, too.”

A lump swells in my throat and tears well in my eyes.  There are still so many things to say, so many questions, so many things to work out, but Cole loves me. He loves us.  It’s there, plain as day.  And I love him, too. I have to believe that the rest can be sorted through later.  Right now is a time for love and unity and strength. For Emmy.  She needs us right now.

It’s the twitch of her fingers within mine that stops my heart.  But it starts running again, at breakneck speed, when Emmy makes a low whimpering sound.

I stand and bend over her, rubbing my hand across her forehead.  “Emmy?  Can you hear me, sweetpea?”

She doesn’t respond, but her brow wrinkles.  I turn to Cole.  “Get the nurse.”

He leaves immediately, jogging from the room.

“Emmy, can you open your eyes?”  I watch. I wait. I hold my breath.  Nothing.  “Emmy, please, baby. It’s Momma. Can you open your eyes and look at me?”

Her eyelids twitch. Or do they? I stare at them.  Hard. As if willing them to move.  Did I imagine that?  Or did they actually move?

Cole comes back with Vera, who moves to the bed and starts checking things.  When she goes to lift Emmy’s left eyelid to shine the light in, Emmy flinches and turns her head away.

The nurse lowers the light and reaches beneath the mountain of covers.  “Emmy, my name is Vera. Can you squeeze my fingers?”  No response.  “Emmy? Can you squeeze my fingers?”

I feel like my life, my entire existence, is balanced on a pinhead. My heart is beating so hard and so fast, I feel winded. Like I’ve climbed a hill or run a race.  And, in a way, it feels as though I have. And that I’m not yet done running.

“Emmy, ca–” Vera’s words are cut off and she smiles.  “Good girl.  Can you wiggle your toes for me?”

I see the slight movement under the blankets, but it’s not until a full two minutes later that I feel true relief.  That’s when my daughter opens her jewel green eyes, searches until she finds my face and whispers a hoarse, “I got to stay, Momma.”

THIRTY-ONE

Cole

IT’S BEEN A week to the day since Eden and I brought Emmy home from the hospital.  I’ve seen them every day. I can’t stay away and Eden doesn’t seem to want me to.  Neither does Emmy for that matter.  She’s opening up more and more every time I see her.

They invited me over for dinner tonight.  The table is set and Eden is waiting for the bread to finish baking.  Emmy has been on the floor drawing since I got here.  Everyone from doctors to nurses to Eden and me were all amazed and grateful that she had no neurological deficits of any kind.  Your rapid response, getting her out of the water and starting resuscitation immediately, are to thank for that.  A few minutes longer and she might not be here today.

I shudder to think what that might have felt like.  I know I couldn’t stand it again.  And Eden…it would’ve destroyed her world.  And that would’ve even further destroyed mine.

All of a sudden, Emmy hops up and walks a picture over to me, holding it out for me to take.  “Is this for me?” I ask.  She nods.

 There are eight hands, each at a different place around a sandcastle.  The positioning is a little clumsy, but for a six year old, it’s amazingly accurate and detailed. I can easily make out what it is.

I slide off my kitchen chair and squat down in front of her, intent on thanking her.  But before I can, she surprises me by throwing her arms around my neck.  Hesitantly, I curl my arms around her thin body and hold her to me.  She doesn’t move or wriggle or seem uncomfortable.  She just squeezes me as tightly as her little arms will allow.

When she lets me go, she puts her thumb in her mouth.  “Thank you, Emmy. This is beautiful.”

She watches me intently, then, after a few seconds, she reluctantly takes her thumb out and surprises me even more.  By speaking her first words to me.

“Do you know who they are?” she asks.

I hear Eden gasp behind me. I don’t have to turn to know that she has tears in her eyes or to know that she’s wearing a breathtaking smile. One, I’m sure, is hidden by hands covering her mouth.  I can picture her standing in the kitchen behind me as clearly as I can see the drawing Emmy made for me, held between my hands.

“No, who are they?” I answer.

She points to the two bigger pairs of hands.  “These are yours and Mom’s,” she explains.  “These are mine.  And these are your little girl’s.”  Shyly, she raises her eyes to mine.  She’s standing so close and staring so deep, I can count every darker green fleck around the center of her irises. I smile. I don’t say anything for several seconds. I don’t quite trust myself to speak yet.