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Because my body thinks I’m still under that water, believes I’m still drowning.
The panic has finally come for me.
“She’s hyperventilating,” Cooper says but he sounds far away. “I wonder how much water she swallowed. Maybe she should see a doctor.”
“Probably a lot. I had to swim down at least six feet to get her.”
“No doctors,” I manage.
Cooper pats my back and Ethan stares at me like he’s staring at a ghost.
“Why the hell not?” Ethan demands.
Isn’t it obvious? “I can’t afford a doctor.”
“To hell you can’t.” He sounds angry now, like it’s completely unreasonable and stupid that I’d refuse medical care because of the cost. And it’s not like he’s completely off base because there are government programs that will pay for my medical expenses, but I can’t wrap my mind around trying to figure those out right now. Besides, I’m okay. I’m breathing. I made it. I’m alive. Isn’t that what I wanted? To feel alive?
Well, I fucking succeeded.
With that thought, I lean forward and vomit salt water.
Ten
The Fourth of July is my favorite holiday for many reasons, but the main one is that I love firework shows. Crowds normally bother me, but crowds watching fireworks are the exception. I don’t mind all the people or the loud booms because I get to marvel at the display. Even the scent of gunpowder in the air makes me nostalgic.
All that, and I get to belong.
Growing up in foster care meant that I wasn’t always included in holidays, but most people in Massachusetts go out and enjoy the big shows that the cities put on. The whole community is involved and nearly everyone I lived with would take me to watch fireworks. Even the employees at the group home made a trip out of it. It was free. It was fun. It was festive. And sitting under the fireworks, surrounded by darkness and dazzling lights and strangers made me feel like I was a part of something.
I love it, and I’m determined that tonight won’t be different.
Because while I haven’t been very welcome on Nantucket, the fireworks show tonight is for everybody. I finish up my work and get ready for what will be a great night.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I take in my patriotic reflection. I look normal, just like a happy and healthy girl ready for a night of celebration. Not like someone who nearly drowned four days ago. Most importantly, I look like someone who belongs, like every other American girl on this day.
After saving my life, the twins took me to the doctor for a check-up and insisted on paying for it. The doctor checked for something called secondary drowning, which is when water gets into your lungs and you end up aspirating on it later. Fortunately, I was fine and able to return back to the house to rest. The next day I got back to work like nothing happened . . . but something did happen. And every time I think about it, about how I went skinny dipping in broad daylight, nearly drowned, and was saved by Ethan dragging my naked ass to shore, I cringe.
I still don’t know if he meant to call me baby. Does he even know he said that?
With a heavy sigh, I tuck a curl behind my ear and assess my distressed jean shorts, red tank top, white sandals, and light makeup. It’s not perfect, but it’s good enough for tonight. I look festive––that’s what matters, right?
I don’t know what the Kings are up to tonight and I don’t really care. I’m off work for the holiday and I’m going to enjoy it without worrying about my employers.
That is until I step into the hallway and hear the music coming from out on the patio.
Another party.
Not the kind of obnoxious party from last week but the kind thrown by middle-aged wealthy people with middle-aged wealthy friends. I know better than to go out there and get wrangled into some kind of cleanup job on my day off. Besides, aren’t “the help” supposed to be invisible at times like these? I slip up the stairs and through the side door to retrieve my bike from the garage. Cars are being lined up on the driveway by a hired valet and I chuckle to myself because heaven forbid rich people park their own cars.
I haven’t been on my bike in a week and I smile when I climb aboard, hands flexing on the familiar handlebars.
It’s going to be a good night.
It’s going to be a good night.
It’s going to be a good night.
That’s my mantra today. I’ve been repeating it all day, probably because deep down I’m nervous that it won’t be. I’m not someone who gets her hopes up very often, but when it comes to the Fourth of July, I can’t help but want it to be great.
