Page 42 of Black Waters

My brother’s words echoed in my dying mind, triggering the man in me back to life.

I’ve heard people try to explain a time when you fight like no other—when giving up is not an option. This was my time to fight—fight for three—so I did. With one arm holding my family, I started our ascent toward the surface that seemed light years away so that I could somehow bring them back to life.

To my left, through the spots forming in my vision, I saw our small rowboat racing toward Whit’s dock, but I knew I would get there before my parents. More panic rushed through me because I wasn’t sure how I was going to keep two dead forms afloat once we surfaced. I wasn’t even sure how I was managing to get us up to the surface.

My face finally broke free from our liquid death. I inhaled, gasping, and suddenly felt the weight of destiny. Whit’s and Crash’s weight kept demanding we sink again. Feeling the lake agreeing and pulling us back under, I screamed as if someone was ripping my soul from my chest. “HELP ME!”

Water engulfed us again…

Dad grabbed Crash and pulled him into their rowboat boat while Mom reached for Whit. I simply couldn’t let her go.

Dad yelled, “Reeth! We need a flat surface to start CPR!”

Choking on water, I one-handedly pulled myself to the dock’s ladder while holding Whit to me. I climbed one step then threw her soaked, limp body over my shoulder and raced up to the flat surface the boards offered. All the while, Mom held onto the same ladder so Dad could use the boat to get Crash’s body up and over onto the dock.

Coughing, I laid Whitney on the wood as my dad got on his knees next to Crash. “You had this training when you were ten, Reeth.”

I nodded, still trying to breathe myself as I remembered thinking that the school’s CPR class had seemed stupid. Now, I had never been so thankful. My palms went to work, mirroring my father’s efforts on Crash. Side by side, we fought to bring them back to life.

We feverishly worked, pumping chests and begging for breaths to be taken. Even though my own lungs begged for attention, I blew into Whit’s mouth over and over … “Breathe, baby, please.” I would no longer have a need for more air if she didn’t survive, so I told my lungs to kiss my ass and work only for her.

Mom cried on her knees, touching her son’s wet face, begging God, “Have mercy on my tortured soul. Damn it! Please.”

I pumped Whit’s chest while watching Crash’s body jerk from my father’s persistence. Crash was horribly pale. I didn’t want to see what I already knew, so I closed my eyes and blew into Whitney’s mouth.

She convulsed, spitting water on my face, into my mouth, but I didn’t care. Whit was alive. My eyes snapped open to see Whit struggling. “Whit! Baby! Breathe.”

“Roll her to her side! She’s choking on the water coming up.” My father still vigorously worked on Crash. Then he told my mom, “Breathe.”

Mom pushed her oxygen into her dead son…

Crash never breathed on his own again.

Whitney gagged and coughed, her soul fighting to reenter this world.

Marina Jones held her son, Harold “Crash” Thompson, to her chest as she rocked his lifeless body. In the distance, sirens sang to us as they rushed to save a life that had already, mercifully, disappeared.