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Fifteen Years Before
JAMIE
On an otherwise quiet winter night, paramedics rushed through the woods in hopes of saving a seventeen-year-old girl. The group, a man and two women, hopped across large stones jutting up through a river nearly too wide for this classification. The goal: cross as quickly as possible without breaking their own necks.
The girl’s life depended on it.
I watched the rescue group without being seen. Followed them without ever taking a step. Fully aware that, try as I might, I’d never be able to yell loud enough for them to hear me.
After all, the living never heard the dead.
And the dead never traveled through time in a linear manner. I’d been here before. Lived this scene from a much different perspective, and then visited a million more times in my memory.
I already knew the outcome.
One of the women shined a flashlight ahead, illuminating the area enough to travel safely. On both sides of the water, a sliver of dirt accompanied them, ground so narrow no one could traverse. Passing along the rocks in the water was the only way to get to their final destination.
This route brought them to the other side of the trail—on a path that led to what locals unofficially referred to as thepoolof Stony Point. A natural body of water hidden in the edges of Forest Park, a massive wooded area within the city limits of Portland, Oregon. During a typical summer day, thepoolfilled with so many people you could barely wade in the water without bumping into another person.
But this was smack in the middle of January—too cold for anyone to take a midnight dip. What was a place of enjoyment in the summer could be equally dangerous in the winter.
In the darker months, the pool was an especially popular spot for suicide.
The EMTs safely passed onto the trail, leaving the rocks behind them. Ahead, a large body of water glistened beneath the night sky. One of the women pointed her flashlight toward the shoreline, and two teen bodies I recognized came into focus.
The teen version of myself hovered over the young woman in question, my features undistinguishable in the dim light. I watched the me from the past wave my arms frantically in order to get the attention of the paramedics.
The man in the rescuing party clutched his carrier bag against his side. He rushed toward the two of us, his orange case glowing beneath a half-crescent moon. His square yet limber body stepped cautiously. When he neared the girl, he dropped to the ground next to her and unzipped his bag, addressing the younger version of myself.
“What’s her name?” the man asked, ripping out a backboard. The two female EMTs were already at work on the girl’s body, checking for signs of life and attempting compression to pump the air back into her lungs.
“Jemma,” my teen self said. Voice barely a whisper.
“Your name?” the man asked, though he didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the answer.
“Jamie.” Another whisper.
The man hurriedly stuck the board next to Jemma, steadying the surface, readying it for the team to roll her on top of.
I studied the scene closely from the sidelines, my eyes unable to leave Jemma. With her dark hair and curvy figure, she appeared the same way she had the last time I’d seen her.
Of course, this was the last time I’d seen her.
The night she tried to kill herself.
Seeing us, seeing her, after all this time— it was like seeing a ghost.
Except… I was the ghost.
One of the women pumped a hand against Jemma’s chest. I took note of the drenched ponytail which clung to the side of Jemma’s head, eyes clamped shut. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, switching on the light and pointing it in the direction of the boy I’d once been.
I watched as the Jamie of yesteryear leaned into his arms, shoulders slumped forward, and hands fisted against the dirt. This kid wore a uniform. A Stony Point Academy boarding school shirt with an engraving of the name on the left breast pocket. His clothing and hair appeared as wet as the girl lying unconscious beside them.
“Has she been responsive at all?” the man asked Teen Jamie.
“No.” The kid kept on looking down at the ground.
“Jemma. Can you hear me?” one of the women asked.
