Wake up.
Those two words snap me out of sleep. They are not my words but sound
very familiar. So black. I’ve never been anywhere that it was this
dark. Wait a minute are my eyes open? I blink to make sure, but there
is no difference between the blackness in front of me and the blackness
under my eyelids. I take a deep gasp of air just to make sure I’m not
dreaming. The air is cold down the back of my throat.
Cold air unlike that of a crisp winter evening or the chilly breeze of
an open freezer. There is something different about it, something heavy
and almost sinister. Where in the hell am I? Wait, back up, who in the
hell am?
Bill Parsons. That’s my name. I’m thirty years old, married, have two
kids and a beautiful wife. Okay that’s a start. I just woke up so that
means I’ve been asleep. I’m in a chair. I try to raise up but
something keeps me held to the seat. Someone has tied me down. My
fingers then my hands, put this irrational idea to rest as they slide
down the man-made fabric from my neck to my waist. I unclick the button
next to my hip. I am in a vehicle.
My own vehicle actually. I still cannot see two inches in front of my
face but I know it is my vehicle because of the steering wheel and the
location of the gearshift, the height of the dashboard, the console on
my right. A Dodge Durango. It is less than two months new, but there
is no illumination from the dashboard, no life from under the hood.
Immediately I try to open the door. It won’t budge. Maybe it’s
locked. I lift the lock in the door manually and tug on the handle
again. The lever opens but the door does not. Something is blocking
it. Where the hell am I?
I can hear something, liquid maybe, dripping from under the dash. I
hope it is not gas. I listen more closely and here drips from all over
the interior of the vehicle. I reach the ignition if only to find the
key and turn on the electrical for some light. I turn the key.
Nothing.
I feel sharp little pains in my feet, like a million little hot needles
canvassing every millimeter of my skin. But that isn’t really a hot
sensation is it? It’s so cold it feels hot. In that instant I blow a
puff of air into the darkness. I cannot see my breath in front of me,
but I know it is there.
I reach into my jean pocket and push my fingers down to the bottom. I
retrieve the lighter. I have a lighter because I smoke. Actually, I
did smoke, I quit a year ago but sneak a cig or two when nobody’s
looking, like during holidays…it’s Christmas. That’s right, we spent
the day at Jen’s folks. I drove separate. What the hell happened?
I press my thumb down on the little lever on the back of the lighter.
On the second stroke there is spark and then a flame. Bingo just as I
thought, I’m in the Durango. Everything is just how or where it should
be. I keep the flame outstretched in front of me, turning my head at
the same rate as the lighter, as if they’re connected somehow. The seat
beside me is empty.
I put the flame to the windshield then to my window. There is nothing
but blackness beyond both pieces of glass. The needles poke me in the
feet again. This time I wiggle my toes and my shoes make a splash. I
put the light down to the floorboard and see the water up to my ankles.
The chill of realization shoots up my spine. Somehow I am under water.
I drop the lighter into the growing pond on my floorboard.
In a flash, I remember every detail of my life, the good and bad, the
happy and sad. But it all comes to a halt—I can’t think of a more
terrible scenery to be in. I’ve woken up in a pitch-black tomb of metal
and water. I am trapped in my new SUV, sinking slowly to the bottom of
some dark lake, sinking to my last resting place.
I
take three deep breaths in a row, not because the water has risen that
high (although it will), but because I am panicking. Somewhere deep
inside I can hear a very soft voice repeatedly saying “stay calm”. That
voice however is drowned out by the screaming and yelling of another,
“get out, you’re never going to see your kids again, you’re going to
drown, you’re not ready to die.”
Stop. There silence again, except for the leaking water. It now
occurs to me why I cannot open my door. It has something to do with
pressure. The water is so heavy against and on top of the Durango.
There is air in the interior. The door will open easily once the cab
has filled with water. I’m not sure how I know this, but I do. It
could have something to do with the Discovery Channel. It could be
because of physics class back in high school.
The water is up to my knees now. I am oddly calm, taking comfort in the
idea of letting the Durango fill with water. Once submerged, I will
open the door and swim to freedom. Sounds simple. I wonder how long I
will have to hold my breath. I wonder how deep I have sunk. Am I still
sinking? If I do manage to escape will I know which way is up? It is
so dark. It is night and there is no light from above.
I turn the key backwards in the ignition and for a brief instant the
power comes on—the radio blares a loud blurb, the speedometer and
odometer glow green, the clock reads 9:55, and hanging from the ceiling
the temperature gage displays the number 34. How long can a human last
in 34-degree water? My Discovery Channel knowledge fails to answer this
time. I refuse to be negative. I have two kids. Survival is the only
option. Once again it is dark.
I reach in my back pocket and retrieve my wallet. I flip it open and
thumb to my favorite picture. Although I can’t see the picture with my
eyes, I see it with my mind. Rachel is on the couch holding Ryan. She
is two and a half. He is four months. Rachel has blond hair and blue
almost silver eyes. She goes to dance, can count to ten, and thinks
that I am Superman. Ryan smiles all the time. He watches his big
sister run and play, and seems to be taking it all in so when the time
is right he will know exactly what to do. For an infant he cries very
little and has a laugh that can melt my heart. I kiss the picture and
smile.
My smile is erased in a split second because of the sound behind me. It
is a small cough. All at once my memory is restored. Christmas.
Dinner at the in-laws. Jen and I drove separate. I took the kids…with
me. My head snaps back only to see a blanket of darkness in the back of
the Durango. I think about my lighter floating down by my feet. A
small voice says “daddy”. It takes everything I’ve got to hold down
vomit in my stomach. My worst nightmare has come true.
“Yes baby,” I say with the confident voice a child expects from her
father. But deep down my mind is racing. Swimming to freedom through
freezing water by myself is one thing—but with two young kids? Ryan
can’t even crawl yet. How can I get him to hold his breath? How far
down are we?
The cruel surrounding water seems to answer my last question as the
tires of the Durango hit rock bottom and a dull thud jars its way
through the metallic skeleton of the vehicle. We’re at the bottom of
the lake. An even scarier thought occurs to me. If the water
temperature is 34 degrees down here, what could it be at the surface?
What if the top of the lake is frozen? Oh dear lord, I have to remember
how we got here. I rub the bump on my head as if it will give me a clue
and then the steering wheel in front of me. There is some sort of
plastic elevated molding in the middle of the wheel. It is a ram head,
the standard logo for all Dodge vehicles. I make a mental note that if
I survive this, I’ll have to bitch at the dealer because the air bag
failed to deploy. Funny, the things you think about in a time of
crisis.
Now I remember everything. Jen and I drove separate because of the
amount of presents, pies, and food we had to get over to her parents.
At the end of the day I took the kids with me and drove the usual route
home, which happens to take us over Collingston Lake Bridge. I’m
Dreaming of a White Christmas played on the radio. I looked down
for a split second to turn the volume up. When I looked up headlights
were oncoming in my lane. I swerved into the other lane but it was too
late. The other car plowed me in the front passenger side tire well.
The Durango spun around twice and then smashed through the metal
guardrail, which had the endurance of wrapping paper. That’s when I hit
my head and the lights went out. The bridge was low to the water, maybe
only ten feet from the water.
“Daddy, I’m scared. Where we going?”
“We’re going home baby. Can you see your baby brother next to you? Is
he sleeping?”
“Yeah…he’s sleepin’. I’m cold daddy.”
“I know baby we’ll be home in a minute. Why don’t you try to go back to
sleep.”
I hate lying to her about anything, but in this case it’s a necessity.
Rachel is as smart as a whip. It’s only a matter of time before the
water rises to her tiny feet dangling off her car seat, and then she’ll
know something is definitely wrong. Better to have the panic later than
sooner. I’ve still got to come up with some sort of plan before I take
on the mind of a two year old in these circumstances.
Cell Phone. I quit carrying mine five years ago when I realized that
the only thing it really does is take time away from you. I’m sure it’s
intended use was the exact opposite, but it’s never the one you want it
to be ringing on the other end, it’s always someone wanting something
from you, a favor, money, your time. The smarter part of me did however
tuck it away in the glove compartment of my Honda civic and recently the
Durango.
Five seconds of a blind hand clubbing over insurance papers and owner
manuals, then my fingers wrap around the cell phone. The charging cord
dangles from its end. I only hope that it is the ignition or engine
that was failing and not the battery. I plug the cylinder shaped male
connecter into the lighter, press the power button on the cell, and then
again. On the third try the display illuminates and immediately reads:
LOW BATTERY. I don’t know if this is because the phone is charging and
has filled up some or if the car battery is dead and this is just the
last pulsing beats of technology housed in plastic. I dial 9-1-1.
The other line rings only once.
“Nine one one what is your emergency?”
“I’ve been in a terrible accident. I was hit by another vehicle and
crashed into Lake Collingston. I’ve sunken to the bottom of the lake
and my SUV is filling with water. I have two small children with…”
“Nine one one what is your emergency?”
I speak louder. “I’m at the bottom of Lake Collingston. I need help.
My children are going to drown.”
“Hello is anyone there?”
I can hear the operator perfectly fine, but she cannot hear me.
There is a whining sound from the back seat. It is Rachel discovery
that there is freezing cold water trying to get her feet. The whine
escalates into crying.
“Hello,” the operator says again. “Can you pick up the phone darling?”
I look at the phone and then toward the silver eyes in the back seat.
Somehow she can hear Rachel but not me. A thousand stupid explanations
race through my head. I settle on the theory that the cell phone is
picking up higher pitched tones, maybe because we are under water. It
doesn’t sound right, but I have to live with it.
The water is over my knees.
“Rachel you have to help daddy, okay? Just repeat what I say. Just
like Simon Says.”
Rachel says verbatim what comes out of my mouth. I turn around in my
seat, lean over it, and with one hand unbuckle Rachel’s car seat. With
the other I hold up the cell phone. The charging cord stretches with no
problem. The cell phone display lights up the tears on Rachel’s face.
I love that face.
“We are at the bottom of Collingston Lake,” Rachel repeats after me.
“We need help. We are at the bottom.”
“Is your daddy there honey?”
Rachel answers immediately, “Yeah. But he can’t talk.”
That’s my girl. Sometimes she utterly amazes me with her intelligence.
She knows there’s something wrong with the phone and doesn’t waste time
in making a long conversation short. My pride is short lived and
Rachel’s quick wit is blacked out. The cell phone is dead.
I
unplug and replug the power cord into the lighter socket. Nothing. I
hit the power button on top of the phone. There is brief glimmer of
illumination and then black screen. Again I push the button, hoping to
myself that there is some life, some power that can overcome a short
circuit in the plastic technology first built in some oriental land and
now in the palm of my hand. My second attempt is futile.
I’m snapped back from a place called wishful thinking by the small voice
behind me. “Daddy, I’m cold. There’s wawa.”
“I know baby. We’re going to get out of here in just a minute.” I look
down at my own legs to see that the water is almost totally covering my
thighs. Oddly, the sharp biting pens of cold are gone. I guess my legs
are numb. A mental note registers that my brain rejects. That note is
in bold letters and states. You’re running out of time.
The dashboard of the Durango is larger than most
vehicles. There is a good two and half feet from the steering wheel to
the windshield. I pick Rachel up and lay her between the wheel and the
glass. She curls up into a ball, tucks her hands under her chin, and
shrugs her shoulders. The heat was on full blast before our accident
and the left over warmth on the dash tricks Rachel into thinking of
fireplaces and heated blankets. She closes her eyes and smiles.
I have to get busy thinking about the moment. Wasted seconds means
wasted lives. Lake Collingston is fifty feet deep at its deepest
point. I know this because we boat on the lake every so often in the
summer. There are free pamphlets about the lake at the concession
stand. I can’t help but scan one over every time we put the boat in,
even though I’ve read it countless times.
Fifty feet. It doesn’t sound like much, but when you factor in ice cold
water, two kids under the age of two that will have to hold their breath
for an extended amount of time, a sheet of ice at the top, fifty feet
sounds damn near unconquerable. Ryan starts to cry in the seat behind
me. I refuse to be negative.
I turn around, placing my knees on the seat and the water, click the
belt in Ryan’s car seat, grab the bottle in the bag next to him, and
hoist my son into the front seat. He is dressed in what my wife calls a
onesy. It is thick and blue and Ryan seems unaware of the chilling
forces around him. I stick the bottle in his mouth and the crying stops
immediately. His eyes squint and his irises roll back under his lids
like a drug addict that finally found his fix.
Two ideas enter my mind, both positive in nature. Babies hold their
breath on their own. It’s just a built in instinct that either God or
evolution put there. I’ve seen on TV where babies are taken under water
and seem to love it. Babies also have brown fat, which to make a long
story short, gives them the ability to almost hibernate. They can
withstand harsh periods of cold and last a good deal longer in it than
grown adults. I remember watching on National Geographic a family who
had car problems in a blizzard. After a couple of days they decided to
brave the elements and go for help. The baby was wrapped up and placed
on a makeshift sled. Halfway through the journey they discovered the
baby not breathing and believed it to be dead. The family ended up
finding help but it cost the father his feet and the mother a couple of
fingers. The baby didn’t have a scratch on it and woke up from
hibernation as soon as it was exposed to warm air. While these
thoughts are encouraging, I still feel sick to my stomach that I will
have to put them to the test.
Though I try to stay focused on the task at hand—the survival of my
family—my mind rewinds to events earlier in the day. I can’t imagine a
more ideal place to have Christmas than Jen’s parents. It’s like
traveling to the North Pole. There are millions upon millions of bright
bulbs strung everywhere a string can be hung. There is a life-like
Santa and Mrs. Clause waving in the front yard, surrounded by elves,
snowmen, candy canes, reindeer, baby Jesus and the nativity
scene—there’s even a train that the grandkids can ride in around the
house into the backyard where more lighted fixtures stand ready to
impress. It feels like home there. My parents passed when I was in my
twenties—my father of a heart attack and my mother of a broken heart—but
I still have a haven away from home. I still have one of those places I
can go and tap into the kind wisdom of a parent figure.
There are probably fifty people at Christmas dinner. The dining room
only holds ten so every room in the house is injected with tables and
chairs. After eight years in the family I’ve not made it to the main
table in the dining room, nor do I want to—that would mean that someone
had passed on. Jen’s mother cooks most of the meal although everyone is
required to bring something. If there are fifty people at dinner, there
is enough food for two hundred. Jen’s father reads Christmas tales
after dinner for the numerous grandkids (Jen has six sisters), but if
you look around there are just as many adults with smiles one their
faces.
Jen will stay at her parents’ well into the night if not the early
morning. She does every year. It is the only day of the year that her
whole family is together. Jen is the only one of the sisters that lives
in town. They talk and drink wine and reminisce, telling the same
stories that never get old.
Someone sober will drive Jen home. She will wake me and we’ll do it for
as long as I can hold on. I’ll ask her if it was alright for her just
like I always do, and she will lie saying yes just like she always
does. She will make me go get left over pumpkin pie and whipped cream
and bring them up stairs to bed. She’ll tell me the same stories her
and her sisters talked about and laugh like it’s the first time she’s
ever heard or told them. I just watch and smile and look at her as she
eats.
As good as the sex has been and has gotten what I’ll miss most is the
talking after. The questions about our kids. The conversation in the
kitchen on Sunday mornings before church, as we attempt to read the
newspaper and drink coffee. Watching her read to Rachel and Ryan. I
loved her so much after three months of dating that I never thought it
would last, that it couldn’t get any better. That love has changed,
matured from a coveting of beauty to something science can’t explain, a
bond that makes two people one. A bond that says not only are you my
lover and my best friend but you are an irreplaceable part of me. I
only wish to touch her if not for one more time. To run my fingers
through her hair as she eats pumpkin pie…pumpkin pie.
I snap my head back to the cargo area in the back. It is useless of
course; there is nothing but a sheet of black in front of my eyes. I
climb over the seats holding Ryan close to my shoulder. I place him
back in his car seat. I lean over the second row of seats and my hand
feels around the cargo area. After nothing but carpet for several
seconds my arm bangs against the object that popped in my head at the
thought of pumpkin pie.
Jen cooked several pies for dinner and wanted to keep them warm in
transit. She insisted we take my long cooler, the one with wheels, and
long handle. I never thought it would be used for anything other than
keeping my beer cold. Now it might save my children’s life.
I open the lid and feel around the edges. There is more than enough
area to hold both children. I don’t know how long they can breath in
there, but it has to be better than the alternative.
There are several little snaps around me. I can’t see them but I know
the windows are cracking. I put my hands on the glass closest to Ryan,
and trace the cruel spider web breaks up the window. There is no water
leaking from them, but it will only be a matter of time.
I drag the cooler to the front seat, dump out the dishes and pie pans.
I’m not sure if the cooler lid will stay shut once we are swimming for
the surface. I take my belt off and rap it around the plastic box, but
it is well short of connecting. Seatbelts and car seat material cross
my mind. Both are materials that need to be cut and I am fresh out of
survival knives. I grab the charging cord that is still hanging from
the lighter outlet. It stretches around the cooler but will be hard to
tie off. There is no other solution. The curly phone wire will have to
do.
I hear more cracks in the windows. The noise is like the popping of the
rice cereal in the bottom of Rachel’s breakfast bowl. We are out of
time. Rachel starts crying. The sound is different than usual. These
are pleads of helplessness. Although she is too young to know exactly
what’s going on, she is smart enough to know we are in dire
circumstances. She knows we might not make it.
I pick her up and bring her face inches from my own.
“Listen to me baby.”
She stops crying the instant she hears my voice.
“We’re going to see mommy okay? But it’s going to take a few minutes.”
“Why daddy?”
“We’ve been in accident. We have to get to the top of the lake.”
Rachel looks around at the windows, as if now realizing we are
underwater. She does not cry. The tears from before are already dry on
her cheeks.
“You have to get in this cooler though, baby okay? You and Ryan have to
stay in there the whole time.”
“We go hide, daddy? You come find us?”
“That’s right baby just like hide and seek. Only you can’t open that
lid. No matter what stay in there until I get you out.” I squeeze her
shoulders. “Promise me no matter what you won’t open the lid.”
“I will daddy.”
“That’s a good girl. Now you have to be a big sister and hold onto
Ryan. Keep the bottle in his mouth okay. You know you’re daddy’s
favorite girl, right?”
“Okay daddy.”
I look into those metallic eyes of hers. Somehow in the darkness they
still reflect some light. Those smart but helpless eyes. I see her
first day of kindergarten, softball games, high school graduation, and
her wedding. I see my grandkids. I feel my eyes burn but no tears will
come. I smile anyway. I know that I will do everything I can to make
it to the surface.
I lay Rachel in the cooler.
I pick Ryan from his car seat and hold up in front of me. He is chewing
his fingers. “Hi big boy”. I kiss his cheek hard. He smiles at me.
It’s like looking in the mirror. I kid with Jen that he’s my clone. I
place him on top of Rachel. She wiggles a bit to get comfortable but
does not complain. Ryan begins to scream. I put his bottle in Rachel’s
right had. Without a word she slips it into his lips and the crying
stops.
“Good job baby.”
“Thank you daddy.”
“Remember when I shut this lid, don’t try and open it. We’ll be with
mommy in a few seconds. Do you understand?”
“Daddy?”
“Yes baby.” My voice is high pitched and wavering.
“I love you daddy.”
“I love you baby.”
I shut the lid and rap the cord around as fast as I can. If I don’t I
will never be able to. I pull it hard and double not it at the top. I
unbuckle my belt and run it through the handle of the cooler. I pull
the leather tight—tighter than usual. I have left over belt after the
buckle. I tie it around the handle again for good measure. My eyes are
blurry but the tears still don’t come. There is more snapping and
popping. The water is up to my chest now and the cooler floats next to
me, the top of it touching the ceiling. For whatever reason I am still
not cold. Chilly, but not cold.
My mouth and nose are against the ceiling now, and I’m gasping hard for
air. I have to get that one last breath that will have to last…it will
have to last until the kids are safe.
I say the Lord’s Prayer quickly in my head. At the end of it I add:
Please let us get to Jen. I can’t remember the last time I prayed.
It was probably another time when I thought I couldn’t do it by
myself—back against the wall. Wasn’t it always like that? I wished
everything I ever prayed for—money, jobs, cars, homes—I wish I could
take them all back. I didn’t mean any of it. This is what I want.
Please Lord.
I take my last breath.
The water covers my face.
Total darkness. Total silence. Only the slight movement of the water.
I feel for my belt just to make sure it is still secured to the handle
of the cooler. I pull on door with my left hand. It opens with ease.
I flow out of the Durango pulling the red plastic box behind me. I can
tell by the handle being horizontal that it is floating next to me,
almost tying to ascend. I kick with my legs and pull with my arms. I
open my eyes to see nothing but blackness round me. Above me, the
surface is a lighter shade of black. I feel like I am in black hole.
My legs kick harder. My arms pull faster. The most precious treasure
chest in the world clings to my belt and follows beside me.
I swim upwards as fast and desperate as possible. I can tell that I am
moving only because the darkness above me is getting lighter—moving from
coal to tar and now to almost the gray of dirty dishwater. I check
constantly to make sure the cooler is attached to my belt. How badly I
want to open the lid and make sure they’re all right. How badly I want
to make sure they are still breathing. But that’s why I must keep
moving. And that’s why I do.
I see faces in the void around me, like the shadows in the corner of
your room when you were a kid trying to go to sleep. Some of the faces
are familiar. Some are not. What could only be Satan smiles at me and
reaches out a helping hand. I know better than to take it and look up
toward my destination. In a blink the deceiver is gone. My father
takes his place, but only looks on as a spectator. His lips do not move
and his eyes seem to know something I don’t. With a swipe of my hand
the water erases him. Jen looks at me with her hands folded. She is
smiling because she knows I will never stop. I will never quit until
our babies are safe.
I am an accountant. That’s were I spend ninety percent of my time. It
is my well-being but it does not define me as a man. My job in fact is
the last thing that comes to my mind. Right now and always I am a
father swimming through freezing water to save my life and the life of
family. The water should be freezing me but it is only chilly. My
lungs should be burning from lack of oxygen but I feel no need to
breath. I am on full adrenaline, have to be. People lift cars off of
loved ones when they have no other choice. I have only one choice.
Keep going up.
The top of the lake is now the color of dirty snow—frozen powder tinted
with the grease and grime of the streets. It won’t be long now, thirty
seconds, maybe less. I feel the cooler on my belt. I wonder how much
oxygen they have left. I hope the water cannot get in. Don’t think
such things.
My limbs work even harder. I’m on the last home stretch
of a short marathon. I feel no pain. My muscles do not burn. It will
be only seconds until I see those precious faces. I smile…until I hit
the frozen ice on top of the lake. It is some cruel joke. With both
hands I push but my body is only propelled downward. I rise up again,
this time feeling along the bottom of the ice barrier, searching for a
break, a crack, anything. Rachel and Ryan are suffocating. In
the frigid waters of Lake Collingston my hands are sweating with panic.
I have come so far from the unlocked tomb. I am two inches from
freedom. I can even see through the ice to the faint circle—a moon
hanging in the December sky.
I refuse to be defeated. I will not quit. I swim quicker, using my
legs as both propeller and steering wheel. My hands slide across the
cold clear lid above me, hoping for a chink in its armor. I am a mime
trapped in an invisible box. I punch as I scale under the ice. I am
out of time. We are out of time. I punch like a boxer hitting the
heavy bag. My legs continue to kick. I will not quit.
There is a soft spot in the ice and my hand goes through it. I hold
onto the edge and kick with my legs. The break widens and now moonlight
pierces through the gloom. I see other lights from the bridge—car beams
and the cherries of police. I stick my head up, just enough for a quick
breath. I don’t want to pass out even though I feel remarkably fine. I
undo the belt from the handle of the cooler. I also untie the cell
cord. I let the cooler float up into the hole I’ve made. I shove and
kick and the cooler slides onto the frozen top of the lake. I continue
to kick as I grab the ice and pull with my arms. I am on my belly. The
air is not as cold as I though it would be.
I reach two feet to the cooler beside me and open the lid. There is no
movement, no sound. I figured on hearing two screaming kids.
“Daddy,” a quivering voice calls.
I get to my knees and look in. Rachel is shivering. Some lake water
seeped into the cooler and filled to about one fourth of the way up.
Ryan’s lips are blue. I put my hand on his chest, but it does not
move. He is not breathing.
“Don’t move,” a voice yells.
Two men in wet suits inch their way across the ice. They carry medical
cases. The bridge is fifty yards away, covered with emergency
vehicles. The people of Collingston occupy every inch of the bridge,
like ants hunkered down on a floating stick. Someone must have
witnessed our accident first hand. Or Rachel’s cell call got through.
The divers are at us in seconds. One of them covers Rachel with a towel
and scoots off with her back toward the bridge.
“Daddy!” Rachel screams. She is still scared and confused.
Jen breaks the grip of some policeman and runs out on the ice. The
diver hands my bundled Rachel over to her mother. Jen kisses her and
then tries to continue on toward Ryan and me. The diver stops her.
The other wet suit man has Ryan wrapped in a towel and is blowing into
his mouth. My son is not breathing. He has no heartbeat.
I stand there and try to cry because there is nothing I can do. The
tears will still not come. “Is there anything I can do?”
The man in the wet suit does not answer. He is too busy breathing for
my son, and pressing his little chest. I hear Jen screaming.
Numerous emergency medical professionals run across the ice. They form
a circle around my son. They throw out numbers and terminology I am not
familiar with. They are calm but tense. Let him live.
I hear a gurgle of water followed by a cry. Ryan is breathing.
They lift him off the ice. I reach out my arms but the EMT passes me by
and heads for the bridge. The rest of the rescuers follow. I realize
I’m being left behind and start to walk toward the bridge.
Ryan is whisked around Jen and placed into an awaiting ambulance on the
bridge. Rachel is taken out of her mother’s arms and placed in another
ambulance. Jen lets her go reluctantly. She looks out at the lake and
crosses her arms. She is worried about me.
“Go with them,” I yell. “I’m fine.”
Jen just stands there staring.
I pick up my pace to meet her. Though the ice looks thin under my feet,
it shows no signs of breaking or giving out. I can’t believe how warm I
am.
Forty yards from me the divers are swimming down the hole that the
Durango created. They swim holding a cable. It is connected to the
wench of a tow truck that sits on the bridge.
As I reach the point where Jen is standing, her father walks up and puts
his arm around her. They continue to watch the divers rescue our
vehicle. They must be in shock because they say nothing to me as I
stand next to them.
“Forget the Durango. Let’s go with kids.”
She does not answer.
“Jen?” I tap her on the shoulder.
She snuggles closer her to her father as if chilled by a cold gust of
wind.
“To hell with the damn car. Our babies are in the hospital.”
“I’m not leaving without him,” she says.
“Leaving without who?” I ask.
“Oh my god.” Jen covers her mouth, breaks her father’s hug, and runs
across the ice toward the hole. The divers have the Durango to the
surface. I follow Jen, still baffled at her interest in a replaceable,
fully insured vehicle.
“No!” Jen screams. The sound sends shivers down my spine. I follow her
line of sight to the divers. The have the door open. They are dragging
a man out from behind the steering wheel and lay him on the ice. I
swallow hard. Jen tries to get to the man, but there is freezing cold
water separating them. Two police officers and her father form a
blockade.
I walk toward the circle of emergency personal and the man lying on the
ice. I am three steps away from the chaos when I look down at my feet.
I am standing on water. Scared, I jump to the ice just a yard away.
There is no cracking. No sound of my shoes pouncing on ice.
They are performing CPR on the man. One of them mentions that it does
not look good. Another says one more time. They press on his chest.
They breathe into his mouth.
I look back at the water. I feel my face and realize it is neither cold
nor warm. Several times I had the urge to cry but could not. I remember
the 9-1-1 call. The operator could not hear me. I swam in freezing
cold water. My lungs never hurt for oxygen. Jen does not acknowledge
me. Jen cannot hear me. She cannot see me.
I look down at the EMT as he rises from the body lying on the ice. I
feel the gash on my forehead and see it on the man in front of me at the
same time. He is blue and wet and cold. He does not look human. He is
not alive. They throw a blanket over him.
Jen follows him to the ambulance.
The
crowd disperses from the bridge. People walk back to their cars like
the crowd of a movie theater that just let out. The ambulance pulls
away. The cop cars turn off their lights and disappear into the night.
Jen’s father tucks her into his truck and her crying is muffled when the
door shuts. The Durango is back on the bridge, being pulled behind the
tow truck.
It
is just the ice and I.
I am alone. I don’t know where to go.
“You did real good son. I’m proud of you.” Someone puts their hand on
my shoulder.
It is the same voice that told me to wake up at the bottom of the
lake. A familiar voice. I turn to see that it is my father.
“Rachel and Ryan are going to be just fine,” he says and smiles.
We begin to walk.