Page 41 of Catch the Sun

I fall to my knees beside her.

Everyone else is gone. They fled the scene.

I slam both clasped palms to her chest and pump, terror sluicing me as my wet bangs bounce in front of my eyes.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

I’m shaking, desperate, frantic.

I keep pumping. Keep trying. Keep begging.

“Come on, Ella. Come on.”

I bend down. I’m about to press my lips to hers, to give her fresh air and new life, but then she lurches up off the deck and gasps, her eyes pinging wide open.

Lake water pours out of her.

She rolls onto her side and retches, coughing up bile and mouthfuls of clear liquid.

She coughs and coughs, choking and spluttering, before returning to her back and inhaling more wheezy breaths. I push strands of knotted hair out of her eyes, stroking her forehead with the pad of my thumb. It’s an intimate gesture, but saving someone’s life is an intimate event. It doesn’t seem out of place.

Ella draws in waterlogged breaths, her lungs purging, her body convulsing as it comes back to life. Her wet top clings to her curves as her hair fans out across the dock in soaked, dark tangles. I keep stroking her forehead, telling her she’s okay, looming over her until her eyes deglaze and pan over to mine. She blinks up at me, her chest still heaving. Limbs quivering. Her lips part, searching for something to say.

I don’t let her speak. I’m too afraid of what those words might be.

I hate you.

How dare you.

You should have let me drown.

Instead, I lean down and whisper softly in her ear, just as the sun disappears beyond the horizon and the sky’s fire is snuffed out. “Hey, Sunny.”

Chapter 10

Ella

I think I hear…Christmas music.

Johnny Mathis.

He’s crooning about snow and mistletoe, and for a moment I’m stolen by a childhood reverie—a warm haven of nostalgia, snickerdoodle cookies, and those little pine tree air fresheners for the car. My parents would never purchase a real tree because Jonah was allergic to pine needles. So, I’d improvise. I’d gather my allowance, ride my bike to the grocery store, and collect a respectable number of my favorite spruce-scented air fresheners. When I got home, I’d decorate the tree with them, dangling the strings from the plastic needles and inhaling the musty aroma of artificial pine.

Close enough.

Johnny Mathis used to serenade us throughout the month of December. Mom loved to play this shoddy, old VHS tape of Johnny aimlessly strolling through holiday backdrops with people in mortifying nineties Christmas sweaters. It was some kind of seasonal special that aired and it was beyond hokey, but she loved it. We loved it because Mom loved it, and…well, years later, I guess I love it, too. It reminds me of a happier time, sweet moments trapped inside of a magical snow globe.

My head starts to throb.

There’s a roaring in my ears, chasing away the memories. Images ofsitting by the fireplace with Mom’s homemade Chex Mix and Jonah’s chocolate-covered marshmallows are replaced with a burning in my lungs. My chest hurts. And it’s not the usual ache of sadness this time. It’s a physical fullness, a heaviness. Hot pressure strangles my ribs and climbs up my lungs. Johnny Mathis’ effortless vibrato is drowned out and all of my senses soon follow.

My eyes fly open.

I lurch.

I heave.

I retch.

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