The First Time I Died Page 6

  Despite a thorough investigation with the assistance of state police, the identity of his attacker was never discovered.

  At the time of his death, Beaumont was a senior at Pitchford High School, where he participated in debating, hiking and swimming. He was survived by his two sisters, Cassandra and Vanessa, his mother, Bridget, and his father, Philip, co-founder with elder brother Roger Beaumont of the Beaumont Brothers Spring Water Company.

  Asked for comment by The Bugle this week, Philip Beaumont stated: “My grief is as fresh today as it was ten years ago. No parent should outlive their child. A father’s role is to protect his children.”

  Someone was calling my name. I looked up to find Pete standing beside my table.

  “Sorry, what?” I asked.

  “Is there something wrong with your soup?” Pete said. No smile this time.

  I wished he would get lost so I could finish the article, but he seemed set to stay until he got the thumbs-up. Distractedly, I grabbed a spoon, plunged it into the thick, creamy liquid and had the first taste at my lips when the smell registered. I dropped the spoon back in the bowl.

  “Is this clam chowder?” I asked him.

  “New England’s finest. It’s my mother’s recipe.”

  “I’m allergic to shellfish.”

  My stomach turned. That close. I’d been that close to anaphylaxis.

  “Can I bring you something else?”

  I shook my head and regretted it instantly. The headache was getting worse. Perhaps I should get my head checked out by a doctor.

  If my mother was here, she’d say that after my fall, the near collision with the moose and the close call with chowder, it would be safe to order something else off the menu because I’d had my three-things run of bad luck. But I didn’t believe in her superstitions. Or the safety of Pete Dillon’s kitchen.

  “Just the check,” I told him.

  I returned my attention to the newspaper and read the final paragraph in the commemorative article.

  Anyone with any information should contact the Pitchford police department. “The case may be cold, but it is not closed. Someone knows the truth of exactly what happened to Colby Beaumont, and I will not give up on the investigation until the perpetrator is brought to justice,” Police Chief Ryan Jackson said yesterday.

  I closed the newspaper and dropped it onto the table.

  Ryan Jackson — so the department’s young officer had become the chief. That had been Colby’s dream. Most kids grow out of playing cops and robbers, but not him. He wanted to be a cop, to be the cop in this town. It was one of the few things we disagreed on. I’d wanted to get out, to find a bigger life in a better city, but he’d wanted to stay right here in Pitchford.

  I guess we both got our wish.

  I left Dillon’s and drove through the gathering gloom of dusk toward my parents’ house, swallowing down nausea, wincing at the pain burying its claws in my head, and aware of a rising sense of dread. Was this concussion, or perhaps even the aura which precedes seizure activity in the brain? Or was I merely suffering from the psych student version of med student-itis — getting paranoid about my own symptoms and hypochondriacally diagnosing myself with the maladies I’d studied? It was probably just a migraine.

  Plover Pond lay at the bottom of Main Street, milky as a dead eye in the mist. I automatically averted my gaze, but a flash of red in my peripheral vision made me do a double-take. Someone was out on the pond, and it looked like a kid.

  I turned right into Pond Road, scanning the area, looking for someone who might be there to fetch the kid, someone who could do something, but the park was deserted and the bandstand empty. Where was an adult when you needed one?

  The figure was over on the far side of the pond. I could drive around, but a dense thicket ran between the road and the pond on that side, and it would probably take me longer to get to the kid that way. The darkness was deepening; I needed to get to the kid quickly.

  I pulled over, parked and got out of the car. The icy gusting wind had me reaching back inside for my trench coat and scarf. The coat — knee-length wool with brass buttons, purchased at an army surplus store — was my favorite for the streets of Boston, but it was no match for this weather. I fastened the buttons with fingers made clumsy by the cold, then found my mittens and beanie tucked in the pocket and yanked them on as I ran across the road and through the park. The ice was muddy at the edges of the pond but felt solid enough. I gave another glance around, saw no one else. Reluctantly, I stepped onto the ice. And immediately slipped forward onto my knees. Great, more bruises.

  Cursing the pond and the biting cold, I eased myself back onto my feet and cautiously half-walked, half-slid across the slippery surface. When we were kids, we’d done this all the time, but I’d lost the knack, and my boots weren’t made for walking on ice. Arms out for balance, like a tightrope walker, I moved unsteadily across the pond.

  “What are you doing?” I shouted at the kid when I was about halfway to him, but the wind snatched my words and hurled them north.

  The kid didn’t move — maybe he was literally frozen in place, stuck to the ice. My eyes watered in the wind, and beneath my feet, the ice creaked. I’d forgotten the mesmerizing quality of that sound, how it made you simultaneously want to hear it again and run the hell away.

  As I neared the kid, the ice got sketchy. A thin layer of water covered the surface, and forked white lines, like frozen lightning, flashed out from where I placed my feet. I stepped carefully, steering a crooked course to avoid the bigger cracks. Then I saw it, realized why the kid wasn’t moving.

  Oh, crap.

  9

  NOW

  Saturday December 16, 2017

  The little kid in the red jacket was standing on a chunk of floating ice about the size of a door. It was fractured with cracks, the largest of which ended at his feet. The boy was young, maybe only seven or eight, and too small to make the jump across the dark water to the more solid section of ice on my side. His nose, burnt red by the cold and wind, stood out lividly against the stark white of his face, and beneath his panic-widened eyes, ice glistened where tears had frozen. He was trembling violently.

  “You okay, kid?” I asked.

  “I– I was too scared to move,” he said, through frosted, quivering lips. “In case I fell.”

  “That was a smart decision. But I’m here now, I’ll help you.” I took a step closer to him, testing that the ice was solid enough before I eased my full weight onto it. “What’s your name?”

  “N– N– Nicholas.”

  “Okay, just take it easy, Nicholas. We’re going to get you home safe, okay? Are you alone? Was there anyone else out here with you?”

  “Kate. Kate was here. W– we were playing tag.”

  “And where is Kate now?” Please tell me she’s not under the ice.

  “She ran away.”

  “She got away safe?”

  He nodded.

  Relieved, I unwrapped my scarf from around my neck and tried to estimate whether it would be long enough to reach him, but I’d always been useless at anything visual-spatial. I could tell it was too light; the wind would blow the end back at me before it ever got near the kid. I wrapped one end of the scarf around my right hand and made a noose at the other, tightening it around my beanie to give it some heft. Then I tossed the scarf toward him, testing the length. Immediately, the boy made a convulsive grab for it. The ice splintered beneath him, and he waved his arms frantically to regain his balance.

  “Don’t move!” I yelled. “Hang on a sec, okay? It’s too short. I need to get closer. I’ll tell you when to catch it.”

  I took another step toward the end of my section of ice. With a loud snap, the ice cracked beneath me. Nicholas squeaked in fear, and my heart kicked hard in my chest.

  “I know it’s scary, but I need you to stay calm, okay? Just stand still and breathe as slowly as you can.”

  I eased myself down onto the ice, lying on my stomach to sprea
d my weight out, and inched forward toward the kid.

  Awkwardly, I flung the scarf in a sideways arc across to him. Again, it landed short. I pushed myself forward another few inches. The ice creaked in protest beneath me. Lined fissures like dead white fingers reached up toward me, and the cold penetrated my coat, chilling my skin. If I didn’t hurry, we’d both die out here from exposure.

  I threw the scarf again, and this time the end landed near enough to the kid’s feet for him to reach.

  “Slowly, now,” I cautioned him. “Move real slow, and try to get onto your knees, or even onto your belly, like me. That’s right, just like that, Nicholas, you’re doing great.”

  “Can you pull me now?” he asked as soon as he grabbed the scarf. His voice was high, and now that rescue was within reach, he was starting to panic.

  “Hang on, Nicholas, stay cool. You need to get that end tight around your wrist. Pull the beanie out of the knot and stick your hand inside instead. Then pull it tight. Can you do that?”

  When his hand was secure inside the noose end of the scarf and he was flat on his belly, I said, “Right, Nicholas, hold the scarf tight with both hands. I’m going to pull you over to my side. It’s going to feel too slow, but I promise it’ll happen real quick. You start counting from one, and by the time you get to fifty, you’ll be safe over those cracks and on this side with me. Okay?”

  He nodded rapidly.

  “Let me hear you counting.”

  “One … two … three …”

  I started pulling on the makeshift rescue rope, trying to keep the pressure steady and fighting the temptation to give one almighty yank to get this over with.

  The boy slid slowly across a few inches of ice. “Eleven … twelve …”

  “That’s great. You’re doing fine,” I said, as much to reassure myself as the kid.

  Another steady tug and he slid farther forward. This was going to work.

  “Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,” Nicholas said quickly.

  “Almost there.” We were flat on the ice, a foot apart. I needed to sit up to pull him all the way across, to a safe spot beyond me. “Keep counting while I pull you farther back.”

  “Twenty-four-twenty-five-twenty-six,” he gabbled quickly as I pushed myself up onto my haunches, dragging steadily on the scarf.

  “There you go!” I announced, as I dragged him alongside me. “We did it!”

  I’d half expected him to sag in relief or perhaps burst into tears the moment he felt safe. I had not expected him to launch himself into my arms. His weight slammed into me, knocking me over and whacking my already-bruised head against the ice.

  Things happened fast, then. With a crack like a gunshot, the ice fractured and split beneath me. As I fell, ass-first, through the widening crack, I gave the boy an almighty shove, propelling him back onto solid ice.

  “Run! Get help!” I yelled at him even as I sank into the blackness below.

  The water was ice and fire, scalding my hands and face. I kicked powerfully several times, pushing myself up to get my head back above the water, where — stunned senseless by the breath-robbing, heart-stopping cold — I gasped and flailed around for a few panicked seconds.

  I grabbed at the edge of the ice, trying to catch my breath, but my mittens gave me no purchase on the slippery wetness. I released my hold to pull them off and immediately started sinking back down into the water. Seizing the ice just as my head went under, I pulled up with all my might, drew in a breath, and then edged sideways, hand over hand, to a drier section where I could get a better grip on the ice shelf.

  “Help!” I screamed, even though I knew it was futile. This far out, in this wind, no one would hear.

  The water was soaking into my clothes, creeping up through my heavy coat, tugging me down. I needed to shed weight. My heavy boots were laced on tightly and didn’t budge when I attempted to kick them off. I tried to let go of the ice to undo the buttons on my coat, but my fingers were frozen to its surface.

  Shit, shit, shit. Screw this pond and everything about it.

  I struggled to get a grip on my rising panic, to think through my options. Which would be better, which would buy me more time — wrenching my fingers free, or staying stuck? In the end the pond made the decision for me, inexorably tugging me back into its icy maw like a monster dragging down its prey. I felt a tearing sensation, but no pain, as my fingers ripped free of the ice, and then I was sinking through the scorching water.

  Air. I needed air.

  Kicking, and pushing my hands against the dragging grasp of the water, I propelled myself upwards, thrust my head above the surface and sucked in a breath. I needed to rid myself of my waterlogged coat. Treading water with tired legs, I tried to undo the buttons, but my fingers were numb and clumsy, and the wet wool refused to give. I gave up, reached for the ice again, but the pond sucked me back down into its black embrace.

  One part of my mind detached from the rest and scientifically reminded me that if I didn’t get more oxygen within seconds, I would drown. But the dark was deepening, and I no longer knew which way was up. It was getting harder to move my legs and arms. My limbs were deadening. Everything was slowing down, shutting down. Stopping.

  I held my last breath through the agony of burning, bursting lungs. The rest of me no longer felt pain, no longer even felt the cold. A warmth was stealing through my body and with it, a growing feeling of peace.

  The pond clamped its claws over my lips, relentlessly pulled them apart, and breathed water into me. In an instant, my throat constricted, spasmodically shutting tight against the invading fluid. Lights popped in the spreading blackness of my vision.

  This is it. This is how I die. The pond gets me, too, in the end.

  There was no fear left in me, no struggle. It felt inevitable. Destined, even.

  The detached part of my mind noted with satisfaction that I didn’t, in the hour of my death, pray to a god I didn’t believe in. And there were no thoughts of uniting with Colby on the other side. But I did think of him, wondering if this was how it had been for him — this calm surrender to the pond’s enfolding arms. Had he thought of me in those last moments?

  Warm now, and strangely comforted, I welcomed the euphoria blossoming inside me. The last pinpricks of white in my vision expanded into glowing halos of golden light.

  My heart thudded one last time. And stopped.

  Outside myself, I saw my body drifting in the black water, still as death. The silence was so deep it had its own music. The darkness enfolding my body was so intense I could almost touch it. And the light filling me was so radiant that it obliterated everything.

  10

  A flash of blue-white light.

  Black nothingness.

  The lightning again.

  Darkness.

  11

  NOW

  Sunday December 17, 2017

  Light — soft and constant — penetrated my eyelids, and pain nudged me awake.

  I blinked my eyes open, tried to clear my throat against the obstruction there.

  “Hey, kiddo.”

  “It’s a miracle!”

  Dad. And Mom.

  A third voice said, “Garnet, can you hear me? I’m going to remove the breathing tube now. When I say ‘cough,’ cough as hard as you can, okay?”

  A cough and a scrape later, my throat was clear. I blinked again and looked around the room. White walls, a window, beeping machines, a nurse in uniform, a drip stand with a line entering my arm. My father and mother sat beside my high metal bed, and a huge arrangement of flowers rested on the bedside cabinet.

  “I’m in a hospital?” I croaked. My throat felt raw, and it hurt to breathe.

  “You’re in the County General hospital, in Randolph, and I’m Sarah Henshaw,” the nurse said.

  Dad patted my hand. “You had us a little worried.”

  “A little worried? I was out of my brain with it! But I’ve had a prayer chain going for you the whole night,” said Mom, who, I now saw, w
as in a wheelchair, her right leg in a knee-to-toe plaster cast.

  “Thirsty,” I rasped.

  The nurse — a compact woman with a firm grip and a no-nonsense attitude — helped me to sit up and passed me a cup of water. The tips of several of my fingers, I saw, were bandaged. I sucked on the straw, swallowed and winced.

  “Your throat and chest will hurt for a good few days,” she explained.

  And the rest of me? I felt stiff and sore all over, like I’d been run over by a steamroller.

  The nurse made some notes on the chart at the bottom of my bed and then fitted an automatic blood pressure cuff around my right arm and a clamp on my left forefinger. The cuff tightened and then deflated, and behind my head a machine beeped its results.

  The nurse frowned. “Well, that can’t be right.”

  I craned my neck upwards to see her tapping the machine with an impatient finger, then switching it off and on again. She repeated the procedure of taking my blood pressure but seemed no more satisfied with the results.

  “Sorry, it’s on the fritz. We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. I’ll be back in a minute,” she said and left the room.

  Loud voices and the rattle of a trolley sounded from the hallway outside, but inside it was quiet. The only other bed in the ward was empty. Bright sunshine streamed in through the window beside my bed. Sunshine? How long had I been here?

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “It’s just after ten-thirty in the morning,” Dad said. “You slept the whole night through.”

  I could tell I’d had more sleep than he had; there were dark rings under his eyes.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “You fell through the ice. You can thank your lucky stars—”

  “Jupiter,” Mom interjected.