Keep the Ghost

15. Gulf

What is this world?

I exist. I must; I am asking this question. I must exist.

If I exist, I must breathe. I know this instinctively-it is beyond thought.

When I start to open my mouth, I feel a pressure on my lips. Pressure that reminds me of something I knew once, something I told myself. Something very important.

Not to breathe. I must not breathe.

I open my eyes; they burn, I see nothing. I realize: I am underwater. I am in the gulf.

And then I feel everything. Pain overtakes me, centered on my right knee. I know immediately my leg is broken; when I tug at my thigh, pain sears my nerves. I can't move my foot at all, though I can feel the weight of it.

My knee is out of socket. I'm acutely aware of this because when water tugs at my shoe, it pulls the dislocated joint further away, into my muscle and skin. This is agony.

I spread my arms, fingers extended, and fill my hands with ocean, pull myself through. The pain in my leg explodes; I scream silently and the brine fills my mouth. So salty it's painful, like acid on my tongue.

I stretch my arms forward and pull again. Must get to the other side of the bridge, must get out of eyesight. Then I can take a breath.

That is the plan. There is a plan, there's a reason I'm here. It comes back to me as I swim.

But mostly, the plan is: hope.

Just a little concussion, a broken knee. At least I am alive. Morgan showed me that cliff divers jump from twice as high and live. But, they practiced.

Another armful of water, and I spiral to my back, forcing open my eyes to see the dark outline of the bridge overhead. I swim in its shade, looking up through light made fluid by the curves of the ocean. I push my mouth above the water and take a breath. My lungs beg for more, but I dive back down, pump my arms, continuing to move parallel to the bridge, out of sight.

Grab water, pull. Grab, pull.

Exhaustion sets in before I'm halfway to the shore, but as I cross the channel, the water becomes shallow. I can grip handfuls of sand, kick with my working leg off the sediment, and propel myself with ease. When my lungs burn uncontrollably, when I feel them crackle and strain, I lift and allow for a small breath of air. I only hope the murky water hides my movement.

I'm at the other end, in water so shallow I can't stay submerged. I slide up on the shore, knee burning in pain, and look back at the causeway which stretches across the bay. My stomach churns as I imagine my fall.

I survived. That's something.

I turn onto my chest, then pull myself forward with my arms and elbows. The sand clings to my shirt, which sticks to my skin. Port Lavaca's shell-pocked coast lays before me, a flat marsh extending behind.

A red Cadillac is parked on the beach. A figure in a blue hoodie and jeans stands next it, arms crossed, hood pulled down. I know this is Morgan by the brown bangs which whip in the breeze.

I press my palms into the shells and pull my good leg up to my chest. Push, push, careful now-I rise. My broken leg hangs limp on the ground, an inch longer than my other. The pain is unbearable; so much that it radiates to my skull, vibrating down to my teeth like the end of a tuning fork that's been struck.

The figure in the blue hoodie jogs close, feet kicking up sand which gets caught in the wind and blown away. Morgan stands on the side of my broken leg and wraps an arm around me. "Lean on me," she says, voice strained. "We need to hurry."

She takes a step, and I lean on her shoulders while moving my good leg. Morgan acts as my crutch as we hobble up the beach toward her car.

When we're almost there, I see someone else in the car, riding shotgun. The outline of his hood is obvious through the window. Alarms ring, though I'm so exhausted and in such pain that I can't process what is happening.

Morgan leads me to the rear of the car and opens the trunk. "Get in," she commands.

I stare harder at the person in the passenger seat.

I can't. "I can't," I say. My brain isn't working: too much everything. Too much pain, exhaustion, and adrenaline.

"You have to," she growls. "They'll see you and it'll be over for all of us."

"But that's Jack," I say, nodding toward Jack, who sits in the passenger seat, smiling behind his red hood. "Jack is in the car."

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