The Ocean Between Us (10 page)

ABC,
Emma thought, racking her brain to remember her mandatory life-saving training classes. Airway. Breathing. C…shoot. What did the
C
stand for? The procedure had been drummed into her. She knew this stuff. She knew it, but her panicked brain didn’t seem to be working right. Why didn’t anyone tell you the truth about this, that one day you’d actually have to revive a dead person?

When that horrifying notion struck, her hands got busy. She could do this. She had to. A broken girl lay helpless on the sand. “I have to do the Heimlich maneuver,” she said.

“Isn’t that for people who are choking?” someone asked.

“She’s a lifeguard,” said Brian.

Emma ignored the dubious murmurs of her friends and got to work. God, she wished those eyes weren’t halfway open. It was creepy. A drowning victim had only a fifty-percent chance of surviving unless the airway was cleared of water before CPR. Then her chances of survival jumped to ninety-seven percent. Emma much preferred those odds. She turned Shea’s head to the side, and water trickled from her mouth. She put one hand over the other and used her body weight to administer the Heimlich maneuver. More water spewed from Shea’s mouth. She pressed several more times until there was no more water.

“Okay,” she murmured, “airway’s clear. Now start breathing.” But between the noise of the surf and the babble of worried voices all around, she couldn’t tell whether Shea was breathing or not. She bent over and tried to check for further airway blockage, sweeping her finger into the mouth. Hurry up, hurry up. Her heart galloped the urgent message to her brain and her hands. Emma was drenched in seawater and sweat. Shea wasn’t breathing. Emma knew she had to breathe into her mouth, start her lungs functioning again.

She tried not to see those slitted, rolled-up eyes, tried not to feel the cool rubbery skin of the girl lying on the ground. She swept everything out of her mind except the task at hand.

The first resuscitation breath was awkward and ineffectual. The taste of beer and salt water filled her mouth. Her teeth clicked against Shea’s, and she didn’t seal her mouth completely over the other girl’s. Behind her someone said, “Gross,” but Emma didn’t think it was gross. She didn’t think anything at all. She just kept working.

“Whoa,” someone else said nervously, “kinky.”

“Shut up,” Brian snapped again. “Go get a blanket or towel or something.”

Emma checked to see if the chest was rising between breaths. In the dark, it was hard to tell. Come on, she told herself, you can do better. The next breath went where it was supposed to go. She could feel it, as though she was blowing up a rubber raft.

Shea lay unresponsive through the slow one-two-three count between breaths, but Emma kept trying. Breathe, turn to look at her chest, breathe, turn…. Everything around her fell away and she was barely aware of the noise surrounding her—girls crying, boys shuffling their feet and swearing, the waves hissing over the sand and sliding back down into darkness.

She fell into the rhythm of resuscitation—breathe, one-two-three, breathe. Her lips went numb and her head felt light from all the breathing, and stars danced behind her eyes, but she didn’t break the cadence and knew she would not stop, ever. Something stronger than herself took hold and kept her going. Again and again and again. It was, for those moments, as though she had been created for precisely this purpose and no other.

She knew exactly when she felt the change. Everything turned. Desperation shifted to hope, slowly, secretively. The transformation was barely discernible. Not like in the movies when the left-for-dead victim suddenly hauled in a loud, dramatic breath. This was just a tiny buzz and a shudder, so subtle Emma thought she might have imagined it. But no. Shea twitched. With both hands, Emma rolled her to her side. Then the drama started.

Shea’s body convulsed with new life. Someone screamed, but others moved in closer to see the sudden miracle on the beach.

Shea gasped and pushed her hands against the sand, sitting up
as she coughed and sobbed. Emma collapsed beside her, breathless, dizzy and awestruck.

“Hey, Shea,” she said, patting the girl’s back. “Do you know what happened? Do you know where you are?”

Shea’s eyes cleared but focused out to sea. “I’m scared. I need my mom,” she whispered, pulling her knees up to her chest and shivering.

“You’re supposed to lie down to minimize the shock,” Emma said. She looked around at the others. “Did someone call for help?”

“I called,” said Lindy.

“I’m not waiting.” Shea rubbed her arms and shivered again. The knowledge that she’d almost died haunted her eyes. “I want to go home. Now,” she said.

“I think you should wait,” Emma advised.

“I said I’m not waiting.”

Brian held out a hand and helped Shea up. Someone settled a dry towel around her shoulders. “Can you walk?” Brian asked, putting his arm around her. “Steady now.”

“Take her to my truck,” Cory said. “I’ll drive her home.”

Emma knew she ought to insist on waiting for professional help, but Shea looked so desperate and miserable that she didn’t argue.

“Just get me home,” Shea said. Someone handed her a wad of dry clothes, and she hugged them to her chest. She was still shivering violently, almost convulsing. “I really need to go home.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Emma said. She was shivering, too. “But you should let your parents know what happened, maybe see a doctor.”

“No way. Never,” said Shea. Her eyes were two black shadows. “Will you come with me?”

“Sure,” said Emma, sensing that Shea was teetering on the verge of hysteria.

“I feel so weird. So…stupid.”

“Everyone’s glad you’re all right,” Emma said. “Go wait in Cory’s truck. I’ll be there in a sec.”

Shea hugged herself and walked up to the road.

Emma stood very still for a moment. The night had taken on a surreal quality. Thoughts streamed randomly through her head—she was supposed to help out at college night next week, which was ironic as she hadn’t even picked a college. She had an appointment at the base dental facility. She was still waiting to see if she could get the work schedule she wanted at the pool.

And then all the swirling thoughts seeped away. A shudder rippled through her body as the adrenaline wore off.

Cory put his arm around her. “You did real good,” he said. “You saved her life.”

“Thanks,” she said, but she wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for.

The fire was extinguished, stray towels collected; then everyone melted into the night, heading for their cars.

“What time is it?” Emma asked.

“A little after ten.”

“Brian, go pick up Katie and her friend. I’ll be home after we drop off Shea.”

He nodded once, then trotted to the car, throwing on his shirt as he went. Every once in a while she was grateful for Brian. In a pinch he had a knack for doing exactly what was needed.

She glanced at Cory. “Um, are you okay to drive?”

“Heck, yes. I’m wide-awake, especially after that swim.” He headed for his truck. “Hey, can you grab that sack of beer?” he asked over his shoulder.

Emma picked it up and continued walking toward the road. Somewhere in the night, an aircraft headed in for a landing. She recognized the rumble and clatter of a P-3 Orion. A spy plane, the kind that could see anything from the air no matter how small. She wondered if they’d seen her rescuing Shea Hansen.

As she approached Cory’s truck, a car pulled off to the side, its headlights burning into her. She squinted and shaded her eyes, nearly dropping the large paper bag.

A door slammed and a man in a horrifyingly familiar khaki uniform emerged from the sedan.

“Shit,” said Emma between clenched teeth. The sack of beer in her arms suddenly felt very heavy.

“You can hold it right there, miss,” said the sheriff’s deputy in a firm voice. “Party’s over.”

The jarring beat of Shredded Virtue pulsed from the stereo as Josh Lamont slammed his shot glass down on the table. Across from him, the Air Force pilot named Roger Bell did the same. A horseshoe-shaped crowd of his squadron mates and their dates surrounded the table, leaning in to see the drama unfold. With the studied solemnity of a laboratory technician, Marty Turnbull refilled their shot glasses.

“Idiots,” said Rachel Willis, the CO’s wife. “Give it a rest, okay? You’re not a couple of fraternity boys anymore.”

“We never were,” said Roger, whom the Navy pilots had dubbed Tinker. The visiting Air Force pilot was Rachel’s brother, which was the only reason the men of the Prowler squadron tolerated his presence. “Lamont here never made it out of
Romper Room.
”

“Oooh,” the others said, elbowing one another.

“Did you hear that, Lamb?”

“I can’t hear,” said Josh, disliking his call sign more than ever. Maverick and Iceman didn’t exist in a real squadron, only in the movies. “Ms. Willis, you might as well call a taxi, because old Tinkerbell is going to be needing a ride any minute now.”

Roger closed his fist around his shot glass. “Dream on,” he said, his breath reeking of tequila. “Bottoms up.”

Josh was too drunk to remember how he’d ended up in a drinking contest with a golf-playing Air Force flier, a breed Navy pilots held in disdain. All he knew was that as the most recent newcomer to the squadron, he was compelled to defend his honor. If he couldn’t drink an Air Force guy under the table, his squadron mates would never let him hear the end of it.

Although Roger didn’t seem to be moving, his image tilted in Josh’s eyes. It was like trying to find the horizon at night without an instrument panel. Fucking impossible. But he was a Navy pilot, capable of the most elite and dangerous aviation in the world. He could land an airplane on the churning deck of a carrier at sea. He sure as hell could hold one more shot of tequila.

He lifted the glass, grateful that he could even find his mouth, and downed the tequila. He had lost all sense of taste at least a half hour before, so the liquor went down like water.

He and Roger slammed their glasses on the table and glared at each other. Roger’s image wavered again. To keep himself focused, Josh took a deep breath and sang “Mary Ann Barnes, the Queen of All Acrobats” in a clear voice that had earned him a place as a soloist in the Naval Academy choir, not that he admitted this to anyone.

In a terrible but loud tenor, Roger bellowed the Air Force song about the wild blue yonder.

Josh’s squadron mates joined in with “Mary Ann Barnes,” but that only made Roger sing louder.

Rachel threw up her hands in disgust and walked away.

Roger’s image seemed to list at a steeper angle, and Josh was pretty sure he felt himself sliding toward deck. Then he realized it was not him who was moving, but Roger. In the middle of the second chorus, old Tinkerbell got a dazed and blurry look on his face. Then his eyes rolled up toward the ceiling and he passed out, his forehead slamming the tabletop and knocking over the empty shot glasses.

Thank God, Josh thought.

A cheer erupted from the pilots and ECMOs gathered around the table. Hearty slaps rained down on Josh’s back. He wished they wouldn’t whack him like that, because he was about to puke. But he had too much pride to be seen yarking up his liquor in front of his brand-new squadron. He grinned and held it in.

“Let’s finish this guy off,” he said.

“Good idea.” Lieutenant Becky Kent-Dobias, an ECMO from Sammamish, Washington, yanked Bell’s USAF T-shirt over his head. He groaned an obscenity but didn’t regain consciousness. Becky’s husband Tom, a civilian, produced a can of shaving cream and a razor, handing it to Josh.

“You do the honors,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.” Josh hoped he wasn’t so drunk he’d do permanent damage to the Air Force pilot. He studied Bell, who now lolled back in the chair, his face pointed at the ceiling. What the hell.

Josh circled his victim. Then he lathered up Roger’s left eyebrow and, in one precise stroke, shaved it off.

Another cheer went up from the squadron. “It’s perfect,” Josh said, solemnly studying the victim’s lopsided face.

“Almost.” Becky came forward with a thick-tipped black permanent marker. In bold, block letters, she wrote Go Navy across his bare chest. “Now, that’s perfect,” she said.

Someone took a couple of Polaroid pictures of him for the squadron scrapbook. Then he was bundled, half-conscious, into a waiting taxi.

“Sorry about your brother, ma’am,” Josh said to Mrs. Willis. He hoped she’d be understanding. She was married to a Prowler pilot. She had been to these parties before. He offered her his best grin, though it was probably a little off center. He couldn’t feel his face anymore.

She confirmed this by tilting her head to one side and bursting into laughter. “When did you get here, Lamb?”

“Just a few days ago, ma’am.” He enunciated every word, trying not to sound as drunk as he was. “I’m grateful to be training with the Sparhawks. Best squadron in the U.S. Navy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Have we met before?”

Uh-oh, thought Josh. He’d been expecting this but hadn’t figured out what to say. “Why do you ask?”

“You remind me of someone.”

No shit, he thought.

“Did you leave a sweetheart behind somewhere?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. Right now, my most intimate relationship is with the stick in my jet.”

“Good plan,” said Marty Turnbull. “You ought to keep it that way. Ma’am,” he said, “we’d best be going. Luckily we came on foot and I know the way back.”

Rachel made Josh promise to go out on Jet Skis with the kids some weekend. She mothered the whole squadron, especially new guys like Josh. Since he was crazy about kids, he said, “Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”

“Just make sure you’re sober when you do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They said goodbye to their hosts and stepped out into the cool air. Josh inhaled, hoping the late-night chill would sober him up. On the other end of the base, a plane glided in for a landing. A P-3 on night drills, probably, judging by its large size.

“You sure you know the way to the BOQ?” he asked Turnbull, who was more commonly known by his call sign, Bull.

“You bet. It’s a long hike, though.”

It might as well be Mount Everest, thought Josh, the distant blocky building pulsing in his blurred vision. “That’s all right. I don’t have anything waiting for me at home, anyway.” Josh spoke without self-pity. He was getting plenty of stick time. That was what he’d come here for.

“Smart man,” said Bull. “Stay away from that ball and chain.”

“How come you’re all soured on marriage, Bull?” Josh asked.

“Staying single keeps things nice and simple. You don’t get your heart broken, and you don’t hurt anybody but yourself. If you’ve got a wife back home, it eats you alive. It’s hard to be flying missions when your mind is on what’s going on at home.”

“Is this the voice of experience?”

“Yeah, I had me a wife and, yeah, she was all I thought about while I was at sea. Before shipping out, I signed over my power of attorney so she could take care of business while I was gone. Turns out she used it to clean out the bank account and run off with my best friend.”

Josh fished for words and came up empty. “Jesus, Bull.” It was all he could think of to say. Even stone-cold sober, he wouldn’t have the first idea how to respond. That kind of betrayal had to be a guy’s worst nightmare.

“Whoa,” said Bull, watching a car come around the corner and roll at patrol speed along the street. “It’s the MPs.”

“We’re not doing a damned thing—” Josh broke off as the headlights of the squad car washed over a mailbox marked with stick-on reflective letters spelling the name
Bennett.

All of a sudden the blurry euphoria of tequila resolved into painful sobriety. In the blink of an eye, Josh was as attentive as a midshipman facing inspection.

So that was Steve Bennett’s home. Just knowing where he lived made him all the more real to Josh.

He and Bull slowed down to watch the dark-colored sedan pull into the Bennetts’ driveway.

“Wonder what’s up with that?” Bull said.

They crossed the street as the MPs exited the vehicle and opened the back door. Josh was sickly fascinated to see a teenage girl emerge. She looked both calm and defiant as she was escorted to the front door.

The porch lights blinked on and a tall silhouette loomed in the doorway. He wore pajama bottoms and a T-shirt and had bare feet, just like any guy.

My God, thought Josh, seeing him in person for the first time. That’s him. He felt a sick lurch of his stomach and decided then and there to put off the inevitable for as long as possible. He hadn’t asked for this, and wasn’t looking forward to meeting Bennett.

“Well, well, what do you know?” Bull murmured, oblivious to Josh’s roiling thoughts. “The DCAG’s got problems.”

Bull didn’t know the half of it.

Seeing Bennett like this changed him in Josh’s eyes. Before, Bennett had been larger than life, an icon. But right now, he looked all too human.