Undercurrent (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

Just as everything starts going black again, I’m suddenly able to
breathe. The relief is incredible. I wheeze horribly, but it feels so good.

Wait—where’s Bryce? He tried to kill me! Terrified, I look around the room for him. He’s gone—scared off, I think, by the muffled pounding I could hear through the pillow wrapped around my head.

Turning toward the window, I see a few fading palm prints on the glass. But no one is there. No hooded figure in a Crocodiles jacket—just the quiet parking lot. I lie still, staring out, my eyes wide and my heart beating fast. Was that really Cole? It looked like him. Except he never wears that jacket anymore.

I’m really awake now and able to move a little more.

“Callum!” someone cries out from the doorway.

“Mom!”

Tears start pouring down my cheeks. My mother rushes to my bedside, covering my face with kisses as she sobs. A nurse shouts for a doctor.

“Bryce!” I try shouting, but my voice is weak and hoarse. “Did you see Bryce?”

“What?” My mother lifts her head from my chest, her makeup a total mess. “Lie still, Cal,” she says. “Please lie still. . . .”

I’m confused. Was I dreaming? I couldn’t have been. It felt too real.

My mother notices the pillow lying on the floor. She picks it up and starts tucking it behind my head.

“Bryce,” I croak again. “Bryce . . .”

A doctor rushes in. Mom takes a step back to let him examine me. Before long the room fills with uniformed people. They surround my bed, gawking at me.

Shortly after the room empties, Dad arrives. He hugs me like I’m made of glass. I’m happy to see him.

“Where’s Cole?” I ask after he finally lets go.

“He’s at home,” Dad says.

“At home?” I repeat.

“Don’t worry—Edwina’s with him.”

“Edwina?” I repeat. “What?”

This makes no sense. Edwina is our neighbor, an old woman who insists we call her Ed and has two huskies she calls her children. We used to laugh, because she’d shout for us just like we were her dogs, to give us treats: muffins and cookies and slices of pie that she’d drop still warm into our open hands.

Cole would chomp down the treat, then woof at her in approval.

But besides mowing her lawn—an easy job she overpays for—we don’t have much to do with Ed. So why Cole would be with her I have no idea.

To be honest, I don’t even care. Because I’m really mad at him. His only brother almost dies, and he can’t even come see him in the hospital?

Another doctor comes in, a neurologist, to examine me. He asks me questions, which I answer as best I can. But I’m finding everything tiring. I could already use a nap.

I look over toward Mom and Dad, who are watching from the orange chairs. They’re holding hands. The sight startles me.

“Are you feeling all right, young man?” the doctor asks, seeing my reaction.

“Yeah,” I tell him.

“Are you feeling dizzy?”

“No, I’m fine.”

I glance again at my parents. They’re still holding hands. Huh? After everything that’s happened between them? I guess they’ve been through a lot these past three days, which is how long I’ve been in a coma, the doctor tells me. Mom and Dad probably thought I was never coming out of it.

I’m really feeling sleepy now. My parents express some concern about this, but the doctor tells them not to worry. I’m out of danger, he says, but I need to rest.

My mother brings her chair forward and holds my hand as I try to fall asleep. Despite my exhaustion it’s hard to relax, because I can’t stop thinking about Bryce. I can’t shake the feeling he’s about to come bursting in with a chain saw or something to finish the job. When I tell my mother what happened, she tells me it was just something I must have imagined while unconscious.

When I do finally nod off, I have bad dreams. Dreams where I’m walking, angry, being followed by someone. And then suddenly I’m back, hanging from the footbridge over the falls.

This time I see a shadowy figure rushing up to help or to hurt me I never find out, because again my fingers slip. The figure calls out as I plunge into the river.

Whether it’s the fear or the frigid water that robs me of my breath I have no idea. I gasp, trying to get it back. But I can’t.

Which means I can’t scream, even though I want to. Like every kid in town, I’ve thrown enough sticks and bottles off that bridge to know what’s coming next.

I’m going over.

Body rigid, I turn onto my back and cross my arms just before what feels like a huge ocean wave tosses me into the air. The drop is sickening and never seems to end. But when it finally does, somehow I miss the rocks and plunge underwater, the intense roar instantly muffled.

I’m tossed around by unbelievable forces—tearing my arms from my chest, yanking my legs apart, and even peeling back my eyelids. All I can see are bubbles. All I can feel is a weight crushing down on me.

The pressure forces out what little air remains in my lungs. It drives me deeper, hammering me over and over like a nail into a board. Then I’m caught in some kind of undercurrent, a powerful one.

Pain flares as the back of my head slams against something hard. How much will it hurt, I wonder, when I inhale this strange, fizzing liquid? Maybe I should do it, get it over and done with.

But then I feel something—a sudden rush upward. I just have to hang on a bit longer, I tell myself, and try not to inhale.

But I can’t help it—my body forces me to breathe. Except it doesn’t hurt. It almost feels good, even. . . .

When I finally awaken, it’s morning. Someone’s pulled the curtains wide, and the room is full of sunlight. I look out into the parking lot, where the chrome on the cars sears my eyes.

Seeing that I’m alone, I decide to check my body. I’m feeling pretty sore all over, like a whole football team was beating on me. From the shapes under the blanket, I can see that I haven’t lost a leg or anything, but I’m still nervous as I pull back the covers.

I’ve heard these amazing stories about people coming out of crazy things, like plane crashes or gas explosions, without a scratch. Well, surviving the falls turns out to be nothing like that. I’m completely covered in scratches, not to mention some pretty ugly cuts. There are scrapes and gouges and bruises everywhere except for my upper body, which for some strange reason looks pretty much unmarked.

The door opens. I throw the covers over myself to hide my gaping gown.

A doctor comes in—the first one on the scene when I awoke. “How are we feeling?” he asks, helping me to sit up. Everything really hurts now.

“Pretty crappy,” I admit. “My whole body is killing me.”

He laughs. “Well, that’s not very surprising,” he says. “How about your head? Any serious pain?”

I tell him the back of it feels pretty sore, and that’s when I learn about the gash there. It’s the worst of my injuries, it turns out, and had to get closed up. The doctor decides to have a look at how it’s coming along. He peels back the bandage and makes a tutting noise.

“I should fix this a bit,” he says.

The doctor pulls my scalp so hard, my ears move. I almost puke.

“Hanging in there?” he asks as I shudder.

“Yeah.”

“You know, you’re lucky whatever rock you hit didn’t crack open your head,” he remarks. “But hey, not even a fracture—how lucky is that? And most important, no bleeding on the brain, according to the CAT scan, which is great news.”

“Then how come I was out for so long?” I ask.

“Yes, that was odd,” the doctor admits. “My best guess is that the coma was brought on by hypothermia rather than head trauma.”

Thanks,
I think. I really appreciate best guesses when it comes to my health. . . .

“There’s probably nothing to worry about,” the doctor assures me, as if sensing my unease. “From what we can tell, you haven’t sustained any injuries that should affect your mobility or faculties. So you should be able to get back to school in no time and be completely up and running.”

“Great,” I answer, wondering what’s the rush.

“Speaking of which,” the doctor continues, “you wouldn’t know it from looking at me now, but I used to play wide receiver for the Crocs back in the day.”

“Really.” I assume he’s talking about the Crystal Falls Crocodiles, even though no one calls them the Crocs now, probably because it’s the name of an ugly plastic shoe. “Cool,” I reply.

“But I still watch the games when I can,” he adds. “And I must say, you’ve sure got some moves.”

Okay, now I understand. He’s confusing me with my brother. It’s not the first time it’s happened. There’s something about the hair, the nose—we look similar, all right. Especially since the doc probably only ever saw Cole from the stands.

I don’t correct him. At least someone thinks I’m a hero for a change. Besides, I might have to explain why Cole is no longer on the team, and that would be uncomfortable.

“Okay, just keep sitting up for a minute,” the doctor says. “I’ll get someone to replace this bandage.”

He leaves, and a few minutes later a nurse named Barbara comes in to finish the job. With her, the silence is heavy. I make a joke, but she doesn’t laugh. In fact, she doesn’t even answer me except with grunts.
Hello?
I’m the kid who just went over the falls?
I want to remind her.

Nurse Barbara doesn’t seem to care. If anything, she acts like she’s angry at me or something or like I’m being a pain in the ass. Hey, why bother becoming a nurse if you hate people so much? It makes no sense to me. I guess some people don’t start out as jerks but just end up that way. Sometimes they get worn down and become a person they never thought they’d be.

Maybe Nurse Barbara is one of those people. Maybe she’s dealt with too many drunk teenagers who’ve treated her like crap, who swore at her or threw up on her. Maybe she assumes I was drunk or on drugs when I went over the falls. Well, I’m not like that.

But I can understand her feelings and decide to give her the benefit of the doubt. I just have to show I appreciate the job she is doing.

“Hey, thanks for patching me up,” I say when it seems like she’s done.

In response, she smacks the bandage to make sure it’s stuck on.

“Ow!” I shout. “That hurt!”

Nurse Barbara leaves the room without a word. No, she is definitely a bitch, I decide.

Throughout the day I watch a little TV and wait for visitors. My parents arrive, but Cole still doesn’t show. Well, screw him. I pretend he doesn’t even exist.

Surely the word is getting out that I’m awake now. But Bryce doesn’t return. I still don’t know what to make of what he did. I keep feeling like I must have imagined the whole thing. But there’s just no getting around the fact—it happened. I know it did.

I should tell someone. But I’m scared. As crazy as it sounds, I don’t want Bryce to get in trouble.

And now that I’m conscious again, Bryce is no match for me. Okay, I’m not that strong, but I’m stronger than Bryce.

No other friends visit either. By other friends, I guess I just mean Willow, a girl I’ve been hanging out with. We were partnered up in a class last year and hung out over the summer. We like the same music. I play some guitar, and she plays ukulele, and we’re talking about maybe writing and recording some songs together. I don’t know if we’ll ever actually do it, but it’s fun to talk about.

It’s been bothering me that she hasn’t visited either. I’ve been feeling weird around her lately, probably because this whole “friends” thing isn’t really working for me anymore. Sure, she’s an oddball, as my mother calls her; but she’s pretty and doesn’t seem to know it, with her dark curls and clear, blue-green eyes that sometimes scare me when they flash unexpectedly in my direction.

The problem is I’m not that great with girls. Not like my brother, anyway. His latest girlfriend is Monica; they’ve been going out the past couple of years. But the way they’ve been fighting lately, I don’t know if that’s going to last much longer.

As for me, it’s not like I can’t talk to girls. It’s just that I have no idea how to get any further with one. I mean, I’ve fooled around a little bit, getting up under somebody’s shirt once. But I didn’t like her that much, and she didn’t like me that much, and it was all kind of awful.

I do like Willow, though, and I get the feeling she likes me back. At least I thought she liked me enough to come visit me in the hospital after I nearly died. So I’m pretty hopeful when I finally hear a knock on the door.

“Come on in,” I call out.

The door opens. But instead of Cole or Willow or my parents, in walks one of the last people on earth I would expect to see.

It’s Coach Keller, my gym teacher.

For a second I wonder if I’ve passed out and am dreaming. Because other than during phys-ed class, I have nothing to do with Keller whatsoever. If it weren’t for my brother having been on the Crocodiles, I doubt he would know my name. Actually I’m still not sure he does.

But something’s changed. Because now Keller’s acting like we’re lifelong friends.

“Cal!” he shouts as he enters, grinning widely. He then snaps his head toward the door. “Well, don’t stand out there like a pair of nitwits!” he snarls. “Get in here!’

If Coach Keller took me off guard, this knocks me square on my ass: It’s Hunter Holden and Ricky Cho. Shuffling past like they’re part of a police lineup, the two football players stop by the window. Combined, they almost block out the daylight.

Glaring, Keller gives them a nod. It’s Hunter who speaks.

“Hey, man,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

I don’t respond. I just stare through him.

“The falls, huh?” Hunter continues, when the silence becomes unbearably awkward. “Pretty smooth.”

“Yeah, smooth,” Ricky agrees.

“Thanks,” I manage to answer. I notice Hunter’s nose is looking a lot straighter than Cole left it. I wonder if he’s had some more work done on it. If so, it was a waste of money; at least the crooked nose gave his fat face some edge.

With the conversation stalled, Keller revs up. “Listen, we know you’ve been through a lot,” he says, again all smiles. “So we won’t stay. But we wanted you to know that the team is pulling for you.”