20. Caleb
CHAPTER TWENTY
Caleb
For once, my body moves faster than my mind, and I’m sprinting into the water. I guess I’m a man of action now. The second I saw the wave take that girl under, I knew she was in trouble.
I didn’t register the shrieks and gasps around me until I hit the water. Everything around me felt like it was moving in slow motion.
High stepping through the shallows, I make my way to the spot where I saw her go under, ignoring the shouts from my friends behind me.
South Beach always has rough waters, but there is an especially strong undertow today. With the sun setting, I can’t get a good view of much under the surface.
I spot the girl’s pail floating a few feet away and swim over to it. I take a gamble and dive down, trying to feel around for any sign of her. My heart nearly stops when I get ahold of her arm. I pull her towards me and push up to the surface as fast as I can.
She immediately begins coughing, and I rush to catch my breath and get my bearings. We are maybe fifty feet or so from the shore, but it’s hard to tell with how high the waves are, pulling us back another foot for every two I gain.
Flipping onto my back, I slowly begin kicking towards shore, making sure to keep both our heads above water. When I can finally touch the bottom, I hoist her onto my hip and start running as fast as I can manage through the water until I am about waist-deep.
I open my mouth to call for help when my feet are pulled out from under me, and a massive wave crashes over both of us.
Water fills my nose and mouth as I struggle to get a breath before we hit the bottom, the rough sand scraping my back and arms. The wave pins us down and threatens to drag us back out into the deep, but I don’t dare let go.
Her tiny hands cling to me desperately, but the longer we’re held under, the looser her grip becomes.
I have to get her out of here. Now.
The wave retreats, and I get enough leverage to push up to the surface and out of the current’s grip, stumbling until I reach the dry sand.
The entire beach rushes over. “I’m fine.
Help her,” I manage between coughs. The salt water I inhaled is burning in my nose and throat, and I am fighting like hell to get it out.
Someone takes the girl from my arms, and I let out another cough of seawater, chest heaving, lungs on fire.
My eyes scan the crowd in search of Marnie, only to find her already running up to me. Another stinging feeling hits my chest as I take in her expression. Her eyes are wide and horrified, and I briefly wonder if she was worried that she wouldn’t see me again.
I collapse to my knees in the sand, the adrenaline now wearing off as I return to reality. My head is spinning. Shit.
My lungs burn less now as I force myself to take slow, deep breaths. I still have the occasional cough of water, but time starts to return to normal, and the dizziness begins to ease. Thankfully, the little girl is well-tended to and doesn’t look as bad as I feared.
Marnie is now in front of me, kneeling in the sand with that horrified look still plastered on her face. “Oh, god,” she cries out, eyes locking on something next to me.
I track her eyes down towards my right thigh, and the realization hits. She’s not looking at something next to me. She’s looking at me.
Just below the hem of my shorts, a jagged, five-inch gash stretches across the middle of my thigh, blood already oozing from the wound like splintered glass, trickling down into the sand. Gasps erupt around me, and I stifle a gag at the sight of my internal bodily fluids on the outside.
I must’ve cut it on a broken shell when the wave took us under. I don’t remember much after we hit the bottom, but the last several minutes are already a blur. My muscles ache and my limbs are growing heavier. I need to lay down.
I lean sideways onto my good leg, swinging my injured leg out from under me to survey the damage.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” Marnie says, gently bending my knee up and tying her sweater around my leg, tightening it. “You need stitches.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off. “No arguing. We’re going now.”
There’s a panic in her voice, and even if I wanted to fight her on it, I don’t have it in me.
Parker appears from behind Marnie, helping her sit me up. They count down from three, and then I’m being lifted. One of them accidentally bumps my leg, and I groan. “Easy, buddy,” Parker says. “We’ve got you.”
They get me to the back seat and lay me down so I am stretched across the cool, black leather. Marnie tightens her sweater around my leg once again while Parker shakes out the sand from a blanket—presumably stolen from someone on the beach—and props it under my head.
I don’t recognize the interior as Parker’s truck. My suspicions are confirmed when I see Marnie slide behind the wheel and start up the engine. Her window is rolled down, listening to Parker give her the address to the hospital, her fingers quickly typing it into her GPS.
My eyelids flutter closed, but I don’t fall asleep. At least not deep enough to miss the hurried maneuvers that are undoubtedly breaking several speed limits in pursuit of the hospital.
I’ve never liked the smell of hospitals. Something about the sterile air and fluorescent lights is off-putting. You spend enough time in a hospital, and you stop thinking of it as a place of healing and start thinking of it as a pit that will swallow you whole. Financially, emotionally.
Hospitals are where you go to get bad news. You only end up there when something is wrong—chest pain, broken bone, unexplained redness or swelling. And more often than not, that is just the tip of the iceberg.
Despite it being a major holiday, the ER is surprisingly calm as we stumble inside. Marnie’s arm is wrapped around my waist as I use her shoulders to brace myself.
Two nurses immediately rush over and sit me in a wheelchair. The older nurse pushes me off to the side and I overhear the younger nurse talking to Marnie about paperwork.
We pause in front of a row of empty beds, and I wonder if I’m the first emergency of the evening. It’s just getting dark enough for fireworks, so the classic injuries of mangled, blown-off fingers and third-degree burns haven’t started rolling in yet.
Marnie is ushered to the front desk, her back to me as she works the pen feverishly, a small shiver wracking her body.
I suddenly remember why she has no jacket.
It’s because it’s currently tied around my thigh, stained with my blood.
I feel bad for ruining her sweater. Now her first bonfire memory will forever be tainted, marred by this moment.
The nurse begins to wheel me out of view and into a treatment room, and Marnie gathers all the forms off the counter and runs after me, but the younger nurse body blocks her at the door.
“Sorry, only family in the room,” she says to Marnie.
“She’s family,” I interject, shakily pulling myself into the bed with some assistance from the older nurse.
They look between each other, having a silent conversation, but luckily, they don’t put up much of a fight. The younger nurse moves aside, opening a path for Marnie to enter. “My apologies, Mrs. Hansen.”
A dark shade of pink paints Marnie’s cheeks at the insinuation of being my wife. “I . . . uh . . .” she stutters, unsure of what to say, looking to me for help as she takes a seat in the empty chair beside me.
Before I can rescue her, the older nurse pulls out another form and starts barking questions at Marnie. “Does your husband have any allergies? Is he on any medications? When was his last tetanus shot?”
“Stop harassing my wife,” I grumble from the hospital bed. “No allergies, no medications, not sure but sometime in the last decade.”
Marnie bites her lip to stifle a laugh.
“You’ll have to excuse my husband,” she emphasizes and scoots the chair closer to my bedside. “Seems he forgot his manners somewhere on the beach today.”
The older nurse snickers and finishes notating my chart. “The doctor will be right in to examine you and get you stitched up.” They both file out of the room and close the door behind them, leaving us alone.
I hold my hand out toward her expectantly, and she just stares at it. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“We have to play the part so they don’t realize we aren’t married and kick you out. They will be back any minute.”
“Caleb,” she begins, letting out a tiny laugh. “They are not going to kick me out of the room because I am not holding your hand.”
“Better safe than sorry,” I insist, extending my hand further.
She eyes me for another moment, before reaching up to place her delicate, manicured hand in mine. The second our palms touch, the sharp, shooting pain stemming from my thigh ignites into a spark of electricity.
My fingers encircle hers and I pull her hand to rest it against my chest.
The doctor arrives shortly after, and I reluctantly release Marnie’s hand when she steps out to take a phone call and give me some privacy.
Thankfully, the cut is not deep enough to need staples. After the doctor stitches me up and cleans the area, they give me a precautionary tetanus shot. I am grateful for the strong pain meds pumping through my IV.
A few hours later, the nurses discharge me, and Marnie wheels me over to her car. I insist on walking, but she places a firm hand on my shoulder and tells me that if I don’t sit back down, she’ll make me. I believe her.
By the time we get back to my house, it’s after eleven.
My stomach growls out of nowhere.
Marnie turns to me instantly, concern lacing her features again. “You hungry?” She gets up and heads to the kitchen, not waiting for my answer.
“Starving. But I don’t really have any food here. I haven’t been to the store.”