Page 32 of Swerve
She opened her eyes and in the murky water could make out the pattern of Emory’s bathing suit. It took a few seconds for Mia to realize she was preventing her sister from getting them to the top. She forced herself to quit fighting even though her brain screamed for her to climb over Emory.
They broke the surface then, and Mia could hear Emory coughing and gasping. And then she was coughing too, so hard that it felt as if her insides would come up through her throat.
She locked her arms around Emory’s neck, holding on so tight that she pushed her sister beneath the surface.
Others were in the water now, Grace’s mother, wearing a life jacket, and Grace, also wearing one. They each grabbed Mia’s arms, pulling her away from Emory and dragging her toward the dock.
Mia was aware of Emory resurfacing, coughing and gasping. Every instinct screamed for her to continue fighting, but she was too exhausted. She let herself be dragged to the shore where Grace and her mom pulled her onto the sand. Grace’s mom dove back into the water, swimming toward Emory and then helping her back to safety.
Once Emory was on the ground beside her, Grace’s mom ran back to the dock, and Mia could hear her calling 911, pleading with the operator to send someone quickly.
Mia was so spent she could barely hold her eyes open. But she could see Emory’s face through her squint, how pale she was and the way her chest heaved for air. Another kind of fear swept over her then, and she reached for her sister’s hand, realizing that in addition to nearly drowning herself, she had almost drowned Emory.
“I’m sorry, Em,” she said in a barely audible voice. “You saved me. I—”
“Shh,” Emory soothed, linking their fingers together. “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
Mia wanted to thank her, but she couldn’t force another word past her lips. She lay there, staring at her sister, imagining what would have happened if she had not come to her rescue, knowing she would now be on the bottom of the lake, staring straight up with her eyes open but unseeing.
~
IT’S THIS IMAGE that brings Mia upright from her position on the cold, stone floor. A scream is stuck in her throat, and she can’t draw air into her lungs.
It was a dream. She’d been sleeping.
But the sensation of not being able to breathe is the same as the one she’d known drowning in that lake all those years ago. She opens her mouth and forces air in, grateful for the fact that she’s not filling her lungs with water, but oxygen.
She presses her hands into the concrete, her back screaming now from her sleeping position on the hard floor. No blanket, no pillow, just the cold floor.
Tears well in her eyes, slide down her face, even as she hates herself for them. Something tells her this is what they want. They want her to break. To stop fighting. Accept whatever it is they have in store for her.
She wonders if Grace is nearby. Has she stopped fighting?
Is it inevitable? Can someone break your will simply by being determined to hold out longer than you?
She wonders how many days it has been since she’s had food. The water comes through the window in the door at what seems like regular intervals. Just enough each time to keep her mouth from drying up to the point that she can’t swallow.
She wonders if this tomb they have created for her is a slowed-down version of drowning. She thinks about the bottom of that lake, the terror she’d felt in imagining that she would find death there.
She feels the same terror now for the thought that she might find it here, in this dungeon-like room. She forces herself then to think of what Emory would do. Pictures her sister diving off the dock that July day to save her with no thought as to her own endangerment.
Is Emory looking for her now?
Of course she is.
Mia knows her sister. Knows how devoted she is.
Even if she doesn’t deserve that devotion.
Mia feels a bone-deep shame for the way in which she’s taken that devotion for granted. She vows then and there that if she makes it out of here alive, she will never again take Emory’s love for granted.
Loneliness hits her like concrete being poured onto her chest. She starts to cry, even though she hates the undeniable evidence of her own weakness.
“Please don’t give up on me, Emory,” she says out loud. “Please keep looking. I don’t want to die here. Please don’t give up on me.”
Laughter echoes from the other side of the door, sending a chill up Mia’s spine. A woman’s laugh. Amused. Indulgent?
Mia wraps her arms around her knees and covers her head with her arms. She will not cry. She will not. She. Will. Not.
