Fracture (Fracture #1) by Megan Miranda
For my mother, who says what she means,
and my father, who means what he says
Chapter 1
The first time I died, I didn’t see God.
No light at the end of the tunnel. No haloed angels. No dead grandparents.
To be fair, I probably wasn’t a solid shoo-in for heaven. But, honestly, I kind of assumed I’d make the cut.
I didn’t see any fire or brimstone, either.
Not even an endless darkness. Nothing.
One moment I was clawing at the ice above, skin numb, lungs burning. Then everything—the ice, the pain, the brightness filtering through the surface of the lake—just vanished.
And then I saw the light.
A man in white who was decidedly not God stuck a penlight into each eye, once, twice, and pulled a tube the size of a garden hose from my throat. He spoke like I’d always imagined God would sound, smooth and commanding. But I knew he wasn’t God because we were in a room the color of custard, and I hate custard. Also, I counted no less than five tubes running through me. I didn’t think there’d be that much plastic in heaven.
Move, I thought, but the only movement was the blur of white as the man passed back and forth across my immobile body. Speak, I thought, but the only sound came from his mouth, which spewed numbers and letters and foreign words. Sound and fury, signifying nothing.
I was still trapped. Only now, instead of staring through the surface of a frozen lake, I was staring through the surface of a frozen body. But the feelings were the same: useless, heavy, terrified.
I was a prisoner in my own body, lacking all control.
“Patient history, please,” said the man who was not God. He lifted my arm and let it drop. Someone yawned loudly in the background.
Tinny voices echoed in the distance, coming from all angles.
“Seventeen-year-old female.”
“Severe anoxic brain injury.”
“Nonresponsive.”
“Coma, day six.”
Day six? I latched onto the words, clawed my way to the surface, repeated the phrase until it became more than just a cluster of consonants and vowels. Day six, day six, day six. Six days. Almost a full week. Gone. A stethoscope hung from the neck of the man in white, swinging into focus an inch in front of my nose, ticking down the time.
*
Rewind six days. Decker Phillips, longtime best friend and longer-time neighbor, yelled up from the bottom of the stairs, “Get your butt down here, Delaney! We’re late!”
Crap. I slammed my English homework closed and searched through my bottom drawer, looking for my snow gear.
“Just a sec,” I said as I struggled with my thermal pants. They must have shrunk since last winter. I hitched them up over my hips and attempted to stretch out the waistband, which cut uncomfortably into my stomach. No matter how far I stretched the elastic band, it snapped instantly back into place again. Finally, I gripped the elastic on both sides of the seam and pulled until I heard the tear of fabric. Victory.
I topped everything with a pair of white snow pants and my jacket, then stuffed my hat and gloves into my pockets. All my layers doubled my normal width, but it was winter. Maine winter, at that. I ran down the steps, taking the last three in one jump.
“Ready,” I said.
“Are you insane?” Decker looked me over.
“What?” I asked, hands on hips.
“You’re not serious.”
We were on our way to play manhunt. Most kids played in the dark, wearing black. We played in the snow, wearing white. Unfortunately, Mom had gotten rid of last year’s jacket and replaced it with a bright red parka.
“Well, I’d rather not freeze to death,” I said.
“I don’t know why I bother teaming up with you. You’re slow. You’re loud. And now you’re target practice.”
“You team up with me because you love me,” I said.
Decker shook his head and squinted. “It’s blinding.”
I looked down. He had a point. My jacket was red to the extreme. “I’ll turn it inside-out once we get there. The lining is much less . . . severe.” He turned toward the door, but I swear I saw a grin. “Besides, you don’t hear me complaining about your hair. Mine at least blends in.” I messed his shaggy black hair with both hands, but he flicked me off the same way he swatted at mosquitoes in the summer. Like I was a nuisance, at best.
Decker grabbed my wrist and tugged me out the door. I stumbled down the front steps after him. We cut through my yard and Decker’s next door and climbed over a snow drift on the side of the road. We ran down the middle of the plowed road since the sidewalks were covered in a fresh layer of snow. Correction: Decker ran. I jogged anytime he turned around to check on me, but mostly I walked. Regardless, I was fairly winded by the time we rounded the corner of our street.
When we reached the turnoff, Decker flew down the hill in six quick strides. I sidestepped my way down the embankment until I reached him, standing at the edge of Falcon Lake. I bent over, put my hands on my knees, and gulped in the thin air.
“Give me a minute,” I said.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
My breath escaped in puffs of white fog, each one fading as it sunk toward the ground. When I stood back up, I followed Decker’s gaze directly across the center of the lake. I could just barely make out the movement of white on white. Decker was right. Even if I reversed my jacket, we’d be hopeless.
Under the thick coating of white, a long dirt trail wove through the snow-topped evergreens along the shoreline. Decker traced the path with his eyes, then turned his attention to the activity on the far side. “Let’s cut across.” He grabbed my elbow and pulled me toward the lake.
“I’ll fall.” My soles had traction, like all snow boots, but not enough to make up for my total lack of coordination.
“Don’t,” he said. He stepped onto the snow-covered ice, waited a second for me to follow, and took off.
In January, we skated across this lake. In August, we sat barefoot on the pebbled shore and let the water lap our toes. Even in the peak of summer, the water never warmed up enough for swimming. It was the first week of December. A little soon for skating, but the local ice-fishermen said the lakes had frozen early. They were already planning a trip up north.
Decker, athletic and graceful, walked across the lake like he had solid ground beneath his feet. I, on the other hand, stumbled and skidded, arms out at my sides like I was walking a tightrope.
Halfway across the lake, I slipped and collided into Decker. He grabbed me around the waist. “Watch yourself,” he said, his arm still holding me against his side.
“I want to go back,” I said. I was just close enough to make out the faces of eight kids from school gathered on the opposite shore. The same eight kids I’d known my entire life—for better or worse.
Carson Levine, blond curls spilling out from the bottom of his hat, cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Solid?”
Decker dropped his arm and started walking again. “I’m not dead yet,” he called back. He turned around and said, “Your boyfriend’s waiting,” through clenched teeth.
“He’s not my . . . ,” I started, but Decker wasn’t listening.
He kept walking, and I kept not walking, until he was on land and I was alone on the center of Falcon Lake. Carson slapped Decker’s back, and Decker didn’t flick him off. What a double standard. It had been two days since I broke Best Friend Commandment Number One: Thou shalt not hook up with best friend’s other friend on said best friend’s couch. I slowly turned myself in a circle, trying to judge the closest distance to land—backward or forward. I was just barely closer to our destination.