He and Lance were trying to keep the grass cut, but they were busy and it didn’t always get done in a timely manner. There were still marks where some kids had egged the house late one night. Zell had been awakened in the wee hours of the morning by the rhythmic thunks of the eggs hitting the wood. She’d gone to the window to see figures moving around in the yard, the white projectiles shining in the moonlight as they took flight again and again. She supposed she should’ve been alarmed, but all she felt was fascination. This was how people healed: they went and did something—anything they could—to redeem the situation.
It was time for her to do something, too. She was starting with the doctor’s appointment she had in thirty minutes. She would finally submit her knee for examination. She would perch on a cold, sterile table and answer his questions. She might even tell the whole truth about how it had happened. She would discuss surgery and rehab. She would ask how soon she could start exercising. She would let herself dream of the day she would run again.
CAILEY
Zell gave me a bulletin board to put up in my room for all the news clippings and photos about what happened. People said I was like David the shepherd boy, using a stone to topple a giant. The interviewers always asked the same questions:
How did you know Hannah was there?
What made you throw that rock?
Do you consider yourself a hero?
Will you and Hannah be friends forever?
I even got paid money to come on TV and talk about what happened (even though I’m not supposed to say I did). And I got the reward money for finding Hannah, too. My mom said that made me a double hero. It was enough money to be able to put a down payment on a house of our own—even though moving didn’t feel so urgent now that we didn’t live in the eyesore of the neighborhood anymore, thanks to all the hard work our neighbors did. Mom and I agreed we would take our time and find the best house, a house of our own, something I never dreamed we’d have. I told my mom my only request was we had to stay in Sycamore Glen.
When people ask me what I think a hero is (which they always do), I tell them about Cutter: how he nearly drowned, but after he got better, he got back in the same pool that nearly killed him. He stood on the edge, his toes curling into the cement as if he was grabbing hold. I could tell from the look on his face that he was thinking about turning away. I wanted to whisper in his ear that no one would blame him if he did, put my arm around him, and walk him over to the drink machine to buy him a Dr Pepper. He could try again next summer, or he could stay out of the water forever.
But then I saw him look at that water like it was his opponent in a wrestling match he wanted to win. I saw his face get that determined look that I think I probably had when I launched that rock into that glass. His eyes found mine, and I nodded that I understood; I nodded that he’d be OK. His feet left the edge, and though his toes remained curled, he flew into the air. As I watched, I imagined that those same arms I’d felt that night were underneath him, holding him close and throwing him up at the same time, helping him fly without letting him fall.
I heard everyone around me inhale as we watched my brother break the water’s surface. No one dared to breathe while he was under the water, and when his head popped back up, everyone started to clap, their held breaths all coming out in one relieved rush of air. Someone hugged me and someone else yelled, “Go, Cutter!” At that moment, I thought of the day the spider nearly blocked our entrance to the pool, and how we never knew what message he might’ve spelled in his web. And I realized that it didn’t matter what the spider said. It mattered that we knocked that web down and walked right in.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Several years ago, a little boy nearly drowned in our neighborhood pool. In the days after this event, I noticed how it united and changed our neighborhood.
I could say that this novel was begun in the ensuing days, but that’s not entirely true. Instead, I think the novel began in earnest at our end-of-the-season swim-team banquet several weeks later, when that same little boy went forward to get his swim-team trophy. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as we all witnessed the miracle of him—healthy and whole—going forward to accept a trophy for the thing that had nearly killed him. There was so much hope—so much joy—in that moment, and I knew then I would write about it somehow, some way, if for no other reason than to try to lasso some of what I felt whoosh through the room in that moment.
I hope that in the final scene, when Cutter goes back in that water, you felt a tiny bit of what we all felt at that swim-team banquet. And I hope that maybe whatever you’ve been scared to dive into won’t scare you so much anymore.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Abundant thanks go out to the following people:
Liza Dawson, my agent, who called late one Tuesday night and told me not to give up, and then didn’t give up, either.
Tara Parsons, Jodi Warshaw, Nicci Jordan Hubert, and the team at Lake Union. Without your valuable skills, none of this could have happened. Thanks for making this story so much better.
My husband, Curt, and our kids: Jack, Ashleigh, Matt, Rebekah, Brad, and Annaliese. Home is wherever all of you are. I won the family lottery. And specifically to Curt, I am thankful every day I get to do this life with you. Your wisdom, support, and encouragement sustain me. Another twenty-five? Let’s do it!
Ariel Lawhon, you’re the other half of my brain—which should terrify you but does not. I bless the day our lives converged.
My mom, Sandy Brown. I can only hope to be the mother to my kids that you’ve been to me.
The local writers who meet to write, brainstorm, gripe, and celebrate this gig. Nobody gets it like you guys do. Erika Marks, Kim Wright Wiley, Kim Boykin, and Joy Callaway—I don’t know what I’d do without you!
The friends Curt and I do life with: Tracy and Douglas Graham, Billy and Jill Dean, Lisa and Mike Shea, Dawn and Jamil Massey, Kim and Sam Young, April and Paul Duncan, Terry and Jen Tolbert, Beth and Steve Burton, and Amy and Clay Gilliam. Thanks for asking about my novels and always being willing to raise a glass of champagne when I’m ready to celebrate.
My neighbors. (I’m not even going to attempt to write down all your names!) You share the neighborhood that served as the inspiration for the setting of this novel, so you know better than anyone else how special it is. I’ll see you guys at the pool!
Every teacher who ever nudged me in the direction of writing and gave me the tools to do it better.
The Master Storyteller: I trust You to keep telling my story the way You see fit. The pen is in Your capable hand, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I Chronicles 16:8-12
(And Billy Dean, that Death Cab reference was just for you. Jill Dean, in the next book I promise to name a character after you!)