Patches of snow still cover long swaths of sand. They gleam silver in the moonlight. Everything else is nearly black in contrast.
Above the gust of the wind, I hear Eden’s gasp. I hear her following sob, trailed by the sad song of her daughter’s name from her lips. My stomach knots for her. My heart bleeds for Emmy. So much like my own child. So damaged in her own way. She doesn’t deserve this. Neither of them does.
We walk quickly along the beach, drawing closer and closer to my cabin. It’s when I’m doing a left-to-right sweep that I see the object. It’s floating just off the shore, just beyond where the waves begin to break. It bobs in and out of the slice of moonlight that slants across the ocean.
Without thought, I take off at a dead run down the beach toward the water’s edge. I focus on the object. The waves rise and obscure it. Then they break and reveal it. I see a tiny pale hand floating on the surface and I know that it’s her.
I throw down the blanket and sprint into the surf. I pay little attention to the fifty-some degree water when it hits my skin. I ignore the clench of my stomach muscles when it creeps under my sweater. I lift my chin when everything inside my chest locks down. Just a little farther and I can grab her.
Just a little farther.
I turn my body to the side and reach out, stretching my arm and my fingers as far as they’ll go, grasping at the five little digits that float nearest me. I pinch at one, but my joints are stiff and it slips right out of my grip. I lunge forward, grabbing again before she drifts farther into the deep. This time I squeeze the end of her finger as hard as I can and pull toward me until I can get a better purchase.
A finger. Two fingers. Five fingers. Her arm. As I drag her toward me, every small movement is increasingly difficult. My muscles are sluggish as I finally pull Emmy’s cold, limp body into my arms and turn with her. My legs struggle to cut through the undercurrent. They scream as I push them to carry us to shore. But push them I do, step after step.
Closer to shore the waves help force us onto the sand. I fall to my knees, still cradling Emmy’s body. I barely hear the crying over my own heartbeat. The world is mute and I can only see Eden when she’s kneeling in front of me, reaching for her daughter.
Until I hear her scream.
“Nooooooo!”
Dear reader,
What if you could have a do-over? Would you take it? Would you take your rewrite and see what MORE is? Or would you just want to ride off into the sunset with your happy ending? Let things rest as they are? Well, here, you’re in control. You get to choose, but choose carefully because your answer will decide the fate of Cole, Eden and Emmy.
Click DOOR NUMBER ONE if you want your happy ending now.
Or click DOOR NUMBER TWO if you want MORE (that will lead to a second book).
Or, if you’re like me, you’ll want both. And by all means, take them.
DOOR NUMBER ONE
THIRTY
Eden
“NO! EMMY!” I cry, tears blurring her face as I take her out of Cole’s arms and into my own. “Oh God, baby, open your eyes! Look at me!”
She’s so cold. Her body feels like ice against mine. Her hands rest limply atop the dark blue of her wet shirt and her feet dangle lifelessly from her legs.
“Emmy, baby, please wake up,” I wail. “What am I supposed to do?” I ask Cole, who’s staring at me as though he’s reliving the worst day of his life.
“Eden, let me help. My cell phone is in my pocket and I’m sure it won’t work now, so you need to run ahead to my house. The side door is unlocked. Call 911 immediately. I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to start CPR and then I’ll bring her on in. Give me five minutes.”
“No, I can’t leave her. I can’t leave her, Cole! She’s my little girl. She’s my baby. I can’t leave her. She has to be okay. She’ll be afraid when she wakes up. I can’t leave her.”
I feel more frantic the longer I talk. I hear my own words. I hear the desperation. The fear. It feeds the terror that’s swelling within me, around me. Threatening to drown me. Like the ocean that tried to drown my daughter.
“Eden!” Cole snaps, his fingers gripping my upper arms, digging in. As his eyes bore holes into mine, I see his own anxiety. The alarm. The dread. The hopelessness. Fighting its way to the surface. Wrestling him for control. “We don’t have much time. Do what I say and do it quickly. Emmy needs our help. Right. Now.”
Without waiting for my agreement, Cole takes my daughter from my straining arms and lays her gently on the dry part of the sand. With wide, burning eyes, I watch him set to work on her–checking her neck for a pulse, listening to her chest for breath sounds, tipping up her chin, plugging her nose, blowing air into her lungs.