“Have you talked to him? Did he come to the hospital?”
“No,” my mom answers. “He didn’t come to the hospital. But your dad and I went to see him a few days after the accident, and we let him know how grateful we are for what he did.” She smiles at me. “Can you please pass the hot sauce?”
It’s right next to my hand, but I don’t reach for it. “Wait, that’s it? What if I want to say thank you? I should say thank you.”
My mom gives my dad a look that very clearly says, Help.
He gets the message, along with the rest of us, and leans forward on both of his elbows. “Tell you what. Let’s focus on getting you well and strong again, and moving forward. This town is small enough that I’m sure you’ll see him around, and you can thank him when you do.”
“It was pretty badass, what he did,” Sam says, taking down the other half of his taco in one bite. “It didn’t even look like he—”
“SAM.” The urgency in my mom’s voice snaps all our eyes her way. “Can you please pass the tortillas?” she asks, even though there are plenty on her plate.
“Oh. Sure.” He holds the tortilla warmer out to my mom, and I see her give him a look now. Only, this one I can’t read. He shrugs an apology.
I try to figure out what just happened, what I’m missing, because it feels like we’re back to that game of catch-up that I’m beginning to hate. Then I remember what the hospital volunteer had said, and I know there’s something my mom is trying to keep from me.
“Is there a video of the accident?” I ask.
They all go still.
“Did someone film it?”
My parents look at each other, have a conversation with just their eyes. Then my dad sets his fork down and looks at me.
“There is a video, but not of the accident. A bystander caught the rescue on his camera.”
“Rescue?” I let this sink in, that there is footage out there somewhere of what happened to me. “Is that . . .” I pause, trying to figure out what to ask next. “Is that why the newspeople have been around? Was it—was I on the news? People have seen it?”
My dad nods. Sam stays quiet. My mom reaches out her hand to mine and I take it away.
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” I ask. My voice is shaky with anger.
“We didn’t want to overwhelm you, sweetheart.” She looks to my dad for help, then back at me. “You have so much else you’re dealing with right now, and I didn’t think it would be . . .” She drops her head. “I’m sorry. I thought it might be too much for you right now.”
“Well, it is. All of this.” I gesture to the Welcome Home banner and all the flowers, and then at the plate in front of me. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
I push my chair back from the table and stand up too fast. They all look up at me, and I try not to let the pain in my chest show on my face.
“I’m going up to my room.”
They all look a little unsure of what to say. Finally, my dad nods. “Okay. You need help up the stairs?”
I shake my head.
My mom reaches a hand out and brushes my arm. “If you need anything, we’re right here.”
“I know,” I say. “Thanks.”
I turn and walk out of the dining room, around the corner to the hallway where the stairs are, but I don’t go up them. Not just yet. I stand in the same spot I used to stand to try to overhear whatever grown-up conversation was happening at the dining room table. And just like I remember, they have no idea I’m right there.
My mom’s voice is too hushed to hear the words she speaks, but her tone is upset.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “I didn’t know she didn’t know. But you’re not gonna be able to keep her in a little bubble forever. The accident made national news. The first time she goes anywhere or talks to anyone or turns on her computer, she’s gonna find out about it.”
“Oh my God, I should’ve taken her computer out of her room.”
I hear my mom’s chair slide across the hardwood floor and I practically leap up the first step, but my dad’s voice stops me.
“Suze, stop. He’s right. We can’t protect her from everything. She’s gonna see the video at some point. And it’ll be okay.” He sighs. “Let’s take it one day at a time. Liv’s home, and she’s safe, and that’s what’s most important right now. I’ve got a guy on every shift looking out and making sure nobody bothers us here at the house. Shouldn’t take more than a day for things to calm down, and for the media vultures to lose interest. We’ll figure out the rest as we go, okay?”
My mom’s answer gets lost in the sound of a chair moving against the floor again, and plates clinking together, and I know I have to go. Now. I climb the stairs as quick as I can, and I feel every step in my ribs, but I don’t stop until I get to my room and close the door behind me.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath, and for the pain to subside. Once it does, I cross the room as quietly as I can, sit down at my desk without making a sound, and switch on my computer.
EIGHT
I START TO type my name into the search bar. “Olivia Jor . . . ,” and the auto search fills in the rest:
Olivia Jordan drowning
Olivia Jordan car accident
Olivia Jordan hospitalized
Olivia Jordan dead
A chill runs through me.
There are what look like headlines: “Accident on Carson Bridge, Teens Rescued from Submerged Car,” “Teen Pulled From Harbor in Miraculous Rescue . . .”
The list goes on, but my eye goes immediately to the link with a dark, indistinguishable thumbnail image next to it, and a video time of three minutes, fourteen seconds in the bottom corner. I have a strong, certain feeling that this is the video my mom doesn’t want me to see, which makes me feel even more certain that I need to see it.
Still. I hover over the play arrow with the mouse for a long moment before I click, afraid to know why. I wait. Breathe. Tell myself that it’ll help to see it.
And then I click.
The video takes a moment to load, and I hold my breath as I watch the circle spin.
And then it starts abruptly, and too loud.
There’s yelling. The echoing rush of wind. And feet, running on the wooden planks of the bridge. The camera jumps around, shaking wildly, and it makes me a little dizzy.
“Oh my God,” a voice says off camera. I don’t recognize the voice, but I can hear the panic in it. “Call 911!”
The running stops, and the camera swings up from the ground. The railing of the bridge goes by in a quick flash, and the guy holding the camera finds the water. The camera shakes as he catches his breath, finds what he’s looking for, and focuses.
It doesn’t look real.
The night and the edges of the screen are inky black, but the water of the harbor is lit with the lights from the bridge. And from beneath? At first I can’t figure it out, but then the words from the story I’ve been told, and from the search screen, come back to me and I understand. The greenish circle of light shining beneath the surface is from the headlights of the submerged car. My car.