EMILY DICKINSON
Mom and I both oversleep in the morning. We were up past midnight. I had to tell her my plans for returning to school. The way her eyes bulged out of her head, I thought she might be the one having a seizure. Then she had to email Principal Brown, the counselors, and all my teachers to explain I’d have Hitch with me and to tell them to call her with questions or concerns.
I see only two concerns: One, I’ll stand out like a prep at a punk concert with an eighty-five-pound golden retriever at my side. Two, Hitch will lick somebody to death.
When we pull out of the driveway five minutes late, my heart beats in my throat. I texted Chatham to say I’d be a few minutes behind, but he didn’t respond. Probably because he’s in the pool. Possibly because he’s tired of dealing with me and my mistakes. Hitch sits in the backseat on high alert, looking official in his red-and-green canine assistant vest.
“I’ll walk you in,” Mom offers when we enter the carrider lane.
I don’t want to hurt her feelings after the progress we made last night, but I have to do this alone. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”
Her jaw twitches. She brakes too quickly, and we both jerk forward against our seat belts. I take a deep breath, unbuckle, and swing my legs out onto the pavement.
“Wait.” She places a gentle hand on my arm. “I have something for you.”
She opens the console between our seats and pulls out two tiny boxes wrapped in shiny orange paper. They’re tied one on top of the other with curly yellow ribbon.
“What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion.” She leans over to peck me on the cheek. “I just love you.”
We both jump when a car behind us honks. I hesitate.
“Take it with you.” She presses her hand against my shoulder, gently nudging me out of the car.
I slide the presents into my backpack and step out of the car. The woman behind us holds a massive coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other. I open the back door for Hitch. Her stern expression softens when she sees his smiling face.
I should’ve brought him with me to begin with—well, that and been honest with people.
Mom doesn’t move until I blow her a kiss and wave her on.
Just like that, I’m headed back to school. A wave of déjà vu rolls over me. The halls are mostly deserted like that first day. But today Hitch’s toenails clack out a happy little melody on the tile floor as he accompanies me to the far end of the elective hallway. My pulse throbs in my neck. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry as toast. Hitch glances up at me, smiling reassuringly, sensing my growing anxiety.
When we reach the pool, the place is abandoned, the fluorescent lights turned off. I’m a few minutes late, but I would’ve thought someone would still be here or that Chatham would’ve waited for me. Unless he’s tired of waiting on me.
I’m not that late, and swim team did practice this morning, because the cement around the pool is wet. I sidestep the shallow puddles in an effort to keep my feet dry. Hitch wags his tail at the feel of cool water on his paws. Unlike me, the dog was born to swim.
“What am I doing, bud?” I ask, plopping down on the cold metal seat. He rests his head on my knee, whining sympathetically.
I unzip my backpack to check my phone. The overstuffed compartment is crushing Mom’s pretty packages. I pull them out. Now is as good a time as any to open them.
Hitch watches as I rip open the paper, then pause before opening the tiny white box. I gasp when I see the silver charm resting on a bed of cotton. It’s a lighthouse. I lift it out of the box, turning it over in my hand.
The inscription on the back stills my racing heart. The tiny font reads He will always light our way. I swallow, trying to hold back the tears.
The kind gesture, the reference to Dad—both bring me great joy. I’m smiling. But I’m also crying, and my chest is so tight I think my breastbone might snap.
I wad the paper and shove it into my bag before opening the second package. It’s my charm bracelet. She must’ve snuck it out of my jewelry box and wrapped it during the night. There’s a little note in her neat print: I love you. Mom
It hits me: she’s the one responsible for all the charms. I always assumed it was good-natured, affectionate Dad. If I’d paid attention, I would’ve known the anonymously delivered charms were more her quiet, reserved way of showing love. She might not be as touchy-feely as Dad, but she loves me.
And I’m going to start showing her I love her.
I hang the charm on the bracelet and clasp it around my wrist, then stow the trash and empty boxes in my backpack. Hitch stands, sensing we’re on the move.
“Let’s do this, boy.” Pushing myself up off the bleachers, I square my shoulders, determined to give this day a shot.
I’m admiring the way the morning sun, shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows, reflects off the water and onto my charm bracelet when my flip-flop hits standing water. My right foot slips underneath me. I swing my arms, trying to regain my balance. I’m going down, and I know it. Hitch plants his feet, ready to break my fall the way he’s been trained to do in case of a seizure. But the water messes with his footing too. I hit him at an angle and knock him into the pool.
My temple whacks the concrete, and I hear myself scream. I lay there dazed for a second. When Hitch barks, I push myself up onto all fours, shoving off my backpack. He’s swimming in frenzied circles near the ladder. I know he’s not afraid of the water. It’s my cry and our separation that’s freaking him out.
I survey the pool—no shallow end. This is no recreational pool. It’s the real-deal Olympic kind and deep—really deep. Over six feet, if I have to guess. I crawl to the ladder.
“Easy, Hitch. Easy.” I have to stay calm for him. If I panic, God only knows what he’ll do to himself trying to drag himself out. I lay flat on my belly, arms outstretched toward him.
He makes a beeline for me, barking low and deep like he’s in pain. My head tells me he’s fine. Goldens were bred for hundreds of years to retrieve ducks in the rough and icy waters of the Chesapeake Sound. An unexpected dip in an indoor pool isn’t going to hurt him.
But the panic in his eyes and the way he’s swimming with his mouth open causes my heart to race.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I repeat, reaching for his front legs and trying to lift him up the ladder. Even if I could dead-lift eighty-five pounds out of the pool—which I can’t—there’s no way I could lift eighty-five pounds of wet, flailing golden retriever.
I have a good grip on his left forearm, not his right. But I dig down deep, grunt, and heave. He shrieks when I yank on the left leg.
Crap. Crap. Crap. I hurt him.
“Hitch, I’m sorry.”
He leans to the left on the next circle.
A scream rises in my throat, but I hold it in. He’ll flip. And if I leave him, I don’t know what he’ll do. His eyes are bugging, and every time he barks, he swallows pool water.
Can’t someone hear him barking?
I have to do something, so I kick off my shoes, suck in a deep lungful of air, and slip into the pool. The cool water takes away my one good breath. I gasp, moving my arms and legs instinctively, doggy-paddle style like I did in first grade. For the millisecond it takes Hitch to reach me, I think my rescue attempt might work. I might be able to swim.
He’s leaning to the left but smiling as he closes the short gap between us. When he reaches for me with his good paw, his claws tangle in my wet shirt, pulling me under.
I choke on the chlorinated water but somehow drag myself to the surface. We inch forward. The six feet to the ladder shouldn’t be a big deal, but it feels more like six miles. My arms and legs scream. I tread water and cough, trying to expel the pool water from my lungs, and form a plan. Hitch turns on me, concern etched in his face. If I don’t do something fast, he’s going to reach for me again.
And that is not an option.
It’s a recipe for disaster.