Deborah Jackson

 

At the end, a hush falls over the arena as the crowds are absorbed into the night. At the end, the flashing red light on the ambulance fades like a distant star. At the end, the scoreboards are wiped and every hard-fought point is forgotten. You do one last skate over the slush and cracks in the ice. You feel the cracks zigzag and widen; you extend desperate fingers to avoid the collapse. You stop at the hole, the entry point, the garish splotch of blood. The lights dim until nothing is visible but the silver streaks of a broken mirror. A tiny voice whispers, Game over.

 

Chapter One

 

Some days, you shouldn’t get out of bed.

 

“Madre de Dios. Who are you? And what happened to your fa— I mean, what are you doing here?”

 

His words pinned me to the ground, like a specimen in a glass case, a bug in the Montreal Insectarium.

 

My normal response would be: “Well, who the hell are you?” and, “I didn’t see a sign that said ‘Private Beach,’ so I have as much right to park myself here as anyone else.”

 

But I wasn’t exactly parked, more like concealed behind a palm tree and sneaking forward through the grass to, you know, listen in, and it was the other half of his question, the broken one, that really hurt.

 

Why would I need to hide and sneak, you might wonder? Who really does that, eh?

 

Someone who doesn’t want to be that specimen.

 

So there I was, exposed and displayed for all to see. I needed to rip out the pins and bolt or vanish. Frantic, I looked in ten different directions at once.

 

I made an attempt and scrambled halfway up, but before I could escape the headlights of his eyes, I froze again. Struck. Blindsided. Breathless. A weird epiphany needled into my brain. It whispered, “death isn’t stalking you anymore.”

 

I could have sighed. After all, a part of me still wanted to live.

 

Not like this, of course. Not like this limping, cowering piece of shit.

 

There had been many moments over the past six months when I hadn’t wanted to live. When I’d drifted away to the sounds of cheers and the flood of Gatorade over my head and wake up to stabbing pain, blurred vision, casts and pins and coat hangers stuck through me (or at least they looked that way). My face felt like a dartboard, and I’d think, God, you hit a bull’s-eye, didn’t you? It was for getting so cocky, wasn’t it? For thinking I could actually challenge the guys, compete in a man’s world, make it to the NHL. Ha!

 

Joke’s on you, Erin. He’s laughing.

 

I would have laughed too, but it hurt too much to laugh, or smile, or move.

 

But this was my chance to recover. This tropical island with the palm trees and the glittering postcard horizon. Nobody knew me. No one would look at me.

 

Who was I kidding?

 

So what do you do when you’d like to dissolve into a puddle and drain into the dirt? You slink away. But I wasn’t capable of slinking, yet. Inelegant hobbling. That was about it. And he’d already seen me, so what was the point?

 

The point was to escape. Not this moment exactly—although it was bad enough—but the ones that would inevitably follow, the moments when I wouldn’t want to live again. The ones that would make me feel cowardly.

 

But there is no escape once you’re trapped in the case. The only way out is to change the past. Start over. Reverse the film. Splice it, trim it, use other camera angles. Try another replay, with the mike off or different lines dubbed in. If I were really smart, I’d figure out how to erase the last six months of my life. But the best I can do is mess with the last few hours.

 

Here you have it. My first attempt at film editing.

 

 

We crossed the causeway, and what I saw was absurdly beautiful. Palm trees, flowers, glossy leaves.

 

“Dorothy, we’re not in Canada anymore,” I whispered. But it was more than just Florida. The island shimmered, like an oasis with a surrounding wilderness of sea instead of desert. I can breathe here. Spanish moss dangled like emerald webs from tall trees. People strolled by in pink tank tops and butt-hugging shorts. The air was sharp and fragrant. And the island was dirty.

 

Not garbage-filth-layered dirty. Fresh dirty, with sand, mud, ecstatic plants. Not a hint of sterile surfaces or pine-scented disinfectant. Nor was there the smell of sweat-drenched uniforms and stale indoor ice.

 

This is perfect, I thought.

 

The perfect place to die, that other voice said. I hated that other voice.

 

Dad cast me a look, a smile that was sort of droopy-sad. Why did he have to do that? It was like he could read my mind and knew I was comparing everything to . . . before. I think he was comparing, too.

 

 

Rrreeep! (Rewind.)

 

First thing, let’s get rid of Dad’s smile. Snipped. Erased. No more reminders.

 

 

Mom’s fingers fluttered briefly on my arm, and Amy sat up to get a better view.

 

“The hotel’s on the next island,” said Dad.

 

“Are we taking a boat?” I asked.

 

“No. Just a bridge. Sanibel’s incredible, isn’t it?” His hand swept over the quaint souvenir shops to our right, nestled between massive, twisted trees, and then the taxi shuttled us past a bald white sign that read, “Ding Darling Refuge.”

 

I looked at the entrance, at the thick fringe of vines, and at the creepy mangroves with their exposed roots. Weird long-necked birds like snakes with wings flew over a swamp in the distance. It seemed so odd in the middle of tourist-town. But then, I was odd now, too. I didn’t blend in with the perfect crowd anymore. Not that I ever did, but now I was a weed in the garden, just as this refuge seemed to be. Mine was the face that could stop conversations, or make even Reverend Alden stumble over his words. They were still on replay in my mind.

 

“E- Erin, dear. You’re looking . . . well.”

 

Do I really look well, jackass?

 

“We’re here,” said Dad.

 

Thank God. If I thought about that idiotic reverend one more time, I might have to punch someone. And Dad didn’t like it when I punched Amy. Mom, either. But Mom wasn’t the one who could make me back off with just a look.

 

So this was it. The island of captives. Captiva, they called it. The hotel resembled a manor from ancient times, with Roman pillars and bulbous white balconies that overlooked the ocean. And the ocean danced at its doorstep, just metres away, the waves curling in and sweeping toward me. I opened the taxi door. Salt tingled the tip of my tongue. I walked forward. Sleek sportfishing boats cruised up and down the coastline, and green specks of islands hovered in the distance. The waves marched in from the Gulf of Mexico, sighing as they splashed down on the beach. You could dive in that ocean, you could swim, you could . . .drown.

 

 

This is the perfect moment to get back into the taxi and tell the driver to shuttle me back to the airport, now! Or to wade into the ocean and drown. Make note for new script at this point.

 

 

Amy clambered out of the car. “Isn’t it awesome?” she said, her voice all squeaky, her eyes all shiny.

 

I looked down at my feet, at the way my ever-so-sensible runners sank into the sand.

 

“It’s a beach,” I said.

 

“But the sand is like pure white. And look at all the shells.” She pointed at heaps of sun-baked clam shells, with the odd starfish thrown in. “The water is that incredible blue color.”

 

“Turquoise?” I asked.

 

“Yeah. Like your eyes.”

 

“My eyes aren’t turquoise.”

 

“Yes, they are.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

I noticed something poking out of the sand. An ivory comb, with a crust of shells stuck to the teeth and jewels embedded in the spine. Sapphires, maybe?

 

I don’t know what the attraction was. I never wore these kinds of things. I wasn’t a glittery type of gal. Still, I bent down and grasped it in my hand. I hardly felt the jolt of pain I got from bending my legs, but as I slipped the comb from the sand, a small vibration travelled through my fingers, followed by a shock.

 

I dropped it, the pain excruciating in my newly-healing bones. Had I somehow snapped one again? What the hell? For a minute, I blanked out from the pain. And heard a voice: “Sleeping, sleeping for nigh unto eternity. But not now. I feel her. Nearby.”

 

 

What was that? Some sort of feedback? Really should clip this, but even the memory of it is making my hands shake.

 

 

It’s okay. It’s all right. Remember the time you got hit in the face with the puck. Broke a cheekbone. Nearly cracked your jaw. You said, “I’m tough, man. I’m going to play the next game”’ Erin, you can do this. You can come back to us. You can play the next game.

 

It was Dad’s voice in the hospital that brought me back. He always brought me back.

 

“Erin?” Louder, this time.

 

I opened my eyes. “Dad?”

 

He was there, bending over me, tucking his arm behind my back. “Slow movements. Remember what the physiotherapist said.”

 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” asked Mom, almost touching my arm, but not quite.

 

I’m not going to break, I felt like saying. But I had, so that wouldn’t cut it anymore.

 

I nodded and straightened, and took a deep breath. I looked down. The comb was still clutched in my hand. I shook it free. It plopped to the sand and stuck there, oddly out of place, like a . . . girl in an NHL uniform.

 

“Let’s unpack,” Dad said, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

 

“Can we go for a swim afterwards?” asked Amy. “I can’t wait to get in that water.”

 

And get into your bikini, I thought.

 

Dad was starting to nod, and I nearly panicked. “Amy can swim. I don’t want to swim.”

 

“Maybe swimming so soon isn’t a good—,” said Mom.

 

“How about biking?” I interrupted. “Joanne said I could bike, right? To try to get some strength back into my legs.”

 

“I don’t—,” said Mom.

 

 

Now this is where I should insert a new line, Okay, Mom. No biking. You’re probably right. But I just can’t seem to do it. Mom is never right.

 

 

“Sure,” said Dad. “We can even check out the refuge on Sanibel with the bikes. There’s all those different trees I told you about—banyan, gumbo limbo—and mangrove swamps. They say it’s amazing—full of alligators and birds, too.”

 

Creepy refuge. Right. But in a way it seemed a fitting destination. That refuge was as wild and tangled and strange as I was now.

 

I watched Mom’s face grow paler. “Do we really want to see alligators while we’re on bikes?” she asked.

 

I couldn’t suppress a smirk. “They’re not going to eat us.”

 

“It’s happened before,” she said.

 

“Seriously, Mom?”

 

“Seriously, Erin.”

 

“Stop being so nervous. I’m fine. I’m not going to let anyone eat me.”

 

Dad leaned over and added with a wink, “No, you wouldn’t.”

 

“Steve, you’re not helping. We’re talking about alligators. You can’t just fend off alligators with a . . . with a . . .”

 

“Water bottle,” smiled Dad.

 

“Oh, I give up.”

 

I grinned, even though it hurt. At least I could still win the small battles.

 

But it wasn’t about winning anymore. I had to get away. And I needed to feel that power again, the adrenaline pumping through my legs and buzzing in my brain. I wanted to feel . . . better.

 

“How about,” I said, “we go for a quick swim this morning, and you let me bike by myself this afternoon?”

 

“By yourself?” Mom looked at me like I was asking to climb Mount Everest. “Erin, you’re still having trouble walking.”

 

“I can bike better than I can walk.”

 

“But what if you fall off and hurt yourself, and no one’s around? And there are supposed to be some poisonous snakes on the island. Darling, I just—”

 

“Why don’t we go for that swim?” said Dad. “We’ll work our way up to biking.”

 

“But what if there are sharks in the water?” I mimicked. I couldn’t help it.

 

Dad slid me a sideways look that said, Cut it out.

 

I cut it out and we went swimming.

 

 

Speaking of cutting, let’s cut the entire beach scene. But maybe I could splice it together with a scene from Jaws. At this point, we’d be racing off the island—or maybe I’d get eaten. Either way, the spool would be empty. Need to rip out the next scene, too.

 

 

. . . and I went biking down the path, and not feeling better. As I pumped the pedals, teeth of pain chomped at my legs—wicked, biting, chewing, grinding teeth—but I focused on the trail and kept pedaling. Green palm fronds waved me on. Cascades of blushing bougainvilleas pulled me deeper down the path. Banking, squawking gulls beckoned me toward the ocean. Laughing, chattering voices . . . stopped me.

 

 

Why is this not working? I was never an expert at media studies in school, but I thought I’d cut this scene.

 

Okay, one more shot. Shift camera angle, speed up film. Keep bike moving.

 

 

“Hey, Sadie. Let’s go for a swim.” (Imagine this on fast forward.)

 

“Wait a minute. I’m talking, Carlos. Don’t you guys want to hear?”

 

A sigh whistled though the shrubs. A sigh, and then chuckles and giggles and a hearty “yeah” or two.

 

I slid off the bike, edged around the palm tree that bordered the path, and ducked down between the sea grass, or oats—whatever it’s called. Ever so quietly, I parted the purple strands of morning glory vines that threaded through the oats, and shifted to get a better view. A blonde girl with dark roots was sitting on the sand. She wore a string bikini and had a perfect face. Model-perfect, gag-perfect—but on second look, fake-perfect, considering all the makeup slathered over her cheekbones and around her eyes. For some reason, she was the magnet. Gathered around her like groupies around a pop star were a bunch of teens sprawled over colorful beach blankets.

 

“So, get this,” said the blonde. “They found her body somewhere on Sanibel, or parts of it. Washed in from the ocean. They say she probably went swimming and never came back.”

 

“Maybe she was eaten by a shark,” said a petite, snub-nosed girl to her left.

 

“’Kay. If that’s what you believe,” said the girl.

 

“What d’you believe, then?” asked a bronzed guy to her right. He leaned forward, his hazel eyes tracking her body. I tracked him—black curly hair and heavy, interesting brows that arched high on his forehead as if he didn’t believe a word the girl said. He was bare-chested, wearing blue cotton shorts, and a thin crust of sand clung to his pecs and thighs. Hot, yes. But something else held my gaze. Despite the onceover he was giving the girl, he seemed unfocused, distracted. There was tension in his posture, in contrast to his friends, who lay baking on the sand.

 

“Well, duh,” the blonde continued. “What do you think, Carlos? She was murdered. Her head wasn’t even attached to her body. Some nutcase came up behind her—,” she raised her arms, shoulder-level, like she was holding a baseball bat, “and snapped off her head.” She let it swing.

 

“Eww,” said a skinny cinnamon-haired girl, wrinkling her nose.

 

“Cool!” said a dude with dyed platinum spikes and wide brown eyes.

 

The guy, Carlos, didn’t say anything, but he flinched. Maybe he wasn’t turned on by beheadings. His eyes drifted away from the blonde, following the horizon where blue met blue. Was he picturing the poor murdered girl pitched out to sea or, more likely, was he picturing the blonde skinny-dipping in the rough tide?

 

I shifted as teeth nipped at my leg again. Crap. Stupid position to be in, hunched under the vines. I reached down to ease the tension, but then I felt a cramp. I clenched my jaw. I needed to scream. The muscle was howling, reacting to a sensation like a thousand needles jabbing me, as if I hadn’t been jabbed by a thousand needles already. I stretched my calf and massaged it gently, but the cramp gripped even tighter. I groaned and twitched, making the sea oats shiver.

 

“What was that?” asked the girl.

 

“What was—what?” asked the guy—Carlos—his deep voice breaking in midsentence as if he were holding in a laugh.

 

“Behind us, in the oats. What if it’s a gator? Didn’t you hear it?”

 

I froze, tears pouring from my eyes from the freaking pain.

 

“Probably a tortoise or a bird.” I looked up to see Carlos rolling his eyes. “How long have you lived here, Sadie?”

 

“Long enough to know that gators do come to the beach sometimes. Can you check it out, Carlos?”

 

 

Say no, Carlos.

 

New audio: Emphatic “No!”

 

He’s mouthing something else, though.

 

 

He pushed off the blanket, sprang to his feet, and headed straight for me.

 

I slithered backward, trying to shrink behind the palm. But I wasn’t as quick as a snake might have been, and before I knew it, he was standing right in front of me, looking down at me, eyes sweeping my long-sleeved cotton blouse and mid-calf Capris and coming to rest on my face.

 

“Madre de Dios. Who are you? And what happened to your fa— I mean . . . what are you doing here?”

 

So much for film editing.