Why?
Why am I here?
Is Fathoms for real? Too good to be true?
What happens next?
“Nothing,” I say, stopping my doubts in their tracks. “You know there’s no use in hoping anymore.”
Other questions rise too, ones from the past I don’t wish to revisit. But they force their way in.
“What do you want from me?” I cry to the sky.
It answers with a flash of lightning. A flash so close and so bright, it electrifies the clouds, turning them white for a split second before abandoning the world.
I swipe at the rain on my cheeks. As wet as they are, I know the moisture stems from the storm and nothing more.
Daylight soon becomes twilight. Thoughts swirl until they spiral. They leave me a blank and empty mess, more confused than ever.
Get up, Brooke. Leave. Give life another chance.
“And if I do? What then?”
No answer. No guidance.
If anyone cared, they’d have come to look for me by now. So I stay. Past dark. The storm abates, and the clouds clear. The air grows too cold to endure as the stars make their debut. I sniff and cough, a headache taking up residence between my brows. Every muscle aches. I can hardly keep my eyes open.
I rise on shaking legs. It’s time. “I’m sorry.” I stare down at my bare feet. Examine my shaking hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Grief, fresh and new, washes over me as I step toward the sea. I’m to blame for everyone’s heartache as well as my own. It would be easier if I were gone. With this truth solidified in my mind, I take another step, allowing the frigid water to wrap my ankles. I’m ready. I welcome the pain, knowing it will be fleeting.
That’s when a sound so hauntingly beautiful pierces the night.
I stop. Impossible.
Sea foam washes over my feet, inviting me deeper. I hiss, gritting my teeth at the icy salt water stinging my skin.
The sound ceases. My mind must be playing tricks.
I almost don’t notice my chattering teeth. The way my fingers change color as I stroke the ocean’s surface. Surrounded by her now almost feels like being enveloped by an old friend.
The sound rises again. A tune so desperate and weak it could be a cry for help.
I see it then. The giant yellow life raft, standing out in the dusk as a beacon, headed straight for a rocky cliff.
Ignore it, my mind says.
Not your problem, the waves seem to echo.
Come to me, the sea calls.
I take another step. Hypothermia may set in before I have the chance to drown. But the sound stops me again. That tune. It reminds me of . . .
Go, a voice from the past seems to say. Save them.
I’m frozen and aching. My mind spins. Breaths build, one upon another. They grow frantic, panicked, dreading the pain that comes from living another second in this life. I need this.
But a more urgent need inside says I have to help—save—whoever is in that raft.
Something hard and heavy knocks against my elbow. A bottle?
Shaking, I draw it from the water. It’s corked, frosted. Sea glass? Did the person in the raft send this? What are the odds it would find me? I glance from the bottle to the raft and back again.
What’s one more day going to change?
“Absolutely nothing,” I say. Speaking the words aloud makes this a concrete, inarguable truth.
I reverse and speak again, this time loud enough so the sea with all her fathoms below will hear. “This changes nothing.”
I’ll join her depths soon. Because this changes nothing.
Nothing.
At.
All.
Abandoning the sea, I retreat toward shore, bottle in hand.
About a hundred feet to my left, a sandy dune rises, transforming into rocks and ridges. This might once have been a climbing course or even a hiking trail. An adventure for the more dangerous at heart. I face that danger now, my heart pump, pump, pumping, blood rush, rush, rushing.
When I reach the rocks, I begin my course, though my muscles beg me to turn back. Up and down, back and forth. At times I’m sure I might fall. Then I’m enclosed, stone rising on either side, leaving me unable to view the ocean at all. It’s dark now, and the clouds have started to clear. The full moon and stars do little to illuminate my path. But adrenaline fuels a high I’ve never experienced. A rush that only comes from attempting to tackle the impossible.
When at last I’ve made my way through the rocky course and down to sea level, hidden tide pools to my left and a shallow cave at my back, I sweep my gaze to and fro.
Where is the raft?
Did I lose it? Did the tide pull it too far down the coast? What if the waves slammed it into the rocks and—
There! I climb down as low as I can. The raft floats ten, maybe fifteen feet away. The gap would mean nothing on land. But a watery gap this wide could be the difference between life and death.
“Hey!” I stand and flail my arms. “Over here.”
The drifter’s harmonic tune ceases. A flashlight beam illuminates the night.
A voice echoes. Male? Female? Too faint to tell. They’re alive, though. Alive is a good sign.
The irony of the situation is not lost on me.
I’m down on my knees. If I reach, I can touch the water with my fingertips. It splashes and sprays. Do I swim to the raft? I might make it. But then how would we get back? If they had a rope or a life preserver—
That’s it! I cup my hands around my mouth. “Do you have a life preserver you can toss?”
A holler. A wave of light. I almost detect the words. “Hold on”?
Adrenaline vibrates through every muscle. I feel a warmth I know won’t last but cling to it all the same.
The flashlight beam bounces. The drifter lifts a white ring in the air. Perfect. We’ve got one shot at this. Don’t blow it, Brooke.
“Toss it here!” I call through cupped hands.
The drifter seems to catch on to my idea. My heart pounds as I brace myself.
Ready.
Three, two, one . . .
The ring sails toward me through the air. Splash! A few more feet and I would have been able to reach down and grab the thing. Crud.
The drifter tugs the ring back toward the raft, fishes it from the water, and readies to toss it again.
And again it fails.
A third time we try this. And a third time it doesn’t work.
Is the rope too short? Or is the raft drifting farther out? We can keep going this route, but then we risk losing our chance.
“One more time,” I call.
The drifter obeys and the ring lands in the water a few feet from the rocks.
I suck in a breath, close my eyes, release. Then I turn and attempt to gain a firm grip on a vertical section of rock close to the ledge. My hands are icicles and the stone is far too wet and cold. I frown, remove my tee, and thank the stars I chose to layer today. The tank top underneath wouldn’t be my first choice of attire, but it’ll do for now.
My removed shirt becomes an anchor. I loop it around the pointed rock and knot it once, tugging to make sure it holds. No way the hack will last long. I’ll have to be quick.
I wrap the end of the stretched shirt once around my wrist and grip it tight before easing my legs down over the low ledge. My soles meet frigid sea, followed by my calves and thighs. I gulp oxygen. How is it possible to be colder than I am already?