Wrecked Read online

  As he continued to stroke downward, he noticed tiny orbs of light falling beneath the surface. They were glowing, beautiful, doomed. He knew those were the souls from the shipwreck, and felt a deep pang in his heart. Down Below, a soul remained forever and ever, reincarnating and regenerating in different forms, so that a deva might be reincarnated as a mermaid, who might be reincarnated the next time around as a merman. But Up Above, one soul existed only in one body.

  “Fletch?” He called, the name tasting unfamiliar in his mouth. One of the orbs glimmered slightly, then continued its plunge toward the bottom before leaving his sight.

  ONE MONTH LATER

  MIRANDA LAY PERFECTLY STILL. THROUGH THE INCH OF water that lay between her eyes and the air, she could only see the sky as a sheet of blackness interspersed with fuzzy halos of light. She could barely make out the Big Dipper, and the sliver of moon didn’t even cast a shadow on the liquid that surrounded her. She breathed out, watching tiny bubbles make their way up to the surface of the water. She felt her lungs clench, but she closed her eyes, determined to last as long as possible.

  Finally, when she felt her heart beating in her stomach and heard blood pounding in her ears, she surfaced, taking a deep gulp of air, then another.

  “Miranda!” Her eyes flew open as Eleanor rushed out the sliding French doors and onto the sandstone patio. She was wearing a silk orchid-color knee-length dress and had a lily stuck in her hair.

  “Sorry. Just swimming,” Miranda called, willing Eleanor to leave her alone.

  “Miranda!” Eleanor shrieked again, her voice piercing the air like a siren. From far off, Miranda could hear a dog bark. “Don’t do that. You know if you need to go swimming, you should have Louisa watching you.” Eleanor shook her head. “I’m worried about you. This isn’t normal. Dr. Dorn says that this isn’t healthy. You need to get back into your routines, into your life.”

  Miranda swam over to the side of the pool and blinked up at Eleanor. “I said I was sorry,” she said in a low voice. In the semi-darkness, she noticed that her fingers gripping the gutter of the pool were ghostly white. The air was chilly, even though the water was a temperature-controlled eighty degrees. “I’m fine,” she repeated, a steely edge to her voice.

  Eleanor nodded curtly, her hair not moving from its shellacked French twist. She was platinum blond even at age seventy-five. “I’m heading to the hospital. Can you get ready?”

  Instead of answering, Miranda dunked her head underwater. She wished she could stay there forever, until the sound of her heart beating in her ears drowned out the noise of anything else. The only place she felt remotely okay was when she was in the water. If she concentrated on the rhythmic stroking of her arms and legs, then she could almost stop thinking. That was why she spent as many of her waking hours as she could swimming, either in the pool, or more preferably, at Bloody Point at the other end of the island. In the shadow of a long-abandoned golf course and only accessible through a half-mile path in the woods, no one was ever there. And Miranda liked it that way.

  That’s why almost every night Miranda had been sneaking out the window, climbing carefully onto the flat roof of the porch, which led to the thick-trunked magnolia tree she could climb down. It was dangerous, but she didn’t really care. It was more dangerous to be alone with her thoughts. It wasn’t like things were better in the water, but she felt more in control. She remembered back to when she was a four-year-old—whenever she’d be upset or whiny or nervous, her mother would take her across the street to the park and tell her to outrun the bad feelings. She’d run in circles, around and around the metal jungle gym, until she’d tired herself out. Then, she’d lie on the grass or the sand by the swings, feeling her heart beat in her chest. Back then, she’d always felt better. Now, it was almost the same. It was all about letting her body overtake her mind. It was like soccer, making your opponent think she had a chance to take the ball before cleanly kicking it to a teammate. Except now, she couldn’t outrun her feelings.

  “Miranda, we need to go. Visiting hours end at six,” Eleanor said again, practically tapping her foot against the sandstone tiles. “Will you be ready in ten minutes? I’ll have Roger get the car.”

  Of course she wasn’t ready. She didn’t want to see Fletch lying unconscious in a hospital bed, his body bloated and hooked up to dozens of wires. His mom and dad were always by his side. They allowed her to come in, but Miranda knew it would be better for everyone if she didn’t see Fletch. Seeing him wouldn’t make him get better, it would just make his parents hate her more.

  It’s not my fault! Miranda wanted to tell them. But so far, she never had. Because no matter how much people insisted that it wasn’t, that the navigation system had failed, that the channel marker wasn’t clearly identifiable in the storm, that a lightning bolt had caused the fire that had led to all the destruction. She had been the one driving the boat. Maybe it was her fault. Genevieve, Lydia, Alexa, and Darcy were dead, Jeremiah had a broken arm, Alan had a dislocated shoulder, and Fletch was in a coma.

  Gray was miraculously uninjured, having been guided by Alan to one of the larger fiberglass pieces of the boat. She and Alan had held on until the Coast Guard ship came to rescue them. Genevieve had most likely died immediately; her head had struck the side of the boat as Fletch had tossed her overboard and she drowned. Jeremiah, Alexa, and Darcy had all fallen overboard when the ship cracked in half. And while Jeremiah had desperately clung to both girls, to try to swim them to safety, they’d both been pronounced dead of smoke inhalation as soon as they reached the hospital. And Miranda had woken up with a minor concussion and a gash from her thigh to her knee where part of the boat’s fiberglass hull had torn into her leg.

  Sighing, Miranda grabbed the ledge of the pool and began to hoist herself up. She grimaced as Eleanor instantly extended her fragile hand.

  “I can do it myself,” she announced in what she realized was an echo to the phrase she’d said so often as a toddler. One try, two tries, and she finally heaved her abdomen over the lip of the pool, landing like an injured seal pup. She grimaced as she pushed herself into a standing position.

  Think confidence. Think you can do it. That’s what Lacey, the impossibly perky physical therapist at the Mount Pleasant Rehabilitation Center, would say before forcing Miranda to walk up and down the four-stepped mini staircase in the treatment room over and over and over again. It was a miracle she was walking so quickly, Lacey kept reminding her, even as she kept forcing Miranda to repeat the exercises, even when it felt like white-hot pokers were searing her flesh. Of course it was going to hurt. The cut had torn into her muscle, and rebuilding strength was going to take a long time.

  Or at least that’s what Lacey said. But what Lacey didn’t know, and what Miranda wouldn’t admit to anyone, was that her leg didn’t really hurt. Sure, sometimes her muscles hurt, and sometimes the cut seemed like it was beating in time to her heart, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle; nothing as bad as the ACL injury she’d had in eighth grade after a soccer tourney. And despite all the tests she’d had in the hospital, she found that as long as she kept telling them that her leg hurt, then they’d keep running tests and ordering physical therapy appointments and keeping her from heading back to school. And the more she said it, the more she believed it herself. She just wished it could work for everything else—that somehow, if she said the accident hadn’t occurred, it hadn’t. Plus, the more she focused on any twinge of pain that emanated from where the cables on the channel marker had dug into her leg, the more she could ignore her heart. Or try to until she couldn’t bear it any longer.

  Then, she’d stay up almost all night, forcing herself to listen to the Fletch and Miranda mix on her iPod, to look through the Calhoun Academy yearbook from last year, to scroll through the thousands of texts she and Fletch had sent to each other over the past year, all of which ended in oxo—which sort of looked like an infinity symbol. It had started as an offhand observation, but had become automatic. Love for inf
inity. Right.

  Miranda pulled on the sweatshirt that was slung over the patio chair. It was Fletch’s Calhoun lacrosse sweatshirt and still smelled like him: woodsmoke, Old Spice deodorant, and something else Miranda couldn’t quite place—something that made her feel safe and nostalgic and sad, all at once. But the scent was fading and it felt more like a costume than anything, an outward sign to the Kings that she was mourning just as much as they were.

  “I’m having Roger drive us,” Eleanor said, almost to herself. “He brought the car around front.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in a second,” Miranda said.

  Eleanor paused, as if she were about to protest. Then she nodded and turned away, her heels clacking against the sandstone tiles. She moved surprisingly fast for her age, and Miranda was relieved when she heard the French doors to the kitchen click closed.

  She didn’t know what to do or say to Eleanor. Ever since the accident, they’d behaved as if they were both polite strangers, even more distant than they’d been before. Miranda hadn’t talked to Eleanor about the accident. She’d tried, once, but Eleanor got an uncomfortable look on her face and left the room. The next morning, Eleanor casually mentioned that she’d thought it would be good if Miranda saw a psychiatrist a few times a week, to “process” the situation.

  It had been the same story when Miranda’s parents had died. Eleanor hadn’t even told her what had happened, but had simply said that her parents wouldn’t be coming back, but that they loved her. Miranda had nodded, assuming they were just on a trip—they’d do that sometimes. During the funeral, under the watchful eye of Louisa, Miranda had had a tea party in the garden with her collection of teddy bears in the memorial garden at the Cavalry Church. When the service got out, all the mourners paused en route to their cars to hug Miranda or ruffle her hair, and Miranda had been confused that they didn’t have presents for her—she’d assumed it was a birthday party. Later, Eleanor had taken her to a child psychiatrist, but all Miranda remembered doing at sessions were drawing pictures, playing with blocks, and hugging the extra-large stuffed polar bear in the corner of the office.

  Now, Eleanor was still pretending everything was business as usual, as if willing it would somehow make it true. When Miranda had come home from the hospital, anti-slip rugs had been put down on all the marble hallways and the stack of college catalogues, correspondence, and SAT prep books that had been stored in the library had been boxed and put in Miranda’s closet. All the pictures of Miranda and Genevieve—Miranda and Genevieve at Gen’s Studio 54-themed sixteenth birthday, where Miranda had worn a sparkly romper that had belonged to her mother and Gen had worn a super short silver halter dress; Gen and Miranda, dressed respectively as the sea witch and a mermaid last year for Halloween, when they’d gone to a party at Fletch’s and realized as soon as they’d gotten there that they were the only two who’d bothered to dress up; Miranda and Gen, lying on the beach in string bikinis and oversized sunglasses, giving their cheesiest grins—had been cleared from Miranda’s room. As if Genevieve had never existed.

  Miranda wrapped a towel around her body, slid on her flip-flops, and grabbed the crutches propped on a nearby chair. The crutches weren’t entirely necessary, but they definitely served as an emotional security blanket, especially in front of the Kings, who resented her because she was alive and Fletch . . . was? wasn’t? Miranda didn’t know. Slowly, she made her way around the sandstone path to the front of the house.

  There, Roger was waiting in the driver’s seat of the black BMW, while Eleanor sat in the back. Roger also did general repairs and maintenance on the sprawling house, and had also taught Miranda how to play soccer, the year she was five. When she was little, she once called him “daddy” by mistake. Eleanor had heard, and the next day, the impromptu soccer lessons had stopped. It was just another thing that Eleanor and Miranda never talked about, just like Miranda had never learned what had happened to her grandfather or had been allowed to look at any of Astrid’s old photos or schoolwork. In the Ashford household, dead meant dead, and talking or processing feelings was simply not done.

  “Let’s go,” Eleanor directed Roger crisply. “There’s a five-twenty ferry.”

  Roger nodded silently. Roger was always taciturn, weather-beaten, and morose, as if every day was a funeral. He wore a black knit cap year-round, despite the off-the-charts humidity during the summer. When Miranda was younger, she’d been half-convinced Roger was primarily on staff in order to spy on Miranda and Teddy, and ensure that they didn’t fall into the wrong crowd on Whym Island. In fact, she still wondered if that was the main reason why Eleanor kept him on staff.

  Miranda gazed out the tinted windows at the setting sun. The refraction of the light made it seem like the water was twinkling. Far off in the distance, the green-and-white ferry was slowly heading in toward the dock at the other end of the island.

  Before, Eleanor would never have deigned to take the ferry. Roger would have taken the wheel on Star Gazer, and they’d have docked at their space on the mainland and taken a car on the other side. It was just one more reminder of how everything was different.

  “Look at that,” Roger said, breaking the silence as he jerked his elbow toward the driver’s side window. Miranda looked where he was pointing. Far in the distance, at the dock was an enormous yacht, like some of the ones docked at the harbor in Charleston. It looked like a miniature cruise ship, with Sephie written on it in script and blue and green silk flags spiraling up the mast.

  “Nice,” Miranda said, not knowing what else to say. Why should she care? The only way it affected her was that the more people lived on the island, the fewer people would know who she was. She scooted further down on the leather seat. Whym was such a small island that most year-rounders recognized each other, and Miranda didn’t want to see how the once friendly parishioners from the Cavalry Church, or from the Whym Flower Society, or from the Historical Preservation Board, were now shunning her and her grandmother. There had been no phone calls or sympathy cards or visits to the house, not even from the Cavalry Church minister, in a month. The windshield had been cracked in the parking lot of the supermarket when Roger had run errands a few weeks ago. And the week after the accident, when Miranda had still been in the hospital, Eleanor had been turned away from Darcy’s funeral, even though she and Darcy’s grandmother had co-chaired the Memorial Day Flower Festival ten years in a row. Thinking of that scene—Eleanor, with her Sunday suit and hat, holding out a silver tray of egg-salad sandwiches, only to be sent away—made Miranda’s heart hurt. And yet Eleanor was still trying to get into the good graces of the families of the victims. Didn’t she realize the best thing they could do was to leave them alone?

  “Nice?” Roger huffed. “Pretty fucking gaudy, if you ask me. Excuse my French. That’s no way to sail.”

  “Now, Roger, hush,” Eleanor said firmly. “It is ridiculous, but who am I to judge? The longer I live here, the more this island surprises me. Maybe things do need to change,” Eleanor mused.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Roger responded, and Miranda knew Eleanor wished she could gossip about this new person to Darcy’s grandmother. For the hundredth time that day, and probably the millionth time that month, Miranda wanted to apologize.

  “Miranda, darling,” Eleanor said, changing the subject, “I spoke with Headmistress Wyar and she and I agree that Monday would work quite well for your return.”

  “Monday?” Miranda repeated, dread forming in the pit of her stomach. She knew she’d have to go back to Calhoun eventually, but she assumed it would be in January, which sounded so distant and far off it was almost unreal. But Monday as in tomorrow?

  “Yes. You seem to be doing well in physical therapy, and Dr. Dorn and Dr. Faville have given you the all clear. I think it would be good to get back into things. It can’t help to just sit around and ruminate. It’s depressing,” Eleanor pursed her lips, as if the word “depressing” was distasteful to even say.

  Miranda stared at the floor as the car
inched along the route to the ferry dock. Depressing? Not getting into your first choice college was depressing. Breaking up with your boyfriend was depressing. Having four friends die, a boyfriend in a coma, and three friends seriously injured because of an accident that was your fault was catastrophic.

  “The accident couldn’t be helped. You couldn’t control that. What you can control is getting on with your life. Going back to school with your head held high is key to your recovery,” Eleanor said firmly.

  “I know,” Miranda said. She leaned down, rooted inside her bag for her iPod, and closed her eyes. She didn’t open them when they got on the parking deck for the ferry, or when the ferry started pulling away, or when they reached the other side.

  “She’ll be fine,” Miranda heard Eleanor murmur to Roger.

  “Of course, ma’am,” Roger said, as if he’d agreed to pick up groceries or fix the door in the pool house.

  Miranda only opened her eyes when she felt the car stop.

  “I’m glad you were able to sleep,” Eleanor said, pulling a large wicker basket full of jams and flowers from the trunk and hanging it over her arm, as if she were heading off on a picnic, not a visit to a comatose patient.

  Miranda trailed behind her into the now-familiar lobby of Westmoreland General, hating the scent of industrial-strength bleach and air freshener that accosted her. Miranda knew Eleanor insisted on accompanying Miranda—or, rather, forcing Miranda to accompany her—to the hospital to see Fletch more to keep up appearances than anything. It certainly wasn’t for Miranda’s benefit. They’d come every day for the past two weeks. Fletch was still in the same ICU unit he’d been in since the accident. He hadn’t gotten better. And even though the Kings weren’t saying it, Miranda knew he never would. People who got better had doctors and nurses checking on them several times an hour. People who got better didn’t have the same amount of machines surrounding them as they did hours before the accident. People who were getting better didn’t have daily closed-door meetings with social workers, who were most likely asking the Kings when they were ready to say good-bye to Fletch. Miranda had seen enough crappy television medical dramas to know this. Still, sometimes she just hoped that maybe a miracle could happen.