Page 87 of Love Bound

Squeeze. Chest rises.

There are more people in the water now, and they move her onto the floating gurney. Within seconds these guys have her up on the deck, and I am right beside her, pushing air into her. Nic and Bryce are with the other two boats.

"AED!" yells a guy.

I can’t even see him. Another rips her shirt open and pushes the BVM mask off her face. Her mouth is open, her eyes staring ahead at nothing. Another coast guard medic dries her chest in seconds. People whirl around me. Bryce says something to another man who shouts from the water about a drug. A syringe. Pads are on her chest, the AED whines into static action. They compress her chest at three and nine o'clock.

On TV and film, they show people spasm, but it's surprising how hard they actually rock. Two guys hold her down.

Nothing.

In the time it takes to recharge, I make that BVM work, and while her face is lost under the mask once more, I pump enough for three more rises of her chest.

I will never stop. They will have to tear me away.

The men reposition themselves, holding her safe and tight to the gurney.

I pull the mask away as the paddles come down.

Her body writhes and rises with the shock and my gut twists with her. Part of my mind is shutting down.

She can’t die.

Claire.

At that moment, she blinks.

Someone shouts, “She's gotta pulse!”

Her stare becomes focused.

On me.

Her body quivers.

Claire.

***

I stare at her in bed, an IV running from her left arm, in an effort to stabilize her electrolytes. Her hair has dried in lanky, thick, thumb-sized curls, and her blue eyes closed as soon as she found my face. They haven’t opened since.

There were scans and tests, MRIs of her chest and brain. As far as they can tell, she inhaled very little water, a good thing.

I slip my hand under her to make sure the heated mattress isn’t too hot. Hypothermia is a risk. Her heart has stabilized and stopped its fluctuating arrhythmia just an hour ago. Now, they’re looking for possible clots, though the doctor who's been helping us thinks she isn’t at risk.

I sit in a plastic chair right next to her bed and hold her right hand, my fingers making room for the pulse oximeter on her index finger. Despite this, I feel the pulse in her wrist, see it beat in her neck. Every now and then I rise and put my ear to her chest. I don't trust the beeping machine and the monitors and the artifice of medicine.

I need to hear her heart.

Although they don’t think there's any brain damage, she needs to wake up. She needs to take tests in order to go home.

So they say.

I don’t need anything from her.

I will take her home, no matter what. I will love her, no matter what.

I just want to curl up with her on the sofa and wrap my arms around her. I want to hold her and feel her alive in my grip, feel her skin beneath my hands. I want to hear her laugh, hold her when she cries, kiss her mouth when she least expects it, and feel her cold feet wrap around my calves in the dark of the night after a wintery, late-night, house call.