I choke and gag.
People are screaming. Their shrill pitch pierces the water.
It fills me, like the water in my lungs, like the weight of my arms and legs.
The yelling and the heat and the light push me farther to the bottom of the pool. Lower and lower, until there is no more light. Only darkness.
And silence.
SIX
THE LIGHT IS CRACKED AND YELLOW.
I need to close my eyes.
Call a fucking ambulance! She’s not breathing.
“Penny, can you hear me?”
“I don’t think she’s responsive.”
“IV stat.”
Beeping. Something’s beeping.
White-tiled ceiling.
Where am I?
I want to swallow but I can’t.
“Penny. Penny. It’s okay.” It’s Dad’s voice. Dad. Dad is here.
“Get back. Get back.” A female voice. Something hard is in my throat. Plastic. I’m choking. I’m choking but I’m not underwater. Something blocks my throat. Dad, help me!
Heat shoots through my arm, through my veins.
A nurse points at me. Red fingernail polish—like blood.
“She’s coming out . . .” a deep voice says. The sound is unbalanced. Strong at first then it fades. “Penny? Please stand back. Stand back.” The voice moves away from me.
“Penny . . . can you hear me?” Dad’s voice.
My eyelashes shield my eyes from the light so it can’t come all the way through. I want to see Dad. My right foot is fat and swollen. I want someone to rest ice on my foot.
“Penny, I love you. You’re okay. It’s Dad.”
I blink away the fractured canary light. Dad drifts into view. The top of his bald head is shiny.
“Penny. I want you to nod if you can hear me,” Dad says.
“Vitals look good.” There is the deep voice again, fading away.
It is not Wes’s deep voice. Where is Wes? I just saw him. Didn’t I?
“Heart rate normal,” Deep Voice says.
“Penny—” Dad.
Clear sound.
“Nod if you—”
Clearish.
“Can hear me . . .”
Like there’s a shell over my ear.
I raise my chin a little up and down. My neck is so stiff. My cheeks are tight.
“That’s good, Penny Pen,” Dad says. “Real good.”
Someone’s squeezing my fingers. I turn my head and when I do, an accordion unfolds in my neck. Mom stands by the bed and holds my fingers in hers.
“M—” I try to push sounds out of my mouth. “M—” Something blocks them.
She wears a pink sweater.
Beyond her, the sunset drips down a high-rise building. Mom is backlit in tangerine. The light bleeds from the glass to her sweater. She rests her hand on my arm and I reach to lay my fingers over hers.
There’s a tug on my skin. I squint.
An IV digs into the top of my hand.
Mom sits down next to me, drawing half the weight of the bed toward her. I press down on the sheets. With a bolt there is a sharp pain, deep in the center of my palm.
I cry out, hunching over. I can’t make it stop. It radiates, it needles. My fingers are stuck straight—too straight. I want to curl them but can’t.
Like a wrench. Like a vise. The middle of my palm pulses.
Deep Voice is next to me talking very fast, but I don’t know what he’s saying. Someone applies pressure to my fingers, prying them apart.
“Is that a seizure?” Dad asks. “Is she having a seizure?”
The strong hands keep pushing against my fingers. Pain tears through me. The muscles in my hand pulse, again and again, until—finally—they release.
I collapse back down on the bed. I didn’t even know I was sitting up until the muscles in my back unclench.
Mom wipes some sweat from my forehead. Her fingertips are soft.
“Well, is it?” Dad asks. “Some kind of seizure?”
“No,” Deep Voice says. A doctor? He’s wearing a white coat that says Abrams, but my vision is blurry and smeared and I lose focus. I blink hard. The doctor bends down to the side of the bed and, after meeting my eyes, he looks to the ceiling.
“Can you switch the light off?” he calls to someone.
The brightness of the room falls to a muted orange light. The name on his coat shifts into focus, and now I can clearly see the dark cursive stitched onto the pocket. Neurology Resident.
“Penny.” Dr. Abrams speaks in an even tone. “You’re in Providence Memorial. You were struck by lightning two days ago. Your left side was hit. I know it sounds opposite, but where you were hit seems to be affecting your right hand. The spasm you experienced in your right hand is because your brain is sending too many signals to your hand. It should equalize soon.”
He’s talking too fast. Struck by lightning? Providence Memorial? Brain signals?
I’m in the hospital?
“Where is she?” a new voice says.
That voice. I know that voice. It’s a girl’s. I try to place her but I can’t.
“You have to let me see her! I was the one who saw her in the pool, damn it!” the girl cries. A jolt of adrenaline rushes through my chest. How do I know her?
“I’m sorry, miss, your friend was struck by lightning. She needs rest, she can’t see visitors yet.” My neck creaks. She is my friend. This girl is my friend.
It has to be May, my best friend, but it doesn’t sound like her. The voice sounds different, higher.
“It’s just immediate family today, you can come tomorrow.”
My mind is racing. Lightning?
“L . . .” is what I get out. Was I in a pool? Whose pool was I in? I try to remember where I was last. Where was I last? As the girl walks away, I hear the click of her heels. I want her to come back, but she is gone.
I don’t remember what she’s talking about. I don’t remember anything. I try. My head hurts from trying.
There was a Much Ado About Nothing rehearsal; it was a warm day in May and everyone was annoyed about having to wear those heavy costumes when it was so hot. Bettie had called and said I needed to come home right after rehearsal. I must have ignored her and gone swimming in May’s pool. That must have been where I got struck.
I should remember what happened. But I can’t.
“Penny, did you hear the doctor?” Dad says. “You were struck by lightning.”
“Wh—” I croak. The word “where” is there on the tip of my tongue but it burns in my throat. I keep my eyes on Mom’s black bob, instead. It’s longer than I remember and reaches past her chin. Did it grow and I haven’t noticed? I have been super busy with rehearsals for Much Ado. I reach my fingers up again toward her face. My left hand shakes and my arm is too tired.
She thinks I am reaching for water so she hands me the cup and wraps her fingers around mine to help me hold it to my lips. My hand shakes. Water dribbles down my chin. I sip and it is nearly the best thing I have ever had as it trickles down my searing throat. Dad presses a button, lifting the bed so I’m sitting up.
The nurse shuts the door and Dr. Abrams takes my hand in his; he’s warm. “I am going to show you something. I know your sight might be a little weak,” he says. Beyond him, the sunset is a smear reflected in the glass high-rise building.
“Penny? Can you hear the doctor? Are you listening?” Mom asks.
Dr. Abrams is tall and has lots of hair that shoots up in white-blond spikes.
“I want you to look at my eyes,” he says. I don’t want to look away from Mom’s face but the doctor lifts a handheld mirror up and, weirdly, holds it over my forearm so it reflects my skin. I squint.
Then my eyes focus, and I see myself.
Vines. There is no other word for what I see. Golden branches spread across my skin like tangled brambles. I expect full flower buds to be at the end, but the branches are like ivy that crawls over buildings, except this ivy is cop
per. The thin designs etch up and down my thigh, along my shin, and stop at the top of my foot. Dr. Abrams runs his index finger down the length of my arm without touching me.
“We think the lightning left your body at your feet. According to your friends who spoke to the EMTs, you were on the ladder trying to climb out of the pool. It conducted the lightning and blew you back in.”
My heart slams and I hear the powerful beats in my head.
“What—what—” My breath comes out in puffs. I’m too hot. I push off the blanket and the cool air-conditioning feels better on my legs. I clutch the fabric but need to release it immediately because my hands are shaking.
“I know it’s overwhelming,” the doctor says. His voice echoes around the room. My ears feel funny. “Penny, I want you to say a sentence. I know it will be hard. But I want you to say a full sentence—any sentence.”
“W-Wi—”
I grimace. Say it. Form the words.
“W—will . . .” I exhale. My lips, like my cheeks, feel swollen and hard. “Will I . . . be-be . . . okay?” I finally say.
Mom wipes away a tear. Dad lowers his head and turns away toward the door. Dr. Abrams’s eyes wrinkle at the corners when he smiles.
“Your motor skills will return. And that sentence,” the doctor speaks softly, “was a real test. To see where we are at with your speech. It’ll only get better as the days go on.”
I’m not sure how he can say that when vines scrawl all over me.
“These are called Lichtenberg figures,” he explains when he sees my gaze go back to the designs. “The leafy, plant-like markings will fade in a few days.”
The branches spread over my forearms, up to my biceps and shoulders. They stop near my neck.
“You’re actually quite lucky,” the doctor says. “Some people have them on their face. But then again, those people don’t usually live to tell the tale.”
Another doctor, tall with a shock of red hair, takes photographs of my arms. I blink away the spots of light from the flash, but the bright light burns on the backs of my eyelids.
“Put that away,” Mom snaps at the resident. “It hurts her eyes.”
“W-w-wha-what are they?” I ask.
“Essentially, they’re much like bruises,” Dr. Abrams explains. “They generally fade in a few hours, sometimes days. We have seen some cases of them lasting months; we call that tattooing. Either way, they will go away.” With a light pat on my hand, the doctor turns to the nurse.
“Let’s get a CBC, baseline blood work, then let’s get some real food into her,” Dr. Abrams says.
“Mom?” I get out through stutters. “Was that—” I have to take a breath. “M-m-m-May at the door?”
Mom’s eyebrows draw together.
“May?” she says, and there’s something in her tone that makes me nervous.
I really try hard not to stutter. “May,” I say again to clarify.
Dr. Abrams says something quickly to Mom. He keeps his back to me so the sound is uneven and I can’t work out what he’s saying.
“No, honey, that was Kylie.” She nods at me and smiles to be encouraging.
Kylie. I don’t know a Kylie. Do I?
I must frown because Mom sits down on the edge of the bed.
“Your friend Kylie—” Mom looks to Dad. “What’s her last name?”
“Casseni? Castelli? Or something like that,” Dad replies. This conversation is moving too fast.
“But, M-Ma-May,” I say again.
“You and May haven’t been friends for a while. Kylie is your best friend now,” Mom explains. “It’s been you and Kylie for a year or so now.”
I don’t understand. My mouth tastes bitter and I want to grip the blanket again but my hands are too weak. I squeeze my eyes shut. I want my friends to be here. I want Wes, Karen, May, and Panda. Why don’t I know what anyone is talking about?
Dad sits down on the other side of the bed next to me. I focus on his glasses. The frames are thick plastic, different from his usual wire rims.
“When did you c—ch-change your glasses?” I ask. Dad looks back at the doctor and then at me. He usually has a glimmer of mischief in his eye, but right now there’s nothing.
“Penny, what day is it?” Dad asks. I don’t like this. I search my memory. Of course I know what day it is. Tech week was starting on that Saturday so Taft was completely on edge. The doctor said it had been two days since the strike.
“Monday?”
“What month?” Dad asks.
The bed is hard. I don’t like the bright light of the sunset in the corner of my eye. I need more space. It’s May. I know it’s May but I don’t want to say it out loud. I don’t like the way they’re all staring at me, like there’s something wrong.
“Penny, can you answer your dad?” Dr. Abrams says.
“Ma-May,” I say. “Tech w-w-eek.”
“Tech week?” Mom whispers to Dad.
“It’s September eighteenth, Penny,” Dr. Abrams says slowly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a newspaper on the windowsill. I stretch out my hand and Mom gets approval from Dr. Abrams before handing it to me. He nods once and Mom gives me the newspaper. With vibrating fingers, I pull it closer to my eyes.
September 18th, 2016.
I grip the paper and bring it close to my face. The black letters are blurry. I need to squint.
2016. I rub at my eyes with the back of my hand so the IV scratches at my eyebrows.
2016 . . .
2016 . . .
2016 . . .
I can’t move. Someone is pressing on my legs to keep me in the bed. I try and try to move.
“We’re going to need some help in here!” the red-haired doctor yells.
Why do they need to keep me here? I’m deep in a black cavern and I want to crawl out. I am screaming, the vocal cords strain.
It’s been more than a year.
Mom brings her face close to mine.
“Penny, it’s okay. We’ll explain. Everything will make sense.”
Her hard fingers grip my burns shaped like vines. Heat rushes through my veins.
2016.
I don’t remember the past year.
I don’t remember any of it.
SEVEN
DAY ONE:
Here’s what I know:
The year is 2016.
I have no memory from May 2015 through today, September 18th, 2016.
In the hospital, my legs shake when they make me walk so they give me a shiny wheelchair. I want to be sitting on my bed at home with May. I want Panda to come over with potato chips and tell me about Taft’s insanity.
I missed Christmas. I missed Panda’s New Year’s party. I missed Much Ado About Nothing.
I want to see Wes so much that I curl up tight in the hospital bed.
DAY TWO:
The walker they give me has tennis balls on the feet.
“Push, shuffle, push, shuffle,” the nurse tells me.
The numbness in my right foot makes it more like: Push, drag. Push, drag.
When I’m back in bed, I slip under the covers so the sheet is over my head. I don’t care that I look like I’m five. I can’t stop thinking about Wes and I want him to just pick up the phone and explain why he isn’t here harassing the nurses to see me. Why isn’t he here with Panda making jokes at the side of my bed? I hold the hospital phone close to my ear and dial. First ring, I hold my breath. Second and third, I silently beg that he’ll pick up—and at the fourth ring his voice mail picks up. “It’s Wes. Leave a message. Make it quick.”
His voice is deeper. It was deep the last time we spoke but this is smooth. Like a—it’s weird to even think it. Like a man. It knocks me off my game and I stumble over my words once the phone beeps.
“Um, hi. It’s Penny. I guess you heard about the lightning. I’ll be out in a couple of days. Anyway, I’m rambling so if you could call me back at the hospital that would be good. I have some questions. I—” My voice catches
in my throat and I wince. “I just have some questions about what’s been going on. I don’t have my cell, it was damaged in the pool. So, um. Just call me back, okay?”
I hang up and after a moment of holding my breath, I groan, wishing I had never called.
DAY THREE:
Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag.
I miss running at the track with Wes on weekends. I miss the lemon water and the fights over what music we would listen to. I miss running eight-minute miles and leaving him far behind, panting, with his hands on his thighs.
Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag . . .
Why hasn’t he called me back?
DAY FOUR:
They move me to crutches when I’m feeling brave. I fall a few times—my bones rattle. It aches in the center of my chest, directly between my lungs. Every time I think of my friends and every time I stare at that hospital phone, it throbs.
“It could be worse,” the nurse says, trying to be nice. “What if you lost all your memory?”
My kneecaps are purple from falling.
There are more and more tests. Whether it’s in a bed or a chair, I am transported everywhere on wheels. At one appointment, they place sticky dots on my chest—an EKG. Effects can come later, they say.
Much later.
During a brain scan they give me cold lemonade for the metallic taste that has been lingering in my mouth since I woke up. It makes me think of the frozen lemonade from this summer—or, I guess, last summer—when Panda, Wes, May, and I sat on the town dock watching the Welcome Summer Festival fireworks.
I want to get in touch with people but the doctors won’t let me look at a computer screen. Dr. Abrams thinks the brightness of the screen could cause a seizure or a hand spasm.
So I let it go.
DAY FIVE:
When I come back from physical therapy I ask the nurse if there are any calls for me. I even ask the nurses at the main station, but they tell me that the “phone hasn’t rung once.” I scan the room, looking at the cards and flowers and notes from family. I wonder if Mom packed away the important ones from my friends or took them home as I’ll be leaving in a day or two. I don’t see Wes’s block lettering or May’s loopy cursive anywhere. I don’t open any cards with handwriting I don’t recognize. I drop them into my duffel bag.