pool’s side as best I could with my useless leg. I knew there was a backboard hanging on the wall, but I didn’t think I could have used it by myself, so I decided to try and lift her on my own.
But with the weight of the drain that was still chained to her ankle, it was all I could do to hold on to the edge of the pool while supporting her limp body. Even though I was furiously kicking and lifting, I failed twice to slide her body over the lip of the pool and onto the deck. Finally, with one more desperate try, I succeeded.
Clambering out of the water, I knelt beside her and saw her face, blank and cold, the color of death already falling across her lips.
No, no, no.
I shook her, yelled her name, shook her some more, yelled for her to wake up, to be OK, but she was unresponsive. Her head lolled to the side. Her bluish tongue visible, her face ashen from lack of oxygen. I shook her again, still unresponsive.
This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.
The CPR training I’d received as a raft guide and later reviewed as a federal agent took over, and I tilted her head back and lifted her chin to open her airway. I felt for her breath on my cheek, watched her chest to see if it would rise. No breath. I gave her two breaths, two good strong breaths, then felt for a pulse.
Airway breathing, circulation.
No pulse.
No breathing, no pulse, it’s over.
No, it can’t be. It’s not, it’s not.
We live short, difficult, brutal lives and then die before our dreams come true.
No, not now. Please, not Lien-hua.
So much I needed to say to her. So much life I wanted to live with her. So much.
I needed to keep oxygen circulating through her body. I heard a voice in my head, Begin five chest compressions. I interlocked my hands, pressed down against her sternum. Count them off: One.
I leaned forward. Felt her chest sink beneath my hands.
Two.
She’d tried to tell me something, to communicate with me. Signed
“D… A… E…” but I didn’t understand. What was she trying to tell me? D… A… E… D…
Three.
I scrambled the letters in my mind. Unscrambled them. Re-arranged them: ADE- aid her?… EDDE- an eddy in the water?
… DEAD.. ADD… AED…
Four.
Oh… AED.
Five.
AED: Automated external defibrillator.
Lien-hua knew she was about to die. She was telling me to bring her back. The only way to bring her back.
The defibrillator hung on the wall beside the backboard. I limped over, yanked it down, pulled out the defib pads, and crouched beside her. The dress Melice had put on Lien-hua had only thin straps, so I slid one to the side, placed a pad over her heart, and put the other pad on the left lateral side of her chest beneath her armpit, so the current would go through her body and be more effective. All the while, inside of me, I was screeching out a prayer, awkward and raw, a one-word prayer. Please. Please.
Tessa’s words from yesterday about readers liking pain and the characters not always surviving at the end of the story haunted me. “It doesn’t always happen, you know,” she’d said. And she was right.
Please.
The defibrillator is automatic-it’s supposed to check for a pulse, then give the shock-but I knew we couldn’t wait. I pressed the alternate button to deliver the shock manually. The defibrillator buzzed, Lien-hua’s body arced, lurched. Dropped.
Again I checked her airway, her breathing, felt for a pulse.
Still no breath. Still no pulse. Glassy eyes. Open. Staring at me.
A fixed blank stare.
No, no, no, no.
Four minutes. Brain damage after four minutes without oxygen.
Irreversible.
I gave her two more breaths.
Checked for a pulse.
None. I needed to circulate the blood.
Beginning compressions. One.
This time as I depressed her sternum I felt a snap and knew I’d broken one of her ribs, maybe more than one. But I had to keep going.
Two.
I heard the broken bone grind and pop as I pressed down again, You almost always break someone’s rib when you give CPR, but you have to do the compressions that hard. You have to go that deep.
Three.
I tried to ignore the awful grating sound as I pressed down. But she could live with a broken rib. She couldn’t live without oxygen.
Four.
Crack.
Another rib. But I knew she’d forgive me; knew she’d understand.
If only she survived.
Five.
I saw that the defibrillator had recharged. I pressed the button.
Another shock. Her limp body jerked. I listened for breath again.
Nothing, no air. Still no breathing.
It had to have been four minutes by now… It had to have been…
I gave her two more breaths, her lips cold and claylike against mine. The water had been cool, maybe it had slowed her metabolism, maybe it would give her more time.
I felt for her pulse.
No, the water wasn’t that cold. It wasn’t cold enough. “Come on, come on,” I whispered. She’d been under too long. Please, please, don’t die. Why did I ever doubt you, Lien-hua? I can’t believe I ever thought you were Shade. I’m sorry. So sorry.
Then. Wait. There. Faint. A pulse. Thready. Weak. A pulse.
Yes, oh yes.
Unconscious. Barely alive.
But alive.
Alive.
I gave her two more breaths, and her body quivered, her head jerked backward, and she spit up a mouthful of murky, bile-laced water. I quickly turned her to the side to help clear her airway. She shivered in my arms. More coughing, more sour water. Yes, yes.
Alive. She was alive. Thank God she was alive. Pale, but breathing. Her color coming back.
And then I heard footsteps behind me.
And I knew who it was. Shade.
Without turning around I spoke his name, “Let me save her, Terry. Kill me if you want to, but first-”
“Back away, Pat,” said my NSA friend Terry Manoji. “Do it now. I’m a good shot. Back away before I count to three or I’ll shoot you at the base of the neck.”
