Chapter 3: Awakening

Meeting Me

I drifted through darkness, weightless and untethered. No heat, no pain, no grandmother’s voice cutting through me like a knife. Just blessed nothingness.

Then, gradually, awareness returned. Not to the burning lawn or the ambulance, but to somewhere else entirely. I stood at the end of a familiar dock that I had been on every summer that I could remember, cool water lapping against weathered boards. The lake stretched before me, surface shimmering under a fading sun disappearing over the far mountain. Home, but not home.

“You always did like to be dramatic.”

I turned to find Birdie sitting on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the water. She wore the same blue dress from our last morning together, her dark hair lifting slightly in the breeze.

“I’m not being dramatic,” I protested, sitting beside her. “I think I’m dying.”

Birdie laughed, the sound carrying across the water. “You’re not dying, Tom. You’re just being stubborn.”

“Stubborn? I was working in hundred-degree heat without water!”

“Not that kind of stubborn.” She nudged my shoulder with hers. “The kind where you keep trying to do everything alone.”

I stared at the ripples our feet made in the water. “I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.” She skimmed her hand across the lake’s surface. “Remember when you were five, and you couldn’t swim? You had a choice then, too. You could have stayed afraid, stayed in the shallows where it was safe.”

“That was different. Grandpa was there.”

“And people are there now, if you’d just let them help you.” She turned to face me; her expression serious. “I never taught you to take out your anger on others, Tom. That’s not who you are.”

“I’m not angry,” I said defensively.

“Liar.” Her voice held no judgment. “You’re furious. At your grandmother for being cruel. At your grandfather for being weak. At your parents for abandoning you. Maybe even at me for leaving.”

The truth of her words stung. “What am I supposed to do with all that?”

“Channel it,” she said simply. “Make it fuel, not fire. Become more than you are, just like you became more than you were at eight when we met.”

---1”}

I remembered that summer, skinny, awkward, afraid of getting too far from shore until Birdie coaxed me day after day. By August, we swam three quarters of a mile across the lake and back without stopping.

“It’s not the same,” I insisted. “I don’t know anyone in Florida. I’m alone.”

“That girl next door seems pretty determined to help you.”

“Cathy? I just met her.”

“So? You just met me once, too.” Birdie smiled. “Cathy will be a good friend, but there are many others that will surround you and make you who you will become.”

“If Grandma doesn’t kill me first.”

“Stop hiding behind that excuse.” Her voice turned firm. “Your grandmother is a problem, yes. But she’s not the only factor in your life unless you let her be.”

The dock beneath us began to blur at the edges, the colors of sunset intensifying to an almost painful brightness.

“You’re leaving again,” I said, panic rising in my chest.

“And you’re waking up.” She took my hand, her fingers warm against mine. “Remember what I said on our last morning? Be who you are, not who they try to make you.”

“I remember.” The scene was dissolving now, the lake fading into light. “Will I see you again?”

“That depends on you.” Her voice grew distant. “Find your strength, Tom. It’s there, it always has been.”

The dock vanished beneath me, and I felt myself falling, then floating, then becoming suddenly, painfully heavy. Sounds filtered in, beeping machines, hushed voices, the squeak of crape-soled shoes on linoleum.

Awake

I opened my eyes to harsh fluorescent lights and white ceiling tiles. It dawned on me that I was in a hospital room, with an IV needle taped to my arm. My skin felt the coolness of the air conditioning.

“He’s awake!” A familiar voice; Cathy’s, from somewhere nearby.

I turned my head slowly, vision swimming into focus. Cathy sat in a chair beside my bed, a magazine forgotten in her lap. Beyond her, Chief Simmons stood in the doorway, talking quietly with a doctor.

“Welcome back,” Cathy said, leaning forward. “You really scared us.”

My mouth felt like cotton. “How long...?”

“About thirteen hours. Dad said your temperature was 104 when the ambulance got there.” Her expression darkened. “That woman, your grandmother, she kept trying to stop them from taking you.”

I closed my eyes briefly. Of course, she had.

“My dad practically had to threaten to arrest her,” Cathy continued. “She’s in the waiting room now. They wouldn’t let her in here after she tried to remove your IV the first time you were brought in.”

The memory of Birdie’s words echoed through my mind. Channel it. Make it fuel, not fire.

“Where’s my grandfather?” I asked.

“The tall man? He came with her but hasn’t said a word. Just sits there staring at the floor.”

Chief Simmons approached the bed, his face grave. “Thomas, how are you feeling?”

“As if I got hit by a truck,” I admitted. “Have you two been here the whole time?” I was amazed that someone would take the time to be with me.

“We’ve been taking turns; the brat over there wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I had to call in a favor to get the administration to let her in.”

“What is it with hospitals? I can empty bed pans as a Candy Striper, but can’t see a patient if I’m not on duty.” Cathy harumphed. “Adults can be so juvenile.” She declared.

The chief couldn’t help but smile at his daughter. “Anyway, the doctor says you’ll be fine with a day’s rest and fluids, but it was a close call.” He pulled a chair closer. “Son, we need to talk about what happened today.”

I tensed, anticipating the familiar lecture about respecting my elders and about the family business being private.