Page 76 of Holding On

Jackson, seeing me dig, hauls himself out of the car.

“Crowbar! Bring it,” I yell, ribs on fire.

I gasp as a stitch nearly leaves me breathless.

A minute or two later, he’s next to me. I grab the crowbar from his grasp. I wedge it between the two, pushing down with both arms, and the lightning pain seems to have its edge dulled by adrenaline—or hope, I can’t really tell.

“Let me help,” says Jackson.

He grabs the end of the crowbar with both hands, pushes, then raises a leg and puts a boot on it as well. Slowly, the rocks start to part enough for me to take my gloved hand, slide it in, and carefully retrieve the amber bottle.

It’s broken, still held in place by the label.

Just as my hand clears, Jackson shouts a warning, the rock drops, and like a clam, the space crushes closed again, just missing my fingers by a nanosecond.

I can’t catch my breath or breathe normally. It just hurts too much.

Tears and sweat mingle, blurring my vision.

“Jesus Christ,” says Jackson. “What the . . . hell. Man. You got him, dude. You’re gonna nail that bastard.” He’s pointing to the bottle as I’m trying to wipe my eyes with my other hand. “That’s . . . I mean, look, Travis.”

Five or six wavy blonde hairs are stuck around the bottle, the hair caught in the mesh of crushed shards.

Jackson is speaking to me, but I don’t hear him for a second.

“Zip the bag. Quick,” he says as my hearing resolves.

As I invert the bag over the bottle, I’m light-headed, and it takes a clap on the shoulder from Jackson to bring me back.

I start to hand it to him, but he refuses.

“That’s your find, man. You bring it home.”

Swallowing, I stare at him. I don’t know if I can.

“You can do this,” he says.

A sigh escapes. My mother is taking care of us still. She’s the key. Fingerprints probably won’t be on that bottle anymore, but her hair will have DNA, identifying her.

It’s what he says next that finally forces me back to a reality I can negotiate.

“You found this. You’re going to fucking take this guy down.”

He carefully gives me a hug—one quick embrace while I wipe my face.

His own is solemn. “You ready?”

I nod. And he starts down the embankment toward the car, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He’s nodding.

“Okay. Okay.” He flags down Chloe as she heads home with everyone else in the VW. The engine idols. He gestures to Maya to step out and then hangs up. The three of us will take this to Carlson.

I walk toward my sisters. The bottle in my hands is small, crushed. It’s an important story, and it’s safe inside the evidence bag. I don’t have to say anything. I show them, and everyone is silent.

Jackson tells Chloe something, and then she pulls out and heads back to The Inn. We three are not going back to Echo Bay.

I look at the sky, the streaming colors. I listen to the birds in the trees, a far-off barred owl asks Who? Who cooks for you? And four of Molly’s miniature horses stand with the fading sun on their backs, silhouetted on a hill against the orange sky.

Because I am alive, my mother lives. She lives in all of us.

Maya’s face is small, dark, beautiful. She waits, standing next to me but not touching me, the sea air enough to bind us. I want to be with her. She’s all I want. And that’s okay. That’s nothing to be afraid of.

My father taught me how to be with animals. My mother taught me how to be with people. My sisters taught me about keeping to my dreams.

I don’t have to give up on my dream if my dream is to be with Maya.

I choose her.