Is She Alive?
Isaac
The rain is relentless, but all I can see is Alyssa, pale and trembling. Her head is pressed against my chest as I carry her down through the sand toward the shore. The waves crash against the rocks.
Tisquantum and Samoset are there already, their muscles straining as they steady a small rowboat at the water’s edge. The storm howls around them, and lightning claws across the black sky. Kesuk stands in the shallows, her silver hair whipping around her like smoke, chanting in that strange, ancient rhythm that makes the air itself feel alive.
Tekoa points to the boat. “Go!” she cries. “Go with her!”
I don’t hesitate. I wade forward, the surf dragging at my legs, and lift Alyssa higher against me.
Her eyes flutter open, dazed. “Isaac….”
“I’m here,” I whisper, though my voice is lost to the gale.
Samoset steadies the boat as I climb in, still holding Alyssa close. The moment we push off, the sea takes us, tossing, spinning, alive with fury. I look back once, through the sheets of rain, to see Tekoa and the others still chanting on the shore.
The current pulls us faster, farther from land. The wind screams, and the sky flashes with light. Alyssa stirs weakly, her breath shallow against my neck.
I press my forehead to hers, desperate to memorize her warmth. “Stay with me,” I beg. “Just a little longer.”
The boat lurches, the bow rising high on a wave then crashing down hard. Water floods the bottom, cold as death. I try to bail it out with my free hand, but another wave slams into us. The rope snaps. The oars fly from their locks. The sea roars louder than the thunder.
The next wave hits harder than any before. The boat lifts, turns, and for a split second, we’re suspended in air before crashing sideways into the churning black water.
The cold steals my breath. Salt burns my throat. I’m dragged under, still clutching her. My eyes sting open to darkness, foam, and flashes of light from the storm above. She’s limp in my arms, her hair floating around us.
I kick upward, my lungs screaming. We break the surface for a moment, long enough for me to gasp her name. “Alyssa!”
Lightning explodes across the sky. The thunder cracks so loud it feels like the world itself is splitting apart. Then another wave swallows us whole. I hold her tighter, refusing to let go, even as the current pulls us down into the endless dark.
And then cold–cold is all I feel at first. I close my eyes and sink for what seems like hours. We are pulled through a cavern of darkness. I can’t breathe, and I feel weak.
My eyes sting when I force them open again. Alyssa is still in my arms, her head against my shoulder.
I tighten my grip and kick toward the light. My muscles scream. I break the surface and drag in a desperate breath. Waves crash around us, but the storm is gone, replaced by sunlight.
People dot the beach—unfamiliar people. Some of them shout and run into the water.
Many of the men wear hats and cloaks like mine; others are dressed like the Wampanoag, but more are in colors and fabrics I’ve never seen: shiny, smooth, too bright for the world I know.
“Alyssa!” I gasp, choking on seawater. I try to keep her head above the waves. Two men in strange yellow coats rush toward us. One of them shouts, “We’ve got them! Get the stretcher!”
I don’t know what that word means, but before I can ask, they haul us both from the surf. My knees buckle.
There’s a noise like thunder, constant and mechanical, and I look up to see a massive metal beast with flashing red and blue lights rolling toward us. It’s unlike any wagon I’ve ever seen, moving without horses, roaring with life.
They lift Alyssa first, strapping her onto a narrow bed that slides into the back of the contraption. “Sir, we’ll take care of you. We’ve got you both.”
“We’re together,” I manage to say. “She’s hurt. Her shoulder, please—”
“We know,” a woman answers, her face kind but hurried. “You and your wife are going to the hospital.”
I climb in after Alyssa, and the beastly machine jolts forward. I sit on a bench, clutching it on either side, the motion incredibly fast, strange, and terrifying. The machine makes a loud, uncomfortable noise the entire time it travels, and when we reach our destination, people surround me. The smell here is sharp and unnatural. Hands press against my arms, checking my scrapes, my bruises. Someone wraps my wrist in white cloth that sticks to itself.
“Can you tell us your name?” a nurse asks.
“Isaac Owens,” I say automatically.
“And where are you from?”
I hesitate, my eyes darting around the gleaming room. Glass, metal, lights–nothing here belongs to my world. “From here,” I say carefully.
She smiles. “Right, part of the festival, then, the Pilgrim reenactment? We figured that’s what all the costumes were for.”
I nod, playing along because it’s easier than the truth. I suddenly realize what Alyssa and Danielle must’ve gone through when they had to lie to Henry and me that first day on the shore.
Another woman dressed in white enters. “They found your car in the harbor. You and your wife are lucky to be alive.”
My heart leaps. “Is she alive?”
“Yes,” the nurse says gently. “She’s alive. She’s in surgery now.”
Relief crashes through me, and I whisper her name. All I can do is pray that she recovers.
After a while, they move her into the room. She’s pale and still, her shoulder wrapped in bandages. The steady sound of a machine keeps time, and I can hardly breathe until I see her chest rise and fall.
“She made it through surgery,” a woman tells me softly. “We repaired all the damage. She’ll wake soon.”
When they leave, I pull my chair closer to her bed and reach for her hand, whispering, “You’re safe, Alyssa. You’re home.”
She opens her eyes groggy, smiling faintly. “Home,” she repeats, her voice rough. “I can’t believe it.”
I nod, though my throat is too tight for words. She looks up at the ceiling, tears shining at the corners of her eyes. “I can’t wait to call my parents,” she whispers. “To see them again. To tell them everything.”
Her laugh is weak, breathless, but it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. She turns her head toward me, her eyes bright despite the exhaustion. “I’m so glad you came with me, Isaac. I didn’t think it was possible.”
I stand, leaning over her, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I tell her, and I press my lips to her cheek.
Sinking into the chair beside her, I’m still dizzy from the impossible–being thrust four hundred years ahead, facing a world I don’t recognize, and feeling helpless while she was in surgery. Alas, she’s here, awake and breathing. Somehow, I’m with her, and that’s all that matters.
For the first time since she was shot, my chest unclenches, and I let myself feel the wild relief of simply being with her.