Ocean and Atlantic

Everyone is trying to figure out why we jumped. Everyone wants to know why one girl - one beautiful, young and promising girl - was taken off of the face of this earth while the other lived to tell the tale, and seemingly won't.

I've literally lost some of my height. Terms like compression fracture of the spine and vertebroplasty and concussion and broken ankle have become part of my daily vocabulary. Nurses and doctors and specialists flitter in and out of my room freely, at the most inconvenient hours – even at night – to draw blood, to change fluid-filled bags and to make sure I’m still breathing.

My father still refuses to actually look at me. My mother can’t survive a day with me without crying at least once – whether it be out of sadness, being overwhelmed or pure relief.

The television drones on across the room, playing at regular intervals on the news, “Two local girls jump off Dover Cliff…” Repeat. “Two local girls jump off Dover Cliff…” Repeat.

The words circle my head. “Local Tempe teen Nova McClain was pronounced dead Friday evening after she and Schuyler Fray allegedly jumped from Dover Cliff. Fray was airlifted to Phoenix’s St. Joseph’s Hospital to be treated for critical injuries. The families of both Fray and McClain have made no further comments.”

I cannot escape them.

They haunt me; choke me like the brace still looping around my neck.

Nova is dead, and I have a mother who can’t stand to leave my side for long periods of time. Her hands are constantly on me, never leaving my own hand alone no matter the attempts I use to try to shy away and constantly trying to fix my hair – as if the simple gesture will make the entire situation normal.

But it’s not normal.

I can tell by the way everyone functions around me. Everyone communicates, but it’s all very robotic. We’re all together, in one single space, but it doesn’t feel like there’s a real connection.

“You have a visitor Miss Fray,” a nurse states after checking my blood pressure. “Doctor Hutchinson cleared it today. Are you up to it?”

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

“Yes.”

My mind betrays me, and the word slips out like a bar of wet soap in my hands.

My mother stares between me and the already retreating nurse with concern etched across her face. Her hand wrings around mine in a death grip, unsure of this entire situation.

I’m not even sure myself.

My gut instinct is telling me that it’s Mister and Missus McClain come to check on their unofficial second daughter, to demand to know why we took that leap, why their actual daughter ended up dead.

But the frame that slowly and awkwardly creeps into my room isn’t either of the two adults I’d grown to know and love like my own parents – if not more at times. In fact, seeing him, I almost wish that it had been the McClain’s.

John O’Callaghan fiddles with his hands in the middle of the hospital room I’d come to memorize with exhaustion lacing his features.

“I’m going to go get a coffee,” my mother whispers, rising from her plastic chair. “Do you want anything, Honey?”

Shaking my head, I watch her helplessly as she leaves the room.

She shuts the door behind her, locking me in with my dead best friend’s ex-boyfriend.

For a long time, we say nothing.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Schuyler,” he says, his hoarse voice cutting through the gentle murmurs of the television.

What he really means is: I’m sorry that Nova was the one that died.

At least, that's what I think he should be saying.