Page 35 of The Other Brother

When it’s knee deep, I grab him under his arms, hauling him through the water to the wet sand at the edge. Placing him down as gently as I can, I drop to my knees next to him.

He’s pale and clammy, his face puffy and dripping.

I’m vaguely aware of people pressing around me and the ragged cries of the boy’s mother, but I ignore them as I go through the basics. DRS ABC. Danger, Response, Signal for help. Airway, Breathing, Circulation.

He’s out of dangerous water, but he’s not responding.

“Someone call 9-1-1,” I say as I tilt his head back to make sure his airway is open. Then I lean forward, putting my ear to his while looking at his chest.

Shit.

The kid is definitely not breathing. Holy hell.

There’s only one thing to do.

I start CPR.

Our instructor played the Bee Gee’s ‘Staying Alive’ song when we were doing chest compressions, giving us the timing we should press down for.

At the time we mocked the music, but now the song circulates in my head like it’s on spin cycle, and I force everything else out.

My focus is solely on the boy. Noise is pounding all around me, people are trying to speak to me, but I ignore them all. Nothing else matters but my hands on his chest, the heel of my hand pushing into his chest, my other hand on top, elbows locked, arms straight. Fear chokes my throat as I bear all my weight down on him. I know the principle, that you’ve got to press down hard to make a difference. It feels wrong to manhandle a kid like this. But as Rick said, a dead person doesn’t worry about broken ribs.

I can’t remember the exact ratio of breaths to compressions, so after twenty I stop and close my mouth over the kid's. His lips are cold and clammy, and there’s this weird froth at his mouth, but I ignore all that and breathe a mouthful of air into his lungs.

Then I go back to my Bee Gee compressions.

The boy stays immobile under my hands.

I stop to give him another breath, then twenty more compressions. Another breath. Twenty more compressions. Breath. Twenty more.

He doesn’t respond.

No. No. This can’t be happening.

My arms are aching, but I’m not taking my hands off him.

Then suddenly, just after I’ve given him another breath, he gives a little cough and then barfs, gushes of vomit streaming out of his mouth.

Instinctively, I turn him on his side so the vomit flows onto the sand. The bitter smell hits my nostrils, and I almost gag.

Regardless, I scoop into his mouth to make sure there’re no chunks obstructing his airway.

He gasps and coughs, the most awful sound, and some vomit-stained water dribbles out of his mouth.

I’m vaguely aware of a piercing noise. Sirens. Close by.

I rest back on my haunches as a woman in a paramedic uniform pushes past me to reach the boy. I watch with blurred vision, lightheaded, as she and another paramedic examine him then strap an oxygen mask to his face.

“You did good, kid,” someone says to me.

I stagger on wobbly legs a few feet away and collapse on the sand while the paramedics take over.

I’m shaking. Full body tremors, like my body has decided now is the time to stage a 9.5 earthquake.

A towel is placed around my shoulders. I look up. Cody is standing over me, his face pale.

Hugging the towel around me, we both watch as the paramedics move the kid onto a stretcher then race the stretcher to the ambulance, his mother running beside them. The ambulance pulls away, the sirens at full noise.