Free The Sea Glass Sisters by Lisa Wingate Page A

race to the fire department, not far away.
    I start chest compressions, count to thirty, give two breaths. She doesn’t respond.
    Come on, come on, come on, I think.
    Beside me, Aunt Sandy is on her knees, praying.
    The baby’s mother keens and wails, calling out, “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. Wake up, baby. Wake up for Mommy. Wake up!”
    I repeat the process. Still no response after the second cycle. This child isn’t going to die right here beside the road. She’s not. This little girl will live a full life. She’ll build sand castles along the shore, celebrate birthdays, hunt for Easter eggs, and wear her favorite dress on the first day of school.
    Please, God .  . . please. This can’t happen. . . .
    I begin a third cycle, then a fourth. There’s a siren in the distance. Help, I hope.
    Finally . . . finally . . . there’s a thready pulse. A hint of life. And then a tiny cough. It is the most beautiful sound.
    “Praise God!” Aunt Sandy lifts her hands heavenward.
    I roll Sarah onto her side, support her head as she gags up a combination of water and stomach contents. When it’s finally over, she fights back as I try to scoop out her mouth, and then her wide blue eyes blink at us. She’s confused at first, disoriented. Her lip trembles and she starts to cry. I gently sit her up and let her mom cradle her so tightly that there’s not a whisper of space between them.
    “Thank you,” the mother breathes, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
    I hear clapping, and all of a sudden I realize there are people around. A first responder runs in with a medical kit. At least a half-dozen bystanders are forming a circle around us. I don’t even know where they’ve come from.
    I’m shaking as I stand up, and I just want to get to the Jeep and sit down. Catch my breath. I can’t believe this thing that has just happened. We watch until the first responders finish assessing the child and the crowd begins to disperse, then we leave with everyone else.
    It all starts to seem unreal as we continue to the Seashell Shop. I sit looking at my hands, thinking, Did I do that? Did it happen?
    “If you hadn’t been here, that little girl would probably be dead right now,” Aunt Sandy points out as we skirt a piece of toppled billboard near the Seashell Shop parking lot. The area around the store is a swamp, water still pooled over the parking spaces and probably a foot or two deep in the backyard, all the way up to the deck. The flood-line mark on the building pronounces the verdict without our even needing to go inside. When the eye of the hurricane passed by and the wind reversed direction, the overwash here was bad enough to cover the porch and reach partway up the long bay windows in the front.
    Neither of us speaks as we wade through six inches of water, then climb the steps to the front porch of the old yellow house. Above the front door, the cheery ambers, blues, and yellows of a sign seem out of place now. The gold letters read:
    Sandy’s Seashell Shop
    An Ocean of Possibilities
    “Well, I hope this thing worked.” She indicates Uncle George’s homemade floodgate on the door while fishing a hammer and screwdriver from the antique iron mailbox. “Looks like this storm may have made it in through the windows, though.” She glances toward the nearest one, which is clearly below the dirt line left by the water.
    Even so, she seems upbeat. This is the thing I love about my aunt. She never gives up, even when the prognosis looks grim. Somehow I know that, no matter what we find inside, the water will not defeat her. And perhaps, after what we’ve experienced on our way to the shop, she realizes what I realize—that no matter what happens now, this day is already golden.
    The fact remains, though, that the storm has been much worse than anyone anticipated. The hurricane hung over the island forever, dumping water. Yes, it’s only property damage, and property can be replaced, but