The Lifeguard (19 page)

Dear Sirena:

What’s up with you? I’m getting totally crazed!! You always write back and now, nada. Are you okay? Please tell me you are. I had all these scary dreams last night of you going out into the ocean and getting stranded out there. The Jaws thing, you know? Okay, that’s stupid, but what else could I think? You’re not mad at me, are you? I can’t think of anything I did wrong. I’d call you if I could get to the damn phone, but you know how stupid they are about that here. Write soon and give me good news, okay? Jerko Geoff likes someone else, but it’s not who I thought it was. She’s a total rag. So what does that say about me?

Love you,

Marissa

Dear Marissa:

Oh God, BF, I’m so sorry I scared you. Actually I scared everyone here half to death, but I’m fine now, really. So much has happened that I don’t know where to begin. Yes, I did almost drown. God, maybe you’re psychic! But guess who got me out and saved my life?

I know you already know.

I’ll never say another bad word about him for the rest of my life.

He’s so much more complicated than I ever realized, I now know. He has these powers. It’s…well…supernatural, or at least I think it is, if that’s possible. It sounds crazy, I know, but lately it’s turning out that everything in my world isn’t what it appears to be on the outside and things are happening that I can’t explain, and maybe I never will.

I’ll write as soon as I know more, I swear. All is well here for now and that’s all that counts. I feel reborn. How is that possible?

Love you so much,

Sirena

And ugh, so sorry about Geoff. Truthfully though, he never sounded like he was your type.

No bikini now. A rumpled T-shirt over a denim skirt. Far from beachside runway couture, but it’s easy to slip on. I sneaked out of the hospital during the shift change in the only outfit that Aunt Ellie brought for me.

No attempt to cover the bandaged leg. Only now I’m not obsessed with my body anymore. All I care about is having a whole one. I could care less how I look compared to other girls.

Mark pushes the wheelchair and Aunt Ellie holds the crutches as our pathetic group slowly makes its way, first to the car and then the beach.

“This is insane,” Mark says to Aunt Ellie, under his breath. She ignores him and I love her for that. I also love her for insisting that first, we drop my parents off at her house so they can take a break to shower and relax.

“We’ll be fine,” Aunt Ellie insists.

My iron-willed dad caves, to my surprise. My mom doesn’t raise any objection either, which tells me that they’re probably just totally burned out. I didn’t realize they were up all night trying to get reservations, and then were forced to book indirect flights with long layovers because of bad weather. They must be dead.

I’m less than happy to go to the beach with an entourage. The cripple going to Lourdes, hoping to come away walking, cured, or in my case, less screwed up.

Mark turns into the parking lot and drives as close as he can up to the sand. I’m glad he doesn’t have a dune buggy or he’d mow down the beachgoers to get on top of the lifeguard’s chair. He parks, pops the trunk, and then heaves out the wheel chair, struggling to unfold it. It must weigh a thousand pounds, but he doesn’t complain. He and Aunt Ellie help me get out of the truck and I hop over to the chair.

I don’t know how I’m going to do it, I just know I have to, so I will. I’m grateful now that I went swimming and built up my arms. They push me as close as they can to the edge of the sand. Aunt Ellie hands me the crutches and I stand and tuck one under each arm.

Deep breaths.

Mind over matter.

You can control things if you set your mind to it. It takes practice to use them, I know. I remember once in school when a friend of mine broke her leg after skiing. She came in wearing a cast and used crutches to hobble to class. During lunch everyone took turns trying them out. I didn’t realize how much it hurt under your arms to put all your weight on them.

I take a tentative step forward. Another. Is the whole world staring? It doesn’t look that way. A few more steps and then,
whomp
, one of the crutches pitches forward and I topple over into the hot sand, landing hard on my hip.

“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling to stand up. Mark runs over and helps me stand.

“You don’t have to stand there watching me, for God’s sake. Can’t you just go for a drive or and come back later? I can get up by
myself
.”

“Baby, this doesn’t make any sense,” he says, his voice insistent, imploring. “Do you want me to carry you?”

“Go home, Mark. I can do it, just give me a chance.”

He looks back at Ellie, who waits by the car and nods. Outward Bound taught her that you surprise yourself by testing your limits; at least that’s what she told me. Now it’s my chance to test myself, but it’s too complicated to start explaining to Mark. Anyway, I know he believes that you have to help women because he’s convinced they’re the weaker sex. Ha. He exhales, running a hand through his hair, then steps back, defeated. I tuck the hard red rubber-topped crutches under my arms and try again, trying to catch my breath.

It’s hard enough walking across the sand on foot, but walking with crutches is like an Olympian test. I continue to slip and slide on the dry mounds of sand. I’m getting it, I say to myself. And then I trip again. “Shit,” I yell again. “Shit.” Tears flood my eyes. I hear him curse, but he doesn’t come to help me. I get back up to my feet.

You’re not going to fall again. You can do it.

I make my way, slowly, closing the gap between us, my armpits sore and wet with sweat from the pressure of the crutches, perspiration dripping down my face.

I inch closer and closer to him. He’s sitting up in his chair, one arm slung over the back. I approach from behind, inching closer and closer. It feels like I weigh five hundred pounds.

As if he senses me closing in, he turns slightly, takes off his sunglasses, and stares. The barest change of expression crosses his face.

It’s enough.

Me hobbling toward him on crutches is so out of the realm of what he expected. He can’t hide that, no matter how good he is at keeping his emotions checked. A hint of a smile crosses my face.

I keep going.

The space narrows from yards to feet. He waits, tensed, without taking his eyes off me. In a rush, I’m overcome with happiness that he doesn’t come running to help me.

Then it hits me why. He knows better than anyone that I can do it.

It’s
because
of him.

When I’m just below the chair, he leaps down so fast I barely see it happen. I stop and the crutches fall away, dropping to the sand. Only now am I suddenly overcome with the drain of energy it took to get me here. Sweat pours down my face. The stinging droplets nearly blind me.

I’m about to topple over into the sand when Pilot reaches out and catches me, drawing me up to him.

“You’re crazy,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t be here. How could they discharge you?”

“They didn’t. I left.”

“Why didn’t you wait for me? I would have come later.”

I lean my face against his golden shoulder, so warm he may be filled with molten honey. Without warning, tears stream out of my eyes. “Are you some kind of miracle worker? Please, I have to know. That’s all I’ve been thinking about.”

“Obviously not,” he says, like a painful confession. His face darkens and he looks away. “You got slashed and were close to death.”

Is he angry with me or himself?
He reads my face.

“I should have
known
,” he says, almost pleading.

“Known what?”

“That you were out there. I should have seen it before.”

“How could you possibly have known?

He stares out at the water and then back at me. “It’s my job to know, Sirena, to be there. It’s what I do.” He looks away, pained.

“I waited until you walked the other way. You couldn’t possibly have seen me.”

“You don’t understand.” He looks into my eyes and sighs. “I see things,” he whispers. “I have this…vision. Only this time I didn’t. I was blind.”

“You saved me. That’s all that matters.”

“I let it happen, I lost my focus. Only I don’t know how. And the stingray. It nearly killed you.”

“Stingray?”

He lifts his binoculars suddenly as if he suddenly remembers he’s on duty. “You should rest. And I’m working.”

“I need to know what happened—please.”

“Later.”

I glance behind me. Aunt Ellie and Mark are standing by the car, probably watching my every move, trying to read my body language. I’m embarrassed to see them there, my audience.

“I’m coming back, Pilot, when you finish work.”

He lifts his head, ignoring that. “I’ll carry you back,” he says. “Your Aunt is waiting.”

“I can walk on my own.”

“God, you’re stubborn,” he says, lifting me up into his arms. “That’s part of it.”

I start to protest and then stop. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It makes you…difficult, that’s all.”

I’ve never been carried by anyone before, at least not since I was an infant. I study Pilot’s face to see if it’s an effort to support me, but he strides along easily, unfazed by carrying one hundred and twenty five pounds over hot sand like a swami oblivious to burning coals under his feet.

“I don’t want to go back,” I whisper.

“It shouldn’t be much longer.”

“After your shift, we’ll talk, you promised.” I reach for his arm.

“Sirena…”

“Six, right?”

“You have to rest your leg or it’ll get worse.”

“You won’t let it.”

He looks at me curiously, but he doesn’t say it isn’t true.

Ellie and Mark stand by the car like nervous parents. Mark’s arms are crossed against his chest, his male body language, just like my dad. The resignation, the private expressions and little quirks that can’t hide what’s going on isn’t
his
idea.

“Stubborn as a goat,” Pilot says to Mark, when he reaches the car, but I see his rare smile.

Mark shakes his head.

Pilot helps me into the back seat, sliding his hand above my head as I’m about to bump it on the top of the door. He closes the door gently and waves at Mark. Mark starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot, heading back to the hospital. He’s nervous that his cargo is out of its element, like a fresh fish that will start to stink if it’s not promptly refrigerated.

They’re going to object, but I don’t care.

“Let’s go back to the house. I can rest with mom and dad. It’s just that later I have to see Pilot—when he’s finished with his shift.”

Mark’s shoulders rise and fall and he exhales loudly. In silence, he turns and we head to the house, instead of the hospital. They have to be glad my parents are here now so they can deal with me, even though they haven’t seen me in weeks, and they’re walking on eggshells when it comes to their only daughter who they’re convinced is suicidal.

Only I’m not.

Call it “dis-ease.” Not disease. Fear, loneliness, rejection, and isolation all mix in your blood like a toxic cocktail. You take chances. You tempt fate.

What do you have to lose?

It wasn’t a death wish, just a test. Only I had no idea what I was up against. No idea.

But the stingray?

My parents are asleep when we get to the house. My dad is stretched out on the downstairs couch and my mom is asleep in my bed. So much for reconciliation.

As usual, Aunt Ellie effortlessly jumps in and takes care of us.

“Maybe lasagna?” she says, sliding a tin foil tray out of the freezer that holds enough for twenty. That’s followed by frozen baguettes. Soon she’s cutting up a salad. When my parents get up, a feast is on the table.

It’s not a stretch to pretend this is a holiday. Only the difference now is that despite everyone’s smiley face, we’re all slightly traumatized and feel thrown together by circumstances, not by will.

There’s an awkward silence as we get seated at the table. We’re all dealing with our own private thoughts about how the last seventy-two hours have shaken our lives. Mark jumps in and tries to come to the rescue by talking loudly to my dad about sports and locker room gossip.

“They were the only team ever in the majors with a 12–0 lead and then they blew it,” he says. He goes on about someone’s rotator cuff injury and how long he’d be out of the game. “That could kill their season,” he says, like that would ruin his life.

Mom, Aunt Ellie, and I stare at each other blankly. Like we care? Mom turns and asks Aunt Ellie about the house.

“It’s haunted,” I say, before Aunt Ellie can open her mouth.

Mom looks at me as though now she’s convinced this isn’t the daughter who flew to Rhode Island four weeks earlier.

“Haunted?”

“It is, really.”

My mom looks at Aunt Ellie, who shrugs and smiles slightly. “Well, yes, but they’re friendly ghosts at heart. They wouldn’t hurt a fly, right Sirena?”

“I’m living proof.” Then I think maybe I’m not such a good example. I’m about to describe the burned out faces, but catch myself. My mom would be out the door, heading to the nearest Motel 6, whether or not they kept the lights on for her.

“Dad knows. Right, Dad?”

He closes his eyes and nods exaggeratedly. He’d never admit it, but I don’t think he’d look forward to a stormy night in the attic either.

“But they only come out when there’s a storm,” I say. “So you’re lucky because the weather’s supposed to be great for the week.”

“Hooray,” my mom says.

Aunt Ellie changes the subject and tells us about her books. When she’s done and we’ve all seen the new cover of her newest one, she serves blueberry sorbet. Then I look at my watch. “I told Pilot I’d go back to the beach when his shift ends.”

“I’ll drive you,” Aunt Ellie says, before anyone can say different. “It’s fine.”

Maybe everyone is too worn out for a fight, or afraid to start one. For once, my mom and dad look like they’re happy to give up their authority. Staying home and doing the dishes looks good to Mark. He wants to avoid another scene.