The Lifeguard (24 page)

T
he storm hits violently in the middle of the night. Crashing, deafening thunder, as if the tectonic plates of the earth are smashing each other in rage and the world is self-destructing. I’m glad. It expresses the torment inside me, the fury I feel toward a world that took Antonio from me. I feel cheated and hollow inside. He was my protector, my guiding light, my spiritual leader.

I looked up the word
shaman
. Its roots are in a Siberian language. It means a healer who sees in the dark. With my parents halfway across the country and Antonio gone, the whole world seems dark.

Quivering bolts of lightning break over the ocean like ragged harpoons piercing the blackness. Rain hammers the windows. Will snuggles into my blanket, eyes wide. He doesn’t like the noise, but he’s not as phobic as some animals. I think of Edna, all alone now, without Antonio. Is she up now? What is she thinking? How much does that poor, wonderful dog understand? How does she go on? Pilot told me that she sleeps with him now. It’s hard for her, he says, but he thinks she understands.

It hasn’t stormed like this in weeks. I know what’s ahead. I don’t look forward to the attic.

“You can sleep downstairs?” Aunt Ellie says, without prompting.

“It’s fine,” I say, even though it’s not. This isn’t my first storm here. What will happen isn’t new to me. It won’t bother me as much if I act as if it’s no big deal. I get into bed tucking the blanket around me like a protective shield, then close my eyes, ignoring everything outside.

This time when the whistling and moaning start, they’re louder than I ever remember them. The keening builds to a hideous, unending screeching that gnaws through my bones and could shatter glass. The ghosts seem determined to be heard over the din outside. I cover my ears to block out the sound, but it’s useless. The eerie shrieks come through on some other frequency, a pathway to the brain that can’t be shut out with fingers pressed hard into my ears. I put my head under the blanket and hug Will, inhaling his furry warmth and doggy smell.

I lie back on the bed, a pillow the size of a body bag draped over my head. I feel my body giving way, sinking into sleep, when out of nowhere the air around me darkens to inky blackness. I squint and make out an unknowable shape looming over me. As it moves closer, I realize it’s a stingray the size of the room. It unfurls its sluggish body only feet above me like a dark cape. It’s larger than anything I’ve ever seen in nature before, as terrifying as the train-long anacondas of the Amazon that Antonio whispered about.

Like a heavy, smothering blanket of living flesh, the giant stingray blocks out all outside light. Slowly and steadily it lowers itself over me. I fixate on the razor sharp barb, a long lazy tail dragging behind it, narrow and out of proportion to its mass. Hard to imagine the deadly weapon it can become, lashing whiplike in self-defense in the face of threat, the serrated edge sharp as the jagged teeth of a carving knife. It floats nearer, the black, shining eyes, like marbles of anthracite, staring ahead, cold, emotionless, intent. It moves closer and closer and closer, choking off the air.

“No,” I try to yell, only no sounds come out of my mouth. “Not again.” My voice is trapped inside my body. I can’t speak. I struggle like a mute, with the words stuck inside my throat. The silent screams echo inside me, my vocal cords getting raw from the futile effort. “Stop, stop, stop.”

Frantically, I beg for help, for Pilot. Where is he? The massive creature is only inches away now, the eyes still staring, giving no hint of its plan or its motivation. I try to reach out to shove it away, but the effort is useless because its enormous weight and size are crushing down now and I can hardly breathe.

A tremendous crash outside makes me jump up, my T-shirt soaked with sweat, my heart ramming my chest. I run down the stairs to escape. Even with the storm, all I can think of is getting away from the house and getting outside, away from danger. The creaky stairs seem to scream and splinter as I bound down them. Crashes of thunder cover my sounds. The screen door slams behind me and I run toward the beach. It’s black outside, no moonlight or stars to light the way. The wind is blowing hard, the rain pounding steadily in heavy sheets in every direction, its coolness washing away my sweat. Without warning,
swack
, something slams me hard from behind. I fall forward hitting the concrete, sprawling below my attacker.

“Help,” I scream, “Help.” But there’s no one nearby to hear. I look all around, the rain pelting my face, but there’s no one anywhere. What was that? Who did it? I search around frantically.

And then I see.

A thick tree branch. It’s lying on the ground next to me. It hit like a flying missile. I rub the back of head and try to catch my breath; the sound of my frantic heart is strangely comforting. I’m alive, safe, outside, out of the ocean. Only a tree branch, nothing that will rear up and attack. I start running again, relief mixed with fear, confusion, and anxiety, my stride getting stronger and surer as I go. I have no idea where I’m headed or why I keep going, but I can’t imagine slowing down or stopping. The ocean is as wild and as choppy as I’ve ever seen it. Waves smash against the shore again and again in a steady, jerky rhythm as if nature is vomiting water out of the ocean in massive spasms.

The fog is so thick that everything before me is indistinct, the world seen through a lens coated with Vaseline. A car drives by on the road, turning off and becoming an incandescent smear of light as it goes off into the distance. I make out a shining window of a house, an eerie, yellow glow in the blackness.

Then I slow down, exhausted.

A short distance in front of me, I make out the outline of a person. Or at least I think it is. He must be slumped down. I get closer and realize it’s not a person at all. It’s a black sack of garbage that must have blown from the front of someone’s house. Am I hallucinating? I scold myself and keep going. A car whizzes by and slows down. Is it after me? Then it passes. The driver was only being cautious.

I’m at least half a mile from Aunt Ellie’s house now. Where am I going? I can’t stay out alone all night in this tempest. But I can’t go back to the house, I can’t, and nothing makes sense anymore. I hunker near a tree, wiping my eyes with the back of my hands, pushing the hair from my face. There’s so much lightning and thunder. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be outside. I should be low to the ground. I turn and start to run home.

Only something or someone is in my path.

I stop.

Alone? He seems to be. Lost too? I run toward him and then slow down.

What am I seeing? It’s the dark of night in the fury of a storm. Why would anyone be on the beach? Why would anyone, except me, escape
into
a storm to get away from a house of ghosts and ghastly sounds, grotesque memories of things that happened that I still don’t understand and maybe no one living does or ever will.

I slow to a stop, the rain pelting my face so hard that I have to keep pushing my dripping hair away to see clearly. And then I do.

Pilot.

There’s a glow around him, an incandescent arc. Rain washes down over the planes of his strong, angular face. His white T-shirt clings to the sharp outlines of his chest. There’s no surprise in his eyes when he sees me. He looks at me as if he knew I’d come. It was just a matter of time.

His lips curl up into a small smile. “Sirena,” he whispers, drawing me close to him. He doesn’t ask why I’m there, he knows. Despite the cold rain, his body is warm and comforting. I breathe in the warm, sweet perfume of his neck and rest my head against it. He smoothes my hair back off my face.

I had to get away from the house…the ghosts…”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the far end of the beach to the parking lot. His car is there and we climb inside. There are towels on the back seat and he opens one and dries my face and hair. He wraps it around my shoulders. It’s warm and soft.

“Hold me.” He puts his arms around me tightly and we sit there together, listening to the wind howling, rocking the car. I lose track of time. All at once I feel whole. I belong here. Pilot loosens his arms and looks into my face.

“I have to explain,” he says. “I have so much to tell you.”

“About what?”

“Let’s get out of this,” he says. He starts the engine and pulls away. The roads are flooded and slick. It’s not safe to be out; it’s not safe to drive.

“It’s impossible to see,” I whisper.

He looks over at me and smiles. His eyes burn green- gold in the dark.

He navigates easily circling around garbage strewn on the streets and tangles of fallen tree limbs. The car hugs the road as if it’s programmed to get us where we’re going safely. He pulls into the driveway at the side of a bright yellow-and- blue house at the end of what looks like a dead-end street. There’s a light burning on the porch. It’s a small bungalow, like an artist’s retreat. I know I’ve never seen it before.

“Home,” he says, reading my confusion.

He turns the doorknob of an unlocked yellow door and I follow him in. It’s dark and warm. A dog barks and feet scurry toward us. Pilot turns on a lamp and Edna comes to us, wagging her tail. I kneel down and kiss her, running my hands over her dark, slick coat. She recognizes me, I can tell.

When I get to my feet and look around, the world has been transformed. I’m inside the rainforest and it’s close to paradise. The walls are covered with giant canvases—Antonio’s paintings of the Amazon jungle. I see muddy pathways surrounded by canopies of enormous trees. There are jaguars, snakes, and animals that don’t look like animals, but more like spirits with glowing red eyes that peer out of hiding places in the trees, or lurk on the surface of the dark river. There are butterflies and orchids and all kinds of tropical flowers—hibiscus, frangipani, and giant water lilies along the bank of the river. I can almost hear the jungle sounds.

“Incredible.”

“I wanted you to see it,” Pilot says. “This was his world, the one he grew up in. Can you imagine?”

I stare at the canvases, hypnotized. They pulse with life.

“These were never in the gallery,” he says. “He would never sell them. They made him feel at home.”

“He told me so much about Brazil, but I never knew. I never knew he painted it.”

“There’s something else,” Pilot says. “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you.” He takes my hand and leads me into another room. We stop. He lets go of my hand and I hear him turn on a lamp.

“Now look.”

I’m staring at a giant canvas of…myself. I swallow hard. “When…When did he do it?”

“It was his last painting. He planned to show it to you before…” His voice cracks.

I step toward it and stare, overcome with the oddest feeling. I’m looking at a reflection of myself in a mirror and my soul is reflected back to me. I’m sitting on the beach staring out at the water. My eyes are filled with a mixture of sadness, longing…and determination.

“What do you think?” Pilot says.

“I never posed for him; he never had a picture of me, yet everything, everything he knew about me … it’s all there.”

“He
had
a picture, Sirena. You were in his heart.”

We’re standing in a bedroom. “This is my room,” he says. He goes to the window and opens it. The rain is stopping and a cool breeze blows the gauzy white curtains up over his head. He stands at the window, profiled in the light from the outside.

“I have so much to tell you,” he says. “There’s so much you have to know. But it’s so late now and you’re tired.” He looks at his watch. “I’ll take you home. We can talk tomorrow.”

I walk to the window and bury my face in his chest. “I don’t want to go home.”

He slides his hand down along the length of my arm and closes his hand over mine.

Aunt Ellie had an appointment with her editor. She left the morning of the storm and promised to be back the next day.

She’d never know I didn’t come home.

Pilot buys orange juice and cinnamon muffins in a bakery on Main Street. He doesn’t have to work until eleven. We eat breakfast on the beach in the early morning sunlight.

“These are like cake,” he laughs, cinnamon powder coating his lips. “Tonio used to love them.”

We eat silently and finally he turns to me. “Just before he died, Tonio told me what happened to my mother. I always thought she got sick and died when I was ten, but that wasn’t what happened. He said she was killed by the sword of a stingray.” He looks into my eyes, studying the effects of his words. “She was diving for spider shells in the Caribbean. She must have struck it,” he says, “just like what happened to you. But no one knows for sure.”

“Why didn’t he tell you before?”

“That’s what I asked him. All he said was that it wasn’t the time.”

“Was she alone?”

“She was
with
Tonio, that’s why he was so tormented. He taught her all about the ocean. She was swimming from the age of three. She loved the water more than anything. It just happened so fast.” He stops, staring off. “He blamed himself all these years. He should have seen it, he thought. He should have prevented it.”