The Lifeguard (4 page)

I don’t care anymore about being embarrassed.

I don’t care what happened before.

I stare and keep staring, not drawing as much as a breath as the world stops and time seems suspended and everyone and everything recedes into absolute nothingness.

Except us, taking each other in.

Neither of us moves.

Perspiration beads on my face and upper lip in the fiery heat. A droplet breaks free and trickles down the side of my face, stinging the corner of my eye. I blink, ignoring it.

I won’t look away first. My heart beats so hard that it hurts.

He doesn’t move.

I lift my chin and wait.

So does he.

I hold my ground. A silent challenge.

I’m going to win.

He turns sharply, sweeping his glance over the rest of the broad swath of beach.

And the game is over.

For now.

I release a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding and turn away, sinking onto the soft blanket facing the water, the sun branding my back.

I lecture myself as I decompress.

Push emotion aside, Sirena. Go for cold logic and clear reason. He’s a reclusive cat with a monstrous ego. Anyone can see it in the way he carries himself, in the way his eyes X-rayed my head, my heart. Poseidon, Greek god of the sea, shaker of the earth, drawing women with his power and allure.

Welcome to my B movie.

It’s infantile to play games, I decide right then. I want nothing more to do with him. Why would I sign on for a summer of hero-worship and disappointment?

You’d have to be crazy.

D
o you have a boyfriend?”

Aunt Ellie smiles slightly and tilts her head left and then right, like half yes, half no.

Yes, Mark is a boy, actually a man. He’s even hot for forty-five or so. And he’s her friend. In my mind that equals
boy-friend
. He lives in the next town and owns a seafood restaurant where everyone goes for the lobsters and fried clams packed into cardboard containers like Chinese food. Aunt Ellie is such a fan of the food, she says, that Mark joked he’d have to either make her a partner or start taking her out.

“Mark moved to Rhode Island after his wife died,” she says. “He lived on Cape Cod before, so Rhode Island wasn’t a
big
change, just a change, and he needed to be someplace else.”

Maybe I identify with that.

Right away I feel for him and like him. Mondays the restaurant is closed so Mark comes over. He drives a red vintage pickup truck with the fish logo of the restaurant on the door. He walks in carrying fish wrapped in brown paper.

I remember seeing a real fish for the first time in the grocery store. “MAAAA, IT HAS EYES,” I shrieked. My mom just laughed. But how was I supposed to know? We didn’t live near the water.

Mark heads for the kitchen to cook dinner. “Without work,” he says, with a smile, “I’m like a fish out of water.”

Aunt Ellie is happy to give him the job. She opens white wine and washes a bunch of spinach as big as a bouquet. Mark does everything else. It’s like a Food Channel ballet the way he moves, first reaching for the lemon juice, the soy sauce, then chopping the garlic and the ginger with short, precise strokes using his own knife. Without raising his head, he glances up and watches me watching him. He enjoys the audience, I think, but he’s cool. He doesn’t say anything.

Mark doesn’t use measuring spoons like my mom; he just seems to know how long to shake each of the bottles lined up on the counter. I remember one of my vocab words—intuitive. You just know things, it means.

Even when he isn’t smiling, Mark’s face looks amused. His dark mustache curls around the corners of his mouth and his brown eyes are surrounded by squint lines, probably because he uses his eyes so much when he smiles. He wears jeans and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. On the breast pocket in red stitching it says, “The Shack.” If he didn’t own a restaurant, Mark would be a fireman, I think. If someone was in trouble, he’s the type who would be there to help.

Which makes me think of the ghosts again. Did Aunt Ellie ever talk to him about them? I could imagine both of them going upstairs with a flashlight like amateur detectives. I don’t bring that up though because they’d laugh at me for being spooked.

When he finishes mixing everything together just right, he pours it over the fish and covers the container. He flips it over so both sides get equal time in the saucy bath. He sets it aside to soak, then turns to me.

“So you like it here?”

“I like it…It’s just so different from Texas.”

“I was there once,” Mark says. “Saw a rodeo, ate barbecue. We even drove down to Padre Island and went to the beach.” He grins. “It’s a lot hotter than Rhode Island.”

Something in my face must tell him what I’m thinking. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans across the kitchen counter toward me

“Life changes, Sirena,” he says, his husky voice almost hoarse, “and you can’t help it. But your life isn’t over when your parents divorce.”

I shrug.

He tilts his head to the side. “How old are you?”

“Almost seventeen.”

“You’ll be moving out in a year or so when you go to college.”

I nod.

“And what they’re going through doesn’t change the fact that they love you. In fact, they’ll both need you more.”

I try to stop my eyes from tearing up. “I know.” It comes out haltingly, breathy. I can’t help it. It’s easier to let your feelings out with some people more than others, and Mark listens with his heart.

“Don’t spend time feeling sorry for yourself,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He stares into the distance as though thoughts of his own life tug at him. Abruptly he turns back to me. “Think about the good things ahead of you.”

“Like what?”

He opens a white box on the counter and slides it over to me. Inside there’s a chocolate cake with a red candy lobster on top. He scoops chocolate frosting onto his finger and dabs it on the tip of my nose.

“Like dessert.”

M
y mom calls every other day. “Hi baby, how are you doing?”

I avoid feelings and go with activities: Drawing, walking, eating. I tell her about Mark and his cooking, his restaurant. Lobster, clams, good things.

“Does Ellie like him?”

Where is she heading with this?
“I don’t know, Mom.” I exhale hard.

“I mean, you know, as a boyfriend.”

“They’re friends…I can’t tell. God, what’s the difference?”

That gets me thinking about my mom and other men. Are there any others? I never met any. There was only my dad until now. Would she start going out again?

Is there anything grosser than thinking of your mom or dad in bed with someone else?
I remember asking Marissa.

“What about them doing it with
each other
?” She laughed. “
That
isn’t gross?

Only my parents probably weren’t doing it—with each other anyway. I stop my head from going there. Too raw.

Anyway, I refuse to meet their new girlfriends or boyfriends. I won’t be home if they bring them over. I’ll sleep someplace else, even the back of the car if I have to.

New subject. “What’s happening with the house?”

“I think we finally found a buyer,” she says, “but we haven’t closed yet. It’ll take a couple of months.”

“Months?”

“It’s a long process.”

“And then?”

“We’re both looking at places. Prices are crazy…it’s going to be a while.”

Silence. We’re both just holding on, breathing on the life line between us.

“I’m glad you’re in a prettier place,” she says, finally.

The beach or my state of mind?

“I miss you,” she adds.

“I miss you, too,” I say, finally.

“Are you all right up there?”

Is she going to cry?
“I’m fine,” I say, the parent reassuring the nervous child.

Aunt Ellie goes to the grocery store for dinner, so Will and I walk to the beach. There’s a leash law, at least that’s what the rusted metal sign on the fence says, among other things.

No alcohol

No loud radios

No spitting

No glass bottles

No ball playing

Dogs on leashes

I’ve seen other dogs running on their own so I let Will off the leash and he bolts. I have a whistle in my pocket that Aunt Ellie says brings him back if he goes too far. Will is in better shape than I am and he races along like a thoroughbred. He’s having the time of his life running free in the powdery sand, digging holes and then skipping back and forth in and out of the water, as if he’s in tune with its power and mystery on his special dog frequency. After a few minutes of trying to keep up with him, I slow to a walk.

Somewhere behind me a whistle blows. I look out to see if a swimmer went out too far, but I don’t see anyone. It blows again. Will pivots and starts running back toward me. To him it’s a command.

“Good boy, Will,” I call out. I raise my hand and wave to show him where I am, Only when he gets closer, he doesn’t run up to me. He heads up toward—no.

The lifeguard.

Obediently he kneels at his feet, head raised.

WILL! How could you do this to me? This is the last time I am ever letting you off the leash.

I suck in all the oxygen I can hold and head over to get him. I glance at the lifeguard and then look away. “Sorry,” I blurt out. That seems to be the operative word around him.

He stands there silently, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes embarrass me, that unswerving gaze. Does he even blink?

“C’mere Will.” I fumble, suddenly totally uncoordinated, trying to attach the stubborn clip of the leash to the ring on his collar as he edges away to avoid it. Coordination 101 and I’m failing. No chance of a genius grant.

“What?” I shoot back. He’s still staring.

I look away, and then glance up at him again after I manage to pry the clip open. I won’t bring up what happened. What would be the point?

I want to be cool, detached. This is so not a big deal. But it’s impossible to look away. I’m drawn to him as though a magnetic field surrounds him. It isn’t something I can get past and I’m filled with wonder again the way I was the first time I saw him. He must know that. How could he not? Everyone around him has to feel fatally flawed. Could that
not
go to your head?

What I want most is to stop and objectively study his face to isolate what it is exactly that makes him so rarified. Two eyes, a nose and a mouth—same as every other member of the entire human race. Only nothing about him adds up logically. He’s got an aesthetic edge. He isn’t
like
anyone else and it eats at me. I’m surprised he doesn’t walk on water. Instinctively, I resist the power and sway he holds over me.

He crouches down and scratches Will’s head, then lifts his eyes up to me. “There’s a leash law on the beach, Sirena,” he says, softly.

How does he know my name?

“But nobody really follows it, do they?”

He rises to his feet and lifts his chin slightly. “When I’m on duty they do.”

“Why can’t Will run free? He isn’t bothering anybody.”

He shrugs. “Not every dog is as friendly as Ellie’s.”

“Has there ever been a problem?”

He shakes his head back and forth slowly. “Not while I’m on duty.”

I ignore that and start to lead Will away.

“How’s your face?” he asks, reeling me in.

I stop and turn back to him. Instinctively, I rub it. “Still bruised.”

He steps toward me and studies the side of my face, reaching out and slowly running his fingers lightly up and down the side of my jaw, his eyes grazing my lips.

“Still swollen,” he says, almost to himself.

A caring gesture, showing concern, nothing more. Only my body registers it as something else entirely. I resist the urge to take the one small step that would close the space between us. I look away momentarily and try to stifle a laugh that’s lodged in my throat because the idea is so absurd and out of the question.

Does he see what he’s done to me? Feel it?

How can he not?

I’m suspended, as transparent and brainless as an undulating jellyfish in its watery skin, reduced to feeling and sensing, floating along without thinking.