Perspective (3)

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Third Installment

Meredith speed-dialed her husband, Tony, a senior firefighter in the local volunteer fire department. He picked up immediately, “What’s up?” 

“You need to get to the lake right away. Deborah went swimming in the storm, and they can’t find her.”

 “Okay, who’s there with her? Where are you?”

 “Alex and Roxy are there, but they can’t swim well enough to look for her. I’m at home.” 

“I’m on another rescue call right now, but I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Tony responded.

“Damn it!” thought Meredith, but Tony hung up before she could argue.

She dialed Alex back, “They are on their way.”  She put down her phone, gave in to her fear, and began to cry.

*******************

Roxy stood like a statue at the end of the dock, frozen, drenched, her mind filled with darkness. Her only thought was, “I’ll never see her again; she’s dead.” Each time these words cycled through her brain, a gushing torrent of sorrow denser than the sheets of rain around her washed through her. Though she remained upright, she was completely unaware of her body.

*********************

Alex paced back and forth on the porch, cell phone in hand, mumbling to himself, “Hurry up, hurry up.”  Minutes were like hours. Jason took out his earbuds and played the cartoon on his iPad’s speaker. Silly, childish tunes filled the cabin.

**********************

Deborah stroked steadily, stopping every minute or so to look around. Sometimes she felt closer to the flag, and at others, she could see she had veered to the left or right. She needed to touch shore on the small stone beach beneath the flag. On either side of that beach, she knew, were trees and large rocks at the shoreline—no place to climb out of the water. She checked her direction and swam forward again. Stopping to look around broke her rhythm and slowed her progress. But gradually, stroke by stroke, she neared the dock with the flag at its tip.

Twenty feet from shore, she gingerly lowered her foot to test the depth, and it sank into the muck on the bottom of the lake. A few more strokes and she touched coarse sand. She pulled her tired body up from the water and waded slowly toward shore, larger rocks on the lake’s bottom bruising her unsteady feet.

Through the rain, she saw, with a sinking heart, a man who was standing in the doorway of the cottage withdraw inside and close the door. A flicker of confusion flared in her mind. She refocused on breathing deeply, slowing her pulse, and relaxing her tense muscles. The downpour had let up enough that she could dimly see her sister’s cabin on the opposite shore. Imagining that Alex and Roxy might be able to see her, especially her bright green bathing cap, she turned and waved both arms in hopes they would see she was okay.

As she rested in the lighter downpour, Deborah considered her options. Why had the man gone inside instead of coming to the shore to help her? Did he not see her? Should she knock on his door? She felt physically exposed in her dripping suit and shy about knocking on a stranger’s door. If the man opened it, would he help, only to later broadcast the incident throughout her sister’s small community?

Her sense of independence and self-reliance asserted itself. This was up to her. She had never been able to rely on anyone else, anyway. When she tried, they’d let her down. So, if she couldn’t seek help from the man, should she try to walk barefoot, on the muddy woods road, out to the highway to flag someone down? Did she have enough energy to swim back across the lake once the storm let up? The answer to the last question was clear. Already, after just a few minutes of rest, she felt alert, renewed, and confident.

For a short while, Deborah stood, resting in the shallow water. From time to time, she waved at the opposite shore but could see no movement there. The thunder and lightning had ended, but the rain had only diminished slightly. She knew the longer she was gone, the more worried they would be. Soon she felt ready to start back. She waded out to the edge of the mucky bottom and lifted her legs, surging forward with strong arms. “Take it slow,” she said to herself, “you can do this.”

Minutes passed, and she frequently stopped to get her bearings, but each time she checked and reoriented, she was nearer home shore. About halfway across, she could see Roxy standing stock still on the pier. A few seconds later, Alex appeared beside her. Deborah shouted and waved. No response from Roxy, but Alex’s angry voice boomed across the waves. “You get in here, right now!”  A flicker of dread rose in her chest. She had been right; they were mad at her. Alex shouted again. Deborah called out that she was coming as fast as she could and strained to pick up her pace. What would she face when she reached shore? She almost wanted to stay in the water, but that was not an option. Soon, she put her feet down on the pebbly bottom of her sister’s beach and dragged her utterly exhausted body out of Concord Lake. The rain had finally stopped.

To be continued tomorrow

Perspective (2)

Posted on by respectful.com

Second Installment

Roxy’s shout penetrated Alex’s absorption with his iPhone. Next, he heard a loud clap of thunder and immediately glanced at his son, who had his earphones in and was listening to a cartoon on his iPad. Jason was terrified of thunderstorms, but could not hear the rain or the noise above the voices and music in the cartoon scene in front of him. He was okay. Roxy’s cry had sounded hysterical, though. Alex slammed his phone down on the coffee table, jumped up, and pulled the baby gate from the door. Jiffy slipped through, dashing toward Roxy and the lakefront.

From the porch, Alex could see Roxy standing on the dock, drenched, staring at the lake. But where was Deborah? A current of fear shot through him. He started to run and reached the dock in a few strides. It was clear from Roxy’s terror and from the storm surrounding them that Deborah was in danger of drowning. He couldn’t see anything beyond a couple of feet. The rain was a dense curtain, the waves churned, the thunder was deafening, and the lightning sizzled. Jiffy ran frantically along the edge of the water, then forward and backward on the dock, barking hysterically.

Alex turned to Roxy and shouted, “Call 911!” He heard the flatness in her voice as she responded that her mobile did not have international service. “Use my phone!” he screamed. “I don’t know how,” she stammered as if in a trance. “Well then, at least get that damn dog back in the cabin!” Roxy noticed Jiffy for the first time. He was pawing at her wet pant legs, trying to get her attention. While he scanned the roiling water in front of him, out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Roxy take hold of the dog’s collar and drag him back to the cabin, closing the glass door on him. He could hear the Jiffy whining pitifully, as Roxy, with blank eyes, joined him on the dock again.

“I’m alone,” Alex thought, “there is no other responsible person here. Roxy is in shock and useless. It’s my job to save Deborah, take care of Jason, Roxy, and Jiffy, too.”  He was terrified and confused. What should he do first? His mother would never forgive him if her sister drowned and he had not tried to save her. What if Jason suddenly heard the thunder and, seeing that his father wasn’t next to him, freaked out? Trisha had left him in charge of their son. She would be furious if anything happened to Jason. Two demands battled within him. Save Deborah, protect his son. Alex could swim, but he wasn’t a trained rescuer. Besides, he could see nothing through the rain. Finding Deborah in this downpour was impossible, and what if he drowned trying? Despite the confusion of his thoughts, he shook off his sandals and strode into the water. Tearing off his T-shirt, he dove in and flailed away from shore.

Thirty seconds in, Alex knew it was hopeless and turned back, dragging himself, soaked, across the lawn and into the cabin. As he opened the door, Jiffy darted through and returned to Roxy’s side on the dock, whimpering and staring out into the storm. Alex retrieved his mobile and automatically dialed his mother’s number instead of 911. She picked up on the first ring. “Call Search and Rescue. Deborah went swimming and is missing,” he gasped. Meredith was silent, but Alex knew she was not falling apart. Her competent, hyper-organized mind would be rehearsing the most practical steps before she flew into action. She would stay calm, call his father, who was a member of the local volunteer fire department, and help would come quickly. But would it be too late? He had done what he could.

The line clicked as Meredith hung up. Alex looked over at Jason, who, addicted to his iPad since he was three, sat placidly in front of it, not even noticing that anything was wrong or that his father was pacing back and forth, dripping water everywhere.

*************************

Deborah stopped swimming and, treading water, peered around her. She couldn’t see a shoreline in any direction. Instead, she saw rain slapping the water on all sides. A lightning spear shot toward the lake, and thunder boomed, vibrating in her ears. She wasn’t afraid. A fleeting thought that water is a superconductor of electricity passed through her mind, but she said to herself, “Oh well, I can’t do anything about that.” 

As she circled in place, looking for a glimpse of a shoreline, any shoreline, Deborah did not feel in danger. The lake was small, and she knew she had become a strong swimmer during her year of training at the community pool. When she began lessons, she had not swum for 40 years. Work and other responsibilities had intervened, and there was no nearby lake or pool. When she and Roxy retired and moved to New Hampshire, their town had a YMCA pool, so she started swimming again. Characteristically, she didn’t do so casually. She set goals, pushed herself, and gained back her strength and technique.

Her stamina had increased dramatically in the last year. She could easily reach some shore, any shore of this small lake, if she could see one. She felt confident in her ability to survive the storm. Her primary concern was those she had left back at the cabin. Roxy would be terrified. Alex might put himself in danger trying to rescue her. She hoped they would stay rational and do nothing foolish. Surviving this was up to her, and it was a challenge she felt she could meet, even welcome. A niggling worry crouched in the corner of her mind. They would be angry with her. They would see her determination to swim in dangerous weather as reckless and would blame her for frightening them.

“But I need to focus!” she thought. So, pushing this worry further back into her consciousness, she circled again, looking for shore. A slight slowing of the rain revealed a Canadian flag in the distance. It was blowing frantically, but the pure red and white maple leaf was a beacon. She knew from previous vacations that there was a dock beneath that flag and that a couple who lived in her sister’s village owned a cottage there. She took a deep breath, relaxed, and started stroking slowly and rhythmically toward the flag. As she did so, she felt the joy of swimming surge within her.

To be continued tomorrow

Perspective

Posted on by respectful.com

by Moriah Freeman

Letter to my Readers

Because I started writing creatively later in life, I’ve permitted myself to experiment with poetry, essays, nonfiction, and fiction, knowing I may never master any one genre.    My late start and lack of a fine arts degree have also made it impossible for me to get published, at least so far. I’ve self-published three books and 89 blog posts over the past nearly 10 years.  Having one poem, “The World Is Coming Apart at the Seams,” included in one poetry collection, does not a published author make!

Last summer, I attended a couple of book festivals and saw self-published and co-published authors promoting their work. Very few of the potential customers who walked by my display or others actually made a purchase. I came away feeling uncomfortable contributing to the increasing cascade of words, pages, and books flooding the world, or, more accurately, sitting in boxes on storage room shelves, or in garages and attics.

Yet, I can’t stop writing, and though I have no illusions about my talent, I still want to share my words and thoughts—share, not try to force them upon readers.  So, I’ve hit upon a new, or rather, quite old idea. I will publish my fiction along with my essays and poetry on my blog in installments. This way, they are free, both for me to publish and for readers to read. If they are found and found meaningful, how delightful!  If they are not, I’ve still enjoyed the writing and the sharing.  I will put them out there and let go of the outcome.

Perspective is my first experiment in this new venture. It’s a short story about how the various people involved in one incident each see it through their own unique lenses. Let me know what you think.

Moriah

************************

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

For months, Deborah had imagined swimming at one of her favorite places – her family’s retreat on Concord Lake in Nova Scotia. When she was a child, her parents built the cabin on the lakeshore, and she and her siblings splashed, swam, canoed, and boated in its warm, shining waters. Now her parents were gone, and her sister Meredith owned the property. Deborah and her partner visited every couple of years for vacations and family gatherings.

During the journey, Deborah had daydreamed about this swim. As she stroked out from shore, she felt like she had been set free. No narrow lane confined her; no black line on the bottom of the pool insisted she swim straight; no wall demanded that she turn every thirty-two strokes. As she headed out into the open expanse of water, the murky lake’s bottom was no guide. She had imagined how it would feel to swim without a goal: no pressure from the clock; no fellow swimmers with whom to compare her strokes, her speed, or her form. Relaxed, slow arms sliced through the tepid water like a lazy knife through soft butter. No resistance. Legs gently waving like the tail of a mermaid. She felt calm, at ease in her body and the world, at home.

A minute or two after the swim began, she felt tiny pinpricks of raindrops on her shoulders. Though she had been determined to swim on this first day of vacation, the clouds she glimpsed while wading into the lake had conjured both defiant and cautious impulses in her.

“The hell with the rain, I’ve waited long enough, I am swimming regardless,” was countered by, “If it starts to rain hard, I will get out.”

***********************

Roxy, Deborah’s partner, lounged in the Adirondack chair on the cabin porch, her Kindle beside her on the chair’s yellow arm. Jiffy, their standard black poodle, perched at alert behind the bars of the baby gate just inside the cabin door. They both watched Deborah wade into the lake, Roxy wondering how Deborah could have the energy to swim after driving for two days. Older and less fit than Deborah, Roxy tired more easily and moved more slowly. They had only arrived at the cabin on Concord Lake a couple of hours before, and all Roxy wanted at this moment was some quiet to read and to nap. Jiffy was whining off and on and pawing at the gate. No surprise. Any separation from Deborah made him anxious.

Roxy was relieved to be here at last, but was nonetheless slightly uncomfortable. This cabin stay was not her idea of a dream vacation. Mosquitoes, uncomfortable beds, the outdoor shower, and Deborah’s sister, nephews, and their families dropping in unannounced meant that this visit would require more patience and extroversion from her than a vacation should. Roxy liked ease and privacy.

The sky looked ominous. “Why the hell couldn’t Deborah wait for better swimming weather?”  Roxy grumbled internally. She felt obligated to watch the lake and Deborah in case anything happened – a cramp, for instance.

******************

Inside the cabin, Alex, Deborah’s 35-year-old nephew, tapped the screen on his mobile while his five-year-old son, Jason, fiddled with his iPad. Jason, Alex, and his wife, Trisha, had made the trip from Quebec to Nova Scotia for a partial family reunion—partial because some family members were not attending due to a recent misunderstanding. When they arrived a couple of days ago, the air was already charged with tension as everyone tried to make the best of things. He was tired of trying to be upbeat and sociable. Surfing the net and zoning out for a few minutes while everyone else was occupied would, he hoped, renew his patience for his role of family go-between and peacemaker. He, Trisha, and Jason were staying at his parents’ house in the village, a 15-minute drive away. His mother and Trisha had just left the cabin to prepare for the evening meal in its better-equipped kitchen.

****************************

The raindrops started slowly and gently. Jiffy whined and yelped. Roxy uttered a firm “Quiet!” and turned to make sure that the baby gate was securely fastened. All she needed was for him to get loose and go dashing into the water, looking for his mistress. When she turned back to the lake only a few seconds later, she could see Deborah’s lime green bathing cap far out from shore. Rain pelted now, and thunder rumbled in the distance. She shouted. “Alex!” and dashed down to the lakefront. In the seconds it took to cross the narrow strip of lawn and arrive drenched at the dock, the bathing cap disappeared. Torrents of rain pounded the surface of the lake, thunder roared overhead, and a vicious spear of lightning punctuated the dark sky.

To be continued tomorrow