Chasing Serenity (Seeking Serenity) (28 page)

“Miss, you okay?”

We all turn, to see the mammoth blonde marine from the beginning of the race staring down at Mollie. She doesn’t speak. Her words seem to catch somewhere behind her tongue and she can only offer the inquiring marine a quick nod. His smile is nice, open, and when he bends down to examine Mollie’s hands, I get the feeling that thoughts of us standing next to her completely evacuate her mind.

“Go ahead,” Layla says to me and Sayo. “I’ll supervise.”

It takes us ten full minutes to recapture our time, and by then, I notice Sayo’s breath come out harder, her pants growing more frequent.

“Do you need to rest?” I ask her, but she only offers a curt shake of her head, as though even moving her pink hair off her face requires too much effort.

“The mud pit is up ahead,” I say, curious if that will deter my best friend. I’m not exactly excited about getting in that murky, freezing water, but my main concern is how Sayo will handle it. This isn’t something we practiced much. Layla’s pool isn’t exactly encumbered by rocks, boulders and oozing mud floors. “We can slow down if you want.”

“Stop it, Autumn,” my best friend says, eyes straight ahead, narrowed in deep focus. “I can do this. Stop babying me.” Her head jerks toward me, a quick glance to measure my expression. “If I am holding you back, then run ahead. We’re all doing…doing this for you. Get…get moving.” She slows then, her strides decrease to an easy jog. I count ten slow seconds before I can ease the worry out of my chest. Sayo’s quick, encouraging smile and how she is suddenly surrounded by the rugby squad, gives me enough encouragement to move forward.

When Declan mouths something to his squad mates, and then thunders next to me, that small twinge of support turns into an angry nag. “McShane, move your arse. We’ve got her. Go, before Tucker sorts out how far behind you are.” He pushes me along, leading me toward the mud pit and into a run. “You’ve another hour and his buzz is wearing thin. Pretty soon he’ll be sober. Don’t let him use that to his advantage.”

“Declan, I don’t need—”

“God above, woman, I know you don’t. I want my spot back.” He stops us as we near the pit. “But more than anything, I want that uppity bollocks knocked off his pedestal. And there’s no fecking way any of you are going to be forced into prissing about in your knickers for a load of pervy old men.” When I start to speak, just a quick reply of gratitude, Declan shakes his head, slaps my ass and I slug into the pit.

The water burns against my legs. My pants are too thin and my shoes are a sodden mess not five seconds after I enter. Mud and murky water fill over my socks, squish between my toes, but I stretch my arms, shake off the sensation of being held back, pulled further away from the finish line.

The runners around me endure the same treatment. Girls focused on laughing are now squealing with revulsion; seemingly fit, expert men lift curses against the water as they trod along. I forget them, forget what I left behind and hunker down, stamping into the clearest, thinnest areas, until I am free of the water, of the mud and onto dry ground again.

I take a moment to stare behind me, beaming when I see Sayo being shifted, hand to hand through the pit. Declan’s squad mates are centered at various spots in the pit and they move Sayo as though she weighs nothing, pushing and pulling her forward like a sandbag. Declan catches my eyes, smiles only once before his urges me forward with a toss of his hand.

The wall is black with tar. By this time in the Dash, most of the participants have forgotten their time and the struggle through the obstacles becomes a communal effort. Hulking, broad men scuffle up the slick wall, are helped over it by women and teens half their size who straddle the wall, their feet locked behind metal bracings. Relief floods me when I see Tucker laboring to climb up. He rises, slides back down and doubles his efforts, ignoring the outstretched hands around him.

He spots me after losing his footing, watches as I work my small feet between the joints, gripping the tight seams with the tips of my shoes and my nimble fingers.

“Give it up, Autumn. There’s no way you’re going to make it up that wall.” When I ignore him, navigate further up than he’s managed to attempt so far, he jumps into action, trying to match me climb for climb.

Outstretched hands hover in my face, next to Tucker’s, and I have no problem grabbing hold, breathing easier when this stranger tugs me up. I don’t know if Tucker does the same. I imagine he doesn’t because when I rest on the top of the wall, I hear his loud curse below me. I don’t care. My only present concern is the 12 foot plunge below me and the rows of gutted, topless rail cars filled to the brim with dirty water, a few swimming bodies and icicles.

“I hate this part,” I say, hearing a chuckle from a woman next to me. It must have been her hand that helped me over the wall.

“And you should, sweetie.” I notice that she wears a dirty, pink scarf over her shaved scalp. She is older than me, likely in her fifties. Her body is thin and there are dark circles under her eyes. “If I can do it, so can you. Best to hold your breath and jump. Get it over with.”

I smile at her, flick my head in a quick nod and manage the biggest inhale I can muster before I jerk off the wall, tucking my knees to my chest. If feels like I’m flying. The wind around me burns my wet clothes to my body; I free-fall and logically I know it’s only seconds before I crack the surface of the water, but it feels like years.

The moment expands and I am outside of myself. In my mind, I am uninjured; a perfect specimen of health and wholeness. There aren’t bubbles of fear stirring in my stomach, no long, wide scars that mark each incision made on my body, every fragment of glass pinched from my flesh. My body does not ache. My spirit is not crushed. I am Autumn, fierce warrior bitch and this Dash is mine to claim.

Then I crash into the water and the Xena voice quiets. Holy God in Heaven above I forgot about the ice cubes; the freakin’ freezing damn ice cubes. My eyes burn and I fleetingly wish I had to pee. Disgusting or not, that quick gush of liquid would at least provide some brief warmth.

By the time I break surface, the collective whine of the runners around me sounds like a slaughter. I am reminded of Titanic, and feel every bit like Rose, bobbing in the glacial water, gasping against the cold, surrounded by wailing, screaming passengers praying for a rescue.

But this time, Rose has to rescue herself.

I evoke the Warrior Bitch, hope she will urge me forward as I shake through the water, swim until my limbs burn. She screams in my mind, “Move, girl! Onward!” and I laugh at the ridiculous idea of her “Ayiyiiyiyiyiyi” scream propelling me faster.

A long, wooden plank blocks my passage; an obstacle that I can either climb up and over or plunge beneath before I reach the end of the car. I’m already frozen, limbs in a constant stinging quake, so I gather my breath, dive under the plank and push my feet against it to zip through the dirty water. Finally, I reach the ledge of the car and hoist myself up, breathing out quick prayers of “Oh God, please let me survive this” before I jump away and down onto solid ground again.

The fog from my breath whizzes out like a heavy mist crowning my head before I take another step. I remember this part. This is where I made my mistake last year. This is where Tucker beat me. I’d been too eager to finish the race, didn’t consider my temperature, the pain, and collapsed from shock just before the tire lane that led to the finish line.

A few moments of rest, then twenty jumping jacks and circulation returns to my limbs, pumps my heart faster and faster. One quick squeeze of my heavy hoodie to drive away the excess water and I take off. There are less than a dozen runners around me. All are slowing. They seem to have made my same mistake from last year and I see a few stumble before staying still on the ground. And then, inching up beside me, comes Tucker. He doesn’t have a sarcastic gibe for me. There are no threats. He doesn’t, in fact, even look at me as we run, side by side, toward the tire lanes. Beyond that I see the finish line, no runners on the lane and the bright red tape still secured to the poles. No one has finished. Dear God, I could really take this thing.

Energized and grinning like an idiot, I move ahead of Tucker, my body rocks at the movement and I only slow when the tires are in front of me. This, we’ve practiced a thousand times. Mullens has an old bunch of tires he keeps on his property, much used and handled by his players throughout the years. They became ours when we took to his land to train.

Next to me Tucker is winded, his breath so labored that I think his steps will suffer, that he’ll trip. He isn’t graceful, isn’t breathing properly, which he should know better than to do. When he grunts, slipping against the rubber, I focus ahead, pick my knees up in quick, light movements. The sound of my feet barely touching solid ground in the middle of each tire fuels me and I imagine that my steps make a song; squishing out back beats, thumbing a steady bass line.

I am almost to the end of the lane, nearly through the obstacle of rubber when I hear Tucker slip and fall, with his face slamming into the ground. I stop, torn between helping him and eager to put the Dash behind me. There are three runners coming up to the tire lane, one is Declan. Behind him, I see Sayo climbing from the railcar. When I glance at Tucker, to his outstretched hand, his pleading eyes, I almost run back for him. Almost. But then Declan’s eyes flash and I catch Sayo’s hard expression and I know that Tucker is on his own. It is a moment of choice. My victory, and my friends, or giving Tucker the help he expects.

Tucker’s face is bloody, his nose swollen as though he has been beaten and I know what he wants. Me. He expects His Autumn to help. But then, he blinks and that soft, pathetic expression changes into an angry, full of rage frown.

Here is my closure.

In that moment, I am free of him. Done with all that he presumes is his to take from me. I hope that he can see in my face all that I want to say to him. I never believed "I love you" can be said too often. There is power in that phrase. It isn't flippant. It isn't trite. It can transform lives. It can break hearts. It can halt the strongest man until he is a puddled mess. So I only say it when I mean it. I don’t mean it now, not with Tucker, but I did at one time. I look at him, struggling to get up, stumbling behind the weight of his injury and despite his cruelty, his ego, I whisper a goodbye.

I say this now because it's who I am. I love you, yesterday. You gave me moments of joy. You gave me a purpose, you gave me lessons to learn that I will never forget.

And then, I leave Tucker behind and race toward the finish line.

Less than half a mile left and I can’t feel my legs. My feet are burning, aching, my lungs squeeze me tighter and tighter like my Eliza corset, with each slap of my shoes against the ground. Ahead I see the tape fluttering in the wind. There are crowds lining the trail, their screams of encouragement lifting me, pulling me forward as though their excitement bounces between us, an invisible sling propelling me, forcing the pain, my exhaustion from my body.

Then, I sense someone behind me, inching up, panting out wild, angry curses - Tucker - and then, another set of feet and the rough brogue of “Go, McShane, you’ve got it. Go!”

Declan’s words are like a thrust, making my arms swing faster, forcing my legs to pump harder and harder until I gain more than ten feet in front of Tucker. I am winning. My Lord, I am winning the Dash and nothing will give me pause. I feel the fire of triumph in my belly, the wild plunge of endorphins flowing in my brain, through my blood and I block out the crowd, the muffled curses of Tucker’s anger behind me.

Five feet from the finish line, three.... Suddenly, I scream at the slap against my leg, I tumble, begin to fall and land on my face.

“What happened?” I say, searching the shocked faces of the crowd, the officials, but they do not see me. Their eyes focus behind me at some loud disturbance. Then Joe stands on the other side of the finish line. His skin is blotched red, heavy lines pulling down his mouth. He catches my eyes, nods once and I jump up, wobble against the pain and break through the tape. There is a blast from a confetti canon and I am in my father’s large arms. He picks me up, wraps a thick blanket around me.

Joe says something, but I cannot hear him. The crowd’s attention has returned to the finish line. There are many pumping slaps to my back, unfamiliar hugs launched over me and then my father’s rumpling chest, moving with his laughter.

“Autumn, my love, my brilliant, strong girl! I’m so fecking proud of you!”