The Lifeguard (14 page)

The rain taps lightly against the window now. The lightning and thunder have stopped. I’m almost asleep except for the barest shadow at the foot of my bed. I roll over and close my eyes.

For now, at least, it’s quiet.

I
f I had a diary, it would be filled with my rants and frustrations about the incomprehensible way people act in this world. There would be volumes two and three. My misery trilogy.

But I never wanted a diary because sooner or later I’d forget to lock it and my parents would end up seeing everything because I’d leave it open on my bed. That left me with a snake pit of thoughts in my head.

Marissa would now think I was bipolar. Or had sunstroke. One day I was mailing her drawings of someone with movie-star looks who had the noble profession of saving lives. The next I was slamming him, the two-faced snake.

“He’s inhumanely cold and unfeeling. Tear up the drawing, or better yet, burn it. The stupid blonde can have him.” I stashed Antonio’s painting at the bottom of my suitcase, facedown.

Hey Marissa,

I now know it’s pointless to even think about liking anyone, ever. If you do, you doom yourself to misery and complete despair. Although if you happen to be a goddess with waist-length hair and a body like a fitness instructor, maybe that’s not the case. Then life offers you everything you could dream of and more. The most frustrating thing is, I can’t figure out what I did to deserve getting snubbed, but clearly there was something that turned me into a bottom feeder in his eyes. I want to ask him what. I do. I really want to know; only I’d never humiliate myself that way and give him the satisfaction.

You don’t know how much I wish I was away in the mountains with you. Life makes sense there. It’s normal and predictable and even boring is better than this. There’s a regular schedule, things to do and yes, I’d welcome the stupid pranks we used to play on everyone. But most of all, I’d have friends in the bunk—especially you!

Write soon—no, sooner.

Love,

Sirena

God, Sirena,

I totally cannot figure out what happened. I wish I had been with you, so I could have seen his face and the look in his eyes. Does he have a gigantic attitude now because you nearly drowned? Does he blame you? Is he annoyed that he had to go out after you? That’s so ridiculous. Really, that’s what I altogether hate about boys. They’re never direct. They never tell you what’s on their minds. You have to pry it out of them or spend huge amounts of time trying to figure out their stupid Rubik’s cube brains, and really in the end, they seem to actually think and feel much less than we do, so overall you totally wasted all that time and effort.

Things here are interesting. So on-again-off-again Geoff definitely seems to like me now. I like him back, except for the teeth thing, which is totally obsessive and obnoxious, I know, but I can’t help it. (At least teeth are something you can fix, right?) Can’t believe the summer is half over. Glad your swimming is getting better and you’re spending time doing art. You will definitely win a scholarship to wherever you want to go. Write immediately and try to keep it together!

Love,

Marissa

I have to get out of the house. It’s been over a week and while my mind isn’t normal, my temperature has been for two days straight. I need to go back to the hospital— or at least someplace else—because I’m going insane from boredom.

“Give it another day or so,” Aunt Ellie says. “You won’t be helping anybody there if you go back before you’re completely over it.”

So I take my sketchbook and walk to the beach. I’ll hide myself in some quiet part far from where he is so he’ll never know I’m there. I’m glad to be outside anyway, even though the water is rougher than usual because of the thunderstorm.

I cross the street to the beach and stop. Something is weird. It’s quiet and empty. It’s a perfect day, so why isn’t anyone on blankets and chairs, the way they usually are? This makes no sense. Where is everyone?

That’s when I spot a crowd down at the edge of the water. An alarm sounds in my head and my heart goes into panic mode. I turn to the lifeguard chair.

It’s empty.

I drop my things and run down to the water, easing my way through the crowd. A man is stretched out on the beach. Pilot’s crouched over him, his yellow hair curtaining the man’s face as Pilot compresses his chest and then does mouth-to-mouth breathing.

“What happened?” I whisper to a girl standing next to me.

She shrugs. “Nobody knows if the guy just swam out too far or had like a heart attack or something.”

From somewhere behind me, a tall, balding man with a gut elbows his way through the crowd, head high.

“I’m a doctor,” he announces, striding over to Pilot, waving him away. Pilot holds up a hand, but the doctor wants to take over. “Did anyone call an ambulance?”

Pilot stops and turns to him. “They’re on their way.” He stands up and steps back, letting the doctor take over. It looks like he’s doing the same things Pilot did, leaning over him, breathing into his mouth, then pushing down on his chest with one hand over the other.

The doctor stops and looks up at Pilot. He asks for something that sounds like a defib.

“We don’t have one,” Pilot says.

The doctor turns back to the man. “C’mon,” he says, as if he’s impatient with him. “Breathe.” He tries again and again, but the man lies there motionless, his skin waxy and pale, one arm outstretched in a helpless gesture. I stare at him, waiting for him to stir. The doctor reaches up and places his fingers on the side of the man’s neck. He shakes his head and gets to his feet. “He’s
gone.
”

Pilot looks back at him silently. He squats down. “Let me try for a few more minutes.”

The doctor turns to him in disbelief. “He’s
gone
,” he says again. He turns to the crowd holding up his hands.

“Back off, please,” he says. “Show some respect.” He turns and steps a few feet away.

Pilot ignores him, beginning the artificial respiration again, trying over and over. The doctor shakes his head and then turns and walks away.

But Pilot goes on, consumed, as if he refuses to accept death. I’m filled with pity for him, at the same time struck by his desperate, repeated attempts and his insistence to keep fighting and fighting, not giving up even when there’s obviously no hope at all. Almost methodically he keeps trying to get air into the dead man’s lungs, then he compresses his chest. “Breathe,” I hear him whisper imploringly. “Breathe.”

The man doesn’t budge.

How long is he going to keep this up?

Finally he crouches closer and presses his forehead against the man’s chest. I watch in fascination as he places his hands around the man’s head as though he’s trying to bring some life force from his own body into the man’s skull. I’m hypnotized by his movements, the intensity in his face, the energy I can almost feel that he sends out from his body. I’ve never seen anything like this before. I’ve never seen anyone like
him
before. I don’t understand it all, but something about it makes me afraid. I forget where I am as I watch this healing rite, or whatever it is, without taking my eyes off Pilot.

I’m unable to turn away from him. I watch in wonder, filled with the oddest sensation that I’m witnessing something surreal, outside of myself that I can’t take in. What I’m seeing is unknowable, my mind says, which makes no sense.

Most of the crowd has turned away and gone back to their chairs, their books, their music, the drama over. But I stay locked in place.

What is he doing? Praying? Chanting? His eyes are closed. He’s breathing hard. I hear a humming sound like an energy force from deep inside him. His face is flushed, his forehead and upper lip glistening with sweat. He’s talking to the man or communicating with him in some unspoken way, but his lips don’t move. Next he’s blowing at the man’s head. He’s so intense, so animated, I expect smoke and mystical visions to fill the air around him as if this is an ancient healing rite, something Antonio would know from his father, the rainforest shaman, the healer who Antonio swears could cure cancer and save people close to death. My eyes are fixed on him and out of nowhere what takes shape before me is otherworldly. A white, opaque mist or cloud of some sort rises up between the man and Pilot. I rub my eyes to make sure it’s not something clouding my own vision, or a puff of cloud from the moist ocean air. This isn’t the Amazon. He’s not a rainforest healer.

Nothing in front of my eyes makes sense.

He works on the man more and more. How long before he lets go, before he gives up? I keep watching, powerless to turn away, but for his sake, I don’t want to be seeing his desperate efforts to defy death. I force myself to look away. I focus on a broken pink sea shell at my feet, a smooth piece of blue sea glass in the sand glistening in the sun.

From the corner of my eye there’s a flash of movement.

Was I imagining it?

I look up again. The man hasn’t moved. He’s lying there, dead.

I imagined it.

Only a moment later his chest seems to rise. A leg jerks. Seconds later his head turns to the side and he begins to cough. Pilot slides a hand behind the man’s neck and lifts his head as water pours from his mouth.

“Jesus, did you see that?” somebody behind me yells. “HE’S ALIVE!”

My mouth opens and closes without a sound. Whatever just happened here in broad daylight eclipsed normal, everyday life.

The loud wailing of a siren drowns out all other sound as an ambulance screeches up. The back doors are flung open hard. Two EMS techs run toward us with a stretcher.

“He’s breathing now,” Pilot says, immediately composed, wrapped in a veil of calm. He’s back from wherever he was. He’s the lifeguard again, just a person who works at the beach pulling people out of deep water.

Word spreads across the beach. “What’s going on?” I hear a voice shout. I turn and see the doctor running back to Pilot. “What’s going on?” he repeats.

“He’s breathing,” Pilot says, lifting his chin. The faintest glimmer of triumph crosses his face.

The doctor studies him and shakes his head, the color leaching out of his skin. “What in the world did you
do
, man?”

I
haven’t seen Antonio since I was sick. He’s my anchor. I’ve missed talking to him. I let Aunt Ellie know where I’m going and I bike to his favorite patch of beach. When I spot him he turns and waves. I think we share a sacred connection.

“Sirena,” he calls out in his deep, musical voice. “Are you better?”

I go over and sit in the sand by his feet. “Yes.”
How did he know?

Edna catches my eye and I smile at her. That’s all the encouragement she needs. She rolls onto her back.

Antonio peers into my eyes, making his own diagnosis.

“Did Aunt Ellie tell you I was sick?”

He shakes his head. “Pilot.”

“How did
he
know?”

Antonio shrugs. “I suppose from people in the hospital?”

I look at him skeptically, but he turns and lifts his brush, concentrating on making short, fine strokes on the paper, filling in the white space.