Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About The Author
THE YEAR I ALMOST DROWNED
Published by Shannon McCrimmon
www.shannonmccrimmon.com
www.facebook.com/shannonmccrimmonauthor
Copyright © 2012 by Shannon McCrimmon
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Design: Popcorn Initiative • www.popcorninitiative.com
Photography: Kristin Jordan Photography • www.kristinrandalljordan.com
For Mom
Chapter 1
The tips of my fingers touched my mouse, dragging it back and forth on the dark gray mouse pad, scrolling up and down the computer screen as I searched Harrison College’s spring semester course offerings. The titles were intriguing if not unique: All About Austen; Yoga for the Inflexible; History’s Dirty Details; Shakespeare in Layman’s Terms; Economics for the Financially Challenged. After more than an hour of reading each course description and with a few clicks on my mouse, I registered for a full load of courses for the spring semester.
I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. I took it out and read the text message from my mom. “Happy Birthday, Finn. Did you get my present? I haven’t heard from you in a while. Call me. Love, Mom.” My mother had the innate ability to make me feel guilty with just a few typed words. I placed the phone back in my pocket and made a mental note to call her later.
A draft of cool air sifted through my Nana’s library, and I clasped the top button to my navy blue wool sweater. Nana had given it to me; it was my dad’s when he was younger and it had become my fashion staple for fall. I loved it even if it was old and tattered. The dangling pieces of thread and pin-sized holes somehow made me feel closer to him.
“Finn!” Nana called from the kitchen.
“Yes,” I answered with a raised voice. I picked up one of her aged books, flipping through the well-worn antiqued pages. Nana had a large stock of books–most of them very old–bought long ago. This was one of my favorite rooms in my grandparents’ house. I loved it for the wooden book shelves that reached to the ceiling, the oh–so–comfortable brown leather chair, and the smell. Nana’s library was a musty, sweet mix of leather and decaying paper.
“Come here,” she hollered again.
I put the book back where it belonged–on the shelf and in alphabetical order–and headed toward the kitchen. The sun shined into the bright, cheery room with its yellow cabinets and strawberry wallpaper that bordered the ceiling. Nana loved the color red. Her kitchen screamed this, with red curtains, red placemats and red rugs. They were all a part of the bold décor.
The smell of peanut butter and melted milk chocolate–a heavenly mix–filled the air. I watched as Nana sprinkled flakes of milk chocolate on top of fluffy whipped cream.
“Yum. It smells so good.” I inhaled again, my mouth watering. Her pies made me hungry even if I did have a full stomach. Just looking at them was enough enticement.
She picked up the mixing bowl and handed it to me. “Here’s what didn’t make it in the pie if you want it.”
I took it from her and dipped my finger in the bowl, gathering a heap of peanut butter and chocolate. I stuck my finger in my mouth and licked the sweet saltiness. “Delicious,” I said, trying to savor the taste.
Pointing to the peanut buttery, chocolate goodness, she asked, “Can you drop this pie off at the Rotary Club on your way to get your dad?”
“Sure.” I stuck my finger in the bowl for a third and fourth helping. My sweet tooth was going to be the death of me one day. I finished off the last of the chocolate and peanut butter remnants and rinsed the bowl before placing it in the dishwasher.
She wrapped her arms around me and smiled. Her perfume lingered in the air. It was a pleasing scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. “I’m so happy we get to celebrate your nineteenth birthday with you, Finn.”
“Me, too.” It was the first time I would ever celebrate a birthday with my grandparents and my dad, or at least one I’d remember. We hadn’t spent any of my birthday’s together since I was two and that was too far back for me to have any memories.
She tore saran wrap off of the roll and wrapped it securely over the pie before placing it in one of her baskets. “This is your grandfather’s favorite pie,” she said.
“I know.”
She tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “He’s not eating pie at the diner is he?” I avoided making any eye contact with her. My face got warm and turned a rosy red. It was an instant tell. “Thought so,” she said. “He shouldn’t be eating sweets. Don’t let him, Finn.”
My grandfather hadn’t fully recovered from the heart attack he had in the summer. I can recall every single detail the night it occurred. It was the night that my mom decided to come back to Graceville so that she could take me back to Tampa. She hadn’t been to Graceville since she left more than sixteen years ago.
Everything happened so quickly. One minute I was having a very heated argument with my mom, the next thing I knew, my grandfather was fighting to stay alive. I was scared that I was going to lose him right when I just had him back in my life. It took several weeks for him to recover. The doctor and my Nana insisted that he cut his hours at his diner. But being the stubborn person that he is, he told them in no uncertain terms was he going to stop working. She even tried to compromise, asking him to let me run things on Saturdays. He only had to give up one day a week. One day. That lasted all of two weeks. Nothing could tear him away from his diner. It was his baby and had been for more than fifty years.
She touched my long red hair and asked, “Is Meg cutting it later today?”
I held the pie in my hands and nodded a distinct yes. Nana was very touchy-feely; I loved that about her. “Yeah. I don’t know what she’s going to do to it, though.” My forehead creased. Meg was almost finished with cosmetology school and was intent on giving me a more distinct style. Her idea of distinct could mean something very drastic.
“I’m sure whatever she does will look good.”
“Yeah,” I paused and then said, “I hate missing work today.”
“Don’t be silly, Finn. Your grandfather can manage the diner, and he’s got plenty of help –both Hannah and Meg are working today.” She squeezed my shoulder and said, “It’s your birthday, you should have it off. Now go on and take that pie. I’ve got a house to decorate for a special birthday girl.” Sh
e shooed me away.
***
I stepped into a colorful blanket of leaves that covered my grandparents’ front yard. I heard a crunching sound as I made each swift step. I placed the top of my shoe at the base of a hefty pile and kicked the tip of my foot forward. The leaves flew up like confetti and then slowly fell to the ground, finding another place to lay in the yard.
A soft breeze from the north caused the trees to dance, their leaves falling by the second. Autumn had arrived. Leaves in vibrant shades of red, yellow and orange were seen on every tree in the distant horizon. The air was cooler and crisper. Front porches were decorated in a cornucopia of harvest themed items: carved pumpkins, scarecrows, and bales of hay. The long, sunny days of summer were gone. This was my first time experiencing a true fall season–one where the leaves changed and the temperature dipped below the 50s at night. There was no such thing as fall in Florida.
My dad’s 1977 teal green Chevy Nova was parked in my grandparents’ driveway. By default, I had inherited it. He hadn’t driven it in years and said he’d rather I drive it than it just rust away sitting in my grandparents’ garage. I preferred driving it over my grandfather’s old truck–with its unreliable engine that tended to die on me in the middle of long, rolling hills. After coasting down hills more than once, I had enough of it and was relieved when Dad told me I could have his car.
I turned the ignition, a low chug, chug, chug noise pervaded. My legs vibrated against the vinyl seat as the engine purred. Goosebumps formed on my arms and legs even though I had on jeans and a sweater. The car was cold. I turned the heat on knowing it’d be a while until it actually blew out warm air. Its air conditioning was basically a fan, and the heat was a poor imitation of hot air.
The sun’s rays bounced off the satiny white wooden siding and the red shutters of my grandparents’ beautiful farm house. The swing on the front porch swayed side to side from the morning breeze. Yellow and orange potted mums sat purposefully on each porch step. It was picturesque and welcoming, and it was now my home.
***
The Rotary Club of Graceville was located in an inconspicuous spot, way off the beaten path and nowhere near anything. I had my own idea about the club and concluded it was some secret society where people wore black cloaks and stood around a blazing fire during a full moon chanting crazy things that didn’t make any sense. It was just odd to me, that the club’s headquarters were nowhere near town. Nana had given me directions, but I still found myself lost out in the country. The roads were unfamiliar, and I had a bad sense of direction anyway. I hadn’t had enough experience driving on the terrible roads in Graceville. Most of them were unmarked and those that were marked turned into another road right in the middle of the road you were driving on.
I held the piece of paper with Nana’s directions. I glimpsed at it again, trying to decipher exactly where I was and then looked back again at the road. All ahead of me were acres and acres of peach orchards. There wasn’t a house, a building, or any other sign of civilization within sight.
The sound of a police siren blared from behind me. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw flashes of blue and red whirling in a circular motion. My heart thumped wildly and my sweaty hands gripped tightly onto the steering wheel. I’d never been pulled over by the police. Not once. Not ever. I glanced in the rear view mirror again and saw that it was Cookie, one of Graceville’s oldest police officers, shuffling my way.
Everyone called him “Cookie” because he sputtered things out that sounded like they had been stolen from a Chinese fortune cookie. Cookie was a Graceville institution of sorts and probably should have retired years ago, but since Graceville’s crime rate was dismal, he was able to keep his job on the force. He and my grandfather had met in elementary school and had been friends ever since. They played bingo together, and Cookie was a regular in the diner. I liked Cookie even if he did say strange, philosophical things that didn’t seem relevant to the discussion. He was a kind, trusting man and probably should have chosen another line of work.
I felt a sense of relief seeing that it was him coming my way. I knew if he was pulling me over, once he saw it was me, he’d give me a warning for whatever it was that I did and tell me to go on about my business.
The relief was short lived. I peered into the rear view mirror one more time and saw another police officer approaching my car. This one was well-built, tall, and much, much younger than Cookie. I didn’t recognize him. My heart started to beat a mile a minute.
Cookie peered down in my window and motioned for me to roll it down. “Hi, Finn,” he said. He spoke slowly and enunciated every single syllable with a long southern drawl. A toothpick hung out of the corner of his mouth. Cookie was very thin and appeared older than he really was. Lines and creases inundated his face, his skin loose and sagging. His white mustache covered his thin upper lip. There was very little hair left on his small oval shaped head. “Confucius once said ‘Be slow in your words and earnest in your conduct,’ Finn.”
Whatever that meant, I’m not sure. I had to keep myself from rolling my eyes at him. The other police officer lowered his head to the window, his caramel-colored eyes met mine. A subtle five o’clock shadow showed on his youthful face. He was a little older than I thought, maybe in his mid twenties. Golden streaks blended in his short light brown hair. “License and registration, please,” he said in an authoritative tone.
My hands subtly shook. “What did I do?” I asked Cookie. I pulled my license and registration out of my purse and almost dropped them before handing them to Cookie.
“You were speeding and you ran a stop sign,” the stranger answered.
“I was?” I said in a surprised tone, still looking at Cookie.
Cookie nodded his head and frowned.
The stranger studied my license and said “You were going twenty miles over the speed limit. It’s thirty-five, Miss Hemmings,” he said, making direct eye contact with me, “not fifty-five.”
“I didn’t see a stop sign and I thought the speed limit was fifty-five,” I protested. I know it’s not prudent to be argumentative with a police officer, especially when he is holding a stack of tickets and a ball point pen in his hand, but I was confident that I was absolutely right in this case.
“If you’ll just step out of the car, I’d be happy to show you the stop sign and the speed limit sign,” he ordered more than asked.
I had a very bad feeling that I was about to eat crow. He backed away from the door, allowing me to get out of the car. He was very intimating and stood well-above me, blocking the shining sun from my watery eyes. He gently touched my shoulder, motioning for me to stand in the same direction as him and pointed to the sign which read in big, black bold lettering 35 MPH and then slowly moved his index finger in the direction of the large, red octagon shaped sign with white letters spelling out STOP. I looked away, embarrassed, but also a little annoyed. He didn’t have to be so arrogant about it.
I glanced in Cookie’s direction. “A closed mouth will gather no feet, Finn,” he said. “There’s not much you can do about it.” He scratched his chin and stood there watching the other officer fill out a ticket.
“Humph,” I muttered under my breath.
He tore a copy of the ticket and handed it to me. “I’ve written you a ticket for careless operations. You have thirty days to pay or contest it. You’ll find the traffic court information on the back.” He turned the ticket over and showed me. “I was letting you off easy, Miss Hemmings. You could have gotten two points on your license and a ticket for $474 dollars. As you can see,” he pointed to the amount on the ticket, “you have no points and the amount is $243. Speeding and failing to stop at a stop sign are serious infractions. Please drive more carefully. Next time, I won’t be so generous.”
I didn’t think $243 was being generous. I was about to say something but common sense prevailed. It wa
sn’t worth another ticket. My blood was boiling; I was fuming. I didn’t appreciate his condescension, his know-it-all attitude, and the fact that Cookie just stood there and let the whole thing unfold.
I recoiled and uttered a quick superficial, “Thanks.” It took all I had in me to say that one word.
“Thank Cookie. He asked me to be easy on you.” He strutted toward the police car.
I gave Cookie a “thanks a lot” expression and placed my license back in my purse. I wanted to crumble up the stupid ticket and throw it out on the road but decided against it. Instead, I just sat there for a long time trying to keep myself from crying. It was turning into a horrible birthday. I had only been nineteen for a few hours and already I had received an expensive ticket and was lost in the middle of god knows where with a mission to deliver a pie. The emotion of it all came over me, and the tears started to fall. I couldn’t help it.
The police car pulled up beside mine. I glanced over in its direction and saw “Mr. Pompous Pants” himself looking at me. His head was tilted and his lips were twisted in a thoughtful expression. He opened up his door, got out and walked over to me. I quickly wiped my eyes and tried to make it appear as if I hadn’t been crying, but there was no way to hide that with my pale white skin.
“Miss Hemmings, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I sniffled.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, actually, I’m not. It’s my birthday and now I have a ticket and I have to deliver this pie but I can’t find the building!” I tried not to cry but it happened anyway. I felt ridiculous for being a blubbering crying mess in front of a complete stranger who had just helped ruin my birthday.
He stooped down so that we were eye level and quietly asked, “Where are you trying to go?”
The Year I Almost Drowned Page 1
