Broken Shadows

by Tim Waggoner

  But—rotten luck—the boy hadn’t been working that day, so bored and depressed now, she walked to the end of the dock, thinking maybe she might see a crane or something flying over the water and get a picture of it.

  Her mother would’ve had a fit if she’d seen, because Tina had never learned how to swim and, despite Mom’s advice, she wasn’t wearing a lifejacket. There was no way Tina was going to wear one of those bulky orange things. Not only would she look like a big geek since all she was doing was walking on the dock, they were itchy and uncomfortably hot. She wasn’t stupid; she’d be careful not to get too close to the water. And even if she did fall in, she’d be so close to the dock that she could pull herself out easily.

  So she stood at the end of the dock, sandals hanging over the edge by a half inch, and she looked down and saw a school of small darting fish in the water. They weren’t exactly cranes, but she figured they’d do. She brought the camera (which was hanging by a black strap around her neck) up to her eye and gazed through the lens, struggling to focus it. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get the picture—would the camera be able to shoot something that was under the water? Maybe if she leaned down a little…a bit more…just a—

  And then the world swayed, tilted, and she was in the water.

  She went down once, twice, and was about to go down for the third time when she felt a strong, sure hand close around her wrist and pull her up. Let it be him, she thought, hoping that the cute food-stand boy would turn out to be her savior. But it wasn’t. She was saved by a fat little man with bad skin and a sunburned bald head. Still, she wasn’t too disappointed. She was alive, after all, though her camera was completely ruined.

  Her T-shirt and shorts were still sopping wet by the time she got back to the trailer, and her mother nearly had a heart attack when Tina explained what had happened.

  She hugged Tina so tight she could barely breathe and said, “I’ll never take you to such a dangerous place again!”

  And she was true to her word. Tina’s family never went on vacation after that, not even a simple day trip. Before long her mother didn’t want to go anywhere, for any reason. By the time she died of congestive heart failure when Tina was twenty-five, her mom hadn’t left the house for over a decade.

  Tina had been terrified by the experience of nearly drowning. The complete and total loss of control—not being able to breathe, unable to stop herself from sinking—had shaken her to the core. But when she saw how her mother reacted to the incident, Tina decided that she wouldn’t let it get to her, wouldn’t let her fear make her retreat from the world. She took a paper route, saved her money, and signed up for swimming lessons at the Y. By the time she entered high school, she was good enough to be on the swim team, and by the time she graduated, she was able to go to college on a partial swimming scholarship.

  Tina first heard the phrase “pressure makes diamonds” from her swimming coach in high school, and she liked it so much she decided to make it her personal motto. Whatever happened to her, no matter how bad it was, she would handle it. She’d taken control of her life, and she was never going to let it get out of her control again.

  * * *

  “C’mon, c’mon…” Tina urged the driver ahead of her to go faster. The idiot was barely doing twenty, even though the speed limit here was forty-five. Yes, it was raining, but not that hard. It was—she glanced at the dashboard clock—six thirty-seven. She was supposed to meet Carl at the restaurant at six thirty.

  She slapped her palm on the steering wheel and swore. The windshield wipers arced back and forth, back and forth, moving at their highest setting, but even so water rippled across the glass as if the wipers weren’t even there. The car ahead of her (the slowpoke!) was little more than a blurry outline with a pair of reddish smears for brake lights.

  She looked at the clock again. Six thirty-eight.

  Carl would wait, of course he would, and he wouldn’t be upset. Being exactly on time was one of her things, not his. But that didn’t make being late any easier to deal with, especially not after everything that had happened today. After her encounter with the little woman on the bicycle and the resulting panic attack, Tina had tried to make the rest of her scheduled sales calls, but while she managed to fit them all in, her timing was off. She was hesitant, unsure, unfocused, and the doctors she saw (when she got to see any; a number of receptionists didn’t send her back) were short with her, cutting her off in mid-spiel and asking her leave her samples and go, they hated to be rude, but they were especially busy today, just swamped. Summer allergies, summer flu, check-ups before summer vacations. A shrug, an apologetic smile. You know how it is.

  She knew, all right—knew she’d had her worst day on the job since she’d started with Pharm-Tech. She was furious with herself for letting that weird little woman get to her. She’d been no diamond today. Hell, she hadn’t even been a cubic zirconium.

  And to top if off, now she was late for dinner with Carl. Tonight was supposed to be special, the night they made final decisions on the wedding, everything from the invitations, to the reception and the honeymoon. She had a notebook filled with ideas, samples, and brochures that was she eager to finally show him. Like a typical man, he’d been ducking the detail-work of the wedding, but she’d finally pinned him down on making some choices over dinner tonight. She could’ve just gone ahead and picked whatever she wanted—she knew exactly what her preferences were—but she was determined to get Carl’s input. After all, it was his wedding too, right?

  But she wasn’t going to get his input if she didn’t make it to the goddamned restaurant!

  She took a hand off the steering wheel, intending to lay on the horn so that the driver ahead of her would either speed up or pull over to let her by, when she noticed the way the water undulated across her windshield. It didn’t look like it was coming down in drops anymore. In fact, it almost looked as if she were driving underwater.

  She gripped the steering wheel more tightly, eased off the gas, and concentrated on taking slow, deep, even breaths as she continued driving toward the restaurant at a crawl.

  And if out of the corner of her eyes she saw dark, streamlined shapes moving gracefully through the dimness beyond her car, she told herself it was just an illusion conjured by the rain, that’s all.

  Breathe in, two-three-four. Out, two, three, four…

  * * *

  Cocooned in water, arms and legs thrashing as she sinks, unable to stop her descent. She’s a damn good swimmer, but her training is no use to her now. Her body’s deadweight, falling down to darkness.

  The water is murky-dim, but she can still make out objects floating around her: foil-encased sheets of pills, all different colors, shapes and sizes; decongestants, antihistamines, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics…loose wedding invitations on cream-colored paper, tumbling slowly end over end. Come celebrate the wedding of Ms. Tina Gensen to Mr. Carl Corelli on Date Yet to be Determined.

  A fish emerges from the outer darkness and comes swimming toward her. Its head is larger than it should be, long, fine tendrils trailing behind as it swims. No, not tendrils, she realizes. Hair. Blonde hair.

  The fish swims up to her face and matches her descent so they can remain eye to piscine eye. It opens its tiny pucker of a mouth, and even though they are underwater, its voice comes easily and clearly to Tina’s ears.

  “Control is a—”

  Tina doesn’t want to hear. She covers her ears with her hands and tries to scream, but there’s no air left in her aching lungs.

  “—fragile illusion.”

  * * *

  Tina woke up, fists jammed tight against her ears. It took a moment before she realized where she was—her bedroom—and what had woken her—the ringing of the phone on the nightstand.

  She sat up and reached for the phone, but before she could pick it up, the answering machine clicked on. She listened to her own voice greet the caller and ask whoever it was to leave a message at the sound of the tone.

>   A pause, then, “Tina? If you’re there, pick up.” Another pause. “All right, you’re probably mad at me for standing you up tonight, and I don’t blame you. I just…well, I was going to say I got tied up at work, but that’s an excuse. The truth is I’m…not entirely comfortable with getting married. I know it’s a cliché, the man getting cold feet, but that’s not it. At least, not all of it.”

  A third pause, this one so long that Tina thought Carl was going to hang up, but he didn’t.

  “It’s just that you can be so…I mean, you always want things to go a certain way, and I don’t…Ah, hell. Forget it. Blame it all on me if you want. The bottom line is I don’t want to get married. Not right now.” A fourth pause, not very long this time. “Not ever.” Click.

  Tina sat there, struggling not to cry. Finally, a single tear rolled from the corner of her left eye, slid down her check and onto her lips. She told herself it didn’t taste like lake water.

  * * *

  It had continued to rain on and off all night, and the parking lot was covered with puddles. Tina sat behind the wheel of her car, waiting. She’d been here since five a.m., telling herself over and over again: We can make this work, we can make this work, I KNOW we can…

  At eight forty-eight, Carl’s certified pre-owned Lexus pulled into the lot. Tina got out of her car as he parked and hurried toward him, running shoes splashing through puddles. She reached him just as he was closing his door, and she called out “Carl!” She tried not to sound pathetic, upset and needy, but she couldn’t help it.

  He turned toward her, car remote in one hand, briefcase in the other, and whatever emotions she’d expected to see on his face—joy, anger, confusion, irritation, disgust—there was nothing. His expression was completely neutral, and that was far worse than anything he could have said or done to her.

  She was suddenly aware of how she must look to him. Carl was a mortgage broker, and he was dressed for work in a gray suit and maroon tie, while she wore a faded green T-shirt and jeans that were frayed at the cuffs. She hadn’t washed her hair since yesterday morning, and it was a matted tangle. She hadn’t put on any make-up either, and her face looked pale and washed-out, her eyes bloodshot and puffy from lack of sleep. There were other people pulling into the lot, parking, getting out of their cars, walking toward the office building, looking at the two of them and no doubt wondering who she was and what she was doing here, confronting one of their professionally attired brethren looking like trash. But she didn’t care what anyone else thought; all she cared about was making things right between them.

  “Don’t do this to me, Carl. Don’t do this to us.”

  “Jesus, Tina. There is no us, okay? Not any more. I’m sorry, I really am, but that’s the way it is.” He started to step around her, but she grabbed his arm and stopped him.

  “Don’t walk away.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “We’re still talking.”

  Now anger did twist Carl’s features and he pulled free of her grip. “No, we’re finished. In every sense of the word.” Then more gently, “Just let me go to work, okay?”

  Tina became aware of a faint sound coming from somewhere behind her, a soft squeeek-squeeek-squeeek of wheels turning. She ignored it. “Not until you agree to try to fix things between us—and we can fix them, Carl, I know we can. It’ll take some work, and some time, but in the end it’ll be as good as before. Better, even!”

  “This is the end, Tina. Accept it and move on.” Carl gave her a last look that was a mixture of love and regret, resentment and pity, before walking toward the entrance of his office building.

  Squeeek-squeeek-squeeek. Louder now. Closer.

  “It’s not over, Carl!” she shouted. She took a step forward until she was standing at the edge of a large puddle. “Do you hear me? It’s NOT!”

  Other people heading into work turned to look at her, but Carl wasn’t one of them. He just kept going.

  The squeeeking drew up behind her and then stopped.

  “I’m not going to turn around,” she said, almost smugly.

  She heard a rustle of cloth, a soft grunt of effort, then shuffling footsteps. The little woman had gotten off her bike. She hobbled to Tina’s side and they stood there, silent, watching as the last few men and women made their way into the building to begin their workday. Moments later the parking lot was empty except for the two of them.

  “It’s not an illusion,” Tina said, still stubbornly refusing to look down at the little woman. “Control is possible; all you have to do is—”

  “Work hard enough,” the little woman finished for her in a mocking voice.

  Infuriated, Tina turned to the woman, intending to…to…she wasn’t sure what, but intending to do something. But when she saw the woman’s face, she froze. She was more fishlike than before—eyes wide, black and empty; cheeks covered with a scattering of scales; tiny gill slits on each side of her neck, opening and closing as they struggled to extract oxygen from the unforgiving air. But there was something else, something familiar about the shape of her nose, eyebrows, forehead, cheekbones, chin…Then Tina realized where she had seen those features before: on her mother’s face—and in the mirror every morning.

  The little woman’s pucker of a mouth stretched open in a hideous parody of a smile, revealing twin rows of tiny sharp teeth. Then with a swift, sleek motion she dove headfirst into the puddle, sending up a splash of water that smelled like rotting algae and dead fish.

  Tina watched until the ripples subsided and the surface of the puddle grew still once more.

  Walk away, she told herself. Just turn around, go get in your car, and go home.

  But she didn’t. The puddle was just a puddle, not even an inch of rainwater over blacktop, and she was going to prove it.

  She took a step forward.

  * * *

  Water around her, below her, above her…dark, so dark…but she’s not scared this time. She’s not a kid anymore, and she can swim, swim like a goddamned fish. She’s in control.

  She kicks toward the surface. Her wet clothes make swimming awkward, but she concentrates on remaining calm and strokes harder. Soon she’s rising through the black water. Up, up, up…and still there is no light, only darkness surrounding her on all sides. Her lungs begin to burn for air, but she ignores their need and keeps swimming.

  A thought occurs to her then: what if there is no surface—just an endless ocean of Nothingness above her?

  She dismisses the thought immediately. There is a surface because she says there is, and she’ll reach it. All she has to do is work hard enough.

  She senses unseen shapes moving in the water around her, circling, keeping pace with her, but she pays them no attention, continues moving her arms and legs, continues rising toward where the surface is—where it has to be.

  Rising…rising…rising…

  MET A PILGRIM SHADOW

  “That’s right…take a look, Mikey-boy. Take a good, long look…”

  * * *

  Michael Barnhorst was back by the pharmacy checking a display of cold and flu medicines—making sure all the major brands as well as generics were included, and that the boxes were straight—when he saw the man who had abducted him when he was a child. He froze, hand halfway to a box of Drixoral that was slightly askew, and stared, not trusting his eyes. After all, it had been thirty-two years since…since what he had long ago come to think of as That Day. Maybe his eyes and his memory were playing tricks on him.

  First off, the man was too young, not that much older than Michael. Mid-forties, early fifties, tops. Then again, if the man—if Chester, his mind whispered—had been in his twenties back then, he’d be in his fifties now. So it was possible, if not likely. After all, what were the odds the man would walk into the drugstore where Michael was a manager three decades after That Day? Then again, the fabric of life was often woven from strange coincidences. Seeing the man here was no more remarkable (in a statistical sense) than seeing someone Michael had once gone to high sc
hool with. People sometimes bumped into one another again years and even decades after the last time they saw one another. It happened all the time.

  The man who Michael didn’t want to think of as Chester wore a blue jacket over a plaid shirt, along with jeans and tennis shoes. He stood before the shelves containing first-aid products, holding a roll of white tape—the kind used for keeping bandages in place—and reading the information on the back of the package.

  Wonder what he plans to do with that tape? Michael thought. Use it to bind young, thin wrists and ankles? Secure a gag over a mouth outlined by soft, tender child-lips?

  The man had short brown hair shot through with gray, a narrow clean-shaven face, and long, delicate fingers that Michael thought resembled spider legs. He remembered fingers just like that reaching out, wrapping around the soft flesh of his upper arm, and pulling him forward…

  Michael’s outstretched hand began to tremble, and sweat beaded on his upper lip. His head swam and gray nibbled at the edges of his vision. A cold sick feeling crawled around in his stomach, and acid splashed the back of his throat. He clamped his jaws tight to keep from throwing up.

  It was him. Chester the Molester.

  Evidently satisfied with the product he’d chosen, the man turned—without looking in Michael’s direction—and started toward the front of the store where the registers were. Michael experienced two equally strong but opposing emotions: the first was relief that Chester had departed without seeing him, and the second was fear—fear that after all this time, Chester was going to get away, that Michael might never see him again, never get a chance to confront him, miss his one chance to finally know.