The Beach In Winter

by Pike, Leslie

  Chapter 23

  Parish

  These are deadly waters. All the energy of the waves in the shallows. I expect some loss of control, but instead I’m tossed around like a rag doll, about to take a certain beating.

  Don’t panic!

  I’m slammed into the concrete sand by the one I didn’t see coming. My head taking the blow.

  Where’s Sam? Where is he?

  The water’s murky, freezing, churned by the relentless sea. I rise and try to suck a breath of air. This is the sloppy water surfers talk about. Waves of different sizes coming from different directions. It makes the air hard to find when you finally come up for a breath. The sight and sounds of the ocean are humbling. Hard to face.

  Scarlett. She’s trying to come in. There’s no time to stop her.

  Sam’s in more danger.

  God, help us all! I beg you!

  It’s tall chop. I swallow a mouthful of saltwater. Don’t panic! I spit the water out and take as deep a breath as I can.

  Swim to the bottom. The energy of the waves is weaker there. Maybe I’ll be able to see further. My eyes search the water for a sign of Sam. His white sweatshirt or something.

  Far off, above my head I see the dog’s legs moving furiously, uncontrollably, in the light of a foamy crest.

  Can’t save her. It would take my focus off finding Sam.

  It’s getting hard not to be disoriented. My head. Something’s happening. Not one hundred percent sure which way is up. When I find him, I’ll aim for that light that pierces the foam. That’s up. That’s where I’ll surface.

  Where is he? Where is he, God!

  In my mind my father’s voice speaks. How long can you hold your breath for? Every breaking wave lasts ten seconds. There’s another ten between them. If you can hold your breath for a minute you can survive three sets. But you have to be calm.

  I need air, Dad. Then I’ll try.

  I do what I know. I exhale underwater, as much as possible. Letting go the air in my lungs. That should help me take a breath more quickly.

  I surface.

  Waves, wind, spray. There’s less of a window in which to pull air. Miraculously I get a good one.

  I dive under the waves, head pounding relentlessly.

  Stay conscious!

  My eyesight is getting foggy. They’re burning. The field of vision narrows.

  A sense of unspeakable dread washes over me.

  Am I going to lose another child?

  Am I crying underwater? Is it even possible?

  Then I see it.

  Sam’s lifeless body.

  It floats free of any muscle contraction or struggle. Tossed by the violent sea.

  He’s turned over by the roll of the waves. I see his face. Mouth open. Eyes staring.

  In a move I can’t really explain, I propel my body toward him with a force I’ve never known.

  This is it. The one shot I’ll get.

  If it isn’t already too late.

  My fingers lock onto his wrist and then his sweatshirt with such force it’s like a vice.

  The one thing working in my favor is we’re close to shore.

  Just need to get him in.

  I pull and push, making slow headway against the raging walls of water.

  Work with me, God.

  As we head forward I see Scarlett and the lighthouse keeper. He’s holding her back until we get close enough for them to help.

  Then he releases her and they both rush in.

  Careful! It can suck you out before you realize!

  The man’s stronger. At least he’s felt the pull of the water when he casts a line. Scarlett’s out of her depth.

  Her face is contorted in horror, mouth open in what looks like a scream. But I can’t hear anything other than the waves, rising and slamming with such force they actually make the ground shake.

  I’m on solid ground!

  I stand on jellied legs carrying Sam safely away from the water and laying his body on firm sand.

  For a moment I consider not turning his neck, but the risk doesn’t outweigh what I know to be true. He drowned.

  Clear the mouth of water.

  I turn his lifeless body to the side and watch the water pour out.

  “Call an ambulance!” I scream with graveled vocal chords.

  Sounds of Scarlett and the lighthouse keeper’s voices are beginning to get louder but I can’t make out the words yet. But they’re nodding and pointing at something.

  Putting an ear to Sam’s mouth, I wait.

  No breath.

  I cup my hands around the space to block out the wind.

  I feel no rush of air.

  I lift his limp hand and check for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  “Sam! Breathe, breathe!” I hear Scarlett’s heartbreaking plea as it rises over it all.

  “The ambulance is on its way! Hold on, boy!” the lighthouse keeper cries.

  He takes Sam’s hand and tries to warm the skin with his.

  I begin CPR, learned years ago when Justin started swimming.

  My thoughts come quickly now, half thoughts, tangents.

  Someone can survive if you get to them soon, and if the water’s cold enough. Especially children. Someone said that.

  I can’t remember if I do compressions first or breaths.

  I choose breaths. Coupling my lips around the gaping mouth. His lips are blue.

  Five full breaths from my mouth to his. Oh no. I’m getting dizzy. Fuck you, God! Fuck you, you merciless piece of shit. I’m not going to pass out!

  Then I start the compressions. How many do I do? I think it was more than I had thought.

  A number pops into my consciousness. One hundred and twenty.

  The count starts.

  With one palm placed over the other I push. One, two, three.

  “Save him, Parish! Please, save my boy,” Scarlett pleads.

  “Sshtnd wazs,” I say unable to form words properly.

  “What’s wrong with him,” the lighthouse keeper says.

  “He’s drunk!”

  She’s covering her face, crying.

  I’m drunk? No.

  I have to do one thing. Help Sam. Keep counting.

  The lighthouse keeper takes Scarlett in an embrace, but she pushes him away.

  “Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven.”

  There’s no reaction coming from Sam. Just the movement of his cold body in response to violent compressions.

  Scarlett begins to wail. I recognize the sound. It’s made of horror and earthshaking reality. Where have I heard it before? Now I remember. Me. Justin.

  Tears are streaming down my face. I can’t see a thing clearly. And it’s more than the fact I’m crying. I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with my head, my thinking. Did I get hit by something? How did it happen?

  I keep going. And going. My arms are aching with the Herculean effort.

  Scarlett falls to her knees. The lighthouse keeper begins to pace.

  The wail of an ambulance gets louder and louder. Come save Sam Boy.

  One hundred and seventeen, a hundred and eighteen…

  Suddenly Sam’s body vomits seawater and he sucks in his first breath.

  My body let’s go of every last thing it has to give.

  * * *

  “Mr. Adams, Mr. Adams wake up.”

  Like coming down a foggy patch of road into the light, I open my eyes.

  “There you are. Parish, I’m nurse Regina. You’re in O’Conner Hospital. You’ve suffered a concussion. You took quite a beating in those waves.”

  My throat is so sore. I lift my hand to it.

  “You swallowed a lot of seawater. Let’s see if you can answer a few questions. How many fingers am I holding up?” she says.

  “Two.” My voice is raspy.

  “That’s right. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Parish Adams.”

  “You’re passing with flying colors. Now for a hard one. W
hat month is this?”

  “It’s the end of February.”

  She takes an instrument off the tray next to where she stands.

  “Let’s check your eyes.”

  I put a hand up. “Wait. How’s Sam? The boy they took from the beach. Did he survive?”

  When she smiles I know all’s right with the world.

  “He’s going to be fine. Thanks to you, I hear.”

  “No lasting damage? He’d drowned by the time I found him,” I say, tears filling my eyes.

  “He was lucky. You got to him within the first five minutes of submersion. You did good.”

  “What about oxygen deprivation?”

  “The cold seawater slowed his heartbeat and redirected blood flow to his heart and brain. It preserved his vital organs.”

  “Is he here in the hospital? I’d like to go see him.”

  A funny look comes over her face. Like she has to tell me something I’m not going to like. The slight hesitation in her answer makes me think she’s trying to find the right words.

  “You need to rest. I’ll tell his nurse you asked about visiting.”

  I throw back the blanket and sheets. “No. I’ve got to see him. And his mother. I want to speak to her.”

  Her hand stops my forward movement. She stands in front of me, blocking my exit.

  “The mother has a no-visitor request. We have to honor her wishes.”

  I chuckle at the thought of being barred from Scarlett and Sam’s side.

  “I’m sure that doesn’t apply to me. Move, please.”

  But she stays put. A firm look on her face.

  “I’m afraid it’s specifically about you. The mother doesn’t want you there.”

  What’s going on? This is a mistake.

  “What room are they in?”

  “There’s no room phones in his unit. Just wait till you’re strong enough.”

  She’s interrupted by the man peeking in the room. The lighthouse keeper knocks on the door.

  “Up for a visit?”

  The nurse is just happy she doesn’t have to continue with our conversation. She waves him inside.

  “It’ll be good for Mr. Adams to have a conversation. But don’t stay too long. I’ll be back to do your vitals.”

  As she leaves the room, my visitor trades spots with her. He stands next to where I lay and pats my hand affectionately.

  “You did a tremendous job of saving the boy. I just want you to know that.”

  “Were you there the whole time? I’m foggy on the details.”

  “I was there,” he says lifting his eyebrows with the memories. “My daughter and grandchild were with me. Do you remember that?”

  “I think so. He was building sandcastles.”

  “That was the first time we saw you. Sam passed us first, then five minutes later you walked by in his direction.”

  It’s coming back.

  “About a half hour or so later we were about to start back to the house. But my grandson heard your dog barking. So we sat on the sand watching Sam throw a stick for the dog to retrieve.”

  The scene gets clearer.

  “Wait! What about the dog? Did she make it out?”

  His mouth sets hard as he shakes his head.

  “Fuck.”

  The news stuns.

  “When you came around the point we spoke briefly. Do you remember that?” he says.

  “Yeah. I asked your grandchild how old he was.”

  “Right. Then you kept walking. By the time we stood and had walked for a few minutes we saw what was happening. You were already in the water.”

  It comes back clear. Horribly clear.

  “Scarlett was running from the house. My daughter called 911. I sent her back with the child. You know the rest.”

  “Thank you for everything you did to help,” I say still holding the images.

  “I didn’t do much. Just tried to stop her from going in after you.”

  “That was what I couldn’t do. It was a lot.”

  “I just came from Sam’s room,” he says. “Actually, from outside the room. There’s a no-visitors sign. But Scarlett saw me and she came out.”

  “Do you have any idea why she doesn’t want me there?”

  “Yep. When I praised your efforts she shut me down. Said you’d been drinking excessively when the accident happened. I don’t know, son, I think she’s mistaken.”

  I feel the confusion coming back, but this time it’s not concussion related.

  “I wasn’t drinking at all. I have no idea why she’s saying that.”

  “I told her we had talked just prior to the accident and I hadn’t noticed any signs of you being inebriated. No signs whatsoever of you having had liquor.”

  “Thank you for that. I’ve got to get her straight on this.”

  “Good luck. She strikes me as a woman who’s hard to reason with when she’s made up her mind.”

  “What about Sam? Hasn’t he set her straight?”

  “She said he can’t remember anything about the afternoon.”

  Chapter 24

  Scarlett

  “You have thirteen messages,” the answer machine announces.

  Our landline has never seen so much action. It’s all the family members and friends who don’t have my new cell number.

  Even Parish left messages. Every day until I sent the letter. It’s been silence since then. Now there’s no going back. It’s done. I wish I could get the words out of my head, but they’re mine and I can never undo what was written, even though I made sure to acknowledge he saved Sam’s life.

  Fragments of sentences float in my mind.

  I need to think of Sam…your demons are too strong…you were drinking and not watching. We have to leave this place.

  The horror is it’s all true. I’m not exaggerating. I can’t take on one more damaged soul. As it is I’m handling two. Sam and me. It would be cruel to expose him to a man who can’t get through the sadness. Then Sam might not either.

  This is the hard part. The time between what was and what will be. Life without him. My stomach twists in knots with the thought.

  “I want to talk with you,” my father says walking into my bedroom.

  He gives a rap on the open door then comes in before I have a chance to respond.

  “What is it?”

  “You’ve got a problem on your hands. And you need to fix it.”

  I’m rethinking asking my parents’ help with bringing Sam home from the hospital. After the accident we both needed the support of our family. But we didn’t want to have to rehash and explain everything. At least I didn’t.

  It hasn’t helped a bit, because Sam is still so angry. At me. My rule for Sam not to not talk to Parish without me there has gone over like a lead balloon. I’m not ready to see him and may never be. I expect Sam to disobey me at any time.

  My father shuts the door. His face wearing a troubled look.

  “Sam needs to be given a chance to thank the man who saved him. What’s this about, honey?”

  “It’s about the fact I need to separate him from people who don’t have the ability to protect a child properly,” I say folding my laundry.

  “Last week you were pretty sure he checked all the boxes. Your mother told me you were in love with him. What changed?”

  I sit on the edge of my bed, feeling defeated.

  “That day, right before I saw Sam in the water, I saw Parish. He was walking far behind Sam. And he was carrying an empty whiskey bottle.”

  His eyebrows come together.

  “And he was so drunk, he tripped and almost fell.”

  “Were you aware of his problem before that day?”

  “That’s the ugly part I didn’t want to have to admit. The first time I saw Parish he was passed out on the sand. Sleeping his drunk off.”

  He looks at me like only a parent can. One look and I know what I did wrong.

  “I know, Dad. I chose to believe it was all in the past. I had good
reason to think that. And he had suffered so much. But obviously his sorrows are too strong.”

  He takes a seat next to me and pats my knee.

  “I hardly know the man, so I can’t contradict anything you say. But I do know my grandson and he’s hurting.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say softly.

  “Somehow Parish’s friendship has made Sam’s sorrow bearable.”

  I tip my head to the side in wordless acknowledgement of his point.

  And in the moment, I realize how Parish did the same for me. My griefs only outlet was with him. I had to soften it in front of Sam.

  My father’s arm wraps around my shoulders.

  “Now our boy needs to have the closure talking with his friend will bring. I could go with him. Why don’t you let that happen? Listen to your papa,” he says lifting my chin.

  Tears roll down my face and my lip quivers. I nod.

  “Okay then. I’ll go tell him you said yes.”

  He leaves before I can change my mind.

  I feel stuck to the bed. I want to disappear right where I sit and not have to imagine their conversation. Or his face. It wouldn’t be good to picture his mouth or his beautiful eyes. It would do nothing but weaken my resolve.

  Because despite it all, I love him. Regardless, here’s where I prove I have what it takes to raise a child. You put them first.

  * * *

  The first five minutes were tough. I kept myself busy avoiding the windows, the slider, the binoculars. But this is ridiculous. It’s five friggin o’clock. It’s been a half hour. Where are they? And now I’ve taken guard at the slider, binoculars to my eyes.

  “What are you hoping to see, Scarlett?”

  My mother’s putting me through the third degree while she makes her potato soup.

  “Why is it taking so long? What are they talking about?”

  “If you’d talk with the man you’d know.”

  Putting the glasses down I join her at the kitchen counter.

  “Why would I do that to myself? It’s taking everything I have to hold steady.”

  “I think you’re moving too fast,” she says.