by Emmy Grace
We would never even attempt something like this back home. In Louisiana, if you get in the water, you do so at your own risk. There could be any number of deadly predators lurking beneath the surface, just waiting to take a nibble of your leg or a bite of your butt.
And with me, either would be a good-sized meal.
“I hope Dax is prepared to haul me out of the water if I scream for help.”
Dax is the production assistant that coordinates these types of product testings.
The deranged kind.
The possibly-dangerous kind.
Things like death-defying skydiving excursions and incredibly ill advised boating trips. He’s a nice and capable guy, though, and I think he does a good job.
I mean, I’m not dead yet. That’s gotta mean something, right?
“This is going to go off without a hitch. You’ll see.”
I hope she’s right.
Far too quickly, we arrive at the marina. If that’s what it could even be called. It’s more like a shack with a concrete ramp that disappears into water so dark and murky, scary music starts playing in my head.
“Do I have to go under the water?”
“Nope. Just submerge to the neck of the suit.”
Regina shifts into park beside a long, black Lincoln Town Car. The back passenger door opens and a waif-life woman-child holding a clipboard emerges.
At first glance, she isn’t so bad. She’s no bigger than a minute, and by the size of her, she’d be at home in a dress with ruffles and lacy ankle socks. Probably frilly bloomers to match.
However, that’s not what she’s wearing. It takes me exactly point three seconds after that to realize she’s scarier than the lake.
Her thin frame is encased in a navy suit that’s tailored to fit her to perfection. Its lines are as sharp and severe as the bones of her face. Her eyes are framed by thick, black glasses, and her brown hair is drawn back into a bun that’s so dang tight, I’d be willing to bet a crisp fiver that she can’t blink.
“I just realized how I can do my hair if I ever have to stay awake,” I tell Regina as I nod at the woman. “I bet she can’t close her eyes.”
“None of that, Lucky Boucher,” Regina warns, barely moving her lips because she’s smiling at the woman through the windshield. “Europe might not have a big title, but I hear she can make or break a career, so you need to behave.”
“Then I suggest we get this out of the way. Like now.”
“Get what out of the way?”
“You know.”
I glance at Regina and nod. She circumspectly shifts her eyes toward me. With lips hardly moving, we sing the chorus to Final Countdown again, and I tap my fingers on my imaginary keyboard.
When we finish, she asks, “Feel better?”
“I’m dressed like a pumpkin getting ready to be dunked in a cold lake of death the week of Thanksgiving. I’m peachy.” I snort. “Peachy. Get it?”
“I get it, Seinfeld. Let’s go do this so we can get back to your place for ice cream.”
Just the words “ice cream” snap me into a trance-like state that lasts for a good five to ten seconds. I’d be a hypnotist’s dream. If I were a cartoon, my eyes would have those swirling circles in them, and bowls of double chocolate praline pecan ice cream would be dancing around my head.
“Lucky!” she blurts sharply.
I jolt and then reach for the door handle. “Let’s do this thing.”
Out on the pavement, Regina introduces first herself and then me to Europe, who merely nods and checks something off on her clipboard.
Stiff introductions, check.
“We need to get this over with quickly. I have a plane to catch later this evening.”
Her voice is exactly what I would expect from the looks of her. Spinster School Marm all the way.
We make our way to a boat that’s moored at the end of a rickety-looking dock. On it is Dax, smiling and waving at us. At least there’ll be one friendly face onboard.
Once we’re safely loaded, Dax takes off and we go zipping across the water.
“I assume you’re well-versed on the product,” Europe says to Regina, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the engine.
“I am.”
She turns those cold, beady eyes on me. “And you?”
“Of course,” I say, knowing that Regina is balking behind her placid expression.
“Good. How far out will we be going then?” she quizzes me.
“To a depth of not less than thirty feet,” Regina supplies, saving us both.
“And how is the product to be tested?”
Regina explains it to Europe, which is good for me since I didn’t bother reading the instructions.
As usual.
And Regina knows it.
As usual.
But in my defense, I didn’t have a lot of time.
Not that it probably would’ve mattered.
But really, how hard can it be? I mean, I have to get in the water and hit a button at the collar. This is not rocket science.
When Regina finishes, Europe checks something else on her list.
Pop quiz, check.
Dax slows the motor and comes to a stop at the edge of a quiet cove. If I weren’t about to get into freezing cold water, I’d probably enjoy this excursion. The environment is perfectly quiet but for the lonely call of some loons and the hushed lapping of water on the distant shore. Trees line the lake’s edge with brilliant leaves of red and orange and yellow. They cast their reflections onto the surface of the water, making it look like a wavy painting. I’m not photographer, but I can tell this would make a great post card.
Note to self: Consider taking up photography.
Dax gets up and tosses a three-pronged anchor into the water. When the thick rope it’s attached to stops snaking into the water, he ties it off and then turns to me with a smile. “Okay, Lucky. You ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell him as I stand.
I follow Dax to the end of the boat, to a little aluminum ladder that he unfolds into the water.
“Your stairs, milady,” he teases with a mock bow.
“I’ve heard of stairway to heaven, but this looks more like the stair way to hell, doesn’t it?” My laugh is nervous.
Dax’s smile, on the other hand, is calm and confident, which goes a long way toward encouraging me, especially since Regina is chatting with Europe about God knows what boring executive stuff. “You’ll be in and out in a flash.”
“Wish me luck,” I say by way of reply as I turn and descend the narrow ladder.
At the last rung, I have to let go and sink into the water. We must be near a little bit of a current, because I immediately start to float away from the boat.
I gently wave my arms and legs in the lake. Even my hands and feet are covered in the blaze orange material. I’m not sure that’s really wise considering all the things a lake-goer might need dexterity for, but it goes a long way toward keeping out the cold water. Surprisingly, I can’t feel the temperature of the water at all. I’m as warm as I was on land.
This causes me to smile.
Thank goodness. No hypothermia for Lucky today.
I paddle around for a few minutes before I actually perform the test. Since I have to be here, might as well enjoy it a little, right?
When I’ve drifted a good way from the boat, I hear Regina holler out, “Okay, Lucky. Any time.”
I nod and give her a thumb’s up before I feel for the button at the collar. I take a deep breath and press it.
And nothing happens.
So I press it again.
Still nothing happens.
“Did you hit the button?” Regina calls, cupping a hand around her mouth.
I nod, and take the button between my thumb and forefinger and push it even harder. There’s about a three second delay before a sharp popping sound happens near my shoulder. Instantly, air fills the compartment of my suit that contains all the dozens of tin
y pockets Regina described to Europe. I heard her make a comparison between the suit’s design and lungs and alveoli. That made me think of ravioli, though, which is when she lost me.
All the compartments puff up at once, expanding that layer until I’m almost perfectly round, and roughly the shape and diameter of an orange-iced doughnut hole. Or one of those big blow-up Sumo suits.
Unfortunately, now I can see why those suits aren’t meant to be worn in the water.
Since the rest of my body is suddenly four million times bigger than my head, I capsize, flipping backward as my body pops up to the surface of the water like a float on a fishing line.
Sweet Mary, she’s turned me into tackle.
I’m a bright orange bobber with a heartbeat.
I wave my fat little arms and kick my fat little legs, but that does nothing to help flip me back up. I’m just left floating on my back, staring up at the overcast sky, flailing like an enormous orange turtle that can’t roll over.
Since that’s not working, I grunt and try to bend at the waist and sit up.
Ummmm, no. That’s not happening either.
Then I try jerking my right arm and right leg to the left, hoping to maybe turn up onto my side.
Again, no dice.
The material around my limbs is filled with so much air that my arms and legs are stretched tight like little sausages, making it almost impossible to move. Granted, I won’t be drowning any time soon, though, which I guess is the whole point of a suit that’s supposed to save your life.
“Regina!” I call. “Help!”
“What?” I hear her shout in return.
“Help! I can’t move.”
I’m trying my best to kick my arms and legs, but they’re barely moving. I can see things going by, though, like clouds and those pretty trees along the shore. I’m moving for sure, but not because I want to and not in the direction I was hoping to go. I know that for sure when Regina calls out to me again and she sounds farther away.
I flick my hands and feet, which are still a somewhat normal size. I guess they figure it won’t do much good if the gloves blow up to the size of basketballs.
I rock and bob as I float along. I try to lift my head, but the suit is swollen around my chest so much that I feel like I’m suffocating in my own boobs. If my boobs were one big orange glob, that is.
A burst of relief spikes through me when I hear the boat’s engine start up. They’re coming to get me.
Thank God, because I sure ain’t getting back to them any time soon.
I try to relax until the boat reaches me and enjoy the scenery that’s passing overhead. No point in struggling anymore, because that’s gotten me exactly nowhere thus far.
Tree branches start creeping into my field of view more and more as I drift. I must be close to shore. Which is good. Worst-case scenario, I’ll beach like a whale somewhere and they can come and deflate me. Or send me to a juicing room like Violet in Willy Wonka.
I move my hands like tiny rudders. It’s enough to angle my body so I can see better at least. Yep, the branches are quickly giving way to fat trunks. I’m definitely getting closer to shore.
The boat’s engine is a low throaty throb now. They’re close enough to be idling, which means they can’t be too far, even though I still can’t see them.
“Lucky, stay put. Dax is going to throw you a rope.”
“Okay.”
I paddle my arms and legs as much as I can, trying to bring the boat into view. When I’m finally able to see it, Regina is standing on the bow while Dax tosses the anchor over the side again.
Europe is looking on with an expression that’s so disapproving, I feel like I should apologize, even though I haven’t done anything wrong.
What kind of evil mind trickery is that?
Once the anchor is set, Dax tugs several lengths of rope into a loose loop then throws one end out into the water. It’s nowhere near me, so he pulls it back, foot by foot, so he can throw it again. As I wait for him to repeat the procedure, I bump into shore. I don’t really feel it with my body as much as I just feel that bouncing sensation. I’m like a pinball, hitting those side bumpers. If only a ding would sound and a bunch of lights would go off, this would make an excellent game.
I reach out with my fingers and push off from the first solid object I feel. The farther away from the trees I can get, the better the chances of Dax actually being able to reach me with his rope rather than falling short or, worse, getting it tangled in tree branches.
As I push off, I feel something tug at my fingers. It’s hard to tell what it is because my hands are encased in the thick neoprene-like material, but I can tell they’re entwined in something. I just don’t know what, specifically.
I tug my hand and something bumps me again. I reach out to push off shore again, but there’s nothing but my palm meets nothing but water.
Water and something that moves slightly when I touch it.
I wiggle and flop until I can turn my whole body away from my hand and see what’s got me. Of all the things I might’ve expected to see swirling around my fingers in a freshwater lake—vegetation, a vine, old rope, trash—what I actually see was never anywhere on the list.
On my list or anyone else’s.
Ever.
The sight triggers a scream to bubble up and out. It’s more one of surprise than one of squeamishness.
I can see now that my hand is caught in hair.
Human hair.
Human hair attached to a human head attached to a human body.
A dead human body.
3
I try to loose myself from the hair, shaking my hand the best that I can, which isn’t easy when every body part except for my head is encased in puffy fabric. The more I tug, the more I see of the body, though. I can tell that it belongs to a woman and she has dark hair.
Or, rather, had dark hair.
Other than looking lifeless, she probably doesn’t appear much different than she did when she was…well, less dead. She isn’t bloated or disfigured, which means she can’t have been in the water for very long. Her face is a nice oval, and her cheekbones are high and sharp. She was probably pretty at one time, but now…
The part I find odd, other than the fact that she’s floating in Starving Father Lake, is that from what I can tell, she’s dressed in some kind of party dress. A white one with a fluffy skirt. She reminds me of a debutante, prepared for her coming out ball. If that’s the case, I hate to tell her parents, but she’s going to be significantly late to the cotillion.
Unable to disengage my fingers from her hair, I give my arm the biggest yank I can manage. It untangles me from the dead girl’s hair, sure, but it also sends me spinning like a tangerine version of Gator’s hamster wheel.
I roll through the water, watching the scenery change in rapid intervals.
Sky.
Lake.
Dead body.
Trees.
Sky.
Lake.
Dead body.
Trees.
They whip by in front of my eyes as I revolve. The first few times it’s kinda fun in a really bizarre way that should never include a dead body a couple of feet away, but that doesn’t last long. Within about thirty seconds, it starts making me dizzy.
And dizzier.
And dizzier.
Until now I feel like puking.
I clamp my lips shut. I definitely don’t need to be barfing this close to an active crime scene.
I start flapping my arms, hoping to slow my roll (literally), which it does. When I finally settle, I’m on my rotund belly, facing the water. And lucky me, I’m practically on top of a deceased woman, so I get to stare down into empty green eyes as I wait for Dax and Regina to hurry up and haul me out of the water.
“How are we supposed to get her in the boat?” I hear Dax ask.
“There’s a deflation mechanism,” Regina replies. Then with a raised voice, “Lucky, press the button again.”
I try to reach for my neck area, but my arms are filled too tight to bend that much. “Regina, I can’t even reach my butt, much less my neck. Look at my arms. I’m like the love child of the Pillsbury Dough Boy and a pumpkin.”
I move said arms, a maneuver that doesn’t amount to much considering that my range of motion is about like a turtle’s. Have you ever seen a turtle scratch its face?
Me neither.
“Raise your hand as high as you can.”
“I am,” I tell her as I do it again.
“Push hard, Lucky,” she snaps.
I know she’s tense in the presence of her ridiculous superior (and I say superior very lightly), but it’s not like I’m in the most enviable position either.
Inside my glove, I flip my middle finger up and try my best to aim it at her. “How about that? Can you see that?”
“It looks like you’re barely moving.”
“Oh, I’m moving alright.”
I shake my bird at her a few times for good measure. She can’t see it, but it makes me feel better to fly it anyway.
I hear murmuring as the trio of people who are not trapped in a sumo suit out on the cold lake devise a plan. Meanwhile, I wiggle my hips and shoulders, trying to inch worm my way away from the corpse that’s drifting along the water’s surface. I swear, if someone were to say “they all float down here” right now, I’d be up and walking on water, blow-up suit or not.
“Lucky?”
It’s Regina again, and this time she’s using her I-know-how-to-calm-a-petulant-child tone.
“Yes?”
I use my when-I-get-out-of-this-I’m-kicking-your-butt tone.
“We’re going to try to lasso you in here with this rope.”
“Who’s going to lasso me? And by what body part?”
I should probably be offended right now. I’m not only being likened to a cow, but I’m fixin’ to be wrangled like one, too. At present, however, I’m more concerned with who’s throwing the rope and what they’re aiming at.
“Dax. He’s aiming for your right arm. Your right arm, Lucky. Try to hold it up as high as you can.”
This again?
I do what I’ve been doing for the last four hours it seems like. And, again, I can move very little.
