Segments

 

Hayley swam toward the shore, giving it her all. She was so close.  She was one of the few who actually put on a life vest when they were given out on the boat. Others chuckled like the aristocracy on the Titanic. This was, after all, a small craft out for a whale watch, not some ocean liner. She remembered as a child seeing large ships out on the horizon when she was at the shore. This little boat was nowhere near as far out. She wasn’t even sure why it capsized. Too tight of a turn? Had one of those whales they were watching for slid under the boat.         

When she went into the water there was a feeling of panic, which most of those thrown into the water felt. 10-20 people, all plunged into the chill water, all scrambling to find something safe, let out a chorus of screams and cries. But Hayley felt somewhat calmer than the others as she realized she wore a life vest.

That feeling of calm didn’t last long. Other, seeing her with what they’d jokingly cast aside, now tried to pull the vest from her body. She had to fight off the self-important who thought they had more right to live than she had. But her fasteners were on tight, and she was able to get away from the others before she was deluged with an overwhelming clutch of hands. If only they’d relax and tread water, they’d be fine until a coast guard cruiser picked them up. 

She had started swimming toward the shore, which didn’t appear terribly far, just to get away from them. It was farther than she was used to swimming, but she didn’t want to take the chance that someone from the tour would grab at her again, and possibly drown her in their attempt to get her life vest. With the vest, she was fairly certain she could make it to the shore, even though she was certain that one of those people on the beach had seen the boat capsize, and would at least call 911.

There was a crowd of people standing in a group on the beach, watching those from the boat splashing and shouting. Others watched for a bit, and then returned to their sunbathing or swimming. It surprised her that no one on shore seemed particularly alarmed, and no one seemed to be taking action.

Hayley wasn’t sure why she had taken this boat ride in the first place. She had never been much interested in whales – or other sea life, really. Fish were things on other people’s plates in restaurants, something she didn’t care for. She was far more interested in dogs and cats.

Tom had encouraged her to get out of her comfort zone and try something new. Where was Tom, anyway? He hadn’t come on this excursion. He was probably still in bed at the hotel, since the whale watch started before he wanted to get up.

The others floundered in the water, no closer to shore than when they were thrown into the water. Still, there was no sign of the coast guard. She was nearly to the shore, although still farther out than the farthest beach-goer.

Suddenly, she felt a tug on her foot, followed by excruciating pain. She turned and saw a shark. She pulled her foot toward her body, and saw the shark’s teeth embedded in her heel.

“Oh, no you don’t, you bastard. You’re not getting my foot! I will not be a cripple because of a stupid suggestion Tom made.”

She slammed her fist into the shark’s head once, twice, a third time, and it let go. Wasting no time, she swam off to the shore, making it faster than she thought possible. She had to get to shore before she bled to death.

Those on the beach watched silently as she swam, the shark following the trail of blood she was leaving. No one made any attempt to rescue her. Where were the lifeguards? Surely, they were supposed to help anyone in distress? They had a boat besides whatever gear they used for people closer in. Why weren’t they helping?

The waves finally began to push her closer to the beach, the final one pushing her into such shallow water that she scraped her face and knees on the sand. Still, no one moved. The sunbathers didn’t even seem to notice. The standing crowd watched like automatons that hadn’t been programmed with empathy or the ability to move.

 She managed to stand up, blood trailing behind her as she limped toward the crowd.

“Help me,” she said.

 No one moved.

She limped toward them, and saw one young man with a towel draped over his shoulders. She grabbed it, and sat to wrap it around her bleeding foot.

“Hey!” he said when she took it. “That’s mine. Give it back.”

“What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you see I’m injured? I was just attacked by a shark! I was thrown off a capsized boat. There are people out there who are going to drown if someone doesn’t help them. I need to get to a hospital!”

The crowd looked uneasy. The man whose towel she had taken took a single step forward, but then thought better of it. 

“Give him back his towel,” another man ordered. The others grumbled assent.

 She saw a policeman walking down the beach toward her.

 “Finally!” she said. “Officer, the boat I was on capsized. There are people out there in the water who are going to drown. Someone needs to get them. I was bitten by a shark just before I reached the beach. You want to warn people not to go in the water here. And I need to go to a hospital. She was beginning to feel light-headed, and wasn’t sure how long she’d remain conscious.

“She stole my towel. Arrest her!”

“Oh, here, take your towel,” she said, unwrapping her foot and tossing it at him. The man backed away.

“I don’t want it now. It’s got blood all over it.”

The policeman stared at her, briefly looking at her foot. It was badly torn and blood oozed from the tears the shark’s teeth had made. She might well lose the foot.

“Did you steal his towel?”

“I wasn’t planning on keeping it. If you could get an ambulance – or if you have first aid equipment in your car, maybe we could bandage this foot properly until I get to the hospital. He can have his towel. I only borrowed it.”

“You ruined it!” the man, probably in his late teens, said. “You should buy me a new one.”

 “Fine. Get me to a hospital, and when they fix my foot, I’ll get you a new towel. God! Some people are such babies. I’m going to bleed to death and none of you seems to care.

“All right, miss, you need to come with me,” the policeman said, helping her to her feet.

 

*

She woke up and looked around. Odd, her foot didn’t hurt. The room didn’t look much like a hospital, either. The walls were a calm, pale blue, almost grey, with pictures on the walls, and delicate furniture. There was no wheeled table with a water pitcher and cup on it, as one might expect in a hospital room, and the lamps were actually pretty, rather than functional, ugly hospital lamps. There was no garish glare. 

She wiggled her toes, and felt all of them. The movement caused no pain. She was about to pull the covers of and look at her foot when someone knocked on her door.

 “Come in,” she said.

A tall woman with creamy caramel skin and dark hair pulled back in a bun entered the room. Her burgundy suit accented her trim figure, the skirt ending just below her knees, showing off well-formed legs that ended in burgundy velvet stiletto heeled peep-toe shoes.

“You’re not up yet?” the woman asked.

“I wouldn’t think I should be having just had surgery.”

“What?” the woman asked with a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“The shark attack.”

“I don’t know what you were drinking last night, but it sounds like it hasn’t worked its way out of your system. Miranda, you have a book signing today at noon.”

“Miranda? Don’t you mean Hayley?”

 “I don’t know who Hayley is, but you’re Miranda Valente. You are in your own home, and you had no surgery. There was no shark attack.”

“Oh, I don’t know! Just so I get on the right track, what is your name?

“It’s Anne, although you frequently refer to me as Maria.”

“Is there a Maria?”

“There is,” she said sounding disapproving. “She’s the maid. And I am your personal assistant. I am not and never have been a maid.”

  Miranda pulled back the covers and saw her own well-formed legs were perfect. There were no bandages, no casts, no shark teeth marks in her foot. This was all very odd. One minute she’d been about to be arrested on a beach somewhere – she didn’t even know where – and the next, it was like someone had turned the page and started a new story, leaving Hayley and Tom behind for another day. Now she was author Miranda Valente.

She sat up and put her legs over the side of the bed, then fell in a heap on the floor

“What?” She turned and touched the bedsheet. “Why are there satin sheets on my bed? I detest satin sheets.”

“A gift from Larry, your publicist. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind trying them out with you one of these days.”

“Fat chance,” Miranda replied. “I’ll keep the pillow case. I’ve heard satin pillow cases are good for preventing wrinkles and good for your hair. But I want these sheets replaced with some nice, soft cotton ones.”

“I’ll let staff know. Now, you need to get yourself dressed.”

 Anne turned and left the room.

By the time Miranda was up, showered and dressed, her brain was back in order. Gone were any thoughts of Hayley Watkins and her husband, Tom. She was fully Miranda Valente, author of the book The Tear Collector.

Her light brown hair was combed, and curled slightly on her shoulders. She wore a pants suit of dove grey with a royal blue satin blouse. A necklace with a heart-shaped diamond was her only adornment. She wore lower heeled shoes than Anna.

Downstairs, she sat at the kitchen table and ate an English muffin and an egg, washing it down with tea served in a china teacup decorated around the rim with tiny purple flowers. She was careful not to spill anything on her suit. The tiniest speck of food on her jacket or blouse would cause a flurry of expletives and ordering people about like serfs from Larry. She smiled. He’d have an ulcer or a heart attack before he was 40 if he weren’t careful.

 

                                                                *

The whole story started – when? I can’t say precisely that there is a beginning to it or when that might have been. I lived my life as I’d always done, and somewhere along the way the whole mess rather evolved.

First of all, let me introduce myself. My name is Christopher Elliot. I am at this writing twenty-seven. I have lived most of my life in a small town in Brecon, Wales, where, I’m told, nothing exciting ever happens. My life seemed to me a series of exciting things. Let me say the exciting things seldom happened outside my own imaginings.

“Christopher!” I often heard my mam say to get my attention. Simon told me it was often the third or fourth increasingly harsh repetition of my name that got my attention. “Whatever are you daydreaming about?”

 I would shrug my shoulders and wonder something aloud, at which she’d skewer me with a puzzled look.

“I wish I knew what was going on in your head.”

 She’d be half frightened to death if she ever knew how my mind worked. The twisted lanes and alleys of it, some leading nowhere, others leading to the very depths would drive away even the most loyal friend. Perhaps that’s why I’ve had so few loyal friends in my life.

But I digress. That was my childhood, and events I wish to relate occurred in some form when I was sixteen.

I had returned to school after our usual summer holiday. Being sixteen was not easy for me. I don’t suppose it is for anyone, but at the time I didn’t know that. I only knew that life for me seemed difficult. When I looked around me I saw the other boys successful at sports, attracting girls and bragging of their conquest of those same girls.

 I had no way of knowing whether or not the bragging of the other boys had any whisper of truth to it; I had no close friends in whom I could  confide and have confirmed the tales I’d heard. The other boys knew me only as Elliot. A few spoke of me as the mad hatter, owing to a particular cap I wore to school. Not as many as five actually called me Chris.

Sixteen was that half-light time in which one is not quite a man, although the pretension is there, and not quite done with childhood – at least I was not. Dragons, goblins and faery folk would still make their way through my mind, offering a magic world of escape from the harsh, lonely reality of the social side of school.

“Head still tucked neatly into a book, Elliot?” one of my classmates asked as I passed through the corridor. I knew from his tone that something was about to happen. If I said nothing he was likely to become physical in the attempt to get my attention.

“I didn’t know you were familiar with the concept of books,” I replied, smiling. I hoped the smile would soften the comment, but nothing softens determination made of stone.

 “You think you’re quite the scholar then, don’t you?” he asked, blocking my way along with a couple of his friends.

 “I don’t think I’m anything, but I have a class to get to.”

He tried to stare me down, although he was barely five centimeters taller than I. For my part, I tried to look bored or patient, and hope I didn’t look as scared as I felt. He was at least a stone heaver. Mam used to remark that I was thin as a reed and someday a good puff of wind would have the best of me. The last thing I wanted was to be involved in a fight in the corridor. Worse, I wanted this dispersed now to avoid being accosted on the way home.

A moment of silence seemed to grow before a subtle shift occurred – no doubt a teacher had appeared at the opposite end of the hall.

“Oh, let Miss Elliot go to her class,” one of his friends said, and they moved aside. I passed without a look back.

This sort of scene played itself out on a nearly weekly basis, one boy making a remark in the company of his friends and my attempt to either ignore it or make a witty remark. Sometimes I avoided confrontation by some miracle. Occasionally a friend would come to my assistance.

On one particular occasion the boy in question knocked my books out of my hand. My notes scattered in the hallway. As I retrieved my books and papers, he managed to grab a few pages.

“Those are mine,” I said, making an attempt to take back my papers.

 “Oh, what have we here?” he asked and immediately fell into a dramatic reading of a story I had started writing.

“Give it back!” I said making another attempt to get my papers. He stepped back.

“Oh, Miss Elliot wants to be a writer,” he taunted.

“Give it back, Andy!”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by my given name.”

I gave him a look and made another lunge to retrieve my work. He again stepped back, only this time he backed into the headmaster.

“Brooks, are those your papers?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then I suggest you give them to Elliot and both of you go to your appropriate classes. Whatever the problem is, settle it outside school. I’ll have no shenanigans in the corridors.”

Even Andy Brooks knew better than to oppose the head. He grudgingly handed me my papers, and went on his way.

Of all things, a girl rescued me. Sian Bowen was one of the girls many of the boys longed for. Since none of the hopeful boys had ever dated her, each held to the vain hope that he would be the one. What they didn’t realize was that she wasn’t allowed to date, and wasn’t interested in boys like Andy Brooks.

Still, she’d heard what happened and had also had an earful of Andy’s dramatic reading of what he’d seen of my story.

“I hear you write,” she said, approaching me after school.

 Not knowing her very well, I didn’t know whether or not this was some sort of taunt.

 

[Sometimes a writer will start an idea on any available piece of paper – including paper towels – while in a waiting room or at lunch alone, and not having time to finish, will file it away, only to start something completely different the next time. This is separate from writing a complete story, to which access might only be available at home, and requires more time and discipline. I would imagine most writers have a file of some sort of story ideas like this. They serve a purpose. It allows one to doodle to fill up a time space, and also provides a prompt for writing at a future time. I have a dozen or so of these, some only a sentence or two, some at least as long as the ones presented here. Some are terrible, and would never go anywhere, kind of like drawing cross-hatches along the border of a paper. Others look like they might be interesting enough to turn into actual stories once the ones currently in progress are finished.

You have just had a taste of the writing mind. Be afraid. Be very afraid. ]