Life Support (7 page)

“How is the water?” she asked.

In answer the dog shook himself and let her feel the spray.

“Cold,” Alexia responded.

She slipped a black wet suit over her swimsuit. From October until the beginning of May she felt more comfortable with an extra layer of insulation between herself and the cool water. She put her goggles on top of her head and walked into the water. The waves broke against her. The tide was coming in. Boris stayed close by her side and was soon plowing through the water with his head sticking up and nose pointed slightly skyward. On land, the dog was an undisciplined adolescent. In the water, he was obedient and under control. When the water reached waist level, Alexia dove through the next wave and stood up. Her hair was slick against her head. She slipped the goggles into place and swam through the next wave into the water beyond the surf.

A small woman, Alexia swam slowly yet powerfully. She'd spent four years on swim teams as a teenager and competed in the distance races. She rarely won but always finished. Boris plowed along a few feet from her right shoulder. If he strayed too far away, Alexia could call out, “Heel!” and he would return to his place by her side.

Alexia turned south and swam parallel to the beach about fifty yards from the shore. Timing her breaths to avoid mouthfuls of salt water wasn't easy, and the swells caused her to swing back and forth. Progress was slow. However, Alexia knew not to flail against the water in frustration but rather to coexist with it. Once she adjusted to the rhythm of the waves, she began moving forward.

Alexia enjoyed the risk and danger inherent in swimming alone in the ocean. The greatest threat to her safety wasn't a shark that mistook her for a struggling fish but riptide currents. Three times in the past she had entered a riptide zone and felt the ocean reach out with irresistible strength to draw her into its deep embrace. The first time she had had to fight the urge to turn toward the shore and exhaust herself in a vain attempt to return to land. Her mind had obeyed that day, and she had not given in to her instincts. She had continued swimming parallel to the beach as the riptide carried her rapidly out to sea. Boris had kept his focus on his mistress and stayed by her side. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the current had abated and abandoned its attempt to capture her. When Alexia had looked at the beach, she guessed that they were more than three times the usual distance from shore. She had rolled onto her back, looked up at the stormy sky, and laughed. She had fought the ocean and won.

Today, choppy waves were her only obstacles. After thirty minutes in the water, she turned toward the beach. When the ocean was calm, she would swim the entire length of the island, but today she stopped toward the middle. She body-surfed on a few waves as she neared the shore. Boris swam ahead and rolled in the dry sand. When Alexia stood up in the shallows, the evening breeze was cool on the parts of her body not covered by the wet suit. Boris greeted her.

“You're the best swimming buddy in the world,” Alexia told him. “If I ever get a cramp, will you pull me to shore?”

Boris ran splashing back into the edge of the surf. Sea rescue was not listed on his résumé.

Alexia walked north along the edge of the water and looked for undamaged treasures. The beach offered a paltry selection of shells, most of them broken into small fragments before reaching the shore. Because she came so often, Alexia could be picky. Today, she didn't find anything worth taking home to deposit in the large glass bowl in the center of her kitchen table.

By the time she returned to the place where she'd left her beachbag, the sunset she'd anticipated from her deck stretched across the sky. The high clouds were a vibrant red tinged with pink. She took off the wet suit, dried herself with a yellow beach towel, and then played tug of war for a few minutes with Boris. Back in the boat, Boris lay quietly at her feet as they crossed the marsh. Alexia enjoyed the final chapters of the sunset. By the time she rolled the boat into its resting place, the clouds had lost their color and darkness was falling.

6

Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit.

MACBETH
, ACT 2, SCENE 3

T
he first vehicle to reach Rena was not an ambulance. It was a police car. She heard the siren before the vehicle, raising a cloud of dust, came into view. Except for the flashing blue lights on top, the yellow-and-brown cruiser could have been mistaken for a city cab.

A short, overweight, completely bald man got out of the car. He was dressed in a white shirt without a tie and wrinkled green slacks. When he came closer, Rena could see that he was disfigured by a deep scar that began above his left eye and continued up his forehead. The reddish color of the scar contrasted with the adjacent white skin and made the man look like he'd survived a scalping by hostile Indians.

Rena opened the door to get out. When she did, her nausea returned with a vengeance. Gagging, she leaned over and got sick on the gravel roadway.

The man waited until she stopped gagging then spoke in a deep, slow-moving voice. “Take it easy, Mrs. Richardson. I'm Detective Giles Porter with the Mitchell County Sheriff 's Department. The deputy in the car is checking on the location of an ambulance.”

In spite of her condition, Rena pointed up the road toward the parking lot for the trail and croaked, “Don't stay here. My husband fell off a cliff.”

“We know. A helicopter is on its way and should arrive in a few minutes. It will get to him long before we could. We're here to take care of you.”

“A helicopter?” Rena asked as her strength began to return.

“Yes. We have an airborne rescue squad that serves this area of the state. It's headquartered in this county.”

Immediate validation of the detective's words came as a helicopter roared over their heads. It was painted white with a green logo on the side.

Porter pointed upward. “They should be at the falls in a couple of minutes. There is a landing area not far from the bottom. It would take us over an hour to get there on foot.”

Rena closed her eyes. “It's no use. My husband is dead.”

“Are you sure?” the detective asked with concern.

Rena nodded. “I tried to revive him. He didn't have a pulse and was already getting cold by the time I reached the bottom of the falls to help him.”

“I'm sorry. It's a dangerous place, but don't try to talk about it now.”

“We'd been married less than a year,” she added weakly.

The officer in the patrol car opened the door and called out, “If she can ride in the car, the ambulance is going to meet us at the end of the road. They had to bring in a unit from the other side of the county.”

The detective stepped closer to Rena.

“We'll put you in the back of the patrol car and take you to the hospital. You need to see a doctor yourself.”

At the mention of a ride in the back of the police car, Rena shrank back. This was a trick. The grotesque looking detective wanted to put her in the back of the vehicle and take her to jail. The thought of involuntary confinement in any form prompted another wave of nausea. She put her hand over her mouth.

“Are you going to get sick again?” Porter asked.

Rena closed her eyes to shield them from the detective's gaze. She knew that the wrong expression on her face could be her downfall. There was something disturbing about the detective. His eyes, especially the left one beneath the scar, seemed to be probing for something, attempting to look within her. She struggled to shake her fear.

“Could someone drive my car?” she asked. “I can lie down in the backseat.”

The detective paused then turned toward the deputy who was standing outside the patrol car, talking on the radio.

“I'm going to drive her vehicle!” Porter yelled. “See if the ambulance can meet us at Henderson's Store.”

Rena moved shakily to the rear door. The detective reached out to steady her. It took every ounce of Rena's will power not to snatch her arm away from the detective's grasp. He opened the door for her, and she slid into the backseat and lay down. The deputy in the patrol car turned on the siren and took off in the lead.

Porter followed at a fast pace down the gravel road. Rena bounced up and down as she lay on her back. She looked out the opposite window. In some places the limbs of trees met and turned the gravel road into a green tunnel. She began to feel better but didn't sit up. She wanted to avoid any encounters with the detective's eyes looking at her in the rearview mirror. Eye contact could encourage conversation, and conversation could lead to questions. Too many questions could become interrogation, and interrogation could lead to a murder charge. She kept her mouth shut and rehearsed her lines.

The sound of the tires on the gravel road suddenly stopped. They had reached a paved highway. Still following the wailing siren of the patrol car, they sped at a much faster speed for a few more minutes and then pulled off the roadway and stopped. Porter turned in his seat.

“An ambulance will be here in a couple of minutes.”

Rena sat up.

“Which hospital are they taking me to?”

“Mitchell Regional. It's our local hospital. If they can't handle a situation, a patient is sent to Greenville.”

Rena took a tissue from a small box on the seat beside her. She wasn't crying, but dabbing a tissue to her eye would be a good gesture. She made sure the detective saw her.

“And my husband? Where will they take him?”

“He will go to Mitchell Regional, too.”

Rena wanted to force a tear but nothing came. Crying on cue had never been her strong suit. She quickly tried to think of something sad but nothing came to mind that could produce a tear. Her bad memories were wells of anger not sorrow. She was spared further conversation when a red-and-white ambulance turned into the parking lot. Two medical workers rushed out of the vehicle. Though she didn't need assistance, Rena decided it wouldn't look right to experience a miraculous recovery. She let herself be led slowly to the ambulance where she lay down on a stretcher in the back. The EMTs scurried around her, poking, prodding, and checking her vital signs.

Giles Porter's face appeared. “I'll see you at the hospital.”

Rena closed her eyes.

The ride to the hospital took fifteen minutes. Rena didn't see or hear any sign of the helicopter when they rolled her into the emergency room entrance. She had an IV in her arm, and an orderly whisked her into a treatment room. A handsome young physician shone a light in her eyes and carefully moved her arms and legs. Rena dutifully answered his questions. The doctor set his clipboard on the corner of the bed.

“I don't think there is any need to send you to x-ray. There's no indication of broken bones.”

Rena touched the bruise on her head and winced.

The doctor noticed and continued, “You may have a slight concussion, but I think the nausea you experienced was due to mild shock at what happened to your husband. The bump on your head is a bruise, but I don't see any evidence of intracranial injury.”

“When can I leave?” Rena asked. “I need to contact my husband's family. They don't know what happened.”

“Just a few minutes. I'll send a nurse in to take out the IV. I'm very sorry about your husband's accident.”

Hearing the doctor use the word “accident” was comforting. Rena lay on the bed staring at the ceiling while she waited for the nurse. Suddenly, she sensed someone standing in the doorway behind her head. Rena didn't turn her head. It wasn't a nurse. A nurse would have immediately entered the room to remove the IV. The presence didn't come into the room, but stayed still, watching her.

Her woodland encounter with Baxter flashed through Rena's mind. If he manifested in the busy hospital, how would she suppress the scream necessary to banish him? The encounter with her husband's ghostly specter had been almost as bad as the dead gaze on his face at the bottom of the waterfall. She groaned in frustration. The person at the door spoke in a low voice that didn't sound like Baxter.

“Could I talk to you for a minute?”

Rena recognized the voice. It was the scar-faced detective. He stepped into the room and stood close to the gurney. From his position, he could see her, but she couldn't see him unless she turned her head.

Rena groaned louder. “I feel terrible,” she said. “I think I'm going to be sick again.”

“Oh, the doctor told me you were going to be released. Do you want me to get him?”

Rena didn't answer. She was going to have to talk to the police sooner or later. Perhaps her sympathetic status on the gurney with an IV in her arm would encourage the troublesome man to make it quick.

“No, if I lie still, I'll be okay.”

“I know this is hard for you but tell me what happened.”

Rena shut her eyes to conceal the truth that lay embedded in her soul and repeated verbatim the lines she'd rehearsed as she walked along the trail.

“I'd camped in the area when I was a little girl and wanted my husband to see it. We left Greenville this morning and hiked down the trail to the waterfall. We spent some time enjoying the view from the rocks. No one else was around. Baxter had put a bottle of wine along with some bread and cheese in his backpack. We ate a snack, and Baxter drank most of the wine. When we got ready to leave, he wanted to take one last look. He stepped too close to the edge and lost his footing on the wet rocks. I was a few feet away but couldn't do anything. He slipped and fell. It was a tragic accident.”

Rena stopped. It was the end of her story. It sounded much more mechanical than when she'd rehearsed it in her head, but at least she'd been able to repeat it verbatim. She waited for the detective to thank her and leave, but he didn't say anything. She turned her head to see if he was still there. He was looking down at her with an expression that was neither friendly nor hostile. He let the silence linger until Rena felt that she really might get sick.