The afternoon sun blazed white hot. Beachgoers who didn’t have a day job—or who had called in sick—packed the local reservoir. I spread my towel by the lifeguard’s tall, white chair. Lena taught me this trick. “If you’re by yourself, or your whole group decides to swim at the same time, always chat up the guards. Good chance they’ll notice if some random person decides to steal your stuff,” she told me once on a trip to the beach.
Out in the water, safety lane lines dotted with small oval blue and white floats separated the roomy rectangular swimming area from the rest of the reservoir. At the furthest edge, a wide lane was cordoned off for lap swimmers. One length measured about fifty yards, twice the length of a regular swimming pool. In the past, I’d swum out there comfortably when my sister stayed closed and if I tucked myself next to the lane lines. But not today. My heart rate vaulted up a full ten points and my whole body stiffened when I glanced at the water. I turned around and concentrated on the white wooden rung of the lifeguard chair, trying to steady my breathing.
“Safe. Safe,” I spoke quietly. “I’m safe.” My shoulders slipped down from my ears. I twisted my neck around in circles, one way, then the other.
I glanced up at the guard sitting with a red lifeguard tube on her lap.
“Okay if I put my towel here?” She nodded but kept her eyes on a group of laughing children pushing each other underwater in the shallows.
“You have a crowd today for midweek.”
“I don’t know where all these people come from,” she replied, her eyes never leaving the water.
I fastened the video watch to my wrist. Maybe I could practice if I was calm enough to get in the water. “Anything I should know about the reservoir today?”
“It’s warming up … maybe sixty-eight or sixty-nine degrees. There’s no current, no angry sea monsters. Watch out for the rocks under the surface when you first get in.”
“Thanks.”
“No, thank you. You’re the first person this summer to ask about water hazards. I wish more people did that.”
Sand, a lot of sand, had been trucked in to make this beach. It was the coarse kind, not the fine powdery stuff found on tropical beaches of Florida or Hawaii. Today, it seared my feet as I tiptoed down to the water’s edge. I slipped on two caps for extra warmth, fitted my goggles to my face and forced myself to walk into the water up to my knees. Breathe in. Breathe out. Control the breath; don’t let it control you. I dipped both hands in and splashed water on my face and the back of my neck. Chilly, chilly, chilly. I walked in farther until the water circled my waist, then I held my breath and sank under the surface. I pushed off the bottom and stood straight up. I glanced over my shoulder. Nobody on the beach paid any attention to me. I took another deep breath, bobbed up and down a few times, and walked out a few feet more. I stared back at the beach, at the lifeguard in her chair. If I could see the guard, she could see me. Then, I ducked under the water and stayed there. I opened my eyes. My hands and arms were veiled in soft brown silt. Then I stood straight up. Goosebumps covered my legs.
Take a stroke. Just one stroke. Instead of diving in the water and starting to swim, I carefully stretched out on my back and floated. I imagined the lumpy white cloud above was a camel. It changed shape into a mountain. Water gurgled around the edge of my cap. I raised one arm over my head and took a stroke. Then another. I rotated on to my stomach. Light filtered through the dark, greenish water. It had a fuzzy quality to it, hazy, not shimmering and sparkly, like a chlorinated swimming pool.
The goosebumps disappeared as I got into a rhythm. I enjoyed watching the trees climbing to the top of La Cruz Canyon when I turned my head to breathe. This fisheye view gave me a new perspective of the land. I started to daydream, and unexpectedly, ran smack into another swimmer. Our arms locked at the elbows and we both stopped with a jerk, water splashing around us. Our arms disentangled and I pulled my face out of the water to find a man more bewildered and alarmed than I was.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t paying attention.” My legs were kicking in circles beneath me to keep my head out of the water. “Are you okay?” I asked.
On the edge of panic, he swallowed and spit out a mouthful of reservoir water.
“Yeah,” he managed to say.
The swimmer was in his forties and wore tinted goggles, now half-full of water. He had on a sleeveless wetsuit. He would never sink with that on, but even so, he was rattled.
“Sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“I’m going in.”
“Do you want me to swim with—” but before I could finish, he took off, headed for shore with spray flying around him like glittering beads.
The cordoned-off area for lap swimmers took shape an arm’s length away. The water pulled at my shoulders. The white lifeguard chair on the shore had shrunk to the size of a toy. How did I swim so far away from the beach? Alone, I treaded water, trying to stay calm. I glanced down; there was nothing below my waist, not even my legs. Only the greenish-brown water. Something nibbled on my toes … or did it? My heart rate jumped up again and goosebumps, this time from fear, spread across my arms. I pulled my legs up to my chest, away from whatever was in the water with me. I tried to slow my breathing again with my ‘breathe in, breathe out’ mantra. Instead, I managed to suck down a mouthful of water. I longed to be on my towel, safe on land. I began to sprint after the man in the wetsuit, sighting on the lifeguard chair in the distance.
My arms churned through the water until I had to stop and catch my breath. Starting slower this time, I began again. The steady movement of arm over arm settled my breathing. Eventually, the water grew shallow enough to stand, and I stretched my legs beneath me until my feet sank into the muddy bottom. I could tell the lifeguard didn’t consider me in danger. The sun grew warmer, so did the water, and the children playing at the shoreline welcomed me back to shore. Or so I thought. They never noticed me. I pushed my legs through the thigh-high water toward shore, only stopping when it was around my knees.
Burk was standing by the lifeguard chair. I had forgotten all about him. But he hadn’t forgotten me. I waved in his direction and he waved back. As I transitioned from water to beach, I pulled off my goggles and caps and tugged at the bottom of my swimsuit.
“Hey,” Burk called out as I jogged across the hot beach.
The lifeguard leaned over when I was closer. “What were you and that other swimmer doing out there? Dancing?”
“Ah … no. We hooked elbows and I think it spooked him, so he came in.”
“I saw that,” the guard said. “You weren’t far behind. All that empty water and you two collide.”
I nodded.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Just a little winded, that’s all.”
“You have a nice stroke,” she commented as her radio crackled, and she turned away to answer it.
“Nice stroke,” said Burk, nodding and repeating the guard.
“She probably didn’t see me gasping for air. For a minute, I thought I was being chased by some sort of shark.”
“I don’t think we get those here,” said Burk.
I sat down on the towel, pulled another one from my bag and started to dry my shoulders, then my hair.
“I’m surprised you went out by yourself. You must be feeling better about the whole open water situation?” he said, sitting down beside me.
“I forced myself to go in. With a lifeguard watching, I felt safe.” My hands hidden in the terry cloth, I clicked on my watch. Now I had to figure out what to do with my left arm so I could film him, not the kids building a sandcastle a few feet away.
I reached my left arm across the front of my body, rested my hand on my right shoulder, and pointed the watch directly at Burk.
“How about you change, and we go get something to drink?” He stared at me then reached over and kissed me on the cheek.
I pulled back and my arm dropped.
“Sorry, but you’re so appealing.”
“Something cold to drink sounds fine. Need to keep it non-alcoholic,” I told him, trying to recover from the unexpected kiss. “I’ll be right back.” I climbed to my feet, picked up the swim bag Lena had lent me and walked to the changing rooms. I clicked off the watch.
When I was dressed and walking back on the beach, I saw Burk standing in the parking lot next to his bike.
“Where should I meet you?” I asked.
“Is your car here?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll ride up the hill and leave my bike at the house. Here’s the address. You can pick me up there. Do you mind driving?”
“No. Not at all.”
This is good. One step closer to getting inside.
I reached the house before Burk, so I glided into the pull-off that I had stopped at a few nights ago opposite the dwelling. I climbed out of my car and stood by the large electric gate until he arrived. That long, steep, windy hill had no effect on him. No huffing, puffing, not one bead of sweat. I switched on my camera watch again. I stood close to him as he reached over to the entrance gate and I aimed the watch face at the control box.
“I’ll be right out,” he said after he punched in the gate code and it slid open.
I walked next to him as he peddled in.
“You can wait here if you’d like.” He pointed to a comfortable chaise lounge on the deep green front lawn.
“You mind if I come in? Need to use your ladies' room.”
For a second, Burk hesitated. He glanced at the door, then back at me.
“It’s kind of an emergency,” I said, dancing from one foot to the other, like a four-year-old. “Please.”
“Sure. Of course.”
He moved ahead of me and opened the large front door painted a rich salmon color. Inside, a couch, a few folding chairs, and a large TV mounted on the wall occupied the living room. The spacious dining room had floor-to-ceiling windows with a spectacular view of the canyon, but nothing else. As I turned around, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen. It had nothing on the counters but a takeout bag.
“This place is empty. Do you really live here?”
“The restroom is down that hall.”
Four doors, all closed, lined the hallway. Burk took the steps in the kitchen that led downstairs. When he was safely out of sight, I opened the first door to a spacious bedroom with a walk-in closet. Completely empty. No furniture at all, but blackout curtains covered the windows. Door two led me to the same results: empty room, blackout curtains, no furniture. Door three led to a different scene. I aimed my watch cam at the shelving that lined three walls of the room. Each shelf held various electronic products: cords, batteries, monitors, PCs, a few laptops. All were carefully labeled with a product name and date.
A row of computer books and magazines accumulated dust on the wide window ledge. I aimed the watch and scanned the small library. I picked up one binder after the other that were filled with pages of schematics that meant nothing to me. Then I walked out, switched off the mini cam, closed the door behind me and scooted into the bathroom. It was obviously a guy’s bathroom, grimy with dried soap splatters everywhere. Nothing of importance hidden in the medicine cabinet; just a mostly empty bottle of acetaminophen and a small screwdriver. I flushed the toilet, pretended to wash my hands and walked out.
“You might want to put some towels in the bathroom,” I suggested, shaking my hands. I walked into the kitchen and found some napkins next to the paper bag which I used to dry my hands. Burk leaned against the refrigerator. He had changed from his black bike shorts and multicolored skintight jersey to a pair of jeans, a deep green polo shirt, and flip-flops.
“Sorry about that. We’re not equipped for company. But how about some freshly squeezed orange juice? My roommate makes it every morning.”
“Sounds delicious, right now. So thirsty. Probably from swimming.”
Burk handed me a red Solo cup full of OJ, like we were at a frat party. Boys.
“Thank you.” I walked over and took it from him. He grinned at me.
“What?” was all I could manage between gulps.
He shrugged. “Nothing. You look pretty at the moment, especially with that damp beachy hair.”
“Did you say bitchy hair?”
“Beachy. You know, like you just came out of the water at a beach. Isn’t that what you girls call it?” He walked over to the front door and opened it. He was fidgeting.
Smiling, I wandered around the kitchen to find a trash can for the plastic cup. A stiff, brown grocery bag did double duty as the waste bin. I took aim at the bag, tossed the cup and missed. When I walked a little closer, stooping to pick up the cup and drop it in, I noticed something shiny at the bottom. A beer cap from Coyote Ridge. I took the napkins I used to dry my hands, leaned over and picked it up. Burk called to me as he walked out the front door.
“Just leave the cup on the counter. I’ll take care of it later.”
“Need to clean up. That’s what my mother taught me. ‘You make a mess. You clean it up.’” I pretended to fuss around the counter and the makeshift trash can, searching for other bottle caps. Nothing. I stuck the one I’d found in my pocket.
“Ok, ready to go.” As I walked over to him, I tapped my chin, then pointed at him.
“Some kind of cream. On your chin,” I said. “Right there.” I stood close to him now. With my other hand, I wiped it away. He rubbed his chin and smiled. He leaned toward me, but I walked past him, outside to my car. He followed me, rubbing the dirt off my back window with his hand while he waited for me to unlock the car. He didn’t try to hide his expression.
“Only thing I can afford right now,” I explained as I opened my door, climbed in and reached across to open his.
“Roll-down windows. I didn’t think they existed anymore,” he said as he brushed the sand from the passenger side seat. He took the towel draped over the seatback, folded it, and put it in the back. I never thought about the appearance of my car, but seeing it now, through his eyes, made me cringe. It was out-of-date, no style or pizzazz, filthy; a car he would never be seen in, if he had a choice. For the first time in a while, I was reminded that I didn’t quite measure up to the standards of Marin County. I turned the key, checked the rearview mirror and pulled out.
“Well,” he said, “At least it runs.”
“Hey, don’t patronize my car.” With that, I pushed down on the accelerator and sent gravel flying out behind me. The car surged ahead, hugging the corners of the narrow road as it tore down the windy hill.
About ten minutes later, I pointed to an ice cream shop with tables outside. He shook his head. “Down the street. Pull in here.”
He pointed to the parking lot of a local bar, a nice local bar, but still.
“I don’t drink anymore. I thought I told you that. I was thinking of a smoothie or a glass of lemonade. Besides, I’m not feeling too well. I’m getting a headache and feeling a little dizzy.”
“You need something to drink and eat. This is the spot. Great burgers.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.” The back of my neck started to burn.
“Come on. You’ve been swimming. You need sustenance.”
I did get headaches and lightheaded when I hadn’t eaten for a while. But this was different. I wanted water, gallons of water. And my neck burned as hot as the sun.
I climbed out of the car, feeling woozy. Burk was watching me intently. It made me nervous.
“I need healthy food … and water, a lot of water. Maybe I should just go home. Sorry, but I don’t think I should go in there. I don’t feel good.”
I leaned against the car, let my head hang forward and closed my eyes. I knew that feeling creeping up the back of my neck. I was going to pass out if I didn’t sit down.
“Of course, Trisha. I didn’t mean to push you. The guys in the house come here all the time. The food is great. I bet the chef would whip you up a smoothie or a salad or something. Just give it a try. It’s an okay place.”
Why was he pressuring me? The sun weighed down my shoulders and my knees began to buckle.
“Not for me.” I opened the car door and almost fell in. I fished out a water bottle from under the seat and took a long drink. It did nothing. Burk walked over to the car and rested both arms on the roof.
“You don’t look well. You shouldn’t drive. Come on, you’re only a few feet from an ice-cold drink. I know it’ll help.”
“Can you get a ride home?” I asked.
“Sure, but … let me drive you,” he said.
What’s happening to me? My body felt as though it was disintegrating. I never felt so weird before. I didn’t care if Burk was the key to the house on the hill and some enormous computer plot. It wasn’t worth it. I had to get away.
“I’m leaving.”
With that, I inched away from the curb and drove down the two-lane street, trying desperately to stay awake. My eyes closed and my head dipped down to my chest. I managed to glance up. The car in front of me morphed into two cars. I saw two traffic lights hanging above me. Both were green. Or was it one? I couldn’t be sure. So tired. Two of everything. Needed to close my eyes. An entrance to a parking lot for a grocery store appeared. The concrete roadway grew bigger then smaller. I drove over the curb into the lot, toward a parking space under a tree and passed out.
“Ma’am wake up. You can’t sleep here.”
I heard the voice, but it was so far away. I opened one eye. A policeman and his partner waited off to the side of the car.
“Ma’am, you have to move your car. You can’t sleep here.”
“You have a twin,” I said.
“Ma’am, please get out of the car.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Get out of the car, now.”
I put my hand on the door handle, pushed it down and the door opened. I swung my feet around and touched the pavement. I peered up at the policeman … ah, policemen. How sweet. So young. They had brown hair like mine. I smiled at both, stood up and collapsed into darkness.