The Kindness of Strangers
by Bill Robertson
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: While on holiday, a family comes within moments of tragedy.
_____________________________________________________________________
The sun beats down making diamonds on the surface of the water. Time slows to a tortured crawl. Milliseconds stretch out in geological time, allowing me to take in the scene with perfect clarity.
Jenny is standing above the shingle surrounded by beach umbrellas and brightly coloured towels. The sunlight is winking from the lens of my camera as it tumbles out of her hands. Her mouth is wide open, lips forming a wordless shout. Around her, fellow holidaymakers hide impassive faces behind sunglasses, slather on sun block or snooze in the shade while children in bathing suits dig sand, moulding it into crumbling castles. I smell the smoky aroma of lighter fuel and charcoal from somewhere nearby. A small inflatable baby chair floats upside down at the water’s edge, flung there by the waves. I should’ve known that it was too rough for that stupid bloody thing even with me holding onto it. Fine, perhaps, for the hotel pool but completely inadequate for the choppy waters of Lake Michigan.
A switch has flipped deep in the depths of my brain putting all my senses into overdrive. Our daughter is falling inexorably towards the glinting surface of the water. A crashing wave has torn her out of my grip. I cannot believe this is happening. I just wanted Jenny to take a quick picture of the baby and me to commemorate our first family holiday.
I try to run but the water holds me back like hardening amber. Each eye blink feels infinite. The shingle is a treacherous carpet beneath my feet, pulling me under, slowing me down even more. The roar of the water smacking the shore fills my ears; each heartbeat is a huge hollow boom in my chest. My fingers stretch out desperate to reach my tiny falling child but she is still too far out of reach. I lurch forward another step, arms extended to intercept her.
I’m not even close.
She lands flat on her back in the water with a cry of protest. Suddenly time seems to accelerate. Another wave crashes ashore and covers her completely this time, choking off her crying and pushing her even further out of my reach. I’m frantic, lunging towards her, oblivious to the sharp stones tearing at the soles of my feet. My legs feel so heavy I can barely lift them. The sound of her choking cuts to my core and causes a flare of panic to ignite in the pit of my stomach.
Jenny is still rooted to her spot on the shore. The shock has drained the colour from her face. The camera lies forgotten at her feet. I’m closer now. The water level has dropped to my shins, to my ankles…
I’m not going to make it.
I watch as a woman calmly reaches into the churning surf and plucks the child from the water. Where did she come from? My daughter is still screaming and I am glad because it means that she is alive despite my bloody carelessness.
The woman smiles as she hands the red-faced and shivering child to me.
‘She’s fine. She just got a little scare, I think.’
‘Thank you, I thought…that…that…’ I can’t finish the sentence. The words come out in a breathless gasp, massively inadequate.
I think I might be sick.
I hug my little girl close, trying to soothe her; mouthing shushing noises as I rock her back and forth. I hear my own voice in my head ranting hysterically: youstupidfoolyoustupidbloodyfoolyoucouldhavekilledheryoucouldhavekilledheryoustupid
stupidfool. I’m crying with relief.
Jenny rushes to join us and we form a little circle at the water’s edge. I turn to look around, finally composed enough to speak to the woman.
She is gone.
I realise that I can’t picture her face. She could be any one of a hundred women dotted along the sand. I shake my head, still trying to comprehend what has just happened, unable to absorb just how lucky I’ve been.
Back under the shade of our beach umbrella, we try to laugh it off. Our daughter rolls happily on a towel, unaffected by her near fatal swim, and we can pretend it was nothing really. Nevertheless, I know that at night those moments will play out in my mind repeatedly in a series of morbid visions of what might have been.
Before leaving the beach, I stuff the dead inflatable chair into an already well-filled trashcan. I’m not sorry to see it go.
Swearwords: None.
Description: While on holiday, a family comes within moments of tragedy.
_____________________________________________________________________
The sun beats down making diamonds on the surface of the water. Time slows to a tortured crawl. Milliseconds stretch out in geological time, allowing me to take in the scene with perfect clarity.
Jenny is standing above the shingle surrounded by beach umbrellas and brightly coloured towels. The sunlight is winking from the lens of my camera as it tumbles out of her hands. Her mouth is wide open, lips forming a wordless shout. Around her, fellow holidaymakers hide impassive faces behind sunglasses, slather on sun block or snooze in the shade while children in bathing suits dig sand, moulding it into crumbling castles. I smell the smoky aroma of lighter fuel and charcoal from somewhere nearby. A small inflatable baby chair floats upside down at the water’s edge, flung there by the waves. I should’ve known that it was too rough for that stupid bloody thing even with me holding onto it. Fine, perhaps, for the hotel pool but completely inadequate for the choppy waters of Lake Michigan.
A switch has flipped deep in the depths of my brain putting all my senses into overdrive. Our daughter is falling inexorably towards the glinting surface of the water. A crashing wave has torn her out of my grip. I cannot believe this is happening. I just wanted Jenny to take a quick picture of the baby and me to commemorate our first family holiday.
I try to run but the water holds me back like hardening amber. Each eye blink feels infinite. The shingle is a treacherous carpet beneath my feet, pulling me under, slowing me down even more. The roar of the water smacking the shore fills my ears; each heartbeat is a huge hollow boom in my chest. My fingers stretch out desperate to reach my tiny falling child but she is still too far out of reach. I lurch forward another step, arms extended to intercept her.
I’m not even close.
She lands flat on her back in the water with a cry of protest. Suddenly time seems to accelerate. Another wave crashes ashore and covers her completely this time, choking off her crying and pushing her even further out of my reach. I’m frantic, lunging towards her, oblivious to the sharp stones tearing at the soles of my feet. My legs feel so heavy I can barely lift them. The sound of her choking cuts to my core and causes a flare of panic to ignite in the pit of my stomach.
Jenny is still rooted to her spot on the shore. The shock has drained the colour from her face. The camera lies forgotten at her feet. I’m closer now. The water level has dropped to my shins, to my ankles…
I’m not going to make it.
I watch as a woman calmly reaches into the churning surf and plucks the child from the water. Where did she come from? My daughter is still screaming and I am glad because it means that she is alive despite my bloody carelessness.
The woman smiles as she hands the red-faced and shivering child to me.
‘She’s fine. She just got a little scare, I think.’
‘Thank you, I thought…that…that…’ I can’t finish the sentence. The words come out in a breathless gasp, massively inadequate.
I think I might be sick.
I hug my little girl close, trying to soothe her; mouthing shushing noises as I rock her back and forth. I hear my own voice in my head ranting hysterically: youstupidfoolyoustupidbloodyfoolyoucouldhavekilledheryoucouldhavekilledheryoustupid
stupidfool. I’m crying with relief.
Jenny rushes to join us and we form a little circle at the water’s edge. I turn to look around, finally composed enough to speak to the woman.
She is gone.
I realise that I can’t picture her face. She could be any one of a hundred women dotted along the sand. I shake my head, still trying to comprehend what has just happened, unable to absorb just how lucky I’ve been.
Back under the shade of our beach umbrella, we try to laugh it off. Our daughter rolls happily on a towel, unaffected by her near fatal swim, and we can pretend it was nothing really. Nevertheless, I know that at night those moments will play out in my mind repeatedly in a series of morbid visions of what might have been.
Before leaving the beach, I stuff the dead inflatable chair into an already well-filled trashcan. I’m not sorry to see it go.
About the Author
Born in Perth and now living just outside Aberdeen, Bill Robertson has created a large body of work showcasing a tendency towards the darker side of life and stories which leave an indelible impression on the reader long after the final word is read.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.