Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
When I climb up the lifeguard tower the next day, I find a paper-wrapped bouquet of yellow sunflowers perched on the railing. A handwritten note dangles from one of the stems, tied with a bit of string. It’s addressed to me.
My heart lurches. No one has ever given me flowers before.
I unfold the note, my eyes scanning across it.
Mason,
I’m sorry for being a dick yesterday. I hope we can be friends this summer.
Sincerely,
Hunter
A wave of regret washes over me. Maybe I was too hard on him. My fuse has been exceptionally short lately, and it doesn’t take much to set me off.
I tuck the flowers into my backpack before leaning against the railing.
The beach is packed again today, and I’m grateful another lifeguard will be here soon to help me out.
Too bad it isn’t Aliyah. Instead, I’m scheduled to work with the other part-time lifeguard, Ryan.
He’s kind of an idiot, and he doesn’t take the job seriously.
I’ve caught him several times texting in the lifeguard tower.
Seventeen minutes late, Ryan finally shows up. He jogs up to the stand with zero urgency, mumbling something about holiday weekend traffic.
He’s eighteen but looks much younger. He still has that boyish pudge on his cheeks. He has dark brown hair with overgrown fringe that constantly falls in front of his eyes. I often wonder how he manages to do his job with all that hair obstructing his view.
“How’s it going, Mason?” he asks, already sounding bored.
“Fine. You?”
“Good.”
“Cool.”
That’s pretty much the extent of our conversations. We don’t have a lot in common. He’s graduating from high school next month, and even though we’re only a few years apart in age, the gap between us feels much wider.
We settle into silence as we scan the lake. There are a few paddle boarders out today, and I watch them stumble as they try to find their balance on the waves. One of them has a tiny dog perched on the board in a bright orange life vest.
Ryan and I each have designated zones of responsibility. His is toward the south, and mine to the north. I don’t entirely trust him, so I keep stealing glances at his zone every now and then, just in case.
A few hours later, I’m grateful for my mistrust.
I look over to see him sliding into a girl’s DMs on his phone, thumbs flying across the screen, completely distracted. My head snaps to his side of the lake.
The subtle movement catches my eye instantly—a little girl’s head sticking just above the water level, wet hair draped in front of her face. I can’t hear her scream, but I see her mouth hanging open. Her voice is drowned out by the lively chatter and music blaring from onshore speakers.
I don’t waste time scolding Ryan. Instead, I instantly spring into action, swiftly unclipping my pump.
I grab the orange rescue buoy and hop down from the tower, skipping the ladder steps entirely. My legs sting with pain as I hit the ground, but I’m already sprinting. I blow my whistle with one long burst, signaling an emergency.
My adrenaline spikes the second I feel water splashing at my ankles. I dive forward and kick hard. The rescue can trails behind me, dragging in the wake. My arms slice through the water, but it’s not fast enough. It feels like everything is happening in slow motion.
As I propel through the water, I catch glimpses of her bright green swimsuit. She rises and falls with the rhythm of the waves, terrifyingly still.
When I finally reach her, I hook the rescue can under her back and cradle her small body. Her blue eyes are open but unfocused.
I squeeze her shoulder, and her skin feels ice cold. “I’ve got you. Hang in there,” I whisper.
I quickly tow her back to land, her body hanging limply across the rescue can. A crowd has gathered at the shore, and I instantly know which one is her mother. A short, frail woman wades in the water with mascara running down her face, shaking with fear.
“Hannah!” she wails, rushing forward.
“Stay back, please. She’s not breathing.”
I lay Hannah gently on the sand and crouch next to her. Her skin is pale and clammy, her chest unmoving. Lake water seeps from her nose and the corners of her mouth.
Someone in the crowd shouts that an ambulance is on their way, but I know they’re at least five minutes out. I need to act fast. My brain races as I try to recall all of the steps from my annual CPR training.
I assess her size. She’s young, maybe ten years old, but she’s big enough for me to use both hands for chest compressions.
I interlock my hands and press down below her sternum at a steady rate.
I sing “Stayin’ Alive” silently in my head to keep the tempo, which is conveniently 104 compressions a minute.
After administering compressions, I gently tilt her head back and lift her chin forward. I pinch her nose shut. My hands shake as I seal my lips over hers and breathe. Once. Twice.
Nothing.
A spark of panic surges through me, but I quickly extinguish it. I can’t freak out right now. I need to focus.
I start compressions again. I’m vaguely aware of the chatter around me, but it sounds muffled, like my head is underwater. I can hear sirens, but they sound too far away.
I give her two more breaths.
Her body jerks. A sputtering cough erupts from her blue-tinged lips. Water drizzles from her mouth as she gasps like she’s just awoken from a nightmare.
I gently flip her onto her side, cradling her head as she coughs hoarsely. Her eyes are wide and dazed, but she’s breathing steadily now. Her mother gently strokes her soaked brunette hair, crying with relief.
“Thank you,” she sobs. “Thank you.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or some kind of deity in the sky. Either way, I nod numbly.
The paramedics arrive seconds later, shouting at the crowd to clear out and give them space. They strap Hannah into a stretcher, and her mother follows them to the back of the ambulance. The medics bark orders to each other, yelling about oxygen levels and body temperature.
The doors slam shut, and the ambulance flees the beach with sirens roaring, leaving visible tire tracks in the sand.
I take a moment to recompose myself as I stand in shock. My throat burns. I probably swallowed a bunch of lake water during the rescue.
A few random strangers shake my hand and pat my back. They tell me that I’m a hero. They tell me that I saved that little girl’s life.
But all I can think about is Maddie. How she used to be that size. How easily this could’ve been her.
I move toward the lifeguard tower in a daze. Ryan’s there, phone clutched in his hand, looking like a shell-shocked soldier. His mouth twitches as he tries to find the right words.
“Just got off the phone with our boss. He wants you to take the rest of the day off,” he tells me.
I want to argue and tell him that I’m fine, but I know better than to go against our boss’s orders. And truthfully, I don’t think I could focus on anything right now. I’m in no state to be lifeguarding. It feels like my heart has been wrung like a wet towel.
I nod.
“Mason,” Ryan says shakily. “I’m sorry. I should’ve—”
“Stop talking,” I snap, eyes screwed shut with anger. “This job is serious. You need to grow the hell up and pay attention.”
He swallows hard and nods. “I will. I promise.”
I can’t stay here any longer. I quickly gather my belongings and retreat to my truck. I feel my body drifting the whole way there, like my legs are on autopilot, moving on their own.
As soon as I slide into the front seat, a sob rips out of my throat. I cross my arms over the steering wheel and bury my face, tears spilling uncontrollably.
I cry for a long time. For Hannah. For her mom. For how close it came.
***
After I let out all of my emotions, I feel eviscerated—hollowed out like a melon scooped clean with a spoon. It’s strange and uncomfortable. I don’t want to feel like this.
So, I drive to the Old Harbor Tavern.
A voice in the back of my head tells me not to dull my pain with alcohol. That I shouldn’t be like my parents. But I ignore it as I park my truck and walk inside.
The moment I step through the door, the chatter quiets. Eyes glide toward me like magnets. I hear my name muttered across the room, hushed and nervous. Gossip travels fast in a small town like Claremont Shores.
“Dude,” Luke says, wide-eyed as I approach the bar. “I heard what happened at the beach with that little girl. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I say tersely, sitting down. “Just want a beer.”
“It’s on the house,” Luke insists.
“No—”
“Seriously, man. You better get used to the hero treatment. People are gonna be talking about this for weeks.”
He fills a glass from the tap and slides it to me. My shoulders tense, hunched tight. I don’t want attention. I don’t want praise. I just want to forget all about it. I can’t think about the way her small, fragile body felt in my arms, unmoving.
I take a long sip of the beer. I don’t even realize how big of a gulp it is until I look down at the glass and see it’s half empty.
“Hey,” says a voice beside me.
I look over to see a middle-aged woman. She has blonde hair that’s cut short and angular, the classical “Karen” cut. She has a soft, timid smile on her face.
“You’re Mason Burke, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Tina’s friend.”
I blink. “Who?”
“Hannah’s mom.”
My hand tightens around my glass. “Oh.”
“I just wanted to thank you. What you did was so brave,” she says, reaching out to gently squeeze my shoulder.
“Just doing my job,” I say truthfully.
“Put his next round on my tab,” she tells Luke. “This man is a hero.”
Before I can protest, she walks away with the sound of her high heels clacking against the floor.
Well, I suppose I might as well take advantage of this shitty situation. I down the rest of my beer before ordering another.