Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
It’s nearly noon by the time Liam is content. When emails and a phone conversation weren’t enough to discuss the finer points of drowning, we engaged in a thirty-minute Zoom conference including screen sharing.
In the United States, approximately ten deaths a day can be attributed to unintentional drowning; the number goes up when boating-related incidents are included.
Echo said she wanted unique. In the case of drowning, reality is unique.
The stereotypical scenario, screaming and waving of arms, is Hollywood’s rendition—more theatrical than fact.
As Liam and I spoke, I found myself looking at Stark Lake.
How many accidents occur within its waters or those of nearby lakes?
How many are reported?
At this time of year, the water temperature is cooler.
As Liam and I conversed, we discussed how common scenarios portrayed in fiction aren’t backed up by fact.
One misconception is a correlation between the water temperature and rate of survival.
That correlation is based upon the hypothesis that hypothermia protects the brain and other tissues against cellular hypoxia—the deprivation of adequate oxygen.
Another misconception is that children have a better rate of survival due to having less subcutaneous fat, allowing their bodies to cool at a faster rate than adults.
For the storyline Liam is fine-tuning, our victim is an adult female who doesn’t survive.
More recent data suggests the most significant variable in surviving a drowning isn’t age or temperature; it is the time length of submersion.
The median length of time for survival varies by study.
Nevertheless, six minutes seems to be the magic number, with over ten minutes significantly decreasing the overall rate of survival.
That’s not to say that it’s impossible to survive longer.
One study out of Finland has a survivor at ninety minutes of submersion. That study was a twenty-year retrospective and included victims of all ages. Testing that data would be horrific. No sane researcher would purposely recreate that scenario.
Due to the frequency of drowning occurrences, the data is plentiful. I was able to provide Liam with both data and images I obtained, showing the difference in appearance based on the length of submersion time.
The initial inability to breathe due to the inhalation of liquid causes respiratory impairment—the alveolar spaces of the lungs fill with water, washing out the surfactant, a secreted surface-active lipoprotein, thus decreasing the lungs’ ability to oxygenate the blood.
Fainting often follows the loss of oxygen to the bodily organs, especially the brain. The term for that is cerebral hypoxia. That is where the waving of arms isn’t substantiated. Water is inhaled, the victim faints, and becomes submerged.
In autopsies of drowning victims, the cause of death is often referred to as a noncardiogenic pulmonary edema with secondary metabolic acidosis. This condition affects many of the body’s organs, a chain reaction of sorts.
If I were home, Liam and I would have met at the studio or in a nearby coffee shop. I can only imagine someone sitting near us as we discuss the different hues of blue to accurately depict flesh and lip tone. Even via teleconferencing, we debated ad nauseam whether her eyes would be open or closed.
After a quick shower, I decide it’s time to let my family know I’m in town.
From the lack of calls or text messages, I believe Becky’s assessment—Theo is a good guy and true to his word.
I also wonder if he is responsible for the brunette down the bar not following up on her quizzical looks, or maybe she simply was more interested in her date than if I was someone from her past.
As a bonus if I hurry, my mom might offer me lunch. If she doesn’t, I have an array of options: a gas-station-slash-convenience-store hot dog, a sandwich at the Sunshine Cafe, another burger from the Walleye Tavern, or driving to nearby Lawton to a real grocery store and supplying my cottage.
Stepping out onto the back stoop, a gentle breeze blows my freshly washed hair.
I dried it but chose not to do more. As I tip my chin higher, I see that beyond the tall trees, the sky has cleared to a crystal blue.
I’ve forgotten how blue and green Michigan could be, much different than Southern California.
So bright.
To my delight, the temperature has risen with some consistency throughout the morning. Instead of wearing it, I have my jacket folded over my arm.
The blue jeans I’m wearing are more casual than I wear home in Lake Forest. Maybe, I’m subconsciously using my job skills—creating a perception and trying to fade into the background that is Blue Gil.
When I reach the parking area, my car is the only vehicle there.
As I approach the intersection, ready to turn onto Old 44, a blue truck slows and turns onto the lane. I pause, sitting straighter and trying to see the occupant. All I can make out is that it’s a man.
With the combination of shade from the tall trees and tint of the truck’s windows, I’m not able to discern more detail.
Nevertheless, I’m certain it’s the same truck I saw leaving earlier this morning.
After all, only the rental office and the six cottages are down this lane.
It’s then I recall Becky saying four of the cottages were available.
Whoever is inside that truck must be the person renting the other cottage.
Natural curiosity grows as I watch the truck in my rearview mirror disappear beyond a slight bend in the lane. For only a second, I consider turning around. Before I do, my phone rings, diverting my attention. Mom is on the screen. Earlier, I sent her a text message asking her to call.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer, keeping the car still.
“Jillian, what a nice surprise. I wasn’t planning to hear from you today. Is everything all right?”
Yes. No. Depends.
I bite the bullet. “Mom, I’m in Blue Gil.” When she doesn’t respond, I continue speaking faster with each phrase. “I got in last night. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I’m wondering if I could come by for a visit.”
“You’re here?” she asks in disbelief.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Wait. Where are you staying? Why didn’t you come here, to your home?”
I inhale. “We can talk in person. I haven’t seen you since you and Dad visited California last summer.
” My father had a conference and since it was summer, my mom could manage some time off.
It was their second visit to California since I graduated college.
In all fairness, that’s two more than I made back here.
Until now.
“Yes, of course,” she answers. “Have you eaten? I’ll put together some lunch. Your father is golfing. Oh, Jillian, if he knew he’d—”
Why do I think even if he knew I was in town, he’d still golf?
I interrupt, “Mom, I’m not leaving right away. I’ll see Dad later. Lunch sounds great. What about Julie? Is she home?”
“Oh, she’s off with friends. Come home. I’ve missed you.”
The scene before the windshield blurs. I worried announcing my arrival would go another direction. I’m grateful it didn’t. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“You didn’t say where you are staying. You know you can stay here. We have plenty of room—your room and Ollie’s. We made Olivia’s an office.”
I feel like she’s rambling. “I’m staying at the old Iverson cottages on Stark Lake.”
“You are?”
I know my mom well enough to hear the change in her tone. “Yes, Becky set me up.”
“Oh, of course. That was sweet of her, but I think you should reconsider staying here.”
“How about we chat first? Becky said the cottages are empty until Memorial Day weekend.”
“Most of them.” She pauses. “Well, that makes sense.” Another pause. “Jillian, I can’t wait to see you.”
“Thanks, Mom. Me too.”
As I hang up the phone, I wonder at what age parents no longer make their offspring feel like children—juveniles.
The question isn’t derogatory. I mean it in a comforting way, such as a little girl who could use her mother to comfort and reassure her.
I’ve spent the last six years convincing myself I am an adult who can manage anything that comes my way.
I purposely shielded many of my life issues from my family, telling myself it was for their benefit. Now I’m not sure.
I shake my head as Becky’s sentiment comes back, water under the bridge.
There’s a reason water is the subject of that analogy. Once it flows it never returns.
Maybe I need to recognize that the issues that kept me away from Blue Gil no longer exist.
The next ten minutes fly by; I’m lost in my thoughts until I find myself on the street in front of my childhood home.
In some ways it hasn’t changed. The bricks are the same, the trim the same color.
In other ways it has. The landscape is different, more modern.
Gone are the evergreen bushes, replaced by tall grasses and flowers in pots.
I smile at the pansies, one of the only flowers to survive the varying spring temperatures in this region.
Eagledale was the newest addition to Blue Gil when I was a child.
Developed northeast of town, it is still a quaint neighborhood with custom homes and manicured lawns.
Now, twenty-five years since it was first designed, the trees are larger and maturer, giving the streets a canopy feel as the new leaves spring to life.
I reach for my purse and take a deep breath.
Before I can make it halfway up the driveway, the front door opens.
Shannon Thorne doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to.
Her cheeks rise as she smiles, her eyes glistening.
Even from a distance, I can tell that she’s been crying.
Yet her expression isn’t one of sadness but is brimming with happiness.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
My mom is and always has been an attractive woman.
Her strawberry blond hair is lighter and shorter than mine, and her eyes are the same blue.
In her mid-fifties, my mother still has a figure that suggests regular exercise.
She radiates a sense of self-assuredness that comes with time and experience.
Mom was a teacher at Blue Gil Elementary when she and my dad married.
They’d known one another for years, yet she refused to marry before she finished her education degree.
After they married, she taught while simultaneously continuing her education and received her PhD in administration.
When I was in the eighth grade, Shannon Thorne was hired as the superintendent for Blue Gil Municipal Schools.
In full disclosure, Blue Gil has one elementary, one middle school, and one high school. Nevertheless, my mother is the superintendent, a well-respected member of the Blue Gil community.
One thought rapidly leads to the next, and I realize that with her affiliation to the schools, she was undoubtedly at the funeral yesterday. After all, Mr. Gilbert worked for the school system, so, in effect, he worked for her.
When we meet, Mom pulls me into a heartfelt hug. “I’ve missed you,” she murmurs against my ear. Next, she reaches for my hand and leads me inside.
Human senses are an amazing part of our being. Even if I closed my eyes, I would know I was in my childhood home. There is a subtle yet undeniable scent of lemon. I don’t know what it is. I’ve tried lemon furniture polish and lemon air fresheners, but nothing smells like home.
However, my eyes aren’t closed, and I immediately notice how the optics have changed.
“Wow,” I say, taking in the back of the house. When I lived here, we had one sliding glass door going out to the back deck. Now it’s a wall of windows with a French door. Beyond is a screened porch and farther where there used to be grass, there’s a cement deck with a pool. “When did you do this?”
“Oh, I’m sure I mentioned it.”
I walk past her to the open door and take it in. “I think I’d remember this.”
“We did it for Ollie’s graduation.”
A sigh comes before I can stop it. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been back.”
Those aren’t empty words. In this moment, I feel the emptiness that comes with not seeing my family and those who care.
Mom’s lips curl. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
“I am, but I can’t stay. I won’t be here for Julie’s graduation. I’m a terrible sister.”
Mom shakes her head. “Nonsense. You’re a busy professional with an important job. Believe me, everyone in Blue Gil knows all about our daughter who works in Hollywood.”
“I mostly work from home, but the studios are in Burbank.”
Her smile grows. “And at the end of the programs, I always wait and watch the credits to see your name.”
I didn’t know she did that. The simple admission on her part gives me a sense of acceptance that I hadn’t realized was missing.
Mom turns and leads me toward the kitchen. That room has also changed. The basic arrangement is the same, but the cabinets, counters, and colors are different. Gone is the bulkhead lighting. The ceiling feels higher and the room is more open.
Something else feels different.
I stand for a moment and realize that the house is much quieter than I recall.
No one else is home. When I left, Olivia had one more year of high school, Ollie had two, and Julie, the one about to graduate, had just completed sixth grade.
Our house was always a series of comings and goings.
It wasn’t only our family but also friends.
“Where’s the wallpaper?” I ask jokingly, talking about the kitchen.
“Your dad hated it, and he hated taking it down even more.”
As I sit at the breakfast bar, I brace for the question I know is coming. My mom may be trying to make this go smoothly, but she’s also direct. I suppose that is what makes her a good administrator.
Sure enough, as Mom sets a glass of iced tea down in front of me, it does.
“Your timing is curious,” she says leadingly. “Three weeks later and you’d be able to see your sister graduate. Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, I am.” Her neck straightens. “After all this time, what brings you back to Blue Gil?”