Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  Finally. Mark strolled along the lakefront, enjoying the great weather and taking shots of whatever caught his eye. Tufts of grass sprouting from sand dunes, the lake, and he even sprawled on the ground and took a photo straight up through the leaves of a tree. He thought it might show some good contrast between the dark leaves and the dapple of sunlight. The lake was choppy and kids stood in front of the waves, squealing and laughing as the waves carried them in to shore. He sat on the beach and drew his arm over his brow. The sun beat down and the water looked inviting. Too bad he hadn’t thought to wear his swimming trunks.

  A few women in bikinis were lying on the sand and he couldn’t help contrasting their mode of dress with what he had seen in Afghanistan. He had never thought twice about a woman in a swimsuit except to enjoy the view. When that thought hit him, he felt added heat creep up his neck. Were women there forced to wear the suffocating burqas to protect them from guys like him who had indecent thoughts about women in bikinis? He shook off the idea. It wasn’t like he acted on the thoughts. The more he contemplated the burqas and their use, the more insulted he became. He had self-control; it wasn’t as if he was going to throw the nearest woman in a bikini down in the sand and have his way with her, but the dress restrictions seemed to imply that men couldn’t control themselves.

  At that moment, the woman turned her head and opened her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as her eyes met his. He blinked and turned away, embarrassed to be caught staring, and the heat turned to a burning flame of embarrassment. If she only knew what he had been thinking…Mark looked again, feeling the urge to explain, but she had closed her eyes again. Obviously his attention hadn’t disturbed her. He stood and brushed sand off his pants and headed for home.

  * * *

  Mark had a darkroom in his studio, but only used it occasionally when he wanted a special effect. It was more cost-effective to send his film into a company to get developed and get proof sheets. It allowed him to book more shoots if he didn’t have to spend a lot of time developing film, but sometimes he missed doing his own, so he took the opportunity to develop the film from his first use of the antique camera in his own studio. When he had finished and they were dry enough to handle, he sorted through them.

  The tuft of grass and the tree photos turned out pretty cool, but the one of the lake was flat. Mark frowned and set it aside. He should have focused on something on the lake such as a sailboat. Disappointment at the ordinary photos drained some of his excitement. For some reason, he had expected more, but the reality was, it was an old camera and the device was only as good as its operator. He stared at the picture of the water and shook his head. Boring. What had he been thinking? He tossed it aside. The second to last photo stopped him cold.

  A little girl was sprawled on the sand and what appeared to be a lifeguard was pinching her nose as he leaned over her. His other hand tilted her chin and it was apparent he had either just given her a breath or was about to give one. A woman had a hand on the child’s chest, and her face was contorted with anguish. He stared, trying to comprehend where the photo had come from. He had put his own film in. He was mystified. Had he somehow clicked the shutter by accident and taken the picture? It didn’t make sense. Maybe there was some way the film could have been packaged with this photo already on it. He didn’t know how, but it was the only explanation he could come up with. The little girl’s eyes were open just a fraction, and he shuddered at the blank stare.

  The last photo was one he had taken of a kite in the sky. It was okay, but it added to his confusion about the image of the little girl. He would expect something like that to be on end of the film, otherwise he would have had a double exposure with his own photo superimposed over the one of the little girl, but he saw no evidence of that. If it had been at the end, he could see where he had thought the film was finished, maybe the counter was off or something.

  Mark blew out a deep breath and flipped through the photos again. It didn’t make any more sense the second time through, so he tried to put it out of his mind and when his friend George Ortega called to see if he wanted to go out for a few beers and a game of pool, he jumped at the offer.

  He sipped his beer and leaned against the bar as George lined up a shot, but all he could see was the little girl lying in the sand.

  “Hello?”

  Blinking, Mark flinched as George waved a hand in front of Mark’s face. Annoyed, Mark said, “What?”

  “Dude. It’s your turn.”

  The annoyance slipped away. “Sorry, man. I was just thinking about something.”

  “No problem.” George held up his bottle of beer. “You ready for another?”

  Tilting his bottle, Mark drained it and shook his head. “No, I think I’m going to finish this game and then head out.”

  George glanced at his watch and shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not even ten yet. Man, you’re getting old!” A smile took the edge off the dig. He set his bottle down. “Then we might as well finish up before I get a refill.”

  Obliging, Mark took his shot and made it, but missed the next one. George ran the table after that.

  Mark returned the cue to the wall holder and shook George’s hand. “You finally got me. I’ll bring my ‘A’ game next week. You better watch out.”

  With a laugh, George shook his head. “I might quit while I’m ahead. Whatever it was distracting you tonight worked out in my favor.”

  He was about to deny the distraction, but shrugged instead. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I was a little preoccupied.”

  “Hey, how did it go in Afghanistan? I heard you and Mo went there?”

  Mark dug in his pocket for his car keys, spinning them around his finger as he replied, “It went…okay. It didn’t go quite as I planned though.”

  Leaning against the bar, George signaled for another beer. “Really? What happened?”

  Mark was tempted to tell George about Mo’s lack of contribution towards taking the photos for the book, but he thought better of it. It wasn’t like Mark had been overworked, and it was possible Mo had always intended for Mark to do most of the photography while he supplied the narrative. Besides, it was Mo’s book and he had paid for Mark’s trip so he wasn’t out anything except a few weeks’ time. “Nothing I can put my finger on. I probably misunderstood what my role was; besides I got a cool looking antique camera from a bazaar. So in the end, it was all good. Anyway, I’ll see ya later. ”

  George clapped him on the back. “Later, amigo.”

  * * *

  At home, Mark eyed the stack of photos he had left on the coffee table and couldn’t resist sorting through them until he found the one of the little girl again. He studied it for several minutes, noticing the features of the lifeguard for the first time. He looked vaguely familiar. Had he been working the beach where Mark had taken the photos of the lake? It was hard to tell because he had only seen the young man at a distance but the dark hair was right. If it was the same guy, he certainly hadn’t been performing CPR when Mark had spotted him.

  A throbbing headache took up residence behind his eyes and he let the picture slide from his fingers to rub his temples. There was no explanation for the picture. At least nothing that made sense. He headed to bed, detouring to the sink for a glass of water and a couple of aspirin.

  The little girl played in the surf, her squeals of delight nearly drowned out by the pounding waves. Her mother stood in the water nearby, watching with an indulgent smile. A young boy called to her and she turned away and spoke to him. Something about a cooler. When she returned her attention to her daughter, the little girl was gone. The mother’s scream pierced the air. Mark stood on the edge of the shore wanting to dive in to search, but his feet felt mired in the sand. He struggled to lift them to no avail. A dark haired young man in red swimming trunks rushed past and dove into the water. The mother kept pointing to the last place she had seen her daughter and screaming, “Gabby!”

  Another lifeguard, a woman, joined the first. A
third must have signaled to the rest of the swimmers to leave the water, because soon the beach was full of children, but a hush had fallen. Sirens wailed in the distance. An eternity passed before the male lifeguard emerged from the water with the little girl limp in his arms. He was already giving mouth to mouth. The female lifeguard took the girl and set her on the sand as she checked for a pulse. Mark flinched when his gaze reached the little girl’s eyes. They were open, but flat and unmoving. Like a porcelain doll, she stared at the sky.

  The duo performed CPR until paramedics arrived. The paramedics took over CPR with a third paramedic trying to start an I.V. He shook his head and then reached into his box for something and a minute later, to Mark’s horror, pushed something into the little girl’s leg just below the knee. His stomach flipped and he broke out in a cold sweat.

  Mark jolted awake with a gasp. Levering up on his elbows, he cast a wild look around the room, blinking in surprise when he found he was in bed and not standing on the beach. A dream! Thank god. A whiff of fish and lake water followed him from his dream, but even as he recognized the scent, it slipped away. He flopped back and scrubbed his hands down his face. His heart hammering and wide awake now, he sat on the edge of the bed. His palms rested on his thighs, but they shook like a china plate in an earthquake. Unsettled, he stood and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. He gulped down a full glass, finally ridding his mouth of the gritty foul taste before he went into the living room area and turned on a light. The photos still sat on the coffee table. He ignored them and wished he had never seen the picture of the little girl. He guessed it must have been on his mind as he fell asleep and the image had entered his dream, turning from a still photo to a full featured film.

  His imagination had even added details like the fishy smell and the little girl’s name. Where had he come up with that one? He didn’t know any Gabbys. He sank onto the sofa, his mind going over the dream until he finally became drowsy again, and turned to lie on the couch, pulling the blanket folded on the back down over him.

  He slept until his phone woke him up and he bolted out of bed again. He found his phone on the kitchen counter and recognized Mo’s number on the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mark. Did I wake you?”

  Mark glanced at the clock on the stove. Seven-thirty a.m. “Uh, no, not really. I needed to get out of bed anyway. So…what’s up?”

  “I got your film sorted out from the trip and you have some great shots. I’ll be going through them and matching them up to points I’ll be making in the book. I just wondered if you could go over some of them with me and give me the background on them. I didn’t realize you had taken so many photos.”

  Mark scratched his head and yawned. With his brain still foggy from sleep it took him a second to get his bearings. Today was Sunday and he had nothing booked. “Sure, no problem. I can be there about ten.”

  “Sounds good.”

  As soon as Mark hung up, he regretted his promise to go, which puzzled him. He stumbled back to the couch and grabbed the blanket, wrapping it over his shoulders as he curled on his side. Since they had returned from Afghanistan, he hadn’t heard from Mo. Something had been off about the last part of the trip—Mo had not only gone on a retreat, but had retreated into himself, barely speaking to him during the long return flight. Mark had tried to put it off to fatigue, but he couldn’t help wondering if he had offended Mo’s family somehow. Granted, he had taken photos of women, but after the one time he had been caught, he had been careful and had refrained from even glancing at a woman. Most of his photos had been taken with his telephoto lens to minimize the chance that anyone would know exactly what he was photographing.

  Mark let the blanket slide off his shoulders and headed for the shower. Even though he had looked forward to working on the book, he was reluctant to do it today. Instead, the urge to return to the beach where he had taken the photos with the old camera gnawed at him, but he had no rational reason to go back. It wasn’t like the little girl would be lying there in the sand. It had just been a dream provoked no doubt by the crazy photos. Besides, he wanted to find out if he had done something to anger Mo.

  * * *

  “Good morning, Mo,” Mark said as his friend waved him into his apartment. “I brought some coffee and donuts.” He raised a bag of donuts for his friend to see and balanced a cardboard tray with the coffee cups and an assortment of creamers in his other hand.

  “Thanks. Just set it on the kitchen table. Be careful of the papers and photos though.”

  Mark complied, angling his head to see the picture peeking out from beneath the papers. It was the blue color that had caught his eye. It was the color of many of the burqas that the women in Afghanistan ad worn. He had seen a few other colors like black or gray, but blue had been the most common color.

  He started to reach for the photo, but Mo grabbed his arm. “Hold on. I have them numbered and stuff. I don’t want to mess it up.”

  “Sorry.” He tried not to take offense at the reprimand, but there was something about Mo’s tone that bugged him. Taking a coffee from the tray, he shrugged off the annoyance and peeled the plastic tab back on the lid. Ignoring the creamers—they were for Mo, he took a sip. Maybe his own feeling of anxiety about his dream and his irritation with Mo was simply a lack of caffeine.

  “So how does this all work?”

  Mo shrugged. “I have a few connections. In fact, our trip was paid for by a sponsor.”

  “Really?” Mark grinned. It had bothered him that his friend had paid for the tickets and accommodations, such as they were, but he reminded himself that he hadn’t been paid for his work while over there either and he had taken time from his own business to go. “Who’s the sponsor? A women’s organization?” It made sense to him.

  Instead of answering, Mo narrowed his eyes. “It doesn’t concern you.”

  Taken aback, Mark set his coffee down and spread his hands. “Did I piss you off somehow?”

  The hostile look dropped off Mo’s face and although a smile replaced it, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No. I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “Look, I’ve got a lot on my mind today too, so why don’t we do this another time?”

  “But you might forget the details.”

  Thinking back to the circumstances surrounding the photos, Mark shook his head. “No way.”

  Mo scowled, made a shooing motion and said, “Then go. I know this means nothing to you. I might just throw all your photos away.”

  Stunned at the reaction, Mark remained rooted to the kitchen floor for a moment, but then spun for the door ready to slam it on his way out, but instead, he stopped with his hand on the knob and turned to face Mo. “You know, I was honored when you asked me to go to Afghanistan with you. It was an opportunity to do some good and I wanted to be a part of it, but I have to admit that I was also eager to get my photos in your book.” His face heated at the admission as he avoided Mo’s eyes. “Most of my jobs are ads in magazines or catalogs. Basically, my photos sell stuff. That wasn’t how I envisioned my career when I started out. I looked at this as my big chance to make an impression—you know, like those iconic photos in Life or Time.”

  He paused and blew out a deep breath as he tried to put into words the frustration he felt, his hand tightening on the knob. “But after seeing that woman beaten, it just seemed like I wasn’t able to do enough—that I won’t ever be able to do enough—but I still gotta try. So, you do whatever you want to do with the photos, but you are dead wrong when you said the book meant nothing to me.”

  The anger had eased from Mo’s expression, but he remained silent.

  With a firm nod, Mark left, pulling the door closed behind him with a soft click.

  * * *

  “Dammit!”

  Mark banged his fist on the steering wheel after starting his Jeep. He glared at the apartment building, debating if he should go back in and finish detailing the photographs. His stomach rumbled and he realized he never had eate
n a donut. To hell with it. He would give it a week and call Mo. By then this would all blow over.

  He drove aimlessly, but before he knew it, he was at the same beach he had been at yesterday. He felt silly chasing after the nightmare and chided himself that it had been nothing, just a bad dream. Anxiety still churned in his gut, but he blamed it on hunger. Following that logic, he grabbed a burger at a drive through and headed back to the loft to watch a Cub’s game.

  As he dozed on the sofa, remnants of last night’s dream plagued his sleep. The details weren’t as clear as they had been during the night, but that fact didn’t ease his anxiety, and instead only fed. As the images blurred, he awoke to a feeling of overwhelming despair. He sat on edge of the sofa, head bent, massaging the back of his neck. This was crazy. He stood and paced to the window, bracing his hands against the side window. He had never been plagued by nightmares before. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had one. Maybe when he was six or seven? So why now?

  Brimming with questions but void of answers he could think of only one way to get rid of the image once and for all. He had to go to the beach and prove to whatever inner demon was harassing him that there was no little girl drowning on the beach.

  * * *

  It was after three when he arrived. Parking had been almost impossible to obtain and now, hot and sweaty, he strode along the shore, photo in hand as he tried to match up the images in it to any of the beachgoers. With such a hot day and back to school just around the corner, the beach was packed.

  At first, Mark tried to match up the little girls running around and splashing in the surf with the image of the little girl in his photo, but the child in the picture was so lifeless, she didn’t seem to resemble any of the children he could see. As he stalked back and forth along the shore, he attempted to locate where on the lengthy beach the CPR scene had taken place. In the background of the photo, he saw pilings in the water, but that didn’t help pinpoint the site because they occurred at regular intervals a few hundred feet from shore. The back of his neck burned from the sun, but even worse, he felt the blistering stares of some of the parents. He couldn’t blame them for being suspicious. If he ever had a kid, he would be keeping a sharp eye on any guy who behaved as he was.