Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  6.2.3: Tanami

  On the other hand, just a few minutes later, when Jillian runs by that same spot, she knows exactly what awaits her at the bottom of the exit ramp.

  There had been little for her to do on the helicopter ride to the starting area, so she had studied a map of the course to pass the time. Olympic Boulevard, she knows, leads directly from the highway to the stadium, not a hundred yards away. But the route of the race does not follow Olympic Boulevard. Instead, it winds through about half a mile of city streets before doubling back to rejoin the boulevard at a point not far from where it left it. Then, finally, the course runs straight down the broad avenue to the narrow tunnel that leads into the stadium. Inside the stadium, the runners circle the quarter-mile track once before they reach the finish line.

  As she runs down the ramp, Jillian comes to this conclusion: If I can see Sunshine when I make that final turn onto Olympic Boulevard, then I can catch her. I can win the race. But if I can’t see her when I make that turn, that means that she’s already in the stadium. Or, at least, in the tunnel. And at that point, there wouldn’t be any way that I could catch up to her.

  Crowds line the streets of the city, but Jillian does not see them. The noise they make is deafening, but she does not hear it. A phalanx of motorcycles escorts her along the final stage of the route, but Jillian does not notice them. She’s concentrating just as hard as she possibly can, and she’s running just as hard as she ever has. And she’s waiting, waiting for the time when she’ll make that final turn and she’ll be able to see all the way down the breadth of Olympic Boulevard to the enormous stadium that will loom in front of her.

  And she will see Sunshine. Of that, she is sure. She’s picturing it clearly in her mind. Sunshine will just be entering the tunnel. She’ll be running fast, just a single quarter-mile circuit from victory. But I’ll be running faster, Jillian thinks. And when she realizes that I’m chasing her down – well, she’ll know that I’m going to catch her, and she’ll get discouraged. And she’ll give up.

  And I’ll win, just like I deserve to, because I’m better than she is.

  I’m better than anybody.

  I’m the best in the whole goddamn world.

  6.2.4: Tanami

  The darkness confuses Sunshine even more.

  The tunnel is illuminated by strings of light bulbs that are bright enough to read by – but after the harsh brilliance of the Qen Phon afternoon, Sunshine feels as though she has abruptly run into a dark room. Fearing that something is wrong, she slows down. There are only a few race officials in the tunnel, and her motorcycle escorts have abandoned her. Has she made a wrong turn somewhere?

  She’s on the verge of coming to a complete stop when one of the officials, caught up in the excitement of the moment and unable to resist becoming a cheerleader, begins to clap and shout, “Go, go, go…”

  So, they want to me keep going, she thinks. Well, okay, maybe for a little while longer. But this had better be over soon, because I’m getting really sick of running, and all I really want to do is lie down and take a nice long nap.

  6.2.5: Tanami

  The sudden noise, impossibly loud, takes Jillian by surprise.

  It sounds as though thousands of people are shouting through thousands of megaphones, all at the same time. And then she recognizes it for what it is: It’s the crowd in the stadium. Tens of thousands of people, all of them screaming at once.

  She feels sick, physically ill. There’s only one reason that all those people would be screaming like that: Sunshine has not only entered the tunnel, she’s run through it, and now she’s actually in the stadium. She’s embarking on her victory lap, her quarter-mile trot to the finish line.

  Sunshine’s about to win the race.

  Which means that I’m about to…

  She won’t even allow herself to finish that sentence.

  As she leans into the final corner, she still somehow expects to see Sunshine’s back retreating into the tunnel. She still expects to be able to save the day with a frantic sprint that will result in a dramatic victory, something that people will talk about for years, something by which they’ll remember her forever…

  But when she actually rounds the corner, all she sees is the broad expanse of Olympic Boulevard. She has it all to herself. It’s empty. Sunshine is nowhere in sight. Sunshine is already in the stadium.

  And then, it hits her: I’ve lost, she thinks. She’s stunned by the realization. Sunshine beat me. I have no excuses. No injuries. Nobody slashed my tires. And I can’t even blame the kidnapping: I wasn’t even hurt, not really. Just a little shaken up. What Sunshine went through was so much worse. And she won, anyway. She earned it. She… she…

  “GOD DAMN IT!” Jillian screams. She stops, sinks to her knees, pounds the pavement with both fists. Which, of course, hurts like hell.

  The pain brings her back to her senses. I’m on television, she realizes. Millions of people are watching me.

  Yes, they’re watching me lose, she thinks, as she rises to her feet and trots off toward the stadium.

  But at least they can watch me lose with some dignity.

  6.2.6: Tanami

  If Jillian knew how much trouble Sunshine is having in getting around the track, she might be sprinting instead of sulking.

  When Sunshine emerges from the tunnel, the roar from the crowd nearly knocks her backward. And her tired brain jumps to a conclusion: The rabid cheers mean that the race is over, that she has won. She slows to a stop, relaxes. Someone will come and help me now, won’t they? she wonders. Tell me what to do next? Lead me to the medical tent?

  She looks questioningly at the faces of the nearby race officials, but instead of coming to her assistance, they’re urging her on, gesturing down the track. She’s distressed. No, she thinks, stubbornly. No, I won’t go. I don’t want to run around the track. I’m tired of running, can’t they see that? And she says it out loud: “I’m tired.” But they don’t care. They continue to wave her away. Go, they say, urgently. Go, go.

  She pouts. She stamps her foot. All these people and no one will help her? It’s not fair.

  And only then does the realization filter into her cloudy thoughts. The race isn’t over. She has to run around the track. Then the race will be over. She remembers now. Once around the track. That’s what they said. “Okay,” she says, petulantly, to the demanding officials. “All right already. I’m going. I’m going.”

  But now that she’s allowed her legs to stop, they don’t seem much inclined to start up again. They seem to be rooted to the ground. She lifts one of them. It requires an enormous amount of effort. But then she’s moving, lifting one leg, then the other. And in a few seconds, she’s actually broken into a slow trot. The springiness of the synthetic track is a welcome contrast to the unyielding blacktop on which she has pounded out twenty-six torturous miles. But her legs are unsteady, and they wobble as she trots around the track. She begins to weave from side to side, like a punch-drunk boxer meandering around the ring.

  She’s only dimly aware that her progress is anything but ordinary. I can make it, she keeps telling herself. It’s not far. I’m almost there. I can make it.

  I can make it…

  6.2.7: Tanami

  “I don’t think she’s going to make it, Dave,” Cindi Peet says. She’s risen to her feet in the broadcast booth, and she stares anxiously down at the track, where Sunshine weaves a twisting path toward the finish line. “I don’t think she’s going to make it.”

  “She doesn’t have very far to go, Cindi,” Dave Spivey points out, hopefully. “I know she doesn’t look very good, but she’s come this far, so you’d have to think…”

  Cindi shakes her head. “She’s not going to make it,” she says, her voice a desperate whisper. “Oh, poor Sunshine.”

  “The medics are standing by at the finish line,” Dave says. He glances at Cindi. He’s worried about her. She seems to have become totally absorbed by Sunshine’s pain, and she seems to be tal
king more to herself than to the audience. “I think they’re ready to help her just as soon as she breaks the tape, which will only be a few seconds from now. Listen to the crowd, they’re going crazy… Oh no, she stumbled, but she’s okay, she’s okay, I really thought she was going to fall for a minute there. And now she’s on the final straightaway, and just listen to the crowd, will you? I’ve never heard anything like it. I have to shout just to hear myself talk and I don’t know if you folks at home can hear me at all.”

  “Come on, Sunshine,” Cindi whispers, as her professional impartiality takes flight. “Come on girl, you can do it.”

  “And here she comes,” Dave shouts. “She’s unsteady, but she’s still on her feet, and she’s just about to… Uh-oh, she’s slowing down, she’s almost stopped completely, and she’s so close… There, she’s starting to move forward again. She really gave me quite a start for a moment there, but it looks like she’s… SHE’S DOWN! SUNSHINE O’MALLEY IS DOWN! Oh, no, this is terrible. It didn’t look like she fell. She just sort of sank to her knees, like she just decided that she didn’t want to go on anymore. And now she’s just sitting back on her heels, she’s just sitting there. And she’s so close to the finish line, so close, maybe twenty feet is all. This is amazing. It’s so much like what happened to you, Cindi, it almost looks like an instant replay. Is she okay? What’s going on? People are running around frantically, I can’t tell… Cindi, can you tell what’s going on down there? Cindi?”

  But we seem to have lost Cindi. As Sunshine crumples slowly to her knees, something in Cindi seems to crumple with her. Perhaps what she’s witnessing is just too close to what happened to her all those years ago. Maybe the harmonic vibrations reverberating through the years have shattered the fragile casing she’s constructed around that most painful of memories.

  Whatever it is, Cindi Peet is transfixed in horror. She stands mesmerized, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly open. She’s staring at the drama unfolding down on the track. And slowly, poignantly, without even being aware of it, she reaches out a hand, as if she wants to help, as if maybe she can somehow touch Sunshine from all the way up in the broadcast booth, as if there’s something that she can do that will relieve the suffering of the tragic figure on the track below who sits on her heels not twenty feet from the finish line.

  6.2.8: Tanami

  “MY BABY!”

  Even over the cries and gasps that rifle through the crowd in the stadium, one anguished scream stands out from the rest. It is so loud, so shrill, that it’s picked up by television microphones and broadcast all over the world.

  And here it is again, even louder this time, a powerful voice that seems to echo from the walls of the stadium: “MY BABY!”

  Millions of people all over the world hear that desperate cry. But because the video portion of the transmission is focused on the motionless figure sitting on the track, the viewers at home have no idea about the source of the outburst. And they are not treated to the sight of Corinne O’Malley climbing out of the stands, her prodigious girth rolling over the low railing as she shakes off her husband’s weak attempt at restraint.

  “MY BABY!”

  Corinne seems to have become stuck on that phrase. She repeats it at maximum volume several more times as she lumbers toward her daughter, like a surprisingly large mother bird swooping down to retrieve a fallen chick. “MY BABY! MY BABY!!”

  A few officials grab at her as she rolls by, but she brushes them off. Several other brave officials band together in a foolish attempt to impede her progress, but she is an unstoppable force. Lowering her shoulder, she scatters them like bowling pins. And only a last-minute tackle from behind prevents her from reaching her daughter. Her fingertips actually graze the tape that stretches across the finish line as she crashes ponderously to the track.

  She struggles to her feet, but a dozen security officials converge on her. It’s a fairly even match for a while, but finally, they do seem to have restrained Corinne.

  For now.

  But even though her body has been immobilized, Corinne’s mouth continues to operate at full power. “Let me go!” she screams, as the security men hang on for dear life. “Why doesn’t somebody help her?” Corinne demands. “How can you just let her sit there like that? Call a doctor!”

  And then, suddenly, she breaks. Tears of anger and frustration flow down her cheeks. “You bastards!” she sobs. “You bastards. Please,” she begs, her voice sinking to a desperate moan. “Please, somebody, do something, she’s hurt, she needs help, oh my poor baby, my poor, poor baby…”

  6.2.9: Tanami

  “Miss? Do you need help?”

  Dr. Hysop Harrabi kneels by Sunshine’s side. Of the three physicians in attendance at the finish line, he was hurriedly selected for this delicate task because he has the best command of English, a result of his three years at Columbia University Medical School. It’s not an assignment he relishes. He’s well aware that race physicians have come under fire in recent years for not offering aid quickly enough to fatigued participants in long-distance events. But he also knows that the participants themselves tend to resist such aid.

  “Are you okay?” Dr. Harrabi asks again, as gently as possible, although his gentleness is somewhat diluted by the fact that he has to yell to ensure that Sunshine can hear him over the din.

  “Of course I’m okay,” Sunshine says. She sounds annoyed. “Leave me alone.”

  “Do you require medical assistance?” the doctor persists. Why didn’t I bring my camcorder with me? he berates himself. It would be best to have her responses recorded. She is likely not to recall this exchange later, and she may even deny that she refused to be helped. But how could I have foreseen that something like this would happen?

  “Don’t touch me,” Sunshine orders, crossly. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me disqualified. Get away from me.”

  “Why do you not get up and finish the race?” Dr. Harrabi suspects that he may be overstepping his bounds in his role as physician, but it strikes him as the ideal solution: If Sunshine will get up and finish the race, they can treat her immediately, avoiding any possible controversy. “You are only a few steps from the finish line,” he points out, allowing himself what he feels is only a modest exaggeration.

  “I know where I am,” Sunshine says, derisively. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

  “Then why do you not finish the race?” the doctor pleads again. “It would be…”

  “Because I don’t feel like it, okay?” Sunshine shoots back. “I’m resting. Do you mind? Leave me alone.”

  And so Dr. Harrabi gets to his feet. He shrugs. The girl is not in very good shape. Her eyes are glazed, and she may be in at least a mild state of shock. But she’s moderately coherent. She is, at least, nominally responsive to questions.

  He reaches a quick decision about a course of action. But he’s not going to shoulder the responsibility for the decision by himself. He confers briefly with the other attending physicians, and they quickly agree to his plan. So he walks over to relay his recommendation to the race director – who is, after all, ultimately responsible for the safety of the participants in the race.

  It turns out that the race director is part of the group that has gathered around Corinne O’Malley, trying to calm her down so they can remove her from the track. Corinne, while successfully resisting all attempts to relocate her, has at least not shown any signs of trying to continue her advance.

  “Doctor!” Corinne screams as Dr. Harrabi approaches. She has followed his progress anxiously from the time he conferred with Sunshine, and now she assumes that he’s coming to report to her. “Did you talk to her? How is my baby? Is she alright? What are you going to do? Why aren’t you doing anything?”

  Suddenly, all eyes are on Dr. Harrabi. Instead of the private conference with the race director that he had hoped for, he reluctantly concludes that it’s time for a public announcement. He clears his throat. “Here is what we have decided to do,”
he says…

  6.2.10: Tanami

  “I’ve just received word from down on the track,” Dave Spivey says.

  “The doctor who spoke with Sunshine O’Malley says that she insists that she be allowed to continue the race. He says that she’s quite vehement about it. But she’s still not moving, and they’re obviously extremely concerned about her condition. So what they’ve decided to do is to leave her alone as long as she has any chance for a medal. In other words, as long as there’s still a chance that she could get up and win any medal at all – gold, silver, or bronze – they’re going to go along with her request and leave her alone. But if she loses her chance to medal – if three other women pass her – they’re going to take her off the track for treatment whether she wants to go or not. I suspect that she’ll be upset if it comes to that, but the doctor feels that it’s in her best interest.

  “And look: We may not have to wait very long, because there’s Jill Kendal, she’s running out of the tunnel right now! So it looks like if Sunshine O’Malley doesn’t get to her feet in the next minute or so, Jill Kendal is going to pass her and win the gold medal. And the word from out on the course is that Konuszenka and Patrushkin have left the highway, they’re running down the exit ramp to Olympic Boulevard right now, so we can expect to see both of them here in Tanami Stadium in just a few minutes…”

  6.2.11: Tanami

  Jillian’s very first thought when she runs out of the darkness of the tunnel and into the bright sunlight that floods Tanami Stadium is: What the hell is going on?

  The tunnel leads to the outside of the track on the north end of the stadium. The triathletes circle the track once, finishing the race on the inside of the track just past the point where the tunnel brought them into the stadium in the first place. A barricade – actually about a dozen hurdles lined up end-to-end – separates the runners entering the stadium from those who have encircled the track and are approaching the finish line.