Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  As Jillian runs along this makeshift fence, she sees Sunshine sitting on the track. Then she sees the gaggle of officials hovering nearby. Then she sees Corinne O’Malley being restrained by several large men…

  And then she sees it, and her focus zooms in on it like a laser. The tape. It’s still stretched across the finish line. It’s unbroken, pristine. It’s rippling in the light breeze that swirls through the stadium.

  Although exactly what is happening is far from clear, one thing is certain: The race is not over. The finish line has not been crossed. Sunshine has not won – not yet, anyway. I still have a chance to win! she exults. Sunshine quit, just like I knew she would!

  I can still do it!

  And so she marshals her strength and picks up her pace for the all-or-nothing quarter-mile dash around the track to the finish line. She glances over at Sunshine, who just sits there on her heels, her legs bent under her, her hands crossed on her thighs, her head hanging down. She looks comfortable.

  Why is Sunshine just sitting there? Jillian doesn’t know, and she doesn’t much care. All she knows is that she’s been given a totally unexpected chance to recover from what looked like certain defeat.

  Just once around the track, Jillian tells herself. And if Sunshine’s still sitting on her heels when I get there, she thinks, I’ll just zoom past her and I’ll add another gold medal to my trophy case.

  Corinne O’Malley cups her hands over her mouth and screams this at Jillian as she flies past: “HURRY UP!”

  And because she doesn’t know that Corinne is desperate for three women to finish the race so Sunshine can be carted off to the hospital, Jillian has no idea why Corinne shouts this at her back as she zooms on down the track: “HURRY UP, GODDAMN IT! MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS!”

  6.2.12: Tanami

  But as Jillian speeds around the track on her way to her historic victory, strange thoughts begin to creep into her mind.

  At first, they hover below the level of her consciousness, so dim that she’s aware only of their distant stirrings. But then they squirm their way into the realm of her awareness.

  As soon as she’s conscious of them, she tries to suppress them.

  But they refuse to be driven out.

  Thoughts like: What a shame. She came so close.

  And: After all she’s been through, to run such an incredible race and not win…

  And: The girl has an enormous amount of natural talent, you gotta give her that.

  As she rounds the final turn and leans into the homestretch, as the shouts from the crowd become so loud that she can barely think at all, this thought forces its way to the surface:

  It’s not fair.

  It’s just not fair.

  Sunshine proved that she can do it. She showed everyone that she’s the best. But because she ran out of steam just a few lousy feet short of the goddamn tape, her name won’t go into the record books. Nobody will ever know who she was. She won’t get that scholarship. She won’t get a chance to make something of her life. And she has no life to go back to, her whole world’s been torn apart. She has nothing, nothing at all.

  If she hadn’t been through so much, she would have won the race. All the things that she’s gone through, each one took a little bit out of her, until there just wasn’t anything left. If she hadn’t been through so much…

  If she hadn’t done so much for me…

  Jillian slows to a trot. It isn’t fair, she tells herself again. It’s just not fair.

  By the time she passes Sunshine, she has slowed to a brisk walk. There’s no longer any need to run. Nobody’s chasing her. No other runners have even entered the stadium.

  She stares down at Sunshine, just sitting there on the track. If Sunshine even notices Jillian’s presence, she gives no outward sign.

  Jillian shakes her head. There’s nothing I can do about it, she tells herself. That’s just the way things work out. It’s not my problem.

  And so she begins to stroll the final few yards to the tape that stretches across the track, patiently awaiting yet another Jillian Kendal victory.

  It’s not my problem, she reminds herself.

  It’s not my goddamn problem!

  But it wasn’t Sunshine’s problem when I was trapped in a burning house, was it? And she came in after me, didn’t she? And it wasn’t Sunshine’s problem when… when that animal wanted to rape me, was it? But she went to him instead, didn’t she? Even though it wasn’t her problem.

  And now Jillian is only a few feet from the tape…

  …and her arm is stretched out in front of her…

  …and she’s prepared to secure her victory with one flip of her hand…

  …and the tips of her fingers are only inches from the tape, no more than that, a few inches of daylight is all that separates her from another gold medal…

  “Come on!” Corinne screams at her from the other side of the tape. She’s struggling, and four large men seem barely to be able to hold her in place. “What are you waiting for? FINISH THE GODDAMN RACE!”

  Jillian stops. Her arm falls to her side.

  Looking into the crowd, she catches the eye of Jago Danziger, who is standing several rows behind the railing. He’s furious. He clearly cannot understand the reason for her delay. He’s gesticulating wildly, frantically signaling her to cross the finish line.

  And there’s her father. G.W. isn’t moving at all, he stares back at her, his face a big question mark. What are you going to do, Jillian? he seems to be asking. What are you going to do?

  God damn it.

  It is my problem.

  It is my fucking problem.

  She throws her arms into the air in frustration. Her fingers nearly graze the tape, almost winning the race by accident. She stomps the ground, curses furiously. “It’s not fair,” she says, to no one in particular. “It’s not goddamn fair!”

  And then she knows what she has to do.

  Spinning on her heels, she marches angrily back to where Sunshine sits on the track. Being careful not to touch her, Jillian kneels by her side.

  “Goddamn it, Sunshine,” Jillian says. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  At first, she thinks that Sunshine is not going to respond. Jesus, she thinks, this girl’s in bad shape. She needs a doctor.

  But then, in the tiniest voice, barely moving her lips, Sunshine says, “Leave me alone.”

  Well, that’s a good sign.

  “Sunshine, listen to me. If you don’t get up and move your ass right now…”

  And then there’s a roar from the crowd, and even though Jillian tries to ignore it, she knows what it is, but she has to look up to confirm it.

  Olga and Marta. They’ve entered the stadium. In a flash, they take it all in. They look at Jillian, they look at Sunshine, they look at the tape, they notice that it’s intact.

  They begin to sprint.

  Oh, shit, Jillian thinks. This isn’t going to work.

  “Sunshine,” she pleads, “you’ve got to get up. You’re going to lose the race, don’t you understand that? You’re going to lose!”

  Slowly, painfully slowly, Sunshine looks up. Her eyes are open, but they’re dead. Nobody’s home.

  “Sunshine, it’s me, Jill. Don’t you recognize me?”

  “I know who you are.” Her voice is flat, hollow. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

  “Sunshine, if you can’t walk, just crawl across the goddamn finish line.”

  “I’m not going to crawl for you or anybody else,” Sunshine says. So there.

  “Sunshine, listen to me.” Jillian wants to grab her and shake her, but she knows that that might be interpreted as illegal assistance, and it might disqualify both of them. Better not to touch her at all. “Sunshine, if you quit right now, you’ll never…”

  “I didn’t quit,” Sunshine says. She sticks her chin impudently into the air. “I’m resting.”

  What was that? Was that a spark of life in her eyes? Was it something I said?

&
nbsp; “Don’t give me that bullshit,” Jillian says, and she does not have to feign her anger. “You’re just flat out quitting, and you know it.”

  “I am not.”

  “You’ve come this far, you’re so goddamn close, and now you’re just gonna throw it all away, you’re just going to quit right here.”

  “I am not!”

  “Because you’re nothing but a goddamn quitter, you know that?”

  “That’s not true.” It’s a whisper, no more, but an aggrieved one, and there’s a definite flash in her eyes, a sign of life.

  “Oh yes you are, you’re a quitter, you’ve…”

  “No…”

  “… you’ve always been a quitter and you’ll…”

  “No…”

  “… you’ll always be a quitter, because you’re…”

  “No…”

  Her denials are gaining in strength.

  Jillian, inches away from her face, begins to shout at her: “Because you’re nothing but a goddamn quitter and you’ll never be anything but a goddamn quitter BECAUSE THAT’S ALL YOU ARE YOU’RE JUST A QUITTER DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A…”

  “NNNNNOOOOOOOO!” The howl seems to escape from the depths of Sunshine’s soul. And again: “NNNNNOOOOOOOO!”

  The stadium goes quiet. Everyone is standing. Everyone is straining to hear what will happen next.

  “Then prove it,” Jillian says, contemptuously. “Get up.”

  “I’ll show you, you… you…” Sunshine can’t seem to think of a word that’s horrible enough to describe Jillian. “I’ll show you,” she says again.

  And she starts to climb to her feet.

  “Move it!” Jillian is desperate. Marta and Olga are closing in. “Faster, move faster, goddamn it!”

  And then Sunshine is standing up, unsteadily, but at least she’s standing. All she has to do is walk to the tape, but for some reason she’s trying to run. It looks like she’s running in slow motion. Her arms are pumping, her legs are moving, she looks like she’s running, but her forward progress is infuriatingly slow.

  And then someone in the crowd breaks the silence: “Come on, Sunshine!” And then suddenly everyone is yelling her name, and it picks up a rhythm and it turns into a chant: “Sunshine! Sunshine!” It shakes the stadium. “SUNSHINE! SUNSHINE! SUNSHINE!”

  But Olga and Marta are closing in.

  It’s going to be close.

  Jillian is walking right behind Sunshine, she’s screaming into her ear. “MOVE YOUR ASS!” she yells. “Can’t you go any faster? Hurry up, God damn it! MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS!”

  She can hear the footsteps pounding behind her, she can feel Marta and Olga breathing down her neck as she follows Sunshine to the tape…

  “MOVE IT! FASTER! GODDAMN YOU, YOU BETTER WIN THIS FUCKING RACE! MOVE! FASTER!”

  And as Sunshine inches ever closer to the finish line, Jillian is right behind her, yelling into her ear. And now Sunshine could simply reach out and touch the tape, but instead she spreads her arms wide, pushes her chest forward, assuming the classic tape-breaking posture…

  But she’s still moving in devastatingly slow motion…

  And now there are only inches to go…

  6.2.13: Tanami

  “IT’S GOING TO BE CLOSE!” Dave Spivey is screaming. Is it so he can be heard over the roar of the crowd? Or is it simply because he’s caught up in the excitement? Hard to tell.

  Cindi Peet, standing beside him, is quiet. But her lips are moving. Perhaps she’s saying a silent prayer?

  “IT’S GOING TO BE CLOSE!” Dave shouts again.

  “IT’S GOING TO BE A PHOTO FINISH…”

  6.2.14: Tanami

  CLICK!

  The lightning-fast shutter of the computer-controlled ultra-high-resolution automatic camera blinks as Sunshine O’Malley breaks the plane of the finish line and falls into her mother’s smothering embrace.

  CLICK!

  Sixteen hundredths of a second later, the camera records Marta Konuszenka crossing the finish line and winning a silver medal.

  CLICK!

  At almost the same instant, the camera determines that Olga Patrushkin has earned a bronze medal by finishing the race only four thousandths of a second behind her compatriot.

  CLICK!

  Noticed by no one but the omniscient camera, Jillian Kendal strolls dejectedly across the finish line. Almost as an afterthought, she has finished fourth.

  Transition

  Book 6: Transformation

  Part 3:

  Victory

  6.3.1: Tanami

  Fifteen seconds later, when the results are posted, the crowd – which has been chanting Sunshine’s name continuously since the conclusion of the race – breaks out in thunderous applause. Complete strangers turn and hug each other. In the cheap seats, people begin to clap and dance.

  Jillian sees the results as they flash onto the screen. She closes her eyes. Thank God. It was worth it. If that had all been for nothing, it would have been too much to bear.

  She’s drained. Jago is going to be furious, she thinks. As far as he’s concerned, I just threw a race. He’ll never understand. And how will I explain it to Daddy?

  Might as well get it over with.

  She walks over to the railing, not looking up until she reaches it. There they stand, G.W. and Barbara Anne, they’ve apparently worked their way down to meet her.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” she says, softly.

  “Sorry?” G.W. is taken aback.

  Barbara Anne recovers first. “I’m very proud of you, dear,” she says, quietly. “We both are. You’re a very, very brave girl. And I’m very proud that you’re my daughter.” Her voice cracks. She seems to be near tears.

  “Oh, mother,” Jillian says, in a small voice. She reaches up and touches Barbara Anne’s face. Barbara Anne presses her daughter’s hand to her cheek. “Thank you,” Jillian says. And then again: “Thank you.”

  G.W., wise old buzzard that he is, says not a word.

  6.3.2: Tanami

  She senses, rather than hears, the stirring behind her.

  She pulls away from her mother and slowly turns around.

  And there, fifty feet away, staring back at her, stands Sunshine O’Malley. Dozens of people are scurrying back and forth between them, but to Jillian it’s suddenly as if she and Sunshine are the only two people in the stadium.

  It’s remarkable that Sunshine is standing at all. When he was finally able to pry her loose from her mother’s grip, Dr. Harrabi had lain her gingerly down on a stretcher and started to attach tubes to her arms. Sunshine had weakly but firmly pushed them away. When she tried to rise from the stretcher, the anxious doctor had attempted to restrain her, but she was insistent, and he had, reluctantly, allowed her to stand up. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she had promised.

  And now she stands, trembling, and stares at Jillian.

  Hesitantly, she begins to walk forward.

  At the same time, Jillian starts to walk toward her.

  The crowd, which has just started to settle back into its seats, begins to notice what’s going on. All over the stadium, people are pointing, nudging each other, look, look….

  And then the two women are standing face to face. There’s an awkward pause. Sunshine looks at the ground, then she looks back up at Jillian, at a loss for words.

  Jillian reaches out and pushes a few strands of damp red hair from Sunshine’s face. She laughs. “God, you’re a mess,” she says.

  And then Sunshine throws her arms around Jillian’s neck, and she’s sobbing, softly, and Jillian is soothing her, stroking her hair.

  And all over the stadium, people are rising to their feet, and the applause is building to a deafening crescendo, and it goes on and on and on…

  About the author

  Henry Charles Mishkoff (HCM@DeerfieldAddison.com) was born in New York City but has spent more than half of his life in Texas. (He claims that he stays in Texas because he likes the BBQ and the chi
cken-fried steak, but he admits that he misses the cheesecake and the egg creams.) He lives in Dallas with his girlfriend of thirty years and his wife of five years – who, fortunately for all concerned, are the same person.

  Mishkoff has completed two sprint-distance triathlons, for which he had to train for months, and from which he required several days to recuperate. So he’s impressed with people who are hardy enough to participate in Olympic-distance triathlons. And he’s in awe of people who are brave, talented, and tenacious enough to compete in Ironman-distance triathlons.

  Mishkoff is the author of two computer-related non-fiction books and a collection of short stories. Transition is his first novel.

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