by Susan Wiggs
“Yeah,” she mumbled.
“You mean a riptide?” Camille glared at the coach, who hovered nearby. Hadn’t he been watching? Wasn’t avoiding riptides the first lesson of surf rescue?
“Apparently, yes,” said the doctor. “Coach Swanson was able to bring Julie to shore. At that point, she was unresponsive.”
“Oh my God.” Unresponsive. Camille could not abide the image in her head. “Julie... I don’t understand. How did this happen? You weren’t even supposed to be in surf rescue.” Camille took a breath. “Which we’ll talk about later.”
“Coach Swanson brought her in and performed CPR, and the water she’d aspirated came up. She came around immediately and was brought here for evaluation.”
“So you’re saying my daughter drowned.”
“I got knocked off my board, is all.”
“What? Knocked off? My God—”
“I mean, I fell...” Julie said, her eyes darting around the curtain area.
“The contusion should heal just fine on its own,” Dr. Solvang said.
“What contusion?” Camille wanted to grab the guy by his crisp white lapels and shake him. “She hit her head?” She touched Julie’s chin, looking for the injury amid Julie’s dark salt-encrusted curls. There was a knot at her hairline above one eye. “How did you hit your head?”
Julie’s glance skated away. She lightly touched the damp, salt-crusted hair above her temple.
“We’ve done a neural assessment every ten minutes,” said the nurse. “Everything is normal.”
“Weren’t you wearing a safety cap?” Camille asked. “How did you get a contusion?”
“Mom, I don’t know, okay? It all happened really fast. Do me a favor and stop freaking out.”
Surliness was a new thing with Julie. Camille had started noticing it earlier in the school year. At the moment, her surliness was a hopeful sign. It meant she was feeling normal. “Now what?” Camille asked the doctor. “Are you going to admit her?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No need. The discharge papers are already being prepared.”
She melted a little with relief. “I need a phone. I dashed out of the house without mine, and I need to call my mother.”
Julie indicated her Bethany Bay Barracudas team bag. “You can use mine to call Gram.”
Camille found it and dialed her mother.
“Hey, you,” said Cherisse Vandermeer. “Did school get out early today?”
“Mom, it’s me,” said Camille. “Using Julie’s phone.”
“I thought you would be buried in your darkroom all day.”
The darkroom. Camille had an oh shit moment, but thrust it away in favor of the more immediate matter.
“I’m at the hospital,” Camille told her. “Julie was brought to the ER.”
“Oh, dear heavenly days. Is she all right? What happened?”
“She’s okay. She had an accident in surf rescue class. Just got here myself.”
There was an audible gasp. “I’ll be right over.”
“I’m all right, Gram,” Julie said loudly. “Mom’s freaking out, though.”
Now Camille heard a deep, steadying breath on the other end of the line. “I’m sure it’s going to be all right. I’ll see you there in ten minutes. Did they say what—”
The call dropped. Cell phone signals were iffy this low on the peninsula.
For the first time, Camille took a moment to look around the curtain area. Principal Drake Larson had shown up. Drake—her ex-boyfriend—looked utterly professional in a checked shirt and tie, knife pleats in his pants. But the rings of sweat in his armpits indicated he was anything but calm.
Drake should have been perfect for her, but not long ago, they had mutually decided, like two grown-ups, that their relationship was over. He still called her, though. He kept hinting that he wanted to see her again, and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings by turning him down.
She’d tried for months to find her way into loving Drake. He was a good guy, gentlemanly and kind, nice looking, sincere. Yet despite her efforts, there was no spark, no heart-deep sense that they belonged together. With a sense of defeat, she realized she was never going to get there with him. She was ready to close that short and predictable chapter of her utterly uninteresting love life. Breaking it off with him had been an exercise in diplomacy, since he was the principal of her daughter’s high school.
“So when my daughter was being dragged out to sea in a riptide, where were you?” she demanded, pinning Coach Swanson with an accusatory glare.
“I was on the beach, running drills.”
“How did she hit her head? Did you see how it happened?”
He shuffled his feet. “Camille—”
“So that’s a no.”
“Mom,” said Julie. “I already told you, it was a stupid accident.”
“She didn’t have my permission to be in the program,” Camille said to the coach. Then she turned to Drake. “Who was in charge of verifying the permission slips?”
“Are you saying she didn’t bring one in?” Drake turned to the coach.
“We have one on file,” Swanson said.
Camille glanced at Julie, whose cheeks were now bright red above the cervical collar. She looked embarrassed, but Camille noticed something else in Julie’s eyes—a flicker of defiance.
“How long has this been going on?” Camille asked.
“This was our fourth session,” said the coach. “Camille, I’m so sorry. You know Julie means the world to me.”
“She is my world, and she nearly drowned,” Camille said. Then she regarded Drake. “I’ll call you about the permission slip. All I want is to get my daughter home, okay?”
“What can I do to help?” Drake asked. “Julie gave us all quite a scare.”
Camille had the ugly sense that the words tort liability and lawsuit were currently haunting Drake’s thoughts. “Look,” she said, “I’m not mad, okay? Just scared out of my mind. Julie and I will both feel better once we get home.”
Both men left after she promised to send them an update later. The discharge nurse was going down a list of precautions and procedures when Camille’s mother showed up. “The X-ray shows her lungs are completely clear,” the nurse said. “As a precaution, we’ll want to have a follow-up to make sure she doesn’t develop pneumonia.”
“Pneumonia!” Camille’s mother was in her fifties, but looked much younger. People were constantly saying Camille and Cherisse looked like sisters. Camille wasn’t sure that was a compliment to her. Did it mean she, at thirty-six, looked fifty-something? Or did it mean her fifty-something mom looked thirty-six? “My granddaughter will not come down with pneumonia. I simply won’t let it happen.” Cherisse rushed to the bed and embraced Julie. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re all right.”
“Thanks, Gram,” Julie said, offering a thin, brief smile. “Don’t worry. I’m ready to go home, right?” she asked the nurse.
“Absolutely.” The nurse taped a cotton ball over the crook of her arm, where the IV had been.
“Okay, sweetie,” said Camille’s mom. “Let’s get you home.”
They both helped unstick the circular white pads that had been connected to the monitors. Julie had been given a hospital gown to wear over her swimsuit. Her movements as she got dressed were furtive, almost ashamed as she grabbed her street clothes from her gym bag. Teenagers were famously modest, Camille knew that. Julie took it to extremes. The little fairy girl who used to run around unfettered and unclothed had turned into a surly, secretive teen. “You don’t need to wait for me,” Julie announced. “I can dress myself.”
Camille motioned her mother out into the waiting area.
“I’m ready to go,” Julie said, coming out of the curtain area a few minutes later. She wore an oversized “Surf Bethany” T-shirt and a pair
of jeans that had seen better days. There was a plastic bag labeled Patient Belongings that contained a towel, headgear, glasses, and rash guard. “And just so you know, I’m not going back to school,” she added, her narrow-eyed expression daring them to contradict her.
“All right,” said Camille. “Do we need to stop at school and get your stuff?”
“No,” Julie said quickly. “I mean, can I just go home and rest?”
“Sure, baby.”
“Want me to come?” asked Camille’s mother.
“That’s okay, Gram. Isn’t this your busy day at the shop?”
“Every day is busy at the shop. We’re getting ready for First Thursday Arts Walk. But I’m never too busy for you.”
“It’s okay. Swear.”
“Should I come in later and help?” asked Camille. She and her mother were partners at Ohh-La-La, which, a bustling home goods boutique in the center of the village. Business was good, thanks to locals looking to indulge themselves, and well-heeled tourists from the greater DC area.
“The staff can handle all the prep work. The three of us could have a girls’ night in. How does that sound? We can watch a chick flick and do each other’s nails.”
“Gram. Really. I’m okay now.” Julie edged toward the exit.
Cherisse sighed. “If you say so.”
“I say so.”
Camille put her arm around Julie. “I’ll call you later, Mom. Say hi to Bart from us.”
“You can say it in person,” said a deep male voice. Camille’s stepfather strode over to them. “I came as soon as I got your message.”
“Julie’s okay.” Cherisse gave him a quick, fierce hug. “Thanks for coming.”
Camille wondered what it was like to have an automatic person to call, someone who would drop everything and rush to your side.
He gathered Julie into his arms, enfolding her in a bear hug. The salt air and sea mist still clung to him. He was an old-school waterman who had a fleet of skipjack boats, plying the waters of the Chesapeake for the world’s tastiest oysters. Tall, fair-haired and good-looking, he’d been married to Cherisse for a quarter century. He was a few years younger than Camille’s mom, and though Camille loved him dearly, Papa owned her heart.
After the bear hug, he held Julie arm’s-length. “Now. What kind of mischief did you get yourself into?”
They walked together toward the exit. “I’m okay,” Julie said yet again.
“She got caught in a riptide,” Camille said.
“My granddaughter?” Bart scratched his head. “No. You know what a riptide is. You know how to avoid it. I’ve seen you in the water. You’ve been swimming like a blue marlin ever since you were a tadpole. They say kids born out here have webbed feet.”
“Guess my webbed feet failed me,” Julie muttered. “Thanks for coming.”
In the parking lot they parted ways. As Julie got into the car, Camille watched her mother melt against Bart, surrendering all her worries into his big, generous embrace. Seeing them caused a flicker of envy deep in her heart. She was happy for her mother, who had found such a sturdy love with this good man, yet at the same time, that happiness only served to magnify Camille’s own loneliness.
“Let’s go, kiddo,” she said, putting the car in gear.
Julie stared silently out the window. She chewed her thumbnail, a habit she’d taken up recently. Camille resisted the urge to correct her. The kid had endured a bad day and didn’t need any more nagging.
She took a deep breath, not knowing how to deal with this. “Jules, I honestly don’t want to stifle you.”
“And I honestly don’t want to have to forge your signature on permission slips,” Julie said softly. “But I wanted this really bad.”
She’d been blind to her daughter’s wishes, she thought with a stab of guilt. Even when Julie had pleaded with her to take surf rescue, she’d refused to hear.
“I thought it would be fun,” Julie said. “I’m a good swimmer. Dad would have wanted me in surf rescue.”
“He would have,” Camille admitted. “But he would have been furious about you going behind my back. Listen, if you want, I can work with you on surf rescue. I was pretty good at it in my day.”
“Oh, yay. Let’s homeschool me so people think I’m even more of a freak.”
“No one thinks you’re a freak,” said Camille.
Julie shot her a look. “Right.”
“Okay, who thinks you’re a freak?”
“Try everyone in the known world.”
“Jules—”
“I just want to do the class, Mom, like everyone else. Not have you teach me. It’s nice of you to offer, but that’s not what I want, even though you were a champ back in your day. Gram showed me the pictures in the paper.”
Camille remembered the triumphant photo from the Bethany Bay Beacon years ago. She had big hair, railroad track braces and a grin that wouldn’t quit. She knew taking the course was not just about the skills. Surf rescue was such a strong tradition here, and the group experience was part of the appeal. She remembered the end of the course, sitting around a bonfire and telling stories with her friends. She remembered looking around the circle of fire glow, seeing all those familiar faces, and there was such a feeling of contentment and belonging. At that moment, she’d thought, I’ll never have friends like this again. I’ll never have a moment like this again.
Now she had to wonder if she was robbing her own daughter of the same kind of moment.
“Your mom let you do the class,” Julie said. “She let you do everything. I’ve seen the pictures of you surfing and mountain biking and climbing. You never do any of that stuff anymore. You never do anything anymore.”
Camille didn’t reply. That had been a different life. Before. The Camille from before had grabbed life by the fistful, regarding the world as one giant thrill ride. She had thrown herself into sports, travel, adventure, the unknown—and the greatest adventure of all had been Jace. When she’d lost him, that was when after began. After meant caution and timidity, fear and distrust. It meant keeping a wall around herself and everything she cared about, not allowing anything or anyone in to upset her hard-won balance.
“So, about that permission slip,” Camille said.
Julie lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m sorry.”
“If I wasn’t so scared by the accident, I’d be furious with you right now.”
“Thanks for not being furious.”
“I’m going to be later, probably. My God, Julie. There’s a reason I didn’t want you to take the class. And I guess you found out today what that reason was—it’s too dangerous. Not to mention the fact that you shouldn’t be sneaking around behind my back, forging my signature—”
“I wouldn’t have done it if you’d just let me take the class like a normal kid. You never let me do anything. Ever.”
“Come on, Jules.”
“I kept asking, and you didn’t even hear me, Mom. I really wanted to do the course, same as you did when you were my age. I just want a chance to try—”
“You took that chance today, and look how that turned out.”
“In case you’re wondering, which you’re probably not, I did great at the first three sessions. I was really good, one of the best in the class, according to Coach Swanson.”
Camille felt another twinge of guilt. How could she explain to her daughter that Julie wasn’t allowed to try something Camille had been so good at?
After a few minutes of silence, Julie said, “I want to keep going.”
“What?”
“In surf rescue. I want to keep going to the class.”
“Out of the question. You went behind my back—”
“And I’m sorry I did that, Mom. But now that you know, I’m asking you straight up to let me finish the class.”
“After today?�
�� Camille said, “You ought to be grounded for life.”
“I have been grounded for life,” Julie muttered. “Ever since Dad died, I’ve been grounded for life.”
Camille pulled off the road, slamming the car into Park alongside a vast, barren salt meadow. “What did you say?”
Julie tipped up her chin. “You heard. That’s why you pulled over. All I’m saying is, after Dad died, you stopped letting me have a normal life because you keep thinking something awful is going to happen again. I never get to go anywhere or do anything. I haven’t even been on an airplane in five years. And now all I want is to take surf rescue like everybody else does. I wanted to be good at one thing.” Julie’s chin trembled and she turned away to gaze out the window and the swaying grasses and blowing afternoon clouds.
“You’re good at so many things,” Camille said.
“I’m a fat loser,” Julie stated. “And don’t say I’m not fat because I am.”
Camille felt ill. She’d been blind to what Julie wanted. Was she a terrible mother for being overprotective? Was she letting her own fears smother her daughter? By withholding her permission to take surf rescue, she’d forced Julie to go behind her back.
“I don’t want to hear you talking about yourself that way,” she said gently, tucking a strand of Julie’s dark, curly hair behind her ear.
“That’s right, you don’t,” Julie said. “That’s why you’re always busy working at the shop or in your darkroom. You stay busy all the time so you don’t have to hear about my gross life.”
“Jules, you don’t mean that.”
“Fine, whatever. I don’t mean it. Can we go home?”
Camille took a deep breath, trying not to feel the places where Julie’s words had dug in. Was it true? Did she throw herself into her work so she didn’t have to think about why she was still single after all these years or why she harbored a manic fear that something awful would happen to those she loved? Yikes. “Hey, sweetie, let’s do each other a favor and talk about something else.”