The Flight of the Scarlet Tanager

Chapter One

The Oregon Coast - August 14th

Excerpt from The Flight of the Scarlet Tanager, written by Edward Morris, St. Martin’s Press, 2009, pg. 3: The scarlet tanager, Piranga olivacea, is an American tanager, any of numerous songbirds of the New World family Thraupidae. In particular, the scarlet tanager is an example of one of the most striking and vibrant specimens, with its bright red coloring with black wings and tail. For the average bird enthusiast, or even the typical hiker or individual sitting on the back porch, it remains fairly common a sight, despite its glorious markings, and outrageous contrast to typical New England greenery...

Carlton Edward Tully, commonly known as Carl, was having a grand time. At age thirty-three, with a cute wife named Tess, and two exuberant children, Carl Jr., seven, and Angelica, six, he was on his first real vacation. With the family in tow he had flown from El Paso, Texas, to Portland, Oregon, rented a car, and made a determined trek to the ocean. Not only had he never seen the ocean before, but neither had his children. And he had brought along what he privately considered his most prized possession. Life was good.

He abruptly changed his mind. Life wasn’t good. It was great.

His most prized possession was clutched in his hands like a newborn baby, valued and deeply loved. It was a brand new, glossy, silver-colored JVC Mini-DV Camcorder, with its lens glinting in the bright morning light, and its battery packs fully charged, ready and able to film whatever struck his fancy. It had its own case, which was strapped across Carl’s back, and zipped securely so components didn’t go spilling to the ground, while he was shooting what he thought might very well be the most splendid moments of his adult life. And Carl hadn’t even noticed that Tess had reached the point where she was resisting the urge to jerk the camcorder out of her husband’s hands and cheerfully toss it over the cliffs into the swelling and careening blue-green waves.

This was the thing of Carl’s dreams. A real vacation. A real camcorder. Beautiful August weather, and the ocean. As brilliantly turquoise as the fictitious seas of any movie he’d ever wistfully watched and consequently envied. The smell of brine on the winds tantalized his nostrils. The sound of water moving swiftly through the channel below them into the bay, crashing against the rocks, was music to his ears. It was twice as good as any movie he’d ever seen.

He focused the camera on the two-lane bridge they stood near. Made of rock and stone like a prop out of one of those movies he loved to watch, it spanned an ocean-filled channel bordered by rugged rock cliffs. Fifty years old and more, the bridge allowed highway 101 to slide across the tiny town of Sullivan’s Bay so that a million tourists could drive the length and breadth of the Pacific Northwest coastline. They could wonder at the exquisite beaches, magical rock formations, and the marvel that was the Pacific Ocean.

On one side of the bridge the sea was wide and blue, boundless and mysterious, drifting innocuously and vanishing wistfully into the horizon. On the other side was a tiny bay, carved by nature out of volcanic stone, a perfect shelter for fishermen and tourists alike. On the north side of the bridge, where Carl was perched on a stone wall connected to the bridge, he panned back and showed that the town’s main drag was a series of antique stores and ocean-related collectibles. In one shop a tourist could buy a menagerie of kites of every size and shape to fly in the strong winds of the Pacific Ocean. In another one could purchase postcards of Cannon Rock near Astoria or a close up of the sea lions sunning themselves off the rocks near the Sea Lion Caves or spectacular shots of every phenomenal mountain in the Cascade Range.

Carl smiled to himself as he brought the camera about. Every part of Oregon inspired the hidden poet in him. It was as different from El Paso as night is to day, from the moisture in the air to the moderate temperature that required a light jacket in the morning spray that blew in off the brisk face of the ocean. He brought the camcorder about again and focused on the face of his wife, who was tapping her foot lightly.

Tess smiled grimly at him and reached out to yank Angelica away from the edge of the bridge where she had been staring into the breaking swells that pounded between the narrow walls underneath highway 101. You could watch our children, too. Carl, she remarked.

But sweetums, he protested idly, fiddling endlessly with his elaborate tinker toy. I’ve got the camcorder on.

No shit, she muttered but he had already turned away, focusing on crowds of people lining the streets of Sullivan’s Bay. Some basked in the sunlight. Some peered over the walls of the ocean break at the surf that eternally ate away at the rock, forming Byzantine shapes that whirled and circled and dripped with ocean debris. Others shopped in interminable stores, content to spend their vacations simply near the ocean.

No shit! screamed Angelica and Tess winced. She caught the eye of another mother who shrugged sympathetically and went to tug her similarly aged son away from the bridge’s walls before he could tumble into the chasm below.

Tess found her other child, Carl, Jr., avidly watching the young woman who was taking in money for tickets to a whale watching tour. The young woman’s hair was the color of red that no one ever would be fooled into thinking was natural, and Tess thought, Maybe that’s the point. Scarlet spiked hair that had been accomplished through the expedient use of excessive hair gel and a powerful blow dryer could only be an attention grabber. She also had a glittering diamond stud in the side of her nose and an obtrusive gold ring that twinkled at the crook of her eyebrow.

Having just finished buying tickets from the very same woman, Tess couldn’t help a little flinch when she saw the eyebrow ring. Then the young mother glanced down at Carl, Jr.’s absorbed face. She knew he wasn’t interested in the young woman as a woman, although clearly she was attractive. Her clear gray eyes, trim figure, and finely shaped face were all appealing, even if she had caked on makeup with a trowel. But what the seven year old did find thought provoking and unceasingly fascinating was the scarlet colored hair and facial jewelry.

Tess called to her husband, Carl, let your son take some shots. She smiled to herself, sure that she had managed a coup d’état, felling two birds with one solitary and well-aimed stone. Anything to get that camcorder out of his hands. He’s carrying it into the bathroom with him when we stop for breaks, for God’s sake. People were hurrying out of rest stops like he had propositioned them in the bathroom. She knew she was going to have to edit the film judiciously before any of her relatives could see it, much less her own children.

Carl eyed his son suspiciously, as if by handing the boy the camera he was giving away part of his own soul. Tess was relieved that he reluctantly allowed the boy have the camera and thus averted Carl, Jr.’s attention from possibly asking for a diamond stud for his nose for a Christmas gift this year. She could hear the kid’s words as if they had already been spoken, But Ma, that lady at the beach had one!

His father busied himself with instructing his son on the intricacies of the camcorder. Tess tuned it out as she surveyed the scene about her, waiting for the whale watching boat to begin boarding for their trip. Carl’s voice droned, It’s got a 3.5 view screen, and a color viewfinder with a 250X zoom feature. Basically it’s a digital camcorder and we can hook this bad boy up to your computer and do all the editing ourselves. We can even add music...

Like Seether? asked Carl, Jr., enthusiastically.

Uh, maybe, said Dad doubtfully.

Hell, no, added Tess silently.

Look, the birds, cried Angelica.

Carl, Jr. focused obediently on the birds, landing near the tide pools where the ground was marshy. These birds with their distinctive extended beaks fought off a couple of large gulls for the prime real estate. The gulls moved closer to where a group of people were throwing bits of bread out to them, shrieking like a marauding horde of Mongol invaders. The young boy centered on the more unusual birds and framed them properly in the LCD window of the camcorder.

Long-billed Dowitchers, said Tess. The snipe-like bird was considered a shorebird, using its long bill to probe in marshy areas of land for food. See the long bills.

Her family turned to her with blank looks on their faces as if she had announced she was an alien from Planet X. Tess shrugged. I was watching the Discovery Channel last night. It’s got a dark band on the tail that makes the white part more conspicuous. It breeds on the tundra in northwest Alaska. They still looked blank. Well, I thought it was interesting.

After a few moments of filming the birds Carl, Jr. lost interest in the camcorder and turned it back over to his father. Carl gave Tess a triumphant glance that clearly signaled the winner of that particular squabble over parental techniques.

Tess merely wrinkled her nose delicately. The sea had a certain smell, after all.

Carl went back to being an amateur film director, intent on filming his own private Blair Witch Project and there wasn’t a haunted wood or a witch in sight. He even narrated as he focused in on things that interested him, Young boy doing a balancing act on the bridge’s wall. Pissed off mama yanking him off. He turned away, after the blonde haired mother had secured her child, saving him from certain death, and continued his private monologue, "Young woman with flame-red hair in spikes selling tickets so the masses can witness heaving leviathans in their natural oceanic glory. Has more make-up on than a group of transvestites at a Rocky Horror Picture Show showing at midnight. He moved a little as he zoomed in on the eyebrow ring. Ouch. Then he moved back to the bridge. The whale watching boat called the Mary Celeste was coming back in, its bow moving up and down with the undulation and rise of the choppy sea. Mary Celeste," he chortled, happy to have gotten someone’s idea of a morbid joke, and then lifted his eye from the viewfinder for a moment to see if his wife had gotten the joke.

Tess had not. She had seen the small ship bobbing up and down in the water and turned green. She was digging through her purse for Dramamine.

A slew of people moved a little closer to watch the ship come through the passage, lining up against the stone railing of the two-lane bridge. Carl captured the ship squarely in his viewfinder, and the camcorder bobbed up and down in time with it. The ship passed under the bridge with a group of people on the bow waving up at those watching from the bridge above them. The ship caused waves to pound furiously against the jagged rock cliffs below, and the spray found its way up to the audience above.

As the Mary Celeste passed under his feet, Carl turned to follow the people as they gathered to go down the stairs to the ship’s wharf, but a movement out of the corner of his eye stopped him. Young boy again. Just about Angel’s age. Same kid. Determined and ready to do a nose dive off the side of the bridge. Carl stopped, lifting his head, looking for the mother who had yanked him off the side of the bridge not two minutes before. He caught sight of her yellow hair as she queued up for the whale watching tour. He turned his head back and saw the bright blue jacket of the six-year-old boy slip over the side of the bridge.

HEY! yelled Carl.

Later, people would ask Carl if he had made the decision to just film the tragedy instead of going to the boy’s rescue. But the truth was more simple that all of that. He’d forgotten that he had the camera. In fact, he wasn’t even sure for a moment that he had seen what he had seen, much less that he had filmed it all on his camcorder. It shouldn’t have happened. It couldn’t have happened. The boy, with hair as fair as corn silk, and a mischievous glint in his determined eyes, had climbed onto the bridge’s wide stone partitions, and slipped off.

Carl held the camcorder in his hands, not even daring to move for a moment, not believing that someone could take their eyes off their children long enough for such a terrible thing to happen. Not a minute before he had looked down off the bridge into the narrow crevasse with thundering, breaking waves and known that it was fifty feet or more down to the surface of the water.

For a little boy who probably weighed not even fifty pounds it might as well been a thousand feet. If he hadn’t hit the rocks on the side, then he had gone into the water, that chilled Pacific Ocean water, which could make flesh as cold as ice within minutes, and which people were warned against swimming even in the middle of summer. How a little boy could live through the fall, much less exist in the frigid waters?

Time paused as all these things roared through Carl’s mind at the speed of light. There wasn’t sound, there wasn’t wind, there wasn’t the smell of brine, there was only the side of the bridge and the faint afterimage of the brightly colored windbreaker of a boy. Then with a roaring rush of sensation it abruptly resumed. There was another blur of movement from beside him as someone moved past him, leaping fluidly onto the bridge abutment as if it were only two feet high.

Carl couldn’t have said that happened for sure, except that he still had the camcorder pointed in that direction and caught every bit of it on tape. It was the young woman who had been selling tickets in the whale watching booth. Her scarlet colored hair was like a beacon as she moved unhesitatingly to the side of the bridge. She didn’t look back. She didn’t look at Carl’s camera. She didn’t scream for help. She didn’t do anything except what she must have felt she had to do. She moved to the bridge, gracefully attained the side of the wall with a jump an athlete might have envied, and looked down below her for about two seconds before she made an elegant dive into the tempestuous waters below.

The only noise that Carl seemed to hear was the gasp that emanated out of his own mouth. He moved forward and leaned over the bridge in time to capture the young woman’s descent into the water. And then he found his voice, Hey! Help! Help! Someone’s gone over the side!

Behind him there was an appalled scream as the yellow-haired mother discovered that her son had suddenly vanished and people were charging to the other side of the bridge to see what was happening. A group of people crushed against the wall and there was the sound of an automobile horn as the bridge was abruptly blocked by foot traffic.

Carl caught sight of the young woman in the water below. The tide must have been moving out to sea because her wet red hair was already twenty feet away from where she had gone into the water. She was sputtering water and fighting to keep her head up, clearly in some trouble. But she cast her head about wildly and caught sight of something under the water that the people from above couldn’t see. Then she went ass over teakettle into the blue-green water and her feet kicked once at the surface.

There had been a mutter of words behind Carl as he kept the camera’s LCD window trained on where the young woman had disappeared. Water churned by the constricted cliffs and the pressure of the tide forcing it out to sea made it impossible to see what was happening. A long moment passed. There was a ship’s whistle that blared loudly in the bay behind them.

Someone said, Someone’s going out after them. Looks like that same ship that just came in.

Get out of the FUCKING way! screamed someone and a large woman parted the crowd like Moses had parted the Red Sea. Carl recognized her as another worker for the whale watching booth, taking tickets on one side while the scarlet haired young woman had done the same thing on the booth’s other window. She cleared the area with her not-inconsiderable bulk, swung her arm back and threw a life preserver out as far as she could. Its round shape sliced through the air, making a noise like a Frisbee, and came within feet of where the young woman had vanished under the water.

Another moment passed. Carl began to think that neither one of the two were going to make it back. The young boy and the young woman who had tried to rescue him. Neither was going to return to the surface and a special ship with special equipment was going to have to drag the turbulent ocean bottom for their bodies. If they ever were found.

Ah, Jesus Christ, muttered Carl and he almost put the camcorder down. Almost.

With an explosion of water that spiraled into the air like an erupting underwater volcano the young woman broke the surface. A loud gasp of air effused from her mouth as she sucked in air that she so desperately needed and filled her lungs to capacity.

There was a similar gasp from the people watching above.

The young woman with the mop of red hair the same color as a clown’s nose held the boy in her arms. One of her slender arms snaked around his neck and held his head above the water so that he wouldn’t drown. He was spewing water from his mouth and his little body was shaking.

Even while a cheer went through the crowd, Carl was grinning ear to ear.

The young woman took a few strokes to the life preserver and hooked her other arm around it. Then she glanced over her shoulder and waited for the Mary Celeste to launch its life raft.

Not sixty seconds later the little boy was lifted from her arms and then one of the men on the ship firmly grasped her forearms and pulled her out. There wasn’t a person watching who didn’t realize that she was bleeding from her forehead and that she was favoring her left side as if her ribs might be broken.

The boy’s mother was crying as she watched from the side of the bridge and the large woman who had thrown the life preserver tapped her on her shoulder, saying, Let me take you down to the dock, so you can meet him when it pulls up.

Carl took the opportunity and followed the pair as they made their way down a long set of stairs that twisted and wound its way to the surface of the bay, where the docks gently bumped against the buildings below counting on old tires tied to the sides to cushion the repeated blows.

The Mary Celeste expertly pulled up to the wooden wharf and one of the men aboard carried the slight form of the boy, concealed in blankets, to his mother. She rushed to him, tears streaming down her face, and Carl made a little noise in his throat.

Then the young woman was carried off on the stretcher, her eyes closed, and her trim body strapped to the stretcher. Carl’s last shot of the young woman was as she passed. He focused squarely on her head. The relentless sea had washed off every bit of makeup and left the innocent face of a child. Wet hair was darkened from scarlet to a more normal looking color, leaving no more spikes or even a trace of hair gel. Only the diamond stud and eyebrow ring were left to testify of her previous appearance.

The paramedics carried her up the stairs and Carl finally put his camcorder down. He looked back and saw a third man examining the little boy. After a moment the man said, Looks like he’s got some bruises, but I think God was watching after drunks and little children today.

Thank God. Thank God. Thank God, prayed the woman, holding her son firmly in her hands until he began to squirm.

Mom, said the boy, obviously astute enough to milk a situation for all it was worth. Can I have ice cream?

No, and if you think you’re going to play on your Wii again for the rest of this year, buddy, are you in for a big surprise, the mother replied tartly, pulling the boy into her arms, and hugging him firmly.

The man shrugged, and added, He should go to the hospital. Get some X-Rays. Make sure everything is copasetic.

Carl turned away and saw his own children watching him from the bridge above. Carl, Jr. and Angelica were staring at the scene with awestruck eyes. He studied their little faces, and thought, There goes I, but for the grace of God...

He sighed and put the camcorder away in its little bag. When he joined his family once more, he folded his arms around his daughter and his son, and watched a melancholy expression cross his wife’s face. Their eyes met for a moment and she sighed as well, moving closer so she could rest her hand on his shoulder.

Carl said, Let’s find some beach to explore, huh? Bet we can find some cool sea shells if we look hard enough. Then we have to race the surf. The one to get their feet wet is a rotten egg.

The ambulance moved off and drove down highway 101, not in any kind of hurry because their occupants did not have life-threatening injuries.

Chapter Two

August 14th

Part of a folktale originating in the Pacific Northwest about the Raven, sometimes whispered in the darkness only after the raven has made its nest for the night: He is the divine trickster of the people. He steals from the people so that they will rise up against him and celebrate their existence by uniting in community and in their resiliency to defy him. Raven is the wily deceiver who calls Wolf and Coyote to his own kills to lure them into cleaning the carcass and making the meat more accessible to him. He is the crafty hoaxer who changes the world to test the people, and sometimes he tests that foolhardy individual who loudly utters his identity for the wind to carry back to him...

The dream was the same as it ever was. A raven was pecking at the glass of the window. But in the land of nod it was not a bird with feathers as black as the darkest pitch from the bleakest tree in the most dismal forest, it was, instead, Teddy’s father. He was the raven and the raven was he. His long-fingered hands with well-manicured nails stroked the glass of the window of her bedroom and tapped. First the index finger and then the middle. Tap. Tap. Then it repeated. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Teddy stirred her head in the dream, lazily turning to see what it was that was disturbing her. She lay on the white fluffy quilt that decorated her canopy bed, the bed of her childhood years, a scene from a baker’s dozen years in the past. And she saw her father, smiling in at her, giving her that indulgent look that showed that he still loved her, had always loved her, and nothing would ever change it. Then, he stood in his library where his desk was, one hand on his favorite birding book, and above him giant, gilded birdcages swung slowly in a gentle breeze. Then they were back in her childhood bedroom, with her father standing near the windows. Just a gentle tap on the window to remind her that he was there. Then he was the raven again with the flames of a huge fire behind him, endlessly burning. He was the mischievous raven who played tricks on the Native-American Indians of the northwest coast, from stories Teddy had heard from some of the women down at the fish plant.

But even in sleep and in the unfathomable place that was the black of her subconscious, deep inside herself, she knew that there was more to the dream than simply a memory of father and places gone forever. It was more than believing that her father had the elements of the trickster within him. It was more than all of that.

And in the dream there was another man in the room, one with an inane grin plastered across his face, as if he were glad to see her. He was so glad that he could cheerfully wrap his hands around her delicate neck and squeeze until her face turned the same color of the raven’s wings. Beyond that. Far beyond that. He wouldn’t lose his grip until her flesh decomposed from the bones in shreds of putrefied pulp. She might claw at his skin, desperate for her release, kicking and pounding with every bit of her resolve, but it wouldn’t make a difference because he didn’t dare release her. Then, the raven screamed, the piercing sound of a sharpened knife thrusting into the helpless victim, and Teddy sat up, a cry on her lips.

She wrapped her arms around her body and shivered. Looking to one side, she blinked, trying to chase away the sleep that befuddled her. There was a window that clearly showed the purpling light from the setting sun. Coughing weakly, she did a mental check of her situation. Hospital room. White sheets. Uncomfortable bed. IV in the back of her wrist. Ribs taped. Still coughing up a little brine.

Her throat felt like she had swallowed a gallon or two of the icy seawater. Her head felt a brick had been dropped on her. She was alone in a two-bed room. The other bed was neatly made and appeared unoccupied. The blinds on the windows were half-down. The bathroom door was half open and showed no other occupant. The main door was shut. A pot of yellow carnations sat on the table next to the bed. Next to the carnations was a glass of water with a bendy straw. A group of balloons with ‘Get Well Soon!’ emblazoned across their multicolored hues floated at the end of her bed. She was all there, bruised and battered. Not restrained like she was in a psychiatric clinic for the terminally stupid. Not in a prison hospital ward waiting for some paid-off trustee to come stick a shiv in between her ribs. Not waiting for the man who haunted the deepest recesses of her nightmares to come knocking at her hospital room’s door.

Teddy knew what she had done. She grimaced. It wasn’t good. Sure, the little boy was alive. But she wasn’t in great shape, and pretty damned quick she could expect the questions to come bouncing at her like hard balls in a batting cage. Who was insane enough to dive off the Bay Bridge like some demented idiot? Apparently she had been.

The memory roared over her as if she were replaying it on a video-tape. She had seen the blonde hair atop the blue windbreaker, the shiny material glinting in the morning light, balanced on the rock wall, like a stupid little ninny. And where was his mother? Nowhere to be found. Not yanking his skinny little arm so that his tiny feet wouldn’t slip on the wet stone as he safely parted company with the damp bridge. Not about to prevent the child from taking a fall into the water, some seventy-two feet below. No, Mother was waiting her turn to get on the whale watching ship, anxious to get a good spot, not knowing as Teddy did, that three-quarters of the trips that lasted about fifty minutes didn’t even see flotsam that looked like whales, much less any kind of other sea life. The migration season was later in the year and the California Grays weren’t due until October or November. But that didn’t matter to the woman, who hadn’t been watching her son, at the very moment that he most needed her.

The kid, name unknown, had climbed up on the wall of the bridge...again. Teddy had watched from the corner of her eye as he had done it a full five times. The last time was when the tourists had herded themselves across the highway to watch the Mary Celeste traverse the narrow channel into the bay. But not the kid. Willing to take advantage of an opportunity he had climbed up again, agile as a monkey. Teddy had watched every second of it, waiting for mommy to see him and shriek with maternal rage at the behavioral misadventure, then to rush over and yank him off again, threatening to ground him until he was old enough to run for the Presidency of the USA.

Instead the little boy had gone over the side. Teddy hadn’t made a conscious decision. One moment she was in the booth. The next Big Bridget was calling to her, her husky voice clearly confused, Hey, Teds, what the hell are you... as she hurled herself over the counter, not going to the door, but throwing herself through the broad window that allowed customers to give them their money for the trips. The moment after that she was standing on the abutment, her little boat shoes surprisingly firm on the slick stones that made up the bridge, her eyes searching endlessly. A choppy channel of water was plainly displayed below her. It was a larger area than she would have imagined from the booth. And anywhere in that area there could be a boy sinking into the sea like a tiny stone.

She didn’t see blonde hair in the water. Nor did she see a sky-blue windbreaker contrasted against the murky turquoise of the channel’s churning waters. All she saw was a bit of white froth was where something had interrupted the regular flow of the ocean’s eternal tides. Then it was gone.

But the area where it had been became a target. She aimed herself five feet in front of it and stepped off the bridge. Falling seventy-two feet, as the sign on the far end of the Bay Bridge indicated the difference between the bottom of the structure and the level of the water at high tide, as it was at that time, only took seconds. As Teddy was looking down and as she was falling, it seemed much longer. It occurred to her, too late that she needed to reduce the amount of area that her body would impact the water by falling with herself straight up or straight down. Instead she hit the water at an angle and the gasp that sucked in a mouthful of seawater wasn’t a reaction to the glacial temperature of the ocean. Instead it was from the crush of her ribs and the sudden blasting pressure against her upper body, as if someone had punched a huge fist into her.

Teddy regained the top of the water, fiercely ignoring the tendrils of pure ice invading her body, the stinging, dreadful seawater that she had swallowed, and the shattering pain at her side and searched again. There was a pitiful thought that she couldn’t help thinking as time seemed to stretch out. The undertow’s got the boy. It’s too late. But she glimpsed something. Only for the briefest of seconds. Something that moved under the water. Something with pale, white flesh, and a flash of blue, a different color than the murk.

Taking a deep breath that painfully reminded her that she would be paying the cost of the long fall by bruises and a belly full of seawater, Teddy thrust herself into the swirling waters. She forced herself against the water and it was like a blanket of oozing liquid substance that fought her tooth and nail to prevent her freedom of movement. It pushed against her very flesh and attempted to obstruct her without matter and without form.

If she hadn’t been quick on the mark, if the gods of fortune hadn’t been watching over her and the boy, if the undertow had been faster than she had mentally calculated, if a hundred other things had happened instead, she would have never found the child. Her lungs were starting to burn as she turned herself in the water, seeking something, anything to give her guidance, and then the little boy, still struggling, kicked her right across her forehead. If it had been a fight, he would have scored a point off her. But even with her head spinning from the blow a thrill of excitement coursed through her veins that she had found the child. She reached out and touched him, his small limbs still frantically battling the ocean.

Teddy saw the blood in the water as she firmly grasped the kid and kicked upward, following a line of air bubbles headed for the surface. One strong kick and she thought, Maybe we ain’t a gonna make it. Another strong kick and she thought, But it’s right there, dammit. I’ve stayed alive this long. Not this way. Not this way! Another strong kick and she exploded from the water, a furious intake of precious oxygen magnifying the roaring in her ears, the water breaking loose from her body and returning to its own.

She shifted the kid in her arms, blinking salt water out of her eyes, and saw that a bright, orange donut floated within reach. Two more kicks and she was there when the kid started to struggle again, frightened, anxious, afraid for his life. Teddy wasn’t in the mood for it. Her forehead was stinging, salt water washing the wound and exacerbating it. Her side felt like a mule had kicked her, and she was positive she wouldn’t be wearing any sleeveless evening gowns to the debutante balls this year. She snarled, Can it, kid. You’ll drown us both. Eyes as blue as the sky and as large as saucers turned to examine her with an expression that denoted sincere amazement at her words and he immediately stopped his frantic movements. The child coughed up water as she held him and she was immediately thankful that he showed enough energy to struggle that much.

Teddy shifted to the present and felt her shoulder once more. She pulled up the hospital gown and saw a rainbow of colors. She gingerly touched her ribs and thought that maybe she was all right. She shifted herself to the bottom of the bed and retrieved her medical chart. The name on the top was Teddy Smith. She grimaced. I shouldn’t have used Teddy. It’s not a common girl’s name, even in today’s age of naming their kids any old thing. I could have picked Jane instead. Jane Smith. Does anyone name their child Jane anymore?

Her clear gray eyes efficiently wandered down the chart, surveying the damage. Multiple contusions. Seven stitches above one of her eyebrows, where that little snit had royally nailed her. No concussion. Two ribs cracked. Possible lung damage. Some other medical jargon that seemed to indicate that she was a prime candidate for catching pneumonia, Or maybe flesh-eating virus? The boogie-woogie flu?

The door opened and Teddy jumped guiltily. A nurse strolled in holding a can of Coca-Cola and smiled genially when she saw that her charge was up and very much awake. The name tag said Chapman. She was a tall woman with gray hair and brown eyes. She looked like she could be a linebacker for the Cowboys. A steely gaze that could be devastating or kind, depending on the situation.

Teddy put the chart back. The metal clanged against the end of the bed. She remembered being pulled onto the Mary Celeste and then being very tired. The next time she’d opened her eyes people in white were poking needles in her toes and asking questions about who was President and what year it was. After she had tiredly answered them, they’d left her alone and she’d woken up here. Saving somebody’s life was exhausting business. Dangerous business.

Nurse Chapman raised her eyebrows. "Nothing in there but chicken scratches anyway, dear. Docs like to make everything stuffy for the medical insurance, so that it all sounds up and up. But stitches in the head, a bruised butt, and a gut full of ocean water is what you got. A little hypothermia. Don’t worry, you’re going to be up watching Survivor, along with the rest of us, by the end of the week. Hell, you could be on the next round."

Peachy, Teddy croaked. She swallowed reluctantly. Seawater wasn’t good for the throat unless one gargled it.

The nurse laughed. Brought you a coke. Tastes better than tap water and you can turn on the telly if you’ve a mind.

Teddy moved back to a more normal position in the bed. Time to play vague. Oh, Nurse, I still don’t remember a thing. What’s my name and where am I? And I’m feeling quite faint, possibly the salt water has done damage to my cerebral cortex. Quickly, the smelling salts, while I exit stage right, skipping all the way. How’s the kid?

Chapman smiled at Teddy again, putting the perspiring can of cola next to the glass with the bendy straw in it. His name is Danby Shelton. Wretched thing to name a child, she added under her breath. He’s peachy, too, she repeated for Teddy’s benefit. At the end of the hall, if you want to wander down later. His mom’s got a regular toy store in there, plus about three gallons of ice cream. If the kid doesn’t become a diabetic then he’s going to have to waddle out of the hospital.

If he’s fine, then why keep him here?

The older woman shrugged, adjusting Teddy’s IV, and punching numbers into the machine that regulated the flow into the young woman’s veins. Well, he fell the same distance as you and other than having bit the inside of his mouth it seems like he missed out on any damage. Lucky little guttersnipe. Of course, one of the paramedics said he puked more seawater out in the ambulance than you could find in the bay, but what the hell. He’s young. He’s already bouncing off the hospital walls. Mama’s got her hands on him and she isn’t letting go anytime soon.

I hit the water sideways, Teddy murmured in brief explanation.

The nurse nodded. Could have been worse. Deflated lung. Broken ribs. Et cetera. Not even going to mention that you could have drowned. Sometimes we see all that from bungee jumpers who miscalculate the distance between the span of the bridge and the depth of the water, but the Bay Bridge isn’t one of those bridges, of course. Not enough distance to the water. Not that I would know from personal experience. I’d break the bungee cord.

Where am I? asked Teddy. So far, so good. No personal questions yet. It won’t be long, though. "I mean, what hospital is this?" So I can more effectively plan my escape from this place. She could see that she was on the third floor of the building. No jumping out this window, that was for damn sure. Not even with a bungee cord. Well, maybe with a bungee cord.

Lincoln Memorial Hospital, sugar. The nurse finished with the IV machine and turned back to Teddy. You need to use the phone? Call your mama? Someone?

Teddy glanced at the telephone, half hidden behind the yellow carnations. Maybe I should. My long-lost twin sister who married Prince Rodrigo from Argentina, and who desperately needs a surrogate mother for her unborn child, of course. Time for more diversionary tactics. "Who sent the balloons and the flowers?"

The nurse smiled again, showing a gold tooth in front. She had a craggy face that lit up when she smiled. Perhaps that was why she did it so often. Or perhaps it was because she liked to be friendly. Teddy almost sighed reluctantly. The other woman answered, The carnations are from the Sheltons. Mama sent them an hour ago. Didn’t want to wake you up, so she had one of the candy stripers put it on your table. The balloons are from your buds down at that ship place you work for. Sailor Jack’s isn’t it?

Sure, agreed Teddy. Sailor Jack’s was the name of the whale watching/fishing guide business she worked for. Sailor Jack was the owner of two ships, the Mary Celeste and the Sir James Murray, both of which seemed to bring him an okay profit in the summer time. Mostly Jack and his crew fished in the winter. But Jack always had a need for low-paid employees in the summer; people like Teddy who liked to have it green in her hand, instead of messing with social security forms and the such. Jack might have pitched in a buck or two for the balloons. But it was Big Bridget, Jack’s wife, and Tommy, who was Jack’s son, who would have put in the most. These were friendly people who genuinely seemed to like Teddy and treated her almost like a member of the family. Inviting her over on those late Sundays when all the tourists had gone. Barbequing in the back yard with whatever the catch had been, throwing in a couple dozen hot dogs just to spice up the mix. Children everywhere. Family members. Asking if she was attached. Maybe she was interested in Bridget’s nephew, Jeffrey, who wasn’t bad, if one liked the type. Then she did sigh.

Well, said the nurse abruptly. I should tell Doc Goodstreet that you’re awake and feeling chipper enough to read over his notes. He’s doing evening rounds and should be visiting after a bit. She looked around.

As Teddy watched the nurse leave her room she made a plan. Wait for the doctor. Ask for a sedative. Tell the nurse I am one tired puppy. Wait until about ten o’clock. Take this IV out. Find my clothes. Leave Dodge City pronto.

She nodded to herself. She’d be out of the state before they could put out a missing person’s report on her. It was too bad. She really liked the Oregon coast. On her time off she spent hours on the beach, walking, hiking, exploring. One of Big Bridget’s son’s was teaching her how to surf. She even liked her job at Sailor Jack’s. However, the part-time gig at the fish factory, gutting about a hundred thousand smelly fishies an hour, was something she would not miss. But there were other coastlines she could see. Other people she could learn from. At least she could while she was still able...

In the hallway, Nurse Dolores Chapman meandered back to the nursing station. She spoke to one of the aides about bringing some pain medication to Mr. Bartley in Room 337 who was screaming about his hiatal hernia, loudly threatening to sue every person in the hospital back to the beginning of time. She wasn’t impressed. She’d been sued before. Then she called Dr. Goodstreet on his paging service, leaving a message about the Smith girl’s wakefulness.

Shaking her head, Dolores clicked her tongue, organizing files in the nursing station. That girl didn’t look a day over sixteen years old. And her coworkers had told the doc that she didn’t have any relatives.

Dolores wondered if the young woman was a runaway. Teddy Smith, indeed. Hunh. Pretty young thing, except for that diamond in her nose, cubic zirconia? And the ring in her eyebrow, and her hair dyed the color of a parakeet’s ass. What a shame that was. A good girl. She had single-handedly saved that child in Room 315. Even the paramedics said she had. They couldn’t have gotten the rescue craft out into the bay in time to prevent him from drowning. Only that young woman’s quick thinking had saved the day. And doesn’t she have a sweet, little southern accent?

Dolores turned her head and glanced at the waiting room with the television on. There were a few people there. One man waited for his sister to come back from gallbladder surgery. He tapped his toe on the floor and kept his eyes on the television, not particularly concerned about the routine laparoscopic