Until the Stars Fall From the Sky (2 page)

As I complete the next round of scans, I notice the group of
Charlie’s Angels
is laughing again. This time, I’m watching them from the launching area for the pedal boats. This gives me a much closer vantage point. My God, she is even more stunning up close. I certainly hope there is such a thing as telepathic communication. At this moment, I’m willing her to look at me. Abruptly, she turns in her seat and looks directly at me. I quickly draw in a breath because it is almost as if she has physically reached out to touch me. It is very disconcerting. I’m 30 years old. I haven’t had an overabundance of time to date, given the craziness of my life right now, but I’m not a monk either. I haven’t been single so long that I fail to recognize that this is not my typical response to merely looking at a beautiful woman. For all I know, this could be one of those once-in-a-lifetime occurrences. The kind of thing where you fall in love with someone at a glance and love her until the stars fall from the sky. If it is, God has a weird sense of humor.

I don’t have time to date, let alone fall in love. I’m about to start my third year of law school. I’m scheduled to start a job as a law clerk for the prosecutor’s office. This is on top of my gig as a lifeguard, which will finally wind down as fall approaches. Have you seen the price of law school tuition? I can’t afford not to work. The idea of dating is a nice fantasy, but not with my schedule. Even as I reach my conclusion, I find myself grinning at her like a child who found the prize at the bottom of the cereal box. As I give her a head nod, I notice she is blushing. Oh man! I’m so screwed. Pretty women are not unusual. Pretty women who blush are a rare commodity. Pretty women who blush and wear their hair in braids with a tie-dyed swimsuit? It is as if I custom ordered her from the universe. My own personal Pippi Longstocking has materialized and is only a few feet away.

Whether this mystery woman is the answer to all of my unspoken prayers is a puzzle for another time. I need to get my head in the game. I have a job to do here. I can’t afford to be distracted. I know all too well the consequences of a lapse in judgment. Although Kimberly is technically still on observation tower duty, I scan the lake again to determine everyone’s location. The group of inner tubing high school students is the furthest away from me. They appear to be having a cannonball contest off the side of the inner tubes toward the center of the lake. Bert and Ernie are still parked in the same spot, though now they seem to be reading books on electronic book readers instead of making out. I guess they needed a break from all the romance.

Speaking of romance, the next boat contains the
Charlie’s Angels
. They seem to be engrossed in conversation. In the last boat, the Norman Rockwell family is looking a little more harried than they were before. Their son is excitedly pointing over the side of the boat. I smile as I watch him bounce around the boat like a pinball. He reminds me so much of my nephew. I suspect that if he had Fruit Loops for breakfast, the parents might be regretting their menu choice. A pedal boat does not have much room to roam and the novelty of going around the lake and looking at nature can easily be lost on a child.

I really like kids. It is not a cool thing for a single guy in his 30’s to admit he is not all about the bar scene or parties. Yet, typical does not really describe my life. When I was 19 years old, I dropped out of college for three years to help raise my nephew when my sister, Donda, was treated for an eatin
g disorder. Gabriel is almost twelve now, and I don’t get a chance to see him nearly as often as I would like. He has changed so much from the chubby, inquisitive toddler he once was. He is now tall and lanky. He loves to play basketball and copious amounts of video games. I often watch how fast he is growing up and wonder whether I’m going to have the chance to raise my own kids. I’m beyond busy right now. Any thoughts of my future as a family man are just going to have to wait.

As I reach the lifeguarding stand to start my next shift in the observation tower, I hear someone yelling for help. I quickly spin around, grab my buoy and take off at a dead sprint toward the voices. When I reach the chorus of voices shouting for help, I evaluate the situation. Luke, one of the high school kids, has gashed his insole on a sharp edge of the bedrock. “Relax, buddy,” I reassure him as soothingly as I can, given the urgency of the situation. ”This happens all the time. I can take you to our first aid tent, and we can figure out what is going on with your foot,” I offer.

“What’s going to happen to me?” Luke asks in a shaky voice. “Do you think I’ll need stitches? I hate needles!” He visibly pales and grits his teeth as he sets his foot on the ground.

“
I won’t know that until I get a good look at it. Easy!” I caution as he starts to lose his balance. Let me give you a hand. Lean on me and keep your weight off of your foot.” Kimberly brings the beach quad. Kimberly momentarily distracts Luke with her trim, athletic figure. Nothing like hormones to release a good dose of endorphins, I suppose.

Kimberly sees his reaction and gives me a wink. It is only obvious to me when Kimberly starts to vamp it up even more. I try
— rather unsuccessfully — to smother a grin at Luke’s widened eyes. The poor guy! He may be hurting other places, but I can almost guarantee that he isn’t thinking much about his foot right now. Kimberly and I gingerly load him into the quad and take him to the first-aid station. His friends run behind the quad.

After we get to the first aid station, Luke hobbles in with my assistance. I park him in a chair and begin gathering my supplies. To my relief, the bleeding has slowed significantly. I examine the injury. It appears to be a shallow cut in the fatty part of his instep with even edges, so I feel pretty confident in my decision to irrigate the wound with saline solution and apply butterfly bandages. “Well Luke, I think you’ll live. I recommend you cut your day short and go home because you don’t want to risk getting it dirty,” I advise, using my sternest persona.

“Yes sir, I will,” stammers Luke. After his friends collect him to take him home, I shake my head in disbelief.
Sir?
I associate the use of ‘sir’ with my grandfather, not myself. When exactly did I get so old?

It’s times like this that I question my decision to change my major. I was doing really well as a Pre-Med student and subjects like math and science come as naturally to me as breathing. I really enjoy the patient care side of being a lifeguard and several people have encouraged me to get more advanced training as a
n EMT/Paramedic.

W
hen I had to set aside my school for three years to raise my nephew and lost my scholarship, pursuing a career in the medical field suddenly took a back seat to putting food on the table. As custody issues and other family drama came up, I had to protect Gabriel and my own mother from my stepdad and my interests shifted toward the law. Yet, a small part of me can’t help but wonder what kind of doctor I would have made. Would I have been a brilliant oncologist that would have saved people like my grandpa from the pain of cancer, a neuroscientist that finds the key to eating disorders or a psychiatrist that helps break the cycle of abuse? It doesn’t really matter now, that is the path not taken. I just need to focus on finishing law school, so I can better protect my family.

“Did you guys see where he went? Do you suppose his shift is over? Was he wearing a name tag?” I spew questions in a stream of consciousness.

“Is my BFF really interested in someone?” teases Heather
. “Look at her, Tara. She is just growing up so fast.” I blush slightly, and Tara just arches an eyebrow.

“What would you like us to do? Should we hire a skywriter to write
, ‘HEY, HOT ANYONYMOUS LIFE GUARD, MY FRIEND LIKES YOU’?” Tara asks, tongue firmly in cheek.

“Very funny guys,” I retort wistfully. “I can’t help feeling like this might be a cosmic miss for me. You know
— the right guy, wrong time and place kind of deal…” I fall silent, not wanting to further betray my thoughts. As the conversation between Heather and Tara drifts to the subject of fashion and high-heels, I focus my attention elsewhere.
High-heeled shoes are
so
not my scene
. I resume, inspecting the lake and shore to see if I can find my missing lifeguard.

Unexpectedly, I see a child on the next boat tumble into the water. It’s a horrifying spectacle of yellow and orange accented with blond curls. At first, the parents appear to be frozen with fear. I
don’t know what comes over me. I guess it’s instinct. I launch myself over the side of the boat and dive into the water before I can consider the ramifications. Oh my Lord! The water is frigid. There’s no way a person can prepare themselves for the icy condition of the lake. After all, this is Oregon, not Hawaii or Florida.

I swim back to the surface and take a deep breath
to get my bearings. I find the child in the water and begin a free-style stroke. It was always my fastest in competition and swimming is instinctual. As I reach the child, I notice his lips are turning a deep shade of purple, and he is incredibly pale. I start treading water and gather him into a bear hug. I roll over to my back and attempt to center him on my chest. Whoa! He is heavier than I anticipate, and I almost go under as he slides off center. By some miracle, I reposition him and start swimming the backstroke. I swim toward the shore. I concentrate on having regular rhythm and even strokes so that I swim in a straight line.

Just as I get into the zone, a female lifeguard swims up to me and yells, “Thank you so much for your quick action! We have him now.”
Somehow, I have reached the shore without realizing it because I’m concentrating so hard to keep the little guy safe.

I sit on the sand
gasping for breath as I watch the lifeguard and some paramedics do CPR on the little boy until they load him up into an ambulance. It has been a while since I’ve done any hard swimming and my lungs are not happy. I start to ring the water out of my hair. I lost my pigtail holders in the lake and my hair is now an untamed mop, full of sand and lake debris. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder; I turn toward the warmth. Suddenly, I’m face-to-face with Mr. Hunky Lifeguard. From far away, he is striking. Up close, he is a work of art. I’m literally struck speechless.

“What an impressive swim! Are yo
u okay? My name is J-Jeff.  Jeff Whitaker. Officially, I’m the lifeguard, but today I’m just grateful that you did such a great impression of me,” he says with rapid burst of speech. He smiles at me, but he looks a little awkward and embarrassed. “Let’s say we get you out of here. You need to get warm.” He holds out his hand to help me up and gives me an expectant look.

A sense of dread washes over me.
Crapola, I
really
did not think this out
. As my body starts shivering uncontrollably, I reach out to shake his hand and I say, “Nice to meet you, Jeff. I’m Kiera.” As we touch fingertips, some inexplicable energy flows between us. The oddest feeling of warmth and peace washes over me. “I’m really sorry, I can’t get out,” I regretfully admit.

At once, the tension in his body ratchets up
as he asks, “What? Are you
hurt
somewhere? Please tell me if you are!” Immediately, his hands go to the top of my head, and he begins gently palpitating my skull, neck, shoulders and arms. I’m still winded from the exertion of my sudden dip into the lake. Even though he is entirely professional, the power of his touch is not making it any easier for me to breathe. I manage to draw a deep breath and try to focus on the questions he is firing at me.

I cringe, as I have to expose just a little bit more of my soul to him,
“No, physically I’m fine, or as fine as I’m ever going to be. I can’t get out because I’m a paraplegic, and I left my wheelchair back in the boat.” I flush from the embarrassment of getting myself into such a quandary. After I share my story, I wait for his reaction. Rejection from Jeff would hurt far more than being patted on the head during a business meeting. Time seems to slow down like tree sap in Maine during a hard winter.

As she looks at me with a wide-eyed, somber expression, I am awestruck by her eyes. They are an exquisite light teal color like the aquamarine birthstone my sister and I put in a Mother’s ring for my mom last Christmas. From what I’ve seen today, Kiera’s eyes are usually bright with laughter. Though now, they seem filled with dread.

Based on our intense interlude when
she was on the boat, I had anticipated things between us would never be simple. I have never felt as instantly bonded to someone. Ever. Although, I could not have guessed things would become this complicated so quickly. Thoughts spin in my head at a million miles an hour.
What does it mean to me that this goddess is in a wheelchair? Obviously, she is quite capable since she single-handedly pulled off a risky rescue that would have been difficult for me. On the other hand, my life is chaotic at the moment. What if I don’t have time to give her any extra attention if she gets sick? Wait! Who am I to assume that she is going to get sick just because she is in a wheelchair? She is definitely not old or fragile
.

I find the direction of my thoughts disconcerting. I know better than to apply stereotypes. The assumptions people make about you based on your appearance can be incredibly misinformed and hurtful.
I understand this more than most. People make assumptions about me all the time based on the color of my skin. My great-grandfather fought as part of The Tuskegee Airmen. I owe it to his legacy, not to apply my preconceived notions to someone I have never met.

In a matter of seconds, my heart and my brain agree. I’m not going to let this opportunity pass me by
, simply because I’m too afraid to take a chance. It is too early to tell for sure, but if our chemistry is anything to go by, the woman huddled before me could be my everything.

Kiera
is fully expecting me to turn away. I can tell by the way she holds her body in suspended animation. Instead, I step forward and quip, “Well, I guess I’m your alternate means of transportation for a while.” My grin must be as cheesy as a toothpaste commercial. She’s such a contradiction between classically beautiful and impish. She is strong, yet has an air of fragility. She blushes as if she has no concept of how exquisite she is. I can’t help myself; just looking at her makes me smile.

When she sees my smile, her sense of relief is almost palpable. It’s as if she
was holding her breath awaiting my verdict. She flashes me a remarkable smile, complete with dimples. It is thrilling to exceed her expectations. After seeing her flash of joy, I make it my personal mission to encourage her to smile as much as humanly possible.

“Do you have somewhere where I can get warm until I’m reunited with my wheelchair?” Kiera asks tentatively, as her teeth chatter. I want to smack myself for being so stupid. While I have been reevaluating my life’s priorities, she has been sitting there, getting hypothermic. I wrap a silver survival blanket around her shoulders.
“Am I going to cause you any pain if I place my arms under your legs and around your back?” I awkwardly ask. I wonder if there is a proper way to talk about these things.

She replies without hesitation, “No, you are just fine. I’m an incomplete paraplegic. I have very limited feeling from my mid torso to my toes. At the moment, the only thing that hurts is my mouth because my jaw is getting sore from shivering so much.” She says all of this very matter-of-factly. I suspect she probably has heard all this stuff a million times.

I wonder if she knows how hard I’m fighting the urge to offer to kiss her sore mouth and make it all better. Before I lose all semblance of professionalism, I decide to take my cue from Kiera. “Well, if anything hurts, please let me know.”

With those precautionary words, I gently slide my left arm under her knees and place my right arm around her back. I lift her and cuddle her gently against my chest. I’m trying very hard to ignore how utterly perfect this feels. I have never disliked my
job until this moment. I wish I didn’t have to work the rest of my shift in the middle of a public beach. I’d very much like to take her out on a pedal boat and get to know her.

Kiera settles into my chest more deeply, “Thank you so much. Where are we headed?
” she asks.

When she made a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, I ha
ve to lock my knees because the desire that shot through my body was so intense, “We have a first aid station near the base of the tower. You can warm up there and wait for your friends.” Objectively, I know the most professional course of action would be to load her up into the quad and have Kimberly tend to her. Even knowing this, I can’t bring myself to put her down one moment before it is absolutely necessary. Therefore, I carefully carry her all the way to the first aid station and set her down in the chair.

“Would you like something to drink? I don’t have much except bottled water. Although, I do have an extra Nant
ucket Nectar Half-and-Half. It’s half lemonade and half iced tea. I wish that I had the supplies to make you hot coffee or tea,” I offer as I turn back toward the little dorm fridge.

Suddenly, Kiera gasps. She smiles widely and becomes very animated as she replies, “Are you kidding me? I love Nantucket Nectar and the stores never have Half-and-Half. It’s my absolute favorite.”

As I glance over at the huge stack of textbooks and treatises I’m reading in preparation for the upcoming term, I struggle to remember what was so damn important about them that I have neglected every other pursuit in my life. Would it really kill me to go out on a date like a normal person? When am I ever going to find someone that syncs with me so well? The woman is clearly very bright, she looks like a very grown up, sexy Pippi Longstocking and she likes my favorite beverage. What are the odds of that? It seems like a person would be messing with karmic balance not to thank a higher power for that kind of gift by turning her away. I know I have a ton of reasons for not dating. Although at this moment, I can’t seem to bring a single one to the forefront of my brain as she shivers, and her lips turn purple. In fact, what floods my brain are some very unprofessional ways to share my body heat.