Castillo Linda - Outsider

I look at Gina. “Want to help me build a fire?”

She slants me a look. “You know how to do that?”

I roll my eyes. “Stand back and learn, city slicker.”

With her arm in the sling, she’s unable to offer much in the way of help, but she manages to toss some kindling into a pile next to the drum. Since she won’t be moving around much, she’ll likely be the first to get cold. I empty snow from the drum, drag it closer to the lacing log, and set to work building a fire. The kindling and logs are nice and dry. Adam remembered to bring a section of The Budget newspaper and a pad of matches. Within minutes, the fire is hissing and popping, the pungent tang of smoke filling the air.

Despite the wind and cold, it’s a pleasant scene. While the children skate and Adam chops wood, Gina brushes snow from the lacing log and sits, her legs propped out in front of her.

“I used to think the Amish were backward,” she says. “Religious fanatics.” She shrugs. “They’re not. They just…”

“Live at a different pace.” I sit down next to her.

She nods, thoughtful. “Looking at the mess I’ve made of my life, it doesn’t seem so bad. You know, simple living. Having a family.”

I toss another log into the drum. “It’s a tough life sometimes,” I say. “A lot of work. A lot of rules. But it’s a good life, too.”

She leans forward, puts the elbow of her uninjured arm on her knee. “Maybe they’re the ones who got it right, and the rest of us are … fucked up.”

“Even Amish life can get complicated,” I tell her.

“I never understood or appreciated what you left behind. How different your life had been before you came to Columbus.” She laughs. “I was on a mission to rescue you from some weird religious cult. I get it now.”

I look at her, surprised by her pensiveness, and pleased that she’s able to appreciate the Amish lifestyle, because I know there are many people who don’t.

“For an Amish girl, I was pretty good at guzzling Jack Daniel’s,” I tell her.

She tosses her head back and laughs. “That did throw me off.”

She’s watching the children, her mind working. Snow has begun to fall. Lush, wet flakes floating down from a sky the color of ash. Aside from the sound of the ax and the chatter of the children, the forest is tranquil.

“We did all right,” I say after a moment.

“You did,” she whispers. “Me?” She shrugs. “Maybe I never was that idealistic young cop I always fancied myself.”

“It’s not too late to turn things around.”

“It feels like it’s too late.”

“We do the best we can, Gina. That’s all we can do. That’s all anyone can do.”

“That’s the thing, Kate. I haven’t done my best for a long time. I lost my way. I lost … myself. Participated in something I detest. Became part of a problem I swore I’d fix. I didn’t care about right or wrong, and now I’ve screwed up my life.”

“This is your chance to make it right,” I tell her. “Undo some of the things you did. The things you let happen. Start over.”

“My career is done. I’ll never work in law enforcement again. For God’s sake, I’ll be lucky not to end up in prison.”

I sidestep the “end up in prison” comment, and focus on the future. “With your experience, there are other things you can do. Corporate security. Private detective. Lecturing.”

“Wait tables at the local greasy spoon,” she mutters. “Make license plates.” After a moment, she turns her gaze on me. “Prison is a tough place for a cop. I’m scared.”

The urge to bolster her is powerful. But this isn’t the time for false reassurances. I know her too well to say something we both would know isn’t true.

When I say nothing, the brash façade ever present on her face flickers, and I catch a glimpse of the tangle of emotions beneath the surface: regret, the fear of the unknown, the knowledge that whatever fate doles out in the coming days and weeks won’t be easy and she will likely deserve it.

Gina Colorosa is not a reflective person. She’s always lived her life by the seat of her pants, never anticipating consequences, the past—and the future—be damned. Now, it seems that that not-a-care-in-the-world attitude has finally caught up with her.

After a moment, she smiles. “So are you going to marry that nice-looking BCI guy?”

I think about it a moment. “Probably.”

“Sweating him a little?”

“Sweating myself a little.”

She arches a brow. “You’ve always been skittish when it comes to men.”

“Taking my time is all. It’s a big step.”

“So says a woman who left her entire life behind at the age of eighteen and hooked up with me.” Contemplative, she shakes her head. “I hate to state the obvious, but what you’ve got … it seems like a good thing.”

“It is.”

“You’re not getting any younger.”

“Thank you for pointing that out.”

“Maybe you ought to stop overthinking it and just do what makes you happy.”

I’m mulling the advice when the tempo of the children’s voices changes. A yelp draws my attention. I see Lizzie and Annie holding hands, facing each other, skating in a circle. Then I spot Sammy. Head and shoulders sticking out of the ice next to the tree trunk. At first, I think he’s down on his knees, playing. Then I notice his arms outstretched, the distress on his face, hands clawing at the ice.

“Sammy!” I jump to my feet. “ Adam! ”

Next to me, Gina stands. “Girls, get off the ice! Come here!”

A dozen things register at once. The girls standing too close to their fallen brother. A shout from Adam. Heavy footfalls from the direction of where he was chopping wood. Then I’m on my feet, running to the creek, skidding down the bank, sliding on trampled snow.

“Get a branch!” I hit the ice, slide, nearly go down, but my foot lands on snow, grips, and I manage to stay on my feet.

I reach the girls, grab their arms, pull them back. “Go to the lacing log! I’ll get him.”

I hear Gina behind me. “I got them.”

To my left, I hear Adam say something. I glance that way, see him step onto the ice, start across it, eyes fastened to his son. “Grab the edge of the ice!” he shouts to his son. “Hold on!”

I don’t know how deep the water is. I can tell Sammy isn’t standing. His head is bobbing, his arms are splashing; there’s shock and panic on his face. This is likely a deep hole, over his head. If there’s a current, he could be sucked beneath the ice and the situation will become deadly serious.

“Datt!” the boy shouts.

I stop four feet away from him. The ice is gray where water has washed over the surface. “Stay calm,” I tell him. “Grab the edge of the ice like your datt said. We’ll get you.”

His face is anything but calm. His mouth trembles. Water on his face. Skin pale and blue, cheeks blushed red.

I hear movement behind me, see Gina running across the ice, a big branch in her hand. “Take it!” She tosses the branch to me.

I catch it, drop to my belly, spread my legs. The branch is too small. Not substantial enough to pull seventy pounds of panicked boy from the water. But it’s all I’ve got, so I shove the branch at him. “Grab the stick,” I say. “I’ll pull you out.”

The boy looks at me. Panic in his eyes. Teeth chattering. Face wet, water dripping over cheeks that have lost their color.

I hear movement next to me, glance over to see Adam slide to his belly, wriggle next to me. “Grab the branch.” His voice is calm, laser focus in his eyes. “Grab on, son. I’ll pull you out.”

“It’s … c-cold,” the boy says, teeth chattering.

Adam inches closer. “Both hands now. Grab it. Quickly, son.”