Sapphire Lake, page 1
Sapphire Lake
Samantha Shaw
Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing
Copyright © 2021 Samantha Shaw
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9781234567890
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Kealan Patrick Burke
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication:
To all of those who suffer from mental illnesses. Mild, severe, or somewhere in between, always remember that you're not alone.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray (mobile version)
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
About The Author
From the poetry journal of Micah Gray
There’s so much fear,
so much uncertainty
trapped behind my teeth,
beneath my smile.
I suppose I can fake being fine.
Maybe.
Chapter 1
I was late for work again. And South Lakeside Drive, my usual route to work, was closed due to flooding. Excessive rain from the night before caused the waters of Sapphire Lake to spill out over its brim.
If Lakeside was closed, that meant I had to take Main Street. And Main Street meant passing Murphy’s Funeral Home.
Stopping at the traffic light intersecting Lakeside and Church Street, I pulled down my visor mirror to put on the lipstick I didn’t have time to put on at home. I took the cap off, pushed stray pieces of strawberry blonde hair out of my face, and set to work painting my lips a coral pink color. I tried not to tremble, but my shaking hands smudged the color outside the lines of my lips. I licked my thumb and cleaned off the smudge, accidentally taking some of my foundation with it. The light turned green and I let out a low growl. I slapped my visor closed in defeat and drove forward, crossing three more intersections before turning left onto Main Street.
Sapphire Lake is a small town in Appalachia, just ten miles south of Tuckske, Ohio. While only a few thousand people lived in Sapphire all year, it doubled in population every summer. Our town was on the outskirts of the state’s largest national park, with many of its hiking trails ending at different parts of the lake. Due to our close proximity to the park, our quaint, independently owned shops and restaurants, and an abundance of “water activities for the whole family,” Sapphire Lake was considered to be one of Ohio’s “best hidden gems.”
From Memorial Day to Labor Day, Sapphire Lake was overpopulated with tourists trying to escape from their nine-to-five lives and wealthy families with vacation homes pretending to be locals. I lived in Sapphire for the first twelve years of my life and, as of five months ago, I became a year-round resident once again. As I inched my way through the Saturday morning traffic, bumper to bumper with a pontoon-hitched truck, I wished it wasn’t Mid-July.
I saw the square, brick post office to my left and the towering, out-of-place steeple of Saint Cecilia’s Catholic Church to my right. Murphy’s Funeral Home was only four more blocks away. I muttered “Please, don’t let there be a funeral. Please, please, please.” I chanted it like a mantra. I felt a compulsion to pray, said the guardian angel prayer my mother taught me, then grimaced. If the past year taught me anything, it was that if there were any angels, they weren’t spending their time watching over me.
I forced myself to take deep breaths, trying to banish the negative thoughts.
Don’t assume the worst. And don’t be so hard on yourself.
But my stomach was already winding into intricate knots, ready to pull taunt. And the dread had already cast a blur over my mind.
I pulled up to the traffic light a block away from Murphy’s and my stomach knots constricted. I saw a mass of cars in the parking lot, the roofs all adorned with purple flags. Six pallbearers were walking down the concrete steps outside of the chapel, hoisting a glossy black casket over their shoulders. The light turned green and I braced myself, trying to steady my panicked breathing.
Like countless times before, I hoped that maybe nothing would occur. But my visions had come often and consistently for nearly a year. It didn’t seem likely they would suddenly stop. Each vision served as a reminder to never get my hopes up.
As I drove past the crowd of mourners watching the pallbearers place the casket into the hearse, a familiar pain burst across my forehead and raced to the top of my head. I made a sharp left onto Cedar Avenue, my tires squealing on the pavement. I heard an angry car horn behind me. I pulled up behind a white SUV on the curb and threw my car into park. I stopped just in time for the migraine pains to encompass my entire head. My hearing muffled, as though my ears were filling to the brim with water. My vision began to tunnel inwards. I tried to bite back a cry of pain, but it came out anyway just as my view of the world went completely black.
When I opened my eyes, I was laying down. I squinted as I stared into florescent lights above. I heard a slow, mechanical beeping noise. I looked ahead. My vision was foggy, but I could make out a large whiteboard and a clock hung on sea-sick green walls. It was a hospital room.
“Grandpa, we love you,” I heard someone say. I looked to my right to see two women, one in her mid-forties and the other, a teenager. Their soft-featured faces were speckled with tears. A foreign thought entered my brain and I understood the middle-aged woman was my daughter, Hannah. Jackie was my granddaughter. Another thought told me that his…my name was Walter Summers and I was not ready to die. I wanted to fight, but I knew I was losing the battle. I opened my mouth to cry out, but no sound came. I felt my hand being squeezed. Jackie was wearing a sad smile. My eyes fell closed of their own accord, as if I hadn’t got any sleep the night before and I couldn’t stay awake. The beeping of the heart monitor became a sustained, grim note.
“No!” Hannah cried. Then there was nothing.
When I woke up, I was slumped in my car seat. The seat belt had kept my lolling head from falling over, but my hand had fallen into my now lukewarm cup of coffee. I sat up straight, shook the moisture off of my hand, and looked at the car radio clock. It read 9:20 AM. I was twenty minutes late for my shift. I tried to steady my breathing, but I choked out a sob instead.
The visions never got easier.
————
About a year ago, my grandfather died and life as I knew it completely derailed.
It was a Saturday afternoon in July. I was living in Tuckske with my mother at the time, and we both had the day off of work. We were sitting at the kitchen table when Mom’s phone started ringing, the vibrations causing it to move across the scuffed wood. Gram’s picture appeared on the screen. Mom and I exchanged glances. Gram rarely called just to chat.
“Hello?” Mom answered and within seconds, she burst into tears.
Soon after, we were on the road, speeding down the highway towards Tuckske General Hospital. In route, Mom called the bait shop in Sapphire Lake where my brother, Adam, worked.
“Grandpa had a massive heart attack,” she told him.
“Should I leave work?” Adam asked through the car speaker.
“The EMTs said he’s not doing well,” Mom replied through a stuffy nose.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said and hung up.
I stayed quiet, resting my cheek against the passenger side window. My head was filled to the brim. There were so many emotions taking up space that no specific one could get out. Although I felt like crying, tears wouldn’t form. My heart raced, and I felt nauseous.
Admittedly, I wasn’t close with my grandparents anymore. When I turned twelve, we moved away from Sapphire Lake, leaving Gram and Grandpa behind. Then, a few months after we settled in Tuckske, Mom and Gram got into a screaming match on the phone. For years, I never knew what had caused the fight, but after that phone call, we stopped seeing Gram and Grandpa. As Adam and I made our way through middle school and high school, Mom and Gram’s ill feelings towards each other gradually faded, but we still only managed to get together for birthdays and holidays. Even after I learned to drive and had the ability to go see my grandparents without Mom’s involvement, I didn’t make the effort. My fear of dead-end conversations and awkward silences always outweighed the guilt of not visiting them.
While riding to the hospital, knowing that this may be the last time I ever speak to Grandpa, only the guilt remained.
Gram, Mom, Adam, and I spent the entire day at the hospital, shifting our time between sitting slumped in the third-floor common area,
“Grandpa?” I asked, but he didn’t respond. We stared at each other for a moment, then his labored breathing ceased. The heart monitor began its endless, monotone beep. I ran to the door to get help, but the nurses were already rushing into the room with the defibrillator. Trying to get out of their way, I stumbled into the adjoining bathroom. I avoided falling on the floor by grabbing the countertop, but as I tried to pull myself up, I realized I couldn’t. My head was throbbing, as though someone was beating in my skull with a bat. I lost my grip on the counter and fell to the floor, smacking my head against the wall. I put my hand to my forehead and, just as quickly, removed it. The pain was so sharp that just touching my face felt like I was digging my fingers into an open wound. I looked up and realized I could barely make out the shower next to me. My vision blurred, and the edges darkened, like a vignette shadow on a photograph. The darkness closed in, and closed in, until the shower was just a pinprick of light, then it winked out altogether.
I woke up lying down. I recognized the pale, striped wallpaper of the hospital room, but I was facing the clock and the switched off TV on the wall. I was in the hospital bed.
Then I was looking at myself, Micah, seated in the chair next to the bed. My…her hair was tangled. Her caramel eyes were bloodshot, and her face makeup was smudged off in various places. This other Micah was pulling her hand away from mine. Her eyes widened when they met mine and she stopped herself short of clattering to the floor.
“Grandpa?” The other Micah said. I tried to speak but couldn’t. My lungs felt tight, struggling to suck in oxygen. A foreign thought entered my mind. Somehow, I immediately knew the thought wasn’t mine. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized the imaginary voice in my head had a specific tone to it. Even without sound, there’s something undeniably “me” about my thoughts. This new thought sounded different. It felt uncomfortable, like putting on someone else’s shoes by accident.
The thought said, “Micah, I love you. God, let me talk!”
The other Micah stared at me, her eyes round with horror, unable to look away. I wanted to scream, but breathing wasn’t an option anymore. Then, the other Micah’s face faded away.
I woke up on the bathroom floor. I heard the nurses talking in hushed tones. I heard someone weeping but couldn’t tell who it was. I grabbed the countertop and tried to pull myself up, but my arms wouldn’t comply.
“Micah? What are you doing?” I looked up and Mom was standing in the doorway.
“I…I think I fainted,” I muttered.
“How long were you out?” she asked.
“I don’t know…”
“Stay there. I’ll get a nurse. Also, in case you didn’t know, Grandpa passed away.”
I pulled myself up then. My body protested, and Mom tried to stop me, but I pushed past her and reentered the hospital room. I made it to the end of the hospital bed before my legs gave out. Mom caught me before I hit the floor. Grandpa’s wide eyes were now closed. His body looked hollower now, like a balloon depleted of air. I remembered lying in the hospital bed, seeing myself in the chair, and not being able to breathe anymore. Nothing made sense. I passed out in Mom’s arms.
I tried to reassure myself that what I had experienced that day was a delusional dream, resulting from stress and exhaustion. Then, I re-experienced Grandpa’s death when I saw his body lying in his casket. And a week after Grandpa’s funeral, I got stuck in traffic behind an ambulance and experienced the death of a teenage girl. I was helpless as I watched hands I could not control dump an entire bottle of pills down my throat. I woke up with my car’s airbag in my face and a police officer knocking on the window.
The visions never stopped.
————
It was a quarter ’til ten by the time I arrived at work. I parked my Jeep in the employee lot shared by The Marina Restaurant and Sapphire Bait Shop. As I shut my car door, I heard the bait shop’s metal door slam. My brother, Adam, walked down the short flight of concrete stairs, two trash bags hoisted over his broad shoulders. Before he turned to walk towards the dumpster, he panned over the parking lot. He spotted me and waved.
In the two weeks since I last saw him, Adam’s shaved stubble had quickly grown into light brown, unruly scruff covering half of his face. His raised cheek bones were the only indication he was smiling. His thick mop of hair had surpassed his ears. Adam was more unkempt-looking than he had ever been, but being the outdoorsy type, it suited him.
“What’s up?” Adam called.
“Livin’ the dream!” I called back. I tried to return a grin, but I only managed to twitch one side of my mouth upwards before it fell. I became acutely aware of my puffy eyelids and realized that my mascara was probably streaked down my face. I gave Adam a quick wave and turned on my heel. I didn’t want his usual hug and his persistent questions about my health. I trudged towards the back entrance of The Marina.
Tate Bishop, my co-worker, was leaning against the blue, wood siding of the building. She was tall; standing at 5’10, she made my 5’3 stature look miniature. She was thin, too. Her jeans barely clung to her hip bones. She was staring down at her phone screen, her purple-streaked bangs obscuring her smoky-lidded eyes. She had a cigarette pressed between her dark red lips, burning the tip down in a rush. She heard me approaching and looked up.
“Jesus, you look like shit,” she said.
“Morning, Tate,” I sighed. She grimaced and dropped the remains of her burning cigarette to the ground. She stamped it out and tossed it into the open dumpster next to us. Then she picked up her purse sitting next to her feet, retrieved makeup wipes and a compact mirror, and handed them to me.
“Thanks,” I said, and we sat down on the concrete steps. Tate squeezed my shoulder while I set to work cleaning up my makeup-stained face.
I was so thankful for Tate. She could be abrasive and often said whatever was on her mind, but she was kind and thoughtful. Despite the size of her personality, she always made me feel welcome and included. I didn’t think I’d ever have the courage to admit this to her, but she was truly the only friend I had. After Grandpa’s death, I became agoraphobic. The fear of my newfound visions kept me in my bedroom ninety percent of the time. Once I started hiding at home, I lost contact with my friends. They did reach out to me, leaving voicemails and sending supportive texts, but after months of silence on my end, they stopped trying.
By the time I moved back to Sapphire Lake, I was almost anti-social. Adam had been nice enough to talk to the owner of The Marina and secure a job for me, but the thought of constantly talking to strangers made me anxious and apprehensive. On my first day, I walked in the door on the brink of a panic attack. A lanky girl with a messy, black pixie cut stood behind the hostess’ podium. She smiled at me and waved.
“Hey, you must be the newbie!” she said.
“Yup,” I said. It was more of a mutter than a clear word.
She raised an eyebrow. “Did you go to Tuckske High?”
I nodded.
“I thought I recognized you. Micah, right?”
I nodded again, but she didn’t wait for my answer before extending her hand.
“I’m Tate. I was a grade ahead of you.”
Once she introduced herself, I recognized her. I hadn’t immediately realized it was Tate, because I remembered her having long, blue hair in high school.
