The Life You Save

“Uh, no one under eighteen allowed in the hot tub,” Charlie says.

“She’s eighteen,” a balding man jokes, gesturing to his daughter. She’s wearing a bathing suit with a silver, purple-maned unicorn on it.

The little girl looks sheepishly up at Charlie, face flushed with embarrassment. Or maybe it’s the steam. She climbs out. The father follows, trying to drape a pool towel over her pink shoulders as she scurries across the pool deck toward the family dressing rooms.

Charlie clutches the red rescue tube he must carry every moment he’s on duty. The device also gives him something to hold, and hide behind when the women in the senior ladies’ water aerobics class try to flirt with him as they water jog to “Lollipop.”

Charlie intended to be doing something other than lifeguarding at age twenty-five. This isn’t Baywatch. It’s not even the beach. It’s an indoor community pool, and it’s infernally boring. But this is Charlie’s world at the moment. He left his former self at the college he was attending when he met Meg. He didn’t have to marry and follow Meg halfway across the country, but he did.

Meg supposedly had a job in a jewelry store, some management position that quickly evaporated on their arrival. She soon left Charlie and their dismal apartment to move in with her party friends -- Charlie couldn’t stay up late with them if he wanted to; he had the 5 a.m. shift at the pool.

Back when he thought Meg would pull an income too, he’d meant to save enough money to get back into one of the colleges here. Now it’s all he can do to afford the room in his landlady/roommate Miss Sheila’s house, along with beer and a few groceries.

Checking the pool and spa chemicals is the only halfway interesting thing Charlie does. He’d been a chemistry major, pre-med. That dream has misted away like the chlorinated cloud that drifts over the hot tub.

He should be a senior guard. But his communication skills aren’t that great, and he rubs people the wrong way with his “bitter attitude,” as Liz, the pool director, puts it. Still, he’s the best guard they have, and the most popular swim instructor. Somehow the attitude hides when he’s teaching.

After his shift, Charlie grabs the small black notebook he keeps under the guard stand. He makes a few notes with a chewed-up pencil. The guard staff needs to go over using the AED, the device that shoots electricity into someone’s chest to jumpstart their heart. Senior water aerobics aside, Charlie worries about the older people who come to the pool.

There’s a particular lap swimmer he notices, always in the third lane. Something about his right-side lope isn’t right. Maybe a year or two of med school would have given Charlie a clue about his condition. It bugs him enough to keep the dawn shift just so he can keep an eye on the guy.

Charlie writes in the notebook about interesting people at the pool -- what he sees, if a person’s motor skills, appearance, or energy change, if someone appears to be “off.” Third-Lane Guy is a better swimmer than the triathletes who come for 6 a.m. Masters Swim to work on their speed and endurance. But that peculiar way Third-Lane Guy curves one arm to strike the water, and breathes to one side only, is wrong, and it’s not for lack of technique.

There’s also a tow-headed boy Charlie’s taught, who has a slight limp on his right side. Mild cerebral palsy, explains his mom, a cute redhead who might not be much older than Charlie. Hemiparesis. Charlie looks it up, learns a little. The boy’s will to swim seems far greater than his ability, but he does it. His name is Riley. Charlie writes about him.

Charlie bought the notebook with birthday money from his parents. He went to the Sunglass Hut in the mall to buy himself a new leash for his Oakleys, which he’s miraculously kept, unbroken if scarred a bit, since he started guarding eight years ago in his hometown.

He found the notebook in a stationery store a few stores down from the glasses place. Its size felt good in his hand. The salesgirl offered to personalize it. She was flirting, too. He had Charles Thames printed on the cover in silver. He chose a life-saving ring motif to go with it.

Charlie dedicated the notebook to the theme. It makes him feel like he’s still in a school of sorts.

Between observation and some online research, he decides Third-Lane Guy definitely has had a stroke. The man enters on the opposite side from the guard stand, and he doesn’t engage with anyone, so Charlie can’t glean anything directly.

A man about the same age, a companion or a partner, Charlie can’t tell which, sometimes meets Third-Lane Guy after his lap sessions. The visitor, who’s decidedly out of place in a suit and nice derby shoes, always looks over at the guard stand. He seems to be watching him watch the guy. Charlie gives a half wave.

After work Charlie goes to the faux-Irish pub near Miss Sheila’s. He brings his notebook to outline his ideas for better poolside protocol. Not that anyone will entertain them.

It happens in a flash, as rescues do. Early one Tuesday morning, Third-Lane Guy is motionless, just hanging, in the water. Anne from fourth lane is trying to help him.

Charlie’s already leapt off the stand into the water. He tells Anne, “Go grab the AED off the wall and call 9-1-1.” He supports Third-Lane Guy’s head, raises what he knows to be the stronger arm, and drapes it over the buoy tube.

Charlie pulls the man over the lane divider to the edge, lugs him to the pool deck with another swimmer’s help. He grabs a towel and dries him off as best he can. The AED arrives. “Stand clear,” Charlie calls out as he attaches the pads to Third-Lane Guy’s chest. He waits a beat, gets the device’s message to start CPR. He grabs the plastic air mask from his waist pack, presses it over the man’s nose and mouth, and starts the sequence: thirty chest compressions, two breaths.

Time freezes for Charlie, but it’s just minutes before the fire department and EMTs arrive. The man looks a little less blue as they lift him to a gurney and strap an oxygen mask to his face.

Charlie’s part done, he goes upstairs to the lobby, where the handful of lap swimmers who were in the pool stand around dripping and murmuring to each other. It’s 6:38 a.m.

Third-Lane Guy’s friend bursts through the front doors and bolts past the front desk. He’s seen the ambulance outside. “Rescue in progress,” the front desk lady, Kathy, tells him. “You’ve got to wait up here.”

Ignoring her, the man heads toward the stairs. He stops short as the EMTs race the gurney from the elevator through the lobby to the waiting ambulance. The man dashes out behind them.

Charlie’s shift is over, but he needs to go back down to the guard stand to gather his stuff. His notebook is gone. He walks the deck, then checks the men’s changing room. Not there. He figures it’ll turn up. His name is on it. He’s too worried about Third-Lane Guy to think much more about it.

About a week later, Charlie’s nursing a minor hangover as he opens the pool. He feels lonely without his notebook and Third-Lane Guy to study. He hopes he’s all right.

The pool door opens. Third-Lane Guy’s friend steps onto the pool deck and walks to the stand. He’s dialed down his formal look to khakis and a dark green sweatshirt.

“I’m William Marks,” the man says to Charlie. He has a soothing voice, an easy manner. Charlie vaguely wonders what he does for a living. “I’m the partner of Terry Robbins, the man you got out of the water last week. You’re Charles Thames?”

“Uh, yeah. Charlie.”

Charlie’s wondering how he knows his name when William reaches into his pocket and pulls out Charlie’s notebook. “The EMTs picked this up. I don’t know why, maybe they thought it was a pool log. If it weren’t for the lifesaving ring on it, they might not have noticed it.”

“Yes, it’s mine,” Charlie says. “Thank you.” He’s not supposed to lift his eyes from the pool more than a second or two, so he climbs down to stand next to the man. He takes his notebook.

“You have a history in it,” William says, “a sort of journal of Terry’s condition. He’d had a stroke. But your info hints to stuff we didn’t even know. Do you have a medical background?”

Charlie shakes his head. “No, I did. I mean I, uh, dropped out to get married. And came here.”

“It saved his life,” William says. “You, and then your notebook. I came to say thank you, and to ask what I can do to show my appreciation and admiration for your skills. The head doctor said it’s quite a case study you put together. It’s proved invaluable. And you didn’t know Terry? Never talked to him?”

Charlie shook his head. “He, uh, never really talked.”

William laughs softly. “No, his speech has been slurred since the stroke. So he speaks less than ever. As for what I can do,” he goes on. “May I offer you some kind of reward?”

Charlie shakes his head. “It’s against policies to receive gifts directly. It’s OK. I was doing my job. I’m glad I was here.” He adds, “I work early mornings for a reason.”

William gives a small nod. “OK. Am I too nosy if I ask for your number and address, just to hang onto it?”

Charlie shrugs. He can’t think why he’d need it, but he likes the guy. “OK,” and he dictates his cell number and address. “It’s in care of Sheila Spencer. I just rent a bedroom.”

William jabs the info into his phone and puts it away. He reaches out his hand. Charlie shakes it. “Well, again, thank you. For saving Terry’s life. And for giving his doctors what they needed to follow up on.”

“It’s OK, man.”

Charlie’s hasn’t forgotten the incident a few weeks later, but it’s receded. He’s trying to track down Meg so he can file for divorce, which is harder than he’d thought. He wanders through his daily routine.

Miss Sheila stops by the pool deck on the way to work out.

“This came for you,” she announces. “It’s from the University Medical Hospital. It looks important.” She hands him a creamy-crisp envelope, lingers to see what it is.

“Thanks,” Charlie says. He waits for her to drift away. He has to wait until his break anyway.

He exchanges the lifeguard stand with Robert, who has the midday shift. He grabs his water bottle, takes a table outside the pool deck, and unwraps a ham and cheese sandwich.

The envelope sits there, staring at him. Eventually Charlie opens it.

“Dear Mr. Thames,” it says. “The medical university would like to extend you a scholarship in the amount of $20,000 to help resume your medical studies. Please respond and state your prior learning institution so we may order your transcript.”

People buzz past. Parents and kids queue up outside the pool door for swim lessons. One is the redheaded mom with her younger son, Thomas, who doesn’t have Riley’s condition. With hair to match hers, he’s a fireball.

“Good morning,” she says. Big coral smile.

Charlie shoots her a sideways grin. “Are you ready to swim?” Thomas nods and reaches up for Charlie’s hand. They walk together to the sun-striped pool deck.

THE END