Western Waves (Compass 3)

She began to scream, tossing her arms around, shouting as if I was some psychopath trying to kill her.

“Let me go!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, coughing from her discomfort of being dragged out of the water. She stumbled back as we hit the coastline, falling onto her behind and crawling backward away from me. “Don’t touch me!” she yelled in a panic. Could I blame her?

I just dove into the ocean and pulled her out without her even knowing I was outside. I’d be creeped the hell out too if I was yanked from the water by a stranger.

But what was I supposed to do?! She was drowning.

“Chill out,” I said, tossing my hands out in surrender. “I was helping you.”

“Helping me?!” she hissed, trying to stand on her feet, startled and still looking terrified. “I didn’t need your help!”

“The hell you didn’t. You were drowning.”

“I was not drowning!”

“Yes, you were. You didn’t come back up for air! I saw you.”

“I know! It’s called swimming!”

“Swimming can turn into drowning!”

“Not when you know what you’re doing,” she snapped. “I was talking to my mother.”

Crazy woman says what?

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, uncertain if I wanted her answer.

“None of your business! Jeez. I like to go into the water to swim, okay? So, if you could leave me to do that, that would be great.”

“Fine.”

“Great.”

“Wonderful,” I hissed back.

“Fan-freaking-tastic!” she replied.

I turned to walk away, annoyed that I even allowed myself to care for a short period. Next time, without a doubt, I’d let the woman drown.

“What’s your deal, huh?!” she snapped, making me turn around to see her in a complete fit. “What’s your freaking problem?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your problem, what is it? From the moment I met you, you’ve been nothing but rude.”

“Me? You pretty much went psycho on me over a damn scone.”

“I didn’t go psycho. Besides, you don’t know the meaning behind it all.”

“There is no reason good enough for the way you’ve acted in and outside of that bakery,” I told her.

“That’s not true. I—”

“Don’t have an excuse—”

“It was his favorite scone!” she hollered, her nose flaring as emotion burst out of her from the seams. Water dripped from her body as emotions built behind her eyes. Her voice dropped a bit as she continued, trying her best to gain composure. “It was his favorite scone. For over two decades, Kevin would go into town on Saturday morning and wait in line at Jerry’s Bakery. He then would come home, and we’d share a blueberry scone with one another. We never missed our Saturday scone date up until today.

“So, forgive me for being weird this morning. Forgive me for not being my complete, stable self. But today, I laid to rest the one man who meant the world to me. The one man who was there for me through thick and thin. Today, I lost my father.” She choked back her tears. “So how about you give me a freaking break because if you think your criticism and judgment of me are needed on one of the worst days of my life, then you’re unbelievably wrong. I’m broken to my core, okay? I’m currently drowning. You don’t have to proceed to hold my head beneath the water. I’m having a bad enough day.”

“You think you’re the only one having a bad day? On top of finding out who my father is, I found out that he raised another person’s child for her whole life. He gave someone else’s kid everything I’d ever wanted. He was everything I wanted in a father to someone else. And I was told to come here to find out more about my history when, in reality, I was given puzzle pieces to my life as if it’s a fucking game.

“Kevin Michaels is a puppeteer, and I am the damn puppet attached to his strings. He could’ve easily just straight out told me who my mother was, but instead, he made that messed-up, complicated will of his. Then he wrote the letter handed to me in his office just now to tell me that I was standing in the same room with my mother. I just stood in a room with three women, and one of them was my mother. He made a game out of my life, so excuse me if I’m bitter. Forgive me if I’m an asshole today. You had a bad day? Try having a bad fucking life. You might be drowning in grief, but I’m already dead.”

Her mouth parted in shock. “Is that what your letter said? That one of them was your mother?”

I pulled the floppy piece of paper from my back pocket, which was destroyed from the waves, and held it in her face. “The letter stated how your father dearest slept with all three women in the same timeframe that matched my birth certificate. Any of the three could’ve been my mother.