A Thousand Tiny Cuts (Brooke MacKenzie)

 

The Salish Sea is more beautiful than anything has a right to be.  Standing here on this rocky shore, watching the way the water subtly changed colors as it spread out before me, feeling the damp bite of the Pacific Northwest wind on my face, I couldn’t help but feel more quietly joyful than I had in a long time. 

“Are you gonna come help me with these bags?  Or do I have to do everything myself, as usual…”  My husband’s voice rumbled toward me like an agitated surf as he unpacked our car and began hauling our things into the cabin that we were renting for the next few days.  It was jarring to hear his voice at first because he hadn’t spoken to me for the last hour of the drive, because I had forgotten to get the oil changed before we left for this excursion that was supposed to allow us to reconnect. 

It had been a busy year of work for him.  I hadn’t worked since our oldest child was born seventeen years ago—a fact that my husband pointed out almost daily.  Still, for me, it had been a busy year of raising teenagers and caring for elderly parents, not to mention the death of our dog.  Our marriage had fallen into a perfunctory place of chores and logistics, and a to do list ran like ticker tape through our days. 

“Sorry.  Yeah.  I’m coming!”  I forced a bright tone into my voice and half-ran to where the suitcases were sitting by the car.  I dragged them into the cabin and began opening the windows to clear out the musty smell that all cabins seem to have.  The sea shimmered perfectly outside, and I looked forward to several days of morning coffee on the patio as I took in the view.  I could feel the frenetic buzzing and heaviness of the city starting to dislodge itself from my bones, and a feeling of breezy lightness moved in.  Being in nature was a luxury that I was seldom afforded in my adult life, but it was truly where I was happiest.

“Let’s go for a walk!” I practically shrieked.  I turned from the window and looked at my husband, who suddenly looked ten years older and the kind of weary that just crumples someone from the inside out.  He was already scanning the kitchen for flaws: testing drawers, checking the refrigerator temperature, and eyeing the subpar coffee maker.  I could tell that he just wanted to lie down, pull the covers over his head, and sleep for as long as his body would allow him.  However, I was pleasantly surprised when he flashed me a weak smile and nodded his head.

We hiked along a trail through the forest for over an hour before arriving at a patch of rocky beach.  The wind began to pick up and a blanket of gray clouds creeped across the sky.  I felt a chill and zipped up my fleece.  We were both ready for a little rest, so we parked ourselves on large log several yards from the edge of the water.  The waves were getting louder as they lapped hungrily at the shore.  The clouds continued their trek across the sky, growing darker with each passing moment.  The air smelled metallic and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.  A storm was nearby, lurking just over the horizon.

“Have you heard about the severed feet?”  I asked Stan after a few minutes. I already knew the answer to this question.  He hadn’t.

He rolled his eyes and groaned.  “Christ.  Here we go…”

“No, I’m serious!  It’s a thing!  Why do you think I chose this place?  I mean, other than, y’know, the natural beauty…” I said, gesturing in a sweeping motion to the ever-darkening scenery in front of us.  “I chose this place because of this crazy mystery, and you know how I love a good mystery.  Did you know that at least 20 pairs of shoes have washed up on these shores since 2007?  And not just shoes—they all had feet still inside of them!  No one knows why this happens.”

Stan turned and glared at me.  “Are you telling me that you brought me out here because you are hoping to see disembodied feet still in their shoes?  Seriously?  What the hell is wrong with you??”

I continued, undeterred.  “The feet are usually found in sneakers or hiking boots, which I guess makes them more buoyant or something, and based on condition of the feet, foul play has been ruled out in nearly all the cases.  It’s super rare for feet to detach themselves and wash up on shore like this without the rest of the body.  Super rare.  Like, million to one odds kind of rare.”

“I get it.  It’s rare.”

“And yet, it’s happened tons of times out here.  So, who knows?  Maybe we will find a foot this weekend!  Or maybe we will find a clue to help us solve the mystery.  I mean, isn’t that wild?  Severed feet!”

Stan shook his head wearily.  “You need to stop watching all those true crime shows.  They’re warping your feeble mind.”

I shrugged.  “I happen to find true crime interesting.”

“Y’know, maybe if you spent less time on your ass watching crappy TV and more time cleaning up after yourself and the kids, the house would be in better shape.”  It was my turn to roll my eyes.  Here we go.  A day was never complete until there was some kind of criticism about my housekeeping skills.  Or lack thereof.  I was not in the mood for a debate, and so I did not provide a rebuttal to his comment.  I just let the wind carry it away. 

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Stan close his eyes and rub his temples.  When storms rolled in, sometimes the change in barometric pressure triggered a headache, which never did anything to improve his mood.  I rubbed his back and made my voice cheerful.  “Y’know what?  You must be getting one of your headaches.  You poor dear.  Why don’t you head back to the cabin and get some rest?  I’m gonna sit here for a few more minutes and take in the scenery.”

Stan groaned and nodded.  “Don’t stay out too long.  We need to cook dinner with the groceries we brought.  This area is an overpriced tourist trap.  I don’t want to spend money in a restaurant when we can make food at home.”

I nodded.  “Of course!” 

With that, he got off the log, stretched, and walked back to the cabin, leaving me alone with the impending storm. 

Alone time, much like time spent in nature, was not a luxury I was afforded often at all.  In fact, I couldn’t quite remember the last time I had an extended stretch of time in which I didn’t have to listen to anyone else’s voice in my ear or respond to someone else’s needs—whether it be family members or pets or the mailman or a stranger on the street.  Everyone always seemed to always need something from me.  But here on this log, as the watercolor of grays and blues swam before my eyes, I was able to hear my own voice.  Finally.  And I was surprised by the things it was saying.  The main thought that kept bubbling up was one that I usually chased away.  This time, however, I let it unfold like an origami crane returning to a single, flat sheet: I really miss painting.

Stan had supported my painting—at least in the early years.  But when things got busy with work, and then later with kids and maintaining a home, he would often chide me for frittering away time that I didn’t have on my hobby.  Eventually, I learned to paint late at night when everyone else was asleep.  But after a while, the guilt of spending time on this indulgence—not to mention the exhaustion that would dampen my creativity—won out.  I would hear Stan’s voice in my head, and feel the leaden weight of my responsibilities, and painting was no longer a joyful outlet for me.

I thought about how I would paint this scene in front of me.  How I would work in the texture of the waves as they drifted across the surface of the Salish Sea.  What colors I would mix to get the perfect shade of blue.  The kind of brushes I would need to get the intricate shapes of the leaves and pebbles just right.  I was so lost in my thoughts that it took a moment to register the sound of footsteps—running ones—crunching on the beach behind me.  When I turned to look, no one was there.  But I had heard it.  I know I had.

And then I heard another set of running feet.  This time, they were running along the trail in the forest, heading straight towards me.  I waited to see a jogger emerge onto the beach, but instead the running stopped.  No one was there.

Almost in an instant, the air exploded with the sound of multiple pairs running feet.  On the beach, through the forest, even in circles around me.  It was a fast, frantic running.  The kind of running that is the result of being chased.  But there was no one.

“Hello?!” I yelled.  It was all I could think to do.  I was alone on the beach, the sky slowly growing darker above me, and the wind continuing to pick up.  But the running sounds remained.  I rubbed my eyes and turned in a circle.  What is happening?  Why am I hearing this?  And then, as quickly as the running sounds started, they stopped.  I wondered if I had imagined them.  However, I didn’t have time to dwell on this thought, because when I looked out to the sea, something else caught my attention.

A huge head, one that was shaped like an alligator’s but was easily the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, rose out of the water.  It was balanced on the end of a serpentine neck that looked far too skinny to be able to support something so large.  The neck arched and lengthened as the creature scanned its surroundings, and its eyes were two twinkling black spheres in the enormous landscape of that head.  Finally, the eyes landed on me.  My heart pounded.  I could feel its gaze boring into me, making my body suddenly aflame with survival instincts, but all I could do was freeze.  It stared and stared, and I willed myself not to breathe.  My thoughts stopped.  Even the wind seemed to stop. 

I had heard stories about the sea serpent that lived in the Salish Sea, but unlike the feet, which had been thoroughly documented, I had chalked the sea serpent up to just another legend—like the Loch Ness Monster.  But here it was.  And it was watching me.  My senses crowded out my logic and disbelief. 

And then, the creature moved.  Ever so slightly.  It kept its eyes on me but lowered its head and slowly slithered through the water.  And the thoughts came back, and my instincts became sour chemicals in my body as fear rose and overwhelmed my nervous system.  And the head disappeared underneath the impossibly blue water and the clouds grew darker and I knew that the creature was swimming toward me.  My breath remembered itself and the fear made it shallow in my lungs as I turned and ran—this time hearing my own rapid footsteps, which accelerated as I envisioned the creature lumbering out of the water and gaining on me.