Tear In Time (44 page)

  
“Oh my, John, she looks like a suicide,” Susan said over the stiff breeze,
muffling her words slightly.

  
“I believe you’re right, dear,” John replied with an anxious tone.

 
Carefully, he moved to the woman as quickly as he could, trying not to slip on
the dangerously wet rocks. Not wanting to startle Abigail, he called out to
her.

  
“Excuse me, ma’am?” he said in a calm voice as he neared her.

 
Abigail turned slightly and stared coldly into his eyes, sending a chill down
his spine. She then turned and continued to count the waves.

  John
carefully came up beside her and stood close enough to grab her in case she
tried to jump. He looked down and could see the raging waves crashing into the
rock face below. He knew that all it would take was one big wave to sweep them
off the cliff: an act that would spell their certain death. He anxiously
shuddered with each wave that broke over the top of the cliff. Moments later,
Susan came up and stood behind John, conscious of her movement so as not to
slip herself, or startle the woman.

  
“Excuse me, ma’am? Are you alright?” John asked delicately.

 
Abigail turned to John and said, “They’re all lost.”

  
“Who’s all lost?” John asked.

  
“They’re all lost,” Abigail repeated.

  John looked
back at Susan, who was now shivering in the thirty-five degree windy air. He
tried to comfort her by putting his left arm around her and drawing her closer
to his body. As the both huddled together, they watched for a moment as Abigail
Stanton counted the waves. Strangely, she was not shivering like they were,
even though she stood with only a dress, soaked through by the continual spray
of the crashing waves below. Her hair was drenched with seawater, but it looked
surprisingly neat, pulled tightly into a bun in the back.

  John
leaned to Susan and said, “I think she’s readying herself for a jump.”

 
Susan’s reply was only a worried nod. Seeing the fear in her face, he knew he
needed to do something quickly.

  
“Ma’am, what is your name?” John asked.

  
“Abigail Stanton,” she said, not breaking her stare from the crashing waves.

  
“Abigail, would you care to stand back from the edge a ways so we can engage in
conversation?” John politely asked.

  
“They’re all lost,” was Abigail’s only reply.

  John
assumed that ’they‘ must be someone dear to her, and that ’they‘ must have been
lost at sea and she was mourning their loss. Susan looked at the wilted,
dripping daisies in her hand. She thought it strange that Abigail was holding
flowers so far out of season.

  She
tugged on John’s arm to get his attention, then pointed to the flowers. He
looked at them, then back at Susan and shrugged, not understanding her concern.

  Susan
whispered, “The flowers. They can only be found in warmer months. Where did she
get them?”

  John
looked, and once again shrugged his shoulders.

  
“Ms. Abigail, could we help you in some way?” Susan asked through shivering
teeth.

  
“The light will shine the way,” Abigail said cryptically, still not breaking
her stare.

  John
and Susan looked at each other in confusion and worry. Abigail Stanton wasn’t
making any sense to them. They became more worried now.

  John
pressed further, deciding to be more direct. “Ms. Abigail, I implore you not to
do this. You are so young and have a lifetime ahead of you. Will you walk with
Susan and I back to the inn?” he said, as he pointed to their tiny motel at the
opposite end of the beach.

  
“The light will shine the way,” Abigail replied, still watching and counting
the waves.

  John
put his hand on her shoulder in a gesture of concern, hoping she would come to
her senses and follow them away from the edge. Quickly, Abigail turned and
stared directly into John’s eyes. He could almost feel them piercing through
him. He shuddered. He had never seen eyes like these before. Abigail’s eyes
were black and determined. He saw intense sadness in them, and knew that
whatever she was feeling, nothing he could say would relieve her agony and
grief. There was no malice in them, but he became worried that any thought of
forcibly removing her from the danger would only end in all their demise. She
would not go quietly; this he was certain.

 
Abigail broke her stare only to look down at John’s hand on her shoulder, then
back up into his eyes. Immediately, he retracted his hand and stood away,
giving her back the space that they had just invaded. She turned her head and
resumed counting the waves. John looked back at Susan with worry. He now knew
there wasn’t much they could do for her without endangering their own lives.

 
Suddenly, Abigail’s voice became louder as she timed the waves. John and Susan
knew this was it. This was going to be the climax to the counting. Fear swept
over them as they realized that they would be witnessing a horrible suicide.
Susan pulled herself closer to John for emotional comfort. He held her tighter,
trying to ease her pain. Fearing for their own lives, they both stepped back.

 
Abigail lifted her hand with the daisies and counted louder. “One, two, THREE!”

  She
lowered the flowers by her side, bent her knees, then sprung from her crouching
position, swinging her arm up and out, releasing the flowers into the third
wave as it crashed into the rock face below. Standing, she watched as the
flowers were quickly carried out by the reversing tide.

 
Standing resolutely and weeping, Abigail braved the gusts as her wet dress
flapped in the wind behind her. Her despair and sorrow were overpowering, and
Susan openly wept. John breathed a sigh of relief as he comforted his sobbing
wife. They were now pretty sure that poor grieving Abigail was not going to
throw herself to her death.

  Cold
and both shivering, they turned to leave Abigail to her mourning.

  John
spoke to her softly, “I am very sorry for your loss.”

  
“The light will shine their way,” Abigail replied, still watching the flowers
drifting further out to sea.

  The
two turned and started down the other side of the cliff, leaving Abigail
suffering in silence. John looked back, but Abigail was gone.

  
“Wait here,” he said to Susan, hoping to spare her the gruesome sight of
Abigail’s death. He ran to the edge where he had last saw her standing. He
frantically scanned the violent water below for Abigail’s body.

  
“ABIGAIL!” He called into the wind. There was no answer. Again he called to
her. “ABIGAIL STANTON!” he yelled out to the breaking waves below. As he
searched back and forth along the edge, Susan joined him. Their frantic and
distraught search yielded nothing. Abigail Stanton was gone. The two stood for
a moment, trying to comprehend what they had just witnessed. Susan broke down,
burying her face into her husband’s chest as he hugged her in consolation. The
two slowly turned and walked off the cliff toward the inn, now realizing that
the best they could do for poor Abigail was to report her drowning in hope of a
quick recovery of her body.

  As
they neared the inn, they quickened their pace along the beach. The tide had
receded slightly, firming the waterlogged sand as they walked. The winds were
howling now, and the cold cut through their overexposed bodies. They hurried in
silence, unable to speak after witnessing Abigail Stanton’s suicide.

 
Entering the inn, they scanned the small, dimly lit receiving room for the
innkeeper. They quickly deduced that he must have stepped away, as evidenced by
the burning oil lamps and a fire roaring in the fireplace. They could see a pot
of coffee simmering over the open flame, and they made their way over to the
fire to warm themselves and to sample the warming beverage. They both were
nearly frozen to the bone and left their wet woolen garments on while they
slowly rotated their hands over the open flames.

  All
was quiet except for the crackle of burning maple wood and the click of the
pendulum of the clock on the fireplace mantle. Susan noticed the time as each
swing of the pendulum moved the sweep-second hand, marking each minute that
poor Abigail Stanton lay undiscovered in the water. She began to wonder what
kind of tragedy could have been so great that the only solution was death.
Awful scenarios crossed her mind, and she began to openly weep for the poor,
strange woman she had just met. Seeing his wife distraught, John pulled her
closer to console her, while continuing to move his free hand over the flame
for warmth.

  Still
shivering, John grabbed one of the pokers resting against the fieldstone
fireplace and carefully lifted the coffee pot off its hook and placed it on the
worn pine floor in front of them. Setting up two heavy ceramic mugs on a small
table beside them, he used a dirty rag to grab the smoldering handle of the
coffee pot and pour them a hot drink. They slowly sipped their black coffee,
swallowing hard to overcome the foul, bitter taste until they became used to
the flavor.

  Nearly
twenty minutes and two cups of coffee passed before they finally felt warm.
Outside, in the distance, they could hear the sound of loud, clumsy footsteps.
John moved to a window to see who was coming. He could see a man walking up a
gangplank from the beach, carrying a load of firewood piled high in his arms,
his head hidden behind the pile of wood. His heavy leather boots made a loud
‘clunk’ with each step. John went to the door to help him in. As the man made
his way through the doorway, John could see it was indeed the innkeeper. 
He carried the load of wood in and placed it on a rack by the fireplace, then
greeted his guests.

  
“Good morning, and thank you,” the innkeeper said, smiling.

  He was
a kind-looking older man with white hair and round spectacles. He was dressed
in a checkered, red flannel shirt and brown canvas pants. With a round stomach
that hung slightly over his belt, he gave off a grandfatherly appearance.

  
“Well, how was your morning stroll?” asked the old man. “Invigorating, I
suspect,” he added.

  John
and Susan looked at each other. There were no smiles or pleasant expressions
for that matter. They searched each other’s face for how to begin.

  
“By the look on your faces, I’d say it wasn’t what you had expected. Too cold,
huh?” the old man asked.

  
“Sir, you must summon the constable right away. A woman has taken her life off
the far rocks at the end of the beach,” John blurted out.

  The
old man searched their faces for clues to their authenticity. Both John and
Susan stared back at the old man through intense, worried eyes. He knew this
was no joke. Immediately he changed his composure and questioned them further.

  
“The constable? My god, man, did you see her do this?” he asked, now with
anxiety in his voice.

  
“Yes sir, my wife Susan and I witnessed this nearly an hour ago,” John replied
with a nervous quiver in his voice. Susan nodded in agreement, feeling
overwrought with grief once again. “She jumped into the water,” John continued
with harried detail.

  
“An HOUR ago, you say? Oh no… With these cold temperatures, I’m afraid she is
done for,” The old man said, dropping his head and shoulders in sadness. “A man
could last no more than a few minutes in that frigid water, I fear,” he added
solemnly.

  
“I am sure you are correct, but for the family’s sake, it might not be too late
to retrieve her poor body from the sea,” Susan finally spoke, pleading her
case. “The constable should be summoned straight away,” she added emphatically.

  
“Yes, yes, you are quite right, my dear,” the innkeeper replied respectfully.
“Her poor family should have her body to grieve for if at all there is a
chance. I will take my leave directly,” he said, hurrying for his woolen coat
and top hat.