“No. It’s a real stumper.”
Chapter
Seven
It’s nearly noon by the time Liam is content. When emails and a phone conversation weren’t enough to discuss the finer points of drowning, we engaged in a thirty-minuteZoomconference including screen sharing.
In the United States, approximately ten deaths a day can be attributed to unintentional drowning; the number goes up when boating-related incidents are included. Echo said she wanted unique. In the case of drowning, reality is unique. The stereotypical scenario, screaming and waving of arms, is Hollywood’s rendition—more theatrical than fact.
As Liam and I spoke, I found myself looking at Stark Lake.
How many accidents occur within its waters or those of nearby lakes?
How many are reported?
At this time of year, the water temperature is cooler.
As Liam and I conversed, we discussed how commonscenarios portrayed in fiction aren’t backed up by fact. One misconception is a correlation between the water temperature and rate of survival. That correlation is based upon the hypothesis that hypothermia protects the brain and other tissues against cellular hypoxia—the deprivation of adequate oxygen.
Another misconception is that children have a better rate of survival due to having less subcutaneous fat, allowing their bodies to cool at a faster rate than adults.
For the storyline Liam is fine-tuning, our victim is an adult female who doesn’t survive.
More recent data suggests the most significant variable in surviving a drowning isn’t age or temperature; it is the time length of submersion. The median length of time for survival varies by study. Nevertheless, six minutes seems to be the magic number, with over ten minutes significantly decreasing the overall rate of survival.
That’s not to say that it’s impossible to survive longer.
One study out of Finland has a survivor at ninety minutes of submersion. That study was a twenty-year retrospective and included victims of all ages. Testing that data would be horrific. No sane researcher would purposely recreate that scenario.
Due to the frequency of drowning occurrences, the data is plentiful. I was able to provide Liam with both data and images I obtained, showing the difference in appearance based on the length of submersion time.
The initial inability to breathe due to the inhalation of liquid causes respiratory impairment—the alveolarspaces of the lungs fill with water, washing out the surfactant, a secreted surface-active lipoprotein, thus decreasing the lungs’ ability to oxygenate the blood.
Fainting often follows the loss of oxygen to the bodily organs, especially the brain. The term for that is cerebral hypoxia. That is where the waving of arms isn’t substantiated. Water is inhaled, the victim faints, and becomes submerged.
In autopsies of drowning victims, the cause of death is often referred to as a noncardiogenic pulmonary edema with secondary metabolic acidosis. This condition affects many of the body’s organs, a chain reaction of sorts.
If I were home, Liam and I would have met at the studio or in a nearby coffee shop. I can only imagine someone sitting near us as we discuss the different hues of blue to accurately depict flesh and lip tone. Even via teleconferencing, we debated ad nauseam whether her eyes would be open or closed.
After a quick shower, I decide it’s time to let my family know I’m in town.
From the lack of calls or text messages, I believe Becky’s assessment—Theo is a good guy and true to his word. I also wonder if he is responsible for the brunette down the bar not following up on her quizzical looks, or maybe she simply was more interested in her date than if I was someone from her past.
As a bonus if I hurry, my mom might offer me lunch. If she doesn’t, I have an array of options: a gas-station-slash-convenience-store hot dog, a sandwich at the Sunshine Cafe, another burger from the Walleye Tavern,or driving to nearby Lawton to a real grocery store and supplying my cottage.
Stepping out onto the back stoop, a gentle breeze blows my freshly washed hair. I dried it but chose not to do more. As I tip my chin higher, I see that beyond the tall trees, the sky has cleared to a crystal blue. I’ve forgotten how blue and green Michigan could be, much different than Southern California.
So bright.
To my delight, the temperature has risen with some consistency throughout the morning. Instead of wearing it, I have my jacket folded over my arm.
The blue jeans I’m wearing are more casual than I wear home in Lake Forest. Maybe, I’m subconsciously using my job skills—creating a perception and trying to fade into the background that is Blue Gil.
When I reach the parking area, my car is the only vehicle there.
As I approach the intersection, ready to turn onto Old 44, a blue truck slows and turns onto the lane. I pause, sitting straighter and trying to see the occupant. All I can make out is that it’s a man.
With the combination of shade from the tall trees and tint of the truck’s windows, I’m not able to discern more detail.
