A Testament to Love

In celebration of Heart Smart month (February 2005), the Helping Hands charity group at the WCB of BC held an "Explain that Picture" contest. Without knowing what this picture really was, I had to come up with a creative explanation of it. This story was the result, and I'm happy to say it won (and from the sounds of it, blew the judges away). It is protected by copyright.

If you like this story, please let me know.

A Testament to Love

She looked up the slope. Somewhere up there she could hear the sounds of a motor as Frank worked desperately to reinforce the dyke he'd built. "A romantic island getaway" the brochure had promised. Now this small plateau was all that was left of the island. The chateau and everything they'd brought was long since submerged. "A chance to enjoy two weeks of solitude with that special someone." Well, Frank was special; they'd gotten that much right. After twenty-five years of marriage, Margaret knew that better than anyone.

Frank had realized there was a problem three days ago, when the lake first rose above the previous high water mark. He'd immediately tried the phone, their only means of communication with the outside world, but it was dead. Not one to panic or to sit idly by with disaster approaching, Frank had sprung into action.

He found a small Bobcat bulldozer in a utility shed, apparently left there for clearing the hiking trails in the off season, and decided to build the dike around the edge of the plateau, the highest point on the island. Margaret had thought he was crazy at first, but he'd insisted, calling it a testament to his love for her, and saying he was determined to save her. Now she was glad he'd done it. It looked like they'd need this final refuge after all.

But it hadn't been easy. He'd been driving the Bobcat nearly non-stop for three days, pushing the dirt into a long ridge around the edge of the plateau. She'd been busy too, building and tending the signal fire just outside the north side of the dike. We’re too old for this, she thought. She was 49, and Frank would turn 51 next month. Too old for an ordeal like this, but too young to die.

There was a hiss as the water lapped the lowest of the burning logs. Time was running out fast. Margaret lifted the walkie-talkie Frank had given her. He'd found them with the Bobcat and insisted she carry one with her constantly.

"Frank, you there?"

There was a brief pause as the sound of the motor in the distance died, then Frank's voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. "Yeah Hon, I'm here."

"The water's reached the fire. Frank ... I'm scared."

"I'm scared too Honey."

"The fire won't last more than five minutes. What should I do?"

"Shove the rest of the wood on the fire, then come up inside the dike with me."

"Okay," she said, starting to kick the pile of remaining wood towards the fire. "Where are you?"

"South edge." Then he shouted, "No! Oh God, no!"

"What is it Frank? What happened?!"

"The dyke's collapsing! I'm slipping! Oh..." The walkie-talkie went dead.

Margaret gave the firewood a final kick, then scrambled up the dike. She didn't care if any of it actually burned; she knew it wouldn't make any difference at this point. She crested the dike, then slipped and slid the three metres down its inside face. Her aging, tired muscles complained as she forced them to carry her at a sprint to where she saw the breach at the far side of the bowl-like enclosure. She cursed herself for not sticking to her fitness program at the gym. She'd never thought of herself as old before, but she sure felt it now. It was only fifty metres across, but she was out of breath and her side was aching by the time she reached her husband. He was okay, thank goodness. There was no sign of the Bobcat, but Frank was standing in the gap, working furiously with a shovel trying to fill the breach.

Margaret collapsed on the ground, thankful Frank was all right, but worried neither of them had much time left.

Frank didn't say a word. There was no energy left to spend on talking. He just kept shovelling desperately. When she'd caught her breath, he motioned to another shovel lying nearby.

Margaret picked it up, but instead of starting to dig right away, she moved past Frank to look out beyond the dike. The Bobcat lay on its side, half buried in the mud and nearly submerged in the water. The water. It was just reaching the lip of the gap as she watched.

"Frank, the water's here."

There was no response.

"Frank, it's too late! The water's here!"

But Frank didn't stop shovelling. The water started trickling through the breach in the dyke, dribbling down into what was supposed to be their last refuge. Still Frank worked the shovel. His face was bright red from the exertion. The shovel moved rhythmically, steadily, mechanically, as Frank tried desperately, hopelessly, to repair the dyke. The trickle became a rivulet, then a steady flow, but still Frank laboured.

"Frank! It's no use!"

He didn't listen. He just increased his pace. A growing pool was forming around his feet, and now he was shovelling more mud than dirt. The sweat was pouring down his face. He was grunting with the effort of every shovelful. His calloused hands were cracked and bleeding, but still he forced himself to continue.

"Frank, please stop, come up here onto the dyke, it's our last chance!"

Then Frank did stop. But not the way Margaret wanted him to. The shovel fell from his grasp, landing with a soft plop in the mud. A look of surprise crossed his face, and his fingers clutched at his chest. He let out one final gasp, then pitched face first into the swirling water. He lay there, not moving, not breathing.

"God no!" shouted Margaret. She scrambled down the dike to her husband's side. "Frank!" She turned him over and her fingers went to his throat. Nothing. "Oh God Frank! Don't die on me!"

CPR. She knew that's what she needed to do, but it had been years since she'd been trained. Could she remember what to do? She had to.

But not there. Water was pouring through the gap in the dyke. If she stayed there, they'd both drown. She had to move him up to the top of the dyke, it was their only chance. She didn't stop to think how she'd get him up there, she just did it. Afterwards she couldn't remember anything other than a brief image of dragging his limp body up the muddy slope, but somehow she'd made it.

Margaret laid her husband on the flat crest of the dyke, tipped his head back, and started CPR. Two blows, fifteen pumps, two blows, fifteen pumps. She didn't know how long she kept at it. Two minutes? Ten? Twenty? All that mattered was repeating the pattern. Two blows, fifteen pumps.

Then Frank moved. He coughed. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again. Margaret checked for a pulse, and found one! He was breathing too. He was still unconscious, but he was alive. "Thank God!" she said aloud.

Only then did she become aware of two things. The first was that the water had risen to the level of the dike and was now lapping at both of them. She knelt beside Frank's head and lifted it onto her lap. The second thing she noticed was the loud noise from overhead. She looked up and saw a helicopter!

The next several minutes were a blur of blowing wind, helping hands, warm blankets, and the strange floating sensation that comes with a first helicopter ride.

As the rescue team assured her that Frank would be all right, Margaret looked out the window at the last vestiges of the island below. She could see a black smudge to the north where the water was dispersing the remains of the signal fire, and she could see the place where the south edge of the dyke had collapsed. But most clearly of all she could see the dyke itself, barely under the surface of the water. It was then that she realized it was shaped like a giant heart.

It truly was Frank's testament to their love.