The Woman in the Red Sleeping Bag
Adventures in Flash Fiction
Each day Helen would watch the woman from the red sleeping bag walk to the water’s edge, and stare into the distance, the same bright yellow scarf coiled around her neck. Helen wondered whether the walk was a peaceful evening ritual, an unconscious habit or if something more sinister was at work.
The industrial ships in the distance seemed to be in limbo waiting for their turn at the dock to unload the vital cargo wedged deep in their hulls; N95 masks, light fixtures from China, Canadian lumber, Italian refrigerators and medical supplies all equally anticipated by their future consumers.
The woman in the red sleeping bag would appear each evening at dusk to set up her campsite in the sand and would be gone by 7am sharp the next morning, never leaving any trace of herself behind.
Who was she? How did she end up here, on this beach, on this stretch of sand? In her self-imposed isolation Helen would imagine the tone of her voice, or the features of her face having only ever seen her from a distance. She believed, without knowing why that the woman was sane, but sad. She wasn’t lonely as much as without hope. One night Helen decided to leave an old pair of her white Converse tennis shoes at the woman’s campsite. Placing the shoes in the sand she decided against leaving a note, feeling it was somehow too intimate a connection to forge. That night she watched from her balcony as the woman noticed the shoes, paused, set up her sleeping bag and then acted as if they weren’t even there. The next day Helen left a Tupperware of homemade Thai food. Another day a fleece sweatshirt. Each night the woman ignored the offering but by morning the new acquisition had made it into her lair.
Waking early each morning to write Helen was now accustomed to seeing the woman’s brunette head peeking out of the top of the sleeping bag. She always seemed to sleep so peacefully. So still. What must that be like, Helen wondered.
One morning after making her tea Helen was alarmed to see the red sleeping bag still there. At 7:15. Six months of mornings, never leaving so much as a minute past 7. Ever. Something felt different today. Helen was suddenly concerned and protective over this stranger on the beach. Was she ill? Did someone harm her in some way? By 7:30 Helen went to investigate. The deep expanse of sand, normally part of her meditative morning stroll now seemed to stretch for miles. Approaching the red sleeping bag Helen realized why it felt different than other mornings. The red sleeping bag was there, but the woman was not. No brunette head poking out at one end. Helen cautiously walked closer, afraid of what she would find. This was the first time Helen had seen the woman’s belongings. They looked so neat and tidy from her balcony, but up-close Helen was saddened but not surprised to find them a bit dirty, tattered and worn. A small green backpack with the words Girl Power written in sequins, a blue marbled water bottle and a single grey Converse that in another life had been white.
Crossing the sand berm a flock of seagulls greeted her with angry protests, fighting one another over a discarded bag of Jack in the Box. One of them flew off narrowly missing her head, an entire burger clenched in its victorious beak.
Helen dipped her toes in the cool, autumnal tide stepping on a shard of broken clam shell. Cursing the shell and wondering what had become of her missing neighbor, the sea seemed to churn over in response, spitting up an offering at her feet of seaweed, a half-eaten crab, a plastic Sprite bottle and one perfectly knit, yellow scarf stretching its arms in the freedom of the discarded wave.
