The Chilling Tide

by T M Bashford

  “What?”

  “When Shae left on Ariel, he lost it, throwing and kicking things in the cottage, ranting. I tried to calm him down, and he picked up a lamp and hit me.”

  “He’s gone too far. Did you report him?”

  “He’d flown out of Samoa by the time I reported it. He’s not right in the head, that boy. Or it’s drugs. Although Shae said he was clean then.”

  “Sorry, George. Sorry I brought him to your doorstep.”

  “Never blame yourself for your friend’s faults.”

  “He’s no friend of mine anymore.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. What can I do to help?”

  I take a deep breath. “I was hoping you’d get Sassy Jam seaworthy again.”

  George and I talk for an hour. We discuss how to find a mast for Sassy because he’s pretty much fixed the rest of her over the last seven months. And we figure out how to get her to Sydney. At least it’s not cyclone season.

  “Shae’s agreed to come and live with you, then?” George asks.

  “Temporarily.” I push aside the memory of her unhappy expression when she agreed that returning to LA wasn’t possible without any family help. Given she can’t work—well, not immediately—how would she pay rent and medical, shop and cook, or go to doctor appointments? Those were just the main obstacles. Besides, we had reconciled since Brett’s confession, even if we were keeping it friends-only for now.

  “And if Brett’s there, then it’s another reason not to be in LA,” George points out.

  “Exactly, and Townsville’s not ideal. Her mother lives in a small, cramped cottage in the middle of nowhere. There are no buses, her mother doesn’t drive, and the pathways are rocky and made of dirt. No sidewalks. It’d be too hard for Shae to gain independence. She’d be a prisoner with her mother as jailor.”

  I’d told Shae how Jamison could help her, and how Mrs Jones does the cooking and shopping, and Shae could use my chauffeur and fly on the jet to visit her mom when she wants. Adding up everything, she had finally relented. She’d run out of choices.

  Next, I call Finn. He drums his fingers on the table by the phone while we’re talking, and he’s excited by my proposition—to go to Samoa and bring Sassy Jam to Sydney with George.

  “I figure if Shae is going to sail without her sight,” I say, “having Sassy Jam, a boat she knows like the back of her hand, will make it a whole lot easier.”

  “That’s really good of you, Drew.” He stops drumming and there’s silence. “Hey, I’m sorry I kind of lost touch. I had to support my sister, yeah? But my mom explained what Brett did and why you left Samoa.”

  “I understand. It’s what a brother should do.” I remember how I used to view Brett as a brother, and maybe once he was.

  “This is a great idea,” Finn says. “Mom says Shae’s spirits are low. It’s exactly what she needs. My sister needs to sail like the ocean needs salt.”

  “I reckon she’s more depressed about not being able to sail than she is about losing her sight.” We chuckle, even though it’s probably the truth. I remember how Shae had gone stir crazy after not being out on the water for just two weeks in Townsville. Sailing is the one thing that will lift her enough to re-ignite that strength inside her so she can get through the next few months without her spirits spiralling. “George is working as fast as he can, but I’ll stay in touch.”

  Even if Shae can’t let herself love me, I can’t avoid loving her. It means I must back off while doing everything I can to guide her through this.

  Sassy Jam is the only friend who can truly help her.

  Shae

  I live inside a dark cave. And it may as well have bars.

  Once I’m released, Drew flies us all to Sydney on his private jet. I listen to Mom’s exclamations—the wide leather seats, the trays of cold meats and cheeses, the air hostesses and the smart uniforms they wear. The pilot comes to introduce himself. But I can see none of it. I pretend to sleep for most of the flight, knowing the ocean is below us, knowing I can’t sail on it—maybe ever.

  When we arrive in Sydney, Mom will go on to Townsville, while I’ve decided to stay with Drew. The idea of having to live with either of them wasn’t appealing, but what choice do I have? After being acquitted of the charges against Connor, a few days living with Mom in Townsville had pulled me down and I had felt low and trapped. She had treated me like a child, monitoring what I ate, when I slept, and how much fresh air I was getting. She also tried to persuade me not to sail anymore because it was too dangerous. In addition, she lives in the most impractical of places for someone who is blind. Then there’s her depression, which often means she’s admitted to a clinic. In the end, the only viable option was to accept Drew’s offer. We’re just friends though, and it’s temporary.

  When Drew goes to visit the pilot, Mom sidles nearer. “Why are you acting cold toward Drew?” she asks. “He’s explained what Brett did. He’s done nothing wrong. Can you not get past this? He’s obviously besotted with you.”

  “What if I’m blind forever? Everything could change. I might change. How can I let myself love him again if I am no longer the person he fell for? It’s not right to reclaim our relationship with that possibility on the horizon.” I love him and I won’t do that to him.

  “You have to remain hopeful and optimistic. The doctor is.”

  “Until I regain my sight, I won’t take any chances. I couldn’t deal with it if we picked up where we left off, and then he regretted it, but stayed with me out of pity. Worse, what if he moved on with someone else—someone who isn’t a burden—and I lost him again? Besides, he deserves to be with a woman he can live a full life with, not an invalid who’ll bring him down. How could I ever be a fit mother to his children or a fit wife to accompany him on charity balls?”

  “Blind people can live full and normal lives, honey. You’re being melodramatic.”

  I shrug, wanting to add that I’m not exactly feeling lovable or desirable. The idea of making love when blind... I’m vulnerable enough. “Let me make my own choices, Mom. I need to wait until I regain my vision—or not—before I decide on anything. For now, we’re friends. Drew understands.”

  At Sydney airport, Drew helps me disembark. We navigate the steps and climb aboard what seems to be a golf cart. The lime scent of him is reassuring, and I both love and dislike his touch—it reminds me how if he let me go, I’d be lost in a sea of darkness. It reminds me how dependent I am on him. The hospital gave me a white cane, but it makes me feel as if I’m someone else. It labels me as a person who is helpless, broken. I can barely recognize myself.

  Drew continues to guide me through the emigration process, and I’m confused and overwhelmed by something I’ve done a dozen times. Worse, when we emerge into the main airport, every reporter in Sydney is there. The noise scares me. They surround us, as they had when we docked in the Gold Coast on Sassy. Unable to see them, I cling to Drew.

  “Will you ever sail again, Shae?”

  “Are you back together, Mr. Vega?”

  Drew increases the pace and I trip over my feet, though he stops me tumbling to my knees. Next Drew’s driver, Arnold, says he’s pleased to meet me, and he takes my hand to put it into his for a handshake. It’s a sweet gesture, but it makes me want to cry. Being driven without seeing where we are is disconcerting. If I felt I didn’t fit anywhere before, now I truly know it.

  When we pull up to Drew’s house, my shoes crunch on the gravel driveway as I climb out of the car. Drew’s beside me, his arm around my waist.

  “We’re going to go up five stairs to the front door,” he says cheerfully. I picture the entrance to Drew’s home as I remember it from that awful day—the stairs over a bridge to the front door with water features on either side.

  “Good morning, Miss Love. Welcome. Please come in.” I remember Jamison’s proper English accent. I re-imagine his formal expression from before, even though his eyes had sparkled with warmth under unruly eyebrows. He’ll be wearing his suit, li
ke it’s the 1940s and he’s living on an estate in Oxfordshire, England rather than in a harborside mansion in Sydney. This time, I notice he smells of ginger and laundry powder.

  “Two more steps, Shae,” Drew whispers, and we step upward into a space that’s colder than the air outside. “Thanks for holding the fort, Jamison.” Drew’s words are laced with fondness.

  I remember the mirrored hallway, the black and white-marble floor, the eight-foot-tall tropical trees.

  “I can take you to your room, Miss Love, where you can have tea and freshen up, or would you prefer to come down for refreshments?” Jamison’s voice is calm, measured, polite.

  “In my room, please” I want to crawl into bed and stay there.

  “Thank you, Jamison. It was a long flight,” Drew explains.

  “Allow me to lead the way,” Jamison says.

  I shuffle next to Drew.

  “Lots of stairs next, Shae.”

  I lift one foot, place it on a carpeted stair, then lift the other, slow like a toddler. By the time we reach the top, I want to throw myself on the ground, pummel the floor, and cry. I hate the new me. Everything is wrong about her, not only on the outside but on the inside, too.

  “You’ll become more familiar with the house, and once you start using your stick, you’ll do this by yourself,” Drew says.

  “This is Miss Love’s suite,” Jamison says. I hear a door open.

  Drew guides me inside and a breeze brushes across my cheeks and lifts my hair. I notice the sound of the tinkling of rigging. “I asked Jamison to make up this room because it’s like standing inside an ocean wave,” Drew says. “The walls are aqua blue and everything else is white—the carpet, the bed, the bed covers.”

  I want to ask, “What’s the point of putting me in here when I can’t see it?” but he’s being thoughtful, and he thinks describing what I can’t see helps. Except, the effect has me feeling even more helpless, and I want to tell him to stop sounding so sunny.

  “There are two sets of French doors, which open onto a balcony with a view of the harbor and the yachts,” Drew continues. “The sheer curtains are fluttering in the breeze. It’s peaceful. You can rest here.”

  “There’s an en-suite bathroom,” Jamison adds. “I counted ten steps from the end of the bed to the door of the bathroom, Miss Love. You can check if our strides are similar.”

  “Thank you,” I say quietly.

  “I’ll set you on the edge of the bed,” Drew says, moving me forward again. When my feet kick the bed’s base, I sit down and am swallowed by a hefty, voluminous duvet.

  “Mr. Vega requested I order some garments for you. I used a personal shopper from David Jones. The clothes are in the wardrobe.”

  I make myself smile. “That was thoughtful of you both.”

  “Miss Love, there’s a comfortable setting on the balcony. Shall I bring a tray for you to have out there?”

  “Thanks, but I want to sleep.” To be alone where no one is fussing, explaining the things surrounding me or guiding my every step.

  “You shouldn’t sleep until nearer night-time, or you’ll take longer to get over the jet lag,” Drew says.

  “Jet lag is the least of my problems.” My tone is sharp, and I instantly regret my words. The subsequent silence is more than awkward. I imagine the expressions on their faces. “Sorry, I’m tired… and overwhelmed. I need to be alone for a while. To rest. To find my bearings. Please.”

  “Of course,” Jamison says. “I’ve placed a bell on this bedside table.” There’s a sound of a bell tinkling. “Should you need anything at all, please ring it. I’ve put a glass of water there, too.”

  I thank him, and following a pause, he treads away from us.

  Drew pats my shoulder. “This is new and scary, but you’ll become familiar with the house and Jamison’s always here to help.” When I say nothing, he adds, “I’ll let you settle in.” He places my white stick in my hand.

  After the door clicks shut, I stand and count ten paces, waving the stick ahead of me to avoid crashing into furniture. The carpet changes to tiles, which must indicate the start of the bathroom. But where’s the toilet? I grope around, overwhelmed by humiliation, and find the basin, a walk-in shower, towels hung on the wall, then finally, the toilet. I strip off my clothes, craving a shower to wash the long journey from my body. It takes a while to figure out the hot from the cold tap, but the stream of water that rushes over me calms me. And the shampoo smells of apples.

  “As subtle as a brick through a window, Drew.” My words echo in the bathroom.

  Wrapped in a towel and back in the bedroom, I have no idea where the wardrobe is. I’m not up to fumbling around to find handles that may not exist if they’re sliding doors. I might bump into tables or chairs, too. Instead, I slide into bed naked.

  No need to shut the curtains to darken the room.

  The breeze coming through the open French doors cools my face as I snuggle deeper under a cover which is warm yet light as a cloud. I listen to the voices of the tinkling yachts in the harbor below, the sea gulls, the comings and goings around me. I’m dead inside and full of hate for a world that constantly hands out hurt.

  I doze in and out of sleep.

  At some point, I’m nodding off again when I hear someone move in the room. Not in the mood for a talk, and knowing I’m naked under the covers, I pretend to be asleep. The air coming through the balcony doors is now brittle with cold. It’s winter in Sydney, even though it is June. The skin on my face is icy. But I enjoy the tinkling of the boat’s rigging outside and the sound of crashing waves.

  Whoever is there remains silent. It must be Drew, checking up on me, deciding on whether to wake me or not to ensure I slip into the right sleep pattern. Listening carefully, I identify the sound of steady breathing. At one point, the breathing becomes heavy and deep. Then there’s a stifled groan, and it doesn’t sound like Drew at all. I try to catch the lime scent of him, but only the faint smell of sweat reaches me. I wait for him to leave. After what seems a long time, there’s the muffled movement of footfalls receding, the thick carpet absorbing his footsteps. I’m too tired to assume anything but that he left the room. Sleep clutches at me and I let myself drop into its arms.

  Drew

  Shae remains in her room for the rest of the day and I keep myself busy with work. I’ve been absent for longer than I had intended, and my backlog is mountainous. The pull to go to her is tidal though, and I stop outside her bedroom several times to check if she’s awake. Each time, there isn’t any sound of movement. Now, unable to sleep, I climb out of bed and press my ear to her door again.

  I’m relieved she’s safe and here with me, but my body aches for her. We should be sleeping together at least, with her in my arms to reassure her, but Jamison suggested that she needed her space, and he’s right. Shae has said as much—she needs time to adjust and she wants nothing but friendship from me.

  I long to open her bedroom door and check on her, to watch her sleep, even. But that seems creepy and inappropriate. Instead, I march downstairs to the gym and take my frustration out on a punching bag.

  I can’t let you go. How can you let me go?

  My heart cracks a little more.

  I tell myself half the reason is she’s feeling vulnerable and overwhelmed. She needs to adjust to this new self-image before she can be normal with me.

  In the middle of the night I’m woken by the ping of a text.

  You need to pay. I’m coming to collect.

  The number is blocked. I immediately think of Brett. But this is more prone to be some crazy who hates me and my company, and I should pass it onto the police to investigate. Why would Brett say that? What’s he going to do—fight me for Shae? I doubt she’d take kindly to us fighting over her. I hadn’t revealed how he hit George either, half because I didn’t want to scare her since she’d been hanging out with a guy who could do something so violent and it seemed as if I was point-scoring. The other reason was because she has enough on
her plate without having to deal with that. I dismiss the thought that the text could be from Eddie. Jeez, it feels like half the world hates me.

  By ten the next morning, I decide it’s time to check on Shae. She remained alone in her room since early yesterday. What if she bumped into something and hurt herself, or she’s stranded in the shower, or slipped over the balcony? The last thought has me rushing up the stairs and listening at her door.

  There is only silence.

  She’s stayed in there for nearly twenty-four hours, though. I knock loudly then speak through the door. “Shae. It’s Drew. Time for breakfast.”

  There’s no response. Worried, I peek inside. Shae is lying in bed, facing away from me. The room is freezing, so I go in and close the French doors. When I return to Shae, her eyes are open and glassy, staring at nothing. Tears have created tracks along her cheeks, some dried, others still damp.

  I put my arms around her. “Shae, don’t cry. It’s going to be okay.”

  Her body shudders and I tug her to me and kiss her neck. I realize she’s naked. A rush of desire makes me harden, my jeans painfully constricting me. I pull in a shuddery breath and rock her. Over her shoulder, I spot a glassy gem on her bedside table, similar to the one I found on my desk when I first reunited with my father. There are some in the White Room, too. I don’t remember my mother decorating with them. Maybe Jamison took a liking to them. He often adds new cushions and vases or replaces a faded rug to keep the house up to date.

  When Shae calms, she tugs the covers up to her chin. I grin through my worry for her and say, “You’re killing me here… knowing what’s under there and I’m not allowed to touch.”

  “I couldn’t find the wardrobe.”

  That wipes the grin away. “Jeez. Sorry. I should’ve put some clothes out for you.” I count the steps to the cupboard to fetch her something to wear. “If you start from the end of the bed and face left, it’s fifteen paces.”