'Over my dead body,' Joe had growled. 'You think I'm going to support you for the rest of my life?'
Sunny shrugged. 'I'm inexpensive, Joe. I don't drink, I don't buy fancy clothes, I don't spend all of your money in one place.'
'Listen to that,' Joe had implored the rest of them. 'I hand my paycheque over to her every month and don't even get an allowance.'
Sunny had given him a severe look over her glasses. 'That's a lie. You get five dollars a week.'
Geoff, Petra and Jennifer had all grinned at this, because it was common knowledge that Sunny and Joe shared a chequebook, a bank account and a petty cash system that was so casual they were always bickering over who had taken the last penny, who had a quarter for parking, where the twenty-dollar bill had gone.
Petra enjoyed Sunny and Joe's repartee; it was funny and homey and loving. She liked it so much that she often egged them on. 'Five dollars!' she said in mock-disbelief. 'Boy, Joe, I'd ask for a raise.'
'A raise?' Sunny said with horror. 'The man isn't worth more than five dollars.'
'Ah-ha,' Joe said. 'I'm not worth it, am I?'
'Not a cent more.'
'The way I pamper you and take care of you…'
Sunny's eyebrows rose. 'Such as?'
Joe grinned. 'You want details in mixed company?'
Petra and Geoff exchanged a smile, but the innuendo had gone over Jennifer's head. 'Gee,' she said to Joe. 'I get five dollars a week allowance and I'm forty years younger than you.'
'Forty!' Joe bellowed. 'How old do you think I am, young lady?'
Jennifer giggled. 'I don't know.'
'Forty,' Joe had muttered to himself, stamping out of the cottage with Rembrandt hot on his trail. 'Forty.'
With Renoir and Sunny healing and everyone's spirits rising, the morning training sessions had taken on an idyllic air. When the police found their way down to the beach, Petra and Jennifer were doing lengths and Geoff was following them at a slower pace. He'd taken up swimming again, this time more cautiously and with better results. Joe kept an eye on him, checked his muscle tone frequently and gave him heat and leg massages afterwards. It was encouraging for Geoff to discover that if he didn't push himself too hard, that if he didn't overdo it, his body wouldn't rebel, but would instead co-operate, giving him a much-needed mobility and confidence.
Rembrandt was the first to notice the police. He scrambled out of the water in a rush, shook himself furiously, sending water all over Sunny, and then raced towards them, barking like a mad fiend. The noise attracted everyone except Petra who was on mile fifteen. She was in that other place where the outer world didn't exist and where the outside sounds didn't exist. She'd had a lot of trouble reaching that place in the past four days. It took miles of swimming before she could sink into it, letting the pain and the tiredness and the anxiety dissolve into non-existence. And, when she did finally reach that oblivion, she fell into it with an enormous relief.
Geoff, of course, was the problem. Geoff and his lazy smile and his golden hair. Geoff and the heat of his mouth and the warm stroking of his fingers. Not that he had bothered her since that night; he'd been the perfect gentleman, treating her as he had promised, as if nothing had happened. But he had awoken something in Petra that had been dormant, unaroused, unreachable by anyone else. And, in that dormancy, it had lain hidden, growing in need and desire to such a point that, when he had released it, Petra had lost control and any sense of herself as a person separate from Geoffrey Hamilton. She had wanted to merge with him so badly that night that she had almost forgotten that Geoff was a mere acquaintance and that Joe and Jennifer were sleeping just walls away and that if she actually had sex she'd stand a good chance of getting pregnant. All the strictures and restraints that she imposed upon herself had gone fleeing out of the window during those lovely moments of touching, exploring, seeking.
So she wanted to sleep with Geoffrey Hamilton. What was wrong with that? one part of her demanded. Is it such a sin? The other part, the rational, clearheaded and pragmatic Petra said, of course it isn't a sin, but it would be foolish and stupid and dangerous. Geoff wasn't interested in her; he was interested in sex.
Oh, he liked her; Petra knew that. But it was a fleeting, careless emotion, one that would be forgotten when he left Indian Lake and moved on to other things. He'd even admitted that he preferred freedom to any sort of entanglement.
So?—would it be so horrible to sleep with a man who, even if he isn't head over heels in love with you, would still give you some of the most pleasurable nights of your life? Well, not horrible, Petra said, but making love with Geoff prior to the swim would change her emotional life so much that she wouldn't be sure she could regain the equanimity, that stillness of feeling, that enabled her to endure the hours and miles that it would require to cross Lake Ontario. Look at what a small amount of… petting, for heaven's sake, was doing to her concentration during training. The first twelve miles of each session had been pure, unadulterated agony.
You're crazy, Petra Morgan, to give up pleasure for agony. But Petra had thought that to herself so many times that she was used to discarding the idea as inconsequential. She was used to sacrificing pleasures for the purposes of swimming. She was accustomed to the rigour that demanded so much of her time that there was little left over for anything besides work and the humdrum routine of living. What other women her age considered as vital—the time to read, dance, go out with friends, watch television, follow the news, go to the movies, Petra had willingly given up for something far more vital; the chance to meet a goal few could reach, the chance to prove herself, the chance—and this was the hardest part to explain to anyone—to attain a purity of mind and spirit that was unmuddied by the dirt and chaos of life. When Petra was swimming, everything fell away; the irritations and arguments, the noise and bustle, the sadnesses and miseries. Nothing was left but the goal, the distant shore, visible before her like a single, clear, burning light.
You know, Petra, you really are crazy. But that part of her spoke too late. The other Petra had passed mile twelve and fallen, dreamlessly, into that deep, blue and utterly silent place. She didn't hear a thing: not Rembrandt's barking; not the voices calling to her even though she was, when she turned automatically to start another lap, not more than six feet from them; not even the shrill blast of Joe's whistle. She didn't stop swimming until she did two more lengths and was, once again, approaching the beach. This time, Joe had waded out into the water and touched her on the shoulder as she approached. That sensation was so unusual it brought her immediately back into reality and she came up for air, blinking behind her goggles.
'What's the matter?' she asked. 'Was I doing something wrong?'
'No,' he said, handing her a towel. 'Come on up to the beach.'
Everyone was there when she arrived, their faces looking so anxious and drawn that Petra immediately knew that something utterly dreadful had happened. She glanced at Geoff's grim expression, the way Jennifer was biting her lip and the look of concern on Sunny's face. Then she glanced at the two policemen who were standing by the chaise-longue, looking incongruous in this setting. Their brown uniforms with the belts, holsters, guns and helmets didn't seem to fit the sun-drenched beach, the backdrop of overhanging trees, the chatter of a crow high above their heads.
'What's happened?' she asked.
But it was Sunny who spoke. 'Petra,' she said. 'The police brought a message from the hospital, the one your mother's in.' She came closer and took Petra's hand between hers, her blue eyes full of the pain she knew she was going to inflict. 'She died. Late last night.'
Six hours later, Geoff was driving Petra, in her car, into the outskirts of Toronto. She had wanted to go by herself, but Geoff and everyone else had emphatically agreed that Petra was not to make a four-hour drive alone in her condition. She had argued that she was all right, that although she was upset she was quite capable of taking care of herself, but Sunny and Joe had disagreed. Geoff had said that he'd needed to get into Toron
to anyway, so the arrangements had been made despite Petra's objections.
The truth was, however, that she was quite glad to have Geoff at the wheel, coping with the rush-hour traffic and the glare of the low-lying sun on the windscreen. She had fallen asleep during the first hour of the trip and not woken until it was close to being over. It was the shock, she supposed, that had exhausted her so thoroughly. She still couldn't absorb it, the knowledge that Sheila was dead, that her mother, aged fifty-five and presumably healthy, was no longer. She remembered the last time she'd seen Sheila in the hospital. She'd been thin then, it was true, lying on her bed, her greying hair a mass against the pillow, her face pale and lined. But she hadn't been physically ill, just uninterested in food, people or activity. But Petra and the doctors had seen that sort of behaviour before. It was typical of Sheila to act that way after periods of high anxiety and paranoia. In fact, her passivity usually preceded a return to regular life as if she were gathering her energies together.
'You're up,' Geoff said, glancing sideways at her.
'I can't believe I slept that long.'
'You probably needed it.'
'I guess so.'
'What are your plans?'
'Well, the hospital has set up a funeral for the day after tomorrow.' Petra had called the administrator from a telephone booth in Mercy and agreed to all his suggestions. 'The legal aspects shouldn't be too difficult since I have power of attorney for her already. But I'll have to call a lawyer about the will, I guess.'
'Is there insurance to cover the funeral costs?'
'Some, I think.'
'Petra, I'll come with you and…'
'Oh, no! There's no need for you to be there.'
'But I'd like to.'
Petra glanced at him and then down at her tightly entwined hands. She didn't want pity, not Geoff's pity, not anyone's. Sheila had been her problem in life and would be her problem in death. And she was used to dealing with problems; all her life, Petra had been arranging, fixing, plotting, solving.
'It's all right,' she said.
'Petra.' Geoff's voice was firm. 'I'll come to the hospital with you and then take you to your flat. And I plan on coming to the funeral.'
'But I told you, there's no need for you to go to the trouble. I can manage just fine by myself.'
'I want to.'
'Geoff…'
'Don't argue.'
'But… why?'
Geoff deftly pulled around a lorry that was blocking two lanes of traffic. 'Why?' he echoed. 'Because you shouldn't go through this alone.'
'You're not responsible for me.' And she didn't finish the thought aloud—which was that she didn't want him thinking that just because he had kissed her, had held her in his arms, that he was automatically in charge of her.
'No, I'm not responsible for you,' he said and there was a touch of anger in his voice, 'but I'm a friend, I hope, and I'm only doing what one friend would do for another.'
Petra didn't know much about friends so she stared at him. 'Oh,' she said.
'And after the funeral, we're going to spend a couple of days with my parents.'
'Oh! That's nice of you, but I couldn't. I have to get back to the cottage and…'
'I've already discussed it with Joe. He doesn't want to see you until Monday.'
'What is this?' she said, her voice rising. 'A conspiracy?'
He didn't look at her, he kept his eyes on the traffic. 'Give yourself a break,' he said. 'Give yourself a chance to recover.'
'But your parents? Why should they…'
'I spoke to them. They'd be delighted to have you for a few days. In fact, my mother already likes you.'
Petra blinked in confusion. 'Why?'
'Because you're bringing me with you.' He sent a sudden grin in her direction. 'My folks don't get to see me too often.'
It was all too much for Petra whose three-hour nap hadn't seemed to dissipate a feeling of exhaustion and whose overall sensation was one of numbness. It was as if she were enclosed in a glasshouse whose walls kept out loud sounds, bright lights and strong emotions. Nothing could actually get inside and grab her, not Joe's conniving behind her back, not Geoff's insistence on interfering in her affairs, not even her mother's death. Nothing could touch the cold centre of her where her heart was enclosed in ice, beating and visible but unmoved by all that had happened. Petra hadn't cried over Sheila's death, she hadn't grieved. She'd merely gone into an emotional state that resembled suspended animation.
And she simply didn't have the energy to object to the presumably kind efforts of those .around her. If Joe thought he was being sympathetic by stopping her training for four days, if Geoff felt he was being generous by standing at her side at the funeral and bringing her home to his parents, Petra didn't have the force of personality to tell them differently. She didn't want Geoff's presence at the funeral; she didn't want to break her training routine, but she couldn't fight what was happening to her. Inside her glasshouse was a lethargy so pervasive that all Petra wanted to do was go to sleep again.
The administrator at the hospital, a tall, distinguished man, had had enough experience in family relations to lead Petra through the details that must be taken care of after a death with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of kindness. She was told, gently, about the unexpected and massive stroke that must have occurred in the middle of the night. 'It was probably instantaneous,' he said. 'We're sure she wasn't in pain.' She was given, in a neat package, her mother's belongings; a few dresses, a nightgown, bathrobe, slippers. She was asked if she wanted to see the body, but when she declined, that decision was accepted with understanding. She had to sign a number of forms, but the administrator didn't attempt to overwhelm her with bureaucratic regulations. Sheila's personal doctor came into the main office to offer his condolences, but this difficult occasion was kept brief and simple. In fact, she was in and out of the hospital and heading towards the suburb where she lived within an hour.
'Well,' Geoff said, 'that wasn't so bad.'
'No.' To her surprise, she hadn't minded Geoff's presence at all. He'd generally stayed in the background, only filling in the silences when they became awkward and chatting easily with the hospital staff. Petra had also been relieved to find that no one at the hospital had made any embarrassing assumption about who Geoff was. They'd accepted him as a friend of the family.
'You're going to see the lawyer tomorrow?'
'Yes.'
'And the funeral director.'
Petra nodded her head.
'You won't forget to call your insurance agent.'
'No, I won't.'
'What are you going to do tonight?'
An alarm bell went off inside of her. 'Oh, I'll be busy, and I'm… I'm tired.'
Geoff gave her a concerned glance. 'You slept all afternoon.'
'It's been a hard day.' She glanced at the window as he pulled down a street that had a number of brick buildings with garden flats. 'Here it is,' she said. 'I live in Number 16.'
Geoff slowed the car down, pulled over to the kerb and turned to her. The elms that lined the street caught the sun in their branches and filtered its rays on to his face. One bar of illumination lay across his hair highlighting strands of gold, another emphasised the clear blue of his eyes and the worry in them. 'Petra, I don't like the idea of leaving you.'
Her hands fluttered in the air. 'I'm all right. Really, I'll be fine by myself.'
One of his hands captured hers, and the immediate sensation she had was of warmth. He was silent for a moment and then said, 'I think the doctors were sincere,' he said. 'I think she died in her sleep—if that makes it any easier.'
'Oh, I know she didn't suffer. I'm glad about that.'
'I'll call you later.'
The warmth of his hand was threatening the coldness at the centre of her, and Petra was terrified of what might happen if the iciness in her heart began to melt. 'No, you don't have to.' She pulled her hand out of his grasp. 'I might be sleeping anyway.'
; His blue eyes surveyed her face. 'Tomorrow then. I'll call you tomorrow. Please, Petra, I insist.'
Reluctantly, she nodded.
'And I'll pick you up at 11:30 on Saturday for the funeral.'
'Okay.'
'And afterwards, we'll leave for my parents.'
She was too tired, to numb to care. 'All right,' she said.
Geoff leaned forwards and gently brushed his mouth against hers. 'Take care of yourself,' he whispered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Take care of yourself. Had she ever done anything else? Petra wearily unlocked the door to the flat and stepped into its dusky interior. The windows had been closed for a month, and the curtains were drawn tight. The air in the living-room smelled old and stale and, in the dim light, she could make just make out the silent forms of furniture whose colours had long since faded into a decor so nondescript that it merged with the greyness of the air, the musty odour, the emptiness. Petra had tried her best, in the past, to liven up her home with posters, gay curtains, a colourful throw pillow, flowers, but nothing she had done had ever survived. Sheila's presence or the memory of her presence had dimmed everything, so that Petra could never enter the flat without feeling that heaviness settle over her.
And, even now, with her mother dead, the burden was there as she walked into the rooms, wandering from the living-room into the small kitchen and then into her own bedroom. Dust lay on the tables and counters, on her mother's small knick-knacks, on the book lying beside her bed. Petra picked up the book and glanced at it. It was a novel, but the title was meaningless. She couldn't even remember buying it. In some odd sort of way, Sheila's death had sheared the past from her so that it seemed to have happened to someone else, not the Petra who existed now, who was idly walking through these rooms, seeing them suddenly through a stranger's eyes, seeing herself objectively as if a mirror were before her.
Love is a Distant Shore Page 11
