Salt Spring Island
december 12, 1972
“no!” pat shouts after kay, her voice whipped away by the blustering wind. Pat staggers up and down the beach like a caged animal, not sure what she’ll do now that the brains of Operation Commit Jeanie has abandoned her.
Savka and I find ourselves in a huddle, our eyes on Taras, who stands at the water’s edge. He’s scooped up his father’s gun, and there’s a look on his face I’ve not seen before, riveted in this earth-shaking instant. He aims the gun at Ilyin and Belyakov, who don’t seem to care that Kay has escaped, swimming now out into the bay. The two Russians are up to their knees in the ocean, pointing their pistols at Taras while they struggle to stay upright in the rolling waves. Savka and I clutch each other, shivering, powerless to help Taras. I imagine the emotions coursing through him as he ventures into the ocean, his pants wet in the surf, finding himself in one of the most anticipated moments of his life.
Desperation is writ large on the Russian’s faces. They’ve obviously left their car up on Arbutus Road, and have few avenues of escape—the headland and forest to our right, the water itself, as Kay chose, or the beach to our left, with the boats…
Belyakov appears to notice the kayak and old rowboat and yells something, pointing them out to Ilyin.
Take the rowboat, I think, take the colander.
The Russians look like cornered rats, thinking only of a way out of this trap. I fear what they might do to Taras. My muscles cramp in sudden shock as he advances toward Ilyin.
“My son has handled worse than this in the Gulag,” Savka whispers in my ear and hugs me closer. She’s wearing a coat over her sweater and skirt, and I regret not wearing something warmer; my teeth are chattering in the increasing wind.
In the water, Belyakov and Ilyin are wading toward the kayak and rowboat, but Taras lunges after them. Ilyin spins, firing two quick shots. Taras falls back, disappearing beneath the surface.
“Was he hit?” Savka screams. We’re watching the ocean, breath held, and gasp with relief when Taras’s head emerges close to Ilyin, who panics and squeezes off another few shots. Savka and I pitch backwards, out of the range of fire, but a wave knocks Ilyin off kilter, and he drops his gun, not expecting Taras to reach out a long arm, his hand on top of the Russian’s head, dunking him as he struggles to stay above the surface.
Savka takes my hand. “I will not lose my son again,” she says, just as terrified as I am that Taras won’t survive this.
Oblivious, Pat paces the beach like a jungle cat, tracking Kay’s progress out in the bay, swimming as if someone is right behind her, heading for the Secretary Islands, a destination she might reach if the incoming tide doesn’t sweep her away. Pat takes a few steps toward the ocean’s edge and falters, glowering at a dark cloud mass the color of a bruise surging overhead. She seems to remember that she’s a poor swimmer and thinks better of entering these menacing waves as the light fades perceptibly. It might very well be dusk.
As Taras and Ilyin grapple in the sea, Pat suddenly rounds on me. “I’ve been trying to protect you all these years,” she says, her eyes swinging wildly. “I had your best interests at heart. And you fought me every step of the way.” She gestures at the ocean. “The Fire Bride should be out there trying to escape, the woman who immolated herself on her husband’s stupidity. Jeanie Esterhazy, the deluded romantic, a sacrificial victim to love.”
Shaking, I feel myself cycle back unwillingly through the past thirteen years, so many wretched moments flaring and fizzing like dying stars. “All those times I stupidly accepted medicine cups from you,” I cry, vaguely aware that Savka has let go of my hand and stares silently at Belyakov, who’s now wading back to shore. I take a few steps toward Pat. I don’t want her to miss a word. “Medicine cups filled with uppers, downers, antipsychotics,” I stutter in outrage, conscious that Belyakov is now closer to Savka, as Ilyin and Taras wrestle behind them in the deeper water. Pat has poor timing, but I can’t resist this last chance to tell her what I really feel. “You haven’t protected me. You did everything you could to fight me. When I’d spent two years in the hospital. If anyone should know, it was you and Kay—I’d already gone through the fight of my life!”
Pat looks momentarily cowed at my unexpected outburst, then a crazed smile breaks across her face. She flies at me like a deranged bird and grabs my arm, dragging me toward the water. I struggle against her, scratching and fighting with every ounce of my strength.
“You want a fight?” she says through clenched teeth. “I’ll give you one.” Pat outweighs me, and her hands feel impossibly strong on my arm. If she can’t beat me, she’ll kill me. Has it come to this, after thirteen years of unjust treatment? Is she really going to win?
The police sirens set up a piercing wail as they make the turn on Arbutus Road, and Pat falters, letting me go. My old nurse lingers in a moment of indecision, finally breaking with a violent howl and plunging away across the beach.