That night Ophelia lies on her bed and burns. Thinking of Rowan, her mother, the war. It’s too much.
She longs to take the thrilling slide in.
She would have, even a few days ago. Not now, not anymore, now that she’s going insane.
She remembers the look of terror on Pim’s face, crouched wet and sandy at the foot of this bed. Never seen that before: not Pim afraid, and definitely not Pim here, in this world.
She feels the longing tugging at her, the thrilling through her body.
No.
She feels, then sees Pim. She’s alone in a wide, wide ocean. No sight of land. Swimming and swimming, but which way is land? Ophelia sees it all as if from far above, and as if through mist. She’s holding back with every ounce of strength; she will not go through.
She can see a smudge on the horizon that is the island.
Pim’s swimming the wrong way.
Suddenly she stops, looks up. Sees Ophelia, somehow.
You’re going the wrong way. But it’s like talking with a mouth full of molasses. She’ll have to go in all the way to truly speak.
No. She can’t go in, not again. She might never come back.
And besides, Pim’s not real.
Why do I feel so guilty and scared, then?
Ophelia gives herself a stern talking to.
Someone like you, who—what is it Candace always says?—“you’re so serious, you feel guilty about everything. . . .” Well, someone like that is probably going to find it correspondingly difficult to finally cut loose from her childish fantasy world. From her imaginary friend. Someone who feels guilty about everything is going to torture herself with scenarios like this one. She won’t be able to just grow out of it, saying, “it was nice, so long.” She’s going to imagine her friend lost and alone and drowning and needing her.
So it’s going to be tough, but unless you want to lose your ever-loving mind entirely . . .
Pim’s not real. None of this is real.
It’s. Not. Real.
Ophelia’s eyes fly open. She’s in Toronto on her bed. And everything is wrong.
She hangs on to the thought that she’ll see Rowan tomorrow like it will keep her from drowning.