Fourteen

THE YELLOW LILIES caressed the canoe as it slid silently through the water, dappled with light where the sun penetrated the trees in full summer leaf. The breeze was so warm and gentle it was like Mother Nature herself was conspiring to create a perfect moment. Just for them. He took in the lovely shape of her head and neck, her black hair pulled up in a careless ponytail, the rise and fall of her shoulders as she paddled, stopping to point out the frogs and the enormous heron stalking them. He loved everything about the way she moved though the world. Just as he reached out to touch her, to show her the kingfisher that was warning them away, she dropped her paddle in the water and turned around to face him. But it wasn’t her. It was someone else. The Man. He was pointing and laughing at him, shrieking, “You’re up shit creek without a paddle, my boy!” When he looked at his hands his paddle was gone, too, and his hands were bleeding. He tried to staunch the blood and plunged them into the water. The whole lake began to turn red. When he pulled them out again, his hands were gone. And she was, too. He had no hands, and no paddle in a lake of blood. As he slowly returned to this world, it took him a few moments to remember he was in his bathtub and had fallen asleep again. The water was freezing now, and his fingers had gone wrinkled and pruny. His heart was beating faster than he liked—it always happened when he dreamed of her. But this was a variation on the nightmare he’d had now for years and years. It always began so beautifully and ended so horribly.

He checked his phone on the bathtub edge—he was already late. He hefted his bulk out of the bath, and reached for a towel to rub himself dry, taking meticulous care with every inch of his body. He had told her everything. Well, almost everything. Some things could not be fully revealed. He had promised her he’d care for her, never let her want for anything. He told her the things he had never told anyone else. All the social workers, all the therapists, all the do-gooders who wanted him to talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk. She was the only one who really listened because she knew what it was like. And now she was gone.

As he straightened the epaulettes and insignia on his uniform, he smiled with self-satisfaction. No reasonable person could think he was not a good-looking man. He had a good face. A strong chin. Clean teeth. Clear eyes. Excellent posture. As he slid the wedding ring on, he glanced at her picture on his wall. He kissed the tips of his fingers and transferred it to the photograph. As he stepped out into the tepid light of mid-afternoon in a Montreal January, he felt a surge of resolve. She would understand why he was doing it. Why it was so very important.