Breakdown (41 page)

“We’re all tired. It was a hard night. I’ll sit with him, if you want a little break.”

“As soon as Pauline’s out of the loo, yes.”

Pauline came back, and Michael settled her in the easy chair in the corner. She stared at Chris in the bed.

“He nearly died,” she said softly, and a few tears fell out of her eyes.

Michael took her hand. “It’s over now, Paulie. He’s going to be okay now. Because you didn’t give up, didn’t let him give up.”

She laid her head to the side, resting it on the back of the chair. “I’m so tired.”

“Mum is making some breakfast for you, Paulie. As soon as you eat, you can go to bed and get some sleep.”

She had fallen asleep in the chair by the time Grace brought up some muffins with jam and a scrambled egg. She woke Pauline and helped her eat, and then tucked her into bed next to Chris. Pauline was asleep in moments. Michael dragged himself down to the kitchen, ate with the rest of them, then made sure Grace and Marie both went to bed. George went up to doze in the chair in Pauline’s room. Wes agreed to find something useful to do. Michael decided he’d taken care of everything he could. He crawled into the spare-room bed. As he sank into sleep, he realized the wind had died down.

CHAPTER 35

H
e wanted to open his eyes, but couldn’t manage it. The blackness still had him. It lingered in his lungs; every breath burned. It was going, slowly, but it trickled out in little bits, reluctant to leave him. In his dreams it had seemed like a black cloud, drifting, moving effortlessly, soft and ethereal. But when it finally got into him for real, he found it was not soft at all, it was heavy and hot and sharp. It filled his lungs and kept the air out. He had fought against it for so long, longer than he thought he could, but something had kept him going, some cool presence had stayed with him and calmed him. He wanted to see that presence. He wanted its cool touch on his skin again.

He groaned in frustration. It got harder to breathe when he tried to move, tried to put a hand to his face to find out why he couldn’t open his eyes. He wanted to open his eyes.

Then the presence was there with him again. He could hear it, feel it, soft and reassuring, cool against his face and lips. Something wet trickled into his mouth, and he swallowed and relaxed and let himself sleep, so he couldn’t feel the burning in his lungs.

* * *

He was waking up again; he knew he was because it hurt when he breathed. This time he managed to open his eyes, but something was wrong—he didn’t know what. He could hardly see in the dark, and fear surged through him. The blackness was still there in the room, waiting to get back in. He knew he couldn’t fight it off again, he was so tired. This time it would take him; he would be defenseless. He made some kind of noise, tried to bring his hands up in front of his mouth, where it always got in.

Then the room brightened, the blackness faded off into the corners. Pauline appeared next to him, smiling at him, and relief washed over him. She leaned in close to him and took his hand.

“I’m here, darling. It’s going to be okay.”

He couldn’t say anything, but he stared into her eyes and tried to squeeze her hand, and he hoped she understood.

She looked away for just a moment, then back at him. “Swallow this, darling,” she said and dribbled water into his mouth from a spoon. He swallowed. It hurt, but he did it again when she told him to, and a third time. She wiped at his face with a cool, damp cloth, moving it down onto his neck, and he wanted to tell her how good it felt, but when he tried, he couldn’t manage it.

“Just relax. Don’t try to talk. I know, darling, I know. You’re going to be fine, Chris. You need to rest, though.” She stroked his forehead with her fingers while she talked to him, and he felt his eyes closing again. “Go to sleep, Chris,” he heard her say, and he did as he was told.

* * *

It had been three days since they had sat up the whole night with Chris. He was improving slowly, taking water and a little broth, talking a bit. Michael knew it would be a long time before Chris was out of bed, even longer before he was fully recovered. The rest of the family were doing fine, getting the work done, resting when they were tired, going to bed early, sleeping late.

Except for Pauline, who spent every waking moment at Chris’s bedside and slept beside him at night. Michael worried about her, but whenever he checked in with her, or gave her a short break, she looked fine. She seemed to thrive on taking care of Chris; she was tireless.

Michael still felt a little stab of something in his heart at times, a sense of loss, when he watched her gently adjusting Chris’s pillow, or spooning broth into his mouth, or just sitting beside him, holding his hand while he slept. He took on as much of the work as he could, tired himself out so that he fell into bed exhausted at night, slept through without dreaming until morning. And he started to feel that it was time for him to go.

* * *

“Hey, Wes,” Chris heard Pauline say. He opened his eyes and rolled his head on the pillow toward where she sat in a chair next to the bed. She was looking out the door into the hallway. “Do you want to come in?” she asked.

Wes stepped in. He looked over at Chris in the bed.

“Hey, Wes,” Chris said. His lungs still hurt when he talked.

Wes stood just inside the door, watching him, twisting his hands together, biting his lip.

“It’s okay,” Pauline said. “He’s going to be fine.”

“I’m all right, mate,” Chris said.

Pauline stood. “Why don’t you sit here for a bit. I’ll take a little break.” She ushered Wes into the chair and went out with a little glance at Chris. Wes sat looking at him.

“What’s on?” Chris asked him.

“They all thought you were gonna die,” Wes said abruptly.

Sudden breaths hurt. “Why do you think that?”

“I saw Pauline crying, and I asked Michael why, and he told me you might die during the night.”

In his fragile state, Wes’s words were a shock. Chris couldn’t think of anything to say to him, could only think of Pauline crying because she thought he was going to die. He swallowed hard, wishing he had a drink of water, but not sure if he could manage to reach the cup on the table by himself. He saw a tear come out of Wes’s eye, track down his cheek. Wes sat tensed and pulled in on himself in the chair, and didn’t wipe it away.

“It’s okay, mate. I didn’t die. I’m not going to.”

“I didn’t care when my dad died. He was always mean,” Wes said, his voice shaky. He sniffed hard. “But I didn’t want Uncle Mel to die, and he did anyway. I didn’t want you to die either.”

Chris motioned with his hand. “Come here.” He wasn’t sure if Wes would leave the chair; he had never seen the boy let anyone touch him. The only time Chris had ever had any contact with him was when he had carried him in from the barn and put him to bed.

Wes stood, moved to the edge of the bed, and sat down, keeping his arms tight to his sides. Chris opened his hand out where it lay on the coverlet. Wes twitched.

“It’s okay, Wes,” Chris said, and something seemed to come loose in the boy. He shifted closer, put his head down on Chris’s chest and grabbed hold of him. Chris put his arms around him. Wes cried against him, hot, choked sobs full of relief.

“It’s okay,” Chris said again. His own eyes stung.

Pauline was there in a moment, trying to comfort Wes, rubbing his back with her hand. Wes quieted, and she gathered him up and walked him out of the room, talking softly to him. Michael came in soon after.

“Can I have some water, please?” Chris asked.

Michael handed him the cup, sat. Chris drank, then looked at Michael.

“You told him I might die?”

Michael sagged in the chair. “I wanted him to be prepared. I thought I would be taking some bad news back to your brother.”

Chris blinked hard. “Pauline...?”

“She had all of us around her,” Michael said.

“She was here, wasn’t she?”

Michael nodded. “She was right here with you, that whole night, talking you through it. We were all here.”

“I heard her,” Chris whispered. He remembered the soft words, the coolness of a damp flannel against his skin.

“She kept you going. She wouldn’t give up.”

It was hard to keep his eyes open any longer. Chris let them close, felt the cup falling out of his hand.

“Go to sleep,” Michael said, taking the cup. Chris floated for a moment and then let sleep take him.

* * *

Michael finished packing his rucksack in the spare room, stood with his heart pounding, sat down on the bed, took deep breaths to calm himself. He had never been good at good-byes. He stared at the floor for far too long, then roused himself and went out into the hall. He glanced in the door of Pauline’s room.

“Knock, knock,” he said lightly.

“Come in.” Pauline smiled. Chris was propped up in almost a sitting position. She had been leaning forward, her face near his, whispering to him.

Michael leaned against the doorframe. “How are you feeling, Price?”

“Better.” Chris’s voice still sounded rough and he had dark circles under his eyes, but he looked better than he had yesterday.

“I had something I wanted to discuss with the two of you.”

“What is it?” Pauline asked.

“It’s about my place,” Michael said, staring at their entwined hands. “It’s a nice house, still salvageable. I want you two to have it.”

Pauline’s mouth fell open. Chris took an audible breath.

“Look, I’ll never do anything with it,” Michael went on quickly. “It’s not like I’m going to suddenly settle down here again, right? It’s going to ruin. But you two will want your own place, your own home. It’s perfect. Right down the road. You’ll still be around to help out here.”

“Are you sure?” Chris said.

“Absolutely!” Michael said, forcing a smile. “I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to have it. I’ll stop in Petersfield and see what sort of paperwork we’ll need to make it all official. I guess they still do things like that.” He shrugged.

Pauline got up to give him a big hug. “Thank you, Michael! It’s wonderful!”

He hugged her back, closed his eyes for just a moment with his cheek against her neck, then pulled away.

“You may not thank me as much when you see the state it’s in,” he joked. “Not exactly ‘move-in condition.’”

Chris grinned. Pauline laughed a little.

“Thanks, Cooper,” Chris said and held out his hand. Michael stepped forward and shook it.

“Take good care of her, Price.”

“I will do, if I ever get out of this bed.”

“And you, sweetie, take good care of him.”

She smiled. “Absolutely.”

“Well, I’m off, then,” Michael said.

Pauline’s smile disappeared. “What?”

“I have to go, Paulie. I’ve been AWOL far too long. I have to get that rig back to Portsmouth. I’ll be lucky to avoid the lockup at this point. I’m going to have to grovel. I’m not good at groveling.”

“But it’s only been a little over a week.”

“Closer to two, love. And I’m not on official business. I told Price, I rather borrowed the rig.” He shrugged again. “I might be in serious trouble.”

“But—” she started, and Michael shook his head.

“You know I’m not the stick-around type,” he said quietly. “My loss, really. Come here, sweetie.” He held out his hand and she took it, and he pulled her to him and hugged her tight, then released her. “I’ll come around when I can. I’ll try to scrounge up some building supplies, stuff like that.”

“Be careful, Michael. And maybe you could write once in a while.”

“That I will do. Absolutely.”

“Good luck, Cooper,” Chris said. “Say hello to Kay for me. Tell her where you were. She’ll go easy on you.”

“Oh, she’d go easy on you, Price.” Michael grinned. “Me, I don’t know. As I said, I’ll have to grovel.” He stood for a moment near the door, his stomach churning, his hands shaking. “Right, then. I’ll push off.” He turned and left with a little wave, got his rucksack from the spare room, and went down the stairs to say good-bye to the rest of them.

Journey’s End
(excerpt)
(C. Price, 2007)

A journey long, a journey far,
A wound I tried hard to conceal.
You saw the pain, the jagged scar.
You laid your hands on me to heal.

Now you are my shining star,
A light to fill my emptied heart.
I never want to be apart.
I never want to be apart.

EPILOGUE

April 2008—Breton

C
hris straightened up from shoveling compost and wiped at his forehead with his sleeve. He had been working in Grace’s rose garden in front of the house on a particularly warm morning. There was extra work to do this year. The roses had been neglected the spring before, when Chris, Pauline, and Jon—who had moved from Hurleigh just after Christmas—were working to fix up Michael’s house. Pauline had always taken care of the roses, but she was getting to the point where she couldn’t do that kind of work anymore. Chris and Jon had decided to take a few hours and spruce up the garden for Grace. They had left Pauline in the kitchen with Mum and Marie, stitching nappies.

Jon came around the side of the house with another wheelbarrow full of compost.

“That should be enough,” Chris said, but Jon was looking past him, down the road.

“Someone’s coming.”

Chris turned to look. A man trudged up the road. Chris didn’t know him. He reached the stone wall, walked along it toward them. He had a rucksack on his back and watched them with his eyebrows drawn together, his jaw clenched. He stopped by the gate, hesitated. There was something about him that reminded Chris of something, but he couldn’t grasp what.

Chris walked down through the garden toward him. “Can I help you?”

“Ah, don’t the Andersons still live here?” the man asked, as if he was afraid of the answer.

“They do,” Chris replied.