Adam's Peak (21 page)

“Not really,” she finally said. “No.”

Margaret seemed relieved, which made sense. After all, she herself had never had a boyfriend. “I suppose it won't be long, though,” she said.

Isobel headed for the tree next to the pond. “I suppose not.”

They sat on the grass, backs against the broad trunk, while Roddy zigzagged and sniffed. The pond's surface was as blank and beckoning as a fresh sheet of paper. Margaret lobbed a stone.

“It seems strange—kissing.”

Isobel thought of Patrick's tongue and the confusion of strange feelings it had provoked.

“Why?” she said, her tone indifferent.

Margaret lobbed another stone into the water. “It doesn't
mean
anything. Not like talking does. And why should it be lips? Why not noses, or chins, or something else?” She giggled. “All right, it
can
be something else, but at least that has a special purpose.”

“It's not just lips,” Isobel said testily, weighing a heavy stone in her hand. “I mean, they're connected to how you feel inside. It's all connected.” She hoped Margaret would understand, for she could explain no further. She tossed the stone and watched the buckling of its ripples to the edge of the pond.

“I know. It's still strange though,” Margaret said. “How are the cramps?”

“Still there.”

“They say it's better after you have a baby.”

“I don't want a baby,” Isobel sighed.

Margaret plucked at the long grass. “I know a kind of massage that works. My cousin had me do it to her when she had bad pains.”

“What do you mean
massage
?”

“With my fingers. I can make your uterus relax.”

Isobel cringed at the word. “
How
?”

“It's easy. I just press on your middle in a certain way.”

There was something not right about the proposition, but the idea that her friend might somehow be capable of taming the beast in her belly made Isobel eye Margaret's small, dirt-smudged hands with guarded optimism.

“It really works, what you do?”

“It worked for Pam. Go on—lie down and undo your trousers.”

“Can't you do it through my trousers?”

Margaret rolled her eyes. “No, don't be daft. It's much better the other way. Anyway, it's only you and me.”

Isobel chewed her bottom lip. She wished at times like this that Margaret would be more reserved, or that her openness would extend to more people. This privileged access imposed a kind of obligation that Isobel neither welcomed nor wished to impose in return. Still, the promise of relief made her comply. Awkwardly, as if she were walking backwards, she unzipped her blue jeans—real American ones—and lay down in the long grass. Roddy trotted up and hung his droopy ears and freckled muzzle over her face. Margaret shooed him away then knelt beside her and folded back the two flaps of denim. The tip of her tongue protruding in concentration, she pressed down with her fingers and began kneading small circles in Isobel's flesh through the thin blue cotton of her knickers.

“I hope you don't need to use the loo,” she said, laughing.

Isobel mumbled “No,” but she wasn't sure. She'd expected something like a doctor's prodding and poking, but this was different. She rolled her head to one side and fixed her eyes on the pond, where faint waves still rippled, like echoes of the strange new rippling sensation inside of her. In the distance, at the edge of her vision, were the grey-brown shapes of Stanwick's buildings, low and flat, except for the towers of the town clock and the abbey.

“Is it feeling better?” Margaret said.

“I'm not sure. Maybe.”

“Let me try it this way.”

Margaret slid her fingers down Isobel's cotton knickers, and the sudden touch of skin on skin was both electric and terrifying. Isobel closed her eyes to shut out the town. The rippling inside radiated throughout her, warming her, like the warm flush she got from Patrick's whisky. Faint smells of grass and sweat and dog fur hovered in the air, terrible and intoxicating. Vaguely she knew she must put an end to this awful pleasure, but it wasn't until the unexpected rush between her thighs—was she bleeding? had she wet herself ?—that she bolted up and shoved Margaret's hands away.

“Jesus, Margaret!” she panted, zipping her jeans. “What were you doing?”

Margaret's eyes widened. “Helping you with your pains. What's wrong, Isobel?”

“You can't—It's not—” She turned to the pond, where Roddy was wading chest-high in the muck. “You can't
do
that.”

“But I didn't ...” Margaret rubbed her palms down her thighs; the pale freckles on her chin pinched and quivered. “It didn't
mean
anything. I was only helping.”

Isobel flung a stone into the pond. Roddy lumbered out and spluttered like an egg beater in the long grass.
It didn't mean anything
, she repeated to herself, seeing in her friend's bewilderment that Margaret hadn't understood at all, couldn't see that everything was horribly, inescapably connected. The creature inside her twisted and cramped. She looked past the town and imagined herself at the top of the Empire State Building—not her body, just her essence, by itself.

“I have to go,” she said. “I think the bleeding's started.”

L
ATE THE NEXT MORNING
, Mr. Vantwest's car was again in his driveway. Before she could talk herself out of it, Clare slipped quietly down the stairs. She intended to leave unnoticed, but as she sat on the bench, pulling on her boots, her mother appeared.

“Doesn't the new carpeting just liven the whole place up?” she said.

Clare glanced up the stairs and into the empty living room at the fresh, rust-coloured floors.

“It looks good.”

“Just wait—it'll be even better when the new furniture arrives.” Isobel plucked at an edge of floral wallpaper. “This needs to go, too,” she added, almost contemptuously. “The carpet fellow said he could recommend someone who does painting and wallpapering.” As she spoke, she tore away tiny strips of paper, letting them flutter onto the bottom stair. “I'll have to ring Ted first. That's the carpet layer. I don't think he left me the fellow's phone number.”

Clare rubbed a scuff mark on the toe of her boot and silently urged her mother to go away.

“Are you off anywhere special?” Isobel said.

She wanted to lie, but nothing came to her.

“I noticed the Vantwests are home,” she said flatly. “I thought I'd go across and see how Adam's doing.”

To her credit, Isobel betrayed no surprise. She tapped her index finger against her lips and leaned backward to look out the living room window.

“I've been meaning to make another casserole for them.”

Clare stood and shook out the legs of her jeans. She was a little sore, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. “I don't think they've been home much,” she said. She needed to leave; her resolve was already failing. But her mother held her back.

“I think I'll go with you, Clare. If you don't mind. They'll wonder why I didn't come. And I do want to let them know I'm thinking about them.”

Clare's hand dropped from the doorknob.

“Just let me change into a decent pair of slacks,” her mother said, then she dashed up the stairs.

They left the house together under an overcast sky.

“I wish I'd made another casserole,” Isobel said as they started up the Vantwests' driveway.

Clare hugged her arms across her chest. “It doesn't matter.”

“Hmm. I suppose they might not eat that sort of thing.”

There were lights on in the house, yet when Clare rang the bell, no one answered. She whispered, “Let's go,” but her mother pressed her ear to the door and shook her head. “The bell didn't make much of a noise. It could be broken.” She rapped loudly while Clare stared at the concrete landing. Moments later, hurried footsteps sounded on the other side. The deadbolt jiggled, and the door opened.

It was the aunt. She clutched a tea towel in one hand, and she was dressed in a manner that had more than once prompted Isobel to say she would love to take the woman shopping—shapeless yellow dress, pilled white cardigan, opaque caramel-coloured stockings. The plastic buttons that fastened down the front of her dress were strained across her middle.

For a second or two no one spoke. Then Isobel reached out and touched the aunt's sleeve.

“Mary. How are you? I hope we're not intruding.”

The aunt brushed invisible strands of hair away from her forehead. “Ah, Mrs. Fraser. Thank you for the beautiful card. And the chicken. My niece and her daughter enjoyed that very much.”

“Oh, you're very welcome. We just wanted to see how you're doing, if there's anything else we can—”

“It's very good of you all to visit.” The aunt stepped back, wiping her hands on the tea towel. “Come in. Please.”

Clare followed her mother into the Vantwests' tiled vestibule, suddenly moved by the significance of the event. She'd been looking across the street at this house her entire life, never entering, never catching more than shadows behind the drapes. And now she was inside. She entered humbly, vaguely expecting to be awed, though at first glance, there was nothing especially awesome about the Vantwests' private world.

“It's good this snow is finally melting, isn't it?” the aunt said.

Clare nodded awkwardly; her mother smiled.

“Oh, yes! Now let's just hope we don't get one of those spring storms and have to start all over again. It's always so discouraging when that happens.”

“Ah, no. That would be too much.” The aunt glanced over her shoulder, down the hall, then waved her tea towel toward the living room. “Come in, sit down.”

Isobel slipped off her black wool jacket. “You're sure we're not disturbing you?”

“No, no. Alec will be here soon.” The aunt took the jacket then checked the hall once more. “Come, come. Sit.”

“Should I take off my shoes?” Clare said. As an opening, it was hopelessly inadequate. Adam's family deserved more from her, and as she met the aunt's eyes, she tried to convey something of what her words failed to deliver.

“Ah, no. Never mind your shoes. Come, sit.”

She sat beside her mother on the worn burgundy chesterfield. Scanning the photographs on the record player cabinet next to her, she zeroed in on a faded school portrait of Adam. He looked about six or seven years old. He wore a paisley shirt with an enormous collar and
a knitted V-neck vest. A curl of black hair jutted out defiantly above his right ear, and two teeth were missing from the cheeky grin he'd flashed the photographer. In the washed-out colours of the portrait, his eyes were a nondescript brown, nothing like the particular shade that Clare remembered.

“Those are the old school pictures,” the aunt said. “Not all the years, but most of them.”

Clare nodded and pretended to examine the other photos. She tried out a question in her head—
How is Adam doing, Mary?
—but the boldness of “Mary” seemed inappropriate, while the question itself suggested that Adam was simply out of touch—living in another city, busy with his studies. Then it struck her, numbingly, that perhaps the reason the Vantwests were home at all that morning was that Adam had died. She braced her clenched fists between her knees and stared at his high school graduation photo—the same cheeky grin. It made perfect, terrible sense: he'd died in the night, his family was in shock, and she and her mother had no business being in their home. There was nothing safe that could be said.

But Isobel managed.

“Mary, we were so shocked to hear about Adam's accident. How are you and your brother doing?”

Clare held her breath.

“We were shocked also,” said the aunt. “But we are living one day at a time. There's nothing else to do, isn't it. The doctor says it's a miracle he is even alive, so we must thank God for that.”

“Is his condition improving?” Clare said, exhaling, and again her words seemed inadequate.

The aunt lowered herself into an armchair opposite the chesterfield. “Oh yes, little by little. They think he is beginning to respond to their tests, but they still must call it a coma.” She frowned. “We'll be happy when the doctors stop using that word. Much too serious, no?” With surprising agility, she stood up again. “You'll have some tea?”

Before they could answer, the aunt disappeared into the adjoining kitchen. As water ran and cups clattered, Clare followed her mother's quiet survey of the Vantwests' living room. Isobel's eyes wandered from the embroidered runner covering the coffee table,
across the trampled beige carpet, to the elaborately carved sideboard. Her eyes, and Clare's, then landed on an astonishing item, butted against a bookcase. It was an upright crocodile, which, like a proverbial party drunkard, had a lampshade on its head. Isobel leaned toward Clare, but whatever remark she intended to whisper was cut off by a knock in the hallway.