Chapter Thirty-Five
CHAPTER
35
I’m sure Kit would like to give advice as I set out the portable table and chairs, but he’s sufficiently offended that he holds his tongue.
I hate you.
A lie.
I could love you.
The truth.
There’s no heating in the hut, but it’s far warmer than it would be outside and the water in the thermoses is hot. I sip tea as I lay out sandwiches. Grandpa calls.
‘How’s it going then?’ Grandpa’s voice bounces off the walls.
‘All good.’
‘Did you get some drawing done? How about the climb? Last time you did it, it was with your dad.’
‘We took a shorter route this time.’ My voice is stilted. ‘We used ropes.’
‘The snow bloke likes to use ropes.’
Kit, dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a black hoodie, takes careful steps across the floor, checking the position of the chair before he sits. Elbows on the table, he pulls the plate of sandwiches towards him before taking the two that are closest. His phone rings and he reaches into his pocket but fumbles. The phone drops from his hand and skids across the floor.
‘Hang on a second, Grandpa.’ After grabbing Kit’s arm and telling him to stay put, I kneel and search. The phone rings out. After I finally locate it under one of the beds, I brush the dust off with my sleeve and sit back on my heels.
‘I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow, Grandpa. I’ll tell you about what we’ve been up to then. How are you feeling today?’
‘Couldn’t be better …’ He coughs, whistles breaths. Tries to speak and starts coughing again.
‘Take your time, Grandpa. Is your drink on the tray? Sip slowly.’
After quite a bit of wheezing and muttering, Grandpa speaks again. ‘Don’t forget to bring your sketchbook to show me.’
‘Night, Grandpa.’
I’m pretty sure I’m just a blurry outline to Kit, but his hand is out for his phone before I’ve even sat down again. He’s staring at the screen when the phone rings again. He turns it and holds it towards me.
‘Who is it?’
I lean across the table and press answer. ‘Mamma.’
A short hesitation. Then he puts the phone to his ear. They’re talking about Sebastien again. ‘Hvordan g?r det med han?’
Even though I don’t understand the words, Kit’s mother’s voice is as audible as Grandpa’s was. After she answers Kit’s questions she seems to ask her own, but I get the impression he doesn’t want to answer. At the end of yet another exchange, he says my name. They argue back and forth. Finally, he gives the phone to me.
‘Tell her I’m okay.’
‘Hello?’
Kit’s mother, her English as fluent as her son’s, introduces herself as Sigrid Aaberg-Thorsen. She explains that Kit wanted to know immediately when she’d heard news of his brother, Sebastien. When she was unable to get on to Kit, she called Astrid who told her he’d been hurt.
‘He’s not okay, is he? Please tell me.’
I reassure Sigrid that Kit’s right eye has a small cut, and the left one is scratched but should be all right.
‘Astrid will take him to an eye specialist tomorrow. In the meantime he’s supposed to keep it closed.’
‘When my sons were young they would run to me with every bump and scratch. Now they keep things from me. I’m relieved you’re there to care for Kit.’
‘He’s fine, Sigrid, really he is. Try not to worry too much.’
‘I wanted to tell him that Sebastien was safe.’ Her voice wavers. ‘It’s been a very difficult day.’
‘I promise I’ll look after Kit.’
A shaky laugh. ‘He will resist.’
I tighten my hold on the phone. ‘If there’s any change, I’ll call.’
***
‘Mamma!’ Kit, on his knees on the bed, is tearing at his sleeping bag, pushing it behind him like he’s digging. ‘Mamma! Mamma!’
‘Kit!’ After struggling out of my sleeping bag and the second bag, opened like a quilt, that Kit threw over me last night, I run across the cabin. Moonlight shines through the window above the door.
‘What’s the matter?’ I kick a torch, locate it under his bed and turn it on.
‘Mamma!’ His breathing is frantic. His cheeks are wet and he’s sobbing. ‘Mamma!’
‘You’re dreaming, Kit.’
As he shouts in Norwegian, I sit on the edge of his bed and do my best to speak calmly. ‘It’s a dream, Kit, a nightmare. You have to wake up.’
He digs some more, sits back on his haunches and scrubs at his face.
‘Kit! Don’t!’ I grab his arms, lower my voice. ‘You can’t touch your eyes.’
‘Hun er i sn?en!’
‘It’s me, Kit. Mac. Mary Mackenzie. You’re having a dream. It’s not real.’
For a heartbeat, he stills. And then, breath shuddering, he leans forward with his forearms on the bed. His shoulders lift and fall as he sucks in air. ‘Fuck.’
Shuffling closer, I pull at his arm until he straightens. ‘You’re cold.’ I take his hand and rub it between mine. ‘You’ll feel better when you’re warm.’ I wrap his bag and my second sleeping bag around his shoulders. A circle of blood marks the plaster on his eye. I pull my sleeve down over my hand and press it against one cheek then the other.
As if suddenly aware he’s been crying, he swipes at his face with the palms of his hands.
‘Kit!’ I take his wrists. ‘Stay away from your eyes.’
‘I woke you.’
‘And as I’m awake, I might as well be helpful. Lie down. I want to look at the cut.’
After drinking from his water bottle, he does as I ask, clenching his jaw as I peel away the plaster. As the steri-strips are still in place, I put a fresh dressing over the top.
‘Is your left eye any better?’
He opens it, blinks. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I’ll get gloves. You can put the ointment in again.’
‘It blurs my sight.’
‘You’re meant to have your eye closed anyway.’ When I hold out the tube, he takes it. As he’s smearing the ointment into his eye, I tuck the quilted bag around him again. ‘What did you dream?’
He shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘That didn’t answer my question.’ When I pull the coverings up to his chin, our hands touch and my skin warms. Surely that’s not appropriate when he’s injured and—
‘Did I shout?’
‘Mamma. And other things.’
He finds my hand again. ‘You’re cold.’
I’m on the point of denying that when a shiver passes through me. ‘I’ll go back to bed.’
I can barely see him; there’s no way he’ll be able to see me. So why do we stare?
‘Get your bedding.’ He shuffles towards the wall. ‘Sleep here.’
So we can share body heat? Or to give him something else to think about? When he found me in pain at the saddlery, he got me tablets and …
‘If I agree, will you tell me about your dream? Sometimes that helps.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Grandpa.’
‘Did you tell him your dreams?’
‘Always.’
‘You believe I don’t communicate.’
A bubble of laughter. ‘I know you don’t.’
He thinks about that. Then, ‘I’ll tell you the dream.’
When I join him on the bed, his shoulders are so broad it’s impossible for us not to touch. I’m on my back looking up; he turns his head.
‘You said you hate me.’
‘Currently, I feel sorry for you.’ I keep my voice steady. ‘Did you dream about your mother? You were shouting her name.’
‘We were in France. She was on skis; I was on a snowboard.’
‘She had an accident, didn’t she?’ I shift on the pillow, search his face through the darkness. ‘You were there when it happened.’
‘It was a new run, a black. She’d warned me to stay close, but I disobeyed. As she looked back to find me, a skier cut across her. He’d lost control. They collided.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Ten.’
I’m not sure who moves first, but in the next breath he’s in my arms. He rests his head on my chest and I stroke his hair.
‘You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’
‘She disappeared over the edge of the trail. I followed her screams into the trees.’
‘When you were dreaming, it looked like you were digging.’
‘Searching.’
I pull him closer. ‘You’ve had this dream before, haven’t you?’
His breath is warm between my breasts. ‘Many times.’
‘You were worried about your brother today.’
‘He’s a pilot. His plane went down.’
‘What?’
‘He ejected. He’s okay.’
Early morning light seeps through the cracks in the timber. ‘No wonder your mother gets worried.’
He finds my hand. ‘I dream after a bad day, or good.’
‘You’ve had that dream since you were ten?’ I stroke his hair. ‘That’s a long time.’
‘Twenty-two years.’
‘Have you seen anyone? Got professional help?’
‘Many times. When I was young, I woke my family. Now I sleep alone.’
‘Always?’
‘Yes.’
‘Even when …’
‘What?’
I close my eyes, trace the rim of his ear. ‘You know.’
‘I leave. Always.’
‘Always?’
There’s a smile in his voice. ‘I only sleep with you.’
‘What if the others had been here tonight?’
‘I’d go to bed late, two hours’ sleep, set an alarm.’
‘That’s not enough sleep.’
He comes up on an elbow. ‘You have beautiful eyes, Mary Mackenzie.’
‘You can’t see them.’
‘I remember.’
‘We were talking about nightmares. You changed the subject.’ When he lies down again, I stroke across the nape of his neck. ‘Does your eye hurt?’
‘Ikke n?.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Not now.’
‘Your mother loves you and your brothers.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think I look like my mother?’ The words hang in the air. ‘Tell the truth.’
He rolls onto his back, taking me with him. He wraps an arm around me, smooths my hair. ‘Kj?reste.’
‘It’s my eyes, isn’t it?’
‘Your eyes are your own.’
‘They’re a different colour green, but distinctive like hers.’
‘Your hair is the colour of a r?d hjort, a deer. It’s unique. So are your eyes.’
‘I don’t like her, Kit. That’s not natural, is it?’
He thinks about that. ‘You are afraid to be like her. But you have your grandfather. You had your father.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘You can love.’
When I take a deep breath, his body lifts with mine. ‘Dad loved me, he wanted to be with me, but being in Summerfield didn’t always make him happy.’
‘Sometimes he wanted more.’
‘Grandpa told me I’m like Dad in some ways because he liked adventure and so do I. That could be true.’
When he searches for my hand and holds it between us, I shift position, wrap a leg around him.
‘You’re hurt, Kit. Are you frightened? You must be.’
‘I regret what happened, but …’ He breathes deeply, evenly. ‘I’m okay.’
I put my hand against his cheek and feel the bristles. I push back his Viking hair. ‘If you weren’t behind me, you mightn’t have been hurt.’
‘I should have waited before I looked up.’
‘ I’m frightened, even if you’re not.’
He takes a long time to answer. Then, ‘Fawns stay with their mothers until the next fawn is born, sometimes longer.’
‘I wasn’t the daughter my mother wanted. I always knew that.’
‘You deserved more.’
‘Are things always so cut and dried for you?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Rational. One thing leads to another.’
He yawns. ‘It does.’
I like him like this, sleepy and mostly compliant. I breathe in, he breathes out. My heart skips. My throat tightens. Tonight, I’m not a saddler from Summerfield. He’s not a celebrity from Norway. I want to be with him.
More than anyone else in the world.
Am I in love with him?
I’m in love with him.
There’s no sense to it, but there’s no denying it.
He lifts my chin again. ‘Are you comfortable?’
‘Mmmm.’
He kisses my mouth. Briefly. Possessively. ‘This is what I want.’
‘You shouldn’t have overruled Astrid and changed the schedule.’
‘I won’t do it again.’
Taking his hand, I hold it tightly, kiss his thumb. ‘Please keep your eyes closed.’
‘Tell me what you want.’
‘Kit …’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘You’re half-asleep.’ I yawn and snuggle closer, bringing his head to my chest again. ‘I promised your mother I’d look after you. You have to rest.’
‘I don’t want to be apart.’ He brings my hand to his mouth, breathes through my fingers. ‘I want to hold your hand.’
‘You are.’
Grumbling softly, he nuzzles between my breasts. ‘Tomorrow.’
***
It is tomorrow and he’s still asleep.
As tempting as it is to stay exactly where we are on our simple single bed, Kit’s phone buzzes with messages and so does mine. His heartbeat thrums through my body, strong and steady and solid. Besides the dressing on his eye, he looks like he always does, yet …
Something has shifted.
He’s afraid like the rest of us. He feels guilt about the skiing accident. As gently as possible, I pull free of the arm around my waist, swing my feet to the floor and perch on the end of the bed.
Frowning fiercely, he grumbles under his breath, but when I stroke his shoulder he settles. Does he always sleep on his front with his head to the side? Is that why he was comfortable last night? When he lay on my chest, legs threaded together, we overlapped.
Tell me what you want.
I want to hold your hand.
The water in the thermos is still warm. I jiggle a teabag and sip as I lay out breakfast. Then, pulling on boots, I open the door and silently close it behind me. The ground is damp but shards of sunlight push through the branches of the eucalypts. After checking for snakes and ants, I pee behind a tree. Then I call Astrid.
‘How is he?’
‘Still asleep. Okay, I think.’
‘They’ve cleared the road. Is Daniel there yet?’
Last night I wanted them to come straight away. Now? I want Kit to get to the doctor, but I want to have time with him too.
‘Not yet.’
‘He’ll take you home, then drive Kit to an appointment with a specialist in Newcastle. Kit has interviews back-to-back all week. If he’s up to it, he can do them there.’
‘I’ll see how he is when he wakes up. If he’s worse, if I need to travel with him, I will.’
Astrid laughs. ‘Did you get a head knock?’
The door swings wide and Kit stands on the threshold. His right eye is swollen, but his other eye, while still red, is open a crack and looks better than it did. He’s rumpled. Mussed hair. Dark stubble.
‘Keep your left eye closed.’
A glint of silver. Daniel waves out of the open window of the four-wheel drive. ‘Mac! Kit!’
‘We won’t be long!’
Kit follows closely behind as I return to the hut, then he takes my hand. He turns me around and pulls me against his body.
‘I’ll come to Summerfield.’
‘ After you go to Newcastle to see a doctor. You might have to see other doctors too. Astrid said if you’re well enough, you can do your interviews down there.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Close your eye.’ When he does as I ask, I push back his hair. ‘Thank you.’
He kisses the inside of my wrist. ‘When can I see you?’
‘I’ll call as soon as I get home. After you’ve seen the doctor, I want you to call me.’
When the car door slams, Kit tightens his hold on my hips. ‘Will you hold my hand?’
‘Holding hands seems to be a big deal for you.’
‘We slept together.’
‘Literally we did, but not—’
‘You can’t leave Gordon. I’ll come to the saddlery.’
‘To sleep with me again?’
‘I want to be with you.’
He can barely see. His shirt is untucked. He’s impatient and unreasonable and likely in pain. I fasten his press-studs, smooth his collar.
‘We can talk next weekend.’
He grumbles. ‘We can’t go back.’
I put my hands on his chest. ‘No.’
His lips move over my face, pressing against one eye then the other. He rests his forehead on mine.
‘Jeg esker deg. I want to be with you. You know this.’
His left eye is closed. The lid of his right eye is swollen. Tears sting my eyes. I cup his face and gently kiss his mouth.
‘I know, Kit. I understand.’