Lines on Pages - Part Three of Three

All of this. It can’t really be happening. That’s what I’m telling myself over and over again. I grew up with Ian, we have the same blood, he’s never done anything cruel, and never violent. He’s not… But I keep running. I duck off into the forest and scramble between the tree trunks, heading into a little gully where there’s thick, wet, growth, and I press myself against the thickest trunk, breath held, waiting for him to pass.

He’s calling out to me: “Vivi! Vivi! What the fuck are you doing?”

I picture him with the wine bottle, broken now, jagged, all the sharp edges gleaming. I can see it in my mind’s eye, and most of all, I can see that look in his eyes, the ugly metallic stare, that expression. It’s a side I never saw in him before, but I saw it then and… I bite a handful of fingers to keep that whimper from slipping out of my mouth. I breath silently through my nose.

What am I supposed to do now?

“Vivi!”

Keep walking. Keep walking. Don’t come any closer.

And then what? It’s not that big an island, and there’s only one way off. I’m struck by the irony of maybe having to swim for it – Charlotte Dunwell would be sitting back on her couch somewhere, wherever she lives now, feeling the warm touch of karma, not quite sure why this unremarkable moment of life seems somehow satisfying. Or… but I’d have to get to the boat, and before Ian. And since it’s the most obvious place, he’d be waiting there, naturally…

“Vivi. Come on. I can see your sleeve.”

Crap.

“What are you doing?”

I start looking around for a weapon, a fallen branch. I reach for it as I hear him coming over, and then we both round the tree trunk almost into each other. He’s wet. I’m wet. He’s not carrying the wine bottle anymore, and I’m not sure what to make of his expression – I can’t tell cold hate from exasperation.

He looks down at the branch in my hands. “Really?”

“Stay back.”

“What?”

“I mean it.”

“Vivi.”

“I mean it.”

“It’s pouring. Can we just go back inside?”

I feel like there’s a dam about to break. I don’t want to cry; I don’t want to think about why I don’t want to cry. The rain has my face so wet that for all I know maybe I already am. “I’m sorry I made her leave you. Okay? I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Can you put that branch down?”

I literally don’t know if I can.

“Do you really think I’m going to hurt you?”

“You didn’t see that look on your face.”

“You always do this. You always have to go for the drama. You always have to take it up a notch. Look at me. I’ve never laid a finger on you.”

“I’ve never done this to you before.”

“It’s not really your fault.”

Just ‘not really’? But there is something almost comically foolish about us standing here like this. About my fear of him – Ian of all people – and the way we’re soaked through, on an island, Dad’s island, or at least his part of it. I can’t see that look in his eyes anymore, but I’m not sure I imagined it. I’m not sure if I feel stupid and safe now or not.

Ian says, “Can we? Inside? Please?”

So I walk with him. This whole thing has taken on a level surreality I’m not sure how to place. I’m not sure if I feel guilty or scared, or something else. I still have that branch in my hands.

“I can’t keep up with you,” he says, “you don’t make sense.”

“Probably not.”

“But you really thought I might hurt you?”

“You didn’t see yourself.”

“I saw you. I’ve never seen you look like that either.”

I can’t quite bring myself to ask.

“Afraid,” he supplies, anyway.

“Bullshit.”

“No, really. You don’t have the sense to be scared by anything.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s who you are.”

“We all have dark sides.”

“Apparently.”

“What then? What were you thinking, when you were looking at me like that?”

There’s hesitation. Like I’ve struck something. A vein.

“What?”

“How could you do this to me? Don’t you ever think about anybody but yourself? You ruined everything. I’m not saying any of that now, it was just what went through my head in the moment. You ruined my life. I mean you didn’t really, but that was the thought.”

I had asked.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I think I should have known.”

“About the affair? Or my part in it?”

“Both.”

“I should have. I didn’t know how to. I was scared, wasn’t I?”

The cottage looms up ahead, seeming to blend into the mixture of trees and rain. I’m wet enough now that I can barely feel the rain. Ian’s the first go in, and I hear him swear from the kitchen.

I put my branch down next to the door. “What?”

“Take a look.”

The rain has finally managed to punch its way through that old roof, and is now beating against the lino of the kitchen. There’s splashes bouncing off cupboard doors and splattering against the fridge.

“Perfect.” Ian says.

“We can patch it,” I offer. I have no idea how to do any such thing.

“I don’t know if there’s any tools. I’ll have to check the cellar. If I come upstairs carrying a hammer it’s not because I want to bash the back of your head in with it.”

I don’t know whether to feel a tiny bit chilled, or to warm with embarrassment. It’s hard to quite get my head around my reaction from earlier. If I’d taken a photo, he might have understood. But this is Ian. My brother. What’s wrong with me that I can’t see the world in a straight line? “I’m sorry,” I tell him, “for the whole lot of it.”

“You always are.” But it wasn’t an accusation; just a simple, neutral statement of fact.

“I’ll try to do better.”

“Take the first shower. I’ll stoke up the fire.”

#

We eat soup that night with the fire flickering steadily. The rain hasn’t let up. The bucket in the kitchen needs regular emptying.

He admits to me, “I could feel something not right. I didn’t want to feel it, but I could.”

“For how long?”

“Since… a few days after the engagement.”

“Shit.”

“It was just like this feeling of: what am I doing? Like I couldn’t remember why I’d asked her, and I couldn’t understand why she said yes. But I just kept pushing those thoughts aside. When we wanted different things, and had different politics, different ideas about stuff, even about food, I would feel like this thing, like a nettle, like… I don’t know. And I kept telling myself it was nothing.”

“All this time?”

“On and off.”

“Were you miserable? The whole time?”

“God no. I loved her. I still love her.”

“But it wasn’t meant to be. You two weren’t…”

“And you knew that.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

He laughs. What else is there to do with that? And with all the crazy that we’ve unleashed on each other over the course of the day? All these years of engagement, marriage, family dinners. All the times one of us could have said something and didn’t. All the mind-your-own-business and it’s-Ian’s-life, and maybe I should have opened that mouth of mine, which is usually so good at having something to say. I should have told it like it was.

Unless…

“Do you regret it?”

“Selina?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I mean… a part of me, right now, sure. But not really. We still had what we had.”

“And you don’t hate me?”

“Of course not.”

#

The sun comes back in the morning. Fierce in the sky as if making up for its singular absence all yesterday, and for the trouble its tardiness has caused us mere humans. Ian’s found a hammer and some nails, and he climbs up onto the roof to nail down the tiles. I stand down below him, shielding my eyes from the sun, watching as he works. I pass things up to him every now and then. Try to pretend not be useless.

“There. That’ll hold it.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

He climbs down. “You know he’s probably going to leave it to both us, right?”

“The cat’s home probably doesn’t want it.”

“Hah! Maybe they would.” He steps back a few paces, looking over the tumble-down little residence. “We could do it up a bit. Plant a garden, fix some stuff. Maybe even add a room or a deck or something.”

“When you say ‘we’…”

“I can show you how to fix stuff.”

“I dunno…”

“I can. It’s not hard. We could make the place really nice. It could be like a gift for them.”

“They never come out here anymore.”

“Maybe they would.”

“Maybe.”

“I can’t hide forever,” he tells me, as if that’s not at all tangential to what we’ve just been saying.

“You just need to get your head straight.”

“I need to face her. And face all of them. We should head back this afternoon.”

“Okay.”

#

The sun’s bright on the water. I pack up the last of my stuff and carry it out to the boat, shove it down there in that little space that I suppose is technically the hold. I’d assumed we could be out here a couple of weeks – Ian had a lot of angst to work through, I had plenty of my own shit to deal with – I have clothes in those bags that never had a chance to enjoy the holiday.

I probably have too many clothes.

Ian tosses me a lifejacket. “You’re wearing it.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

“Do you want an oar to defend yourself with?”

I feel my face flood red and purple. The fear seems so far off now, so crazy to the point of did-it-really-happen? I hope he tells nobody ever, but I can’t quite bring myself to request it.

“What happens on the island, stays on the island.”

“I appreciate that.”

The horizon is a gold line of beach, layered with green scrub and the grey-multi-colour of background cityscape. The sun sprawls across the water, clearly in no kind of hurry. Those clouds are long gone. The sky and sea are blue.

“It’s a beautiful day,” I say.

He smiles, “Yes, it is.”

“We’re good, right? You and me?”

“We’re good.” He looks back at me. “And put that lifejacket on, please.”

“I was just about to.”

He rolls his eyes. I poke out my tongue. We’re twelve and thirteen for just a split second, then we’re grown-ups again, moving cautiously towards middle age. The world is messy, but the packaging is gorgeous. Ian starts the motor and we head on back into it.

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work