Darren Effect (6 page)

No sign of Mandy at all.

Fear. There it was again. Heather took out her cellphone and dialed Mandy's cell. She made several attempts, thinking she might have made an error, her hands were shaking that badly, but it rang for a while and then abruptly stopped.

It was on one of their first visits to Spruce Cove together that Benny had strolled down to the water with several tennis balls and his racket, which he used to hit the balls down the beach, over and over again, for Inky to fetch. Finally the dog collapsed onto the sand with his tongue nearly leaping out of his skull, no longer barking, and Heather was grateful.

After that, whenever they brought Inky, Benny would bring the racket and balls.

Heather remembered the pollen and slowed, noticing for the first time the snow flurries. She had forgotten about the pollen. It had been everywhere, coming off the evergreens around their cabin as though from an aerosol can. She could see it in even the weakest of breezes: yellow-green clouds of seeds lifting from the cones. A film of it on the windshield she drew her name in — a cocky, adolescent act. Down at the beach it rode in on the sea and formed a narrow band in the surf. At first they couldn't figure out what it was. They thought pollution, some kind of spill. There was another ribbon of it higher on the beach. Heather rolled it between her fingers.

“I think it's pollen,” she said.

He pressed his hand against the small of her back. “You're a genius. I should bring you everywhere.”

She sat down on the sand and alternated between watching the pollen weightless on the water and Inky racing after the ball and, for several minutes, had been satisfied — smug — with
herself for identifying the pollen. Then something happened. It happened only a few times, all those years, before they knew about the cancer.

He tossed the ball up and struck it with his powerful smooth forehand.

She wanted more than this. She wanted Benny to leave his wife. If not now, then she wanted to hear him say there was at least a chance, someday.

Instead he said, “How's work?” dropping the racket and sitting beside her on the sand. He put an arm around her waist and dragged her towards him, pretending it was a great effort so that she grinned, then he picked up one of her legs and placed it across his own.

“Now then, missus,” he said. “Who was on the roster this week?”

It was not appropriate to tell him details of her clients' lives, but Heather was rarely interested in denying Benny anything. What's more, it was difficult to resist the way he listened — his soft attraction to her.

She considered her week, the clients she'd seen. She recalled her last appointment on Friday with a sinking feeling.

“What is it?” Benny asked.

“Rosemarie,” she said. “I've been seeing her for months. Yesterday I sent her back to her psychiatrist.”

“Why?”

“She needs someone who can write a prescription.” She laughed, but it wasn't funny. She looked at Benny. “For a serotonin re-uptake inhibitor.”

Three couples — a crowd for this time of year — were coming down to the beach. Seeing them, Inky began to dig frantically in the sand for his ball, then ran off to greet them. Heather thought it was unlikely she'd see Rosemarie again.

“You can't save everyone,” Benny told her. He glanced at the people and slowly pulled his leg out from under hers and created a few inches of space between them. Heather didn't think it
would make any difference. Anyone looking at them would know.

“What's Rosemarie's problem?” Benny asked. “What's wrong with her?”

There was nothing
wrong
with her. But Heather didn't say this. “She's obsessive-compulsive.”

He nodded.

“She has an elaborate counting routine.”

“What does she count?”

“Benny.”

“Tell me. Come on, I want to know everything.”

“It's not
what
she counts.”

Rosemarie did everything in threes, Heather explained, because she had three children. Three candy bars, three cups of tea, that sort of thing. If she had two children, she would do things in twos.

“But recently,” Heather said, “her behaviour patterns have become more elaborate. Her children are aged two, four and eight. So she selects the second box of cereal from the grocery shelf. Then the fourth bottle of ketchup. Then the eighth carton of eggs. It's complicated and time-consuming.”

“Why does she do that?”

“She thinks something horrendous will happen to her children if she doesn't.”

“That's crazy.”

Benny's expression was astonished and childlike. She wanted to touch him, reassure him, but there were those inches of space between them. Was he thinking of his son? Was he feeling guilty? Not knowing what was going through his head made her nervous.

Inky was barking at the people. He wanted them to throw his ball. One of the women looked over.

“Better call Inky,” Heather said.

Benny half rose and shouted for the dog, but immediately turned back to Heather. He was like that: he would not drop
something that interested him. He would not allow interruptions. Heather thought it was admirable, but intimidating.

“What can you do for someone like that?” he asked.

“I treated her.” Heather tried to sound matter-of-fact, as though there had been some hope. But Heather had never believed she'd be able to help Rosemarie in any permanent way. She didn't tell Benny about her sour smell, her shapeless cords, the sweatshirt with the yellow — possibly curry — stains below the collar.

“She sat in my office and I had her drink
one
glass of juice, eat
one
candy bar. The most important thing was for her to get some sleep. Her routines can delay her bedtime considerably.”

“What about her kids?”

His question made her feel tender towards him. “I believe they are quite safe.”

“Is there a husband?”

Heather had not met the husband, though she had suggested several times to Rosemarie that he come in.

“He has a heart problem. He can't work.”

Inky was still barking. Heather rose to her knees and whistled. It was completely ineffective. “This can happen to people,” she said. “It starts out as normal life worry, disappointment, sadness, then mushrooms into debilitating anxiety.”

They began making their way back to their cabin. Inky saw them and rushed up and on ahead.

“She had been showing a lot of improvement,” Heather said, wishing she could put a happy ending on it for Rosemarie. “But her son fell off the roof on Wednesday. It was a minor accident, not what it sounds, but her relapse was severe.”

As they passed his car on their way back to the cabin, he reached over and wiped away her name where she had written it in the pollen on his windshield. He looked over at her, as though to apologize, but it was unnecessary. If he hadn't done it, she would have.

There was more snow in the deeper woods. Heather could see it banked up around the trunks of trees. The path had widened, but Heather was only concerned with finding Mandy. The area was heavily criss-crossed with woods paths. There was no reason to be frightened.

At the top of a small rise where the trees were stunted and yellow, she became aware of scratching sounds. She froze. The sounds were faint, but getting closer. She felt a weakening across her shoulders and down her arms, and an inability to look to either side. Then the sound was on top of her: a harsh chattering rising in volume. She tipped her head back with great effort and saw dozens of birds crowding the top of a spruce tree. They were only metres away.

The relief made her insufferably warm.

Several minutes passed. Slowly she lifted Mandy's binoculars to her eyes. Stout rust-red birds were crawling over the cones, grasping the branches with their feet and bills like parrots on the Discovery Channel. But surely these were not parrots. Parrots inhabited warm regions like South America. Their strangeness scared her. She wanted to dig out her new field guide, but it was buried in her backpack and she felt paralyzed.

Suddenly two of the birds dropped and swung side by side, cartoon-like, from a branch, holding on with their bills. Their legs dangled and their wings lay folded at their sides as though not involved with flight in any way.

There was a voice-clearing behind her. She lowered the binoculars and turned, but she already knew: here was Darren Foley, standing in the path in his orange cap, old canvas knapsack, massive binoculars, the boots with the deep cleats.

Where was Mandy?

“See anything interesting?”

“What?”

“Birds? See any interesting birds?”

“Oh no. Sorry. I mean, I don't know what they are.” She pointed to the trees above her. “They remind me of parrots.”

He laughed. At her?

“Those are definitely not parrots. Red crossbills. I noticed them on my way through earlier. It's exciting to see them.”

“Isn't it? Yes, it is. What are they called again?”

“Red crossbills.”

“I'm going to look that up.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.” She slipped off her backpack and began rummaging through it. “No.”

“Actually, it's a subspecies we have here on the island, the Newfoundland red crossbill. They were rare on the island for at least a decade, and now they're everywhere. A buddy of mine at Wildlife has been studying them.”

“Oh, is that where you work?”

He nodded slowly.

“Red crossbills?” She was flipping through her field guide.

He had the tall person's manner of hanging his head. He did not face her directly, but looked at her sideways out of the corners of his eyes. It made him seem shifty, submissive, forlorn. She hoped he hadn't noticed her drenched legs.

“They're very interesting little birds,” he said, watching her flip through her field guide. “Yes, that's them. See the crossed mandibles? Hence the name. The bird sticks his bill into the cone and pries apart the scales. Then his tongue lifts out the seed.”

Heather concentrated on the page with the birds, then carefully lifted the binoculars to her eyes. Her hands were shaking. He was right. Red crossbills. Unmistakable. What a delight. She felt the space around her expanding.

She lowered the binoculars and glanced at Darren. She noticed he needed a shave. That was something she and Mandy would not have been able to see on previous occasions. Also, that he smelled of soap and might be condescending.

He laughed again.
Was
it at her? “You know, if you're a begin- ning birdwatcher, I'd suggest you start with a backyard feeder and see what you can attract there. You could get frustrated coming out here, trying to get a good look.”

“Oh, I'm not discouraged.” Her voice had gone high and breezy.

He looked puzzled. “Of course not. No reason to be.” He glanced up at the trees and she tried to memorize his face. The cold had made his skin slack and raw, though the occasional snowflake landing there melted immediately. Mandy would want every detail. He looked nothing like a bulldog. He looked like the Marlboro Man. Mandy better be grateful for that tidbit.

“I saw some other birds a while ago. Flying over the water. Huge white birds.”

“Gannets.”

She smiled, grateful for the information, but decided to look the birds up in her field guide later. Her fingers felt too cold now to turn the pages.

“Hear that?” he said. “They're moving on. Sometimes I wish I'd gone into passerines.” He glanced sideways at her again and she realized how close they were. She wondered if she'd tried to get close to him for warmth instinctively, like a wild animal. Both took a step back.

“The weather is changing. I'd suggest cluing up for the day.” What were passerines? “Have you seen any other people?” she asked.

“Today?”

She nodded. Of course she meant today! She realized she was freezing from head to toe.

“It's rare to see anyone out on this headland. The odd wood-cutter. Do you know your way out? You're not lost, are you?”

“Of course not. I've been here a thousand times.”

As soon as he was out of sight, Heather put the binoculars and field guide away inside her backpack. A story about desire? And that man was involved?

Her shoes were squishy with water and her feet were beginning to cause her some shimmering, icy pain.

Was she insane? Maybe she was, maybe she wasn't, but stalking was illegal. It could amount to a criminal charge. Gradually she became aware of her cellphone ringing in her coat pocket.
It may have been ringing for a while. A cold flash was followed by a hot one.

Her hands were shaking. “Hello?” she whispered.

“Heather?”

“Mandy?”

“Where are you?”

“Mandy, I tried to call — ”

“My batteries were dead. Sorry about that.

What? I'm borrowing a phone — ”

“Where are you?”

“Being rescued. Bill's cousins from Calvert. They have ATVs. Roger and Vince. My feet were freezing. And I was lost. Here, they want to talk to you.”

After speaking with Roger — or Vince — Heather closed her phone and began pacing back and forth in front of the boulder split in two, each half topped with a thin layer of soil and moss and looping trunk, just as she had described it to Roger — or Vince — on the phone. He told her to continue east another ten metres, then turn left onto a narrow path terminating at a cabin, where she was to await their arrival. Instead, she paced back and forth, struggling with the temptation to dart off the path and run blindly into the woods, to slip into the spaces between the narrow trees and escape rescue.

It occurred to her that she was exhibiting displacement behaviour. Like a cat who wants both to flee its attacker and stand and fight, but instead sits and begins grooming vigorously. Like so many times seeing Benny after a period of separation and not, at first, wanting to get too close. The desire had always arisen in her to pace crazily through the restaurant, airport, hotel room or coffee shop.