Perdita

by Hilary Scharper

  November 4

  Shall I hate Andrew Reid?

  Oh, how he has made me suffer!

  Shall I unleash my fury upon him just as the Bay does in one of its wild storms?

  Yet I cannot hate him! I cannot! He has not done this to wound me.

  Even now, my strange perversity is such that I wish that I could go to Dr. Reid and seek his counsel—that he might help me to know what to do. Such is the depth of my trust in him.

  Yet I should be reluctant to tell him about the little girl: she still comes to me at night, and for reasons I cannot explain, I take such comfort from the sensation of her warm body nestling next to mine.

  November 5

  I have had a second letter from George. He asks that I go to him.

  But how could I go to him at present?

  I am sure that I could stay with Aunt Louise and Grandpere, but Tad is very, very angry that George has even suggested that I go to him. And Dr. McTavish is equally disapproving.

  “It does not do you honor, Marged,” he said to me, and then he took my hand and begged me not to consider it, not even for a moment.

  Tad is firm that I wait. He is very worried for me, but he is very stern on this point. He insists that I do not go to Montreal and that George must come back to me: married or no, he must return to us.

  What kind of life would I lead with George there? Tad asked me, and truly I did not know what to say to him. George wishes us to stay together—waiting until the disease takes its natural course—and then to marry me.

  But Dr. McTavish says that it might be months or even years before she dies, though undoubtedly the disease will claim her.

  Could I live there quietly, anticipating his wife’s expiration and all the while carrying on a secret liaison with George? I am ashamed to think of it—and yet, I think I could do it!

  There is a part of me that does not care. If it were not for Tad and Mother, I think that I would fly to him.

  Yet how could our love bloom in such rancorous and ill-natured conditions? How could any love deepen? Would George not end up despising me? Dr. McTavish suggests as much.

  November 7

  I have been crying in my sleep, and the little girl has tried to soothe me. I woke up and felt her stroking my hair.

  I have finally named her. I have called her Perdita.

  I have just written George, telling him of my choice. I wish to have his consent because in my heart of hearts I know that she belongs to both of us. Who she is or what she is, I do not know—except that she belongs to George and myself. Just as I am connected to the Bay and the sky and the trees, so Perdita links George’s life to mine.

  I cannot explain any of this to anyone, just as I cannot make Tad or Uncle Gil, or even Auntie, see Perdita.

  Even if George chooses to forget her, even if he insists that she is just a dream…even though he may be angry that I cannot come to him, it is Perdita who will not forsake my connection to him—or his to me.

  November 10

  A third letter from George, but this one so harsh and so cruel in its tone! George has made me weep. He is breaking my heart with his recriminations! He cannot have received my letter. Dr. Clowes warned me that it might take days to reach him but promised to do his best.

  Does George not understand this? He accuses me of a silence that he believes is a condemnation of him.

  I will burn this letter. I know that he could not mean what he says—only that he must have written it in great distress!

  November 12

  Dr. Clowes has confirmed that my letter was indeed posted to George, and this has made me so happy! Surely once he receives it, he will rest assured of my love for him.

  I told Dr. Clowes that his news was like a gift for my birthday, for he was very curious as to what Auntie Alis was baking in the oven and I explained that it was a kind of cake with currants that I have loved since I was very little. I begged Auntie to give him a slice, and though she said I must wait until tomorrow, she did as I requested.

  I will be twenty this year.

  Dr. McTavish has tried to boost my spirits by teasing me about getting old and says I am to take “an old maid’s luncheon” with him at his lodge, but I told him that he could not expect me to be very spritely, for my heart was still breaking over George. He embraced me so tenderly after that.

  “What I wouldn’t give to see you happy, Marged,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “And what wouldn’t I give for it to be so?”

  I returned his embrace warmly, and I am sure he knew what was in my heart, though I did not say it in words—that he is as a second father to me.

  November 14

  I have just discovered that Aunt Louise has written to Tad, asking him if we might come to Montreal—just Mother and myself.

  I have urged Tad to consider it, but he has remained tight-lipped. I think he prefers that we go with Dr. McT. and would like that Mother’s treatment resume. I heard him talking to Dr. Reid at length about her recovery, and though I could tell that Dr. Reid was cautious, he gave Father reason to hope for further improvement.

  There was no other letter from George. But surely our correspondence will become easier once I am in the city. Dr. Clowes came by again and said that there will likely be no more mail until after the spring if we stay much longer.

  I try not to let myself think about how much I miss George or worry for his peace of mind. Surely he has my letter by now; and surely he has written me retracting all the terrible things he wrote in his last letter.

  November 15

  Tad thinks that Mother and I will leave in a week’s time, for the weather has taken a turn, and he does not wish us to travel during the first of the winter storms. He says that Auntie A. and Uncle Gil will winter at the light station and that he will join us in Toronto in December.

  Mother and I are to go with Dr. McTavish, as Tad has arranged for a boat to pick us up and then take us to Owen Sound. Of course Andrew Reid will be returning with us, too. I am beginning to realize that I cannot possibly continue to avoid him in this way.

  This morning Tad gently urged me to at least give him a greeting and not to run away and lock myself in my room whenever he is present.

  And so, when Dr. Reid came to the door this afternoon, I stayed to open it for him. He seemed very startled to see me, and I hardly dared to look him in the face. Yet I could not ignore his outstretched hand, and so I gave him mine. His fingers were trembling, and I felt a strange shiver take possession of me as he held my hand, not releasing it but saying nothing.

  I could not help it. After a few moments of standing in such an uncomfortable silence, I looked up into his eyes. I do not understand myself—but it was as if my heart stopped for a few seconds at the sight of his face.

  “Marged,” he whispered, for we could both hear Auntie moving about behind me, “do you forgive me? You know that I did not do this to hurt you.”

  “Yes,” I whispered back, wiping my eyes. But that was all that I could say, though of course I felt that there was nothing to forgive him for.

  November 16

  At last I saw Dr. Reid alone. It was early this evening, just after I left Dr. McT.’s lodge, and I was in a hurry to get back before dark.

  I must have been distracted—or too deeply buried in my wraps now that the cold has truly come upon us—because I did not see him until I looked up, and then there he was, just a few paces away from me.

  My face must have expressed my anxiety and confusion, for his own became very grave as he looked at me.

  Then he called out my name softly. His voice seemed strained, and I felt rather than saw him attempt to retain command over a wave of strong emotions.

  “Marged, you seemed so thin and pale yesterday…” he said softly, coming up to me and then taking my arm.

  Again I looked up into his eye
s but remained speechless, yet this time I drew back a little, for he did not mask his thoughts but let his eyes peer openly into mine.

  I had never seen him so bold before, and then it slowly dawned on me that he wanted me to know.

  I gasped, suddenly feeling myself beginning to sink into his gaze, my knees and then my arms starting to become soft and pliant. He came closer and put his arms around me, and I could feel the roughness of his beard against my cheek—

  I stopped him, needing to draw a breath, and then I ran from him.

  But I do not think that it was out of anger that I fled.

  Was it fear that made me run from him? Fear of what my own heart holds for him?

  How can this be? Am I fickle and wanton?

  How it is that I am wretched without George, and yet my heart wavered as I looked up into Andrew Reid’s dark eyes, burning deeply into my own?

  November 17

  Dr. Clowes has brought what he says will be the very last of the mail until next April—and no letter from George!

  Why does he not write me?

  And I have not seen Perdita for two days. Now even I am beginning to wonder if I have imagined her.

  November 18

  We were to leave today, but there was a bad storm last night that left the Bay quite rough, and both Dr. McTavish and Tad agreed that it was senseless to risk passage on it.

  I am so reluctant to leave my Bay; in some ways I would much prefer to stay over the winter, but not with Dr. Reid here. I am almost urgent that he should leave—and yet the thought of his absence makes my heart ache. I do not know what to make of myself!

  November 19

  I think I must have fancied her. Perdita must have been a figment of my imagination.

  And yet—I am sure that she was real!

  Is there something wrong with me?

  Would Dr. Reid tell me that I am suffering from some disorder of the mind, some illness that has been born of my anxiety and distress for George?

  November 20

  In one moment I am absolutely wretched and despairing of myself, and yet—in the next—I am lost to the memory of how his arms felt around me.

  I accuse myself of all manner of ill qualities, yet I know in my heart that none of it is true of me!

  Is it what Grandpere called my perversity? How he warned me against it!

  I know that I did not intend for any of it to happen. I had deliberately avoided Andrew Reid after our last encounter, not fully trusting myself to be alone with him.

  I had gone to the Point—not to seek out another interview with him, but to find Perdita.

  I had thought that I might ask the Bay—somehow I thought it might know.

  I strained my ears to hear the Bay, but I felt the wind push angrily against me. It did not want me to hear the Bay, but kept lashing at me with frigid gusts that stung my face and fingers until I could hardly bear it.

  “Why will you not let me speak with the Bay?” I cried out to it, but it only howled and shrieked as if to frighten me away. And then—it was so strange—but I felt its jealousy—a furious jealousy. But of what or whom I could not tell. Did it hate me for my affinity to the Bay? Or was it angry at the Bay for its inclination toward me?

  The wind grew even more incensed, as if it discerned my thoughts, and then it threw the trees into a fierce commotion until there was a riotous cacophony. I could not tell which was the voice of my Bay: even the trees seemed to protest against the wind’s perverse willfulness, but they were forced to bend and humor its terrible temper.

  I watched the wind dance in all that tumult of sound, and then I grew very quiet, deciding to play a sullen audience to its wild mood. This only angered it, for then it began to pull at my cloak, as if to steal it from me and then run off. I bent over, clutching at my wrappings—and felt as if I were in some fierce contest of wills with the wind.

  Ever have I tried to befriend the wind. Ever has it evaded me!

  The sky grew dark with clouds, and I began to shiver, for the wind suddenly blew very, very cold, and my teeth began to chatter. I felt that it was punishing me for some transgression, but still I would not succumb to its lashings.

  Then I felt someone wrapping a heavy coat around me and pulling me back from the shore.

  It was Dr. Reid!

  “No!” I cried, trying to draw away from him. “You must keep your coat. It is far too cold!”

  Truly I was afraid for him—for he did not know the wind and what it might do to him!

  He tightened his arms around me, and together we began to move toward the sheltered outcropping where George had rescued me from the storm and where Perdita first came to me. But the wind was so violent; it howled even louder and seemed determined to prevent my escape until its fury was satiated.

  When at last we reached shelter, Dr. Reid pulled me behind the rocks—both of us catching our breath, both of us now protected from the furious wind.

  His arms stayed around me, and he did not loosen his hold—and I rested my head against his chest, relieved to be out of the thrashing wind and its incomprehensible violence.

  I looked up into his eyes. Again I saw him looking at me with such a deliberate intensity, as if he were laying some claim to me now that the wind had forced this sudden proximity upon us. Then I felt a strange uneasiness descend upon me as Andrew Reid—the man Andrew Reid and not the doctor—began to fill up the hidden cavern as if he were a great tide washing in from the Bay.

  He said nothing, but taking my face between his hands—just as George had done—he began to kiss me.

  I felt my heart quicken, and then it seemed to me as if the wind were laughing—cackling from somewhere up high and outside the rocks, as if it were pleased with its work.

  Again and again he kissed me.

  I closed my eyes, and then I felt myself drift out into the Bay, away from the wind out into the open water—way out beyond the buoys and their markings of safe harbor. Even the lighthouse was lost from my sight, and the Bay seemed to be stretching out in all directions around me in one enormous undulating current of George and Andrew—Andrew and George.

  Eighteen

  “It’s time, Garth,” Marged said. She seemed very restive. Her face was flushed and her pupils dilated. She took several deep breaths, seemingly struggling with something.

  “Time for what?” I asked.

  “I suppose it’s only fair to warn you.” She turned her face toward me and subjected me yet again to one of her piercing blue stares.

  “Dr. McTavish—” she began. Then she seemed at a loss for words.

  I waited quietly for her to continue.

  “Dr. McTavish always blamed himself for his wife’s death. He thought that Perdita might be able to connect him to her.” She looked at me with great appeal in her eyes, almost as if she were begging me to understand and forgive her for…something. “I didn’t know that it would be so hard on him. He was quite elderly at the time.” Marged looked away, and I caught the dim glimmer of tears in her eyes.

  I asked her to please explain.

  She was silent for a few seconds. Then she whispered, “It killed him.”

  I drew back in surprise.

  “I brought Perdita to him. But it was too hard for him. He died almost instantly. Andrew said it wasn’t my fault, but I was so sorry. So very sorry!” She began to cry softly.

  I immediately went over to her. “Marged,” I said kindly, “if Perdita will come to me, I’ll take the chance. I’m pretty sure it won’t kill me.”

  “You’re humoring me again.” She was practically sobbing, anguished at the thought of bringing me harm.

  “I promise that I’m not humoring you. I will take the chance.”

  “Then would you—would you do it now? Would you now?”

  I sat down and gave her a minute to compose herself. />
  “There is a risk, you see.” She cleared her throat. “It’s important that you understand me.”

  “I’ve told you, I take full responsibility.” I was absolutely determined that this time we would get past this business of Perdita. “If you feel this will help clear up all the things we’ve been talking about, then by all means, let’s go ahead with it.”

  She still seemed indecisive. “I’m sure she will come to you. Perhaps—perhaps you might even know what to do with her.”

  “Yes, well, let’s just take this one step at a time. Now, what do you want me to do?”

  She seemed confused. “What are you asking me?”

  “I mean am I supposed to do anything to make her come to me?”

  She shook her head. “You can’t exactly make her—oh, but I see what you mean. No, there’s nothing you should do. Just stay where you are.”

  “Just stay sitting here?”

  “Yes, you see, she’s been here the whole time.”

  “She’s been here?”

  “Oh, yes,” Marged said softly. “She’s been in my lap, but she’s coming down.”

  Nineteen

  The first thing I heard after Marged said “she’s coming down” was a humming sound.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  It rested lightly on my shirt for a few seconds, and then it slowly moved up toward my collar. Then it touched my neck.

  Every hair on my body seemed to be standing on end.

  The hand began to stroke the side of my face, very gently, and I could feel soft, cool fingers. Then it began to pat me on my cheek, just below my ear.

  I felt a deep, paralyzing fear wash over me.

  “She doesn’t want you to be afraid,” I heard Marged say.

  “Who is it?” I whispered, barely able to speak.

  “You must turn to see her.”

  A stinging pain washed over me as I started to slowly move my head. The thought that I might be having some kind of heart attack suddenly flashed across my mind as I felt my pulse beginning to race. Marged became a blur before me, but I gritted my teeth and forced myself to turn my head toward the hand.