LITMIR.BIZ

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kind. “Should you be driving? May I call someone?”

      Marilyn straightened and looked into the distance at the fog across the harbour as if watching her old life disappear into the mist. She had short, curly grey hair in a no-nonsense cut and a broad, intelligent brow. Make-up, if any, was subtle. At five-eight, she was Holly’s height. Her voice became stronger and preternaturally calm, as if she were convincing herself. “Her spirit is fled, and she will bide. Funny, that’s my grandmother’s word, and I never knew what it meant until now. For all our feeble human efforts, deaths can’t be orchestrated any better than births. When I left her yesterday, she was cheerful, almost rallying. Perhaps she knew. Do you think so?”

      “It’s possible.” Holly had seen only one person die. Her mentor Ben Rogers, shot by a frightened deaf boy whose air rifle turned out to be a .22. When she thought of Ben, she still saw the red pulse of his blood spreading on her lap while she screamed for help.

      “Do you believe in an afterlife?”

      Holly swallowed, afraid to give a wrong answer, as if there were one. How strange to be having such an intimate conversation with someone she barely knew. And yet it seemed natural. “I’m not...religious in a formal sense. Perhaps the concept is meant to help the living, like funerals for closure. Then again, so many have returned after describing that tunnel of light. I guess I’m saying that anything is possible.” Her mother had told her that once, during a painful and undiagnosed tubal pregnancy, her late beloved father had appeared to her in a dream and told her to go immediately to the hospital. That had saved her life. Or had it been her own intuition for survival?

      “There are some things we can’t explain, aren’t there? Beyond science.” Marilyn looked over for a brief validation, and their eyes met and held.

      Holly stood, arms at her sides in sad ceremony. Notifying the next of kin in serious accidents or worse yet, fatalities, was a duty every officer dreaded. As part of their training, they had been taught the proper words for empathy, respect and care. But no canned phrases ever seemed to fit the moments. “Sorry for your loss.” #1 “My condolences.” #2. It was like reliving the same nightmare, but she hoped she’d never be calcified against feeling. As if summoned, the sun sliced through the morning fog and backlit Marilyn’s strong profile. She was inspecting her hand as if it belonged to a stranger, perhaps remembering that last touch. This was a delicate leave-taking of kindred spirits.

      “We...still have to get gas for your car,” she heard herself say, then bit her lip. She thought about the sad tasks awaiting the bereaved, the paperwork, the palpability. Why hurry? The dead had no timetable. “If you’d like to sit for awhile, can I buy you a coffee?” Did she sound like she was suggesting that the woman pull herself together?

      Marilyn managed a smile which bathed Holly in its warmth. Dreamy philosophy gave way to brisk acceptance and a return to the living. “Strong black tea would be best, I think. You’re kind to ask. I must be keeping you from your job.”

      “Not at all. This is my job.” Holly shifted in the heavy Kevlar vest. A trickle of sweat was making its way down her spine. “Some people think that we’re on permanent vacation at the Fossil Bay detachment. It’s quiet as...” She stopped and swallowed, distracted by the swooping flight of a shrieking pigeon heading for a daily pile of grain left by the keeper of a convenience store. “As you can imagine.”

      Two savvy locals, by mutual agreement they gravitated towards an alley on a backstreet across from the Legion. Dave Evans, his world-class barista certificate proudly on the wall, ran Stick in the Mud coffeehouse as a proud artist. In the small but cozy nook with tempting aromas of house-roasted fair trade blends mingling with cinnamon and nutmeg from on-site baked goods, Marilyn took one of the leather armchairs. Stacks of the radical Monday magazine sat on a table. Local artists were represented by photos and colourful art on the walls. Holly returned with a VOS1N0, Dave’s version of an Americano, named for their former postal code, and a chai. “There’s some sugar if you need it and a warm Morning Glory muffin. Or you can take it for later.” The trite words you need to keep up your strength drifted into her mind, and she batted them to a corner.

      The nuances of a smile reached Marilyn’s face. Two shy dimples made their way onto her careworn cheeks.

      Holly said, “You look familiar, Marilyn. I’ve just moved back to the area after fourteen years. Sooke used to be a tiny fishing village with a few B&Bs. Now it’s a bedroom community for Victoria.”

      “Most of that cookie-cutter development sprawl hasn’t reached Fossil Bay. We...live at Serenity. That little cottage at the Sea Breeze Road corner.”

      Did the quaint custom of naming houses come from England by way of California? It seemed more prevalent on the coasts. “Right. Isn’t that a massage therapy business?” Full of retirees and fitness addicts of a left-wing lean, the island offered every possible treatment from chiropractic to reiki to acupuncture to spiritual astrology. Health food stores were as popular as gas stations. If you were looking for ear-candling, you had a choice. Mud baths and seaweed applications along with hot rocks and raindrop therapy advertised relief from toxins and tension.

      “Nothing fancy. I have a steady list of clients, mostly older folk who live in the neighbourhood and a few who come from Sooke. Shannon and I bought the place years ago when prices were comparatively low, before the boom. She had a small legacy from her parents.”

      Although this was hardly the time to talk money, Holly imagined that they had nearly tripled their investment. Real estate in the last five years had skyrocketed, and the Western Communities next to Victoria were catching up.

      Marilyn seemed to be distracting herself with the balm of common conversation. But she was a careful observer. “And you...?” She squinted a bit to read the nameplate on the blue shirt beneath the jacket.

      In the excitement, Holly hadn’t even introduced herself. A flush of heat rose from her ears in the humid room as she spoke her name.

      “You say you used to live here, Corporal Martin?”

      “Please, just Holly is fine. My family and I lived in East Sooke when I was growing up. Then I went off to school, joined the force, and now in my third posting, I’m back home, or near enough. My father has a house on Otter Point Place.” She didn’t add that she was living there, nor that her mother wasn’t with them, but she wondered if Marilyn would catch the implication. It embarrassed her to admit that she had no place of her own.

      Marilyn sipped her tea. A healthy pink was returning to her face, though her eyes looked strained. People coped in a thousand different ways. Holly’s shoulder radio squawked, and she grimaced. “Sorry, duty calls.” She got up as all eyes followed her. “Pardon me,” she added, speaking to the room. In the worldwide concept of “island time”, cell phones or the equivalent seemed crass and intrusive. The rainforest by the sea was as far from Toronto’s Bay Street as Carmel was from Wall Street.

      A few honks sounded as traffic was building in the lock-step migration toward Victoria. A prominent crosswalk allowed a few souls to sprint over the road as a red and white Number 61 double-decker bus pulled in and started loading passengers. One man hooked his bicycle onto the front rack before hopping on, his backpack as large as a turtle shell. Holly answered her radio.

      Ann Troy, desk jockey at the detachment, said, “I wondered where you were. We’ve had a call about panhandling at Bailey Bridge. Must be those homeless people who’ve moved in with the warm weather. Some tourist from Toronto didn’t appreciate being hit up for change when he was stopping his Infiniti to admire the ocean.” View spots were magnets to fresh arrivals from the urban mainland. If they didn’t run off the road in slack-jawed amazement, they were likely to screech off onto the berm, flattening the sword fern. Jaded residents were used to seeing the ocean lapping at the front door and only wondered when a tsunami might knock. A sunny Sunday might be the one day they’d go to the beach unless they were surfers monitoring the happy convergence of high tide and gale-force winds.

TWO

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