Page 90 of The Wild Beneath

In the soft collapse of his body, the slow rhythm of his breathing, she knows he’s already back to sleep before she says anything in return.

Chapter 33

At 5:30 a.m., Evan’s cell buzzes on the bedside table. It’s Peter, his dispatcher. More work.

Within twenty minutes he’s in uniform, driving south on Commercial, then left on East Hastings Street. The roads are unsalted and slick with a thin layer of ice. He drives slower than usual on tires that feel slippery. The weather reporting airs on the radio in the background; he should be listening, but he’s not. He got a coffee at the Tim Hortons drive-through but hasn’t touched it yet.

He hasn’t seen Annie that rattled in years.

Peter’s phone call hadn’t woken her, which was unusual. He called her name softly before he got out of bed, just in case—­wanting to hear her voice and reassure himself of her okay-ness. Fast asleep, still, she’d reached out to him and pulled him close to her face. Her hair was still damp. He lingered there in the scent of her shampoo, and brushed tangled strands from her closed eyes.

What happened to her up there?

It was her first coast guard rescue. He’d marvelled at her hawk-eyed accuracy and minute-to-minute decisions; the way she knew what the patients needed before they needed it. But on the way home, she was absent, staring blankly out the window of the helicopter.

Evan turns on his left blinker for Granville Street. Snowflakes drift around the red and yellow neon of the Vogue Theatre sign and its depiction of Diana, goddess of the wilderness. On the right now is the Vancouver Public Library, which he always thinks looks like an ancient colosseum, all sandstone and elliptical walls.

Five years ago, they went to a violin performance at the library. Annie was still grieving. Hardly getting out of bed after Ruth died, an inertia even worse than she’d had after losing her parents. He had to remind her to eat; to change her hoodie every third day. She’d managed to get to school, but only with extensive pep talks and sometimes he had to walk her there, his arm hooked around hers. At that point, they weren’t “back together” yet. Evan had been desperate to find things she liked—­things that were not beach or sailing or ocean swimming—­so that maybe she’d like him again. Maybe they could resume where they left off.

It felt like a scavenger hunt: watermelon popsicles from Whole Foods on Cambie, and the rosemary garlic sausage from the corner butcher. Flat whites from Ugly Mugs Cafe. She liked those things; her mood seemed to lift, temporarily, by degrees. What about music? While looking at a flyer for the Vancouver Public Library musical performances, he remembered that Aiden played harmonica. Had Mara played classical, maybe, on the cockpit radio?

Annie had never been to a concert before. She’d never been to any kind of public performance at all.

He couldn’t take her to a crowded event, though. It needed to be somewhere quiet and subdued, where they could exit easily, if required. He booked tickets for a performance at the library, hoped for the best, and dragged her along. He got a fresh haircut, wore a new pair of pants and polished leather shoes. She wore her earplugs, jeans with holes in the knees, a high-necked sweater, and a woollen hat pulled over her ears.

She was still the most beautiful woman there.

He’d called ahead so they could arrive right as the musicstarted. A trio of brothers—each in black suits, starched white shirts and matching ties—played violin in the grand staircase. With the first notes, Annie’s posture softened. She’d been holding on to her seat edges, but she let go.

“It’s so much better when the noise is from instruments,” Annie whispered. She listened with her eyes closed.

Evan felt a flare of hope.

At the end of the performance, a representative of the library rose to thank the violinists, to talk about the new children’s literature wing opening. They were taking donations. He closed by reading aloud a quote by Oscar Wilde: “With freedom, flowers, books, and the moon, who could not be perfectly happy?”

Annie’s eyes opened abruptly. Her gaze dropped to her empty hands.

Evan leaned close toward her. “What is it?”

She didn’t answer. She refused to get up while all the other patrons stood and departed. The violinists packed up their instruments; a janitor swept the stairs. Had it been too loud for her after all? Was it the wrong idea to come?

“Let’s go, Annie. You’re okay,” he tried.

“Why have you stayed with me?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you could be perfectly happy without me?”

He was speechless. He wanted to reply with a reassuring mix of:We’re in Vancouver and nothing bad will ever happen to us again, I promise, and I love you, and we can do this.But he couldn’t mash all these thoughts together fast enough before she launched back in.

“I’m the worst,” she went on, words tumbling out.

“No.” He shook his head. “That’s not true.”

“How can you stand me?”

He’sthe one he can’t stand—it was true then, and it’s true now. Blinking his eyes, he’s back on the tug watching Walker drown in the white-capped ocean. He still hasn’t told Annie what happened that night: Walker sacrificing himself so Evancould live. If Evan hadn’t been so fucking manipulative, maybe Annie wouldn’t have been so sad. Maybe she’d have what she needed.