Safe Harbour

“I'll be okay, Pip. I promise.” Her mother patted her arm, and they drove home in silence. And as soon as they got there, Pip slipped into the upstairs den that no one used anymore, and called Matt. It was raining that day, and he was working on her portrait, instead of painting on the beach. As winter advanced, he would do that less and less, but the weather was still pretty good, except for today.

“She looks terrible,” Pip reported in a low voice, praying that her mother wouldn't pick up the phone elsewhere in the house. There was a privacy button she had hit, but she wasn't sure if it worked. “I'm scared, Matt,” she said honestly, and he was glad that she'd called. “Last year, I thought… she just…she didn't even get out of bed sometimes, or comb her hair… she never ate… she was awake all night… she wouldn't even talk to me …” Tears filled her eyes as she talked to him, and her words struck his heart like a blow. He was so sorry for them both.

“Is she doing any of those things now?” he asked with genuine concern. She had seemed all right to him the Saturday before, but you never knew. People could hide those things. Sometimes those most in despair kept it to themselves with dire results, and he didn't know if Ophélie was one of those. Pip would know better than he, despite her age.

“Not yet,” Pip said, foreseeing doom everywhere. “But she looks really sad.” There were tears in her eyes as she said it.

“She's probably a little scared to lose the support of the group. And saying good-bye is hard for her now. You've both lost a lot,” he said, feeling awkward about reminding her, but it was true, and she sounded so adult, he thought he could take certain liberties with her. On the phone just then, she sounded more parent than child. It was the kind of conversation he would have expected to have with Ophélie about Pip, instead of the reverse. She had grown up fast in the last year. The anniversary of her brother's and father's deaths was in a month. “I think you should keep an eye on her, but I think she's going to be okay. She seemed fine the other night, and the last few times I saw her at the beach. It's probably kind of an up-and-down thing, but she'll probably pull out of it soon. If she doesn't, I'll come and visit, and see what I think.” Not that there was really anything he could do. In the context of the relationship he had with them, it wasn't his role. But even as a friend, he might have been able to help, or at least to support Pip. She hadn't even had that the previous year, and was grateful to him now. More than he knew, or she could say.

“Thanks, Matt,” she said, and meant it from the bottom of her heart. Just calling him and talking about it helped.

“Call me tomorrow and tell me how it's going. And by the way, your portrait is looking pretty good,” he said modestly.

“I can't wait to see it!” She smiled, and got off the phone a few minutes later. They had no plans to see each other again at the moment, but she knew he was there if she needed him, and that gave her an immeasurable feeling of love and support from him. It was what she needed from him.

Ophélie was feeling forlorn about the group and cooking dinner that night when the doorbell rang. She looked startled, and couldn't imagine who it was. They weren't expecting anyone, she knew Matt wasn't in town, and Andrea never came by without calling first. All she could imagine was that it was a delivery of some kind, or maybe Andrea had decided to stop by unannounced. And when she opened the door, Ophélie saw a tall, bald man standing there, wearing glasses, and she didn't recognize him at first. It took her a full minute to place the face. His name was Jeremy Atcheson, and he had been a member of the group that had ended only that afternoon. Away from the group, his face didn't register at first, and then it quickly did.

“Yes?” she said, looking blank, as he peered over her shoulder into the silent house. And then she realized who he was. He seemed nervous as he stood facing her, and she couldn't imagine what he was doing there. He was one of those faceless people who spoke infrequently, and in her opinion had always contributed less than the rest. She had never had any particular affinity for him, and she couldn't remember ever speaking to him, in or out of group.

“Hi, Ophélie,” he said, as sweat broke out on his upper lip, and she had the distinct impression that she could smell liquor on his breath. “May I come in?” He smiled nervously, but it struck her as more of a leer. And she realized, as she looked more closely, that he seemed somewhat disheveled and unsteady on his feet.

“I'm cooking dinner,” she said awkwardly, unable to figure out what he wanted. But she knew he had her address from the group list they'd distributed that day so those who wanted to could stay in touch.