The Divided Child (34 page)

           
The
ferry from Brindisi had indeed just arrived, and was disgorging a seemingly
endless line of cars, trucks, and passengers as we approached.
 
The traffic quickly slowed to a crawl
as all the new arrivals tried to merge into the relatively narrow street, and I
began to understand why Paul had grown so upset.
 
The hot, still air began to stink with the smell of exhaust
and vibrate with a cacophony of blasting horns, squealing tires, and shouted
curses.
 
I wasn't even driving, yet
my nerves were still stretched tight with the desire to break free, somehow,
and get out of there.

           
Unfortunately,
everyone else on the dock felt the same way.
 
During a brief surge forward in the traffic, a red Fiat
Spider suddenly dashed through a nonexistent gap in front of us.
 
Paul had to slam on the brakes and jerk
the car hard to the right, onto a fortunately empty section of sidewalk, to
avoid hitting it.
 
We were both
wearing seatbelts, so neither of us was really hurt, but Paul jumped out of the
car and yelled curses in Italian at the driver of the Spider.
 
The other driver was apparently in no
mood for a fight; the red car darted through another gap and roared away,
leaving Paul standing there shaking his fist at a cloud of exhaust.

           
Some
of the passengers from the ferry had noticed the close call, and several came
forward to ask if we were all right.
 
Paul assured them we were fine and climbed back into the car.
 
They drifted away and I watched them
go, touched by their concern.
 
Several of them were approached by other passengers curious to know the
news.

           
With
a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watched as one of the curious, a
man dressed casually in a blue knit shirt and khaki shorts, stopped to ask a
woman about us.
 
Apparently he was
satisfied with the answer she gave him, for he quickly walked off, not
bothering to glance a second time in our direction.
 
But he didn't have to turn again for me to recognize him.

           
It
was Geoffrey.

           
Paul
maneuvered the Fiat back into traffic, which was still moving as slowly as molasses,
and I turned around and settled back into my seat, staring blindly ahead at the
dusty line of cars.

           
I'd
been so worried that I might never see Geoffrey again.

           
Obviously
my fears had been premature.

Chapter Sixteen

           
I
spent the rest of Monday waiting for some word from Geoffrey, but none
came.
 
No voice whispered to me as
I wandered the outskirts of the villa property before dinner.
 
No note was to be found any of the many
times I checked my room during the long evening I spent in Demetra Redfield's
silent company.
 
No reassuring
figure emerged from the rustling, sighing shadows when I ventured down after
midnight to the beach.
 
No
green-eyed interloper intruded on my dream-tossed sleep.

           
Disappointed,
angry, and depressed, I woke Tuesday morning convinced I was glad this was my
last full day in Greece.
 
I might
have remained convinced of it, too, if Demetra hadn't -- in her relief at my
imminent departure -- let me spend the entire day in Michael's company.

           
We
ate breakfast together and picked tomatoes together and after lunch we walked
to Koussaki and shared a lemonade at the small cafe on the square.
 
It was Helen's day off, so Paul
accompanied us as watchdog.
 
Though
not much more talkative than Helen, he wasn't such dampening company, with the
result that Michael and I talked and laughed and giggled enough for three.

           
By
the time we returned to the villa, we were hot and dusty and ready for a
swim.
 
Michael and I went to
change, and Paul disappeared on some errand, apparently deciding a watchdog
wasn't necessary for such an innocuous activity.

           
"Last
one in is a rotten egg!" I yelled to Michael as we ran down the path
toward the azure water.
 
He made a
disparaging remark about the antiquated nature of my taunt and then flew by me
with a mischievous grin and cry of triumph.
 
I heard him splashing up ahead and arrived on the beach in
time to see him slide into the water like a pale-skinned otter.

           
Treading
the algae-covered stones at the sea's edge more gingerly, I slipped in after
him and paddled lazily around, waiting for him to surface.
 
There was a small, crashing burst near
my shoulder as he popped buoyantly up, water streaming down his face and
hair.
 
He tossed his head back,
throwing the wet locks out of the way and revealing green eyes -- so like his
uncle's -- which sparkled in the sun with pleasure.

           
"Shall
we race to that rock?" he asked eagerly.

           
"All
right, my little fish.
 
Just don't
beat me too handily."

           
He
shook his head.
 
"No need to
worry.
 
Uncle Spiro isn't here to
slow you up."
 
So saying, he
burst away, the bright red and purple of his swim trunks diminishing rapidly
into the distance.
 
Shaking my head
at his speed, I swam after him.

           
The
race ended in a tie, and after the race we paddled companionably around.
 
I showed him how to swim in the
direction of his feet, he showed me how to sink while holding my breath, and
together we experimented with various configurations for floating on the
surface while hooked together by our hands and feet.

           
"This
has been a fun day," murmured Michael as we floated along, the sun shining
warmly, the gentle current rocking us as if we were in some giant cradle.
 
"I wish you didn't have to
leave."

           
"But
I do," I replied, realizing I disliked the prospect as much as he.
 
Saying goodbye to him was going to be
painful, and not getting the chance to say goodbye to his uncle even more
so.
 
"It's always hard when
vacations come to an end, and you have to leave new friends behind, but that's
just the way it is, Michael.
 
People have to go home."

           
It
was a speech intended to convince myself as much as him that leaving was a
sensible necessity, but it didn't work -- on either of us.
 
For a minute or two we floated on in
silence, and then the delicate balance that had been keeping us connected and
afloat gave way, and we broke apart to avoid sinking.
 
While I fanned the water to stay in place, Michael began
swimming out toward the mouth of the small cove.
 
Sensing his hurt and wanting to make amends, I made to
follow, but when I began swimming in his direction, Michael moved off another
way, making it clear my company was no longer welcome.

           
Stung
by the rebuff, I left the water and went to sit on my mat in the shade of a
large pine tree.
 
I sat there some
time lost in thought -- mostly of a self-pitying sort, watching absently as
Michael angrily practiced diving beneath the surface and remaining there brief
periods holding his breath.
 
Since
he had already demonstrated his considerable talents in this area, I found
nothing too alarming in his short disappearances from view.

           
So
I watched Michael absently, complacently.

           
I
was lost in an entirely satisfying -- and unfortunately imaginary -- harangue
of Geoffrey when on some subconscious level an alarm went off.
 
Michael had been underwater for an
awfully long time, hadn't he?
 
Abandoning my tirade, I scanned the cove.
 
How long had it been since Michael's last dive?
 
Angry with myself for my inattention, I
realized I didn't know.

           
Feeling
a sudden tensing in my stomach, I rose hastily to my feet and started toward
the water, keeping my eyes fixed on the point where I last remembered seeing
him.
 
But despite my attempts to
will him into view, there was no reassuring jack-in-the-box burst to the
surface.

           
"Michael!"
I called out.
 
"Michael, can
you hear me?
 
Where are you?
 
Michael!
"

           
There
was no answer, no movement.
 
The
deep blue water lapped calmly at my legs, mocking my growing fear.
 
I plunged in, swimming hard toward the
spot where I thought he'd disappeared.
 
As I drew close, I dove, searching for some sight of him.
 
Despite the stinging in my eyes, I
could see the cloudy outlines of rocks and seaweed and small moving shadows
that might have been fish, but no Michael.
 
I was forced to the surface for air, and then dove again
further on, but again I burst gasping to the surface without any sign of
him.
 

           
Murmuring
a brief prayer, I swam a little to the right and dove again.
 
Then I tried to the left.
 
My eyes were smarting and I began to
despair as my view became blurrier and blurrier.
 
Then I saw it.
 
A
glimpse of red too bright to belong to the sea.
 
Rising to the surface for a brief gulp of air, I dove down
toward the patch of red, repeating my prayer and adding to it, "Please,
God, let me find him -- and let him be
alive
."
 
The stillness of that patch of red
frightened me.

           
As
I dove down, the red patch resolved into a blurry red and purple rectangle from
which cream-colored shapes protruded top and bottom.
 
Kicking hard, I drew close and gathered the small body in my
arms.
 
Frightened and angry, hopeful
and despairing, I burst to the surface desperate for air and a close look at
him.
 
He felt so limp in my arms.

           
I
carried him out of the water and onto the beach, and set him down gently on the
warm, smooth stones.
 
His eyes were
closed, his lips tinged with blue, and his chest was not moving.
 
I stared down at him, terrified he was
going to die, was dead already.

           
"Help!
 
Somebody, help!"

           
I
tried to scream the words, but no air seemed to come from my lungs; my cry for
assistance came out a faint whistling wheeze.
 
I took a deep breath and tried again, but though this time I
managed to call out weakly, I knew no one up at the villa could possibly hear
me.
 
It was too far away.
 
I looked down at Michael.
 
He would only live if someone helped
him, and I was the only one around to do it.
 
Trembling, I knelt down beside him and felt for a
pulse.
 
It was faint, but it was
there.
 
His heart was still
beating.
 
Now, if I could just get
his lungs to work again.

           
Lift
the neck.
 
Tilt the head.
 
Pinch the nose.
 
Four quick breaths.

           
Somewhere
above and behind me there was the sound of clattering stones, but I didn't
turn; instead I inhaled quickly, pressed my mouth against Michael's, and
blew.
 
The small chest rose.
 
I pulled away, took a breath, and
repeated the process.
 
The small
chest rose, then fell, but Michael didn't stir.
 
I repeated the process again, and again, and again.
 
My strength began to falter, but I had
to go on; there was no one else.

           
I
lifted my head to take a breath, and someone pulled me away.
 
Paul said roughly, "I will breathe
for him now."
 
He slipped into
my place and blew the next breath into Michael without missing a beat, and I
sagged against an arm that was suddenly there, bracing me.
 
I turned.
 
Maria stood next to me, holding me up, her anxious gaze
fixed on the man and boy crouched on the ground.

           
The
distressingly monotonous process continued for what seemed an age, before a
strange choking noise broke the steady soughing of Paul's donated breath.
 
Michael began coughing, then heaving,
and Paul turned his head so he could safely be sick.
 
Eventually the violent coughing subsided into gentler and
more sporadic bursts, and I realized that Michael was going to live.