Jayne MacMillan was sitting up in her hospital bed, surprisingly lucid and convivial (from Bee’s perspective) given the nature of her prognosis. A large, matronly looking woman stood beside the bed, pen and clipboard in hand, noting down the values that pronounced themselves clearly on the machinery that stood dutifully beside its patient.

   “Don’t mind her”, Jay was looking at Sophia, first through the door and instantly troubled by the presence of hospital staff, “she’s just here to make sure I’m still breathing.”

Sophia walked briskly to her aunt’s bedside, putting her school bag down into the seat of the only visitor’s chair in the room. She reached out to Jay’s hand, a needle connected to a drip was inserted to in the top of it. The needle was secured with surgical tape, it looked awkward and painful.

   “I’m glad you’re still breathing,” Sophia was not brimming with the words she’d expected to have, like the needle in her aunt’s hand, she felt awkward and painful, “what does the doctor say?”

   “What they always say, my love,” Jay placed her other, unencumbered, hand on top of Sophia’s, sandwiching her hand between two of her own, “rest, fluids, and more rest.”

   “He told us you’d hurt your head.”

   “Well, I did.” Jay released the hand-sandwich and reached for the remote control for the bed, within a few seconds the bed started to hum and whirl, as it lifted her into a seated position, more apt for the visitation of family. 

   “But, I’m okay, as you can see.” 

   Robert and Bee, who had remained silent just inside the doorway, approached the bed as the matronly nurse placed the clipboard on the end of the bed, looked once at the machines hovering dutifully beside the patient, and left the room. Robert, his hand hovering over his map of New Zealand, was the first to speak.

   “What happened Jay?”

   Jay, put Sophia’s hand to one side, turning her head towards her nephew.

   “I wanted to read. In the garden.” Jay was sounding proper and entitled as if she was being made to defend something she’d done or wanted to do. “The ground down by the garden bench, it’s uneven. Would have given a deer a rough ride.”

   “You tripped?”

   “Yes. And I’m no deer.”

Robert approached the bed, his intention to examine the bandaged wound on Jay’s head.

   “I’m fine, Nephew,“ there was a sense of frustration, perhaps even anger, in Jay’s voice, “it’s nothing to worry yourself about.”

   “It’s a worry, none-the-less,” Bee had ventured into the conversation, fragile as it was, “you don’t have the strength for aerobics these days.”

   “I’m strong enough.”

   Bee nodded, sympathetically, but tinged with annoyance. The sort of frustration you feel when somebody you love is in denial. Brave to the point of nonsensical. Self-reliance is a currency that only travels you so far.

   “Soph, why don’t you fetch your aunt a coffee?” Robert hand walked around the bed and placed his hand on Sophia’s shoulder, “there’s a machine down the hall.”

Sophia turned her head looking upwards and backwards towards her standing father, “Okay. Sure.”

   As Sophia left the room, Robert relieved the visitor’s chair of her schoolbag, pulling the chair close to the side of the bed and sitting in it, as he did so.

   “Was it really the ground?”

   Jay paused for a second, looking upwards (perhaps for inspiration, though that seemed unlikely) for a few, long and drawn out breaths.

   “No. Of course not.”

   Robert reached out and took Jay’s hand, making a sandwich of his own.

   “I’m probably not going to leave this room. That’s just the truth of the matter.” Jay had a way of being very matter-of-fact when it came to emotionally charged subject matter. It was her who spoke at their father’s wake. It was her who stood (barefoot) on the January lawn and delivered a eulogy without pause or stutter. It was her who spoke at her sister’s wedding - not a dry eye among the guests, save her own. It was her that could always find the strength to dispatch and discharge with seemingly steel-like emotion. It was a strength she did not wish for, but it was her’s none-the-less.

   “Nonsense,” Jay’s sister was not going to allow the void to exist any longer, “you just need some rest, that’s all.”

   Jay reached out with her spare hand, the other lay entwined in Robert’s clammy fingers, towards Bee, “come, give me your hand dear sister. Dear Bee, the greatest of optimists.”

Jay was, somewhat uncomfortably for Robert, smiling broadly.

   Bee moved around the bed and took Jay’s hand, her emotion filling the void. Like the sea and the shore, a balance was found between the elements. Somewhere between Jay’s peaceful acceptance of her mortality (now pounding at the door) and Bee’s raw denial of the finality of her relationship with her sister, a truce was made. Right there in that poorly lit hospital room, a truce between what will and what must never be. An uneasy truce, each side swaying gently in the back and forth, ready to break and attack at a moment’s notice. A truce built out of humility and exhaustion. A truce rooted in light, grace and dignity, but where muffled screams and anger lurked just inches into the furor of the indignant, creeping shade.

  “He can be quite persuasive”, Robert was still trying to smile, “and yet polite at the same time.”

  “Some call that manipulative”, Jay was reaching into her purse, “but I’m sure he has the best of intentions” she said, somewhat distracted by her search. She continued to root around in her bag for a second or two and then, presumably having found what she was looking for, looked at Robert with a face full of wonder. Like a child who just found a forbidden stash of candy. Slowly, she produced a small, clear plastic bag from deep inside her bag and began to wave it front of her face with a grin that stretched from where they were standing to the ocean.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Robert was looking around for those around them who might disapprove.

  “I don’t know,” Jay clenched the bag in her the palm of her hand, as if to tease, “what do you think it is?”

Robert began to chuckle again, the back of his hand about his gaping mouth, “where on earth…”

  “It’s legal,” Jay interrupted his question with the answer she thought Robert wanted, “I can assure you I have all the necessary paperwork.”

Jay straightened her summer dress, pulled her purse from about her side so that it was in front of her body and stood up straight, as if the cane was no longer employed.

  “Shall we?” she motioned towards a path that run down the north side of the church. Not the main path to the parking lot, but a smaller, less well-kept path that ran between the other side of the church and a fence (that a crow had been sitting on moments before).

Robert picked up his empty cup and the two of them began to move towards the secret path. No-one saw them head that way, no-one saw them leave the lawn and the party and the sausages and the vol-au-vents. No-one saw the gleeful look about their faces, like children (with candy) trapped in the bodies of adults. Embattled bodies, scarred. No, no-one saw them at all. They passed through the parishioners like water between stones. Like sound over your eardrum, their presence on the lawn was volatile, uneventful and transient. They disappeared into memory, not missed and not forgotten. Like the way you and I would remember a sunny day, the way shadows move across a yard, or perhaps, almost perfectly, the way track remembers train.

Eight feet walking.

Eight hands, eight ears (though two were mere husks, no function other than to look beautiful and to catch the kisses of the wind.) Eight arms, eight legs, four heads, four bodies, four hearts.

One direction.

Two futures.

Days like this one are served well in memory. Remembered perfectly, more perfectly than perhaps they actually were. Recalled through bright hues and muted tones. Salad days; worthy of a future, worthy of an existence beyond the now. Stored carefully away for fond (if sometimes sore) recollection. The sun was high in the sky and looked down upon the earth with a certain amount of satisfaction. For these were the months of summer. This was a time of endless smiles, ice-cream and paddling in warm, shallow waters. Of lush green grass, untrodden and fresh-faced. A time where all things aspired to reach for the sun, all things on the earth grew up, grew tall, grew fat. All things knowing, surely knowing, it would not be long until the colder months took hold and cut things down. Soon some of the hearts would understand this clearly. Some would soon understand, with some intimacy, great cruelty at the hand of winter.

Robert and Laura Kelly were walking on a pathway through a large city park. Laura’s hand was in his back-pocket. He loved how they’d walk like this. Holding hands was for high-school sweethearts and children. Sophia was holding onto Laura’s other hand, pulling herself forward, so as to keep up with the adults. She was swinging on her mother’s arm like a pendulum, back and forth, up and down. She found this a very agreeable way to travel. She could see both her feet thrust forward at the same time, like the front half of a galloping horse, her full weight on her mothers untiring arm. A second of unfettered joy, the tiniest moment of weightlessness, a glimpse outside the firmness of gravity’s hold. Though, of course, she did not understand gravity, she understood what it meant to be rid of it.

Out in front a young boy was picking up a small rock, throwing it ten feet forward, chasing after it and then repeating. Much like a puppy will chase its own tail, this was, to the boy at least, a highly ranked, if not futile, form of self entertainment. It was fun and as such he was giggling to himself as he did it.

“Stop it Nathan,” Sophia cried, “stop it!” She let go of her mother's arm and, using her own legs and feet this time, ran forward and stood in in front of Nathan. He looked at her from his crouched position over the rock. Sophia made a few shapes with her hands and gestured something that Nathan appeared to understand. Then Nathan, seemingly undeterred by Sophia’s silent protest, picked up the rock and threw it a few feet out in front, charging off after it again.

“Leave him alone Sophia,” only the mildest sense of annoyance was detectable in Laura’s voice, “he’s not hurting anyone.”

Sophia stood facing her mother, her hands on her hips, her bottom lip slightly protruded. How Laura adored her, how she loved her. She could see so much of herself in that little body, that little avatar of grace and potential. Sometimes she would lay awake a night, staring at the cracks in the ceiling of their Chelsea apartment, living through (in her mind) all the things her daughter had yet to see, had yet to experience. Her first kiss, her years in high-school, her driving test, all the broken and mended hearts, all the things she would do with her life. Yes, Laura would live that for her time and over again. In the small hours of the night when all things, welcome or otherwise, came about.

“What about the birds Mommy?” Sophia could sound very grown-up when she wanted to, “he might kill one of the birds.”

“He’s not going to kill anything So.” Laura was trying not to laugh at the logic on offer, she extended her arm out in front of her, a stick waiting for its carrot, “Come on,” she said, “let’s have you fly again.”

Sophia however, was in no mood to play carrot. She turned her back and started skipping down the path after her brother, less concerned now about the welfare of birds, more in wonder of where they slept and what they dreamt of. Laura pulled Robert in closer as he reached around her shoulders with his long slender arm and kissed her gently on the side of her forehead. She loved how their bodies fitted together, how they matched so well. Like two great continents, separated by years of tectonic will, now, in this moment, reunited.

Pangaea.

She loved how perfect they were, and how simple perfection could be. Perfection is all about perception, she would often say to herself. All circles are perfect from a certain distance. Only under closer study do they lose their form. Simple didn’t mean casual or uncaring. This was, to her at least, the kind of simplicity you find when things that were built to work together, come together. This was a well made (and well maintained) machine. This was meant to exist.

“He doesn’t hear at all anymore,” Robert’s voice seemed deeper, darker than usual, “he couldn’t even hear her shouting.”

“We knew this would happen,” Laura could sense the agony in Robert’s words, “it’s always been just a matter of time.” She hugged him a little harder. “Just look at him,” she knew exactly what she wanted to say and had been meaning to say it for a while now, “he’s a healthy, happy, young boy.” Laura shuffled around in front of Robert, stopping him in his tracks. She placed both her hands on his shoulders, she could feel the tension hiding within them. Just under the skin. “So what if he can’t hear?”

“But he’ll never hear music, or Beethoven.. Or,” Robert looked up for inspiration, “the wind in the damn trees.”

“So he’ll find joy in other things. Through the tools he has. Through rocks.” Laura glanced down the path towards where their son was playing. A subtle smile was on her face. “Music or Beethoven?” the smile on her face broadened, “interesting.”

Robert looked down at his wife, her logic unshakable as always, the constant antidote for self pity, he kissed her on the lips. “Listen, Kelly,” he whispered, “I love you.”

“Good,” Laura replied unblocking Robert’s path taking him by the hand, swinging it back and forth in an exaggerated, carefree way, as they continued down the path, “so you should.”

Eight feet walking. Four souls heading south on a path through a city park. The city park. New York, New York. One family, one great connected landmass. Soon to feel the might of the unfathomable, insatiable tectonic forces that lurked in the darkness just ahead. Something awful was coming.

“Perfect,” he muttered to himself as he walked out of the room, “just perfect”.

And then there were none.

Nobody saw the magic that engulfed the room as it came to life. Like a sleepy bear coming out from under a long hibernation, the room began to wake from its lengthy slumber. The engine began to hum, the lights began to flicker, and the walls began to shift and creak. And, if someone had been there to hear it, a slight but palpable sigh came from the beneath the sun-drenched floorboards. The gentle balance had shifted.

The house would show the way.

Robert returned minutes later carrying a small wooden stand he’d found a few days prior when rummaging in the basement. He’d been looking for old photographs, and other snapshots of the past to bring some meaning to his experience of the present. He’d found the wooden easel lodged behind the furnace. It was built for a child but, with little in the way of compromise, could be used successfully by an adult.

He dragged the side table from where it had long rested and positioned it in the center of the room. He gently placed the easel on top of the table perpendicular to the window so that he would not cast a shadow over his work.

Work.

He had not thought about painting as work for some time. But there, in a room that itself was just waking up, Robert began to feel the knot in his stomach loosen. The sun was shining on his map of New Zealand and the easel that stood before him. He looked to the southern wall and examined the shadow he cast against it. There, a half red, half velvet man stood before him and, in one of those moments of contradiction that we all stumble upon from moment to moment, he was both aroused and afraid at the same time. Like the opposing sides of his face there was contrast. Warmth and coolness, red and velvet, sunlight and shadow.

Something and nothing.

Robert closed his eyes and allowed the sun to warm the left side of his face, he reached forward and took a firm hold of the easel in front of him. Perfection is for idealists he thought to himself, as he swayed in the motion of the room. He could reach out and touch something far better.