The Long Way Home(39)

“Suppose he drinks again? Or uses?” he’d ask.

“Suppose he does?” she’d ask back and hold those worried eyes. “He and Annie have to work it out themselves. He’s in rehab and has his own therapist. He’s doing what he has to do. Let it go. Concentrate on your own side of the street.”

And she could see that it made sense to Gamache. But she also knew they’d have this same conversation again. Over and over. Because his fears weren’t about sense. They didn’t live in his head.

But she could see progress. One day he’d get there. And once there, he’d find peace.

And this was the place to do it, Myrna knew, as she watched the large man on the edge of the village open the little book, put on his reading glasses, and begin again.

They’d all come here to begin again.

* * *

Armand Gamache looked down at the book and read. Not long, not much. But he found even these few words every day comforting. Then, as he did each morning, he closed the book, removed his reading glasses, and looked at the village. Then he lifted his eyes to the misty forest and mountains beyond.

There was a world out there. A world filled with beauty and love and goodness. And cruelty and killers, and vile acts contemplated and being committed at this very moment.

Peter had left and been gobbled up by that world.

And it was coming closer. Coming here. Nibbling at the edges of the village.

He felt his skin tingle, and the sudden, overwhelming need to get up. To go. To do something. To stop it. It was like an out-of-body experience, so powerful was the urge to act.

He gripped the edge of the bench, closed his eyes, and did as Myrna had taught him.

Deep breath. In. And out.

“And don’t just breathe,” he heard her calm, melodic voice. “Inhale. Take in the smells. Listen to the sounds. The real world. Not the one you’re conjuring.”

He breathed in, and smelled the pine forest, smelled the damp earth. Felt the cool, fresh morning air on his cheeks. He heard, far off, the excited yapping of a puppy. And he followed that back. The puppy led him through the howls and shrieks and alarms in his head.

He held on to the sound. To the scents. As Myrna had taught him.

“Follow anything you can,” she’d advised. “Back to reality. Back from the edge.”

And he did.

Deep breath in. The cut grass, the sweet hay by the side of the road. Deep breath out.

And finally, when the alarms were dulled and his heart stopped pounding, pounding, he thought he could hear the forest itself. The leaves not rustling, but murmuring to him. Telling him he’d made it. Home. He was safe.

Gamache let go of the hard edge of the wooden bench and slid back, until he felt himself come to rest, against the wood. Against the words.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

He opened his eyes, and the village lay before him.

And once again he was saved. He was surprised by joy.

But what would happen if he left? And went back into that world he, better than most, knew was not just his imagination?

* * *

Myrna Landers turned slowly from the window.

Each morning she saw Armand read. And then she watched him put down the mysterious book and stare into space.

And each morning she saw the demons approach, and swarm and surround him until they found their way in. Through his head, through his thoughts. And from there they gripped his heart. She saw the terror possess him. And she saw him fight it off.

Each morning she got up, made a coffee, and stood looking through the pane. Only turning away when he was safely through his own.

* * *

Clara put down her coffee before she dropped it. She put the last bite of toast in her mouth, before she dropped it too.

And she stared at Peter’s painting. Letting her mind leap from image to image. From thought to thought. Until it came to the same conclusion her instincts had hit a few minutes earlier.

It wasn’t possible. She must have taken a leap in the wrong direction. Connected things that should not be put together. She sat back down on the stool and stared at the easel.

Had Peter been trying to tell them something?

* * *

Myrna spread a thick layer of brilliant gold marmalade on her English muffin. Then she dipped her knife into the raspberry jam and added it to the mix. Her own invention. Marmberry. It looked grotesque, but then great food so often did. Never mind what the chefs tell you, she thought, as she took a bite. All the best comfort food looked like someone had dropped the plate.

She smiled down at her own failed “color wheel,” and thought of Bean, and the paintings. That was what her English muffin looked like. The palette Bean had used to create those brilliant, and not in a good way, pictures.

What had Ruth called Clara’s first efforts? A dog’s breakfast.

“The dog’s breakfast.” Myrna raised the muffin in salute, and took a bite.

But her chewing slowed, slowed until it stopped. She stared into space.

Her thoughts, tentative at first, sped up. Finally racing along, racing toward a completely unexpected conclusion.

But it wasn’t possible. Was it?

She swallowed.

* * *

Perhaps the only good thing about the torment he experienced, thought Gamache, taking a deep breath of the sweet morning air, was that once it was gone he emerged into this.

He smiled at the sight of the stone and clapboard and brick cottages, radiating in circles from the village green.