Disaster in Paradise. Amanda Bath

and darning equipment, sharp scissors, thimbles and a measuring tape. As for my knitting supplies and yarn, and the knitted jacket project I’d laid out on the couch to admire, so nearly complete… I inhaled sharply and slammed the memory closet shut again.

      I found Christopher splayed out on the bed, deeply asleep. His careworn face, even in repose, was etched with lines of exhaustion and sadness. I joined him; what a relief to sink into oblivion and escape for just a few minutes—until the phone in the study rang and woke me up. The voice on the line was gentle and polite. Megan Cole from the Nelson Star newspaper asked if I’d be willing to give her an interview. I said yes.

      Telling my story seemed to sink a deepening groove of belief into my brain. Victims of sudden trauma need to tell their stories over and over again, I knew this from my work with the hospice. By retelling their story, victims slowly convince themselves: “This really did happen. I am not making it up!” As Megan quietly probed with her questions, words flowed out of me. As when I was interviewed by Francis Silvaggio the previous day on the boat—I could hardly believe it had been only yesterday—I felt like I was at a distance, observing myself as I spoke: “You never imagine that today marks the end of so much you knew and held dear. When I closed our front door on Thursday morning, a chapter of my life also closed. And now, when I think back to the time before Thursday, it’s like looking through a window onto a past world that ended long, long ago.”

      I told Megan how extremely fortunate we’d all been. Me, out of the house an hour and a half before it was destroyed. And yesterday, Friday, having just enough time to get back to the boat. If Deane had beached the boat sideways to the shore we couldn’t have launched in time. If I’d heard even the suggestion of Ozzie’s voice in the wreckage, I’d have hesitated, not left, and that would have been the end of me. If we’d arrived five minutes earlier, or if the second slide had come down five minutes later, I’d have been too far away from the boat. The temptation to climb up onto our deck was irresistible. If Christopher and Kurt hadn’t been at a safe distance in Eugene and Toronto, they’d have been climbing into the wreckage themselves, right then, trying to salvage things.

      If. If. If.

      When the interview was over, I rejoined Christopher, who was just opening his eyes, and snuggled down next to him. “What did you find out on the phone this morning? Who did you talk to?”

      “Gail. She and Lynne are in the thick of it there on Rogers Road. Every journalist who lands in a helicopter sees their house and knocks on the door for an interview.” I was glad that our friends Gail and Lynne were handling the media. I couldn’t think of better people to put out the story. They would stay calm and be meticulously accurate.

      “And the RCMP has it all wrong. They keep saying Petra was in the Webbers’ house having breakfast with Val and the girls on Thursday.”

      “Well, we know that’s impossible.” Petra and Val had a romantic relationship; everyone in the Landing knew about it, and we also knew that Val’s daughters weren’t too happy about the situation, and weren’t on friendly terms with Petra. It was ridiculous to suppose they’d have invited her over for breakfast.

      “What else did you hear?”

      “Apparently there’s over a hundred people out there digging.” I glanced at him. Christopher had the look of a man who wished he could be out there digging too.

      The phone rang again, but I let it go to the answering machine. A hundred rescue and recovery people. Three times the population of the Landing: what an invasion!

      Christopher rolled onto his side. “What do you miss most, at the moment? Apart from Ozzie, of course.”

      I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, stroking his hand. “I miss the silence. I miss the deep green shade from the tall firs that made the house so comfortable in the summer. I miss swimming naked in the lake. I miss the sparkling light reflecting off the water mid-afternoon, that danced across the ceiling.”

      We sighed deeply, lost in the vision. The yearning was a physical ache.

      Osa came over after tea and the three of us stood together in the front yard, now bathed in late afternoon sunshine. It helped to have members of our Johnson’s Landing “family” so close by, especially Osa and Paul, after everything we’d been through together; they understood our loss.

      “Our place feels like Grand Central Station; the phone ringing, people stopping by,” she said. She was inundated with food, and was driving all over town delivering food parcels to evacuees. Rachel Rozzoni, now in Shutty Bench with her three children, was missing her garden. “She was ecstatic when I brought fresh organic vegetables.” We nodded. Johnson’s Landing always had bountiful gardens.

      Osa turned to leave, then added, “Oh. There’s a plan to float the trapped vehicles across the lake on a barge.” She went on to explain. Derek and Camille Baker had a barge, and Derek was primed to make the first crossing the next morning. Christopher perked up at this news: “I’m in.” Renata’s car was one of the vehicles stranded at the parking area by the beach.

      I sat down on the front doorstep, my heart racing. The mere idea of going to the Landing had me clammy-fisted with fear. “I’d love to help too,” I added—the Landing, to me, had become a life-threatening place, an ogre that might eat you up—“but I can’t go.”

      Christopher told Osa he’d contact Renata and they’d drive out to the Landing in the morning.