A Hard Winter Rain. Michael Blair

alone, so he broke it down.

      “Christ, I must’ve been a sight, naked on my hands and knees gobbling pills off the bathroom floor. He picked me up and hauled me out into the cabin. I fought, clawing at him, raking his arms and face with my nails, gouging his flesh, but he held me in his arms, restraining me the way my father used to when I was a child and had thrown a tantrum. I screamed at him to leave me alone, that I wanted to die.

      “‘No, you don’t,’ he said.

      “‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘Yes, I do.’ But suddenly I was terrified. I realized I didn’t want to die and begged him to help me. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said, and held my head over the galley sink, pried my jaws open, and stuck his fingers down my throat.”

      “Yuck,” Kit said. There were tears on her cheeks.

      “I threw up most of the pills,” Victoria said. “Then he wrapped me in a blanket and took me to the Vancouver General ER.”

      “If he didn’t save your life,” Kit said, “he probably saved you from serious liver damage.”

      “Actually,” Victoria said, “I think it was later that he really saved my life. After I was released from the hospital, he helped me get my life on track, maybe for the first time since my mother died. He drove me to my appointments with the shrinks. He helped me find a place of my own to live. He even talked Bill into giving me my job back. He was there for me whenever I needed him, with no strings, no expectations. And I needed him a lot. At that point, I think if he’d asked, I’d have moved in with him, or maybe even married him. Thank god he didn’t ask.”