A Fold in the Tent of the Sky (35 page)

The splash from the pool brought Peter out of a half-sleep daze; the sun's rosy glow through his eyelids was sending him a message:
This is your air, yours to breathe; your sunlight. Take it.

“Peter?”

He'd been holding his breath, for how long he did not know. It was as if he'd been under the pool water, not lying here beside it. As if a tent had collapsed around him and he was fighting for air through the smothering fabric.

He opened his eyes and it was Pam standing over him, in
her new powder-blue swimsuit. She crouched down beside him and pushed hair from her face; she had tears in her eyes and her thumb was at her mouth now, her jaw clenched with biting. “Jesus, I thought you were—you weren't
breathing
or anything. Are you okay?”

He sat up and the world began to spin, as if he were drunk with the bright light of the Caribbean sun. The horizon was a plate rim of deep blue—Saba with its plume of cloud like a scoop of mashed potatoes. The palm tops swayed in the breeze; he turned to see the sudden glint of a plane rising out of Juliana Airport above terra-cotta roofs. Gordon was taking a picture of Larry and Anita next to the diving board. They both coughed at once. He could smell suntan lotion—
coconut
, on his own skin.

Peter lay back down again and closed his eyes.
That ocean out there—it's the wrong one. I'm on the wrong side of the continent.
He heard the click and the whir of the motor advancing the film in Gordon's camera.
Danke. Vielen Dank.
No clapping this time.

“I'm fine; just a—headache I guess, something I had for breakfast maybe.” He sat up again and he noticed the glisten of tears around her eyes; and as he took Pam's hand it all fell down into his mind—the weight of recollection, memories arranging themselves into discrete clusters now: layer upon layer of memories—his many selves were dragging him to the core of the earth. But at the same time it felt as if someone had shaken the blanket of the world and flung him off it. Unleashing him from the ballast of responsibility.

“Where's Simon?”

“Pardon?”

“Where's Simon? I don't see him around—wasn't he just here a minute ago?”

“Simon?” She frowned and swallowed at the same time. “Who's
Simon?
I don't know what you're talking about.”

He gently pulled her closer so that her face fell against his chest; he put his arms around her and stroked her hair. Savoring the warmth of who she was, had been, and always would be. Nothing could change that now—no one.

She pulled away from him and looked right into his eyes. “Are you okay?” He could see how she felt about him.
Oh God. Don't let me ever forget this moment.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” She frowned again. He sat up straight. “Really, I'm
fine.
”

She took his hand in both of hers and opened it up as if she were unfolding a note; she kissed the palm of it and he noticed something that looked odd for a moment—a new scar: a pink line down the center of his palm right where his life line was or should be.

A young guy, one of the pool attendants, was straightening up the chairs on the far side of the pool, brushing them off with the towel he had draped over his shoulder. He was whistling something that sounded familiar and Peter felt compelled to drag the recognition of it to the surface. Yes, that was it. A Beatles song. “Yesterday.”

This book would not have come into being without the unflagging support of my wife, Esther Farrell, and my agent, Helen Heller. My thanks go out to my editor at William Morrow, Henry Ferris, and his assistant, Ann Treistman; Chantal Dugal at the Canadian Amateur Diving Association; Douglas Scott; and all the patient librarians from St. Paul to Vancouver.

The following books I have found particularly helpful:
Helter Skelter
by Vincent Bugliosi with Curt Gentry;
Re
mote Viewers: The Secret History of America's Psychic Spies
by Jim Schnabel;
Breaking the Surface
by Greg Louganis with Eric Marcus;
Parapsychology: The Controversial Science
by
Richard
S. Broughton;
Harper's Encyclopedia of Mystical and Paranormal Experience
by Rosemary Ellen Guiley.

MICHAEL HALE
was born in Liverpool, England, and at the age of seven he emigrated with his family to Canada. He lives with his wife, Esther, a singer-actress, in Elora, Ontario.

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Cover design by Adam Johnson

Cover photographs: clouds © stavklem/ Shutterstock Images; paper © schab/ Shutterstock Images; man © Rickett and Sones/Offset

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

A FOLD IN THE TENT OF THE SKY
. Copyright © 1998 by Folded Sky Productions Ltd. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST WILLIAM MORROW PAPERBACK EDITION PUBLISHED 2015.

EPub Edition August 2015 ISBN 9780062413116

ISBN 978-0-06-238522-2

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