A Handful of Time by Kit Pearson

put down his pipe. He smiled under his moustache. “It’s those young Thorpe girls, isn’t it, Gordon? I saw them today … they’re turning into attractive young ladies. All right, son, but be home by eleven.”
    â€œAndrew, I still don’t think—” his wife protested as Gordon hurried out.
    â€œNow, Pat, they have to grow up sometime.”
    She sighed, pulled the kerosene lamp closer and picked up a scrapbook she was working on.
    Ruth stood in the doorway. “May I take the canoe out?”
    Her mother frowned. “At this time of night?”
    â€œIt’s not dark yet.”
    â€œOh, all right.”
    â€œPull it well up when you come in,” added her father. The two of them seemed impatient to settle down to a quiet evening and didn’t look up as Ruth, followed by Patricia, left the cottage.
    Something nudged Patricia’s mind as she followed Ruth down to the beach. Her grandmother had called her husband Andrew. But wasn’t his name Wilfred? That was the name on the watch.
    This is a dream , she reminded herself. It doesn’t have to make sense. It occurred to her, however, that in dreams everything made sense. It was in reality that you noticed when something didn’t.
    Once down at the beach she didn’t have time to ponder any more. She had to concentrate on getting into the canoe safely. It was hard to believe it was the same boat she had fallen out of just a few days ago. Its green paint was glossier, but the same crooked letters saying Loon were painted on its prow.
    As she settled herself on the floor her hand bumped against Ruth’s knee. She froze in panic, but Ruth simply scratched her leg as if a fly had landed on it.
    Patricia faced Ruth as the tall, dark girl steered the canoe. She was just as good at it as Kelly. Patricia studied her carefully and imitated the movements of her arms.
    Ruth’s paddle dripped into water turned pink by the setting sun. Then an eerie cry came across the lake. It sounded like a mournful yodel—some kind of bird, Patricia guessed.
    Ruth had tears in her eyes. They beaded on her thick lashes and slid down her face. Patricia’s own eyes prickled in sympathy. If only this weren’t a dream and she weren’t invisible, she could talk to this solitary girl. But all she could do was stare at her loneliness.
    The bird called again. With a sigh, Ruth wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “I’ll show them,” she whispered. “Someday I’ll show them all.”
    She turned the boat towards the shore, but Patricia never got there. One instant she was in the canoe. The next, she was sitting on the bed in La Petite.

7
    P atricia ran her hands rapidly over the tufted pattern of the chenille bedspread. She couldn’t believe that she was back here so suddenly … that the vivid dream was over. She rubbed her forehead, trying to wake up fully.
    Her hair was damp.
    She pulled her fingers through it and started to tremble. Her hair was damp because an hour ago she had stuck her head under icy water that had seemed surprisingly real.
    Had it been real? She had been just as wide awake then as she was now. She had known it all along in some part of her. Pretending it was a dream had cushioned the shock of what had happened—that, somehow, she had been spirited back thirty-five years to her mother’s childhood and now, just as mysteriously, had returned to the present.
    Think it out, she told herself dizzily. There must be a logical explanation. That was one of her mother’s favourite phrases.
    How long had she been gone? It had been about two when she had left the cabin. She looked at her wristwatch and shook it. The hands still pointed to two o’clock; the battery must have run down.
    Then she took out the other watch, the gold one hidden under her T-shirt. It said nine thirty-five.
    The second hand on her own watch was still jerking forward. It hadn’t