―Moby
Brooke
I live in the west end of Toronto near the lake, so it was natural for me to be out the next day walking the western beaches thinking about Angelica and me.
I pictured us as two stray droplets on the wind, the harbinger of a greater storm below the horizon, a storm filled with grief and travail of which we were only the emissaries.
And if I thought about it long enough, maybe the forerunners of a greater storm to come.
Yes, it was indulging in more doom and gloom and angst, but I'm pretty good at reading the sky and know when a storm's approaching, and I'm also good at reading the times and know when society is going south and that's the situation where I now find myself.
I head home hoping to outrun the storm clouds that I see building on the dark horizon.
As I walk I'm going over in my head my therapy session with Art. He blew me off and didn't take seriously the gist of my complaint. I mean he actually prescribed anti-depressants as if I were some overly anxious hysteric.
And maybe that's the danger of having a friend for your therapist.
It's unusual for me to have night terrors, especially ones so dark that I'm oppressed by some foul basilisk and then there's the improbability of Angelica resurfacing after all those years as a clairvoyant when I'm in the midst of a spiritual crisis and my whole life seems at sixes and sevens.
I know I sound like a Jeremiah but I can't shake the feeling something earth-shaking is about to happen.
I make it to the shelter of my covered porch as the first drops of rain splatter against the windows. At least my gut instincts are right about elementals―it remains to be seen if that also holds for Armageddon.
My land line is blinking and the Caller ID indicates it was a call from Brooke Henderson. She didn't leave a message so I redial her number and she picks up right away as if she were anxiously waiting.
"Zach, we need to talk. Can I drop by your place?"
"Sure, what time did you have in mind?"
"I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll put the coffee on,” I tell her.
Brooke and I worked together at The Telegram and yeah, we have a history—none of it worth repeating, so I’m wondering what she wants from me.
I brew a pot of fresh coffee and put out a plate of croissants and raspberry danishes. I know it’s not a social call but we can at least try to be civilized.
I'm more concerned with the anxious tone in her voice and try not to focus in on that. Despite our frosty relationship, I hope she’s not in danger.
I spot her Lexus in the drive and hurry to the door to meet her. Just as she makes it to the porch stairs there’s a great crash of thunder that rattles the windows.
She loses her footing on the wet stairs but I reach out and grasp her and she ends up in my arms—the way she used to when we were together.
“Oh my God!” She gasps, “it sounds like the crack of doom.” She's embarrassed but also vulnerable the way she stares up at me, eyes huge and hair bejewelled with rain.
It’s a moment when we both feel a familiar twinge but quickly repress it and she instinctively casts off her raincoat on the porch as she used to when dropping by for a visit.
And suddenly the years melt away as if nothing came between us…
And I yearn for her warmth as I inhale her perfume.
”I needed you—I hope you don’t mind I phoned you.”
“Of course not, Brooke, glad you did. Come in and have coffee.”
“I saw the news from the Far East and need your perspective.”
My hopes crashed with her words. I guess I mistook her need as personal.
But then she adds, “I’m really scared, Zach. Something weird is happening.”
My heart sinks again, but this time from fear, because she's echoing my own forebodings.