“I see what’s going to happen to the people I love.”
I had no idea that silence could be so unnerving until now. My heart hopscotches as I study his face for signs of disbelief.
Miraculously, none appear.
“Go on.”
I can’t quite compute that he hasn’t yet laughed, or suggested I head out for a very long walk. His composure is such that I almost forget what I need to say next.
“Go on, Joel. I’m listening.”
So I take a breath and start to talk about Poppy. His daughter, my goddaughter. I describe my dream—the chilling sight of Steve forgetting to brake at the crossroads, plowing into a lamppost. And everything that followed. I tell him it’s why I let down his tires, back in September.
Swearing softly, he works his jaw. Looks over at the window like he quite fancies punching the thing from its frame. “What else?”
I move on: to Luke, to my mum and the cancer. To my sister’s soon-to-be-pregnancy. I tell him about Kate, and my dad.
I hand him my notebook so he can see. It’s the first time in my life I’ve shared it. Steve may as well be looking straight into my brain—at my dreams, thoughts and plans, anxieties and ideas. Anything even loosely relevant goes straight down on the page.
Will he think I’m crazy? Laugh, as my GP did all those years ago? Signpost me toward some sort of mental health assessment?
And what would I do then? Because this stuff is as real as it gets.
Steve flicks tentatively through the notebook. “Any patterns?”
“Nope. I have one most weeks. Good, neutral, bad. I never know what’s next.”
Unsurprisingly, I guess, I foresee more good or neutral things than bad. Because that reflects the balance of my loved ones’ lives. But the bad stuff, when it comes, outweighs the rest a hundredfold.
I’m desperate for all of it to stop. Because I want to be with Callie.
Steve turns round, rips the front page off the motivational desk calendar behind him. The entry underneath it orders me to hustle for that muscle.
He picks up a pen, starts to write. “Have you seen doctors?”
“Just one, at uni.”
“And he said?”
“To get out of his surgery and never come back.”
Still scribbling, Steve raises an eyebrow. “He didn’t suggest this could be linked to anxiety?”
“He didn’t suggest anything. And, Steve, even if I am anxious...I can predict the future.”
“Ever dreamed anything that hasn’t come true?”
“They don’t come true if I step in. Every dream I have... it’s prophetic.”
Steve carries on writing. But I’m starting to feel deflated, because he hasn’t scrambled to his feet yet with the lightbulb I’m so desperate for.
I think, deep down, I knew he wouldn’t. That walking away from this conversation with an instant solution would have been nothing short of a miracle.
“Have you ever had a serious illness?”
“Does this count?”
“No.”
