The Sight of You

by Holly Miller

  “That depends on what you mean by psychic,” Steve says eventually.

  “What . . . what are the options?”

  He shifts his weight against the table. “Stage psychics. Clairvoyants, with premium-rate phone numbers—”

  “No. I mean people who really can predict the future.”

  A moment of contemplation. Longer this time. “You?”

  My stomach seesaws. I step off the cliff. “Yes.”

  “What are we talking here? World events? Lottery numbers?”

  “Nothing like that. I have . . . dreams.”

  “About what?”

  “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.”

  “Then no.”

  “A head injury? Any knock to the head at all that you can remember?”

  “No. Nothing. Why?”

  “My knowledge is a little rusty, but I’m wondering if it might be something to do with your temporal and frontal lobes. Your right hemisphere, possibly.” He waves the pen around his forehead, like that will help me understand.

  And I do, broadly, thanks to my veterinary neuroscience lectures at uni. But I’ve never been able to build a bridge between my medical knowledge and the dreams. It’s what I’d been hoping Steve could do.

  Steve lowers the pen. “Look, Joel, I haven’t studied this stuff for nearly twenty years. I could throw some titbits at you, but really I’d be guessing. I do still have a few contacts, though. I’m wondering if Diana Johansen might be able to help.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “A leading neuroscientist now. I studied with her. I’m sure I could get her to see you. She heads up a university research team, has contacts everywhere.”

  “You think she could investigate?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know how it all works, these days. For anything official she’d have to apply for funding. There’d need to be ethical approvals, and you might have to undergo some detailed medical exams.”

  “You mean,” I say heavily, “there’s no quick solution.”

  “You didn’t really think there’d be a pill for this, did you?” His voice softens, like he’s comforting a teething baby.

  It drops through my chest then: the hopelessness, heavy as a falling barbell. “I guess not.”

  “Look, I’ll do what I can, I promise.” Steve meets my eyes. “And . . . thank you, Joel. For trusting me.”

  I nod acknowledgment, and a few seconds pass.

  Steve rubs his chin. “I have to say, I’m kind of relieved.”

  “Relieved?”

  “Well, this explains a lot. Is this why you pushed Vicky away?”

  “Probably.”

  “What about Callie?”

  I blink, rapid-fire. “What?”

  “She’s the real reason you’re here, isn’t she?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I called her last week—just to check in, see if there was anything she wanted. I asked how you were getting on, and . . .” He grins. “Let’s just say I couldn’t shut her up.”

  I know hearing this should make me happy. But all that was before last night, of course. Before the sweetness of our kiss turned quickly sour.

  We still haven’t spoken. I left the flat about an hour after Melissa this morning, but there was no sign of Callie.

  “Have you told her any of this?”

  “No.”

  “So who else knows?”

  “Just you. And that doctor from years ago.”

  “You’ve not told your family? Friends?”

  “No. No one.”

  Steve whistles out a breath. “Look, Joel, I don’t know much, but I know that talking’s a good thing.”

  “Only with the right audience. That’s why I came to you.”

  “But if you talked to Callie, she might understand. You won’t know until you try.”

  I say nothing.

  “Okay.” He hangs one hand off the back of his neck. With the weight, I wonder, of everything I’ve told him? “Let me talk to Diana, as a first step.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Hey, I should be thanking you. That night, you saved Poppy from . . .” But the rest of his sentence goes AWOL, and I know why. Because it’s too damn hard even to picture some things, let alone put words to them.

  We just stare at each other then, while workout music pumps through the office door. It’s like we’re drinkers turfed out of an anonymous backstreet bar, trying to remember which way is home.

  “So you believe what I’m telling you?” Even now, I’m not sure I dare trust it’s true.

  “Yes,” he says gently. “I believe you, Joel.”

  Somewhere deep inside me, a years-old knot works free.

  “I wish I could give you all the answers you want. But I�
��ll call Diana this afternoon. I’m on your side, Joel. We’ll crack this, I promise—even if it takes a team effort.”

  It’s that phrase, team effort, that sends my thoughts scattering. The idea of being subject matter, a laboratory experiment. Did Steve mention medical tests, ethical approvals? Maybe talking to Diana would invite publicity, attract attention. Turn her into one of those celebrity scientists who are always popping up in inappropriate places, like quiz shows and radio phone-ins about rising house prices.

  “Let me think about it,” I say quickly. “Don’t call Diana yet. Got a few things I need to do first.”

  * * *

  • • •

  True to my word, I think about it all the way home. Steve’s right. I should trust Callie. Tell her everything.

  But more than that: for the first time in my life, I think I might actually want to.

  31.

  Callie

  At three o’clock, he shows up.

  “Hi,” he says, across the counter. He looks sturdy and sincere in a woodsy sort of way, in a soot-gray coat and black woolen hat. “Have you got five minutes?”

  “She has the whole afternoon,” I hear Dot say, before I can reply. I turn, and she motions to the clock. “Seriously. Two hours left until closing and we’re virtually dead. A bit like that dude.” She jerks her head at the old man in the flat cap by the window. “Go. Make me happy, please. Promise I’ll call if they start queuing out of the door.”

  Dot doesn’t know what happened last night. I haven’t even told her we kissed.

  When I look back at Joel, I feel sadness settle in my chest—it feels so wrong not to see him smiling.

  “I have an interesting selection of dogs outside,” he ventures. “Fancy bringing Murph for a wander?”

  * * *

  • • •

  Outside, I introduce Murphy to Joel’s dogs, who all seem very keen to make their introductions by sniffing one another’s rear ends.

  “The yellow Lab’s Rufus. The Maltese is Tinkerbell, and the Dalmatian’s Spot. There’s another one—Bruno—but he’s not cut out for socializing, so I walk him separately.”

  We set off down the street, the dogs straining on their leads ahead of us. A suspension of wintry mist makes the world feel underwater, the sun a bright white blowhole in the sky.

  “So, Callie. Are you by any chance a fan of the cakewalk?”

  “The dance?”

  “No, this is a bit different. Some would say better.”

  Despite everything, I smile. “Go on.”

  “Well, essentially it involves an idiot treating you to cake, followed by a walk at the country park while he apologizes and attempts to explain himself.”

  I think about Melissa, about how devastated I felt last night when I saw her and Joel together. But one look at Joel’s face is all I need to decide that I have to hear him out.

  * * *

  • • •

  We stop at the Sicilian pastry shop, then head on to the park, where we let the dogs off. They scatter like ferrets from a cage, kicking up mud as they go.

  “Here. Last one’s yours.” Joel extends the paper bag to me like a peace offering.

  I take the final sfinca—Sicilian ricotta dough balls, gilded with sugar and narcotically sweet.

  He brushes sugar from his fingers. “So, I never got to congratulate you properly last night about the job. It’s fantastic. Brilliant news.”

  I glance at him, feeling shy suddenly. “I wouldn’t have applied if it weren’t for you. And what you told me, about passion counting—it really helped.”

  As we walk, I catch the spice of Joel’s scent on the air. It evokes straightaway our kiss from last night and its base-of-spine thrill, heated and deep. A kiss I had hoped meant something magic to both of us.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened, Callie.”

  “The kiss?”

  “No! That part was . . . amazing. I meant . . . Melissa. I forgot she was coming. We arranged it weeks ago.”

  He’s telling the truth. One look at the tension on his face is enough to convince me of that.

  “I bumped into her this morning at the shop,” I confide. “We didn’t talk for very long. I sort of . . . ran off.”

  Ahead of us, the dogs are bounding around one another in circles, their playful yapping offsetting the gravity in the air somehow.

  “There’s more to everything that’s happened than Melissa. And I want to tell you about it, but . . . I know you want to avoid drama. After Piers.” Appearing to catch himself, Joel briefly shuts his eyes. “Sorry. That came out wrong. It’s not up to you to indulge me.”

  “It’s okay,” I assure him softly, wondering what he could be about to say. “You can tell me anything.”

  He releases the self-soothing breath of a man about to jump from a very high diving board. “Sorry. This . . . this is harder than I thought.”

  “I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “You don’t. I feel more comfortable with you than I have with anyone in a long time.”

  We’re by the leisure pontoon, where lines of pedalos are shackled up for the winter. A low mist is shifting like breath across the surface of the lake, a kind of spectral camouflage for courting mallards and groups of braying greylags. On the opposite bank, the boathouse from Bonfire Night lies still and deserted.

  “I have—” Joel breaks off and rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. This is really hard.”

  I reach out and touch his arm to let him know it’s okay. But inside I’m starting to feel almost as afraid as Joel looks.

  “I have dreams, Callie.” His voice wavers, like weak reception on a radio. “I dream about . . . what’s going to happen to the people I love.”

  Seconds swim by.

  “Oh . . . I . . .”

  Joel ventures a smile. “Just to say, I know how that sounds.”

  I try to think. “When you say you see what’s going to happen . . .”

  “I can see into the future. Days, months, sometimes years in advance.”

  “Are you—”

  “Serious?” He looks at me. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “No, I was going to say—”

  “Sorry. I interrupted. Twice.”

  “It’s okay. I was just going to ask if you’re sure that the dreams . . . aren’t a coincidence.”

  “If only they were.”

  We stand at the edge of the lake. I have no idea what to do or say next. How can this be true? And yet Joel comes across as one of the most sincere people I’ve ever met.

  “Just so you know, if you’re thinking of making a run for it,” he says, tilting his head in the direction we’ve come from, “I absolutely wouldn’t blame you. I can just . . . become the weird guy downstairs again, if you like. No hard feelings. I promise.”

  I rush to reassure him. “You never were the weird guy downstairs to me.” But still. What he’s told me is seismic, a vast loophole in logic, and I don’t have a clue what to do with it. “Listen, Joel, everything you’ve just said . . . it defies science. Reality.”

  “It does. But I can try to explain.”

  So we carry on walking as he describes his cousin Luke and the dog attack, his mum dying of cancer, his family and losses and near-misses and tortured nights spent wondering. He recounts the horrible experience he had with his university GP. He confesses he hates being away from home, for fear of dreaming something awful that he needs to intercept, and I realize that must be why he’s never traveled.

  When he mentions a dream he had at Halloween, in which his dad claimed not to be his real father, something slots into place in my mind.

  “I heard you,” I say. “I heard you call out that night, in your sleep.”

  His dismay is almost palpable. “Sorry. In my dream . . . I was shouting after him
.”

  “No, don’t be. I just . . . I could hear how upset you were. Have you—”

  “Talked to him? No.”

  “Why . . . why not?”

  As he laughs softly, I see his eyes are wet with emotion. It takes him a moment to reply. “What the hell would I say?”

  After that he carries on talking for almost ten minutes straight, and when eventually he’s done, we share a look that gives me goose bumps.

  “Callie, I know this stuff might not be easy to understand. Or even believe. I didn’t believe it myself, not for a long time. It took me years to come to terms with it. So I’m hardly expecting you to buy the whole story right now, today.”

  “I don’t not believe you.”

  “Oh.” His face flexes with relief. “Well, that’s more than I was expecting.”

  From the lake, two mute swans take flight, the pounding of their wings like the rushing of sonogram heartbeats.

  “So . . . who else knows?”

  “Hardly anyone. Steve. He’s got a friend who might be able to help, but . . . I’m not holding my breath.”

  I remember what Melissa said to me earlier, in the shop. “I think Melissa knows.”

  “I never told her. She just thinks I have trouble sleeping.”

  Repeating what she said, I feel unexpectedly guilty for maligning her. She’s not been unpleasant to me exactly—territorial, yes, but that’s forgivable. “She asked if I knew what was in your notebook.”

  “She’s bluffing,” he says. “I don’t let it out of my sight.”

  We talk some more. He tells me his sister, Tamsin, will be pregnant next year—I can barely fathom the idea that he knows this ahead of time—and then he sketches out the mechanics of sleep cycles against my palm with one finger, turning my insides to skittles. He shows me his notebook, tells me he’s tried self-medicating—with lavender and warm milk, getting blackout drunk, herbal teas, sleeping tablets, supplements, and white noise. But none of it ever works.

  For his own sanity he limits sleep these days, and has cut down on booze, believes exercise helps his mood.

  “Is there anything you can do?” I ask him then. “To stop the dreams . . . coming true?”