The pedestrian light turned green. The mother tugged the little girl, and they crossed into the street with all the other pedestrians. I couldn’t move. Time folded in on itself. It was like I’d glimpsed a parallel universe that would have been my life if I had n0t let go of Chloe’s hand in the waves that day.
I managed to step into the road, but the light had already changed. A cyclist almost hit me and veered into traffic. A car swerved for the biker and honked.
“Fucking asshole!” yelled the cyclist over his shoulder. “It’s a fucking red light!”
I stumbled backward and up onto the sidewalk, breathing hard. I clenched and unclenched my gloved hands, raw panic circling.
Focus, Ellie. Don’t do it—do not become unhinged again. It’ll pass. It was just a trigger. A PTSD trigger. Your therapist explained the mechanism of these things.
I turned and began to walk down the sidewalk in the direction from which I’d come. No plan. Just walking. Fast. Focusing on the rhythmic click of my bootheels. Trying to breathe deeply. I kept my head down, averting my eyes from the faces of others. Heat flushed my cheeks. It started to rain more heavily. I decided I’d head for a bookstore near Gastown. Sit there awhile. There was a liquor store one block away from the bookstore. I’d stop in there afterward, buy a bottle of wine or two to take home. I had some pills left. I’d take one. Relax. Sleep it off. I’d be okay by tomorrow.
I rounded a corner. And froze.
On the sidewalk ahead of me a man moved quickly down the hill. It was the blond hair that had snared my attention. Like a beacon. Shiny and thick.
Martin?
He wore a tailored coat and carried a briefcase. People parted around him like he was a shark in a sea of dark tones of gray upon gray upon black. He strode swiftly, heading away from me.
My heart began to hammer. My mouth turned dry.
I jerked into action, pushing and shouldering through a stream of people coming off a bus. Martin turned around a building, disappearing from sight. I began to run, my portfolio bumping against me and flapping out and hitting pedestrians, who cursed at me.
I rounded the corner, panting. Then stopped. Rain drummed down, fine and steady. I glimpsed him again. He was halfway down the block, where the sidewalk was nearly empty. I hurried after him, not even considering properly why I was following him, or what I’d say when I reached him. If it was even him.
He stopped at an intersection ahead of me to wait for cars to pass. He turned and looked directly at me.
I stilled.
It was him—it was definitely him. I raised my gloved hand. But he looked straight past me, through me. His face blank.
“Martin?” I called, raising my hand higher, waving. “Martin!”
He looked over his shoulder as if to see whom I was calling to. Then he crossed the street and vanished into the entrance to an underground parking garage.
In shock, I slowly lowered my hand. It was him. I was certain it was him. Or . . . could I be wrong?
I scurried forward and stopped at the entrance to the concrete ramp that led down into the bowels of the garage. He’d gone down there. The garage exhaled a cold, damp smell. I hesitated, then started down the ramp to the first underground level. I rounded a curved concrete wall. From there I could see through a gap down to the next level. Martin. He’d stopped beside an orange Subaru Crosstrek. I was about to go farther down the ramp when the driver’s door of the Subaru swung open.
A woman got out. I couldn’t see her face. She had a woolen hat on against the cold, and a scarf was wound around her neck, hiding her chin. She was bundled into a puffer coat, so I had no clue of her body shape. And the light was dim. She kissed him, and he placed his hand at the small of her back. The memory of Martin touching me in that way slammed through me. I tried to swallow. The woman walked around to the passenger side, got in. The door shut. Martin put his briefcase on the back seat, climbed into the driver’s seat, and shut the driver’s side door. The engine started.
My brain reeled. He’d said he was leaving Vancouver on Monday last week. The hotel manager said he’d never registered