The First Male (17 page)

She took a step back, folded her arm and looked at him. “Who were you talking to?”

“What?”

“Just then. You were talking to someone and then you splashed the water.”

“I wasn't talking to anyone. I was . . . thinking out loud.”

“Baby, come over here and sit down with me.” She took his hand and led him to the wooden bench. When they sat, she placed her
hand on his thigh and rubbed gently, the way you'd comfort someone who had just been given terrible news by a doctor.

“How did you know where I was?”

“It wasn't that hard. This is one of your favorite spots. It didn't take me long to figure out you were here, after I went to your apartment and you weren't there.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. It was his apology for being so abrupt moments ago.

She reached into her small purse and pulled out a note. “I have something for you.”

“What is it?” he asked. He wanted her to give him whatever it was so that she could leave. He was anxious to get back to the water. Brooke was the love of his life, but there was no way she'd understand what was going on with him.

She angled her body in his direction and forced a smile. “It's the name of another doctor—a psychiatrist.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don't need a shrink, Brooke.”

“Something is going on with you and it's scaring me. We need to figure out what it is.” She moved the hair out of her face. “Last night, you kept mumbling something about the devil and a shadow in your sleep. I couldn't wake you up. Baby, I'm really scared. We need to know what's going on.”

They sat in silence for some time. Simon remembered having a restless night, tossing and turning after his unnerving experience at The Black Cat, but he didn't know he'd been talking in his sleep. No wonder Brooke thought he was insane. There was no telling what he had said in the midnight hour.

He continued tossing pebbles into the river that skidded off the water. He didn't want to look at her for fear of breaking down. His emotions suddenly threatened to overwhelm him; he felt a great sadness inside. He wanted so much to confide in her but he knew she wouldn't believe him.

“Will you not even consider it?” she finally said, cutting through the silence that separated them.

“I am not crazy!” he yelled with more force than he realized. Brooke recoiled at the fury in his voice.

“Brooke, baby, I'm sorry,” Simon pleaded, as he laid his now-tingling hand on her thigh. “Will you answer your phone?”

She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “What?”

“Your phone. Please answer it.” Just as Simon finished speaking, Brooke's cell phone exploded to life. She jumped back, startled.

“How . . . how did you do that?”

“Will you tell Jordan that you'll see her at the study group?” Brooke reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She looked at the name on the caller ID. She silenced the phone, but did not answer it. “Simon, you're freakin' me out. What the fuck is going on?” she asked as she stood up and backed away from him as if she felt threatened.

“Brooke—”

“How did you do that? How did you know who was on the phone?”

Simon stood and tried to approach her, but she backed away. Simon could no longer control his emotions. Tears formed in his eyes.

“That's what I've been trying to tell you. Something is wrong with me. I'm a freak! I don't know how I knew who was on the phone. I just did. Crazy shit like that has been happening to me for days now. I don't know why.”

Brooke stumbled back a few more steps.

“Don't be afraid. I would never hurt you. You know that, right?”

Brooke took a few seconds to compose herself and looked at the sincerity reflected in his eyes. “Of course, I do. I don't understand.”

“I don't know what's going on with me, either.” She moved over to him and hugged him tightly. He felt so safe in her arms that the tears began to flow. For the first time since he was an abandoned little boy, he allowed himself to really cry. Tears stung his eyes and he sobbed quietly with his face buried into her shoulder.

As he cried, the sky suddenly darkened and a bitter wind blew, sending brown leaves scattering. A menacing storm cloud hovered above the river and blocked out the sun; a low rumble of thunder announced the coming storm.

“We better get out of here before we get soaked,” she said. Simon pulled away from her and when she looked at him she screamed. He saw blood on her jacket.

“Oh my God!”

“What's wrong?” Simon said, alarmed by her exclaim. He
felt
her fear; it was so strong it almost knocked him to the ground.

She pointed her finger at his face. “Your . . . your eyes.”

“What's wrong with my eyes?” he asked with panic coloring the texture of his voice.

“Your eyes are . . . bleeding. You're crying tears of blood.” Quickly, she opened her purse and pulled out a small makeup compact. Simon snatched it out of her hand and popped it open. When he saw his face, a chill raced up his spine. From both his eyes, a bloody trail ran the length of his face.

“Oh, my God!” Simon exclaimed, not knowing what else to say. He was very afraid and his emotions almost leveled him.

“Here,” she said, as she took a tissue out of her purse and handed it to him. When he reached over to grab it, they both heard a thud behind her—a bird fell out of the sky.

They both looked at the dead bird and then at each other. “What the hell is going on?” she asked.

Then, they heard another thud.

And another one.

And another one.

And another one.

Dead birds were falling from the sky all around them. They were caught in a thunderstorm of dead birds.

C
HAPTER
12

I
don't . . . understand. What's going on?” Brooke's words were broken and listless. They walked into Simon's apartment and she removed her jacket, tossing it on the couch. Simon walked past her and plopped down in the brown leather recliner, tossing the bloody tissue he had used to clean his eyes in the car into the trash can. His eyes were now clear, but not his mind. He buried his face in his hands and sighed audibly, painfully. “None of this makes any sense,” she finished.

“I know it sounds crazy, but you saw what happened.” He looked into her face.

“Everything I saw can be explained, I'm sure. I don't know how. Birds die all the time, and maybe you need to see an optometrist.”

“I was crying—blood.” His words were resolute, leaving no wiggle room for logic. “A doctor can't explain that, and even if he could, he couldn't explain me knowing that your cell phone would ring and who was on the line. How did I know that, Brooke? Can you explain that?” He pressed her with his voice, putting the burden of proof in her hands, and he waited for an answer. He needed something to make sense, for her to say something insightful, although he had no real expectation that her logic would offer him any peace.

She took a deep, calming breath. “I admit that one is a little weirder, but it's probably no different than talking about someone
you haven't seen in years and then you suddenly see them at the mall or they call you or something. We've all experienced that; it doesn't make us psychic.”

“I didn't say I was psychic.” He got up and moved over to the mirror on the wall, finally checking his face for any residual blood. He turned and faced her. “Brooke, you've got to listen to me,” he said, hitting each syllable in each word. “Something strange is going on with me and it's scaring the hell out of me. It ain't natural.”

“Baby, you're sick and you're sleep deprived, plus, you're on medication and you've been drinking. I'm sure that all has something to do with what you're feeling. I don't think anything supernatural is going on.”

“Brooke,” he said with frustration, “I need you to suspend your disbelief for a second and listen to me. I need you to consider the possibility that what I'm saying is real. There isn't a scientific explanation for everything and this is one of those times. What I'm feeling, what I'm going through, is real. Here, look at this.” He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled until he found the text from Debbie about Byron being in the hospital. “Read this.” Brooke took the phone from his hand and looked down at the message and then looked back at him.

“Byron is in the hospital. I put him there.”

A firm scowl carved its way into her brow. “This message is from Debbie. You told me you weren't in contact with her anymore.”

“Goddamn it, Brooke. Will you focus? This isn't about Debbie. Did you read the message? Byron is in the hospital.”

“Her message didn't say you had anything to do with that.”

“She said I'd better lay low for awhile. Why do you think she'd send me that message if I didn't have anything to do with him being in the hospital?”

“I don't know, Simon. I have no idea why you and Debbie are
exchanging text messages behind my back,” she said, with a hint of jealousy. Simon rolled his eyes.

“Baby—”

“I know, Simon. I'm sorry. Don't say it,” she interrupted. “So, let's say for the sake of argument that I believe everything you told me,” she said, changing the subject, “I believe you were at Starry Nights; I believe what you told me in the car about the boy at the doctor's office, and your dreams.”

“I don't think they're dreams. I think they're trying to reach me, to communicate.”

“Who? The old woman?”

“Definitely her, but also the black snake.” Simon paused when he heard his words echo in the room. His words sounded ridiculous to his own ears.

“Okay, but what do you think they are trying to tell you?”

“I have no idea.” Simon started pacing the room. “I have to figure it out, though. I know they won't leave me alone until I know.”

Brooke moved over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. She squeezed him tightly and tried to comfort him. Simon's voice was thick with worry.

“So all of this just started happening recently?”

“Yeah, a few days ago,” he said in almost a whisper, “but crazy shit has always happened to me, even when I was a child.”

“Things like what?” She released her embrace and Simon moved over to the couch and took a seat.

“I don't know. I mean, stuff.”

“It's okay, baby. You can tell me. I'm listening. Things like what?”

He might be schizophrenic
.

Simon heard her thought, but didn't respond or react to it. Instead, he shook his head from side to side, trying to decide what
to share next. The burden of his secrets had weighed heavily on him for far too long. If he didn't take this time now to release his fears, he knew he'd be crushed under their weight. At this point, he had nothing to lose with his confession. He was certain she was going to leave him anyway; he suspected his issues would be too great a load for her to bear. She came from a wealthy background, and the most trouble she had ever had was deciding which expensive dress to wear to the prom.

“Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“The only way we can figure out what's going on is to deal with this head on. So, tell me. What kind of stuff?”

“Like fluently speaking languages I couldn't know as a child, or predicting things that were about to happen, kind of like I did today. Not to mention the whole never being sick thing; that is, until now. There was this one time—I think I was about eleven—when I thought I was going to die.” Simon leaned back and recalled the story.

It was a hot and sticky summer day, even for the bayous. The unfiltered sunlight beat down on the landscape with a fierceness only Louisiana knew. Simon rode with his foster family to a family reunion in Houma. The car trip excited Simon; it gave him an opportunity to see much more of the world. As a child who was bounced from one foster home to another, his travels had been severely limited; so he fell in love with the idea of traveling and meeting new people. In his head, he always fantasized that the people he met would know his real family, and, through some twist of fate, he'd be reunited with the woman who never meant to give him up.