Free Betrayal by Michele Kallio

sunglasses.
                  “But Monday is July 1 st .”
                  “July 1 st, ” Stokes said absently.
                  “Canada Day,” Mary said, exasperated at his lack of attention.
                  “Oh, so it is.  Don’t bother Steeves about my classes. Just post a class-cancelled note and then you can leave for the week-end.  I’m off. See you Tuesday.”  Stokes took the stairs two at a time.  Once out in the late June sunshine he ran to his car.
                 
     
    ***
     
    Fifteen minutes later Stokes was climbing the steps to 4235 Germain Street. Trying the doorknob he was relieved to find it unlocked. Pushing the door open, he stepped on to the polished marble floor. He made his way down the hallway toward the sound of Lydia’s sobs. Standing in the doorway of the cool blue kitchen, he turned to see Lydia slumped over the kitchen table, her long blonde hair hanging messily, but seductively, over her closed eyes. Her beauty was breathtaking.  Approaching the table he resisted the urge to stroke her cheek. He wrestled with the desire to remain watching her, but gently placed his hand on her shoulder. Lydia swung her head up in fright.
                  “Oh, Alan, I am so glad you came,” she said, leaping from the chair to grasp his hand, tears welling in her eyes.  “I saw her. I saw the girl in my dream, and I saw the woman whose severed head haunts me.”  The words tumbled breathlessly from her lips.
    “I saw them there,” she cried, pointing to the sink and the dissolving soap bubbles.  “There in the bubbles.  I saw it all; the garden, the women and the child. Then I dropped a plate and it shattered in the sink, then nothing, just soapsuds.  She was there. I saw her.”  Lydia’s voice was edged with hysteria, her face paled.
                  Stokes grabbed her upper arm to keep her from falling.  “Here, sit down,” he said, settling her back into her chair.  Lydia melted into tears.  He felt at a loss to comfort her.
    ‘Helpless before the storm,’ he thought.  ‘Why was it a woman’s tears made him feel so inadequate?’  He caressed her hand, longing to raise it to his lips. At last her sobs subsided.
                  “Lydia, can you tell me what you were doing when you saw the vision?” he asked, reluctantly letting go of her hand.
                  “I,” she hiccupped, “I was standing at the sink, filling it with water to wash the breakfast dishes.  I was watching the soap bubbles form.  The music was playing in the other room as it is now.”  She hesitated, took a deep breath, and continued.  “In the bubbles I saw a scene form. I saw the same girl from my dream.  She was dressed in the same emerald green gown, only now it was beautiful and new.”
                  “Did you see her face?”
                  “No, she stood with her back to me.  I wanted so to see her face, but she never turned around.”
                  “Tell me about the scene. Did it take place in the dark room?  Where was she?”
                  “No, I told you, she was in a garden, a beautiful garden, of yellow roses, I think. I could smell the roses.  She had a small bouquet of flowers in one hand and she was holding a book. She was handing the book to another woman.” Lydia stopped, turning to Stokes, her eyes wild with fright. He felt a chill as she said, “It is this other woman’s head that haunts my dreams.”
    Alan’s flesh crawled. He had read of waking dreams, but he had always doubted the veracity of the phenomena. But clearly something had happened here and he meant to find out what.
     
     
    ***

 
                  Dan Taylor argued with himself as he walked down King Street.  In his heart he knew he had been right to force Lydia to see Stokes, but yet there was a niggling doubt that