It’s cold, but the wind has died down, so I decide to walk. I stick to the salty sidewalks and avoid ice patches. I want to reach out to my brother, Wes, so I take my phone out and send him a quick text: I did it. I went out, met strangers, and I survived!
He replies right away: Awesome, Bean! Say hi to Dad.
I smile to myself and walk on, feeling the lightness of Wes’s approval. I want him to worry less about me, and the more reasons I can give him to do that, the better. Through all of this—the divorce, the sickness, Mom’s passing—Wes has been so steady. He says that he couldn’t have done it without Tanya, his partner of eight years, but I think he’s just built better and stronger than Dad and me.
My thoughts return to the street, and I feel like someone is behind me. It’s midnight, and streetlights are lining my path, but I still feel uneasy. And suddenly I think that walking home alone was a little stupid. I’m too scared to look behind me, so I speed up my pace. There is no sound coming from behind me, but I still sense someone is there. Am I paranoid?
My breath catches, and now my heart is quickening. It’s coming again. My chest constricts. My hands are tingling. I’m gasping. I run faster. I run as if the simple act of it will set me free. Tears are in my eyes, and panic has taken over. I vaguely hear the crunch of the salt beneath my feet and narrowly miss that it is now the sound of four feet, not two.
Large hands grasp my arms. I scream. Over and over, I scream. A hand covers my mouth, and I want to open my eyes, but I’m too afraid. I shake my head in an attempt to free myself, but this man is too strong.
“Shhh, Robena. Calm down. Breathe.”
My heart is loud in my ears. I barely hear the words. Finally, I open one eye and then the other. It’s Serge.
“Breathe,” he repeats. His voice is tender. I listen and am calm.
“What the hell? You can’t do that. You can’t accost a woman at night,” I shout.
He smirks. “I wasn’t accosting you; I was helping you.”
“Helping me? By giving me a panic attack? Why the hell were you following me?” I yell. I’m more intrigued than pissed off, but I don’t want him to know that.
“I…Vicky said you were taking the bus home, but I saw the bus go by without you, so I left to ensure you were safe. Why are you walking all by yourself? There are dangerous people out at night, you know.”
I study him. His brow is furrowed in genuine concern. His jaw is clenched. I want to reach out to touch him and ease the tension in his face, but I don’t. Instead, I remind myself he is a virtual stranger. “You sound like you speak from experience,” I say.
Silence. He lowers his head. I whisper an apology. I don’t know why or how, but I appear to have offended him.
“Come on. I’ll walk you home.” It’s not a request; it’s an order.
I protest. How will he get back to his car? How come it’s ok for him to walk alone and not me? He levels a look at me that says: “Really?” He’s got a point. Serge is at least six foot four and is built like a hockey player. For a brief second, I imagine how it would feel to be in those arms, to be held by him.
It’s not clear why I should trust this guy, but somehow I do. He’s the friend of someone I barely know, but I feel safe. I bury my hands in the pockets of my vest and walk on. He grabs my elbow, but then he lets go as soon as I ask him to. I catch his scent: spice and sweat. He’s warm as if he had run to catch up to me. Did he? Who is Serge? And more importantly, why has he appointed himself my saviour?
“So, was Vicky able to help you? With what happened to your sister, I mean?”
He shakes his head. “No, not yet. She said something along the lines of ‘Spirit’s not speaking today.’ I love Vicky, but sometimes she can be a real flake.”
“Well, what if it’s true? What if the messages weren’t coming?” I ask.
“I don’t really have time for that.”
I laugh. “So, Spirit is supposed to be on your schedule?”
His response is quiet but serious. “Marie deserves for the truth to come out. That’s all.”
I nod. Obviously, I don’t know the full story, and it’s equally obvious he doesn’t want to share it with me right now. I understand that if nothing else. Speaking about a loss is like reliving it all over again. It’s like opening up a wound and letting everyone see how little it has healed with the passage of time.
“And how are your parents doing?” I ask without thinking, then hoping I didn’t cross a line.
“My mother passed when I was nine years old, and my dad, well…I’d rather not talk about him.” Serge flexes his right fist as he says this. “I know how that sounds. It’s complicated,” he adds quietly.
I flip my hair nervously and say, “I’m sorry about your mother.”
He nods and offers a tight smile. I get the sense that he rarely speaks about his family and that it’s only because of my questionable connection with Vicky that we are even having this conversation in the first place. What could be the point in asking him anything else? I let it drop, and we keep walking. My house is just around the corner, and I tell him so, giving him the chance to walk back.
He looks me in the eye. “Robena, I’m walking you to your door.”
My name in his mouth sounds so lovely and rare. It moves me, but makes me uncomfortable. As we reach my father’s front step, I turn to him, “My friends call me Bean,” I say lightly.
Serge shakes his head. “I’m not going to call you that.”
I smile. Of course, he wouldn’t. It’s a ridiculous name, but it’s mine. “Why? Because it’s silly and makes me sound like a ten-year-old?”
He stares at me for the briefest of moments. “No,” he replies. “Because I have no intention of being your friend.”
And with that, he reaches out, squeezes my arm gently and then he’s gone.
Photo by Sasha Pshenkov
