Hey Nostradamus! By Douglas Coupland

"Do any of you have any idea what traitorous scum you are?"
"Traitors? We were merely helping the RCMP."
"I learned about all of your help, thank you."
In spite of the hose, the foursome advanced. Were they going to kidnap me or group hug me? Lay their
bronzed fingers on my head and pronounce me whole and returned to the flock?
Then a shot was fired - and two more - by my mother from the second floor. She was making craters in
the lawn with Reg's .410. She blasted out the minivan's lights. "You heard Jason. Leave. Now."
They did, and for whatever reason, the cops never showed up.
Word of Mom and the gun must have kept away quite a few potential visitors. There were a few press
people; a few family friends who'd vanished during those first two weeks; some Alive! girls leaving baked
goods, cards and flowers on the doorstep, all of which I unwrapped and threw into the juniper shrubs for
the raccoons. In any event, we never let anybody through our front door; within a month, the house was
sold and we'd moved to my aunt's place in Moncton, New Brunswick.
My brain feels sludgy. It's late, but Joyce is always up for a good walk.
* * *
Just in the door. A warm, dry night out, my favorite kind of weather, and so rare here. During Joyce's
walk I saw a car like the one Cheryl's mother, Linda, used to drive - a LeBaron with wood siding. The
model looked good for the first week it was out, but a decade of sun and salt and frost have made it
resemble the kind of car people in movies drive after a nuclear war.
Linda wrote me some time after we moved away; the letter is one of the few items I've kept across the
years. It was mailed to my old address and forwarded to my aunt's house. It read:
Dear Jason,
I'm deeply ashamed that I've not contacted you before this. In the midst of losing Cheryl, we were
vulnerable and chose to listen to strangers and not our own hearts. At the time when you needed comfort
and support the most, we turned away from you, and it's something Lloyd, Chris and I face every day in
the mirror. I don't ask your forgiveness, but I do request your understanding.
It's been a few months since October 4, but it feels like ten years. I've quit my job and, in theory, I'm
supposed to be overseeing the Cheryl Anway Trust, but all I do is wake up, dress myself, drink some
coffee and drive down to this office space we've rented on Clyde Avenue. There's not much for me to do
here. Cheryl's Youth Alive! friends take care of the Trust's every function - handling cash, cheques and
credit card receipts, sending thank-you notes, manning the phones, filling out tax forms, and so on. It's a
busy place, but I don't fit in. I wish I could derive some sort of consolation from the Trust's success, but I
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