OoOoOoO

It's spring now, a time when the weather is usually warm and balmy with an increase in humidity. The impending heat that the next few months promise doesn't bother me. I enjoy being in the sun, where it's bright, warm, and my skin darkens with freckles in the light.

To celebrate the beginning of Spring, Mother and I walk to town rather than drive. Mother is quite fond of her Model T, yet she hardly drives it. I'm not above complaining when we walk long distances when there are other, quicker ways to get around, but today is gorgeous; it would be a shame not to take advantage of it. I do suggest we make it quick, however, telling Mother that the start of the Spring season is also known for sudden bouts of rainfall, and this afternoon will be the first. "I'm guessing," I add when she gives me a look.

She knows I am not guessing.

Like every time we go into town to sell our fruit in the market, Luther Hayes comes by, full of compliments and sweet smiles that Mother silently finds amusing. When I start flirting back, though, she orders me to get back to work. His visits are the highlight of my days and I just know, as each day passes, my future is slowly merging with his.

OoOoOoO

Every other day I bring a basket of fruit from our orchard over to my aunt and uncle and cousins. I don't mind the walk – it's short and the air is moist and comforting as it clings to me (something anybody else would complain about, I suppose) and the sun has set far enough where the temperature isn't sweltering. For being Spring, the temperatures have so far been rather high, very summer-like; I wear my lightest dresses with the least amount of collar so my neck is able to breathe.

My aunt and uncle's house is a wide two-stories, painted a grayish white that has dulled quickly over time, with grime-stained windows and a wooden porch that looks to be at its breaking point. Uncle Bert and Phillip have been fixing the place up, but the process has been slow. What lacks on the outside, the inside makes up for. The house is decorated with Aunt Louisa's collections of quilts and hand-carved, hand-painted trinkets, and there's a bowl in the kitchen that I visit often for it's never empty of assorted candies.

Ascending their porch's oblique steps with caution, I hear my cousins through the panels of house. They've always been the loud portion of my family. Their natural excitement about everything is something I love. It is a trait my father possesses, as well... A debatable fact, though, if one is to see how he is recently. Dull and serious does not suit him, and it makes me a bit anxious to wonder the cause of his abnormal behavior...

I save the thought for another time as I wrap happily on the screen door, eager to see Phillip; it bangs loudly against the main door. Stella – my aunt and uncles eldest daughter who is a year younger than me – answers instantly and leads me into the family room where the rest of her family sits, listening to Phillip explain plans of some sort. His sandy bangs are falling into his eyes as he gestures wildly with his hands. Animated, in the middle of a sentence, is when he stops abruptly, seeing me. His smile widens, crinkling his eyes.

"Oh, Alice, I'm glad you're here!" he exclaims. He puts one arm around my shoulders and takes the fruit-filled basket with his other hand, putting it dismissively on the corner table.

I can't imagine what it is that has him so elated, but I can't wait to hear. If one person in this world deserves to be cheerful in whatever he pursues, it is Phillip.

"I was just telling Ma and Pa here that I've decided to head to – you'll never guess –," he whispers. And before I can even try he throws his hands up and shouts, "California!"

California.

My anticipated smile remains on my face, not straying; but I far from feel it anymore. I stare at Phillip. I stare through him, past him, into a world I should not, for his words trigger something in my mind and I see it – I see him. He is gone, and he is never coming back.

I take such a sharp intake of air that I nearly choke.

"Isn't that a brilliant idea?" Phillip asks, beaming, brown eyes sparkling and light, appearing the color of the caramelized hard-candies that sometimes fill Aunt Louisa's candy bowl. He looks so happy, so thrilled, and I… I know he should not be. No one should!

I'm quiet for a moment too long. My lack of response confuses everyone in the room. Phillip laughs once, nudges me playfully, and asks if I'm all there.

"Don't go," I say finally. Phillip's smile doesn't falter.

"Look, I know it may seem far away from here, a state filled with… who knows what kind of people? But there are so many stories of fortune coming out of there… People from all over the country, the world even—"

"No," I interrupt. "This is a bad idea. This is really bad." Worse than Mary Beth, I think. So much worse.

"You silly girl, Phillip has a magnificent opportunity. Are you even aware of the riches pouring out of the west? Phillip is a strapping, fit young man who can bring wealth and pride to this family. California is the key to his success."

Aunt Louisa believes her words. But I know better. My response comes out stern and rather rude.

"California is no good for him," I say, feeling brave and confident and just plain ol' scared, because if they don't listen to me…

Phillip's face scrunches, displeased, and my disposition wavers because I didn't mean for him to take my words personally. His feelings were not meant to be hurt.

I promise hastily, "It isn't you! It is just— I— You can't—" I stumble over my words, conscious that I am forbidden to say what I feel will happen if Phillip sticks to the path he is on, but knowing that I have to. I must warn him. There is no other way!

"Phillip, I have a bad feeling about it."

My cousin's smile is back.

"Oh, Alice, it's okay to be unsure. The thought is probably intimidating to you. I mean, you've only known this little ocean town your whole life, but trust me when I say it's fine."

I stand firmer. My voice hardens.

"It is not fine. Listen to me. Something awful will happen if you go. Something terrible. Going west is a bad idea. I just know it."

The room is silent. Everyone watches me; especially Uncle Bert and Aunt Louisa. I'm uncomfortable with their scrutinizing stares. I ignore them. I grab Phillip, wrap my arms around his waist, bury my face into his torso.

"Please, you can't go! Don't go!"

There are no reassurances. I feel sick. That feeling in my pit of my stomach is back, and I'm sinking, drowning in the knowledge that, once again, nobody is going to listen to me.

Phillip rubs soothing circles in my back but he knows to stay silent. He knows what I've done, what I've said, what I've admitted. He lets Uncle Bert pull me away from him to escort me out of the house. Uncle Bert tells me to go home. I do.

My night only gets worse when I find Cynthia in silent tears on the couch as my parents argue up in their bedroom. Nothing seems to be going right tonight.

OoOoOoO

Spring is one of the best seasons for picking. The aroma in the whole area is strong and sweet. The trees are covered richly with glossy leaves, fragrant flowers, and fruits in various stages of ripeness. The air is thick, clingy, and just the way I like it, though I can't speak for anybody else working in the orchard. It's easy for me in this heat.

To be fair, I am shirking my duties. I sit at the top of a short ladder, a book in hand. I read in the shade of the tree I am slowly de-fruiting, if that is a correct verb at all. I am certainly not working too hard, in any case, and I find I care very little about that fact.

Our live-in maid – living in the back house, at least – picks from the tree next to me. Miss Sarah Anne, is her name. She is a lovely woman. I sometimes sew pretty designs on her dresses; she is always wary at first, afraid if I will ruin the few she owns, but I promise her she will love them, and she does. Of course she does.

I see Mother come out of the back door. She turns her eyes on me the moment I turn mine away from her, quickly picking a fruit – any fruit regardless of ripeness – and toss it in my basket.

Mother is standing beside my ladder no less than a minute later, arms folded over her chest, foot tapping at the dirt. I don't meet the gaze I'm sure is on me.

"Alice." Her tone is exhausted and definite and I know I'm being scolded. My mother has a way with being gentle and terrifying in equal measures at the same time. "Are you paying attention to what you are doing?"

I don't answer, because what's the point. It's a trap question. She knows I haven't been.

"You know how I hate bruised or unready fruit in the baskets I take to the market. Now would you stop reading, please, and get back to what's important?"

"That is not a flexible request, by the way," she adds, knowing me too well. She moves on to speak to Miss Sarah about the harvest.

It's tedious today, this work, but I close the book and get back to it. I never saw the inked words printed on the pages anyway; when I tried to focus, every other word transformed into something depressing, such as "accident" and "Phillip" and "too late".

Phillip and his family never brought up what I said about Phillip leaving. Never acknowledged my begging or my feeling. The night Phillip left he stopped by to say his goodbyes, which was only yesterday, yet feels far longer. Phillip is one of my best friends, and now I will never see him again. I don't know where, I don't know the date, but I know he is going to die and it will be soon and it won't be here and…

I swipe fast at the tears falling down my cheeks. I can't let Mother or Miss Sarah Anne see me crying for fear they'll question as to why. If Aunt Louisa and Uncle Bert are keen to keep my outburst between us, then so be it. Taking deep breaths, I settle my emotions as best I can.

It is far from fair, I think, that I am given these glimpses into events that I don't ever seem to have the power to stop. Things like Mary Beth's marriage and Phillip's accident are among the worst to predict. Easily compared to a train when its breaks have given out and there's nothing the driver nor the passengers nor the onlookers can do to stop its inevitable destructive conclusion, even when lives are at stake.

Then again, even knowing an outcome doesn't necessarily mean one will be willing to change their course. The things that happen in the future, I've discovered, don't always come to fruition... And I don't understand the logic of that, can't figure out how that works when my feelings, no matter how strong or how visual, don't come true. It's rare, but it happens. It's a defect that I can hope has happened here with my prediction for my cousin. At the same time, however, I would hate to jinx it.

Maybe if Phillip had the odd foresight he'd be able to change his own mind, see his own mistakes and fix them accordingly (though I am all too aware picking and choosing what you see is not how it works). Of course, Phillip is bold and adventurous and daring. If he was anywhere near as intuitive as me, he would never be afraid of the things he'd see. He'd know the future could change, and he's take the risk. And I know what he would say, too – the same thing he said to me the night he left, when he petted my hair and told me I was his favorite sister (even though I am not his sister) and hugged me tight for the last time:

"We only get to be human once, Alice. I'm going to make the most of it."

I was certain he was trying to reassure me of something he didn't quite understand himself. But now, having no ounce of doubt that he would have said it again regardless, just as confident, I think maybe he knew exactly what he was saying.

Or maybe he was being too reckless and too optimistic and he should have just listened to me! Because he's not coming home - he's not.

A harsh, shrill ring interrupts my dreary thoughts. Mother sighs, still across from me, helping Miss Sarah with her tree.

"I'll get the telephone," Mother says, heading back to the house.

"Yes, Mrs. Brandon."

Slowly, I pluck a ripe fruit from its branch, examine it and toss it in the basket, not bothering to care if I bruise it in the process.

"Miss Alice, if you don't mind me asking…" Miss Sarah rests her own basket on her hip as she looks me over. "Where is that beautiful smile of yours today?"

"Gone forever just as Phillip has," I mutter without a thought.

"Oh, Miss Alice, that sweet boy? He'll be back." I just shake my head, eyes watering up again without my permission. Miss Sarah senses my sadness. "I know you were very close to him, huh? Must be difficult – him leavin'."

I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't want to hear this. She doesn't understand; she doesn't know. And I am losing an inner battle. My emotions are overthrowing my patience and self-control so rapidly I cannot construct a single clear thought.

Miss Sarah is still talking. I miss most of what she says, and when I tune back in out of sheer politeness she mentions the high odds Phillip has out west.

I snap.

"He isn't ever coming back, Miss Sarah!" Startled, she quiets. "He is gone! Or he will be…" I run my palms down my face, groaning, frustrated.

"W-What…" she starts to say, but is interrupted by Cynthia skipping up to us with her own basket of fruit, filled and finished.

"Who is gone?" my little sister asks, so innocent it pains me.

Before I can answer, Mother returns to the orchard, and I immediately notice her eyes. They are swollen and red and my heart plummets so fast that I know I'm not ready, I'm not prepared for whatever she has to say.

She speaks anyway. "Girls, I have some bad news…"

I choke, tears finally freeing from their cage, spilling over my cheeks. Miss Sarah eyes me in confusion, as does Cynthia, and when I look at Cynthia I cry harder because she loved Phillip, too. The sadness will never end.

"Oh, God," I whimper.

Comprehension dawns on my mother's face - I am well aware of what news she holds. She focuses on Cynthia, then. She kneels in front of her and speaks gently. "Honey, it's difficult to tell you this, but our cousin Phillip was in an accident."

"Phillip?" Cynthia's eyebrows quirk, curious, wary.

Mother nods, sighs, and finishes, "He was hurt too badly to be saved."

Miss Sarah's hand flies to her mouth, muffling her gasp.

Cynthia looks at me, fearful of Mother's tone and my sobbing and Miss Sarah's reaction. "What…? You mean he's…"

"Yes, honey... Phillip is in Heaven now."

Mother hugs Cynthia as the seven-year-old runs into her arms. Miss Sarah Anne shakes her head in sympathy – she was fond of Phillip, the young man who treated everyone more kindly than they probably deserved – and now she understands, now she knows that that 'sweet boy' is never coming back.

Hearing the news out loud seemed to finalize it, make it real. I gasp for a breath, excusing myself. I run to my room and shut the door, lye on my bed with my face pressed into my pillow to muffle my cries. It hurts. My head aches and my heart stings and this should not have happened because he should have listened to me when I told him leaving was a bad idea because what's the point of making the most out of being human and alive if you are not alive at the end of the day to appreciate it?

It's like no matter what I do or say no one will ever listen to me.

Why will no one listen?

You can predict your whole life down to the most miniscule details, and still nothing will ever prepare you for the death of someone you love. Of that, I am thoroughly convinced. It hurts worse, I think, when you know, when you prepare. Because you shouldn't be preparing – you should be saving. And I gave up. I gave up because no one would listen. If that's not the silliest excuse in the book! I've stopped car accidents before – I could have done it again! No, I didn't know what kind of accident would be his undoing, but I should have stalled him just in case. I should have tried harder!

"No more," I sob into the mattress.

No more will I hide what I know. If the things I see can be used to spare anyone else's loved one from being lost, then why should I keep it to myself? They deserve every chance I can grant them to salvage their lives.

Every single chance.

I will die before I let someone else lose a brother like I have.

OoOoOoO

The next two hours pass in a blur of tears. Sometimes I am not even thinking of anything in particular, simply floundering in the sorrow Phillip's concluded death has brought. I would be embarrassed by my behavior if I was not so helplessly distraught.

Cynthia comes in our shared bedroom when the sun starts to set, tells me it's time to wash up for dinner. I ask her how she's holding up; she says she's "sad but okay". I wish I can say the same.

I am sluggish on the way to the washroom. When I am passing the staircase, I hear Mother and Miss Sarah speaking in the entry hall. I recognize Mother's tone as persuasive, pleading, and more than a little despairing. I know it's wrong, but I pause to listen.

"Miss Sarah, I assure you that it is nothing like that."

"I heard her, Mrs. Brandon, ma'am. I heard her with my own ears. I'm a smart woman. I don't need any more to know that she knew something was going to happen to that boy."

Her words are like an electrical shock; my body goes rigid, and my heartbeats increase in frequency.

"What Alice feels… It's strong intuition is all it is," Mother says, letting out a breathy laugh. A desperate laugh. "Sometimes nothing bad happens at all. It's just Alice – er – being Alice."

"No. No! I am sorry, ma'am, I truly am. But I've heard things about your daughter and I didn't want to believe. Now I've seen it firsthand and I cannot ignore it. I am not comfortable working here any longer."

I hear the front door swing open.

Mother makes one last attempt to salvage our live-in maid. "Please, Miss Sarah, don't leave. The girls love you."

Miss Sarah's response isn't clear from where I'm standing, hidden atop the staircase, but I know it's just another apology, another maid gone, running in fear, because of me.

When the front door finally closes and I hear Mother's sigh, I tip-toe to the washroom and splash cold water on my face. The cold stings, but I welcome it. I need to wash the sweat and dirt and sadness away. I need to distract myself from every tragedy I saw coming, from every pain that could have been avoided if people would only listen and if I would have only tried harder.

Downstairs, Mother hugs me, kisses my forehead, and asks me if I'm alright in the same way I had questioned Cynthia. Just as I had, Mother knows nothing can possibly be alright.

My tears are never-ending tonight. Mother wipes at my cheeks and pulls me closer. She asks again if I am okay, if I need a cup of water, if I need to have a little nibble of something to hold me over until dinner is ready, if I am truly, one-hundred percent not falling apart because it looks like I am.

Father, out of any time in the day to come home, enters the house at this moment, as silent as he ever is these days. He wanders into the kitchen, searching us out, and that's when I get tired of Mother's pestering about my feelings. I tell her that I tried to warn them.

"What?" Confusion is evident on Mother's brow.

"I tried to warn them, Mother. Phillip, Aunt Louisa, Uncle Bert… I told them Phillip should not go. He should not go to California."

Father is paused in the middle of the kitchen, staring at me, then at Mother. His eyes are full of questions, but also intense wariness – it's a look I know well, from before, when I used to always tell people what I thought was best for them. Neither Father nor Mother approved of it then, and I don't know if I expect them to now, but I need them to know that I tried to save Phillip. I really, truly did.

Mother is the one who breaks the silence that ensued after my confession. "You…told them you had a feeling something bad would happen to Phillip?" I nod. "When was this?"

"A few days ago, when I was dropping off their fruit and he told me the news for the first time…"

Behind me, Father scoffs. "Louisa contacted me, you know?" I turn and see him shaking his head in disappointment. "All she told me was to keep an eye on you, that you were speaking strangely again. Alice, you know you can't do that."

"But—"

"Do not argue with me." He turns his focus on Mother. "What has happened this time?"

Mother's answering sigh drips with exhaustion. Her eyes close. She says, "Phillip left for California today. He didn't make it out of the state before he was hit." She pauses, but she's silent for too long and Father somehow detects the tragedy beneath the layers.

"Oh no, Helen… No. Oh, no."

Mother is nodding, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, unwilling to fall but also unwilling to not be seen.

Father pulls out a chair from under the dining table and seats himself on it, running his hands down his face and through his hair and just looking like he received the worst news – which he has.

"Devastating," he says after a moment. "Absolutely awful. He had so much going for him. He was such a good kid!"

"He was," Mother agrees, dabbing her eyes with her apron. She pats my cheek next. I hadn't noticed I was crying again.

But of course I was.

OoOoOoO

Dinner is quiet, nothing but metal scraping glass and the occasional sigh. Mother sends Cynthia and I to bed with goodnight kisses and the news that Phillip's funeral is in three days.

The sleep is restless tonight. And when I do sleep, I dream up horrible images that I don't ever want to see again.

I spend my time awake in a constant state of worry, something I'm far from used to. Not even four months has it been since my eighteenth birthday and my naïve wishes for love and attention and greater things. Life isn't better just because it isn't simple.

Maybe, even, it's worse.

OoOoOoO

The day of Phillip's funeral I wake up unprepared for the day's events. I hate being sad, and I expect a lot of that. I also expect a lot of crying, and I plan to be worn out the rest of the day.

Father drives Mother, Cynthia, and me to the church, all of us dressed in our nicest clothes, all of us ready to allow Phillip to rest in peace.

At the church, however, Aunt Louisa screams at me. Then at my father.

"Keep that child of yours away from my family, you hear me, Henry!"

Father tries to calm her, but to no avail. Nothing will nullify the accusations I can't believe are being put on me. Aunt Louisa blames me for jinxing Phillip's trip, for cursing him in a way only someone possessed can do. Uncle Bert and the girls scowl silently at me, and I know they're just as disillusioned and critical.

I am unwanted at my own cousin's funeral, and my family is unwanted by association.

Father tries again to subdue his sister's anger, as more curious heads start to turn. "Louisa, please, you're making a scene."

"A scene? It's that defected girl's fault my son is…dead, Henry! My boy, my Phillip gone because of her! You'll keep her away from my family!"

My whole body shakes.

"She only wishes to pay her respects to Phillip," Mother starts, but Aunt Louisa isn't listening. She's having none of it. In her eyes, I am a monster.

"I will not allow her near his grave," she spits, face reddened to a dangerous shade. "Ever! That child needs help, Henry - she always has! I want your family away from here. I don't ever want to see that girl's face again!"

Father turns us around without glancing back, his hand tight on my shoulder, like a restraint. It's uncomfortable, but I follow wordlessly. I know this is my fault. I know he blames me.

My previous day's resolve to proudly display what I am is crushed. There will be no revisiting the topic for me. Hate radiates all around me, featuring disgust and isolation. My dream of freedom to be myself and to be appreciated for what I try to do for people (complete strangers, sometimes) is over. I don't want to think that, but it is! It is. I don't feel good anymore; I feel absolutely wretched. Like a poison-dipped knife skewered into my chest, being accused so publicly that I am the cause of Phillip's death is the main blow that is harsh and vivid and makes me see red, while simultaneously being the catalyst of a disease that will slowly and precisely tear me apart from the inside out. Everything around me is dulling, is fading, is disappearing and turning into something darker.

If my heart isn't broken enough as it is, that last thing I hear before Father drives out of the lot is Aunt Louisa shrieking her final offense.

"May the Lord show you mercy for breeding that!"

OoOoOoO

That night, I sleep soundly for a full ten hours and do not wake until the sun is already past my window. Even then, I do not get out of bed; instead, I lay on my back, pillow over my face, thinking of nothing. Because I have that feeling again - the one in my gut. And this time it's telling me yesterday was only a prelude to something much, much bigger.

OoOoOoO