The Light Beside the Sea

Chapter 1

1

"Julia!"

"Michael! Are you home?" The phone almost slipped from my hand. I hadn’t realized how tense I had been, how anxious I was for my fiancé to return. "Where are you? At the airport? I’ll come pick you up!"

"No need. I’m at the apartment. I hitched a ride with one of the guys." His voice became deeper. "I want to see you. There’s so much I have to tell you. Can I come right over?"

"Yes," warmth flooded my entire body, a deep sense of relief that he was out of foreign jungles and safe at home. "Absolutely. Hurry."

"Be there before you know it."

"Was that the last conversation you had with Michael?" Paula, my therapist, leaned back in the wing chair, her hands resting on her lap.

I nodded, "The last time we spoke." I glanced over at her. Paula, an elegant woman, is tall and slender, always dressed in a casual, but upscale fashion. Today she wore a pale cream silk blouse that tied at the neck and a loose pair of gray slacks. Her dark, almost jet-black hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Slender silver earrings dangled from her ears.

"I was a bit surprised to get your call, Julia. It’s been quite a while since you’ve come in. Isn’t the anniversary coming up soon?"

As usual, my therapist was right on target, remembering the day of my fiancé’s death. The day he promised to be with me in a few minutes but never arrived, struck down by a hit and run driver outside his apartment in the Sunset District. "You have an amazing memory, Paula," I smiled.

"Of course, I’m supposed to," she smiled in return. "How are you feeling?"

I shrugged. "Much better than a year or so ago. Just still . . . adjusting . . . coping I guess." I hesitated, "Sometimes I feel as if I haven’t made much progress. But then other times, there are days when I don’t miss him as much, days I forget for a little while."

"That’s called healing. And it’s a very long process, at least for those of us who are conscious and in touch with their feelings, and I know you are, certainly."

I scratched my fingernail against the rough fabric of the couch. A nervous gesture.

"Is there anyone else, by any chance? Are you dating anyone?"

I laughed mirthlessly. "No," I decided not to spend our hour talking about someone I had met the year before who had turned out to be a disaster. A dangerous disaster. Someone I had been attracted to, but the outcome was anything but romantic.

"Well, that’s fine. Whenever you’re ready. Sometime in the not too distant future, I hope." She studied my face, "Are you marking this anniversary in any way?"

"I’m planning to spend the day with my grandmother. I’ve been so busy with clients and all sorts of things, and I feel as if I’ve been neglecting her. We’ll take the ferry to Sausalito for brunch and shopping. That’s the plan anyway."

"Will this bring back memories?"

"Oh, you mean being in the Bay? Scattering Michael’s ashes? No, not particularly. I don’t think so. Those feelings are with me all the time." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, "It’s the not knowing that really eats away at me. Not knowing who was driving that car. Not knowing if that person is haunted by what they did. And now, as I told you, reading Michael’s journal a few months ago . . ." I trailed off.

"From his trip to Guatemala? What’s changed?" Paula asked.

"I’ve always accepted that the hit and run was an accident. I never questioned it. Just a horrible accident with the driver still not identified and charged. But now, finally reading his journal . . . there were a lot of strange things happening during that trip. Michael was worried someone was trying to steal his journal. There was another death too, one of the other grad students died from a fall in a cave. Michael wrote about it. There was a lot of tension and anger between those people for various reasons. And it made me think . . ."

"What?"

"What if it wasn’t an accident? That hit and run. What if it was deliberate?"

Paula sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair. "Oh, Julia, I don’t know what to say."

"You think I’m imagining things? Obsessing." She didn’t respond. "Maybe I am. I don’t know." I rubbed my forehead. "I just don’t know."

Paula glanced at the small clock she kept next to her chair. "I’m so sorry, Julia. Our time is up. But I’d really like you to come back next week, if you could. Same time? I think, whatever the reality, this is something we need to work through."

I pulled my thoughts back from the image of Michael lying dead in the street. "What? Oh, uh . . . yes, I guess that might be good."

Okay, then," Paula smiled. "I’ll see you next week."

I gathered up my purse and jacket and said goodbye, wandering down the corridor to the elevator. My thoughts were elsewhere. When the elevator doors opened, I stepped inside, struggling to remember which parking level I was on. P2 sounded familiar. I pressed the button and when the doors opened again, I stepped out into a deserted concrete space. Deserted of people, but jam packed with cars. I located my little red Geo and climbed inside, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. Maybe I was obsessing. No, make that definitely obsessing. But what do you do when you’re haunted by the past? Memories like tendrils that rise from the ground and encircle your legs and lungs and heart. They won’t let go until you have some answers. To be grief stricken is one thing. Some blessing from the universe allows you to move on eventually. When you have answers. But the not knowing. When people talk of closure, I want to snarl. Paula once said there is no such thing as closure. The pain recedes from daily consciousness, but we are never finished with death.

My name is Julia Bonatti. Julia Elizabeth Bonatti and I’m an astrologer. I give guidance to others. I study natal charts, I make predictions and do my best to allay the fears of my clients, fears of change and fear of the future. I study character development and cycles over time and here I was, for all my knowledge, still stuck in my own damned past.