The Eidolon by Libby McGugan

sarcasm.
    “So, how are you doing?”
    “I’m... not sure yet.” She frowns, ringing her dusty hands. “How about you?”
    “I’m, eh – I’ve been better.”
    We stand there, looking uncomfortable. Virtual strangers again.
    “Eh... I’ll take this,” I say, and pick up a stone-coloured jug on the shelf next to me.
    “Good choice,” she says. “I made that one.”
    “Really?” I turn it round carefully in my hands. “It’s beautiful.”
    “Give her this from me.” She lifts down a sandy, domed salt cellar. She used to insist on giving one present to people from both of us. “So how was your trip?”
    “It was... well...” I take a deep breath. “I’ve not been right since I got back... I feel like I’m going a bit crazy, you know? I can’t sleep. I keep having these dreams...”
    “Look, Robert, I’m sorry you’re having a hard time, but you wanted this. You know you did. You can’t just...”
    “They’re dreams about Sarah.”
    She hesitates. “What?”
    “Every night since I got back – she keeps trying to show me something, and I get this uneasy feeling, like I’m drowning...”
    She steps closer, studying me. “Well, I’m sure you’ll have a rational explanation, Robert, like you have for everything else. You’re not telling me you believe them?”
    “No, it’s just...”
    The door behind me creaks and a couple with flecks of grey in their dark hair stride in. They’re wearing matching blue waterproof jackets and hats.
    “Hi!” says the lady. American, eyebrows raised, grinning widely. One of those tiresomely eager and optimistic people. “Could you tell us how to get to Kilmartin, please? We’ve gotten lost. Oh, I love this vase! How much is it? Do you have it in another colour? Oh, I’m sorry, you’re serving someone.”
    “No, it’s okay,” says Cora. “He’s just leaving.”
    “Please, Cora. I need to talk to you.”
    A frost has settled over her. “Get out,” she whispers.
     
     
    W HAT DOES SHE think? That I’m making up some bullshit story about her sister to get things back on track? I’d have come up with something better than that, for fuck’s sake, after two weeks in the sodding wilderness.
    The sky is the colour of old lead as I walk back along the glen. The hushed village street stretches ahead, the squat cottages huddled against the evening chill. There’s a fine drizzle on my skin, like being breathed on, and the air smells of clean cotton. You know what, Cora? The doctor was right. It is all just stress. What was I thinking? I’ll see my mum’s GP and get some of those pills I should have taken in the first place and I’ll not need to tell you about any of it.
    “Don’t forget to give your mum my present! And wish her a happy birthday for me!” Casimir’s voice makes me jump – I’d barely noticed reaching his gate. The old man is standing on the grass at the side of his house with one hand on his empty beehive. He waves at me with the other.
    “I’m just off to do that right now.” I feel for the carved letter opener he made, safe in my pocket. “We’ll be down to see you later!”
    “Aye, no doubt you will.” Casimir calls back, his hand still resting on the hive. I glance back. There’s something in the tilt of his head that seems unfamiliar. Wonder why all his bees died. What did Einstein say? We’ve got four years left, after all the bees die. The tarmac is broken under my boots. Old, splintered by the frost. There’s no need to tell Cora about the dreams or what happened in Tibet. It’ll go. I lock the thought in the past to stop it bleeding into the present.
     
     
    W ITHOUT REALLY BEING aware of getting here, I find myself in the kitchen, making a conscious effort to lose the edge of irritation that’s hanging over me. It’s her birthday, after all. She’s stirring something on the stove, her head bowed, watching the slow arc of the spoon, lost in thought.
    “Something smells good. Happy Birthday Mum.” I