Forecast

She pointed to the map behind her, forecasting rain. But this was more than rain. Hurricane-force winds whipped around me, tugging at my hair and my clothes as if icy fingers were ripping them from my body. Rain pummelled my flesh, and I turned slightly, trying to catch my breath against the onslaught.

Nope, not a chance. There was nothing for it but to force my eyes back to the screen, doing my best to ignore the fact that the storm was trying to take me.

My eyes clung to that map, the vestiges of my strength shredding like gossamer around me while the squall howled, roaring like a thousand lions. Yet beyond that sound, somewhere beneath it, if I could only tune my hearing in properly, a voice declared confidently, “Trudy More is more true in weather forecasts, so tune in later for more updates.”

Oh, Trudy, I whispered, if only you knew.

Making myself as small as I could, I prayed like I’d never prayed before for the storm to end. But the wind, the rain – the hail, now – just kept coming, the thunder keeping time with the light show that was filling my vision.

Then the thunderhead reached over, tapping her cigarette to form a tiny heap of ash, leaving a few flecks floating in the air. She rose, towering towards the sky and moved on, the tempest trailing messily in her wake.

As she departed, I wrenched the last of my voice, and spewed out, “I didn’t lie, Mum. Honest I didn’t.”

The back of her head retreated. She hadn’t heard me.

Air at last found my lungs, and I took in a deep breath, letting it out with a gasp that wasn’t much more than a whimper beneath the blaring television news.