The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare

by MG Buehrlen

That’s when it happened.

  I try to explain it the best I can to Dr Farrow. How the shadows at the edge of my vision closed in on me, swallowing me, shutting me out of that July afternoon like a thick, dark curtain. Everything went black, like I’d gone blind. I remember I could still feel the summer heat, my sweaty bangs clinging to my forehead, and that gray cat’s body writhing between my hands.

  But I couldn’t see anything.

  Then, as steadily as the darkness came, it receded. Light poured in, followed by new colors and sounds and sensations, all fragmented like I was looking through a kaleidoscope. Eventually everything merged, as though with one twist of the lens the kaleidoscope turned into a telescope, and the world came back into view. Only I wasn’t in Pops’ yard anymore.

  I stood in a perfectly manicured garden behind a little brick house, wearing fancy shoes that pinched my toes and a dress Mom would’ve never made me wear. My dirty blonde hair, usually cropped short like a boy’s, fell in long and loose waves, almost to the middle of my back. I was still me, still four years old, and it was still summer – I could tell by the heat and the smells and the way the sun shone from the same position in the sky – but everything else was different.

  I remember feeling dumbstruck. Awestruck. Caught in a moment between complete incoherence and all-encompassing fear. I had no idea where I was. I had no idea how I would get back home. And as the panic set in, I realized I could still feel the cat thrashing in my hands.

  Astonished, I looked down at the mass of fur twisting in my fists. It wasn’t the gray bobtail. This one had silky black hair, a long tail, and golden eyes. I might have thought it beautiful if it hadn’t been hissing and spitting at me, its ears flat against its head. I would have dropped it right away, but I was so scared and disoriented that I just stared at it, stupidly, until it twisted around, lashed out with a guttural wail, and sunk its claws into my chin. I screamed and let go, and it darted into the garden bushes.

  As I lifted trembling hands to my trembling chin, wet with blood and tears, the darkness closed in again, and the garden faded to black.

  When the light returned this time, it rushed in so full and fast that I heaved a gasp of air, afraid it might drown me. Then, as though no time had passed at all, I was back in Pops’ yard, clinging to that gray bobtail.

  Which I dropped immediately.

  She bounded away with a cry of indignation, but at least she didn’t claw me like the long-tail. I remember thinking maybe Pops was right. Maybe long-tails were wilder. And then I remember hearing Pops shout from behind me. The next thing I knew, he was scooping me up in his strong, thick arms, pressing his handkerchief to my chin, and kicking open the front door. “I’m so sorry, Allie Bean,” he was saying. “She’s never scratched anyone before. I’m sure she was just scared. Try not to squeeze her so tight next time.”

  I looked up at him like he’d lost his mind. Then I touched my chin.

  It was slick with blood.

  I remember telling Pops it wasn’t the bobtail that scratched me, it was the long-tail, but he just thought I was confused. He gave me a lecture about how bobtails can be mean too, if you’re mean to them. I gave up trying to convince him. Something told me it was useless.

  That night, when Mom tucked me in bed, I told her what happened. About the shoes that pinched and the dress and the garden. My long hair and the long-tail cat. She told me that it had only been a daydream, that everyone has daydreams, and that they aren’t real. It’s just our imaginations painting images in our heads. But I was old enough to know what daydreaming was, and that had not been a daydream.

  I gave up trying to talk about it, because no one seemed to believe me. I was certain the gray bobtail must have something to do with it, so I left her alone and never dared to touch her again. And since the long-tail had also been involved, I decided to play it safe and consider all felines dangerous territory.

  VISION NUMBER TWO

  The day I discovered my cat theory was wrong, I was seven years old and riding the Ferris wheel at the Town and Country Fair. The back of my bare legs burned on the sun-baked seat. Dad was riding with me and my little sister Audrey, and Mom stood down below, taking photos of us each time we passed by. She wasn’t alone that year – my new baby sister, Claire, slept snuggled in a sling at Mom’s chest. I remember looking forward to a time when Claire was old enough to ride the Ferris wheel with us, and wondered if she’d like rocking the seat as much as we did.

  I leaned out over the protective bar as far as I could, waving at Mom and Claire, and making a silly face for Mom’s photo. After she snapped it, Dad gave the seat a good rock, and I squealed, falling back into his arms. He pointed out over the midway as we rose once again to the top and asked if Audrey and I wanted to ride the Tilt-a-whirl next.

  Before I could answer, that beautiful August afternoon swept away into darkness – the same darkness that had taken me from Pops’ yard when I was four. I cried out and reached for Dad, but there was nothing he could do. He was no longer beside me.

  This time, the darkness lasted longer. Long enough to notice there were no sounds. Not one. I should’ve heard my heart pounding in my ears and my terrified, irregular breath dragging in and out of my throat. I should have been able to feel it. But there was nothing. No feeling. No body, no blood, no breath. Only thought.

  One thought.

  I’m dead.

  I died on the Ferris wheel.

  Then light broke out, as if from behind a cloud, slicing through the darkness. It was so bright, and so much like the sun, I half expected to feel its heat. The light swelled and spread, chasing away every shadow until there was nothing but a brilliant white canvas laid out before me. Colors formed and moved within the light, like sunspots dancing before my eyes. Then the colors morphed into shapes, and my senses returned. Sounds and smells gathered and swirled with the colors, and, once everything aligned, I had my body back. And my new vision.

  The day was sun-washed and warm, just like the one I’d left behind, and I still felt like I was rising through the air. Slow and steady, just like on the Ferris wheel. My vantage point was the same as well, only instead of looking out over our local fairground, I was standing at a window, looking out over a beautiful old city, my hand pressed to the glass in front of me.

  Still rising.

  Was I in an elevator?

  The city looked like something out of one of my history books. Massive white buildings, ancient and grand, were nestled among ornate gardens, sprawling lawns, soaring fountains, and gleaming sculptures. Curved, elegant boats glided across a central, rectangular, man-made pond. The streets teemed with people, all dressed in suits and gowns, each wearing a hat or carrying a parasol. It was like I’d gone back to another time.

  “Isn’t it a marvel, Katherine?”

  I jumped back, totally unaware there had been a woman in a wide-brimmed hat and lace-trimmed dress kneeling beside me.

  “Katherine, be careful,” she said.

  She reached for me, but I stumbled in the clumsy ankle boots I was wearing and fell down. That’s when I realized I was in a small room full of people. Windows surrounded the room on all sides, and all I could see beyond the glass were thick, crisscrossed steel beams, moving slowly above me. Beyond that, blue sky. For some reason, those slow-moving steel beams terrified me.

  I tried to scramble to my feet, but someone caught me by the elbow and helped me up. He was a middle-aged man with a kind face, dressed in a deep-blue suit with brass buttons. His hat bore a brass plate that read CONDUCTOR.

  “Are we on a train?” I asked, stupidly. Of course it wasn’t a train.

  He laughed and tapped his hat. “Not that kind of conductor.”

  The woman who called me Katherine laughed too. “She’s thinking of the conductors on the train ride here. They were dressed in similar uniforms.”

  The conductor nodded, then turned to me. “And which ride do you like best, little lady? The steam train? Or Mr Ferris’ grand Wheel?”


  One more glance out the windows and I understood what he meant. Why the tiny room felt like it was rising through the sky. I was still riding a Ferris wheel. Possibly the Ferris wheel – the one Pops said he rode as a boy at the St Louis World’s Fair.

  I reached out to the glass again, to take the scene all in, but my fingertips touched nothing but air. Cotton filled my ears, and darkness came.

  “Am I really at the Fair?” My voice sounded so far away.

  Lights. Squeals. Laughter. Carnival music.

  “Of course you’re at the fair, silly.” Dad gave me a squeeze and laughed in my ear. Audrey made a face. Mom waved.

  I trembled.

  VISION NUMBER THREE

  The Ferris wheel vision tossed my cat theory out the window and replaced it with a new one. Déjà vu. Although I didn’t know the term at the time, the concept, however basic, seemed to be the answer. Holding a feral cat produced a vision of holding a feral cat. Riding a Ferris wheel produced a vision of riding a Ferris wheel. But I still didn’t know why those experiences should produce a vision at all. What was so special about a cat or a Ferris wheel?

  Three more years passed before I could test my new theory. Once again, it was proven wrong.

  I was ten, it was summer, and I was in Sunday School. I remember sitting next to Jensen Peters, the most popular boy in fifth grade, and thinking how lucky it was we went to the same church. He usually sat by Billy Piper in the back, but Billy was out sick, and Jensen wasn’t the type to sit quietly by himself like I did every Sunday. He needed an audience. And since I was the only other fifth grader in the room, he chose me to applaud for him that day.

  He was sharing my art supplies, and I was dreaming of how perfect it would be if our hands touched while reaching for the same colored pencil, when the classroom went dark. This time, though, I felt more annoyed than frightened. It was just my luck that the first chance I got to introduce Jensen to my stunning wit and artistic talent, I got yanked away into oblivion.

  My senses left, one by one, until only my thoughts and that deep black remained. I waited, much longer than the second time it seemed, for the light to come and the vision to manifest. The longer I waited, the stronger that same fear I’d entertained before pricked at the back of my mind: Maybe the light wouldn’t come. Maybe I really was dead this time.

  I died in Sunday School.

  But the light did come eventually, and so did the new vision.

  At first there was haze. Nothing but thick, gray haze everywhere. Like being trapped in a storm cloud. Then there was rocking. A relentless, random motion, heaving me in every direction. I wrapped my arms around a railing in front of me before I even knew it was there, pressing my cheek to the smooth, slick wood to steady myself. I breathed deeply through my nose, the scent of brine and fish coating the back of my throat.

  I was on a boat, out at sea. I couldn’t see the water beyond the thick veil of haze, but I could hear it slapping against the hull, the ship surging and groaning in response. Huge white shapes loomed in and out of the fog overhead, which I could only assume were sails, and dark shadows slinked here and there across the deck, perhaps belonging to the crew. None of them seemed to notice me.

  I clung to that railing, nestled in my own shroud of fog. Rise and fall. Back and forth. Endlessly tossing. Always that acrid smell of fish – never a fresh, clean breath.

  There was no holding it in. I was going to throw up.

  The darkness came swiftly, sweeping in and around me like black smoke. I fell into it willingly, dizzy and shaking. The light followed, as intense as ever, pressing all the air from my lungs until I was back in Sunday School, sitting beside Jensen, gasping for breath.

  “Oh my gosh, are you OK?” Jensen laid a hand on my shoulder. “Are you having a seizure?”

  I remember liking that he was worried about me. I remember liking his hand on my shoulder. I remember how cute he looked with his honey hair swept across his forehead and his hazel eyes wide and full of concern.

  I remember throwing up in his lap.

  I don’t think Jensen ever told anyone about my “accident.” No one said anything about it at school. I guess admitting someone threw up on you was just as embarrassing as being the person who did it. Like when a bird drops a bomb on your shoulder. It isn’t your fault, but you hope to God no one witnessed it so you can forget it ever happened.

  Jensen did, however, tell everyone I had epilepsy. According to the rumor, I could burst into spastic convulsions at any given moment, swallow my own tongue, and ultimately choke to death. Apparently Jensen had performed the Heimlich Maneuver and saved my life that day.

  As preposterous as that story was, I had to give Jensen credit. It made us fascinating subjects at school. He was more popular than ever, and, incidentally, so was I. Which is why I had to shut everyone out. I couldn’t take one more person asking about my “condition.” I hated the way they all looked at me, like I was a grenade about to explode. Mostly because it was true. I did have a condition, and I was about to explode. Each timid glance they tossed my way reminded me of the complete lack of control I had over the visions. And if I had no control – if the visions were random – it meant they could come and go as they pleased, cutting into my life like an unwanted dance partner.

  Like my Uncle Lincoln when he’s drunk at a wedding reception.

  I went over that day hundreds of times in my head, trying to find something that backed my déjà vu theory. The Sunday School lesson hadn’t been about Noah’s Ark, or Jonah being tossed from a ship and swallowed by a whale, or even Jesus walking on water. It had been about Esau giving up his birthright to Jacob. I read the passage over and over, and nothing linked it to my vision of the ship. Even my art project – a drawing of Jacob’s ladder – held no nautical significance.

  I had to let my theory go and accept that the visions were indeed random. They came and went, dragging me along like something hooked to its sleeve. It wasn’t aware of me, it just swept me along. My wants, desires, and needs never mattered. And soon, that’s exactly how I saw my life.

  None of it mattered.

  VISION NUMBER FOUR

  After a year as a self-made pariah, I had successfully alienated myself from the kids at school. Whether or not I sat alone in the cafeteria was no longer a topic of discussion. No one commented on the fact that I walked home from school by myself. Even the teachers assumed I was just an oddball. One of the shy ones. They never talked to me about my lack of friends or interest in extra-curricular activities. I suppose they didn’t want me to feel bad. I had epilepsy, after all.

  There wasn’t a day that went by I didn’t consider telling my parents about the visions or asking them for help. But I didn’t want to bother them. They had their hands full already. With Gran and Pops losing their farm and moving to Maryland to live with us.

  With my sister, Audrey.

  So I lost myself in my fix-it projects. Hunching over a circuit board, stripping wires, making connections – it all provided the clarity and focus I needed to forget about the visions.

  When I’d taken apart almost everything in the house and perfected my repair skills, I moved on to custom modifications. I installed a touch screen tablet computer in one of the kitchen cabinet doors so Gran could look up recipes online at eye-level, listen to music, or watch TV while she cooked. I wired all the electronics in the den to a “movie night” setting, so with one press of a button, the projector would turn on, the DVD player would whir to life, the lights would dim, and the window blinds would lower. I even helped Dad get his old Mustang running again, and managed to increase the gas mileage while still maintaining its kick-ass power.

  At school I immersed myself in drafting, computer programming, physics, and biology, and kept my pariah status intact by hiding out in the AV room or computer lab during lunch or free periods. My grades were top tier compared to what they are now, and I had a drawer full of brochures for the best engineering schools in the country, courtesy of Dad, who
wanted me to become a biomedical engineer like him. The nerdy glasses I wore and my hopeless, shaggy mop of dishwater blonde hair helped round out my geek facade.

  In a one-time effort to add an extra-curricular activity to my record, I briefly joined the Robotics Team in my sophomore year at the request of Mrs Latimer, the team leader and head of the AV department, but the Jamestown vision came on full force during our first competition. She found me huddled in a corner in the competing school’s vending machine room, all the lights off, rocking back and forth and stuffing myself with Oreos.

  I was so hungry.

  I was so terrified by what I’d seen.

  Now even the smell of Oreos makes me want to puke.

  CHAPTER 3

  After I dump all of that on Dr Farrow, I totally expect her to look at me like I’m crazy. I expect her to drill me on the visions. Those are why I’m here in the first place, and I’m getting impatient for answers.

  But she doesn’t go there. Instead, she taps her pencil on her bottom lip and says, “Tell me about Audrey.”

  For a split second, I think back to a few hours earlier, before I left the house for my appointment with Dr Farrow. Audrey was where she always was, sitting on the daybed on our screened-in porch. She wore fingerless gloves and a black bandana with cartoon pumpkins on it. (Halloween is her favorite holiday.) Her thin, frail legs were curled under her; one of Gran’s afghans was draped over her lap. Her homebound algebra homework was spread out on the coffee table before her, but she hadn’t touched it yet. Instead, she traced the words of Robert Burns on dog-eared pages with her fingertips. A shiny new bruise graced her collarbone.

  I tried not to look at it when I kissed her goodbye.

  “I don’t want to talk about Audrey,” I tell Dr Farrow. I look away and try to swallow the sudden lump in my throat.

  She nods and puts pencil to paper. Then, “Tell me how it felt to tell your parents about your suspension.”