The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  “Déjà vu is when you experience a feeling that you’ve seen or heard something before. What you’re describing sounds more like a past life experience.”

  “Yes, but it’s a déjà vu feeling I get when I have the past life experience.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Does it mean I’m getting worse?”

  “Not at all, but it’s possible the hypnotherapy could help shed some light.”

  “I’ll still have to think about it.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Before I came in this morning, I found the exact axe that I hack everybody up with in my nightmares. It was hidden in the garage behind some storage bins.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “That everything might already be predetermined. Could I be a late blooming psychic?”

  “It would be rare. I…”

  “I’m just kidding. I don’t believe in psychic powers, but it would explain how I feel I know things sometimes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We’re all going to die.” I gaze into his eyes. He looks concerned. “It’s morbid, I agree, but I can’t escape the dread. It heightens every day. I can feel it building.”

  “Stacy, I have to interrupt and I apologize, but…”

  “Time’s up already?” I raise my wrist and check my watch. It’s close to eleven. “Really, it feels like I just got here. Can’t we schedule longer appointments?”

  “That’s not a good idea…one hour sessions are set for reasons, and we should adhere to them. But I would prefer it if you came every day. Will you arrange your schedule?”

  “Every day, though? I don’t know.”

  “It’s important.”

  “I know it’s important, I just don’t know.” A quick heat flushes my face. I raise my voice. “I do have a life outside all this craziness.”

  “Every day.” He stares at me blankly.

  “I’ve got to go.” I swing my legs around and sit up slowly.

  It’s hot. I wipe my forehead, which feels cool. I’m covered with perspiration. I stand up, and high-pitched tones spear my head, driving me to the floor, forcing me to scrunch up into a ball. I press my hands over my ears and squeeze like a vice. I’m rolling around in complete agony. The marble veins flash in and out of my vision. Some areas are so translucent, I could almost fall through.

  Dr. Light drops to his knees, puts one hand over my eyes, the other across the back of my neck. “Breathe,” he says. It’s hard to tell if I’m actually hearing him speak. His voice seems to chime with the piercing tones. Everything goes quiet.

  He moves his hands around and helps me sit up. I pull him closer, hug him, and cry. He still smells sweet. “Thank you,” I mumble.

  “Are you all right?”

  I nod my head into his chest and wipe my tears on his shirt. “What did you do?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I peel my face from his damp cotton shirt and ask again. “What did you do to make it stop?”

  “I used a pressure point technique.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  “I suppose...does this happen often?”

  “No. It’s recent. I didn’t tell you. It’s a hearing problem, sort of. Well, it started out that way. Now the sounds blare straight into my head as if I were a subwoofer. Usually, there’s a…” I back away and glance down at his shirt. I see a circular water stain with make-up smudges on it. I drag my hand under my nose—all clear. “I get bloody noses now too, and I never did before. Do you think it’s possible, I could have a brain tumor or something?”

  Mortified by the stain on his shirt, I start to get up. He helps, and we rise together.

  “What else do you feel when this happens?”

  “I don’t know. Hot, lately. Yeah, the other night I had a nightmare, and after I set the fire, my chest caught on fire, too. It was burning hot. I woke up in a sweat that was cold.”

  “Interesting. You didn’t mention that, either. They don’t sound like brain tumor symptoms, but if you like, I can refer you to a neurologist. They’ll run a battery of tests and should be able to give you a more definitive answer than me.”

  “No, thanks. There’s nothing I hate more than medical doctors and tests.”

  He smirks. “Okay then, from now on, I’d like you to keep a pen and notebook handy. If you have a nightmare, a daydream, déjà vu, whatever, I want you to write it down. And write how you feel at the time, too.”

  “Do you think the sounds and bloody noses are related to the nightmares?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s important to try and find out. The human body is a puzzle that miraculously all fits together and works—even when the pieces don’t perfectly match up. Then sometimes, when all of the pieces are perfect, it doesn’t work. There’s truly more to it than we’ll ever know. Shall I walk you out?” He starts to lead the way.

  “Wait, you were going to show me that pressure point technique.”

  “It’s easy, really. Put one hand over your eyes, the other across the back of your neck like this.” He positions my hands for me. His skin feels a little clammy.

  “Do I have to press hard?”

  “Medium pressure is fine.” He moves his hands away, walks to the door then opens it.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Before I step out, I stop and look in his eyes. “Really though, I mean it. Thanks.” Something seems different about his appearance.

  He gently grabs my arm. “Please. Agree to the hypnotherapy. It’s imperative. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No. Not tomorrow. It’s Saturday. You don’t work weekends do you?”

  He releases my arm. “Oh, no. You’re right.” He makes an awkward smile. “Monday then, and remember to do all of the exercises. Keep a notebook handy.” He steps back to shut the door.

  “Are you okay, Tom?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry, but I have to go. You have to leave now.” He shuts the door.

  I’m so embarrassed and flustered about rolling around on the poor doctor’s floor, then perhaps ruining his shirt. I nearly twist my ankle walking faster than usual out to the car. Without even fastening my seatbelt, I start the engine and squeal out of the lot.

  I wonder why he was rushing me out. Maybe he finally noticed the stain on his shirt. He could be meeting his wife for lunch. The make-up smudges…how will he explain? Oh God, I’m horrible. Yet I can’t get the last image of his face out of my head—before he closed the door. He looked different. His skin was so pallid I swear I could see veins pulsing across his face. And his eyes—they were enormous black discs.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Stuck in the brain-dead calm of slow-moving traffic, I gather my senses and turn on my cell phone. There is a voicemail from Cally. “Hey Hon, get well quick, I want to have lunch. Give me a call.”

  I sync the car’s Bluetooth with my cell, then speed-dial her number.

  “Hey Sweetie,” Cally answers. “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “The girls asked for you, and I told them you were ill. Tara was freaking out, thinking you might miss her dinner party, but I said you’d be fine, and you just ate something that didn’t agree with you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’re you doing now? Speaking of eating, you up for a quick bite?”

  “Actually, I am kind of hungry. I’ve been out running errands. Picking stuff up for Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh God, don’t remind me. I still haven’t started. Let’s meet up at Sushi Heat on Sahara in the next thirty.”

  “Sounds good. Bye.”

  I’m not so hungry, but this may be my only opportunity to get her one-on-one for a while. I need a good reason for cancelling yoga mornings. The only thing that comes to mind is how they’ve all been mentioning my haggard appearance. And they did witness my nosebleed at the gym the other morning. Maybe I am ill, besides mentally. It’s been a while since I’ve h
ad a complete physical. That’s it—Jon wants me to have some tests done. I’m sure it’s a better excuse than what they’ve already been thinking, and I prefer their minds churning on the idea there could be something wrong with my health—not my marriage.

  Traffic clears up, and I make Sushi Heat in less than fifteen minutes. Cally arrives ten minutes later, fashionably dressed and looking radiant. As she walks toward me, sunbeams penetrate the window glass and cast rainbows on gilded strands of her blonde hair. Her parents were hippies and aptly named her California. She is the epitome of gold and sunshine.

  “Hi, Sweetie,” she says. She leans over and gives me a hug. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “No. Just a couple minutes.”

  “Good.”

  Cally has barely taken her seat when the waitress races over with two steaming mugs of hot tea and to see if we’re ready for her to take our order. As soon as she leaves, Cally whispers, “I don’t know why they’re always in a rush to get you fed and out. It drives me nuts.”

  “More customers, more money. Especially during lunch hour.”

  “Lunch hour, happy hour, dinner hour, it’s always crazy in here.” She picks up her mug and takes a sip. I can see her big blue eyes peering at me over the rim. She lowers the mug from her lips. “Well, you don’t look as bad as I thought you would. Pale still, but your skin isn’t all shriveled up and dehydrated.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Just making an observation. How do you feel?”

  “To be perfectly honest, I’m tired.”

  “From what?”

  “I don’t know. Jon thinks it might be something physical.”

  “I’ve known you nearly ten years, and you’ve never been sick.”

  “Maybe it’s catching up. Anyhow, Jon’s making me get a complete physical.”

  “Good idea.”

  “He also wants me to work out later in the afternoons, instead of mornings.”

  “What? Why?”

  “To reduce my daily energy output. Just until they give me the okay.”

  “Oh, I’m so bummed. You could do low impact. What does Jon think it is?”

  The waitress comes back carrying all our food. Miso soup and salads, together with long trays of sushi rolls. Our table is a gluttonous feast for the senses. It’s making me nauseous.

  “He doesn’t have a clue, and he doesn’t want to chance a guess.” I sip some tea.

  Cally digs right in and talks between bites. “Well, he’s doing the right thing. I’ll miss you, though. It’s not the same when you’re not there. I won’t have anyone normal to chat with.”

  “I’ll be back soon enough.”

  “Hmm…maybe I should take a break, too. At least from the Bikram. Then Bill and I could have lunch together more often. He’s been so busy with work lately, and he hates me going to the Bikram place in that part of town, anyway. Says it’s seedy.”

  “Jon’s been asking about having dinner with you guys.”

  “Great idea. Let me talk to Bill. What’re you doing tonight?”

  “Hospital mixer.”

  “Oh. How droll,” she says. “What’re you wearing?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Hey, you’re not eating.”

  “I guess I’m not that hungry.”

  “That’s probably why you’re sick—skipping meals for a tight cocktail dress. Ugh, we ordered too much food.”

  “You can take it to go.”

  “Gross. Sushi? No way. Kyle would complain all the way home from school.” Cally pinches her nose and rolls her eyes.

  “I can just picture his face.” We giggle so loud the waitress comes over.

  “Is everything good?” she says.

  “We’re not done yet,” Cally says.

  “Okay. Thank you,” she says then walks toward the kitchen.

  “Have you finished Memoirs of a Spa Junkie yet?” Cally says.

  “No, but I’ll have it read by Sunday.”

  “Wish I could read that fast. You’ll like it. I’m at the part where she’s in Bali. She does some amazing shopping while she’s in all those countries.”

  “I bet.”

  “Which reminds me, I need new shoes. You’ll probably want some, too—for tonight. Have you been over to Breanna’s?”

  “No. You want to?” I’ve been ready to escape this sensory overload since the food came. Even Cally is a little more adult-ADD than usual. Breanna’s is an upscale shoe boutique we frequent. They are way overpriced, but it beats going to the strip where all the high-end stores are.

  “We’ll drive both cars across then leave straight from there to get the boys,” she says.

  The waitress comes with the check. We square it away then go out to our cars. I get caught at the traffic light. Meanwhile, I’m sure Cally’s already parked and in the store.

  I bought a single pair of adorable, black, strappy sandals. They were the only cute ones Cally didn’t buy, and simply because her size was unavailable. Shoe shopping used to be something that would take my mind off things, but even that’s not helping so much anymore.

  * * *

  An enormous Hummer pulls away, leaving curbside space for three cars. Patrick walks over. “Where have you been?” he asks.

  “I’m not that late. Get in. We’ve got to hit the supermarket on the way home.”

  “For what?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Do I have to go in?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, Mom, I’m in my uniform.”

  “So are all the other kids. You’ll fit right in.”

  * * *

  To the left of the automated doors is a stack of plastic carry baskets. I grab one, put my arm through and let the handles rest in the crease of my elbow. Patrick mopes along behind me with his hands shoved into his pockets. The store is chock full of moms and their kids marching through the aisles in private school uniforms. They are all eerily similar, like an army of brainwashed apathetic children.

  I walk over to the produce section while Patrick heads down the adjacent cereal aisle. I’m checking out some fresh corn, pulling the husks back and inspecting the kernels. An ear rolls down from its neat pile and drops to the floor. I bend over and grab it. When I stand up to put it back, there is a woman off to my side, behind a broken down cart of dirty vegetables.

  “Is that all I can do for you today, ma’am?”

  She is a stout woman with a strong British accent. Her wild smile exposes her neglected dentition. Her clothes are unkempt, filthy, and she has dirt smudged all over her face and hands.

  “What?”

  Someone else approaches the cart and she turns her attention to them. Voices fill the dank air, capturing my curiosity. Two rows of shabby carts, line both sides of a wet cobblestone alley. The smell of rain still clings to every surface. The people in the streets…it is Victorian England again but not as nice a place as the café.

  Across the way, over muddied sanguine stones, a gentleman in a long overcoat haggles with a man wearing a bloody apron. Meat carcasses hang from the grimy cart. Crimson trickles from the skinless butchered animals down the rickety wood frame, filling the grooves between the cobblestones.

  The odor turns my stomach. I drop the ear of corn, pull an ivory lace handkerchief out from under my wrist and cover my nose. I put my free arm in front of my face to take another look at my sleeve. I’m wearing the same dress Jordan had on at lunch when I envisioned the woman at the outdoor café. I am that woman. That’s why she looked so familiar. Nearly everyone in the market turns to stare at me while I stand in mute astonishment. Inattentive young children chase one another around my dress and through the vendor’s carts. Suddenly, the ear of corn is in front of me again. It’s being held up by the pudgy little hand of a toddler dressed something like Little Boy Blue.

  “Mummy, do you want the corn?”

  I step back and gasp.

  “Mom, do you want the corn or not,” Patrick says with an irritated tone.
The grocery store returns to normal.

  “What?”

  Patrick tosses the corn on top of the pile, puts his hands in his pockets, then walks away. Dazed and utterly lost, I rub my eyes and take a deep breath. This can’t be happening. Those people saw me, they spoke to me—I was there.

  At the checkout counter, and during the drive home, neither one of us brings up the incident. We get into the house, and Patrick bolts upstairs to play video games. My mind has been in a fog since the incident in the store, and before I realize it, dinner is on the table.

  Patrick comes downstairs. “Can I eat now?”

  “Don’t you want to wait for Dad?”

  “He told me he was going to a party.”

  “Crap, the mixer. I forgot to pick up the dry cleaning.”

  I grab my cell phone and text Jon. I hope he planned on leaving work early. He texts me back. “No problem. Will stop on way home.”

  “You never forget stuff,” Patrick says.

  “It’s called getting old.” Going crazy…overanxious…preoccupied—I’ve got to fix this! If something bizarre happens at the mixer it could hurt Jon’s reputation. I head upstairs to get dressed, think, and try to relax. I even run a hot bath in the Jacuzzi tub. Half asleep in the steaming bath, I see the orange bottle of Valium on the bathroom counter. That’ll do it.

  Jon comes in with a big smile and the dry cleaning.

  “Sorry. Thanks for getting it.”

  “Happy to be at your service. Did you forget or just got too busy?”

  “Both.”

  “What did you do, today?”

  “I had another doctor’s appointment this morning.”

  “Really, how’d it go?”

  “He gave me another exercise to try called dream scripting.”

  “Sounds like psych mumbo jumbo to me. How often are your visits?” Jon steps into the closet and takes the plastic off the dry cleaning.

  “Uh, once a week—for an hour.” Great, now I’m a liar, too. It’s stupid not to tell him the truth, but I don’t want him to think it’s more serious than it really is.

  He walks out of the closet holding up two jackets. “Which one, blue or green?”