The Reincarnationist

by M. J. Rose

  But the conversations he had that morning were more difficult for Josh; he understood all too well how dazed and desperate the callers were. He was personally involved now.

  Many of them described scenes that fit like jigsaw pieces into Josh’s own puzzle. One man said he was having dreams of being a farmer in some ancient country when a fire razed his house and killed him and his brother. A second was having flashbacks about being a high-ranking soldier in a time he couldn’t exactly identify but that was in the early days of Christianity, and the methods he’d used to quell the crowds that he was supposed to control were brutal and unsettling. A woman remembered creating mosaics on the floors of temples and said she was going to try to draw what she saw and send them to Josh.

  He was deeply affected by the idea that if reincarnation was possible he might have crossed paths with some of those people in their earlier incarnations. He wanted to help; he wished he could meet with each one of them on the off chance that they would know something he didn’t, shed some light on the dimly lit scenes that hovered in his mind and teased him.

  Yet, as fascinating as all of their stories were, and as tempted as Josh was to break the rules and agree to work with them, he didn’t. It wasn’t his choice to make. Beryl and Malachai were adamant: the foundation did not work with adults. He’d been the only exception in years. So all he could do was commiserate and offer the names of the recommended meditation coaches.

  At lunchtime, he finally talked to Gabriella, and, while she insisted she was fine and agreed to see him and Malachai that night for dinner, he could hear stress and tension underlying her words. Her tone left him feeling uneasy; and so, at three-thirty in the afternoon, he decided to rent a car and drive to New Haven early.

  Downstairs, as Josh walked through the conservancy toward the front door, he heard a woman’s angry voice. Turning the corner into the reception area, he saw her. Wearing a pale pink suit and high-heeled shoes, she stood in front of the receptionist’s desk, bedraggled and distraught. Without thinking about what he was doing, Josh lifted his ever-present camera up to his eyes and saw—through his lens, around her head, emanating out from her shoulders—shears of light that made him shiver. For a moment he didn’t breathe, afraid even the slightest movement would alter the spectral effect.

  Sensing someone was looking at her, the woman turned. Josh lowered the camera. And met her eyes.

  The sensation only lasted a second. It wasn’t déjà vu. She wasn’t someone who seemed familiar. This time there was no doubt. Josh knew, so fucking deep in his gut that it couldn’t go any deeper—they had known each other before. During that other time where Josh’s memory held back more than it gave up.

  As he walked toward her, she opened her mouth in a surprised O and Josh knew she recognized him, too.

  They faced each other, the air around them stilled, the traffic noises outside filled in the silence. Her eyes—red from crying—showed astonishment. “Do we know each other?” she finally asked. “You seem so familiar.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Then she frowned a little. “No. My mistake. I thought…” She shook her head.

  Josh took in her damp hair, the creased skirt and the rivulets of mascara on her face that either her tears or the rain outside had caused. He looked at Frances, who shook her head in exasperation.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve explained our policy. She won’t leave without getting an appointment.”

  “It’s all right. I’ll take care of this.” He turned from Frances back to the woman. “I work here. I’ll try to help you. But first why don’t you come inside and dry off.”

  The woman was silent as she followed Josh through the door and down the hall. He gave her a sideways glance, noticing how intently she was examining everything they passed. The paintings, the chandeliers and the rugs. As if there was something about them that she didn’t understand. Before he could question her, she started chattering nervously.

  “I can’t believe how upset I got down there. Or that I started crying. I’m not normally like this. I never fall apart. Except lately.” She was flustered. “I’m sorry.”

  Josh shook his head, dismissing the apology. “What happened?”

  As they walked up the staircase she explained, and at the same time, continued to explore her surroundings.

  “The receptionist asked how she could help me, and then, once she heard what I wanted, she said that they—that you only deal with children. I said I understood, but asked if there wasn’t someone I could talk to, anyway. Maybe get a recommendation for another place that could help me. Miss Ice Cube told me someone to call, someone named…” She paused, trying to remember. “Someone named Jack Ryder or Joe Ryder handled that, and I asked if I couldn’t just see him.”

  They’d reached the landing and Josh made a right toward his office. “This way.”

  As she walked, she picked up the explanation where she’d left off. “Your receptionist made it clear that it wasn’t possible to see him without an appointment but that I should feel free to call. I got angry. She asked me to leave. We played verbal ping-pong for a while, and that’s when I burst into tears. And as I said, that’s just not like me. But then, I haven’t been myself for the past few weeks. I just don’t know what to do.”

  His office was in the mansion’s turret. She stood on the threshold, cocked her head and stared at him. “What the hell am I doing telling all this to a perfect stranger? I really am losing my mind.”

  Know her or not, Josh recognized her desperation.

  “I’m Josh Ryder. Maybe I can help you.”

  The rain had stopped, the sun had reappeared and pastel light spilled into the circular aerie through the green, violet and blue stained-glass windows. The woman’s gaze darted around the room and rested on the window seat. Patches of colored light created a pattern on her pale jacket and her face.

  “Would you like some coffee? A towel?”

  She looked down at her wrinkled and wet clothes, as if noticing them for the first time.

  “A towel, yes, and a bathroom?”

  When she returned a few minutes later, her hair was brushed, the rivers of mascara had been removed and she’d cleaned herself up.

  “Thanks. I needed that.”

  “Feel better?”

  “Much.”

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  As he’d guessed she chose to perch on the window seat.

  “So, what brings you here—” He realized he didn’t know her name and asked her what it was.

  “Rachel Palmer.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rachel,” he said, wondering in another part of his mind if it really was the first time they’d ever met.

  “I’m having…I don’t know what to call them…hallucinations, I guess. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

  “It’s very disconcerting, I know.”

  She looked at him gratefully. “You believe me? You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “Of course I believe you. That’s what we do here. Believe the unbelievable.” Josh smiled.

  “But it’s all so crazy.”

  Josh nodded. Not surprisingly, this was how most conversations with those burdened by inexplicable memories began.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not at all judgmental. What’s so crazy?”

  “In the past week I’ve been to my own doctor, who couldn’t find anything wrong, and a psychiatrist prescribed an anti-anxiety pill—but this isn’t anxiety. I’m normally very stable. The hallucinations aren’t in the present. They’re not even here in New York. But in Rome. And I’m not me…I’m someone else. They’re like dreams, but I’m awake. Or it seems like I’m awake. Isn’t that insane?”

  That morning, several callers had mentioned Rome. Each time it had raised his hopes that someone else out there might have more information about the past, his past, than he did.

  “It’s not insane at all,” he said, “and I know about the referral syndrom
e and the prescriptions. They didn’t help, did they?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Can you describe the hallucinations themselves?”

  Josh’s encouragement helped, and she continued. “I’ve been a jewelry designer for years, but for the past few days, maybe a week, the colors of the gemstones seem to be affecting me in some bizarre way. As if they’re hypnotizing me. My body begins to hum….” She broke off. “Even I can’t believe how stupid this sounds.”

  “No, it doesn’t, at all.”

  “Are you going to be able to help me? I can’t stand this.” While she’d been talking to him, she’d nervously been picking at her cuticles. Now one of them started to bleed. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “I can’t promise you that I can help, but I’ll listen, and then we can figure it out.”

  Listening wasn’t breaking the rules, was it? Damn it, he didn’t care if it was. He wanted to know who she was. Rachel Palmer was the first person he’d met whom he sensed he’d known before. Long before. When he was someone else. The little girl in Rome, Natalie, had known him, but he hadn’t connected to her. Was it possible that Rachel was the incarnation of Sabina? No, without knowing why, he was almost certain she wasn’t.

  “Nothing like that can happen just from touching someone’s hand, can it? A room can’t change. You can’t remember an incident that you don’t know occurred, can you?” Rachel asked after she finished describing the auction at Christie’s, the painting, the stranger who days later turned out to be Harrison Shoals and whom she was drawn to despite, or because of, the strange effect he had on her.

  “Many people think everything you’re experiencing is entirely possible.”

  “I know my uncle Alex does. He’s been fascinated with reincarnation for years. But I never paid much attention to it before. Do you believe it’s possible?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I do or not. What matters is that you’re disturbed by it.”

  “And now we’re back to where we started. Will you help me figure this out? I’m scared. It’s not just that I’m not in control anymore, but I have this urgent sense that there’s something I’m supposed to be learning from all this. That there’s something I need to do now, to prevent…a tragedy. Now. Oh, shit, I sound like an idiot again.”

  “No. You don’t. Not at all.”

  She looked at Josh full on. The sound of water rushing in filled his head, he smelled jasmine, tasted honey. It was a lurch, happening here in front of this woman and he couldn’t stop it. He felt as if he were slipping. He fought back. He couldn’t lose control now. Focusing on the feeling of the wooden chair arms under his fingers, he pushed up through the blue sea, caught hold of the sound of Rachel’s voice and hung on to it like a life preserver.

  “Can you help me?”

  “I want to…” Josh heard his own voice coming up through the water—he didn’t know how many seconds later.

  “Yes, please, please.” It was a cry, plaintive and so very familiar.

  He stood and walked to the window to get away from her pleading eyes. Pleading not just for her, but for whoever she had been before.

  No, he couldn’t do this. He would drown in this woman’s eyes if he worked with her. How could he do anything for her when he still hadn’t helped himself?

  “I want to. But I can’t.”

  “What is it you do? Why can’t you do it with me?”

  “Either through simple meditation techniques or through hypnosis, we make it possible for the children who come to the foundation to reach their deeply buried past-life memories and bring them to the surface. To remember. Then we can look at the issues and work out why these particular memories are pinging them, disturbing them.”

  “So do that with me.”

  “I would, but the foundation’s policy is to only work with children.”

  “But you said you understood…I’m desperate. I’ve met a man I feel bound to after knowing him only a few days. Since meeting him the flashes have become more frequent and more intense. I decide not to see him because it’s so upsetting and feels dangerous, but then I can’t seem to stay away. Oh, great. Now I sound like some stupid lovesick teenager as well as a crazy lunatic.”

  “What do you mean by dangerous?”

  “I have a feeling of terrible dread. That something is going to happen to us. Or that it already has happened. And I’m frightened.” She was worrying her cuticles again.

  “I need to get to the end of this weird story that’s unraveling,” she continued. “I need to find out who I was before. Please, you have no idea how hard this is for me.”

  He felt a wave of sympathy for her.

  Since his last trip to Rome, Josh’s own lurches had been more frequent and intense. Never before had he felt such an urgent need to find out if reincarnation was legend or fact. The idea that Sabina’s soul had been reborn into a new body that was here on earth, an idea that had haunted him before, now tortured him. He shouldn’t be doing anything but trying to find her, even if that meant he’d be flying into the eye of a storm. He had the same apprehensions as Rachel. Would he and the woman who had been Sabina repeat the damage they’d done to each other? And why, instead of excitement, did the idea of that potential rendezvous fill him with dread?

  Since coming to the foundation, he’d heard those fears from several of the older children Malachai and Dr. Talmage worked with. He’d seen the manifestation of their agonizing need to resolve their past, expressed in the haunted look in their eyes. He saw it in the mirror. He saw it in Rachel’s eyes now.

  She lifted her hand to wipe away fresh tears and exposed her bracelet. It was a circle of thick gold links—too massive for her fragile wrist. Hanging from the links were oval gems in vibrant colors that picked up the sunlight coming through the window and reflected it back, momentarily blinding Josh.

  He could barely breathe for the intense scents of jasmine and sandalwood that overwhelmed him. He blinked. The lights were gone, so was the feeling and the smell. All that was left was Rachel, staring at him, imploring him with fearful eyes.

  Chapter 44

  Dr. Talmage sat behind her desk so the wheelchair was invisible. When she was seated like that, there was nothing to suggest she had MS. Her timeless grace, forged with determination and intelligence, reminded Josh of a John Singer Sargent portrait in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  A pediatric surgeon who also had a Ph.D. in religious studies and another in psychology, she’d retired from the medical profession thirty years ago, when she was just thirty-five, to work with her father at the foundation. At this point, she was renowned for her work with thousands of children who had had past-life experiences.

  “I know how much you want to work with this woman, but no, Josh.” Dr. Talmage was thin to the point of brittleness, and her legs might be too weak to support her, but when she spoke her whole being took on a power and strength that belied any illness. “We just can’t take on the responsibility,” she said with a finality that suggested she was done with the conversation.

  But Josh wasn’t. He’d help Rachel himself, outside of the foundation if he thought he’d had enough training. But what if he tried to hypnotize her and something went wrong?

  “It’s not the responsibility that’s the problem. It’s that you care more about being accepted by the scientific community than you do about helping people,” he said, not only continuing the argument but exacerbating it.

  “You have no idea what you’re saying.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  She wheeled out from behind the desk and over to where he sat. Two bright spots of red had appeared high on her cheekbones. “You don’t come in here and lecture me about how I run the foundation. You haven’t ever presented a paper in front of your colleagues and heard people snickering behind your back. It took me twenty-five years to reach the point where I’m tolerated…where my papers are read. So, no, you’re right. I don’t want to work with adults who think they were Cleopatra in a previous li
fe. Do you know how many people out there have delusions of past-life grandeur? How do you propose we figure out who’s on the level and who is just a little bit psychotic?”

  “The way you did with me.”

  “I didn’t take you on as a patient, my nephew did. All I did was agree to open my library to you in exchange for your making a photographic report of the work we do. You’re not my pet project.”

  Josh winced but didn’t falter. “You’re right. You haven’t helped me. And that’s another crime. You are a fucking living encyclopedia of reincarnation theory, but you sit there like some Buddha, not saying a word, offering cryptic koans about letting the water reveal its secrets in time. In what time? In whose time?”

  The frustration that he had been living with every single day for sixteen months was too close to the surface. He wanted to go see Gabriella. He was tired. Jet lagged. He had witnessed two murders, had been in jail, had been—as Malachai kept pointing out—might still be in danger and was still remembering the pain and suffering and fears of people who had died long before he, Josh, had even been born. If anything, his confusion was greater than it had been before he came to the foundation. Today he’d sat face-to-face with a woman who, from every sign, was experiencing the same thing he was, and all he could offer were some useless platitudes.

  “You came here and knew things about us and about this house that no one else could possibly know. You wanted to study what we study. You wanted to learn what we were learning. That’s what you asked for and that’s what my nephew and I have been giving you. As an intern, Josh, not as a patient. There’s a difference. You weren’t in trauma, you weren’t phobic to the point that it interfered with your ability to function. You didn’t need extreme measures.”

  “But this woman might.”

  “We’ve tried what you’re asking and were burned time after time. Between the lawsuits, the liars and the ridicule, we made a decision. We don’t work with adults. And as long as you’re here, you won’t, either.”