by Amy Durham
I scribbled furiously as Luke read each name mentioned in every deed, doing my best to jot down what little we could learn about the person. We really had no idea what year our dreams were taking place. The only clues we had were the clothing and the condition of the house, which indicated sometime before the turn of the twentieth century. When we pulled the deed from 1923, Lucas thought it might be pertinent to start looking up the wills, since any ancestors or relatives mentioned might have lived around that time.
We discovered that in 1923, Walter Emerson acquired the property through the will of his father, Arthur. Lucas went to the other room to retrieve the book with Arthur’s will, then met me back at the conference table outside the vault.
“There are so many names,” I said, glancing at the handwritten testament and all the names it included. “And I thought taking notes on the deeds was bad.”
Lucas laughed. “I’ll see if we can make a copy of the wills.”
“That would be a relief.”
He was quiet for a moment as we both read the opening.
“Okay, it looks like Arthur was deeded the property from his father, George, after his mother, a.k.a. George’s wife Elizabeth, passed away.”
I wondered if next we would be discussing who begat whom.
“That was in 1915?” Some of the language was difficult for me to understand, but I did recognize the year.
“Yes. It could be George remarried or moved away,” Luke suggested. “At any rate, the property became Arthur’s in 1915, then when he died in 1923 it went to Walter.”
In my notes I continued my timeline, adding the names Walter Emerson, Arthur Emerson, and George Emerson, as well as the years that Arthur and Walter gained ownership of the house.
“There’s quite a bit of personal property listed.” Lucas flipped to the third page of the will. “Sort of cool to see what kind of things they felt were important or valuable enough to pass along.”
I looked over the list and saw things like oak table, silver tea set, and wedding rings.
The jewelry caught my eye. “It says he left his mother’s wedding ring to his sister Mary Cutler and his mother’s silver tea set to Mary’s daughter, Amelia. I wonder why Mary wouldn’t have gotten those things from their mother in the first place.”
Luke shrugged his shoulders. “Probably because the male child inherited most everything. I suppose that’s how it was back then.”
“I guess so.”
He narrowed his eyes then looked back at the will. “You said Mary Cutler? And her daughter Amelia?”
“Yes.” I pointed the place on the paper where I’d seen those names. “Why?”
“There’s an Amelia Cutler Light in some of my mom’s genealogy records.”
“Really?” My mind spun. Could it be?
“Mom has some records she put together just by talking to her grandparents. It gets kind of complicated when you start factoring in siblings and second marriages and all that.” He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest. “But I went back and looked over her records a few weeks ago, right after we had the first dream about the Emerson house. I was curious if there were any Emerson’s in her records. When I didn’t see that name, I just discounted the possibility.”
“But if the Amelia in your mom’s records is the same Amelia in this will, she was Arthur Emerson’s niece.”
“Seems we have some more research to do,” Luke said, rising to take the book to the counter. He paid the clerk twenty-five cents per page to copy the will.
“We should probably talk to your mom,” I said as we exited the courthouse and made our way to his Bronco. “I think it’s time we told her everything.”
He opened my door and I slid in quickly, fastening my seat belt as he made his way around to the driver’s side.
“I think you’re right. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think she may be able to help us, especially if you’re connected to the Emersons somehow.”
He drove in silence for a moment, and I could tell he was deep in thought. I was just about to reach for my iPod, when he spoke.
“Layla?” he asked in a hushed tone. “In your dreams and visions, have you ever seen a child or anything to indicate that these two people had children?”
I shook my head. “The only things I’ve seen are the things we’ve seen simultaneously, and there’s been nothing that made me think they had children.”
“So it’s probably safe to assume that if I’m related to the Emerson’s, it’s not as a direct descendant of the two people in the dreams.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “I suppose I’ve always thought the man we’ve seen was an Emerson. It could be you’re related to a cousin or a brother.”
“What about her? The wife?” He paused, stopping the Bronco at a traffic light, and looked over at me. “The one who looks like you.”
“What about her?” I didn’t understand what he was getting at.
“If we figure out who she was, maybe we need to look into her family and their descendants.”
“But Amelia was part of the Emerson family.” And if Amelia was part of Lucas’s family tree, he couldn’t also be related to the woman in the dreams.
“I wasn’t thinking about me,” he said quietly, slowly accelerating as the light turned green. “I meant you.”
“Me?”
“Layla, what do you know about your family history? I mean, I know it’s unlikely, since you’re from Tennessee, but – ”
I stopped listening then. Suddenly, I saw what he was suggesting. If he was descended from the Emersons, it could be that I was descended from the family of the woman in our dreams. Was that possible? It seemed so implausible.
I felt my face go pale, the blood draining from my head until I thought I might pass out. I leaned over, propping my elbows on my knees and lowered my head onto my hands.
Luke pulled over to the shoulder of the highway, just before the turn off to White Bridge Road.
“Are you okay?”
I said nothing, still trying to wrap my mind around the possibility. It was far more likely than he thought.
“Luke,” I whispered, finding my voice at last. “I’m adopted.”
CHAPTER 23
“How long have you known you were adopted?” Gwen asked.
Luke and I had gone over everything with her, all the dreams, visions, our research at the courthouse. Luckily neither of us had a test on Friday, and my mom agreed to let me stay for dinner, which worked well since Gwen always insisted we eat while we talk.
“I’ve always known, I guess,” I replied. “I mean, I don’t remember an event where my parents told me. They just let me grow up knowing.”
“How much have they told you about the adoption or your birth mother?” Luke asked, then finished the last bite of his ham sandwich.
“Not a lot,” I said. “They always told me they’d answer whatever questions they could, whenever I wanted to know. But I’ve never asked. It just never seemed important.”
“Might be a good idea to ask now, to give us somewhere to start looking.” Gwen cleared our plates and set them in the sink. “And speaking of looking, I’ll go get my family records, and we’ll see where Amelia Cutler fits.”
We stayed at the kitchen table while Gwen retrieved her notebook from one of the crowded bookshelves in the living room.
The notebook was a five-subject, spiral-bound protected by a three-ring binder. There was no real organization to it, which fit with the way everything else in Gwen’s living room was. It seemed she kept herself organized in the kitchen and her office, but enjoyed randomness in everything else.
“It’s just names and stories that I jotted down after talking with my grandparents.”
“These are amazing,” I marveled, looking from page to page at the things she’d written. Even without a system of order, what Gwen had were priceless treasures of her family history.
“Flip to the back,” Luke said. �
�There’s sort of a family tree back there.”
On the inside of the back cover, Gwen had written names and years of her family tree. I took out my notes from the courthouse and Lucas and I compared.
There were no common names, in the near past, between Gwen’s records and our notes. We looked closely, being careful to look through everything from the courthouse before moving on. Gwen’s parents, Richard and Barbara Conner did not appear in our research. Neither did any of her grandparents’ names.
However, Gwen’s great-great-grandfather was Frank Cutler, and, according to what she had learned, Frank had an older sister named Amelia.
Amelia Cutler.
“The only other information I have on her is that she married a man by the name of Frederick Light,” Gwen said. “Apparently, they moved out of the area, and my grandmother – ” she pointed toward the name Carrie Cutler Conner – “never really knew her great-aunt Amelia.”
“So, what we know is that Amelia Cutler Light was Arthur Emerson’s niece.” Lucas leaned close, placing his arm around the back of my chair and resting his hand on my shoulder. “And at some point, Arthur owned the Emerson house that you and I have seen in our dreams.”
Gwen peered over my shoulder at my courthouse notes. “And Arthur got the house from his father, George Emerson.”
“Yes,” I said. “But neither Lucas or I have seen anything in our dreams that indicates the two people we’ve envisioned had children. We think if he’s connected to the man in the dreams, it can’t be as a direct descendant.”
“So we need to find the common link between these people and the man in the visions,” Luke added. “Which would be easier if we knew who he was.”
“Have you asked them to show you?” Gwen questioned.
“Asked who?” Luke and I said in unison.
“The people in your dreams. The ones who’ve reincarnated through the two of you.”
I took a second to appreciate the fact that Luke and I were having a conversation with his mother about reincarnations and dreams and visions as if it were as normal as taking out the garbage.
“How would we ask them?” Luke asked, his hand rubbing light circles on my upper arm. “I mean, it’s not like we can call them on the phone.”
“No,” Gwen said. “But clearly these people or their spirits are aware of you, since they’re speaking to you through the dreams and visions. Perhaps now that you know they’re trying to reveal something to you, you could speak to them.”
“Out loud?” It seemed crazy, but I figured it wasn’t any crazier than the rest of this, so why not. “Do you think they can hear us?”
“It’s been some time since I did any reading on reincarnation,” Gwen said. “I suppose since Lucas first told me about what he was experiencing. But it seems I remember that many people discussed talking with the spirits, or rather to them. Some people described finding a quiet place to express themselves verbally or even just through their thoughts.”
“I guess it might be worth a try,” Luke replied. “Maybe if we can get a bit of information about who it is we’re seeing, we can figure out how we’re connected.”
“But we still have to know what happened on the other side of those rocks.” I shuddered at the thought of it. In my heart I knew. They’d killed him on the beach that rainy night. I just didn’t know who they were, or why they’d killed him. “And why they hated us so much.”
“Knowing who we were is the first step in that.” Luke pulled me close, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But it’s getting late, and I should get you home.”
It occurred to me that we’d shifted the way we referred to the people in the dreams. Instead of calling them he, she or them, we’d begun calling them us and we. It felt strange, but also right, as if we’d finally started down the right path to end this.
Luke took Gwen’s notebook back to the living room, and from the kitchen I could hear keys jingling as he retrieved them from his coat pocket.
Gwen stood from the table and gave me a fierce hug. “You’ve dealt with all this like a true champion, Layla. I can’t begin to guess how difficult it is.”
“Lucas makes it easier,” I whispered in her ear as I hugged her tightly.
She chuckled. “He has a way about him. But don’t sell yourself short. You make this easier for him, too.”
***
It seemed a bit too bizarre to talk out loud to the woman from my dreams. Even though I was willing to try most anything to get answers, when the moment presented itself, I couldn’t bring myself to say it all out loud.
My parents were long asleep, and I knew they thought I was too. After Lucas dropped me off at home, I’d headed for my bedroom under the pretense of literature homework. In truth, it wasn’t homework, but rather a desire for a mental break from everything spinning through my head. I popped my headphones into my ears and set my iPod to play some wordless Mendelssohn instrumentals, and pulled out the small volume of Robert Burns poetry Lucas and I had tested over earlier in the week.
It was lyrical and relaxing, and though I was getting better at reading the Gaelic dialect, the English words scribbled in the margins made the words all the more melodic as I read.
I didn’t stop until after midnight. My mind felt peaceful. Not empty, but calm. The house was silent. The wind outside a gentle, serene breeze.
Now was the time.
My mouth refused to work, to allow me to voice my questions aloud. As if that would somehow evoke more than I wanted or needed at this point. Whatever the reason, be it my own fear or something more karmic, I decided not to fight it.
My dream self and I would have this exchange – if there was to be one – via my thoughts.
I imagined I looked like a teenage, wannabe fortuneteller sitting there on my bed, legs crossed Indian-style, eyes closed and breathing deeply. Perhaps the only thing missing was the precise Lotus-meditation pose and some rumbling “ohms” coming from my throat.
But I persisted, refusing to dwell on how ridiculous I must look. After all, no one else was here to see me. In my mind, I pictured the woman from my visions. I chose to remember her as she was in the first dream, happy and smiling, as she waited for her husband to come home to her. I focused on the feelings I’d felt – elation, contentment, harmony. In my mind I called out to her, seeking to somehow link my mind to hers.
I let the questions run through my consciousness. Who are you? What happened to you? Who hurt you? What do you want us to do?
As the questions roamed inside me, images from the other dreams flashed behind my eyelids. The despair of watching Lucas leave in order to protect me. The fear as I ran down the beach, hearing him being beaten. The cold, numb, resignation I felt as I was carried off the beach by the same people who’d hurt him.
Strangely, I didn’t feel afraid or sad. I felt empowered by the fact that for the first time I was being proactive, and not just waiting for another vision to cut my legs from under me.
I wasn’t sure how long I sat there, thinking all the things I wanted to know, but at some point whatever trance-like state I’d entered waned, and I slowly opened my eyes.
Exhaustion came then, and I took the iPod from my ears and laid it aside. My pillow felt softer than usual, and my bed seemed to welcome me like a beloved relative.
The sleep that claimed me was sound and complete, and for a long time I rested dreamlessly. Even from my unconscious state, I was thankful for that.
When the dream began, I knew immediately it was different. Instead of seeing a scenario played out like a movie, there was only sound. Narration. Storytelling.
The voice rang in my ears, a lower, more mature version of my own. And when she spoke, though she spoke of terrible events, her voice soothed me.
In the autumn of that year, they came for him. They said he was a murderer, and accused him of vile and repulsive things. The townsfolk were made to believe that he had done those unspeakable things to her. But he could not have done that. It was not in his
nature. He was good and kind and charitable. But no one would believe us. His innocence was doubted by all. The one who sought to destroy him convinced everyone that he was a danger to the town, and assembled a band of vigilantes. When they killed him, they believed they were justified. The other people of the town thought he ran away out of guilt, out of fear of being caught and punished. But I knew the truth. I had heard it all. And they used it to destroy me too.
Cryptic words that only aroused more questions in my mind. But at least I had an idea of what had happened. He was accused of a murder he did not commit. But for what reason? And why did someone seek to destroy him, as she’d said?
So I asked. In my mind, I forced the thought. Why did someone want to destroy him?
Her answer was swift and succinct. And it was the last she would say to me tonight.
Because he wanted me.
CHAPTER 24
The dream didn’t wake me, I realized when my alarm went off. And I wasn’t emotionally ragged as I usually was after one of the dreams. Perhaps I felt better because last night hadn’t been a “show and tell”, but rather a conversation of sorts.
I should call Lucas. I reached for my cell phone, but didn’t dial just yet. Instead, I grabbed my backpack from beside my bed and pulled out the tablet containing my courthouse notes. I remembered her words almost verbatim, so while they were still fresh in my mind I wrote them down. I also jotted the questions I still had. Who wanted to destroy him? Who had been murdered? And what had happened to her after her husband had been killed?
I reached for my phone, but it vibrated before I could push the first button.
“Tell me about your dream,” Luke said when I answered.
“She talked to me,” I answered. “I didn’t see her. I didn’t see anything. I just heard her voice.”
“He talked to me,” Luke added. “Same thing. No pictures, just words. What did she say to you?”
“I wrote it down, hang on.” I re-opened the notebook and read it back to him.