The Color of Heaven - 09 - The Color of Time

by Julianne MacLean

  “I don’t remember driving here,” I said, picking at my chipped red nail polish. “And I don’t remember you telling me that you were having an operation.” I rubbed my eyes and searched all the corners of my mind for a recollection of the day.

  “They say I’ll be going home tomorrow,” Gram mentioned, tentatively.

  I stared at her with wide eyes. “This is nuts. The last thing I remember, I was at home getting ready for bed. I’d just talked to Ethan on the phone.”

  She frowned at me. “You must have been dreaming.”

  “No, it wasn’t a dream,” I said, “but that’s why I called him—to tell him about a dream I’d had—which was a nightmare actually. I dreamed that he died.”

  Gram shut off the TV and stared at me for a few tense seconds before she spoke very carefully. “Sylvie…Ethan did die.”

  Her words sent a fireball of shock into my belly. I shook my head angrily. “No, that’s what happened in the dream. When I talked to him on the phone last night, I told him about it. He said he was fine, and that Grace and Emmaline were fine, too.”

  “Who are Grace and Emmaline?” Gram asked with confusion.

  “His wife and daughter.”

  Gram’s eyebrows lifted. “You were Ethan’s wife, Sylvie. And you had a son, not a daughter. His name was Tyler.”

  My heart began to pound. “I know that. But then Ethan married Grace.”

  Gram inclined her head. “Are you feeling okay? Because there was no Grace. There was only you and Tyler in Ethan’s life.”

  My stomach was turning somersaults by now, so I stood up and walked to the window to try and make sense of the situation. I looked out at the parking lot below. Cars were coming and going. Everything appeared normal from where I stood, but inside, my thoughts and emotions were reeling. I felt as if I were groping around in a circus funhouse with warped mirrors and crooked floors.

  I tried to remember everything that happened to me yesterday—all the things I’d just described to Gram—but as I stared up at the clouds, the images were already fading.

  “Do you honestly have no memory of Ethan’s death?” Gram asked. “Or are you playing a trick on me?”

  “It’s not a trick.” I turned to face her. “What happened to him?”

  She waved me over. “Come and sit down, sweetheart.”

  I did what she asked and braced myself for whatever she was about to tell me.

  “Six years ago, Ethan and Tyler were killed by a drunk driver.”

  The words hit me like a brick.

  No, that couldn’t be…

  I fought to hold on to some semblance of reason, even though everything in my mind was shifting and rolling like a mist I couldn’t cling to.

  I remembered speaking to my ex-husband the night before, and unquestionably, he had been alive and well. I had believed that I’d suffered through the death of my son eight years prior when he had a bad fall off a set of monkey bars. Had I dreamed all of that?

  Suddenly I was being presented with another reality altogether—that they were both long dead and I hadn’t spoken to my ex-husband last night at all.

  “How old was Tyler when the accident happened?” I asked, trying to get a grip on the particulars as I wiped away a tear.

  “He was six.” She stared at me with concern, no doubt wondering how I could forget something like that.

  This was all too difficult to process. It couldn’t be real, nor could I bring myself to simply accept it. What I’d accepted, was the death of my son from a fall off the monkey bars. It had taken me a long time to get over that, but I’d made peace with it. For the most part. As much as any mother can make peace with the loss of a child.

  “What have I been doing since then?” I asked.

  Gram spoke gently. “Trying to pick up the pieces. But it’s been tough on you. No doubt about it.”

  “How old am I?”

  That point needed clarification. Everything needed clarification.

  “You’re thirty-three,” Gram replied.

  “Do I have a job?”

  “You work at the pub.”

  “Which pub? What’s it called?”

  “The Old Stone Keep. You’ve been there for a few years. It’s a good thing. It gets you out of the house, meeting people.”

  “What house? Where do I live?”

  She frowned. “Really Sylvie… Are you serious? Do you honestly not remember any of this?”

  “Please, just tell me.”

  “You live in the house you inherited from Ethan’s mother after she died.”

  I covered my eyes with my hand. “Was it a plane crash? Is that how she died?”

  “Yes! So you do remember…”

  “Some things, at least.” I looked up, grasping for what I really knew. “Does Cassie work at the pub? Is there a Malcolm in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, they both work there and Cassie is your best friend. Thank God everything’s coming back to you.”

  I nodded, for at least some of this was familiar terrain.

  “Am I dating anyone?” I asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Gram replied. “Though you don’t tell me everything. You tried to keep it a secret that you put your picture up on one of those Internet dating sites. That worries me, Sylvie. You need to be careful.”

  “I’m still single, then,” I said. “Somehow…not surprising. Have I ever mentioned a man named Derek?”

  Although the memory of a man by that name was fading fast—in the way dreams do when you wake up. Whereas they’re vivid for a few seconds, they quickly retreat into the realm of a lost memory and you can’t access them.

  A thick, rolling fog was passing in front of Derek’s face. Soon all I could remember was that he had dark hair.

  Even my conversation with Ethan the night before was fading.

  Gram shook her head. “That name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  I sat back and looked away, toward the window. I stared in a daze at the white clouds floating across the pale blue sky, then I returned my attention to my grandmother.

  “This is bizarre,” I said. “I feel very disconnected from everything you’re telling me. I don’t know what’s real.” My eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “What’s wrong with me? Do I have amnesia or something?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “But this is worrisome. Do you remember what happened to Jenn last year?”

  I searched my mind for memories of my younger sister. At least I knew who she was. I recalled us growing up together in Montana and the fact that we always spent our summers here in Maine with Gram and Grampy. I could picture her face, hear her voice from my childhood, clear as a bell.

  Tennis lessons, swimming camp, Gram’s house with the white hanging swing on the veranda where we sat and ate orange popsicles on hot summer days…

  More recent events, however, from adulthood, were less accessible. The shifting fog was back.

  “Was Jenn sick?” I asked. “I have a vague recollection of her in the hospital. It was serious, I think.”

  “She had a brain tumor.”

  “Was I living with her at the time?”

  But that memory, as well, was retreating…

  “No,” Gram replied. “You were living here in Portland and working at the pub. She was alone because Jake was away, serving in Afghanistan. Your mother took care of her when the tumor progressed. You went out for a visit when she had the surgery to remove it.”

  I shook my head. “It’s all so vague, but you know…it’s slowly coming back to me.” I paused and focused hard to search through my mind for the memories Gram described.

  “Yes…I remember all of that now,” I said. “And I think I remember the accident with the drunk driver…” I frowned. “How could I forget that?”

  What kind of woman forgets the circumstances of her own child’s death?

  Gram reached for my hand and regarded me with concern. “Sylvie, that tumor caused Jenn to forget a lot of things and behave strange
ly. She had seizures and she sometimes blacked out. They were hard times. The police were involved because she was…” Gram paused. “Well, I don’t want to get into it, but she was very confused about things and couldn’t seem to separate reality from certain delusions she was having. I don’t know… Do brain tumors run in families? When was the last time you saw your doctor?”

  I sank back in the chair and pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I don’t know. I’ve been pretty healthy. I think.”

  “You need to make an appointment,” Gram insisted, “because if you’re losing track of things. That’s not normal for you.”

  I nodded and promised her I would call my doctor right away.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  My doctor wasn’t able to fit me in for an appointment until two days later. As a result, in the meantime, all I could do was try and navigate my way through this curious life. I had no idea what was real and what wasn’t.

  A part of me believed I was having some extraordinarily vivid dreams—because the confusion had begun soon after I woke up next to Gram’s bed in the hospital, where I had obviously been dreaming of another life.

  Or maybe I was dreaming this life, right now.

  The idea of that made me want to wake up. I wanted to feel like I was where I was meant to be, not somewhere else. I felt suddenly homesick like I was in a strange place I didn’t belong.

  But no, that couldn’t be the case, because everything around me was tangible and concrete. My spinach-and-mushroom omelet that morning had tasted like it always did. My hot shower had felt hot and wet, as it should. I still felt exactly like myself and had no pain in my head and wasn’t aware of any blackouts to suggest I might have a tumor, like my sister. When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself, exactly as I expected to look. I was still thirty-three years old with blond hair, blue eyes, and a mole on the back of my right hand. I had the scar on my knee from when I fell on the sidewalk outside my school when I was twelve. Every aspect of my current life felt familiar—even the memories of a past that didn’t mesh with what I had recalled when I first woke up in the hospital. It had taken a few minutes, but with Gram’s help, it had come back to me.

  It was all very troubling, so naturally I called Jenn to ask her about her early symptoms. “When did you start having headaches?”

  “It’s hard to say,” she replied, “because I always had stress headaches. I just thought that’s what they were. It wasn’t until I started forgetting things that I realized something was wrong. Remember I told you about the time I smashed my own wedding picture and thought someone else had done it?”

  “Yes, and you told me about the time you left the groceries in the trunk of your car for days until the whole car reeked like a garbage dump.”

  “I thought I was going crazy,” Jenn said.

  “That’s exactly how I feel right now. When did the seizures start?” I asked.

  “Not until later, when the tumor progressed. Have you been having headaches?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “And when I woke up in the hospital next to Gram’s bed, it almost felt as if my nerve endings were sizzling.”

  Jenn considered that for a moment. “Sometimes, just before a seizure, I would have a tingling sensation that would start in my fingertips and toes. But you say you haven’t had any seizures?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, you’d know.” We were both quiet for a moment. “Be sure to tell your doctor everything,” Jenn advised, “especially the fact that I had a tumor just last year. I don’t know if it’s genetic, but you could google it. Just don’t get too freaked out about everything you read on the Internet. There’s a lot of misinformation out there and what you’re experiencing could be caused by any number of things. Don’t assume anything until you see your doctor and get a proper diagnosis. Then we’ll deal with the problem from there. If it’s something serious, I’ll fly out and stay with you for a while if you need me to.”

  “Thanks, sis. I appreciate that. But I should probably go now and get ready for work.”

  We hung up and I went to get dressed.

  Later, I used my phone to google a few things about tumors and seizures. What I found was disturbing to say the least, but I tried to remember what Jenn had said about all the misinformation out there, and not to get too freaked out.

  * * *

  At least my job at the pub was a comfortable anchor in all of this disorientation. As soon as I walked in and heard the jingle of the bells over the door, I met Cassie’s eyes behind the bar and sighed with relief.

  “What’s up with you?” she asked. “You look like you’ve been run over by a truck.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “I could insult you back, but I won’t because you’re a sight for sore eyes.” My friendship with Cassie was deeply familiar and reassuring. Thank God there was nothing different about this part of my life.

  “Aren’t I always?” She flipped her curly red hair over her shoulder in a dramatic fashion.

  With a smile, I passed by the bar to get to the back kitchen, where I dropped off my purse and jacket and slipped my feet into my comfortable work shoes—a pair of black leather Nikes that provided excellent arch support.

  A few minutes later I was out front, lifting the chairs off the tables for the incoming lunch crowd. We were always busiest on Fridays.

  As I moved to the door to flip the sign to “Open,” I experienced an intense feeling of déjà vu, as if everything around me in that moment had happened before. I put it off to routine—even though something about this time was different.

  It was a scary feeling. It worried me because when I had googled brain tumors before coming into work, I learned that some sufferers experience a déjà vu feeling immediately before or during a seizure.

  I didn’t want to believe that was happening to me. I didn’t want to be sick.

  Turning to face Cassie behind the bar, I asked, “I don’t suppose I’m dating a man named Derek, and I’m keeping it from my grandmother?”

  Cassie stopped sliding the wine glasses into the racks over her head and regarded me as if I’d just turned into an alien. “Not that I know of, unless you’re keeping it from me, too. Who’s Derek? And what kind of question is that?”

  “I think I must have dreamed it,” I replied, not wanting to go into the possible brain tumor scenario. Not until I knew for sure. No sense worrying my friends.

  The bells over the door jingled and three women walked in. As I turned to greet them, my belly turned over with shock. I remembered them. They were the same three women who had witnessed my conversation with Derek’s wife, Addison, the day before.

  “Hi,” I said a little shakily. “Take a seat wherever you like.”

  They chose the same table they had chosen the day before—the one in the alcove at the front window.

  I moved behind the bar to fetch three menus. “Are they lunchtime regulars?” I whispered to Cassie.

  She leaned over the bar to take a look at them. “I don’t think so. Why? Do they look familiar to you?”

  “Maybe,” I replied, wasting no time as I approached their table.

  Was I having premonition dreams? Was that why all this was happening?

  “Nice day today,” I said as I handed a menu to each woman.

  The bells jangled on the door and I looked up in a panic, expecting to see a dark-haired woman in a black skirt and red heels. But it wasn’t Addison. Instead there were two men, unfamiliar to me. I barely glanced at them as they moved to the back and sat down at one of the booths.

  “This may seem like a strange question,” I said to the three women up front, “but were you ladies in here for lunch yesterday as well? You look familiar.”

  “No, we’ve never eaten here before,” one of them replied. “My friend recommended it. She said you have a great European beer selection.”

  “We most certainly do,” I replied. “Would you like to take a look at the drink menu?”

  They smiled at
each other mischievously. “We don’t usually drink beer on our lunch hour,” one of them said, “but it’s Gwen’s last day today.”

  “She got an amazing promotion and she’s getting transferred to a different branch,” another explained. “We work at the bank around the corner and we’re going to miss her.”

  I smiled at Gwen—a slightly overweight, middle-aged lady with glasses and short brown hair.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “Well…I think you should let loose and enjoy yourselves. Here’s the specialty beer list. Have a look and I’ll be back in a few minutes to answer any questions.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen replied with an appreciative smile.

  I returned to the bar to fetch two more menus to deliver to the customers at the back, but as I picked them up, Cassie leaned close to speak in my ear.

  “Just to give you a heads up,” she whispered, “the guy at the back has been checking you out ever since he came in.”

  I felt a flutter of apprehension in my belly, afraid I was about to have another episode of déjà vu. Could he be Derek? I’d barely glanced at the men when they entered.

  If it were Derek, I might start to wonder if my true destiny in life was to become a psychic.

  With a mixture of nervousness and curiosity, and two menus in my hand, I turned toward the back booth.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Hi there,” I said, setting the menus down on the table in front of the two male customers. Trying to be discreet, I glanced at their faces.

  Nope. Neither of these looked like the Derek from my dream.

  “Is this your first time at The Keep?” I asked. It was the standard question we asked most customers we didn’t recognize, because if they said yes, I was supposed to launch into a friendly spiel about our unique specialty beer selection.

  “Not for me,” the dark-haired one said—the one I’d studied most closely because I was certain the Derek of my dream also had dark hair.

  The other man at the table had brown hair, and I felt his eyes on me. When I finally met his gaze, he smiled. “Sylvie?”