Table of Contents
I Reach Through Time and Touch the Other Side
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Sophia Deri-Bowen
Copyright
I Reach Through Time and Touch the Other Side
Everyone has the same dream. You’ve had it, if you stop to remember. It’s the dream where you discover a new part of your house, or maybe your office building, or the building where all your classes are. Although you know the real building better than anything else, could walk it with your eyes closed, suddenly there’s a new floor. Maybe it’s a pop art gallery (and you’re either relieved or sad when you wake, depending on your tastes), or you’re learning that you’ve got an airport terminal on the roof of your apartment building that appears to have been there for ages.
Or maybe it’s smaller. You suddenly find yourself with a crawl space full of flowers. Or you’ve got a spare bedroom—and really, how often do you go up to the attic? It’s totally plausible that you’ve missed this, somehow, over the days or years or decades that you’ve been in your house, or your office, or your university.
But anyway—you wake up, and maybe long for a spare bedroom, or, hell, a spare closet. Or maybe you don’t need the space, but you love the romance of a secret room.
Or, maybe, you wake up and it’s still there.
Ari Rosenberg did not look like he was supposed to.
He was average height, had wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes, and had been raised Catholic, although he no longer practiced any religion beyond going to church twice a year with his sister and her family. None of these things were bad, of course, but when you grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, amidst the exotic ultra-Orthodox men in their plain clothes and dark beards and seemingly dozens of children, when you were within spitting distance of East Broadway and had the name Ari Rosenberg and yet looked the way he did, you got used to being met with a flicker of surprise. He was supposed to look like all of his neighbors—and be like them too. Of course, that was probably the only thing surprising about Ari Rosenberg’s life, until he had the dream.
It was a Friday night and the end to the workweek; that was the only thing remarkable about it. He’d fixed spaghetti with lots of sauce and cheese, caught a few hours of a Mets game, and gone to bed. Even the dream wasn’t particularly remarkable; it had been about cleaning out his closet, for goodness’s sake. But when he’d moved all his dress shirts—for some reason, in the dream, he had dozens of shirts—there was a sheet of plywood, probably leftover from an earlier repair or something of the sort. When he moved that, there was a jagged hole in the smooth drywall. It had never been there before, which made sense as there had never been anything but the out-of-doors on the other side of that wall. Now, however, a little room was just visible, and Ari found he could fit through the hole if he leaned over.
He did, of course, though he didn’t remember being curious in his dream. On the other side of the wall there was a small, windowless room. The walls were white, the ceiling high and traced out with wooden rafters. There was a skylight, but it showed only pale blue sky, and he couldn’t seem to see anything else, like the giant old chestnut that shadowed that part of the house, no matter how he moved about the room.
Ari’s dream-self took all of this in rather dispassionately, exploring the room thoroughly—not difficult, it was no more than ten feet by, maybe, eight—and then returning to his chores. The dream followed him into the waking world, and he made sleepy plans as he stirred. Maybe put in a bar, and throw a party for his few friends?
It was over coffee that he realized that the dream had been just a dream, and he smiled at himself. He’d always liked the idea of secret, hidden things, and it would have been a real coup to find something in this old house.
“Nothing in here but us chickens,” he murmured, washing out his mug and setting it aside neatly. “Shame. Can’t be helped, though.” There were no mysteries in a square house, each bit of space accounted for, in a perfectly normal, sane community.
Still, the dream stayed with him, and he went up to his bedroom, which was still in the gentle disarray that spoke of weekends. Ari didn’t have much in his closet, and what he did have was all easily shoved to one side.
He grinned upon seeing a sheet of plywood—of course, he must have remembered that for his dream. Little matter that he didn’t remember it from when he looked in his closet daily; people stopped really seeing and remembering ordinary, everyday things all the time, didn’t they?
He reached out to push the plywood aside, and really couldn’t keep back a cry of surprise when he saw the hole in the wall, just as it had been in dream. That was definitely new, which meant the plywood was new, which meant….
Ari didn’t stop to think what it meant, not when it was inevitable that he would step through the little hole and emerge in a room not entirely unlike the one from his dream. There was no skylight, but the walls were smooth and white, and the vaulted ceiling had the same wooden accents. Enough light came in through his closet, and Ari stood up slowly in the impossible room, turning around to take it all in.
Because it was impossible; very definitely impossible. The other side of that wall was the world, not another ten feet of room. That was beyond clear, even just from looking at the way the windows were patterned from the outside of the house. This room could, in no way, exist.
“And yet, here I am,” Ari murmured, running a hand along the wall, smooth and cool and perfectly normal to the touch. “It’s quite a nice room too.”
And it was. There was a door on the wall opposite the hole into his closet. He tried the handle, but it didn’t move. He wasn’t quite brave enough to knock.
He walked around the room once more, crawled out of the little hole, and moved the piece of plywood back, not really sure what else to do.
Ari walked downstairs thoughtfully and headed for the backyard. “Really ought to mow that lawn,” he said, because that was what people said who had normal homes and lives, and he was still one of those people. Instead of doing yard work, he looked up at the northern wall, found his bedroom window, and estimated how far it was from the edge of the house. Three feet? Maybe four? That would account for the closet that was two feet deep. It did not, of course, account for the room ten feet deep on the other side of the closet.
Well, it wasn’t Narnia, and it wasn’t dangerous. Not so far. Ari was only a little surprised that he wasn’t worried, since after all, what did he have to worry about? He’d gone into the room and come out just fine, and if someday he didn’t, well, he’d deal with that. He smiled a little to himself, pretending to examine the hedge. Life was what it was; if he somehow got trapped in the room, or an alternate dimension—well, at least it would be something different from the dullness of everyday life. It would be something unexpected. Ari hadn’t had much in his life that was unexpected.
Not much had ever ruffled him. His father had died when he was five, but he didn’t remember much about the man and hadn’t known what was happening then. He’d woken up startled every morning since he’d moved from Manhattan to sleepy old Levittown, but that was only a few moments out of the day, quickly forgotten. Coming out to his mother and sister had been utterly unremarkable, with calm assertions of understanding from both the women in his life. Being gay was probably the most interesting thing about him. Ari wasn’t afraid because, for possibly the first time in his life, he was interested.
He returned to his bedroom and pulled the plywood aside again, examining the jagged hole. The room on the other side was dark but strangely cozy and inviting; he smiled to himself, thinking about hav
ing his very own hideaway. He hadn’t even had a bedroom to himself until the age of twenty-two, and now five years later he had not only the whole house, but a secret room as well, where he could hide away from the world.
Ari sat on the floor and thought. He sketched a few things out idly on notebook paper, before realizing that he wouldn’t actually want a speakeasy, or a priest’s hole, or something that required several weekends’ work and artistic talent. No, an impossible room called for something really special.
He put on a pair of beat-up loafers and drove to the outlet store where he’d gotten all of his furniture. They’d had lots of big pillows last time he was there, and Ari was pleased to see that their stock hadn’t changed. His tastes were simple and inexpensive, and he'd seen no need to go anywhere else.
He bought a bunch of floor pillows and, on a whim, a futon. His little four-door bulged as he drove away, but he was smiling, just a little bit.
“Good old crazy-dream room,” he murmured when he got back and found the plywood, the hole, and the mystery room still there. It took almost an hour to drag everything up to his bedroom and shove it through the hole, adding in an extension cord and a nice floor lamp along the way. Soon he had a room all his own, nearly filled with the low mattress and the mismatched, scattered pillows. He stretched out on the futon, wrapped around a convenient pillow, and fell fast asleep, despite the friendly glow from the floor lamp and the early evening hour.
“What the hell?”
Contrary to his usual first-thing-in-the-morning routine, Ari knew precisely where he was when the strange voice woke him up. It wasn’t so much that he slept badly in the plain double bed he’d bought solely because the frame and mattress were on sale, but he’d been waking up disoriented ever since he’d left Manhattan. He was used to having to take a few minutes to catch his breath, let the tightness in his chest ease, and place himself in time and space, so to speak. This time when he awoke in the little room lit by a yellow glow, still wrapped around the long pillow, he knew exactly where he was.
What he didn’t know was whose voice he’d heard, and he looked up startled, feeling somehow guilty at the thought that his secret place had been discovered. Who was in his house, and who had found the one thing in the world that was just his?
“I repeat. What the fucking hell?” The voice belonged to a rough-looking man who stood in the doorway that had been locked when Ari had tried it earlier. He was shorter than Ari, but muscular, with long brown hair that was tangled and thick. One section, just in front of his left ear, was braided messily and strung with heavy wooden beads. The man’s skin was tanned, and his bare chest was thickly furred, the hair dark and wiry-looking. He wore a pair of loose, dark green trousers that were tight at the waistband and ankles and otherwise billowed softly. There was a strap over his chest, and Ari saw when he moved that it was attached to a small, colorful satchel.
Oh my God, my interdimensional room opens onto a hippie festival. Ari blinked, and pushed himself up. “Hello.”
“Who are you? What is this?” The man frowned and stepped into the room, just a little. There wasn’t much room, really, thanks to the pillows Ari had scattered around, and he felt briefly guilty for assuming the room was just his. Because, of course, there is an etiquette to such things, and if we forgot that, we would be no better than the animals! He stifled a smile at his thought, but not entirely. Not until the man scowled at him, anyway.
“I’m Ari. Ari Rosenberg. I’m not sure what this is. I just found a hole in the wall in my closet, and this was on the other side. But there’s no room for it. No space in my house, I mean,” he corrected himself. “Who are you?” When the man moved, Ari could just about peek through the door. He saw a small room with a galley kitchen across one wall, a few boxes stacked around. What he could see was gray and utilitarian, totally unsuited to the man who’d come through the doorway. The sunlight that filtered through window over the sink was greenish, as if shining through trees, and it lent the space a modicum of beauty.
“What do you care, rich boy?” The man continued to scowl, looking around them. “I don’t know how you did this, but then I shouldn’t be surprised. They won’t tell us anything about new technology until it’s been watered down, patented, closed off, and sealed up to everyone.”
“Huh?”
The man cocked his head to one side, giving Ari a piercing look. His eyes were an odd shade of green, shot through with golden brown, like the cat Ari’s first and only girlfriend had had. They were stunning. As was the rest of him, actually.
“I’m sorry,” he said, softening his voice. “Are you one of the special ones? I guess you might be, if they keep you in here. I’m sorry I yelled.”
“I’m not retarded, if that’s what you’re implying,” Ari said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not rich, either, by the way.”
The man winced, but still smiled. “Maybe not rich, but you must be very special, to be dressed like that, and use that… word. It’s very mean, and we don’t say things like that anymore,” he scolded gently, moving to kneel gracefully in the doorway. “I’m very sorry I sounded angry with you. I’m not, really. Just surprised. Are you all right?” He smiled, and held out his hand. “My name is Kimi, Ari.”
Ari laughed, and took his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Kimi,” he said, stumbling over the odd name only a little. “I’m not special, I promise. I guess by that you mean developmentally delayed? Someone with a learning or mental disability?”
Kimi looked surprised. “Yes, actually. But, honey, you must be, to be in here, and be dressed so old-fashioned.”
“Could you not call me ‘honey’, please? My name is Ari.” This was getting irritating, as was the man’s sugary-gentle tone, but at least one of them could be properly polite. He’d sort of liked it better when Kimi was angry. “I’m really, really not. I went to college, I have a job, I’m perfectly normal.” He made a face. “Even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t want you to call me that, frankly.”
Kimi had the good grace to blush. “I’m sorry. I’m so used to my clients… you’re right.” He looked at Ari again, that same deep gaze, their eyes meeting for a long minute. “So you’re not special, and you’re not rich. Why are you in my closet, dressed like it’s the twentieth century?”
“Because it is? Well, early twenty-first.” Ari looked down at his jeans and battered Bowdoin T-shirt and frowned. “What’s wrong with that? And by the way, you’re technically in my closet too.”
Kimi gave him an odd look. “Okay, something very weird is going on, and I don’t like it.” The scowl was starting to come back. “It’s the end of the twenty-first century as you would know, being neuro-norm, and there isn’t room on the other side of this for there to be another apartment. Frankly, there isn’t room for anything more than a small closet. And you said you had a whole house?” Kimi frowned. “No one has houses anymore, unless you’re really stupid-rich.”
Ari felt something shift, something so big and so insane that it was almost a relief, through the total and complete weirdness of it all. It’s true. It is. Everything’s as strange and wonderful and inexplicable as I always thought. There was more to life than a house and a job. I should probably be afraid, but the hell with that. “I’m sorry, what year is it? For you, I mean.”
“It’s 2095, of course. August 23rd. Which is what it is for you, right?”
Ari shook his head, unable to keep from grinning. “August 23rd is right, but it’s 2010, Kimi. I swear on my life.”
“What. The. Fuck.” Kimi scrambled to his feet, staring down at Ari. “You’re fucked in the head, man. Nothing special, just crazy.” He turned and walked out of the doorway, slamming the door shut behind him.
Ari sat there for a few long minutes, until he could breathe deeply again and decide whether he wanted to cry, laugh, dance, or do all three at once. He opted instead to stand up and try the door handle, but he found that it didn’t move. He hadn’t heard a lock click, or anything else from the other side of it, if
indeed it was still Kimi and late August 2095 over there. Well. That was unexpected. He rested his hand on the door for a moment, turning this new development over in his mind, the way he did with anything unexpected.
He went back to his bedroom and wrote a note, flipping past the pages of sketches he’d made earlier.
Dear Kimeh (?),
I’ll spend as much time in the room as I can. If you’re reading this, I’ve missed you, but stick around if you can, because I want to see you again. What can I do to prove to you that I’m from your past? This is just as weird for me, but can’t you admit that you’re curious?
Ari
He folded the note up and left it in the little room, careful to turn the light off and slide the plywood over the hole before he went to go prepare dinner. Meeting someone from the future—someone very handsome, if temperamental and a little condescending—made one hungry, he quietly noted.
Ari made dinner and ate leisurely, making himself wait, take his time, let Kimi cool down. The man might never open his closet door again. Or, if he did, would he find a different connecting room? Or would it open to Ari’s house, just in a different time? He tried to read the paper while he ate, but even his calm nature couldn’t take quite that much normalcy after the day he’d had.
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