Transcendence t-1

by C. J. Omololu

  I wander down the main hall, back to where it is quieter. Signore Luisotti wants us to mingle with the guests, but while playing the cello is a pleasure, talking to strangers is not. One of the heavy wooden doors is open a crack, and I slow as I hear familiar voices on the other side.

  “… soon,” says Signore Luisotti. “Look at the girl, she is practically a woman. Already tonight one of the hosts asked me how old she is. How much longer can we dress Alessandra in full petticoats and long bows in order to have her pass as fifteen? She is every inch of nineteen, and it is starting to show.”

  “With all due respect, Antonio,” says Signora Luisotti in even tones. “What are we supposed to do? Just turn the girl out of the troupe?”

  I hear ice clink in a glass. “And why not? We can hardly call it the Young Masters Orchestra when one of the Young Masters must get her breasts bound before every concert in order to keep up appearances.”

  I feel someone behind me and turn to see Alessandra standing in the hallway. One look at her face tells me that she’s heard them too. She turns to walk away, her shoulders rounded and her head down. I rush to catch up.

  “They didn’t mean any of that!” I say. I place a hand on her shoulder, but she doesn’t turn to face me. “You are the best musician in the entire troupe. They would never be able to tour without you.”

  Alessandra finally turns to face me, the remains of tears shining in her eyes. “You’re kind. But we both know the truth.” She runs a finger over the bow in her hair, an accessory that I’ve never thought about before, but does make her seem absurdly young. “I can’t continue here much longer. All of us have a limited lifespan as a Young Master, and mine is almost up.”

  “Nonsense!” I cry, pushing the Luisottis’s words out of my head. “Besides, Paolo would never stay without you.” I see her eyes lift at the mention of his name. “And neither would I. If you leave, you take half the troupe with you. Signore would be left with a few viola players and a second-rate bassist.”

  Alessandra smiles at that. She puts her hand on my cheek. “So nice of you to say,” she says, sadness still lingering in her eyes. “And so untrue. I’ve had my turn, and it’s almost time for me to move on. It’s the natural order of things.”

  I fall forward and embrace her, the clean smell of soap washing over me as I bury my head into her shoulder and she tightens her arms around me. I haven’t been held like this since I said goodbye to my mother at the train station so long ago, and the sensation of her touch brings tears to my eyes.

  I can feel my cheeks redden as I think over the past few months, the rehearsals, the choice of pieces to play, and the reality of her words begins to ring true. They haven’t brought me into the troupe to play with Alessandra. They’ve brought me here to replace her.

  “May I help you?” A slightly angry man appears at the front door to the mansion.

  “Oh, I, um, was just wondering what this building is,” I say, trying to pull myself out of the vision as quickly as possible. Strong feelings of dread and guilt have settled into my stomach.

  “This is the Pacific Coast Club,” he says, his tone not inviting any more questions. He pulls himself up to his full height. “Members only.”

  The Pacific Coast Club. Doesn’t seem familiar. I know I’m taking my chances by asking, but at this point I don’t have a lot to lose. “Was it ever anything else? Was it called something different?”

  “Before the great quake, it was one of the grandest private residences in all of San Francisco. The Sutter Mansion.”

  I feel a sense of familiarity and know that’s it. In the memory I had of the ferry dock, Signore Luisotti mentioned a Signore Sutter. “Thanks.”

  He pulls his head in the door and closes it with enough force that the sound is solid and final. The carriages and finely dressed people on the steps are gone, replaced by speeding cars and a homeless guy pushing a loaded shopping cart slowly down the sidewalk. I turn and start down the steps, putting my hand on the rough stone railing for balance.

  The wind is blowing hard this high above the city. All around us, the sky glows orange from the setting sun, but my eyes are riveted to a tiny figure sprawled on the ground several stories below. Her arms and legs are bent at unnatural angles, and even from here I can see the dark pool spreading out underneath her across the hard stone walkway.

  The rushing in my ears seems to block the sound of my own voice. I know I am screaming, but it feels as if nothing is coming out. I lean over the side as far as I dare, hoping against hope that she will move or twitch—that she will just get up and tell us that this is all a terrible mistake. The wind seems to steal the sound as I scream her name over and over.

  “Alessandra!”

  I feel Rayne shaking my shoulder as I pull myself back into reality. I’m sitting on the steps about halfway to the sidewalk. My eyes are wet with tears, and my throat feels raw as I remember the last thing I saw in that memory. Alessandra died that day, right here at the mansion. Did I have something to do with it?

  “Cole! What’s wrong?” Rayne’s face is full of confusion and concern.

  “I’m fine,” I say, standing up and brushing imaginary dirt off my jeans. I wonder what this must look like to her, and I hope to God I wasn’t actually screaming out loud. “Just slipped.” I push past her and walk down the rest of the steps to the relative safety of the sidewalk.

  Rayne walks beside me in silence until we reach the corner, but all I can focus on is the image of Alessandra lying dead on the pavement. The air between us feels thick with everything she wants to say, and knowing Rayne, she’s not going to keep quiet for long.

  “What the hell was that all about?” she finally asks. “And don’t tell me ‘nothing,’ because I’m not stupid. Mom says that I have a gift for reading people, and what I just read over there was definitely something.”

  I walk just ahead of her so she can’t see my face. My mind is whirling with thoughts of Alessandra. “Promise you won’t tell anyone,” I say, not sure I’m actually going to tell her any of it. There’s no way I would give anyone else even a glimpse of the insanity I’ve been sucked into, but this is Rayne, after all—the girl who believes in spirit stones and destiny.

  “Promise,” she says, her mood suddenly solemn.

  “I think I’m remembering things,” I say. “Things from…” I stop here, not able to say the next part.

  “Things like what?” she prompts. “Come on, Cole, spill.”

  “This is going to sound nuts,” I say. I exhale. “Things from other lifetimes.”

  Rayne whistles. “You mean like spirits? Were you guided there by some kind of spirit? Is that why you look like you saw a ghost when you were talking to that guy?”

  “Not like spirits,” I say. “More like my own past lives.” The words hang between us as I look up to meet her eyes.

  She stares at me for a moment before leaning in to give me a huge hug. “Whoo hoo!” she says. “I cannot believe the words I just heard come out of your mouth!” She takes a step back. “This has something to do with Griffon, doesn’t it? I remember you saying he’s into reincarnation.” She pokes me in the arm. “But you said you thought he was crazy.”

  “I know what I said. And it does sound crazy. But even crazier things have been happening lately, and I … I think I believe him. I remember being at a party at that mansion,” I say. “Sometime like a hundred years ago. Back when they had horses and carriages.”

  “Wow,” Rayne says. She shakes her head in a sort of grudging admiration. “For years I’ve heard you laugh at all of my ‘stupid hippie’ ideas. Who’s laughing now?”

  It’s a relief to share even a little part of the burden I’ve been carrying around for weeks. Even if I don’t tell her about Griffon and the Akhet, it’s almost like I’m not alone anymore.

  “What time is it?” Rayne asks suddenly.

  I check my cell. “About three forty-five. Why?”

  “Great. She’s probably still there.” Rayne gra
bs my hand and heads for the bus stop. “Come on.”

  “Who? Where are we going?” I yell as we run to catch the bus that’s just about to pull away from the curb.

  “You’ll see,” Rayne says as we find places in the bus’s crowded aisle. “It’s a surprise.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  “You’ll like this one.”

  “Doubtful.” I duck down to watch Market Street go by out the window. A few minutes after we turn onto Mission, Rayne presses the stop button.

  “This is us,” she says, and pushes her way toward the back door.

  We land in the middle of the Mission District. I look around at the deserted bars and cheap furniture stores. “And?” I ask.

  “This way. It’s just down here.” Rayne heads off quickly, so I have no choice but to follow her. She stops in front of a pawn broker and rings the bell in a doorway to the right.

  “Okay, now I’m totally confused,” I say.

  “Shhh!” she says as the speaker on the wall crackles. “Hi, Whitney! It’s Rayne,” she shouts into the metal box.

  I hear a muffled reply and the door buzzes open. Rayne holds the door for me, and then leads me up the steep staircase that’s just inside the hall. There’s soft music playing in the building that sounds like chanting and bells. Hippie stuff. The smell of incense strikes me as we’re halfway up the stairs, and I sneeze.

  “Bless you.” A small woman with curly blond hair and insanely high fuschia heels stands at the top of the stairs in front of what looks like a small apartment. Beside her sits a medium-size black dog.

  “Thanks,” I say, sniffing slightly. This place is allergy central.

  Rayne reaches over to hug her, and then pulls back to introduce me. “Whitney, this is Cole, a former skeptic who is now in total need of your services.”

  “Services? What services?” I ask, still clueless about why we’re here.

  Whitney gives a little nod in my direction and smiles. “Former skeptic,” she says. “That sounds like an interesting story. Come on into my office.” The dog follows quietly as she and Rayne disappear into the next room. Not wanting to be left alone in a strange apartment, I follow.

  The small room is bare except for some floor pillows and a low table. A fountain in the corner adds the sound of falling water to the music, and the windows are covered with a sheer, gauzy material. The whole effect makes me want to take a nap. And pee.

  “Please. Sit.” Whitney indicates one of the cushions.

  As we settle onto the floor, I turn to Rayne. “Will you finally tell me what we’re doing here?”

  “We’re going to find out what’s really going on,” Rayne says.

  Whitney looks at me and then Rayne as she absently strokes the dog’s head. “So, Cole doesn’t even know why she’s here?”

  Rayne shrugs. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. But the minute I thought of you, I knew it was the right thing to do.” She turns to me. “Whitney’s a psychic. My mom’s been coming here for years. I thought she could help you out.”

  I shake my head. I should have known this would be Rayne’s idea of a solution. “A psychic? Seriously?”

  “You stand there in the middle of the sidewalk telling me you’re remembering things from past lives and you’re asking me if I’m serious?”

  I suppose she has a point. I think I’m a little higher up on the unbelievability scale at the moment.

  Whitney’s impeccable eyebrows shoot up, and she gives me a slightly more engaging smile. Apparently I’ve sparked a little bit of interest somewhere. “Hmm. Past lives? Intriguing. But you have to let down your barriers in order for me to assist you. That is, if you want to stay at all.”

  I glance around the room, which looks a lot more like a spa than a psychic’s lair. I wouldn’t be surprised if she offers bikini waxes along with crystal ball readings. Either one sounds excruciating. “Aren’t you supposed to have scary animal heads all over the walls and heavy velvet curtains?”

  “And maybe a big turban and a sputtering neon sign in the window?” Whitney adds. She waves her hand. “Strictly tourist trade.”

  “Don’t judge,” Rayne says. “The least you can do is give it a try.” She nods to Whitney. “Put it on Mom’s bill. She won’t mind.”

  “So, what are we going to do?” I ask. “Auras? Tarot cards? Tea leaves?”

  Whitney’s expression doesn’t change. “May I see your hand?”

  “Palm reading!” I say. “Perfect.” I hold my hand out to her just as Rayne punches me in the arm. The two of them are so serious it makes me want to laugh.

  Whitney places her hand under mine, but immediately I can feel her stiffen. I watch as her eyes fly open wide and she gasps, pulling her hand away. “Rayne,” she says, “do you mind if I do Cole’s reading in private?”

  Rayne looks at the two of us, but shrugs it off. “No, that’s cool.”

  “There’s some tea in the kitchen. Why don’t you start a pot for all of us?”

  “Fine. Put me to work and don’t share,” she says, but she’s smiling as she closes the door behind her.

  Whitney turns the full intensity of her blue eyes on me. “How long have you known?”

  I decide to let her take the lead. “Known what?”

  She places her folded hands on the table. “If you’re going to mess with me, you might as well go. I can sense that you’re aware of what you are, although you seem undeveloped. You’re someone who can remember who they’ve been through the millennia. Someone who has the potential to transcend ordinary human limitations. You’re young, but still undeniably Akhet.”

  I flinch when she says the word out loud. It seems to hang in the air like an accusation.

  “What did you just say? What did you just call me?”

  “Akhet,” she says, her gaze direct.

  It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. “So it’s true? Griffon wasn’t lying?”

  “Who?”

  “I met a guy, and he’s been … helping me.” At least, he was. “But I didn’t believe him. I mean, it sounds crazy—past lives, reincarnation, secret societies.”

  Whitney searches my eyes intently. “So this boy is Sekhem?” She seems to calm some, and her face grows concerned.

  I nod.

  “Are you … Akhet too?” I didn’t sense the same vibrations when she touched me, but she could just be really good at hiding it.

  “No,” she says. “But I’ve met several Akhet in my lifetime. Befriended a few. It’s a very special calling, and an important responsibility.”

  There’s that word again. Responsibility. I feel a pang of apprehension. “I didn’t ask for this. I’m not sure that I even want it.”

  “It would be nice if you could just hand it all back and say ‘no thanks.’ But it doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to choose. You just need to accept what is and try to fulfill your destiny.”

  Destiny. Responsibility. First I’m destined to be a cellist, now I’m destined to be Akhet. “And how do I do that? How do I even know what it is?”

  She smiles. “You have time to find your place in the world. You’re still young in this life.” Whitney pauses and takes my hand back in hers. She’s silent, but her body isn’t quiet—it feels like some unseen movement is racing through her still form. “I can sense some of what you’re going through. When I touch you, I feel the confusion of many lives churning together.”

  “Can you tell anything about the lives? Who I was? What I was doing?” The memory of the Pacific Coast Club is still fresh, and I wonder how it all ties into Veronique. If it ties into Veronique.

  “No. Nothing specific. That’s something you’re going to have to figure out for yourself as time goes on.” She shakes her head as if to clear it. “I also feel abilities growing. Great abilities. I can’t tell exactly what, but I feel an empathic spirit.”

  For a few minutes, neither of us says a word. For all I know, Whitney’s thinking about what she’s going to ha
ve for dinner, but my mind is racing. Images from the Pacific Coast Club rush through my brain, and I think back to what Griffon said in the park. If I had believed him sooner, would it have made a difference? Would it have stopped him from disappearing on me?

  “Is there something special about the Akhet you came here to find?” Whitney asks softly.

  It’s so strange to hear these words coming from someone else, someone who has no connection to Griffon or Janine, who has no way of knowing that she’s confirming their story. It makes it seem possible. Real, even.

  I raise my eyes to hers, feeling fear and relief flood through my body in equal measure. “No. I think I’ve already found it.”

  Thirteen

  The crowd at the game is noisy, but I sit a little apart on the bleachers and zip my jacket up tighter. The baseball field faces the Bay, and the wind whips across the water like it’s the middle of winter. Griffon’s up to bat again, and despite the fact that I’m still mad at him for his disappearing act, I can’t help but feel a charge of excitement as I watch him take a few practice swings. I’m not huge into sports, but I could easily learn to be a fan of the tight gray pants they’re all wearing. Griffon looks at home in his uniform, and holds the bat like it’s an extension of his arm. There’s an ease to the way he plays, like he’s born to it, and I wonder if this is the first lifetime he’s ever played baseball. I’m pretty sure I know what the answer will be.

  Despite the cold wind, the sun is shining, and as I wait for Griffon to take his place at the plate, I’m increasingly glad I decided to come after all. When he finally called me last night and asked me to come to his game, I tried to say no, I really did. He can’t just kiss me and then disappear for a week and expect things to be okay. I want to be the strong person who doesn’t cave the second she hears his voice. I want to be the person who doesn’t come running whenever he whistles. Those are all the people I want to be, but I’m failing miserably. Who I am is the person who came all the way out here to sit at a freezing, windblown ballfield because of one phone call.