Exhausting.
Tuesday the stock was down two, Wednesday up three, Thursday down a half, and Friday up a quarter. When the market closed Friday afternoon, Micah snapped his laptop shut and sighed. A headache throbbed in his temples and radiated down his neck. Finally over!
It was more than the money. It was his company’s clout in the computer world. With the stock in the low 60s, RimSoft wouldn’t be as influential, making key alliances harder to secure.
But it was more than even that. He’d invested his life in the company. Blood, tears, and gallons of sweat had been poured into it. Even a sliver of it slipping away ripped at his heart. RimSoft gave him identity, a reference point for his entire life. He was RimSoft; RimSoft was him. Sure, maybe Cannon Beach was changing him, drawing him to a deeper identity and things eternal, but it didn’t squelch the sinking feeling inside of losing his world in Seattle.
Saturday morning he guzzled a cup of Seattle’s Best Coffee, wandered out onto the deck, and watched the seagulls canter back and forth on the wind. He worried. Not about his sanity. Not really. He knew he wasn’t losing his mind. It was the daunting images that darted through his mind of other things that might change in an instant.
Time for a run.
On his way to change clothes, the painting room popped into his mind. Yes. Just the thing to take his mind off the madness. After he opened the door, he didn’t know whether to feel fear or joy. Significant changes again. He felt light-headed and teetered on his Nikes.
Lush Douglas fir trees now covered the hills, emerald carpet at their feet. The sky was a brilliant sapphire blue, with cotton candy clouds peppered sparsely through the heavens. The artist had started the ocean, but it was too early to tell if the waves would play or rage.
He studied the painting for half an hour. Where the artist would take it next fluttered at the edges of his heart like a riveting dream that fades upon waking. The artist could put people in the painting, a sand castle, kites . . .
When he finally left, he walked toward his bedroom to get ready for his run. The plan was abandoned a moment later when he spotted another door down the hall he’d never seen. It was framed by ornate carvings of trees interwoven with otters, wolves, and eagles.
This, he would have remembered.
The door was cracked open, the inside tar black. He peeked through the narrow opening. Light from the hall spilled onto the first few feet of carpet in the room and stopped abruptly. Odd. Micah eased the door open halfway.
There was no furniture in the few feet of the room he could see—nothing but carpet washed into the darkness. There was no sound, although it felt like there should be. The room was too still. Too silent. Images of the memory room filled his mind.
A faint rustle came from the back of the room.
“Hello?” Micah called out.
“Hi, Micah,” came a voice out of the stillness.
Micah’s heartbeat jumped from 65 to 180 in an instant. He staggered back across the hall and smacked into the wall behind him. But he stayed there and didn’t run. Something about the voice riveted him to the floor.
“Who are you?”
“Come in,” the soft voice soothed.
“Who are you?” Micah shouted.
“Hey, get in here.” The voice laughed easily. “Come in.” The tone was light and welcoming. “Don’t freak out on me.”
The voice was familiar, as if he’d heard it many times before. He hesitated. There was no reason to go in. That wasn’t true. There was every reason to step inside. Everything in this house was somehow related to his spiritual condition. Archie had virtually told him that in his first letter.
But this was different. It was the first time an audible voice had spoken to him without being part of a contained scene or a dream. And instead of being a scene from his past, this was in the present and in the house. This wasn’t a changed painting or a room of memorabilia; it was a real, live voice.
He shuddered, once, twice, then moved forward. He inched his foot over the threshold and set his foot down like a dandelion spore settling on the grass in spring. His other foot remained in the hallway.
Laughter again. Warm. Comforting. “Come in, Micah. All the way. I promise, I am a friend. More of a friend than you can imagine.”
He eased into the room another step and then stopped. The room felt familiar. Even more than the rest of the house. It was like hearing a phone number and realizing it was attached to someone he knew but not remembering if the person was from the present or a past long forgotten.
“Now that your heart rate has returned to normal, why not come in a little farther so we can talk? There’s a chair to your right as comfortable as a big cotton ball.”
Micah took slow steps to his right, and his thigh bumped up against the chair. The darkness kept him from seeing even its outline but he felt supple leather. “That’s okay; I’ll stand.”
“I understand,” the voice said. “I knew it’d be quite a shock the first time we actually talked to each other.”
“Who are you?” Micah squinted into the inky darkness.
“A friend who has been with you since the day you were born.”
“Why have I never heard you before?”
“You’re kidding, right?” A smile sounded in the voice. “All your life I’ve been speaking to you. You know my voice.”
It was true. He did. More than familiar, it felt like a part of him. But just when he thought he had placed it, the memory raced into a corner of his mind where he couldn’t follow. Micah spoke just above a whisper. “Yes, I’ll say there is something about your voice I recognize. But I don’t know you.”
“Yes, you do. You know me intimately. Just as I know you.”
“Then who are you?”
“Let your imagination go for a moment. Archie built a truly astonishing house. A home where things that only happen in dreams happen every day. A house so deeply spiritual, miracles happen in every moment.” The voice paused. “You know who I am.”
Micah knew. But part of him couldn’t believe it, and another part didn’t want it to be true. It was too strange, too unnerving. And yet a third part desperately wanted this impossibility to be possible for him. Finally he answered.
“You’re me.”
“Yes.”
Micah held his breath. Then he sipped in a swallow of air and spoke. “You’re my own thoughts, my own voice, my own impressions.” Micah paused, realizing the significance and utter strangeness of what he was about to say. “I’m talking . . . to myself.”
The voice chuckled. “Strange yet wonderful, isn’t it?”
Of course. It made so much sense. This was why the voice was so familiar. He had been hearing it all his life. “Why the dark?”
“You got me. Guess it makes it easier to talk to each other. It blocks out the distractions. Like when we’re praying. It’s the same way here. Rather than focus on anything visual, you can—or maybe I should say we can—focus on the words we speak to each other instead of the weirdness of staring into each other’s faces.”
“How can I hear you audibly here but not outside this house? All my life I’ve heard you through thoughts and impressions and ideas but never like this. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense. In this house you’re becoming more attuned to the spiritual realm around you. That alone would make me easier to hear. And you’re hearing the voice of God again, so why shouldn’t you hear more clearly the voice of yourself?”
“Last time I heard God’s voice, He said ‘get ready’ and I lost fifteen million dollars.”
The voice didn’t respond.
“I gotta think this through.” Micah turned to leave.
“Great finally talking to you like this,” the voice said.
Micah made sure the door was shut tig
ht.
That night he stood on the deck outside his room at the Ocean Lodge, campfire smoke drifting up from the beach. He couldn’t believe he was so scared of his own voice he wouldn’t go to sleep in his house.
But c’mon. How often did a voice come out of a dark room claiming to be his own? Then again, maybe it was a gift beyond imagination he needed to accept. Yes. An incredible gift. He would simply accept it and the next night sleep back in the house.
Someone down on the beach waved a tiny fireball through the air. Probably a marshmallow that got too close to the campfire. He wished his biggest mystery in life was how to evenly brown a marshmallow.
Rick. He’d talk to Rick about the voice. Tomorrow night.
CHAPTER 17
But Micah didn’t tell Rick about the voice. He went with him to his church the next evening, and afterward the mechanic suggested they grab a late dinner at the Lumberyard. Micah avoided the question. He was still thinking about church.
Every time during the service Micah had thought about describing the voice to Rick, dread washed over him. Twice when he turned to tell his friend, a palpable tension shot through his back, leaving the instant he decided not to tell. How much clearer could it get? It wasn’t the right timing. No question. And Micah didn’t feel like making small talk.
The rooms, the weird things disappearing in Seattle, even the stock dropping was strange, but talking to yourself? He needed to call it what it was. He was hearing voices.
Maybe he was losing it. Archie could have been schizo and somehow rigged the house to trigger the same thing in Micah. Maybe it was time to sell the place and get back to reality.
But there was Sarah. And maybe God was in control. As long as Micah could avoid facing whatever was more painful than the memory of his mom’s death, he’d stay.
“So you going to join me?” Rick said.
“Nah, early day tomorrow.”
“Getting up with the market, eh?”
“Does anything get past you?” Micah shook his head and smiled. “I just want to keep an eye on the stock tomorrow.”
“Last week wasn’t enough?” Rick threw his arm around Micah’s shoulders as they walked through the syrupy fog toward their cars. “I’m just teasing. I’d feel the same way in your shoes.”
But Rick wasn’t in his moccasins. And Micah didn’t like the idea of going through his life barefoot.
||||||||
Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday all followed the same pattern. Stress about the stock price. Check it incessantly. Check the charts one more time to confirm it never traded as high as 83. Stress some more.
On Wednesday his computer chimed three times with a reminder message. TASK: READ ARCHIE’S NEXT LETTER
Yes! Time for his weekly blast from the past. Micah flopped down on the couch in front of his fireplace and opened the cherry-red shoe box in which he’d placed all Archie’s letters. He lifted the next envelope off the top of the stack and tore it open. February 10, 1991. He was ten years old when Archie wrote it. Still too weird.
Dear Micah,
I hope you are liking the house. Perhaps that is not the correct word. More accurately, I pray the house is making you face yourself and that you are on the path toward restoration. I pray you are allowing this to occur. The home will challenge, encourage, and stretch you to your limits. In all probability this comes as no surprise to you; however, if you think you have encountered a number of strange and unexplainable incidents up until this point, it would be less than fair if I did not alert you that stranger things are still forthcoming.
Great. Bizarro home gets even stranger. He could hardly wait.
With that admonition in the forefront of your mind, let me also assure you once again that God is sovereign and in control and I have prayed for and about this home for many years. However, this does not mean there are no dangerous places within the house. There are. This simply illustrates the truth that from time to time we have to be placed in precarious places to learn the lesson God is teaching.
Your great-uncle and fervent supporter,
Archie
He put down the letter. Why couldn’t Archie write a letter simply saying, “God is good, the past is over, the future is bright, and it’s going to be a fun week”? Micah’s nerves were ready to snap from watching the stock bounce up and down all week. He didn’t need another lesson right now. He needed to relax.
That night Micah sat on his deck trying to take his mind off the house, the stock, where his life was headed, and lingering thoughts of Julie. He had to talk to her.
She answered on the second ring. “Hi.”
“What are you doing?”
“Why are you calling, Micah?”
“I want to know where we’re at.”
“Shouldn’t that be my question?”
He leaned his head back and clacked the front of his teeth together.
“I hate it when you do that.”
“Sorry.” Micah stared out at the ocean. “I can’t imagine a business partner who would be better for me. Your intuitive business sense makes mine look like a first grader. You don’t let relationship get in the way of our making money, you—”
“Shut up, Micah. Why don’t you just say it?”
“That we’re over? You’re the one who said good-bye.”
“I still had a tiny bit of hope. Now you’re going to snuff that out, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I am not.” Micah ground his knuckles into the deck’s railing.
“Fine, so you tell me where you want us to be.”
“I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean we’re over.” Micah closed his eyes. “We’re on hold.”
“On hold? Still? Maybe you’re on pause, but I’m not.”
“I just need—”
“Listen. I’m done with us. For good. Since you don’t seem to have the spine for it, let me do the honors. It’s over.”
The line went dead.
Perfect. That would make life more fun. Micah stared at the waves trying to figure out if what had just happened was good, bad, or somewhere in between.
Micah headed for the media room. He needed something to get his brain off everything. He clicked through his cable choices and settled on an R-rated movie so full of violence and gore that it probably should have been rated NC-17. Yes, it was garbage. But he didn’t care. The escape from his anxiety was worth it.
He went to bed the moment the movie finished and lay rubbing the back of his neck till his fingers ached. Maybe not worth it. His legs twitched, and the blankets pressed down on him like thin sheets of concrete. All night he wrestled with troubling dreams.
Friday morning a light flicked on in his head as he realized how to remove his worry over the stock. Stop orders.
He would put a stop order on all his shares at 10 percent less than their current trading price. If the unexplainable happened again, the stop order would execute and instantly he’d have all his shares in cash—with a drop in value, but a 10 percent drop wins over a 25 percent loss, or who knows how much more, every time.
By 11:00 a.m. he finished entering the stop orders. Good timing. At 11:15 his computer’s reminder alarm chimed. Bike ride with Sarah. His heart rate picked up. And that was before he got on his bike.
||||||||
They met in front of Osburn’s and headed north. They’d decided to ride up past Ecola to Indian Beach to watch the surfers navigate the North Pacific swells. By the time they got to the T in the road that would take them farther up to Indian Beach, Micah was sucking in deep gulps of air. Not Sarah. If she’d lost any of her Olympic-athlete conditioning, he couldn’t see it.
After they arrived and picked a spot on the windswept bluff overlooking the waves, Sarah said, “What are your plans
once you’re done down here?”
“I don’t know when I’ll be done.” Micah plucked some of the long grass around them and threw them like darts.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Yes, I know.” Micah smiled but she didn’t return it.
To buy time, he got up, walked back to his bike, and grabbed his water bottle. He took a deep draw of water and squinted at the sun playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. Just before he sat next to Sarah, the sun jumped out, as bright as it had been so far that day.
“Want to walk to the beach?” Micah asked.
“Sure.”
They wound their way down to the little beach, full of boulders the size of Volkswagen Beetles. The tide was out, but even so, there was little room to maneuver around them.
“Ever done a long bike ride?” Sarah asked.
“Define long.”
“More than one hundred miles in a day.”
“No.”
“We should do the STP together.”
Micah raised both eyebrows as he stepped over a cluster of small rocks.
“The Seattle-to-Portland bike race. One day, two hundred miles. ’Course a lot of people split it into two,” Sarah said.
“And we’d do it in one or two?”
Sarah waved her index finger in front of her face.
“Oh, wow. You mean I’ll have to get in shape?”
They padded farther down the beach. “Sorry for avoiding the question earlier,” Micah said. “I don’t have a clue what my plans will be once I’m done down here. I suppose I’ll go back to Seattle and come down here three or four times a year for vacation. Relax. Get perspective. You have any better ideas?” He said it with a light-hearted spin, hoping to bring a bit of playfulness to the conversation. It didn’t work.
“You wouldn’t like my suggestion.”
“I’d love it.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” He wiggled the fingers of both hands, inviting her to ask the question.
“You’re sure?”
Jim Rubart Trilogy Page 11