Past Presence

by Nicole Bross

  “Here, I’ll take it,” I say as she makes to carry it to the sink. As she passes the plate across the table, our fingers brush.

  REGRESS

  The villagers were gathered in the church, packed tightly into the pews, but this was not the usual Sunday service. Everyone was present, from Marta Smirnova, the oldest, to Polina Morozova’s suckling babe, born more than a month after snow had blocked the pass. Konstantin Lvov, one of the village’s elders, stood at the pulpit normally occupied by Father Lvov, his nephew, who sat in a plain wooden chair behind him. It was the Father and Konstantin who had argued for the mandatory pooling and equal redistribution of food when it became clear that without it not all were likely to survive the winter. Now, as the cold season stretched on and the rations became smaller, some townspeople were starting to grumble, and there was talk about taking the food back by force from the cellar underneath the church. The consensus amongst some was that it was better for a few people to starve than all of them. The cruelty with which they were willing to sacrifice their neighbors showed how desperate the situation was becoming.

  Slava’s plump thigh pressed into Kolya’s thin one. Many of the villagers spoke to each other in hushed tones, but they remained silent, wanting to appear as model citizens awaiting the elder’s speech. After the forced inspection of their home a week earlier, they could not afford to look even slightly unsupportive, lest it triggers new allegations and a more thorough search. For now, the council was still in favor of maintaining the ration system.

  “My friends,” Konstantin began over the chatter. “It is good to see everyone here.” Kolya had ascertained no one in the village had died that week by scanning the pews for missing faces. “I know you are expecting an announcement that rations will be further reduced. I am pleased to tell you all this will not be the case.” Several audible sighs of relief echoed throughout the church, and his sister Yulia, sitting in front of him, put her arm around her oldest child and gave him a squeeze.

  “No, it is a different matter that brings us all together today,” Konstantin continued. “That of heat. It has come to the attention of the council that some households are close to running out of wood to burn.” Indeed, Zlata Dudnyk had been found frozen to death in her own home ten days earlier, under a mound of blankets beside a cold hearth. Her body lay now in a shed beside the church until the ground thawed enough for her to be interred. Nor was she the first. The village had lost some eighty residents, nearly a quarter in all, to the bite of winter, although most had been caught out during one of the many storms that swept down from the mountains.

  Kolya paid close attention to what Konstantin was saying. It was true, he and Slava were struggling to stay warm, and had burned most of their furniture. He would dismantle the chicken coop next, the laying hens having long been eaten, but the thin boards wouldn’t last long. He had come to fear the cold far more than the hunger.

  “Surely you aren’t suggesting we pool our firewood as well,” someone cried. Many in the crowd grumbled in agreement. Kolya could feel Slava tense beside him, waiting for Konstantin to answer.

  “No, good people, I do not ask this of you at all. What I am hoping, my friends, is that tomorrow all the able-bodied men will join me to cut down ten or twelve trees and chop them into firewood to the benefit of all.”

  There was an uproar amongst the men at this suggestion. Konstantin’s eyebrows raised at the passion with which they opposed this idea.

  “What about the energy we will expend doing all this chopping?” one man asked. “Will we receive extra food in compensation?” Many cheered at this statement.

  “I still have plenty of firewood, why haven’t others planned better?” shouted another. These were some of the same arguments presented at the meeting the village called when the need to ration and redistribute food came up. Kolya, on his part, did not support these arguments. He and Slava needed the wood.

  “Friends, friends, please.” Father Lvov had taken over from Konstantin at the pulpit and looked out at the crowd of over two hundred people. The Father was a man in his mid-thirties who had grown up in the village, left it to study theology as soon as he reached adulthood, and returned to serve as its priest ten years ago. He was a charismatic, persuasive speaker. Now his cheeks were as hollow from want of food as many of the others sitting before him. He held up his hands, and the angry men quieted down and took their seats again.

  “My people, I know what we ask of you is a great sacrifice. Our bellies are nearly empty, and our muscles ache. We are tired, and the wind cuts sharply. It is much easier to stay inside, if not well-fed at least sheltered, and hope tomorrow brings better fortunes. It is easy to ignore our neighbor’s suffering when ours is so great as well.

  “It is my job to guide your eternal souls to heaven. Have you forgotten the words of John the Baptist? ‘Whoever has two tunics is to share with him who has none, and whoever has food is to do likewise.’ Our labors are needed to help those among us who cannot help themselves. Could you live with the death of Marta Smirnova on your conscience?” The Father indicated the village’s eldest citizen. “What of Yulia Budanova, whose husband Zoran has sought help from neighboring villages at great personal risk? Would you see Zoran’s children shiver in their homes because you would not give two hours of your time in service to them?” Father Lvov held out his hands entreatingly to the crowd before him. Those who had protested looked ashamed. Kolya saw his sister dab at her eyes with the corner of her shawl. Slava did the same, but her eyes, he saw, were dry.

  “We will gather at the edge of the woods midday tomorrow, as long as the weather is clear,” Father Lvov said. “Anyone who is in need of wood may speak to me after the meeting.”

  There was little else to discuss. Father Lvov praised the man who had caught the hare last week and encouraged others to continue hunting for game, adding that he himself had set several snares that week.

  As people filed out of the church, Kolya approached Father Lvov at the pulpit to express his need of firewood.

  “Kolya, I knew I could count on you to join the party tomorrow,” the Father said, slapping him on the back genially. Several people turned to look at him, as the priest had spoken quite loudly.

  “Father, we have need of wood,” he said, head bowed, purposely making his voice meek and drawing his shoulders in to appear smaller.

  “All the more reason to lend a hand, eh?” The shrewd look he gave Kolya implied he was not easily fooled by Kolya’s sudden timorousness. “I will see you tomorrow, and make sure you sharpen your ax tonight. Do not be late.”

  11

  Icarry Cora’s plate to the dishwasher robotically, barely acknowledging her ‘goodnight’ to me. As soon as I hear her bedroom door close, I race to my own room and jot down as many notes as I can remember from the vision. I’m struck once again not only by its length, but how vividly it plays out in my mind. Most visions drift through my thoughts like vapor, easy to ignore if I don’t care to pay attention to them. This is like a virtual reality experience in comparison, almost immersing me into the scene. The time frame is familiar—I’ve seen it from Cora once before and Naomi as well, but neither of those moments took over all my senses like this one did. What makes it so different? I hate having so many unanswered questions.

  The next day dawns gray and chilly. Dark storm clouds are moving in from the Pacific, giving the town a gloomy pall that surely reflects the mood of its residents. For the first time since arriving, I have no desire to leave my cozy bed, and I lay under the blankets, flipping through entertainment sites on my phone, hoping celebrity gossip will distract me. It doesn’t, and I soon toss my phone aside and stagger to the shower.

  Marnie’s death is affecting me more than it ought to, given that I only met her two or three times, and we never did more than exchange superficial pleasantries. Maybe it’s the thought of her daughter growing up without a mother, or the way Soberly will feel the loss of another key member of their community. Maybe it’s because I s
aw an echo of her death in a past time.

  As the water beats down on my head, I wonder what I should do if another person’s past reveals an end-of-life scene. Should I try and warn them? How would I explain that they’re, say, at an increased risk of cancer and should go for a screening immediately, or should avoid riding in a car for the next while, without looking like my mind is slipping? I can’t. No one would ever believe me. If there is a pattern, and people in Soberly are suddenly experiencing their past deaths in this lifetime, I have no choice but to sit back and watch it happen. The thought makes me feel ill.

  Before leaving for the inn, I make myself a sandwich and tuck it and an apple in my purse. I plan on holing up in Roz’s office and working the entire day, both to appease Cora’s impatience and to keep my mind off the town’s matters. They’re none of your business, anyway. Leave these people to their grief. You don’t need to make everything about you.

  With that chastisement planted firmly in my mind, I walk into town, passing Sheena’s antiques shop. The hours posted on the door say it’s closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays, so I can’t say hello to her as I’d planned. I hope she has friends to be with today. From the way she’d talked to me about Marnie the first time we met, they’d been at least somewhat close, despite the difference in age.

  The pharmacy is closed as well, as I expected, and there are two or three bouquets of flowers resting against the door. I hurry past, wishing I’d thought to bring something to offer, and take a moment to wish Marnie’s spirit peace in her next life. Had it already occupied a new body, and was gestating inside another woman somewhere in the world? I wonder if her heartbroken family would find solace in the knowledge that someday, they will meet again?

  The inn is quiet when I enter, and the parking lot is mostly empty. Cora barely looks up from her laptop when I say hello. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she’s clutching a wad of tissues in one hand. If her body language hadn’t made it so obvious she didn’t want to talk to me, I would have offered her the condolence I’ve been rehearsing in my head on my walk, but she leaves to grab the box of receipts and statements from the safe almost as soon as I enter. When she returns, I make sure I’m not close enough for her to pass it directly to me, lest our hands brush.

  The rain starts to fall as I spread April’s paperwork out on the table, and the sound of the droplets hitting the panes on the balcony door provides a soothing background soundtrack as I lose myself in the work. At some point, it stops and the sky clears; steam rises from roofs and concrete as the sun burns off the moisture. I eat my sandwich and apple on the balcony, watching as at first a few people emerge onto the beach, looking warily at the sky for signs this is a temporary reprieve, and are soon joined by many more, eager to enjoy the last few hours of daylight.

  No one disturbs me throughout the day, a fact for which I’m profoundly grateful, and I have most of April’s income and expenses entered into my spreadsheet by early evening. Roz’s credit card statement for the month has the same mystifying charges on it as the previous months, but even though it doesn’t sit right with me, I do as Cora instructed and categorize them as ‘miscellaneous.’

  It’s hard to get a picture of how the inn is doing from only a few months’ worth of information, and low season months at that, but from what I’ve been able to put together so far, the business is not doing very well. Only one month of the three has been profitable—the rest posted small losses. Even now, in the middle of summer, which should be busier, Cora had said there were only three rooms occupied now that the weekend is over. At this time of year, the inn should be packed. Based on what Roz had written in her letter, I expected things to be in far better shape financially.

  Curious, I do a quick search of lodgings along the highway close to Soberly to see what the inn’s main competition is. There is no shortage of small hotels, inns, and bed-and-breakfasts along Highway 101. Airbnb is also a competitor. Many of them have no vacancies, even though it’s the middle of the week. What’s causing tourists to pass Soberly by, and how can the inn change that? I have some ideas, but I need to talk to Sheena.

  A quiet knock interrupts my musings, and when I open the door Kellen’s on the other side.

  “I’m not hungry,” I tell him before he has a chance to speak—sure he’s here to berate the fact that I haven’t shown up in the pub to be fed today. I still have half my sandwich, in fact. Some people eat their feelings—I’ve always starved mine.

  “Me neither. Come for a walk down the beach with me.”

  I can’t think of a reason not to, although I do try, since long walks on the beach are not the type of thing one does with their one-night stand, so I follow him out the door. This time he leads me down the hall, past the guest rooms, down a different flight of stairs, and out a door that opens onto a verandah at the back of the inn. Roz’s balcony is directly overhead.

  “Which way?” he asks. I shrug, not having a preference, and he chooses north, toward the lighthouse. We walk in silence, picking our way over the driftwood that marks the storm surge line until we reach the water’s edge. I doff my shoes before the waves can catch me, grateful I chose capris instead of long pants this morning.

  “Shouldn’t you be working?” I say to make conversation. The silence between us doesn’t feel as comfortable as it has in the past.

  “My day off.”

  “Oh.” The silence lengthens, and I spend a lot of time gazing out over the water.

  “Did you know Marnie well?” For a while, Kellen doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I’ve spoken out of line. Maybe he asked me to walk with him because Marnie’s the last thing he wants to talk about.

  “Everyone did,” he says when I’m about to point out some bird, or pretend to spy a shell to pick up, anything to break the painful dead air between us. “She made a point of knowing everyone, too. Not to be gossipy, or because she was nosy, but so she could take the best care of people that she could. She was the person you could tell the things you couldn’t talk about with your own parents, and know your secret was always safe. When we first moved here, some people weren’t all that nice to us, but she made a big point of welcoming us and introduced my parents to everyone. She was the one who persuaded me to try out for football when I was afraid I wouldn’t fit in, coming to a new school where I didn’t know any of the other kids. All Marnie ever wanted was to make sure we were all happy. That we knew, no matter what, we had someone on our side. It absolutely kills me to think that when she needed someone for her, she was alone. No one had her back.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, at a loss for anything else.

  “Me too,” he says. “I don’t—what the hell is going on here lately?”

  “It’s just—it’s bad luck is all. A horrible coincidence.” I hope it’s true. I have to believe it is, otherwise everything I thought I knew about the past and how it influences the present has been wrong.

  We’re far from the inn and have this part of the beach completely to ourselves. The sun has almost entirely slipped below the horizon now, and Kellen leads me up away from the water to a massive driftwood log to watch the last rays of light disappear. He puts his arm around my waist and I let myself lean against his shoulder as the dim purple of twilight descends around us, hoping he finds it a comfort. I’m not who Marnie was to him, but I’m glad he trusts me to talk about how he feels.

  “There’s no one around,” he says after a careful glance up and down the beach. “Can I kiss you?” I tilt my face toward his in reply, and for a long time we sit there, taking the time we didn’t the night before. There’s a fleeting vision, tinged with sadness, but I let it go, preferring to focus on the present. This time I don’t try to push things further, letting him take the lead if he chooses. It’s almost fully dark when he pulls his mouth a fraction away from mine and tells me he needs me.

  I climb into his lap again and the sex is slow and sweet, better than last time, better than any time. When we’re done I rest against his chest with my face pressed
into the hollow of his neck so I can listen to the beat of his heart gradually slow.

  “We should head back,” he says into my hair.

  “Nuh-uh.” I’m dozing off, perfectly happy to stay exactly in this spot for the foreseeable future. To my surprise, Kellen doesn’t protest, and an unknown amount of time goes by before the distant sound of a ship’s horn startles me out of my semi-slumber. The air has cooled off, and even with Kellen’s warmth, I shiver as a sea breeze cuts through my T-shirt.

  “Up you get,” he says, depositing me on my feet and tugging his shorts up. “I’ll give you my hoodie.” I retrieve my capris and shake the sand out of them before putting them back on and wrapping myself in the proffered hoodie. It’s many sizes too big, but it’s warm and smells like Kellen, and I’m not sure I’ll ever give it back to him.

  With the lights of Soberly twinkling in the distance, guiding us back, and the glow of the rising moon illuminating the surf as it washes up onto the sand, neither of us feel the need to use the flashlight app on our phones. The roar of the tide coming in is the only sound between us, but this silence feels far more comfortable.

  “Audrey, are you still…” Kellen hesitates. Don’t, I want to say. Don’t ask. “Are you still selling the inn? Are you still leaving?”

  “Yes,” I say, my voice so low I half-hope he can’t hear me over the sound of the ocean.

  “Then why are you—” The words explode out of him. I wince, hearing the anger and unhappiness in his voice.

  “Why are you?” I interrupt before he can complete his sentence. “I didn’t start this.” Does he think he’s the only one who’s going to be hurting when the papers are signed, and my time in Soberly is done? Despite what I want it to be, this feels like it’s verging into more than a friends-with-benefits arrangement, and I can’t pull myself away. I sidestep away from him and pick up my pace, kicking up sand with every step. Is it just the wind in my face that’s making my eyes smart, or something else? Without warning I stub my toe hard on an unseen rock jutting out of the sand and stumble, nearly falling to my knees. “Ow, fuck,” I curse as I regain my balance. Kellen, who’s only been a couple steps behind me, finds my arm to hold me steady, but I wrench it out of his grip. “I don’t need your help,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended.