by Brandt Legg
“You, too, huh?” He gave my back a little shove, laughing.
I laughed, too. In the right circumstances, Sam could have a serious conversation. We’d had some about my dad and Dustin in the past, but this wasn’t the time for either of us.
11
Wednesday, September 17
After school I made the dreaded walk to the Station to meet Amber, Kyle, and Linh. I arrived early to talk with my parents’ old friend and partner, Josh. The scents of my childhood— fresh-baked bread, chocolate and pastries, ground coffee and musty beer on tap—relaxed me. It seemed like Dad was in the back doing inventory, as if he might walk out any minute.
Seventeen years earlier, Dad had been thirty and Mom just twenty-six when they started the place with Josh, who was still at the university then. He’d been their college connection ever since, keeping the Station relevant and popular, staying up on the latest music, having a knack for harnessing hip and cool.
“Nate, wow. Six months?” Josh grabbed my arm.
“Yeah, sorry I haven’t been around much.”
“Jeez, you’ve grown.” He stood back. “I can’t get over how much you look like your dad.” Only in the last year had he stop sporting a ponytail and kept his beard trimmed close. Jeans, fluorescent tees, and a ball cap from some nearby vineyard were his uniform. Even at Dad’s funeral, he showed up in a faded black pair but substituted a black shirt. “If I was your age, I wouldn’t be hanging out at my mom’s business either.”
“How’s it been going anyway?”
“We’re busier than ever. Bet you don’t see your mom much because she’s constantly here putting out one fire or another.” He’d always been skinny, but I noticed the beginning of a beer gut or, knowing the desserts at the Station, maybe a cake gut.
“Josh, can we talk about something for a minute, in private?”
“Sure.” He motioned for me to follow him. We walked past Mom’s office. She smiled and waved, clearly pleased that I had listened and had come to see Josh.
I closed the door behind me. “When my dad died, you were here with him, right?”
“Yeah,” he hesitated.
“Did you find him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Nate, what’s going on?”
“I want to know. Please.”
“All right. It was early on a Monday morning. I think there were only three or four of us here. Your dad came in from out back and was moving kegs around, then there was a clatter-banging noise. I ran back to see what happened, and there he was, collapsed on the ground. A couple of kegs had tumbled down. One was still rolling. Your dad only lasted another minute or so while I was yelling for someone to call 911.”
“Did he say anything?”
Josh got up from his chair and came closer to me, leaning on the edge of the desk.
“No, I mean I don’t think he could have. It was a massive heart attack, and he was gasping a little but was already gone. I’m sorry. You know it was just awful.”
“Why was he outside? You said just before it happened he came in from out back.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was taking some trash out to the dumpster. I never really thought about it.” Josh walked over to look at a picture of my parents and him, taken on the opening day of the restaurant. “We were all so young.”
I got up to look at the photo I’d seen a million times.
“Was anything strange happening in the weeks or months before he died?”
“What do you mean?” He studied me.
“I don’t know what I mean, Josh.”
“There was something that always bothered me. Your dad was pretty edgy one day, so I asked what was wrong, and he told me that a very close friend had just died. The strange part, though, was that this old friend was a day away from going public about something and—”
“What was it?” I interrupted.
“He didn’t say, just that the guy was going to blow the whistle on some huge corruption or cover-up. He mentioned a name. It was kind of unusual, so I’ve remembered it. ‘Lightyear.’ Anyway, he said his friend died of a brain aneurism the night before he was to give testimony or be interviewed by the media or something. You know your dad; he didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“When was this?”
“About three weeks before your dad died, I guess.”
“Did you tell my mom?”
“I didn’t see any reason to bother her.”
“Didn’t you find it strange that his friend died on the eve of blowing the whistle and Dad dies a few weeks later? Maybe Dad was involved, too.”
“No, come on, don’t turn this into some cloak-and-dagger thing. Your dad wouldn’t even take part in a poker game. There was an autopsy; everything was kosher.” He saw my expression of concern. “I did do an Internet search on the guy’s name, but nothing came up. It was just a coincidence.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”
“No, it was your dad that didn’t believe in them. Just because something is strange doesn’t mean it’s wrong. You know what I mean?”
I didn’t know what he meant. Something was wrong.
“Do you remember Dad’s friend’s name?”
“Sure. Lee Duncan.”
“Do me a huge favor? Don’t tell my mom we talked about all this. It might upset her.”
“Yeah, I’ve got your back. But listen, she’s been worried, and your dad would want me to be here for you. And I am. Is everything cool? You’d tell me, right?”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Come to me anytime about whatever. I’m not your mom; I’m your friend. Okay?” He patted my shoulder.
“I know.” I pointed to the monitors. “My friends are out there. I’m gonna join them.”
Mom was still on the phone. Another wave and smile; I was back on her good list.
12
Amber, Kyle, and Linh were filling out music requests for the DJ. The waitress carried them off to a slot in the studio as I joined them.
“So?” Kyle asked.
“Josh said a few weeks before his death, Dad was worried about a close friend who was planning to go public or testify about something big and then died of a brain aneurism the night before.”
“It keeps getting weirder,” Kyle said. “It’s like a conspiracy.”
“You have no idea,” I said. “You guys are probably wondering what Amber’s doing here. She can explain it much better.” They both knew who she was, but we’d never hung out. Amber talked for more than ten minutes before anyone else spoke. Kyle and Linh had studied enough Buddhism that they were more open to reincarnation than I was. Our food came, Kyle had a Tracy Chapman, Linh the Pearl Jam, Amber the Adele, and a David Bowie with extra cheese for me.
“I call them Outviews because it’s like I go out of myself and see a view of another person, another place . . . another time.”
“How many have you had?” Linh asked.
“Hundreds, I don’t know.”
“Are they always awful?”
“Pretty much. I die in each one.”
“It’s like a punishment,” Kyle’s voice became low, “to have to relive a hundred deaths. Why?” he looked at Amber.
“I’ve been reading nonstop since Nate told me, and it seems that the most common entry point into a past life is through its death, a kind of backdoor. But with practice, he can get deeper into the lifetime. Eventually he could go to any point in a life and not even need to bother with the end.” Amber’s light strawberry blonde hair fell below her shoulder, and her cheerleader looks belied her knowledge of the esoteric subject. “There’s a ton of research and case histories of people doing just that.”
“That sure would be easier because Kyle’s right, they do feel like punishment, actually more like torture,” I said. “Maybe now you’re less likely to think I’m whacked out, so I can tell you everything else that’s been happening to me.”
“There’s more?” Linh asked.
“I was hoping,” Amber added.
Kyle rubbed his hands together. “It’s a scandal.”
“Scandal,” I added.
Amber looked confused.
“Don’t mind them Amber, they’re really a pair of clowns.”
“I always liked the circus,” she grinned.
“Trust me, this one’s not Ringling Brothers; it’s more like Dingaling Brothers.”
Everyone laughed. Normally I would have tossed one of my fries at Linh, but I didn’t want to act so juvenile in front of Amber.
“We’re waiting,” Amber said.
“I remember feeling different from other kids even before kindergarten. It was as if everyone else knew what to do and how to fit in except me,” I began.
“I still feel that way,” Linh said.
“But at the same time I used to think that everyone saw and heard what I did. When I figured out they didn’t, I was around six or so. That’s when it stopped, or I stopped paying attention, and it went away.”
“Like what?” Kyle asked, sipping his tea.
“Movement, almost seeing someone in the trees. Shadows moving independently, lights, hard to describe but like little points and trails of light in the woods, the grass, shimmering around people and plants. I don’t remember everything, but I can still recall the feeling. It was joyous, magical, like discovering where you left a treasure you’d forgotten about.”
“I can just picture you as this cute little kid playing among the fairies,” Linh said.
“Then a couple of years ago the premonitions started. At first I hardly noticed them. A thought would flash into my head for no reason at all, like Rick Barnes isn’t going to be at school today. Sure enough, he’d stay home sick. I would always look at the phone three seconds before it rang. Or knowing which nights Mom would be home late. Recently though, it’s been bigger stuff and farther in advance. About a month ago, a picture of an older woman in the hospital came into my head. It was our neighbor, a crazy artist with about twenty cats. Two weeks ago, an ambulance picked her up. For a while, they weren’t sure she was going to live, but I knew she’d be fine because there was an image of her coming home in my head almost a week before. And I see colors around people and—”
“You see auras?” Amber asked.
Kyle was doodling on a napkin, only his doodles always looked like they should be framed.
“An aura is your psychic energy body,” Amber explained. “Edgar Cayce, a famous psychic, called it the weathervane of your soul. It’s like a halo that surrounds your whole body. Everyone has one, even nonliving things.”
“They’re in motion and change colors. Sometimes . . . ” I stopped as the waitress came over, “they’re an inch thick but they grow and contract so they can be like two feet in places.”
Then I told them about the pops and the shapeshifting. It was a lot to take in, and for me too, hearing it all at once.
“Anything else? Can you read minds? Time travel?” Kyle demanded, smiling.
“Nothing really useful like that.” I said.
“Give yourself some time, Nate,” Amber said. “You don’t know what you’re capable of yet. You’re awesome.”
I caught Kyle and Linh exchanging a look; they didn’t seem convinced.
“It’s not like I’m a comic book superhero. I just want to know why this is happening to me. Why not you, Kyle, with all your meditating and quantum physics? Or you, Amber, with your million new age books and palm reading?”
“I don’t read palms.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You can develop all these abilities into something so powerful,” Amber said.
“I think he’d be happy to just have the Outviews stop,” Linh said.
“Why would he want them to stop?” Amber was shocked.
“They’re not fun!” Kyle shot back.
“Let’s talk about Lee Duncan and Lightyear,” I said, trying to change the subject.
“It’s exhausting being your friend, Nate.” Kyle had a strangely amused yet serious look.
Mom stopped by and scooped up the check the waitress had left. Everyone thanked her. She scoffed. “You kids come as often as you want. Nate’s friends are always welcome. Besides, we’ve got out-of-towners who eat here more often than my own son.” She was smiling, but I still felt the zing. Mom called a server over with a tray of desserts and wouldn’t take no for an answer. It’d been a long time since I tasted a Vanilla Waterfall and missed them. Amber and Linh split a Sunrise Cake Sunset, and Kyle had the Mint Happiness.
Once Mom was safely back in the employee area, I told them everything Josh said. We explored possible explanations, but with the timing of Lee Duncan’s unexpected death, his telling my dad secrets before he also suddenly died along with everyone else in the world with his name, it was extremely suspicious. Fifty minutes later, we walked out of the Station very tired and each convinced that my father had probably been murdered.
13
Just as Josh had said, nothing useful came up when we searched Lee Duncan, even when adding the word Lightyear. Kyle suggested I meditate on them, but nothing happened.
“Patience,” he said, more than once.
Maybe I wanted to alleviate my guilt of being responsible for my dad’s death, but there were too many coincidences. Obviously, someone killed him and Lee Duncan to silence them. The facts that he died with people around who apparently didn’t see anything unusual and the autopsy confirmed cause of death as a massive heart attack made me feel like a crazy conspiracy theorist. But I was getting used to being crazy, so I decided to figure out what Lightyear was and learn more about Lee Duncan.
I started meditating four times daily, in the morning, before bed and two other times whenever it could be worked in. Amber suggested calling on my guides. She said we all have them, but most people use the name guardian angels. Some think they are dead friends and relatives, but Amber thought it was deeper than that. Apparently, entities from another dimension are able to help us. Amber was hitting me with so much information that it occurred to me that “New Age Mayes” might be a little nuts herself, but at this point I didn’t have any other great options. Besides, for the first time in years, something felt right. Finally, who I was started to make sense.
Later, while bringing our trashcan in from the curb, I saw Sam again. He walked across and asked if I’d read the reincarnation book. “I skimmed it but haven’t gotten into it yet.”
“I know how much you like history. You may be surprised to know how many famous people believed in reincarnation. Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon, Gandhi, General Patton, Thoreau, Socrates, Henry Ford, on and on.”
“I had no idea.”
“You’re not alone. You’re not crazy. For some reason you’re able to see something most of us can’t.”
In the middle of the night I woke to whirling stars and the spinning trees. When had I fallen asleep? When had I woken? Was I awake? Nothing mattered. I was going again. Amber’s sparkling eyes shined across times that I did not remember I had forgotten. The Outviews were a familiar strangeness now, and the distant screams that always accompanied them had taken on a musical quality. This one was the first time I knew someone going into it. Where was I going and could I stop? Would I get back? That was the question that terrified me most: what if I just didn’t come back to this lifetime?
14
Thursday, September 18
Third-period was English with weaselly Mr. James, who held the distinction of being the least favorite teacher of my entire school career. What are the odds that Dustin sat in the same chair and also had him during third period, two years earlier? Most of the time Mr. James called me Dustin, but he said it almost like “Dis-gus-tin.” He would call on me only when he was sure I couldn’t answer, like that day. “Dustin, in the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Huck uses several aliases. Will you please tell me one of them?”
There had been no time to r
ead this when Kyle expected me to consume Thich Nhat Hanh, Amber had four books she said must be read, and then there was the book from Sam. “It’s Nathan, Mr. James, and I—”
He cut me off, “Incorrect Mr. Ryder, Huck Finn did not use Nathan as an alias. Who can tell Dustin the right answer?” And I thought I was crazy.
Luckily fourth-period history was my favorite subject with the best teacher, Mr. Anderson. He had a way of making history cool and exciting, not like some boring stuff that already happened. He showed us how events, even thousands of years ago, not only affected us today but were similar to current events. “The same things keep happening again and again,” he’d always say. “It takes humans a very long time to learn.” He was my youngest teacher—I’m sure he wasn’t thirty yet. Sometimes I’d miss lunch because he and I would get into a long conversation about the Vikings or the American Revolutionary War. Kyle told me I was Mr. A’s favorite student.
I was leaving the cafeteria to head for fifth-period French class when Mrs. Little stopped me in the hall. “Nathan, there’s some testing I’d like you to come in for next week.”
“Is it required?”
“What does that mean?”
“Is it voluntary or mandatory?”
“It’s something I think could give us some insight . . . something that would benefit you.”
“No, thanks.”
“What does that mean?” For a high school guidance counselor, she sure had a hard time understanding high school kids.
I gave her my best incredulous look. “I’m not interested in your test.”
“You don’t understand. This isn’t anything that would affect your grades. I’m simply recommending—”
“I’m going to be late for French.” I moved away, enjoying her exasperated look.
After school, I again searched unsuccessfully for Lee Duncan online. It was time to see if anything in my dad’s stuff might help. A dream the night before showed an image of his desk. It whispered something just before a huge red wrecking ball completely demolished it. It had to be a message, I thought. There must be something in there that can help me.