While studying him, I had almost forgotten to breathe. Not even the cheering baseball crowd had brought me back to reality as I continued to stare at the man standing beside me. I wondered if he noticed me, though he never looked in my direction. He just tugged his baseball cap further down over his red hair and hooked his fingers on the metal fence as he watched the game.
"I'm not going to lose you this time,” he said with a desperate urgency.
I blushed, but wasn't sure if he was directing the statement to me, not until he turned his head slightly to give me a better view of his eyes. I grabbed hold of the fence to catch my balance. His left hand moved to touch mine. I had an intense feeling of déjà vu when I felt his icy hand cover my fingers, hiding my wedding band—Evan just stole a base.
"I can still feel you."
Megan's dream gave way to Collin Raye belting out his pathetic chorus. She opened her eyes, but wanted to do nothing but sleep the rest of her life away. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. It was a day of another new beginning. Megan finally turned the CD alarm off and sat up, rubbing her stinging eyes thinking that she really needed to get out of the habit of sleeping all day. At least she'd gotten out of the house that morning, accomplished something. Of course, the morning's errand was not exactly an every-day errand.
Megan always thought that being told she was pregnant was like falling in love. There was fear and extreme bliss and that horrible plunging of her gut. She felt trapped in some run-of-the-mill country song. Moderately good-looking women in their early thirties were not meant to retain that negligently suicidal attitude toward life. Megan just couldn't stop asking herself why she was hanging around. Was there something to live for? She was consciously aware that some hope-baring piece of the great puzzle was missing. Megan could only wish it were growing in her womb.
She'd known she was pregnant for a while, but hadn't decided to have her doctor confirm her suspicion until recently. It wasn't that she couldn't keep anything down or that she was unusually tired, but the strange dreams had begun once again as they had during the first two pregnancies. Megan reached for the tape recorder that lay on her husband's nightstand. She rewound the tape and played it back to see if Evan had recorded anything new. No. It was the same Dutch words from two days ago. Megan, again, made a mental note to find a Dutch-English dictionary on-line. She returned the tape recorder to Evan's nightstand.
Megan slowly got out of bed and stretched, trying to shed her grogginess; Evan would be home soon. Megan went to her small bathroom to clean up. She rushed through her routine then hurried to the kitchen to start supper. She was the wife her mother had always warned her not to be, but Megan was okay with that. Her father had always said she had an old-fashioned soul: pretty damsel in distress looking for a somewhat sexist husband who'll keep her in the kitchen. Well, that wasn't exactly her. Evan was in no way a sexist or even the kind of man to keep any woman in “her place.” He was the closest Megan could get to her ideal strong and over-bearing man; he was just as disenchanted with the world as she, the kind who lacked the need for strong emotions, and he was a military man like her dad.
Actually, Megan wasn't sure what, for her, qualified as the “ideal man.” She thought she wanted someone strong, someone to take the lead. Perhaps, she wanted what every girl wanted: Prince Charming. Megan's erotic fantasy was that there was some man out there in the ever-perplexing world who was simply looking for her and no one else, the kind of man who would sell his soul for her. Megan sighed as she continued browning the hamburger, thinking that what she truly wanted was the young stranger from her dreams. She turned her gaze from the stove to the window. Somewhere, out there in all that rain, was completion.
"Sure it is,” Megan told herself.
Megan pulled her thoughts away from her dreams and the baby. She needed to think about something else. No more worried motherhood thoughts, no more romantic fantasies. Brenda was in desperate need of Megan's attention. Poor Brenda had become pathetic; nothing was happening. The Hospice nurse-slash-novice detective needed to meet with an unfortunate accident. Megan figured that she'd have to go ahead and dispose of Brenda like the others or she'd never be able to give birth to another heroine. Megan decided tomorrow would be the day.
* * * *
I believe he first fell in love with me when I was a Pilgrim. He found me in Holland just as our congregation was making plans to travel to the New World. I was called Elizabeth then, and worked as a weaver. Cianán, an Irishman—Catholic and rowdy, came to Leiden with Sebeka, a black-haired Jewess, to escape persecution from their families and friends. Our congregation left the unconventional couple to themselves. We had learned to be accepting and tolerant of many different cultures during our time in the diverse city, but it seemed the entire city considered Cianán and Sebeka to be more than just a couple condemned by society. Other refugees in Leiden began telling stories about the couple. They reported that Cianán and Sebeka were not just cast out from their families and mankind, but from God, Himself. They were damned, some would whisper. I personally didn't buy into it. How could we as Pilgrims be so condescending of those we didn't understand?
The couple had a street vendor's cart, where they sold miniature wood figurines Cianán hand carved and elegant folding wood hand fans created by Sebeka. Everyday they would be on a different corner, moving aimlessly around the city. This is how I met them, passing their cart on a busy street.
I found them both extremely captivating, especially Cianán, despite the gossip. It was the intensity of his blue eyes that at first caught my attention. As he talked, attempting to interest me in buying one of Sebeka's fans, I became mesmerized by the gleam of his teeth hiding behind his thin, red lips. After confessing that I had no money to spend, he slipped a smoothly carved rabbit, the size of my thumb, into my hand. I was not sure if Sebeka saw him quickly press my hand to his lips. I pretended Cianán's action meant nothing at the time. As soon as my hand was free of his cold grasp, I hurried on my way. My thumb investigating the wood figurine in my palm as I held it close to my belly.
I passed their cart many times throughout the coming days, and each time would be in some other location, as though they knew my regular paths. Eventually, Cianán trapped me in conversation. It started harmlessly enough; he noticed me massaging my own shoulder and asked if I had had a hard day weaving. The more acquainted I became with Sebeka and Cianán, I began to realize that they were merely friends, though one might speculate on the physical nature of their relationship. I no longer cared to hear the rumors. I only cared that Cianán spent enough of his time writing long letters to me, in which he flattered my appearance, and begged for another chance to spend time in my company.
Megan dropped her pen as Evan walked into the room, startling her. She had no idea it was after five.
"Megan, the pasta is burning,” he reported, flatly.
Megan stood up from her desk and dashed to the kitchen to remove the pot of spaghetti from the stove, dropping the pot into the sink to run cold water over it. After she turned off the stove, Megan opened the window to let in a little fresh air. The smell wasn't horribly strong right a way, but it soon stuffed the room. Evan came in chuckling about the burned noodles. Megan ignored him and remained in front of the open window, breathing in the hot air that smelled like fresh bread—Mrs. Kitchens, next door, was always baking.
"I'll order pizza,” Evan said as he grabbed the phone.
"Brenda died today,” Megan told him before he dialed the number. It felt so good to finally get the morning's event off her mind.
"I'm sorry. How?"
"I murdered her. She took a spill down the stairs,” she stated nonchalantly.
"Megan ... Maybe you should try rewriting one of those Hamilton books. You know how it helps sometimes."
"No. It wasn't writer's block. I just lost the story. I didn't like her very much, anyway. It would have been better if she was less like me."
"Breadsticks?” he asked, already dialing.
>
"No."
Evan ordered their dinner, and then went to change out of his uniform. Megan dumped the pasta, and went to the bedroom. She wished Evan had gone out drinking with his friends, giving her at least another hour alone.
"I think I'm going to try something new,” she said to him through the bathroom door.
"What's that?” he asked.
"I'm going to try to tell my story. I know that the memories are new and still very vague, but ... I think I'll try."
"You really believe it then."
His statement was a punch to her gut. Megan felt ridiculous standing outside the bathroom door, confessing her need to tell the story of her past lives—a concept she had wholeheartedly disbelieved until the dreams began three years earlier, during her first pregnancy. Megan had told Evan everything about her dreams except the bit about the young stranger being the same man in both lives. Megan knew very well that Evan would not support her if she began talking about an immortal stalker. When Megan heard Evan turn the water on in the shower, she left the bedroom. She sat down on the dingy sofa to stare at the black TV screen while she fidgeted with her wedding band and silently tried to recall her dreams. No detail had changed; nothing new was revealed. Perhaps they were only dreams.
"Then what about the Dutch and Spanish?” Megan questioned herself. She had never spoken or read either language, but Evan had that tape of her speaking fluently in both during her dreams the past three weeks. Megan only had a vague recollection of speaking in a different tongue, but could recall with hazy detail everything that happened in the dreams.
The thought that she could have lived two different lives before this one was difficult to swallow—an outlandish claim, and something for a daytime talk show. Reincarnation had always seemed like a hoax, an impossibility. Before she heard Evan's tapes, Megan had believed that others’ stories of reincarnation were made-up. But she had heard her own voice speaking languages she had never learned. Was there any other possible explanation? Megan was now beginning to question her own faith and beliefs. Her entire view of the world was completely altered. Were the dreams actually memories? Could Cianán be real?
Another strange aspect of this ordeal was the little rabbit figurine Megan had. It was not carved from wood or made of sun-baked clay like the others from her dreams. Megan found the small, stone rabbit at her neighbor's garage sale when she was seven or eight. Noticing her fascination, the lady let her have the rabbit for free, indulging the little girl's fascination. The rabbit now resided in Megan's jewelry box, among fake pearls and cheap sterling silver.
Thinking about the rabbit, she got up and went to the bedroom to retrieve the figurine. Megan reached in, the tips of her fingers digging through costume jewelry to find the pale, glazed surface. When at last her fingertips touched the cold surface of the figurine, an intense, invigorating sensation surged through her body. This is what happened every time she touched the little rabbit, as if there was an electric current pulsing through the stone figure. The feeling made her heart race and her skin tingle with excitement. Megan clasped the rabbit into her fist. She leaned against her vanity, suddenly weak in the knees.
Just then, Evan exited the bathroom wearing his old, green bathrobe going threadbare from use and age. Megan watched him in the mirror of her vanity as he made his way toward her. His reflection appeared sexually aroused.
"Don't,” she warned.
"What's wrong?” His forehead wrinkled with concern.
"Not now."
"But—"
The doorbell interrupted him. He left the room to pay the usual delivery girl and get the pizza. When Megan heard the door close, she laid down on the bed. She placed the white rabbit on her nightstand and just stared at it in the darkness.
"Maybe you should talk to a doctor, Megan,” Evan said from the doorway. “You're always tired, lately, and sick."
"I saw a doctor yesterday. I thought I had told you."
"No.” Evan walked into the room to stand at the foot of their bed. “Did he say anything?"
"She said I was fine. Said it was nothing, and that in six months I'd be back to normal."
"Six months?” Evan questioned.
"Evan, I'm pregnant. We're going to have a baby.” Megan said it all very wearily; it was the third time she spoke these words to him. She was dreading his reaction, and had really wanted to wait to tell him.
"Pregnant? You're pregnant? Sweetheart, why didn't you tell me?” He came over to kneel in front of her. His face was lit up with elation, which only made her feel more tired. “What's wrong?” he asked her, aware of her depression.
"I don't know.” Megan sighed, and looked back at the rabbit. “It's just very bad timing, I guess. If only it had been a couple of years ago, or a year or two from now. Just not right now."
"Is it your dreams?"
Megan shrugged. “I don't know what it is. I just don't want it right now. And all I've ever wanted to be, besides a writer, is a mother. I've been waiting for this moment for such a long time, and, now that it's here, it's the last thing I want. I can't explain it. I couldn't even begin to explain why I feel like this. I don't think it's the dreams; it might be, but I don't think it is. Maybe I'm just afraid of what's going to happen. I don't want to go through losing another baby, Evan. I know that it's a possibility, and if it happens again ... I...” Megan couldn't verbally end her statement. Several endings came silently to mind: I would have to leave you. I would end it all. I would cut out my defective womb.
"You don't have to do this, Megan. Don't think about it so much."
Megan laughed. “The truth is that I haven't really been thinking about it. All I've been thinking about lately is what to do with Brenda and my dreams. Now that Brenda's dead and buried, I'm a little afraid that I'm going to start thinking about the others, and that I'll start worrying about losing this one."
Evan put his hand on her head; it felt warm and comforting. He had never been a very affectionate man, but he had his moments, like this one. “Whatever happens ... I have your back."
It was the same advice he always gave: “Take your life and roll with it.” Megan always blamed the military for making him say things like that, for him not giving his own opinions and feelings on things. The truth, though, was that it had nothing to do with him being an Army man; he just didn't know how to express himself to other people.
"Evan,” Megan whispered, thinking about the worst case scenario.
"Yeah?"
"If I lose this one, too—"
"Don't say that,” he interrupted.
Megan put her hand over his mouth. “If I lose this one, too, I want to adopt. I want to get my tubes tied, so I won't have to deal with it anymore."
"We won't lose this one.” Evan stood up, his hand knocking the rabbit off her nightstand, where it hopped underneath the bed. He didn't even notice. With his large, rough hand Megan doubt he felt it. “Come on. Pizza's getting cold."
Megan forgot the rabbit, and let Evan drag her to their tiny kitchen table where he served her dinner and her last beer for six months.
* * *
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