Echo Moon

by Laura Spinella

  The memory relaxed Pete. He took a head-clearing breath and turned on the shower. But before getting in, he made the mistake of looking in the full-length mirror. Carnage. It was the only word that made sense. His sinewy frame was a war zone, having nothing to do with the ones he’d visited in the past six years. He stepped closer and absorbed the naked inventory: Adam’s apple, clavicle, biceps, the narrowing V of his pelvic area, muscular quads. The body parts itemized basic anatomy, but these things were not what Pete’s eye observed.

  He scanned scars he could not explain—some he’d had since he was a boy. Pete ran his fingers over a knot of flesh beneath his rib cage, to the right of his navel. The knot had mysteriously turned up two or three years ago. Common sense said to have the protrusion checked out. But it’d taken hard-core bravery for Pete to go as far as the radiology department at a hospital in Mumbai to explain it. On a previous trip, he’d gotten into a deep conversation with a Dr. Mayon Kapoor. He was a hybrid Hindu who believed in mysticism as much as he did modern medicine. Because of this, Pete had confided his past—the one that occurred during World War I. He was comfortable with Dr. Kapoor diagnosing the internal knot, whatever it turned out to be. The scan revealed Pete’s most-feared assumption—nothing modern medicine might treat. Dr. Kapoor was fascinated, concluding that the knot was internal scarring, the by-product of a crude operation.

  “And you’re sure you didn’t suffer an injury in one of the many war zones you travel?” Dr. Kapoor had asked. “Perhaps an infection set in, a fever struck, and you simply don’t remember. It is possible.”

  Pete assured him this wasn’t the case. “A war zone, maybe—just not from this life.”

  Dr. Kapoor, a serious student of re-embodiment, hadn’t argued.

  Pete’s stare lingered on his tattered body. He ran his fingers over the fleshy souvenir from another life. He pressed his hand to the mirror’s cool glass and drew closer, doing the same with his forehead. He closed his eyes and his heart picked up pace. Touch. As if another person had come into the bathroom, he felt a touch. Soft fingers laced around Pete’s chest, and a tickle of hair brushed the back of his shoulder. The urge to turn and kiss someone was potent.

  Pete didn’t move, head and hand pressed to the mirror, like he might fall into it and pass through to the life he so often relived. A woman’s lips pressed to his back. He responded physically to the invitation. His breathing grew heavier, the mood intensifying, emotions more vivid than they’d been in recent years. Since the last time he’d been inside this house. Fuck. This never happened when he was conscious, present in this life. Yet, Pete smiled. He longed for Esme the way you might want air in a sealed tomb.

  Along with the torturous memory she produced came feelings Pete wanted to sink into, grab on to. Relive. They were wildly powerful. He squeezed his eyes tighter, concentrated harder. It was rare for Pete to encourage these feelings; he couldn’t help himself. The fragile moment grew more surreal. Then the unprecedented occurred. Esme spoke. He heard her voice. He’d never heard her voice before. It presented the way he might channel an ordinary apparition in his twenty-first-century life.

  “If Paris is France . . .”

  Soft lips grazed his ear, a delicate brush. Smell proved to be the greatest trigger. It was Esme’s skin, infused with a sweet layer of gardenia. Scents penetrating from another time. Then it all vanished—her voice, her presence, the passion so desperately attached to a dead woman. From a shaky state of arousal, Pete opened his eyes. Nothing stared back but a stressed-out Peter St John—a person who straddled this life and one he wanted more. How did that even make sense? Why the hell would he want a life where his single memory of the woman he loved was of killing her?

  Pete squeezed his hand tight and slammed it into the glass. Tiny chips of mirror sprinkled onto the tiled floor. He withdrew his fist from the spiderweb crack; red laced through the glass. Blood dripped from his fist. He backed up, surveying his handiwork. “Great. Now I can explain that on top of everything else I can’t.” Defeated, he turned to the claw-foot tub, ripping at the curtain and stepping into the steam.

  Aubrey’s breakfast subterfuge wasn’t lost on Pete—a presentation of normal. The table was set on the outside deck, which included a calming view of the nature preserve behind their house. Going outside did help, but the July heat wave only ended up highlighting Pete’s discomfort. Last night, as he stepped from Boston’s busy Logan airport, sticky air adhered like a gas mask. He’d arrived during those rare New England days when everyone wondered why they didn’t have central air and the daytime swelter glued itself to the night.

  His mother came outside carrying a plate of pancakes that would be the envy of any IHOP. The table tried to keep up the “welcome home” theme, dressed in a clean white cloth, the vintage 1950s plates he recognized, and a mason jar holding fresh cut flowers. “Looks great, Mom. Thank you.” He sat and forced down a sip of orange juice.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  Pete brushed his fingers over the gauze wrapped around his right palm. “I, um . . .”

  His father had come out the French doors, answering with a question. “Did you get dizzy in the bathroom, Pete? Maybe the mirror broke your fall.” Apparently he’d been upstairs before coming outside, and Pete knew enough to expand on the timely fib.

  “Uh, yeah.” He grabbed his fork and speared two pancakes. “Sorry. I wasn’t as steady as I thought. The mirror didn’t fare so well. I’ll replace it before I go.”

  “I don’t care about the mirror.” It wasn’t heat, but hazy waves of worry, that circled his mother. “You’re okay? There’s no glass in your hand or anything?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. It wasn’t more than a scratch.”

  She continued to stare at the layered gauze, blood-soaked enough to insist that wasn’t true. Pete busied himself with food, ignoring the roil of his stomach.

  “Tell me how you’re feeling.” Pete said this as his father passed behind his mother, squeezing her shoulders. The nod he and Levi exchanged acknowledged the slight lie they’d just told.

  “Same-ish. You’re here. Whatever ails me, it’s not what I want to spend time talking about.”

  “If you say so.” He smiled at his mother and glanced at Levi.

  As his father noted earlier, batteries of tests had eliminated autoimmune disorders and blood disorders, arthritis and thyroid conditions. Thankfully, the tests also ruled out anything worse. Like the lump in Pete’s stomach, it appeared his mother’s ailment was not anything traditional medicine could treat.

  He inhaled humid air. The night was over and he was booked on a flight to Iceland that evening. He’d get through the day. Pete dug into the pancakes and aimed for cheerier conversation. “Nevertheless, you look good, Mom. Pretty.”

  “You’re both horrible liars.” She busied herself by dunking a tea bag. “Tell me about your last assignment. Cities surrounding Damascus, right?”

  “Didn’t pan out. Flagler’s lead fizzled,” Pete said, referring to the managing editor at PressCorp. “There was an incident near Aleppo—northern Syria. But the rebel insurgence didn’t last. In the airport, I ran into a marine sergeant I rode along with on an Afghan border checkpoint op. He invited me to spend a few days south of Kandahar. I got some good images.”

  “And from Afghanistan?” Levi said, sounding impressed, maybe a little envious.

  “It was only a matter of time until things heated up in Syria again.” Pete hesitated with his next thought. “So staying on that side of the world seemed reasonable. After that I bummed a seat on a medical aid flight to Mumbai.”

  “Mumbai?” Aubrey perked up.

  “Yeah. Just a short trip. Barely two days.”

  She was quiet, sipping her tea. Then she pounced. “So you know I’m going to ask. Did you see Dr. Kapoor?”

  Pete poked at the pancake and then the sausage, which he did not think he could get down. He fought another swell of nausea. He thought of lying about his trip to India. But on
e more lie and, really, what would be the point of having shown up?

  “Yeah. I did,” Pete said. “Dr. Kapoor and I, we had dinner before my flight back to the Middle East.”

  His mother opened her mouth and shut it, a tight-lipped smile and deep breath speaking for her.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” Pete said. “Yes. Dr. Kapoor brought up past life regression therapy. And no. I’m not going to do it.” His mother remained silent, and Pete thought that was going to be it. She returned to her breakfast. But then her fork hit her plate, hard enough that Pete was amazed she didn’t crack the atomic-design dinnerware.

  “I don’t understand why. After all these years, everything you’ve endured, why you wouldn’t take the chance. After everything you’ve told us about Dr. Kapoor. You like him . . . you trust him.”

  “Aubrey,” Levi said, from what had been a rather quiet position.

  “Do I like that he doesn’t think I’m insane?” Pete said. “Of course. Do I want to be his ultimate lab rat? Not so much. Dr. Kapoor’s experience with past life regression is fascinating. But I believe it’s also bound to the ordinary.” Aubrey’s expression didn’t relax and Pete launched into his usual defenses. “Dr. Kapoor has used it on patients driven by a theory about their own experiences. People of his faith who have a deep interest in the subject.” Pete pointed the tines of his fork at himself. “Not someone like me. An unknown entity that not only is acutely aware of a past life, but—oh, by the way—possesses the added novelty of being able to chat with the dead. No thanks.”

  His mother’s voice hit the pitch of old arguments. “But if it can find you answers, close the gaps in your life, I can’t understand why you wouldn’t—”

  “Because I don’t want to know. There are too many questions that scare the shit out of me.” He dropped his fork like Aubrey had. “Face it, Mom. Your war correspondent son, traveler to the most violent places in this world, is nothing but a coward.”

  “Pete, don’t say things like—”

  “Aubrey.” His father spoke firmly. “We’ve been through this a million times. Pete doesn’t want to pursue any past life regression.” Levi reached for the syrup but didn’t pick it up, looking soberly at his wife instead. “Let’s not spend the next few hours haunting him with it. Okay?”

  Fitting choice of words, Pa . . . Pete closed his eyes, the conversation yanking him back about fifteen years. He and his mother could relate on communication with the dead, but Aubrey could not grasp her son’s reluctance to seek insights to his other life. Ongoing disagreements had taken a toll on their family. His mother had wanted normal for herself, for them. But with their son, she and Levi had only doubled down on the incomprehensible. Getting out of his parents’ everyday lives was the wisest thing Pete had done.

  Pete rose abruptly from the wrought iron table, signaling that the discussion was over. But he walked away with his coffee cup in hand, a tacit sign that he wouldn’t bolt. Standing at the deck rail, he stared into the preserve. Heated rays of sunlight sizzled like flaming arrows past his head and into high weeds. The old tire swing still hung from a lumbering oak, and the air was rich with the boyhood scents of home. Pete imagined this to be the same for everyone: the sights and smells, the aura of youth—one small thing he had in common with a larger populace. He tried to find solace in it.

  Instead, a voice came at him. The same voice that had woven its way into the privacy of the bathroom—nearly stepped into the shower with him—burrowed into his thoughts. Esme spoke again. “If Paris is France, then Coney Island, between June and September, is the World . . .”

  Then she was gone. Pete stifled a gasp. His mother could spot a ghostly presence like a snowy owl spying its prey. His brow knit tight and Pete studied his surroundings. The only visual was his childhood stomping grounds, but in place of the smell of home was the faint scent of gardenias. His heart thumped faster and a prickle of sweat stood out on his neck. Pete swiped at it, hoping mundane heat would take the blame. Fortunately, his mother did take his father’s advice. She’d moved on, saying something about grace—maybe that Pete should find some, along with compassion for his long-suffering parents.

  She was right, even if she’d said nothing of the kind. Feeling like a shitty son, Pete fixated on a family of rabbits poised at the edge of their burrow. Ears flicked, a twig snapped, and they vanished. “Everybody in . . . right down the rabbit hole.” He slung his arm outward, coffee from his cup spraying the lawn. Words about grace filtered back into his ears.

  “So I texted Grace back,” Aubrey went on, “and she said that would be fine.”

  Hearing his ex-girlfriend’s name, Pete whipped toward his mother. “What?”

  Levi leaned back in his chair, mumbling, “I told you not to do it.” He sipped coffee, his squinty stare set on the preserve.

  “I only thought it serendipitous that there was a text from Grace this morning. She wanted to know if she could drop by a book she borrowed. It’s not like we talk regularly, but we are friendly, Pete.”

  He sighed, wondering how fast he could get on a flight to anywhere—Somalia, the Sudan, Afghanistan . . . Newark.

  He was overreacting. The news wasn’t as unwanted as it was unexpected. Pete had plenty of positive memories when it came to Grace Hathaway. He understood why his mother wanted to label her “Saving Grace.” From the time they’d met at Brown—his father’s alma mater—until Pete had dropped out and left the country, Grace had represented the most sedate years of his life. Part of it, Pete was sure, involved removing himself from his mother’s energy. But a piece of it had been Grace.

  He’d loved her in a distracting way, like a comforting movie you’d watch again and again. Among Grace’s most winning traits was her ability to accept Pete’s peculiarities. She grasped his psychic gift and other life with the same ease as agreeing that his left foot was a half size larger than his right. The relationship worked until it didn’t, until Pete broke Grace’s heart on a rainy March morning.

  He’d called saying he had something to tell her, ask her. Afterward, he realized, if only from the disappointment on her face, that she’d anticipated words about lifelong commitments and a question involving a ring. Instead, Pete wanted to tell Grace he was leaving Brown, leaving Surrey—by default, leaving her. What he wanted was a ride to the airport. He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory, at one of many Pete St John social shortcomings.

  But it was all old news. After a period of noncommunication, surefooted Grace resurfaced. She insisted their romance had been based on friendship, and she couldn’t see letting that go to waste. Not when Pete could surely use a friend now and again. If she was fine with it, he couldn’t disagree. They resumed a cordial relationship, mostly text messages. Months ago, Grace called to tell Pete she’d gotten engaged. He was happy for her, but it wasn’t as if he planned on attending the wedding. He certainly hadn’t considered seeing Grace on his short jaunt home. Yet there he stood, twenty minutes later, answering the front door.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Pete swung the door wide. Grace stood before him holding a paperback novel, a violinist pictured on the cover. The book looked like something Grace would read. She’d changed little, if at all. Pretty. Wavy brown hair, shorter maybe, and indigo eyes—sharp, always emotion filled. Upbeat. In charge. They’d only been twenty-one at the height of their relationship. It had also been a point in Pete’s life when he hadn’t minded someone else doing the navigating.

  An accidental reunion in Italy was Pete’s last vivid Grace memory. He’d been taken aback to run into her on the plaza in front of St Mark’s Basilica, to end up with her in his hotel room shower. Grace had viewed their tryst as passion reignited. Pete had thought it was more about convenient sex. The miscue reminded him why things never quite worked. In truth, a variety of enablers had breathed life into a relationship that continued long past its expiration date. He’d been there for Grace through her parents’ shitty divorce. He’d supported her career goals,
which spun like a compass unable to locate magnetic north. The same wonky compass had landed them both in Italy more than two years ago. Pete hadn’t seen her since.

  Grace casually said hello and walked past him into the living room. “Great to see you, Grace. This is a nice surprise.”

  “Is it?” she said coolly.

  “Sure.” He pointed to the sofa and she sat, Pete plopping down on the other end. “Like my mother said, it was serendipitous that you texted her.”

  “I texted Aubrey?”

  “Yeah.” He gestured to the novel. “She told me you wanted to return a book.”

  She frowned. “Uh, no. Your mother texted me, asking if she could borrow a book. I ran into her a few weeks ago at Trader Joe’s. We talked for a bit. I know she loves to read, so I mentioned . . .” She sighed. “We’ve been duped.”

  “And not very cleverly.” He glanced toward the stairs. “I’ll talk to her. She could do better if aiming for a ruse. Sorry.”

  Grace relaxed into the sofa. “No harm done.”

  “She means well. But this is a reach, especially with your engagement and all.”

  “Right. That.” Grace’s frame tightened. “When I saw Aubrey, I told her the engagement was off. I was making conversation. It seemed relevant.”

  “Oh, makes more sense now. Not about your engagement—just my mother’s meddling.”

  “She adores her son. She wants to see him happy. Don’t fault her for that.”

  “I don’t. I’d love to see me happy too, it’s just—” He paused. “So you’re not getting married. What happened with . . . sorry, I don’t remember his—”