Forever (6 page)

“No,” she snapped. “Not anymore.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“I have a younger sister. Kate,” she said, the words racing past her lips. “She lives with me. We’re just about total opposites, so we squabble a lot, but really we’re very close.”

Tom took her cue. “I have an older brother. We’re tight too. When I was fifteen, our mother remarried and made it obvious I was in the way, so Dave took me in and kept me on the straight and narrow. He moved to Alabama a couple of years ago.”

“So there’s no one around to keep you in line now?”

He grinned. “Actually, there is. I have a black Lab named Max who keeps me on a short leash.”

Oh, yes. She was in love.

The cafe customers came in waves, before and after movie showings, and while Annie waited on them, Tom stepped outside to smoke. He looked often at his watch, judging how much time he had left before heading home. Once, alone in the men’s room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stopped to force a closer look. He saw a man—okay, technically a middle-aged man—but still one who might be considered attractive by a beautiful younger woman.

He spoke to his reflection. “You know, Old Man, as soon as you finish discussing those visions it’s back to your normal life.”

Hadn’t he been honest with Annie and told her he was married? But why hadn’t she made any comment? Was it that she didn’t care that he was married because she had no intention of seeing him as anything other than a stranger with whom she’d had a strange encounter? Or was it because she had no qualms about seeing married men? Somewhere in the shadows of his mind, a voice tried to tell him the second option shouldn’t matter because he was a faithful husband. But Tom didn’t want to hear that voice tonight. He was stone sober but nonetheless intoxicated.

Neither of them brought up the subject of the visions the rest of the night, and they didn’t touch again. They behaved like new friends getting to know each other, chatting about nothing important, but enjoying it. When Tom left at eleven o’clock, he had Annie’s phone number written on a napkin.

During the drive home, he decided it would be best to park the truck in the driveway to prevent Julie waking when he opened the garage door. Then it occurred to him that if she were still awake when he got home, she would expect to smell alcohol on his breath. He stopped at a liquor store near his home and bought a beer. After he took a couple of swigs in his driveway, he tossed the empty bottle in the garbage can and wheeled it out to the curb for the morning pick-up. He’d already slipped his key into the front door lock before he remembered the napkin in his pocket.

Tom returned to the truck and tucked Annie’s number behind the visor—not to hide it from Julie—but because he drove his truck every day and having it there was more convenient. At the last minute, he’d asked for her number because they’d never actually discussed the significance of the visions. Plus, he’d decided she would distract him less on the phone. When he had the time—in a few days—he would call her.

* * *

Julie pretended to be asleep when Tom came to bed, but she was far from it. Within minutes, his first soft snores filled the room. She curled tighter into fetal position.

All night her nerves had been like mad dogs in a pen, waiting to charge, snarling and slathering, at anyone foolish enough to come close to the fence. If Tom had come home twenty minutes earlier, he would have stepped right into that pen, but the intensity of her cramps had taken all the
oomph
out of those dogs now. She was spotting too, but her period was not due for at least ten days. A voice in her head, the one who wore the black hat, told her this was more than a menstrual cycle gone awry. Dull claws ripped through her again and then withdrew. She lay still, waiting for them to return, almost numb in the sudden absence of pain.

In the lull, she hopped back on the train of thought she’d ridden all evening. Was Tom cheating on her? That’s what Patricia had harped on all this year, but then Patricia didn’t trust
any
man. This evening, Eddie had been there and concurred with Patricia’s so-called evidence. Maybe it was the fear about her health that had made her vulnerable tonight, but she’d seriously considered the possibility they knew better than she. She didn’t admit that to them, of course. She’d insisted that getting Tom’s new business off the ground was the reason he’d spent less time at home lately. And tonight, like the occasional night before, he was only out schmoozing for work. They’d cautioned her not to be a fool, and she’d laughed. But the parasite of doubt had taken hold.

June 8

W
hen Tom phoned Annie the next morning, her voicemail picked up. He hung up without leaving a message. Voicemail was evidence.
Jeezus
. Evidence of what? There was nothing wrong with talking to her on the phone.

When he tried calling again around noon, she answered. “It’s Tom,” he said. “Are you working today?” He grimaced. That wasn’t at all what he’d rehearsed.

“No, I’ve got the day off.”

“Well, then . . . would you like to meet me for a drink, or coffee, or . . . something?” Then, because it was what he’d really intended to say, he added, “I’d like to talk to you about the visions.”

“All right,” she said. “When and where?”

“How about the Coach House?”

The instant he heard her sharp intake of breath, he regretted his choice. Although he favored the pub because he liked its dark, Old English style, he’d forgotten the Coach House was also known locally as the spot for couples to meet when they didn’t want to be
seen
. From Annie’s reaction, it seemed evident she knew that reputation. The silence in his ear was so complete, he feared she’d hung up.

“Annie?”

“Hmm?”

“Or we could meet wherever you want.”

“The Coach House is fine. You didn’t say when.”

“Is three o’clock all right?”

“Sure.”

After ending the call, Tom stared in panic at the phone in his hand. What had he done and done so casually?
Take a deep breath
. Okay. No big deal. He was meeting someone in a public place to talk. Just talk. That’s all.

* * *

At twenty after three, Tom pulled into the Coach House parking lot, sure that Annie had arrived before him and hoping she hadn’t already left. Pausing just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior, he sensed her presence before he spotted her.

“Sorry I’m late.” He slipped into the booth, sitting opposite her.

“That’s okay. I was going to give you ten more minutes before I figured you had better things to do.”

Tom noted two things—she’d ordered a frozen margarita and her smile made him feel nineteen again.

“Problem at work,” he said and then paused to order a beer. After the waitress left, he turned back to Annie. “Did I explain being late?”

“A problem at work, you said.”

“Yeah. A drywall installer, goofing around, drove a nail through his thumb. Pothead. Reeked of it.” Tom shook his head in disgust. “Anyway, I got delayed by the accident paperwork.” The waitress returned, and he downed half his beer at once, then wiped the corners of his mouth with a thumb and forefinger and lit a cigarette. “Change of subject. We never got a chance to really talk about the visions the other night. I know you said that had never happened to you before, but I wondered if anything like
it had.”

“You mean, do I see ghosts, read people’s minds, talk with the dead . . . that kind of thing?”

“Not exactly.” He blew smoke out the corner of his mouth, away from Annie. “Well, sort of like that. Weird stuff.”

She shook her head. “I’ve led a pretty boring life, actually. Does weird stuff happen to you?”

“Not as a rule.” The idea that a woman as beautiful as Annie led a boring life momentarily distracted him. He shook it off. “So then, why do you think we’ve had this experience?”

“I’ve been reading about it,” she said, “and I think these visions are past-life memories. You know . . . like you and I are the reincarnation of this man and woman? I think we might never have remembered those lives at all, but when we met—when we touched—something sparked. Our energies combined or something.”

Tom nodded. He didn’t know much about reincarnation. He didn’t know much about Annie either. How
out there
was she? And how crazy was
he
for even being here? He’d have to think of some reason to cut this short.

Annie shrugged. “I don’t really know how reincarnation works. That’s just something I read.”

He looked into her eyes. Suddenly, he felt willing to agree to anything she said. “I think you’re right. Exactly right,” he said with too much enthusiasm.

“Have you ever had any hint that you had a previous life?” she asked.

“I don’t think so.” He longed to reach across the table, to touch her hair and feel its satiny weight in his palm. To squelch the impulse, he grabbed his glass and drained it.

“I read that a lot of very young children remember details, but they forget them as they grow older. Some of them even have birthmarks that match the fatal wounds of the person they used to be.”

Tom resisted the urge to touch the strange birthmark on his chest, a smooth, pinkish circle about the size of a penny. No sense letting his imagination get away from him. He signaled for refills.

“So,” he said, “if we were together in a past life, why would we meet again in this life . . . in different circumstances?”

Annie didn’t answer right away. He could almost see her mentally sorting through things she
wanted
to say, but in the end, she shrugged again.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The problem was, he didn’t have a guess. He’d never given any thought to the possibility he’d lived before. But he didn’t want to end this conversation. He would discuss anything as long as he could sit here with her. Tom stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray.

“Did they give more specific proof of reincarnation in the books you read?”

“Oh, yes. They’ve verified names and places, and sometimes actual events that people remembered from their past lives. If only we had more information on the man and woman we saw, we could do that. Knowing their names would be a good st—”

“Maggie and Jacob.” Tom stiffened, shocked at the words that had come from his mouth.

“How do you know?”

“I . . . until I said the names, I didn’t know them.”

“But they feel right, don’t they?” She repeated the names as if in reverence. Then her brow creased in a frown. “We could never find records of them with only their first names. I’m sure—”

“Stout,” exclaimed Tom just as their drinks arrived. The waitress apologized and started to take back Tom’s glass, but he stopped her hand, laughing. “No. I want the beer. Stout is someone’s name I happened to say when you walked up to the table.”

The waitress walked away, shaking her head.

“Who is Stout?” Annie asked.

“I just remembered that,” Tom said. “In the first vision, Jacob turned when he heard a man yell ‘Stout’. That’s when he was shot. His name must have been Jacob Stout.”

“Wow, that’s great. At least we have one full name to go on. I didn’t see who shot Jacob. I wonder who the man was . . . and
why
he shot him.”

They fell silent for a minute, trying to remember more from the two short visions they’d shared. Suddenly, Tom realized both his jaw and fists were clenched, and the back of his throat stung with a bitterness that wasn’t an aftertaste from the beer. He was manifesting the rage he’d felt in the vision.

Annie’s frown returned. “We don’t know where they lived, and we’d have to know that before we started looking for some kind of record.”

Tom stared off into the distance for a moment. “I can’t tell you why, but I think they lived right here. In Indiana, I mean. Something about the woods, something . . . familiar. I’d say start looking in this area.” With an arch of his brows, he sought her opinion.

“Look at my arm,” she said, holding it out to him. “I got goose bumps when you said that! I
know
you’re right.” She pulled a pen and scrap of paper from her purse and wrote herself a note. “Oh! What about
when
they lived? I know it wasn’t in the recent past, because you were wearing a fringed buckskin shirt . . . and the shirt was very long, almost to your knees.”

Tom paused to light another cigarette before offering his opinion.

“I’d say it was before 1830, because Jacob was carrying a longrifle, a flintlock. I just remembered that too,” he added, in answer to her questioning look.

“I didn’t see your rifle,” she said, “but I caught a glimpse of the one that killed you, and it didn’t look like a modern gun. Was that a longrifle too?”

“To be honest, I didn’t exactly take the time to examine the gun that was pointed at me.”

Her eyes widened along with his. His sudden defensive tone had surprised them both.

To break the uneasy silence that followed, Tom began a story he remembered his father telling him about longrifles and the hunters who used them. He hadn’t thought about those guns in years and yet the details flowed from him as though the topic was his specialty. Annie appeared to hang on his every word.

Two drinks became three, and they talked on. When Tom started to order a fourth round, Annie declined. “If I drink any more on an empty stomach, you’ll have to carry me out of here.”

“We can’t have that.” He motioned for the waitress, uneasily aware that the thought of sweeping a soft and yielding Annie into his arms had caused a stir in his crotch.

They ordered dinner and continued their conversation. At one point, Tom left the table to take a leak, pausing long enough outside the men’s room to make a phone call home.

“Lindsay, let me talk to Mom.”

“She’s not here. Remember? She and Patricia have that book discussion thing tonight.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding, relieved that he wouldn’t have to lie directly to Julie.

(As if lying to your daughter exonerates you?)

“Are you on your way home, Dad?”

“No, I won’t be there for a while.”