Rooms: A Novel (21 page)

The familiar buzz greeted him as he swiped his key and walked into the lobby. Right choice, he thought as he trudged over to the mail slots. He was wiped. Head for the top floor and crash.

Micah had purchased the penthouse suite as they were building the condo so they’d offered him the choice of where his mail slot would be. Normally it would be in alphabetical order, but since they asked, he told them far right. That way he could get his mail even in a blackout.

It had become so automatic over the years he hardly looked anymore. Key in. Open slot. Take mail. Close slot. Except this time, it didn’t work.

Micah sighed, tried again, looking intently at the keyhole this time. No problem. The key went in like velvet. It just wouldn’t turn. All he could get the mailbox to do was rattle. He bent forward to read the name on the mailbox. Where it should have read
Mr. Micah Taylor
, it clearly read
Mr. & Mrs. C. Murphey.

Tendrils of panic crept into his mind and heart, and perspiration dotted his forehead.

There had to be a logical reason for this.

But he knew there wasn’t.

He snatched his cell phone and dialed the building’s super. Five rings. Six.
C’mon.

“Hallo.”

“Phil!”

“Yes. You have reached me.”

“Micah Taylor.”

“Mr. Micah. Always good to hear you! What can I do for you on a Tuesday night?”

“You can tell me what’s going on with my condo!”

“What is wrong, Mr. Micah?”

“The name on the mailbox for the penthouse suite.” Micah closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

“Yes?”

“It’s not mine.”

“Yes?”

“Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you, Phil?”

“No, but what are you saying, Mr. Taylor? You want that you should move up?”

“Move up? What are you talking about? Move up where? How do you get higher than the twenty-first floor when the building only has twenty-one floors?!”

“So you want up to the penthouse, eh? Well, when Mr. Murphey bought the whole twenty-first floor; he say he will never sell. I know you are much rich now with your company and big dollars are with running software, but I do not know, you know? I believe that Mr. Murphey has pleasure with owning the whole floor, yes?”

Micah tried to stop from hyperventilating.

“But, Mr. Micah, there is nothing wrong with the nineteenth floor. View from there is fine too and it is available. I call Ronie for you, and she will see if you can move there. The nineteenth floor, right away you know, if you want. Two thousand square feet, just like you have now. You think that would work for you? In the morning I will call her and—”

“Where do I live now, Phil?”

“I do not understand.”

“Please. Just tell me where I live.”

“In your condo, Mr. Micah, of course.”

“Which floor?”

“Eighth floor like you always have. You feel okay?”

“Fine. Thanks.” Micah snapped the phone shut and ran his finger down the mail slots. Saxxon, Swenson . . . Taylor.

He opened the slot and yanked out the contents. Three pieces of mail scattered to the floor, but it didn’t matter. He looked at four different envelopes in rapid succession. It was the same on each of them: Micah Taylor, 4210 2nd Street, 8th Floor, Seattle, WA 98717.

He slid down the wall like syrup on a cold day. When he reached the floor, he took his head in his hands and held it for a long time. When he finally rose, he got in the elevator and punched the button for the eighth floor. He had to sleep somewhere.

Entering the condo he took a slow look around. Bizarre. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing except for the fact he now resided on the eighth floor instead of the twenty-first. Same furniture. Pictures. Books. Same coffeepot with the tiny chip in the glass on the right-hand side.

Sleep came slowly and ended early. He looked at his bedroom clock: 5:43. Too early to call and repeat the same conversation with Rick he’d had multiple times. At least it was Wednesday. Archie day.

He took his coffee out onto his veranda along with the envelope containing letter number twelve. He could see the shimmering waters of Puget Sound. When he sat, the building directly across the street blocked his view.

“C’mon, Archie.” He needed something solid, some light for his future from the archives of Archie’s past. He gritted his teeth and opened the letter.

September 2, 1991

Dear Micah,

As you are aware, Jesus says we must make the decision to give up our lives. However, as you are no doubt discovering, this is easier to execute in theory than in reality, is it not?

Your old life is crumbling out from underneath you, and there is no hope or promise of anything else to fill its place.

I am sorry. I wish I could tell you this journey you’re on will come out perfectly in the end. But it usually does not. This is most often due to the propensity inside each of us to imagine different definitions of perfect than the Father defines for us.

Also, bear in mind this is a process. A process you have the ability to slow down or speed up by your choices.

I am praying you choose wisely,

Archie

Micah sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he stared at a billboard below advertising a new exhibit at Seattle’s Art Museum.

Archie’s letter slid from his hand and fluttered to the floor. That was it! That was the connection. It had been in front of him the whole time.

Twenty minutes later his BMW was chewing up the miles back to Cannon Beach.

The painting in his house at Cannon Beach was the key.

CHAPTER 31

The gravel groaned as Micah pulled into his driveway Wednesday afternoon and stomped on the brakes. He didn’t bother to shut the car door as he marched toward the house, and he ignored the stinging rain pelting his face. His mind was fixed on one thing: get to the painting.

When he flung open the door to the painting room and strode in, he saw the changes immediately. The small cliff was now fully developed, and the home sitting on it was starting to take shape. The gold and russet hues of the beach were now flawlessly intertwined with each other, and the last touches on the sun were finished.

As Micah took it in, he realized his revelation that morning was right. How simple. How obvious. When a piece of Seattle falls apart, the painting gets closer to completion. Two worlds. Like a scale adding weight on one side making the other side go down.

Micah desperately wanted to see the finished painting. He was more than drawn to it; he felt like part of him was contained in the painting. But how much did he have to lose of Seattle before this vision was complete?

||||||||

“You there?” Micah said as he strode into the voice room.

“I’m always here,” the voice said.

“What is going on? Any clue? I gotta get some perspective on this.”

“I think we should talk to Rick.”

“Why? Would he say anything different from what he’s said before? ‘Stick it out. Stay strong. God is in this.’ ”

“God
is
in this, Micah.”

“I know. All I’m saying is Rick will just spout some line about God being in control and He knows what He’s doing. I’d like some concrete, hard-core answers.”

“But then where does hope and faith enter into the equation? Romans says if we see what we’re hoping for it’s not hope. But if we eagerly await it—”

“The problem is not that I went from the penthouse to the eighth floor,” shouted Micah.

“Really? What is the problem?”

“That I have no idea where it’s going to stop.”

“What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I don’t know.” Micah took two steps left, spun 180 degrees, then took two steps right.

“Then we need to start using logic,” the voice said.

“Like?”

“It’s obvious that if something significant happens here, then something significant happens back in Seattle. We gain something here; we lose something there.”

Micah nodded and kept pacing.

“So if we want to stop the happenings back home, we have to stop what’s going on in Cannon Beach.”

“All right, Einstein, how do we do that?”

“You know,” the voice said.

“I go back to Seattle and stay.”

“Yes.”

Micah stopped pacing and looked straight into the darkness. “And let the journey down here end?”

“No. Who says you have to stop coming here altogether? No one. Why can’t we just come down here every now and then? Once every five or six weeks?”

“But what if that slows down the discoveries, the changes in my heart, the completion of the painting?”

“So things go a little slower. So what? Progress will still be made on the painting. We’ve accomplished the important part already. We’ve come back to God and are with Him again. Does it matter if the rest of the journey comes a little less rapidly?”

Micah rubbed the back of his neck with both hands.

“Let’s get our life in Seattle going again,” the voice said.

“I don’t know. What if God is saying stay here?”

“Staying here while our world in Seattle falls apart? For how long? Till everything we’ve worked for is gone? How does that glorify God? We need to go after God’s will, but it’s rather difficult steering a parked car.”

“But what if God is saying park for a while?” Micah turned and walked to the door. “Thanks for the confusion.”

As he walked out, the voice sighed.

Welcome to my world,
Micah thought.

||||||||

The next morning Micah called Shannon to check in.

“Hey, stranger. How’s the surf?”

“White, how are you?”

“Things are fine,” Shannon said. “It’s nice to hear your voice, but you’re not due to touch base for another week and a half. Are you missing us already?”

“Missing you?” Micah paused. “Yeah, actually I am. You’re a good friend, Shannon.”

As the words escaped Micah’s mouth, it surprised him. Surprised he’d said them and surprised it had taken him this long to say it. She
was
a good friend. Like an older sister and a mom wrapped up together. “But not missing much else. I like it here. Good changes going on.”

“I’m glad for you. You sound well.”

After a few routine questions about the company, Shannon assured him business continued even smoother than expected, and everyone would be ready to talk with him during their scheduled conference call on Thursday next week. As Micah hung up the phone, he let out a sigh. Maybe Seattle had stabilized.

Relief swirled through him.

As he laced up his running shoes, he thought back to his talk with the voice. He might be right. Why not drop in every five or six weeks? Or even once a month? God could still work in him. This wasn’t a race.

If choices and actions in Cannon Beach affected Seattle, why not spend more time there and make sure those changes weren’t out of his control? Sarah could come up and spend a few days in Seattle in between his visits to Cannon Beach. Yet at the same time, Shannon said things were fine. So did he have to go back right now?

He walked onto the beach and glanced at the sky. Rain threatened, but he didn’t mind running in the rain, even if it did let loose. Would keep others off the beach and leave him alone with his thoughts.

He considered the other side of the coin. This was the first time he’d had any real break from the company since its inception. As long as the board had given him the time off, Micah might as well take it. What was the worst that could happen? He might wind up on the ground floor of his condo, but he’d still have a minimum of $45 million dollars of stock ready to be exercised almost instantly.

He’d stay in Cannon Beach a few more weeks, announce to the board during the conference call what he was doing, and try to relax and enjoy his time at the ocean.

After making the decision to stay, a dull ache shot through his left ankle. Dull but still severe enough that he stumbled and wound up in a heap on the sand.

He sat up and rubbed the ankle with both hands. He rotated it clockwise, then counterclockwise. It wasn’t excruciating, but his run for the day was finished.

He favored his right leg on the way home. Old age would take at least another twelve years to settle in; this had to be something else. After icing it for just under an hour, Micah wrapped the ankle in an ACE bandage and rested it the remainder of the day.

He went to bed early that night. The ankle would be fine by morning. It was. The problem came when he tried running Friday afternoon, and the ankle flared up again, much worse than before.

This time it wasn’t better the next morning. Or the next. Sunday night Sarah and he were heading back to his car after dinner and a movie when she said, “Want to tell me about it?”

“What?”

“The limp you’ve been trying to hide all night.”

“I took a run on the beach the other day, and wham, it just hit me.”

“You twisted it?”

“No, it came out of nowhere.”

“Well, I know this will fly in the face of macho-acting males everywhere, but why don’t you see my doctor about it? I promise he’ll only poke and prod a little.”

“Thanks for looking out for me, Sarah.”

“Always.”

He pulled her close for a long soft kiss. As she lingered in his arms, he frowned and tried to ignore the feeling his visit to the doctor wouldn’t be as comforting.