The Last Story (5 page)

"Partly. But I've followed your career from afar."

"Really?" He seemed a little old to be reading Young Adult books. I reminded myself that as much as a quarter of my audience was adult.

"I've been reading you since Magic Fire came out," he said.

Magic Fire was one of my more esoteric works. It dealt with interdimensional travel.

Realities constructed out of words on the paper. Demons who appeared as angels. Gods who were terribly flawed.

Humans born without souls.

"What did you like about it?" I asked.

He thought for a moment. "It was not the kind of story I'd say I liked. But it stimulated me. I think that's more important than simply enjoying something.

Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes." Magic Fire was a dark work. I hadn't enjoyed writing it, but felt compelled to do so. It was often that way with my books. "Do you think I should try to make it into a movie?"

"No. It wouldn't work."

I was curious. "Why not?"

"It's too abstract. People wouldn't understand it."

"You sound like Jo. She said that about Remember Me. "

"Jo is your friend—the one who plays Susie?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How did you meet her?"

"We went to high school together," I said.

"Interesting. I would have thought you came from opposite sides of town."

His comment was perceptive. Especially since being in Jean's body the last three years, I had begun to talk the way I used to as Shari Cooper. For example, I almost never spoke Spanish anymore, except when I was around Jean's mom, whom, regrettably, I never saw often enough.

"Tell me about yourself," I said. "Where are you from?"

"Chicago. Have you heard of it?"

I chuckled. "Yeah. It's located somewhere between New York and L.A. Is that where you learned to fight like that?"

He was silent for a long moment. "No. I learned that somewhere else."

I had hit a sensitive spot. "What brought you out here?"

"I want to be a star."

"You didn't act like that during the audition. You criticized my writing."

"I noticed you didn't like that."

"Hey, I worked my butt off on that script. If you don't like it, too bad. You say what I wrote and that's that." I added, "Henry loves the script."

"He's a decent man. I like Bob as well."

"Are you serious? The guy's an animal."

"But he's true to what he is. I think we'll get along."

"If he doesn't try to drown you first," I said.

"I can handle him. Tell me more about your friend who's crippled."

"Peter?" I felt guilty talking about Peter. I hoped he didn't wait for me before going to the lecture.

"He's an incredible person. He's my personal editor.

I bounce all my story ideas off him. Without his help, I wouldn't be nearly as successful."

"Do you support him?"

"Ah—sort of."

"Where did you meet him? At school?"

"Yes."

"Do you love him?"

His question caught me off guard. "Of course I love him." I let go of Roger's hand and took a deep breath. "Why do you ask?"

Roger smiled at me in that cool calm manner he had. "Just checking."

We went to a movie. An action flick with plenty of blood and special effects, and a budget probably ten times ours. The story line was dreadful, as usual, but I had fun anyway.

Then, even though I was tired, Roger dragged me to a club and we danced for two hours to music so loud I couldn't hear myself talk when we finally left. My headache was back, and although I was longing for my pills I was afraid to take them because of the alcohol I'd drunk.

While at the club, I'd had another couple of drinks.

It was two in the morning when Roger took me back to my apartment.

The light in my window was still on.

Peter was up. Waiting.

Roger followed my gaze as I checked out the scene.

"Are you in trouble?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I'm a big girl. I go where I want."

He ran his hands through his thick dark hair, looking very handsome in the dim light. The inside of his car smelled of leather, money. Despite having questioned him several times about his background, I still didn't know much about him. Like where he got his money. If he had a day job. Yet I found his secretive nature tantalizing. He didn't have to say a lot to communicate.

Briefly I wondered if he was right, if he could play Daniel with fewer lines. Sometimes less was more. I wished I had more time to spend with him that night, and less guilt to hide. This close to Peter, I didn't feel so single.

"How paralyzed is he?" Roger asked as if reading my mind.

"He has complete use of his arms and hands. But from the waist down he has no feeling."

"Can he control his bowels?"

I swallowed. "Yes. But I think these questions are getting a bit personal. Don't you, Roger?"

He leaned closer and draped his arm on the top of my seat. "You don't want me to get personal?"

"Not about Peter. It's not appropriate."

"What about you?" he asked.

"What about me?"

"Isn't that the question of the night?"

Before I could respond, he kissed me again. Hard

on the lips. He wasn't kissing Kathy this time, and there were no sharks in the vicinity.

Yet, as I sunk unresisting into his embrace, I felt as if I could drown. It was not an unpleasant sensation. Actually, it was kind of euphoric. I had known from the moment I saw him that he would be a great kisser.

Almost as if I knew him from somewhere else, another time and place. Yet, for my tastes, too much of the thrill of being intimate with him came because it was forbidden. When he reached out toward my left breast, I pulled back.

"No," I said, catching his eye.

His expression was eager. "What's wrong?"

I opened the car door. "I have to go. Goodnight, Roger."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Shari Cooper," he called after me.

There was no transition for me. One minute I was in Roger's arms and the next I was in the apartment with Peter. He was sitting on the couch in his underwear in the corner of our living room beneath a tall lamp, reading a book. He glanced up as I entered and didn't seem to be upset with me.

God. What if he'd been looking out the window?

"Long meeting?" he asked sympathetically.

"Yes." I was close to tears. "Give me a second, I have to go to the bathroom."

In the washroom I splashed cold water on my face and quickly brushed my teeth to get rid of the alcohol on my breath. The person in the mirror—I hardly recognized her. I no longer understood what

she wanted. My head throbbed. I could see the pulse of a large vein on my right temple.

Still, I did not reach for my pills, because I had too much alcohol in my blood. I didn't want to wake up dead.

Not again.

"You didn't have to wait up for me," I said as I went back into the living room. Peter needed his sleep, nine or ten hours a night. He tired easily; often he had to take naps during the day. Yet at the moment he appeared radiant and I didn't understand why.

"I wanted to wait up," he said, excited. "I wanted to tell you about this man."

I pushed his wheelchair aside and plopped down on the sofa beside him. "The yogi? You went to his lecture?"

"Yes. Shari, you've got to see this guy. He's incredible. I think it's him."

"Who?"

"The Rishi."

I smiled. "Peter, the Rishi is not on Earth now. It can't be him."

"We don't know that for sure. Besides, it doesn't specifically have to be him to be him.

You know what I mean. The Rishi is a Master. This man is a Master. They're both one with God.

He gives off the same feeling as the Rishi. H e ' s ... " Peter paused, at a loss for words. "I've never met anyone so at peace with himself and the world."

"Did he teach you to meditate?"

"No. But he's going to. I'm going to take his course. It's this weekend."

"What does it cost?"

"Two hundred dollars."

I snorted. "If he's so spiritual, why does he charge?"

"His organization is nonprofit. They have to charge some fee in order to support their movement.

I think two hundred dollars is reasonable."

"Where does the money go?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. Shari, I'm talking about something important. Why are you talking about money?"

I rubbed my head. "I'm just tired. Did Jimmy go to the lecture?"

"Yes. He's taking the course with me. He's really excited."

I closed my eyes and slumped back. "That's nice."

Peter put his hand on my arm. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

"Where did you get these clothes?"

I yawned. "Bob pushed me in the pool. They're Henry's daughter's clothes."

"Why did Bob push you in the pool?"

"Because he's a bastard." I opened my eyes and patted Peter's arm. "I'm glad you liked the yogi.

I'm sorry I couldn't be there to see him."

"You can see him tomorrow night. He's going to give another lecture."

"I'm busy tomorrow."

"That doesn't matter. You have to come. He won't be in L.A. long."

"We'll see," I muttered.

Peter shook his head. "Shari, he's what we've been looking for. He's why we came back."

I chuckled. "You can't say that. You just met him. He hasn't even taught you anything yet. You don't even know if his meditation techniques will work."

Peter was thoughtful. "It's not what he says that's important. It's the love he radiates.

Already, I think, he's taught me a great deal."

I stood. "Let's talk about it in the morning. I have to go to bed now or I'm going to fall on the floor. Are you coming?"

Peter nodded, and quickly lifted himself into his wheelchair. "You'll understand when you meet him. Everything will make sense."

I shook my head doubtfully. "Not much makes sense these days."

CHAPTER

V

JL WOKE UP outside my body. Standing and looking down to where Peter and I slept.

The room was dark but I could see. Not for a moment did I think I was dead, although my disorientation was similar to when I woke up back home in my bed after Amanda had shoved me off the balcony. There was stuff in the air now, the same stuff that I had wandered through for days when I was first on the other side of the grave. It was everywhere, translucent, vaguely gaseous, and flowing around the room, around the furniture, through the walls. It blurred my vision but not too badly. I could see my body breathing, hear myself snoring softly. Peter stirred as I stepped closer to the bed. He rolled over and wrapped his arm around me as I slept. Being crippled, he didn't usually move much during the night. He was nice and warm to sleep beside.

There was a reason I was outside my body, I realized.

I was to learn something. What, I didn't know.

I sat on the bed and reached out to touch Peter, to stroke his head. But soon after I touched him, I was gone. Touching a sleeping person while traveling out of body usually drags one into the sleeping person's dreams. I fell fast but not very far.

On the inside, a slight Indian man was sitting cross-legged on a sheet-draped chair. There were bunches of flowers around him and a candle flickered on his right side. He sat with his eyes closed and Peter sat at his feet, his eyes also shut. With his long black hair and beard, the man looked nothing like the Rishi, but Peter was right—there was an aura of peace around him so strong it was like being wrapped in an angel's embrace. As I moved closer, the man opened his eyes and gazed at me. A soft smile touched his lips, and he bid me sit beside him, also at his feet.

A red rose lay on his lap, and he picked it up and gave it to me.

"Shari," he said. "You are here."

I accepted the flower, the fragrance strong in my nose. Never before had I smelled anything in a dream and I wondered if other people did. The feeling of love emanating from the man was almost overwhelming. Something in my chest loosened, and I found myself growing emotional.

"Where is here?" I asked.

"It's a place to meet. The place is not important.

What is important is that you came to see me.'

"But I didn't go to see you. I didn't go to the lecture."

"Why not?"

"I'm too caught up in what I have to do. And I want so many things."

"What do you want?"

"I don't know. Recognition. Love. Sex. I'm a young woman. I feel I should have everything that other women have." I lowered my head. "I feel so ashamed."

"Why?"

I glanced at Peter. "Can he hear us?"

"This is a private meeting."

I continued to stare at Peter. "I've betrayed him. And I'm going to betray him again. I know it."

"You don't betray him. If you know something is wrong, and you do it anyway, you betray yourself."

The yogi paused. "Peter is doing fine. Don't worry for him."

"Who are you? Are you the Rishi?"

"Who are you? Are you Shari Cooper? Or are you Jean Rodrigues?"

I nodded. I wasn't these people, these personalities.

I was the infinite soul, but I had forgotten that.

He was saying he was the same soul as the Rishi, that we were all the same. Yet the realization brought me no peace. I lowered my head again.

"I can understand these things when I'm with you here. But I know I will forget them when I return to my body."

The yogi nodded. "It is true we have met here many times lately. But each time you remember a

little more. Don't worry—the time of decision comes soon."

I raised my head and took his hand. He did not seem to mind. His touch was gentle. "Will I decide wisely?" I asked.

He picked out another rose from a nearby vase and tapped me lightly on the head with the petals.

Then he chuckled. "I hope so."

The comment did not reassure me. "Do I have a problem with my head? I feel sometimes like there's something inside me—" I couldn't continue.

"Are you afraid that it could kill you?"

I nodded, feeling a wet drop run down my cheek.