Yesternight (23 page)

Still holding his wrists, I lured his hands away from my face. “Mrs. O'Daire is no doubt in a state of shock after everything she experienced at the Rooks' house today. She needs time to sort out what she's feeling right now. And so do you.”

“
You
wouldn't do that to a fellow, would you?” he asked. “Take away his child?”

“I'm in no position to answer that question.”

“Do you know how badly I want to kiss you right now?” He cupped a hand around my neck, but I managed to duck my head and grab hold of one of his forearms before he could bring his mouth any closer.

“Is everything all right, miss?” asked the clerk.

“Yes.” I gripped Michael by his biceps and wheeled him around. “I just need to steer my
brother
up to his room so he can sleep the day off.”

“Alice . . .”

“Quiet!” I snapped at Michael, and I strapped his left arm over my shoulders. With some prodding and teeth-gritting and swearing on my part, I guided him up an endless staircase upholstered in fabric as green and slick as moss.

“Where are we going?” he asked in the landing, and directly thereafter he attempted to straighten a portrait of a bowl of fruit that didn't need straightening to begin with.

I shoved the key into the lock of the first room at the top of the stairs. “Here”—I swung open the door—“this is for you. Go
inside. Collapse onto the bed. Sleep until you feel better. When you're conscious and sober again, I'd like to speak to you about my plans for tomorrow.”

“Plans?”

“I'll tell you tomorrow.”

“Oh, Alice . . . lovely Alice . . .” He stroked his fingertips through the ends of my short hair. “Come in here with me. Stay the night. I want you. You must know I want you.”

“Go inside. Get some sleep.”

“Where are
you
sleeping?”

“Never you mind.” I nudged him into the room and shut the door before he could even think of slurring his way through any more professions of love.

I
n the morning, I kneeled down on the floor outside of Michael's room and slid a note beneath his door:

            
I intend to breakfast in the adjoining restaurant before boarding a late-morning train. Please join me. I am certain you could use a cup of coffee to boost you over the painful hump of that inevitable hangover, and I would like to speak to you about the next phase of my investigation. I am not yet ready to abandon the line of research that brought me here.

Sincerely yours,

Alice Lind

Downstairs, a waiter wished me a happy Christmas Eve and brought me a breakfast of grapefruit, French toast, and bacon. I nursed a bitter cup of coffee while gazing out the window at a nickel-colored sky that promised snow. No other customer dined in any of the wicker chairs surrounding me, but the solitude brought me solace. The soft clinks of pans the cook washed in the nearby
kitchen reminded me of home, of Mother baking sweet mincemeat pies for the Christmas Day feast, and of Margery and Bea wrapping presents for Margie's children. The savory scent of the bacon somewhat mimicked the mulled spices the others would be enjoying in warm drinks after dinner. I craved roasted chestnuts and gingerbread—and the Christmas port my father somehow acquired every December.

“Do you mind if I join you?” asked a voice I almost didn't recognize.

I lifted my head to find Michael bracing his left hand against the curved back of the chair across from me. He squinted from the lamplight shining down on the table, and discomfort creased his forehead. A chalky paleness robbed his lips and cheeks of their usual color.

“Please”—I nodded toward the chair—“have a seat. I'll call over the waiter so we can order you some coffee.”

“Thank you.” He sank into the chair with the slowest of movements, as though lowering arthritic bones into a warm bath.

I ordered his coffee, as well as slices of hot, unbuttered toast to soothe his stomach. The waiter bustled away with his chin held high, clearly pleased to have someone to fuss over in that otherwise empty restaurant.

I cut through a slice of French toast and observed the manner in which my breakfast companion leaned his elbows against the table and cradled his head in his hands. I didn't dare point out that my mother always chided us for elbows placed on tables.

“How are you?” I asked.

He closed his eyes and groaned. “I'm not sure how to answer that question.”

No more than two minutes later, the coffee and toast arrived, which perked Michael up a tad. He drew hesitant sips, his fingers wrapped around the white mug, and the wincing grew less frequent as the skin between his brows ceased puckering.

I allowed him to relish the silence for a while before asking, “Did you see in my note that I'm proceeding with my research today?”

“I did.”

“I mentioned the subject last night, but I doubt you remember . . .”

“I remember some of the things you said . . . and what I said.” His gaze flitted my way long enough to tell me what he remembered.

My neck warmed. I took a bite of French toast.

He cleared his throat. “Have you decided after all to write a paper about Janie?”

“No, I couldn't do that. I intend instead to explore another potential case of a child who may have experienced a past life.” Another bite; another gulp. “I've booked a room at the Hotel Yesternight in Nebraska.”

He raised his eyes. “Why on earth are you going there?”

“Do you remember how I said that Janie circled the word
Yesternight
when I gave her a list of Kansas names?”

“Yes . . .”

I fussed with my napkin on my lap. “I didn't tell you before, but I pulled that particular name from my own imagination, to see if Janie would choose random words with the same frequency as she would select real Kansas place names. Her identification of Yesternight intrigued me back when I tested her, but my interest
flourished when I learned from my sister Bea that I spoke of a place called Yesternight when I was quite young.”

“Aha!”

“‘Aha,' what?”

Michael lowered his mug to the table, and his eyes brightened with the first glimmer of a smile since he and Rebecca had quarreled. “I was right after all.”

“Right about what?”

“About you.” He replanted his elbows against the table. “You're the child you spoke of the day before we boarded the train—the other girl haunted by a past life.”

I dabbed the napkin against my lips. “Before meeting you and Janie, not once would I have believed that a past life lay behind all of my troubles—the nightmares, the strange behaviors . . .” I crossed my legs and debated which of my oddities to share with him.

Michael picked at the brittle crust of his toast and waited for me to continue, as though he had now assumed the role of school psychologist, and I the concerned parent.

“I would tell people I was born in the Great Plains,” I decided to say, not daring to mention the beatings, of course. “And I insisted that my name was Nell, which for a short while caused me to worry that I might somehow be Nel from the Other House.”

“You thought . . .” His brow furrowed. He leaned forward with a crackle of the wicker of his chair. “You believed you were Violet's husband?”

“Oh, that sounds so odd.” I covered my eyes with a hand. “But, yes, for a brief moment, I did. This all occurred when Janie showed an interest in Yesternight.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me?”

“I told Bea, and her reactions made me feel like a paranoid idiot. I most certainly didn't want you viewing me that way.” I took a sip of my drink and took solace in the coffee's warmth bathing my insides. “In any case”—I cleared my throat—“now that I know more about Nelson Jessen, that theory is long gone. The fact that Mr. Rook described the Hotel Yesternight as an infamous murder house, however, has me all the more worried about my possible connection to it.”

Michael chewed on his bread and studied me with a contemplative focus to his eyes—the same “should I believe this person?” sort of look that I used to direct toward him.

“Tell me the truth,” I said, now bracing my own elbows on the table, “do you think my newfound preoccupation with my own potential past life is simply a desire to find the same peace of mind that Janie found? A trace of envy, perhaps?” I swallowed. “Or do my early childhood experiences sound at all similar to what you observed in her?”

He shook his head. “I'm not a psychologist. I don't think I can adequately answer those questions.”

“I suppose I would like to find what Janie found in Friendly. That satisfaction she experienced when she climbed back into the car yesterday; those words she said—‘I'm ready.' That's what I long to discover for myself . . . if, in fact, I'm somehow linked to Yesternight.”

Using my fork, I stirred a piece of French toast through a pool of syrup and watched Michael sip his coffee. Our eyes met. My heartrate tripled over a question I found myself on the verge of asking.

I took a deep breath and simply asked it: “Would you care to accompany me to Nebraska?”

Color returned to his face. He lowered his mug to the table and breathed as though attempting to recover from a trace of shock. “Is that what you want?”

“I would prefer to have you there with me . . . as the person who first led me down this road. As the person who changed my entire system of belief.”

“That was Janie's doing, not mine.”

“You played a principal role in my transformation.”

He nodded and gave a small smile. “I suppose I did.”

I averted my gaze to the piece of toast that I continued to drown in syrup with my fork. “Furthermore,” I said, “I don't believe that sending you back home on your own on Christmas Eve would be wise. I would like to ensure you're safe and well cared for.”

“Aren't they expecting you to arrive alone?”

“I told them my ‘husband' might be joining me if he can take time off of work.”

He held his mug just below his chin, and I stirred and stirred and stirred.

“Where would I sleep?” he asked, but directly thereafter the waiter sidled over to our table and inquired how we were doing.

“We're fine,” I told him, my face burning.

“Thank you,” said Michael.

“Splendid. I'll bring the coffeepot around in a few minutes.”

“Lovely.”

The fellow strode away across the black and white tiles.

I gripped the handle of my fork. “You may stay with me.”

“Are you sure?”

Again, I lowered my eyes. “I'd have some stipulations about the time we spend together.”

“Oh? And what are they?”

“I can't discuss them here, Michael. Just know that I refuse to . . .” I checked to make sure the waiter remained in the back kitchen. “I absolutely cannot have a child. I have nothing in the way of precautions, so unless you do—”

“There are other things we can do,” he said, and he brought his mug to his lips and took another drink, his eyes upon me.

I laid the damp fork on the side of my plate, where the prongs wept golden-brown droplets. A smile tugged at the right corner of my mouth.

The same smile inched across his face.

Oh, God,
I thought.
What am I doing? What have I done?

M
ICHAEL AND
I huddled together beneath the yellow overhang of Brighton Depot, on the far right edge of a sparse collection of passengers who discussed the nip in the air and a storm stalking the rolling hills in the distance. Michael had hauled my hundred-pound suitcases for me and joked that I'd lugged my entire wardrobe with me, which, in fact, I had, due to my vagabond lifestyle. I'd toted his bag, which weighed nothing at all, as though he'd packed merely feathers.

Down at the far end of the platform, the conductor who had threatened to cart Michael off to the cops pulled a pocket watch out of his coat and checked the time. Michael turned us away from the man with his arm around me.

“He might not even recognize you,” I said.

“I don't care if he does.” He pulled me closer against his black coat. “He's not letting another beloved girl slip away from me.”

We stared at each other for one of those searching types of moments—the “should I kiss you?” question in our eyes—and then he bent his face toward mine and kissed me for the first time. My entire body thrummed. We kissed again, until the conductor called out, “All aboard!”

We found our seats in the back section of the first passenger car, and again we nestled together and drank up each other's warmth, even though the train itself exuded heat. Michael smelled musky and bathed, his breath peppermint sweet, and I forgot all about the whiskey-soaked lips that had tried to kiss me the night before. Onlookers may have mistaken us for newlyweds. I felt like a newlywed, tucked up beside him, our mouths unable to stay away from each other for more than three seconds.

“You'll need a ring on your finger if we're to pretend that we're married,” he said, and he twisted the high school ring with the sapphire off his right hand.

“I'm not sure it will fit properly . . .”

He glided the cold band over the knuckle of my left ring finger. It wobbled and slipped, and we joked about keeping it in place with chewing gum.

He then kissed the length of that newly adorned finger of mine and pulled me close again.

I pushed aside memories of him insulting and hollering at his ex-wife. I forgot all about my graduate school lovers. I even momentarily stopped thinking of Michael as a father. Life would
begin anew. I would open a door to the next phase of my studies, perhaps even align myself with the American Society for Psychical Research. I would return to a time in which I allowed myself to love a man.

For the moment, we were Mr. and Mrs. Lind, a married couple journeying to a rural inn for the Christmas holiday, unfettered by our pasts.