Paul Kohler - The Borrowed Souls, A Novel

Not wanting to get up, I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Why did life have to be so demanding? Couldn’t I just lie in bed and waste the day away? As I lay in silent contemplation, Cyndi began to stir. I looked over. Her eyes were closed tightly against the rays of morning sunshine beginning to peek through the drapes. I often wished I could be as content with my life as she was with hers. Rarely did anything faze her happy persona.

I reached over and touched the soft skin of her cheek. I could still smell traces of her perfume. The scent was intoxicating. Even after fifteen years of marriage, everything about her made my heart race.

“I love you,” I whispered.

“Hrmm?” she mumbled, still in the grasp of sleep.

“I love you, baby,” I repeated.

She smiled, eyes still closed. “Me too. You better get up or you’ll be late again.”

Cyndi was the exemplification of punctuality. I still don’t know why she married me. I was late to my own wedding.

“I know. I was just lying here thinking about…”

“About what?” she asked, sliding her head over to rest on my chest.

“Work. Life. You. Take your pick,” I said as I stroked her hair.

“I’m happy I’m in there somewhere,” she replied as she opened her eyes for the first time. Even having just woken, her eyes sparkled brightly.

“What are your plans for today? Want to have lunch?”

She glanced at the clock before answering. Faint frown lines developed between her eyes and she said, “I can’t today. I am volunteering at the Redevelopment Foundation. Remember?”

I did remember but was still hopeful. “Oh right. The foundation. When will you be done?”

“The donation center is open until five, so I should be home around the same as you.” She sat up, pushing the covers away. She stretched and tilted her head to the side, her eyes wincing slightly.

“Does it still hurt?” I asked. Cyndi had fallen while rollerblading in the park a few weeks back, and ever since had had neck and backaches.

“Yeah. I was hoping I didn’t need to fill the prescription again, but—”

“If it still hurts, fill it. You don’t have to take them all.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Would you mind picking it up for me today? I’ll call it in to the pharmacy near your office.”

“Sure thing. Need anything else while I’m there?” I asked, rolling out of bed and reaching for the ceiling in a giant stretch.

“I don’t think so. But if something comes to mind, I’ll call your office before you leave. Getting off at your regular time?”

“Yeah, probably. Unless Pearlman asks me to stay late for something.”

“Just let me know either way,” Cyndi said as she lay back onto her pillow, closing her eyes.

Why can’t I go back to bed? I asked myself. I shuffled off to shave and shower. Forty minutes later I was dressed and in the kitchen finishing my breakfast. Cyndi sauntered in and sipped from my coffee.

“Don’t forget my prescription. I put the slip in your briefcase,” she said before vanishing again to shower.

Feeling beads of sweat slide down my forehead, I used my free hand to wipe them away. I opened my eyes and realized I was still sitting on the park bench next to the stranger. I jumped to my feet, dropping the coin to the ground.

“What the hell just happened? What’s going on?” I demanded as I turned to look at the man still sitting casually on the bench. “It was like I was there in my bedroom this morning.”

“I assure you, Mr. Duffy, nothing ‘is going on’. I’m just here to help you. Think of the coin as a hypnotic device that clears your mind of the unnecessary clutter that slows us all down from time to time.” He smiled as he leaned over, picked up the coin, and held it out to me once again.

I sat down and reluctantly took the coin from him. I didn’t even have the coin fully turned over in my hand when I was snapped back to my apartment.

After finishing my coffee, I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the elevator. A glance at the clock on the way out told me that I was going to be late. That’s all I needed. Punching the elevator call button three times for good measure, I waited a few moments before the familiar ding sounded and the doors parted.

Happiness enveloped me; the eight-foot by eight-foot metal car was empty. Pushing the button for the parking level, the doors closed and the elevator began to drop. My happiness quickly evaporated as the elevator stopped at floor twenty-three. On came Ms. Eastman. “Good morning, Jack,” she said, smiling up at me from her four-foot-tall frame.

“Morning, Ms. Eastman.” Hoping to avoid an uncomfortable conversation with the building’s gossip queen, I pulled Cyndi’s prescription from my briefcase and began to read. Thankfully, the elevator doors opened once again a few floors down and on came three more people. Unfortunately, the elevator stopped at nearly every other floor the rest of the way down. After stopping at the lobby to unload most of the passengers, the car dropped two floors farther, letting me and a few others off in the garage.

I climbed behind the wheel of my aging sedan and turned the engine over. After a few cranks, it roared to life. The problem was that the familiar rumble was accompanied by a new knocking sound. I knew it was time for a service, but as the morning was moving along, my mood was drifting swiftly in the wrong direction. The service would have to wait till the weekend.

Unfortunately, I left too late to avoid morning traffic. And although I pulled right into the middle of it, the flow of cars wasn’t terrible. I would have been able to make it to work somewhat close to on time if it wasn’t for the old woman driving two cars ahead who ran the red light.

The Lincoln Town Car—a yacht on wheels—plowed into the side of a subcompact heading across her path. Three other cars collided in the intersection as well, bringing traffic to a sudden and unavoidable halt. Yep. I was going to be late for work.

Surprisingly, the emergency vehicles arrived on the scene quickly and were able to restore the morning commute to its natural flow in short order. Short order meaning thirty minutes. Once beyond the bottleneck at the scene of the accident, traffic picked up pace. I was able to pull into my office’s parking garage only an hour later than normal.

I lurched forward uncontrollably, gulping air in an effort to catch my breath. I looked at the stranger, and he only smiled at me knowingly.

“It sounds like the makings for a bad day, Mr. Duffy,” he chuckled. “A very bad day. How were your emotions at that point?”

“Honestly, I don’t really know. Just now, I started to feel my anxiety increase, but I’m not sure if that’s related to the events from earlier or to how I’m experiencing everything again.”

“That’s understandable and quite expected. Are you ready to continue?”

“Maybe, but—” I paused, thinking of the right way to say what I was thinking. “Why am I doing this? Can’t I just call my wife and have her come get me? To tell the truth, it’s a little bizarre sitting on a park bench in the early morning, talking to a stranger trying to figure out what happened to my last twenty hours. I still don’t know your name,” I prompted, hoping to glean more information from the old man.

“Ah yes,” he replied, looking at me with a sideways glance. “My given name is Wilson, Wilson Oliver. But I haven’t been called that in quite some time. And while you certainly could try to call your wife, where would you have her pick you up from?” asked Wilson as he looked about the vacant park. “Furthermore, what would you tell her about your… condition? Honestly, Mr. Duffy, I think it best that we find out what happened to you and your day before going any further with contacting your wife.”