M. Buehrlen - The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare

“OK,” she says, drawing out the word. “All history isn’t necessarily fact, but you know what I mean. It’s not written in the style of fiction. It’s written like a summary.”

“I still don’t read it. Not unless I have a point to prove.”

“Why is that?”

I chew the inside of my cheek, once again fighting the urge to lie. Lying was so easy. It hardly fixed anything, but it always stopped people from asking too many questions. Like the ones Dr Farrow asked now. “I don’t read history for the same reason I don’t touch cats. Or ride Ferris wheels. Or go anywhere near boats or water.”

“And why’s that?”

I drop my foot to the floor and clasp my hands between my knees. “Because I don’t want to have déjà vu.”

“And you have déjà vu when you touch a cat?”

“No.” I toss my head back with a groan and stare at the white paneled ceiling. There’s a yellowed water stain in the corner. “I mean yes. I did have. Once. When I was four.”

“Tell me about it.”

I close my eyes and tell myself I have nothing to lose. What was the worst Dr Farrow could do to me? Send me to a mental institution? I was pretty sure I’d have déjà vu there too. It wasn’t something you could hide from.

I look down at my hands, pressing my slick palms together as tightly as I can. I watch my fingers turn red and my knuckles turn white.

Then I tell her everything.

VISION NUMBER ONE

It happened at Gran and Pops’ old house in Virginia. It was July, and it was hot, and I was outside chasing a little gray bobtail cat around the yard. Pops always told me bobtailed cats weren’t as mean as long-tailed cats, which is completely ridiculous, but I was four, so I believed him. And I really wanted to pet the gray one. She was the prettiest. She had blue eyes.

I finally caught her when she ran behind Pops’ woodpile. I just reached in and pulled her out. I remember the feeling of my little fists closing around loose skin and fur, pulling on her like she was a rag doll as she dug her claws through the dirt. She cried out but I wasn’t about to let go of my prize.

That’s when it happened.

I try to explain it the best I can to Dr Farrow. How the shadows at the edge of my vision closed in on me, swallowing me, shutting me out of that July afternoon like a thick, dark curtain. Everything went black, like I’d gone blind. I remember I could still feel the summer heat, my sweaty bangs clinging to my forehead, and that gray cat’s body writhing between my hands.

But I couldn’t see anything.

Then, as steadily as the darkness came, it receded. Light poured in, followed by new colors and sounds and sensations, all fragmented like I was looking through a kaleidoscope. Eventually everything merged, as though with one twist of the lens the kaleidoscope turned into a telescope, and the world came back into view. Only I wasn’t in Pops’ yard anymore.

I stood in a perfectly manicured garden behind a little brick house, wearing fancy shoes that pinched my toes and a dress Mom would’ve never made me wear. My dirty blonde hair, usually cropped short like a boy’s, fell in long and loose waves, almost to the middle of my back. I was still me, still four years old, and it was still summer – I could tell by the heat and the smells and the way the sun shone from the same position in the sky – but everything else was different.

I remember feeling dumbstruck. Awestruck. Caught in a moment between complete incoherence and all-encompassing fear. I had no idea where I was. I had no idea how I would get back home. And as the panic set in, I realized I could still feel the cat thrashing in my hands.

Astonished, I looked down at the mass of fur twisting in my fists. It wasn’t the gray bobtail. This one had silky black hair, a long tail, and golden eyes. I might have thought it beautiful if it hadn’t been hissing and spitting at me, its ears flat against its head. I would have dropped it right away, but I was so scared and disoriented that I just stared at it, stupidly, until it twisted around, lashed out with a guttural wail, and sunk its claws into my chin. I screamed and let go, and it darted into the garden bushes.

As I lifted trembling hands to my trembling chin, wet with blood and tears, the darkness closed in again, and the garden faded to black.

When the light returned this time, it rushed in so full and fast that I heaved a gasp of air, afraid it might drown me. Then, as though no time had passed at all, I was back in Pops’ yard, clinging to that gray bobtail.

Which I dropped immediately.

She bounded away with a cry of indignation, but at least she didn’t claw me like the long-tail. I remember thinking maybe Pops was right. Maybe long-tails were wilder. And then I remember hearing Pops shout from behind me. The next thing I knew, he was scooping me up in his strong, thick arms, pressing his handkerchief to my chin, and kicking open the front door. “I’m so sorry, Allie Bean,” he was saying. “She’s never scratched anyone before. I’m sure she was just scared. Try not to squeeze her so tight next time.”

I looked up at him like he’d lost his mind. Then I touched my chin.

It was slick with blood.

I remember telling Pops it wasn’t the bobtail that scratched me, it was the long-tail, but he just thought I was confused. He gave me a lecture about how bobtails can be mean too, if you’re mean to them. I gave up trying to convince him. Something told me it was useless.

That night, when Mom tucked me in bed, I told her what happened. About the shoes that pinched and the dress and the garden. My long hair and the long-tail cat. She told me that it had only been a daydream, that everyone has daydreams, and that they aren’t real. It’s just our imaginations painting images in our heads. But I was old enough to know what daydreaming was, and that had not been a daydream.

I gave up trying to talk about it, because no one seemed to believe me. I was certain the gray bobtail must have something to do with it, so I left her alone and never dared to touch her again. And since the long-tail had also been involved, I decided to play it safe and consider all felines dangerous territory.

VISION NUMBER TWO

The day I discovered my cat theory was wrong, I was seven years old and riding the Ferris wheel at the Town and Country Fair. The back of my bare legs burned on the sun-baked seat. Dad was riding with me and my little sister Audrey, and Mom stood down below, taking photos of us each time we passed by. She wasn’t alone that year – my new baby sister, Claire, slept snuggled in a sling at Mom’s chest. I remember looking forward to a time when Claire was old enough to ride the Ferris wheel with us, and wondered if she’d like rocking the seat as much as we did.

I leaned out over the protective bar as far as I could, waving at Mom and Claire, and making a silly face for Mom’s photo. After she snapped it, Dad gave the seat a good rock, and I squealed, falling back into his arms. He pointed out over the midway as we rose once again to the top and asked if Audrey and I wanted to ride the Tilt-a-whirl next.

Before I could answer, that beautiful August afternoon swept away into darkness – the same darkness that had taken me from Pops’ yard when I was four. I cried out and reached for Dad, but there was nothing he could do. He was no longer beside me.

This time, the darkness lasted longer. Long enough to notice there were no sounds. Not one. I should’ve heard my heart pounding in my ears and my terrified, irregular breath dragging in and out of my throat. I should have been able to feel it. But there was nothing. No feeling. No body, no blood, no breath. Only thought.

One thought.