M. Buehrlen: The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare

I’m dead.

I died on the Ferris wheel.

Then light broke out, as if from behind a cloud, slicing through the darkness. It was so bright, and so much like the sun, I half expected to feel its heat. The light swelled and spread, chasing away every shadow until there was nothing but a brilliant white canvas laid out before me. Colors formed and moved within the light, like sunspots dancing before my eyes. Then the colors morphed into shapes, and my senses returned. Sounds and smells gathered and swirled with the colors, and, once everything aligned, I had my body back. And my new vision.

The day was sun-washed and warm, just like the one I’d left behind, and I still felt like I was rising through the air. Slow and steady, just like on the Ferris wheel. My vantage point was the same as well, only instead of looking out over our local fairground, I was standing at a window, looking out over a beautiful old city, my hand pressed to the glass in front of me.

Still rising.

Was I in an elevator?

The city looked like something out of one of my history books. Massive white buildings, ancient and grand, were nestled among ornate gardens, sprawling lawns, soaring fountains, and gleaming sculptures. Curved, elegant boats glided across a central, rectangular, man-made pond. The streets teemed with people, all dressed in suits and gowns, each wearing a hat or carrying a parasol. It was like I’d gone back to another time.

“Isn’t it a marvel, Katherine?”

I jumped back, totally unaware there had been a woman in a wide-brimmed hat and lace-trimmed dress kneeling beside me.

“Katherine, be careful,” she said.

She reached for me, but I stumbled in the clumsy ankle boots I was wearing and fell down. That’s when I realized I was in a small room full of people. Windows surrounded the room on all sides, and all I could see beyond the glass were thick, crisscrossed steel beams, moving slowly above me. Beyond that, blue sky. For some reason, those slow-moving steel beams terrified me.

I tried to scramble to my feet, but someone caught me by the elbow and helped me up. He was a middle-aged man with a kind face, dressed in a deep-blue suit with brass buttons. His hat bore a brass plate that read CONDUCTOR.

“Are we on a train?” I asked, stupidly. Of course it wasn’t a train.

He laughed and tapped his hat. “Not that kind of conductor.”

The woman who called me Katherine laughed too. “She’s thinking of the conductors on the train ride here. They were dressed in similar uniforms.”

The conductor nodded, then turned to me. “And which ride do you like best, little lady? The steam train? Or Mr Ferris’ grand Wheel?”

One more glance out the windows and I understood what he meant. Why the tiny room felt like it was rising through the sky. I was still riding a Ferris wheel. Possibly the Ferris wheel – the one Pops said he rode as a boy at the St Louis World’s Fair.

I reached out to the glass again, to take the scene all in, but my fingertips touched nothing but air. Cotton filled my ears, and darkness came.

“Am I really at the Fair?” My voice sounded so far away.

Lights. Squeals. Laughter. Carnival music.

“Of course you’re at the fair, silly.” Dad gave me a squeeze and laughed in my ear. Audrey made a face. Mom waved.

I trembled.

VISION NUMBER THREE

The Ferris wheel vision tossed my cat theory out the window and replaced it with a new one. Déjà vu. Although I didn’t know the term at the time, the concept, however basic, seemed to be the answer. Holding a feral cat produced a vision of holding a feral cat. Riding a Ferris wheel produced a vision of riding a Ferris wheel. But I still didn’t know why those experiences should produce a vision at all. What was so special about a cat or a Ferris wheel?

Three more years passed before I could test my new theory. Once again, it was proven wrong.

I was ten, it was summer, and I was in Sunday School. I remember sitting next to Jensen Peters, the most popular boy in fifth grade, and thinking how lucky it was we went to the same church. He usually sat by Billy Piper in the back, but Billy was out sick, and Jensen wasn’t the type to sit quietly by himself like I did every Sunday. He needed an audience. And since I was the only other fifth grader in the room, he chose me to applaud for him that day.

He was sharing my art supplies, and I was dreaming of how perfect it would be if our hands touched while reaching for the same colored pencil, when the classroom went dark. This time, though, I felt more annoyed than frightened. It was just my luck that the first chance I got to introduce Jensen to my stunning wit and artistic talent, I got yanked away into oblivion.

My senses left, one by one, until only my thoughts and that deep black remained. I waited, much longer than the second time it seemed, for the light to come and the vision to manifest. The longer I waited, the stronger that same fear I’d entertained before pricked at the back of my mind: Maybe the light wouldn’t come. Maybe I really was dead this time.

I died in Sunday School.

But the light did come eventually, and so did the new vision.

At first there was haze. Nothing but thick, gray haze everywhere. Like being trapped in a storm cloud. Then there was rocking. A relentless, random motion, heaving me in every direction. I wrapped my arms around a railing in front of me before I even knew it was there, pressing my cheek to the smooth, slick wood to steady myself. I breathed deeply through my nose, the scent of brine and fish coating the back of my throat.

I was on a boat, out at sea. I couldn’t see the water beyond the thick veil of haze, but I could hear it slapping against the hull, the ship surging and groaning in response. Huge white shapes loomed in and out of the fog overhead, which I could only assume were sails, and dark shadows slinked here and there across the deck, perhaps belonging to the crew. None of them seemed to notice me.

I clung to that railing, nestled in my own shroud of fog. Rise and fall. Back and forth. Endlessly tossing. Always that acrid smell of fish – never a fresh, clean breath.

There was no holding it in. I was going to throw up.

The darkness came swiftly, sweeping in and around me like black smoke. I fell into it willingly, dizzy and shaking. The light followed, as intense as ever, pressing all the air from my lungs until I was back in Sunday School, sitting beside Jensen, gasping for breath.

“Oh my gosh, are you OK?” Jensen laid a hand on my shoulder. “Are you having a seizure?”

I remember liking that he was worried about me. I remember liking his hand on my shoulder. I remember how cute he looked with his honey hair swept across his forehead and his hazel eyes wide and full of concern.

I remember throwing up in his lap.

I don’t think Jensen ever told anyone about my “accident.” No one said anything about it at school. I guess admitting someone threw up on you was just as embarrassing as being the person who did it. Like when a bird drops a bomb on your shoulder. It isn’t your fault, but you hope to God no one witnessed it so you can forget it ever happened.

Jensen did, however, tell everyone I had epilepsy. According to the rumor, I could burst into spastic convulsions at any given moment, swallow my own tongue, and ultimately choke to death. Apparently Jensen had performed the Heimlich Maneuver and saved my life that day.

As preposterous as that story was, I had to give Jensen credit. It made us fascinating subjects at school. He was more popular than ever, and, incidentally, so was I. Which is why I had to shut everyone out. I couldn’t take one more person asking about my “condition.” I hated the way they all looked at me, like I was a grenade about to explode. Mostly because it was true. I did have a condition, and I was about to explode. Each timid glance they tossed my way reminded me of the complete lack of control I had over the visions. And if I had no control – if the visions were random – it meant they could come and go as they pleased, cutting into my life like an unwanted dance partner.