Transcend Page 10

  I have to figure this out. That’s why I’m agreeing to this.

  After our dinner arrives and Morgan is fed and asleep in her crib, I edge the conversation toward my newest addiction—his past.

  “Have you always liked ‘Chinese-Thai’ food?” I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but I want to see where it takes this conversation.

  He grins over a mouthful then covers his mouth with the corner of a napkin. “No. Daisy loved crab rangoon and fried rice. Asian food made me—” He swallows.

  “Thirsty.” It’s not a question. I’m just finishing his sentence before he does.

  Lifting a questioning eyebrow, he takes a drink of water, studying me with an intensity that would have left me squirming in my seat a few weeks ago. Not now. Now I want to push him into acknowledging what’s going on between us. This familiarity can no longer be ignored or I’ll have a breakdown that will dwarf anything that’s happened to my mom since my dad died.

  I’m not going to push him. There’s no need to start a fight, but I’m not going to censor every memory I have of him—or every thought I read from his mind. I’m still not sure which it is.

  “Yeah.” His eyes narrow.

  I return a tightlipped grin, a small challenge of sorts.

  “I’d be up half the night running to the kitchen for a drink and then to the bathroom because of all the dang water.”

  “And now?”

  Nate chuckles, adjusting the barstool beneath him. His knee brushes mine, and we both share an awkward glance and look away.

  Wow.

  An innocent brush of skin. Knee skin. Not lips. Not caressing hands. Why did this happen again?

  His touch.

  It shouldn’t be familiar, and it shouldn’t spook me because it’s already happened once. But it does because the first time I felt it—Crazy Swayze. This time we both felt it. There’s no denying what just happened. And each contact feels stronger and more familiar.

  “Um…” he clears his throat “…now it still keeps me up at night, gulping down gallons of water and running to the bathroom, but occasionally it’s worth it. Jenna loved this restaurant.”

  We let a few moments of silence fill the room. It’s a weird thing humans do after mentioning the name of someone who recently died—an unspoken moment of reflection and respect. I see many flashes of reflection cross Nate’s face when he doesn’t realize I’m watching him. There’s such sadness in his eyes. Sometimes it’s when the photo of him and Jenna on the mantle snags his drifting gaze, and sometimes it’s when he watches Morgan sleep.

  “I like when you tell me about Daisy.”

  A glint of something resembling life breaks through the grief that just stole his handsome facial features. “You’re snoopy.” He winks.

  “If I’m Snoopy then you’re Charlie Brown.” I poke at my lo mein with my chopsticks.

  “Jesus …” he whispers.

  “What?”

  Nate’s lips part like he’s silently gasping. So many of his expressions are eerily familiar, but not this one. Shock? Fear? I can’t decipher the meaning behind the look he’s giving me, but it sends an icy tingle along my spine.

  “Tell me.” I can barely get the words out.

  His jaw muscles clench a few times then his Adam’s apple bounces with a hard swallow. “I have some …”

  Where’d he go? His gaze is locked to mine, but I don’t think he’s really seeing me. And his words are jumbled and broken.

  “I need to … uh …”

  “Just say it.”

  Nate squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head while pinching the bridge of his nose. “Say what?”

  “What we both know is true.”

  He grunts a laugh. “And what’s that?”

  “I can read your mind.”

  The pregnant moment lasts longer than I anticipated. If he doesn’t open his eyes and say something, I might die because I’m holding my breath. I can’t—I won’t—breathe until he looks at me.

  In the tiniest of increments, he opens them and they trail up just as slowly until we connect. “What am I thinking?”

  “Not those thoughts.”

  “Then what thoughts?”

  “Your past.”

  Blink.

  Blink.

  His moves are robotic. He tips his chin up and drops it into a slow nod with as much ease as he lays his sleeping daughter in her crib. “I … see. Why do you think this?”

  “It’s the only logical explanation for how I know so much about your past.”

  “Elaborate.” He leans in a fraction like I’m going to whisper it to him.

  “I lied. That day at Dr. Greyson’s office, I knew you. I knew about your scar. Later I told you it was because I heard the story from my older cousin who dated your friend Toby Friedman.”

  Another slow nod accompanied by a tightly-knitted brow.

  “I don’t have an older cousin who dated Toby. I wanted the job, so I tried to set your mind at ease by making up a story that you might consider believable.”

  Blink.

  Blink.

  “How do you know Toby?”

  “I don’t think I do know him. I think I can read your memories of him. He lived four houses down from you. You teased him about his buckteeth, then he lost the two front ones after taking a nosedive off his bike. His parents didn’t have dental insurance, so their church took up a special offering to get him a retainer thingy that had two flipper teeth. It was cheaper than implants or a bridge. He called it a retainer. You called it a denture just to be mean.”

  Another pregnant pause.

  “What else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Right now. What am I thinking?”

  “I told you I can only read the past—”

  “I’m thinking about my past. So tell me what I’m thinking.”

  I frown. “I don’t know.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know what I just said.” Stabbing my fingers through my hair, I glance down the hall toward the nursery to listen for Morgan, hoping my outburst didn’t wake her. “I don’t know. Maybe there’s something like an active and passive memory. Like … maybe next week I’ll be able to tell you what you’re thinking right now. I don’t know.”

  “Then tell me more. Tell me what you do know.”

  “It’s …” I shake my head. “It’s too much.”

  “Like what?” He digs, and I hate the irritation in his edgy tone, like it’s my fault I know what I know. I thought I wanted to have this conversation, but now I’m not so sure.

  “You kept nudie girl magazines under your mattress.”

  “Twenty, twenty-five years ago every boy kept nudie magazines under his mattress. Now you’re just sounding like a fortune teller making broad and rather obvious assumptions.”

  I huff out a sigh. “You liked chess more than video games.”

  “You’ve seen the chess board in my office.”

  “You’re a Chicago Bears fan and it pisses off your Packer-fan father.”

  “I have Bears beer mugs in the kitchen cabinet. Statistically my father would be a Packers fan.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Why are you doing this? What reason do I have to make this shit up? I’m not a fortune teller. I have nothing to gain. I …” I shake my head. “What do you want to know?”

  He stands, gathering the takeout boxes and shoving them in the white plastic takeout bag. “Forget about it. If I have to tell you what I want to know, then that just proves you don’t actually know it.”

  I follow him to the garage where he tosses the trash in the large bin. The door closes behind me leaving us trapped in the late summer heat and humidity. It’s so thick in here I think I need to chew and swallow instead of inhale.

  “You cheated to pass your final in Spanish. You had straight A’s and one D going into finals.”

  He stops like an invisible wall appeared in front of him. “H-how do you know that?” he whispers, c
ontinuing toward me like I could bite him.

  This hurts. I hurt for him because moments like this feel personal. But I can’t give him an explanation. I can’t make this better for either one of us. He climbs two of the three garage steps, putting us at eye level. Everything about him invades my space—his woodsy scent, his familiar gaze, the essence of his touch, the curve of his nose, even the way his ginger hair curls around his ears.

  “How. Do. You. Know. That?”

  I pinch my lips together to keep them from quivering. These memories scare me. They come with this vulnerability that reaches my bones.

  “You wrote notes just above your knee because teachers paid attention to arms and hands. So you wrote answers on your leg and wore a pair of jeans with holes in the knees so you could slide the leg up just enough to see the notes.”

  The pain in his blue eyes sends a wave of nausea through my stomach. I thought sharing this burden would help, but it’s just compounding my own pain and bringing him down with me.

  “I’m sorry.” Unshed tears burn my eyes.

  Nate has lost so much. He doesn’t need this. What am I doing?

  I flinch as his hand reaches for my face. He pauses a second before wiping his thumb along my cheek. It’s wet. I don’t remember blinking, but I must have because I’m now aware of the wet trails of tears on my cheeks.

  “Something’s wrong with me,” I whisper while choking back a sob.

  There’s a lifetime of concern etched into his forehead as he slowly shakes his head. “No. Nothing’s wrong with you.”

  It’s too much to hold in. I cover my face with my hands as a cry rips from my throat. Nate pulls me into his chest.

  It’s warm.

  It’s comforting.

  It’s familiar.

  But mostly … it’s terrifying.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It took years to come up for air after Daisy died, but I did. That breath’s name was Jenna. With a single smile she showed me love never dies. We just experience it in different forms, ever-changing like the tides and the stars in the night’s sky.

  Since she died, Morgan has been my life support—my new form of love. She’s my purpose for holding my shit together instead of drinking myself into the grave. Being her everything leaves no time for self-pity. No time for mourning. No time for letting my mind be anything but sharp and focused on working, raising a child, and being a role model.

  Dr. Greyson helps me navigate the hard parts. I let go of my insecurities and confess my fears in the safety of his office. Then I put on my responsible father mask and do what needs to be done.

  However, this week I cancelled my session with him because I need answers that I’m not sure he will have for me. There’s only one person I trust with these questions—a fellow professor at the university. She was my old professor of psychology. With a twinkle in her eye, she used to say pieces of many souls lived inside of her. The most unnerving part was her vast knowledge of everything. More knowledge than anyone could acquire in a single lifetime. Her students say it’s because outside of the classroom, she lives the life of a recluse.

  No close family.

  No friends.

  No pets.

  Just books—writing them and reading them. I’ve read several of her books and that’s why I’m here to see her.

  “Nathaniel Hunt.” Doctor Hazel Albright peeks out from behind a pile of books on her desk, shoves a bookmark into the one in her hand, and slips off her reading glasses.

  At eighty-four, she’s the oldest professor at the university and probably the shortest and skinniest. I think my bag of golf clubs weighs more than her—it might be taller than her too. Her short, gray hair and eyes too big for her head make me think of an aged Tinker Bell.

  “What a lovely surprise.”

  “Thank you.” I gesture to the door. “Mind if I shut this?”

  “Must be serious.” She takes a sip of her tea then removes the teabag, depositing it in the garbage can next to her desk. “It’s a bit early for a nooner, so I guess you’re not here for that.” She winks, moving some of the books on her desk to the shelves behind her.

  I chuckle, easing into the red leather chair. “I doubt I could keep up with you.”

  “Don’t sweat it, young man. No one can.” She takes another sip of her tea. “Well, Professor Hunt, to what do I owe the honor of a closed-room conversation with you? Things not going well with Dr. Greyson?”

  Hazel referred me to Dr. Greyson.

  “Things are good with Dr. Greyson. He’s been helpful. It’s just …” I rub the back of my neck and grimace. “I’ve read several of your books.”

  “That’s a lovely compliment. You might be the only one who’s read them.” She uses a cotton handkerchief with a yellow embroidered edge to wipe the pink lipstick mark from her tea cup—not a mug, but a delicate white teacup.

  “Most of your books have landed on best-seller lists. I don’t think I’m your only reader.”

  Her lips press into a soft smile. “And I don’t think you’re here to discuss my book rankings. Maybe if you told me which books you’ve read, I could make a better guess as to why the door is shut.”

  “Your books on reincarnation.”

  Her eyebrows lift a fraction. “My dear, I do believe you have my attention.”

  “I hired a twenty-one-year-old girl to be my daughter’s nanny. And I think …” My momentum runs to the edge of a cliff and skids to a stop an inch before being airborne. It’s funny how limitless the mind is, but such a small fraction of thoughts materialize into spoken words. Somewhere between the mind and mouth exists a sticky web of fear and self-doubt.

  Hazel nods while humming. “It’s truly amazing, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t finish.”

  “You didn’t have to. Someone special to you resides inside this young girl. You’ve found a familiar soul.”

  “I don’t know.” Elbows on my knees, I drop my head and run my hands through my hair.

  “Then you didn’t read my books very thoroughly.”

  I read them years ago, when I was her student, and I’ve reread them since Swayze broke down in tears three days ago in my garage.

  Canting her head to the side, she taps her chin. “Then again, you’re here. The door to my office is shut. And you look like you haven’t slept in days. Who is it? Your wife? A parent?”

  “A childhood friend. I named my daughter after her.”

  “When did she tell you?”

  “Who? What?” I look up.

  “Your nanny. When did she tell you who she was?”

  “That’s why I’m here. She doesn’t know.”

  Hazel straightens in her chair, interlacing her fingers and resting them on her desk. “Then how do you know?”

  “She knows things about me that only my friend knew. She talks like she’s known me forever. But when I tell her stories about my time with Morgan—my friend—there’s no recognition of anything about her.”

  “How does she explain her knowledge of you?”

  “She can’t. And … I think it scares her. The other night she said it’s because she’s reading my mind, but only stuff from the past.”

  “Have you tried to connect the dots for her?”

  On a laugh, my fingertips dig into my temples. “I can’t connect the dots myself.”

  “I disagree. I think you have connected them, and they’ve led you to me.”

  “I can’t say the words. It’s too …”

  “It’s beautiful and miraculous. Surely as someone who has studied the human body you have to be awed by the division of cells that make life. We are all energy in many forms. Who’s to say we aren’t energy in a spiritual form too?”

  I’m not this guy. Words like fate, serendipity, and reincarnation have not passed my lips that often—except with Daisy. “The timing … what are the chances of her coming back to me after Jenna dies?”

  “Oh dear …” Hazel presses her hand to her chest. “Reread my boo
ks.”

  “I did.”

  “Then do it again. Focus on the part where I talk about the anatomy of the soul. My beliefs are a little different than traditional beliefs on reincarnation.”

  She chuckles. “The western world doesn’t really acknowledge it at all. We tend to get caught up in the belief of one birth, one God, one Heaven, and judgment day. Other cultures acknowledge reincarnation as a way of life. It’s a fact, not a theory to them. And they openly discuss their previous lives.

  “I have my own theories based on my personal experiences and memories of past lives. I believe the soul loses parts of itself and picks up pieces of other released souls before settling into human form again. Your nanny is not Morgan. And not ‘yours.’ She may have a part of her woven into who she is in this life, but I don’t believe two souls are ever the same. Just like two snowflakes are never the same. Everything is part of something bigger, small threads of infinity, ever changing.”

  She shrugs. “Are we in search of something greater? Does each journey lead to an ultimate goal of spiritual oneness? I don’t know. I guess I’ll know if and when I get there.”

  She blows me away. She always has. My father took me to church while my mother cheated on him. His faith gave him the ability to forgive her indiscretions. I believed in God until Daisy died, then I questioned his existence. Jenna gave me back my faith—until she died. Now … I just don’t know what to believe. My father would go into cardiac arrest if he knew where I am at this moment and what I’m discussing with Dr. Albright.

  “What should I say to her? She had a moment … a bit of a breakdown the other day, and I didn’t have much to offer except a friendly hug. All words failed me because this young woman had me scared out of my mind with her knowledge of my past.”

  “Good question.” She jabs her index finger in my direction. “If she claimed to be your childhood friend, then a simple validation of her claims would make moving forward easier but still awkward because she isn’t exactly the same person. But…” Hazel drums her fingers on her desk “…if she can’t make that connection, then the burden of proof falls upon you.”