Fare Forward (8 page)

I roll my eyes. "That's the last thing on my mind, Emily."

"You can still design things, silly, but it's time for you to have some fun."

"Emily," I say and laugh at her single-minded focus, "you're too much."

"No, really, we've waited a long time for this."

Things seemed to be playing out as predicted. In a crazy way it was a comfort to know that she was orbiting the same campus as I was. She knew to respect the boundaries I had created around myself. It was for her own good, I remind myself. I'm like a bad luck charm when it comes to relationships.

"Hey guys, look who's here." I see one of my new roommates approaching us with a group of friends. "It's Gabriella—
Vogel."

I can see them all sizing me up, looking for any evidence of extraterrestrial traits.

"Do you girls want to join us for coffee? We were just going over to the student center."

"Great idea we would love to—" Emily starts to accept the invitation.

"Not now," I cut Emily off. "I'm going to be late." I realize that I sound abrupt and try to soften my tone. "But thank you, anyway."

"We absolutely have time, Gabriella."

"No." I glare at Emily. "We don't."

"Well, we wouldn't want you to be late for your first day of classes now would we? Not the famous Dr. Vogel's granddaughter!" one of the young men says sarcastically.

"Yes, right." I force a smile. "That wouldn't be a very good idea."

He runs over to one of the many posters of my grandfather's face and tears it off the wall, pumping it up and down in his arms as if he was a political fanatic celebrating a martyr.

"Look guys, we live with a celebrity," he says to no one in particular.

"Leave her alone!" Emily says protectively.

"It's all right." I push her away from the group and turn quickly, relieved to escape the conversation. I reach out and link my arm through Emily's and I see her grinning at me.

"See, Gabriella, you're a normal student. Just like the rest of us."

"I love you, but I really have to go."

"Making new friends and everything. You're getting your life back."

"Thanks—but I never knew I'd lost it."

"You know what I mean; you've been sad for so long. But all of that's in the past. This is going to be the beginning of everything." She points to the campus. "Just like your grandmother always said."

"What?"

"She told us don't you remember? That we would go to school together in New York. Just like they all did, your grandparents and your parents. She said that it would be the beginning of everything for you. That's exactly what she said." Emily waits.

I stand very still as the memory washes over me. I realize that I hadn't thought of her words until this very moment and, in remembering, everything suddenly made sense.

"Yes, actually, now I do. I felt it at the beach the other day, and, now, I know why." Unlike my grandfather, Emily loved to talk about the past.

Her eyes fill with tears. "She said she would be with you, to always remind you of who you are, who your family is, and, especially, everything you love about this world."

"This
world?"

Emily shrugs her shoulders, as if to indicate that she's not sure exactly what it means either. I look down at my hands held firmly in both of hers, squeeze them back tightly, and brush the hair away from her eyes.

"You're my family too, Emily."

H
OW MUCH THIS building has seen. Standing sentry like a parent watching its children, Hamilton Hall was the home of undergraduate life at Columbia University. I enter the great lobby, a central core filled with stairs and elevators so characteristic of the buildings of this era designed by the architects McKim, Mead and White. Often furnished with sofas and cushioned chairs, these areas became places for gatherings of students. My eyes scan the walls for announcements of interest as I distractedly climb the stairs to the classroom. I hadn't been in this building in many years and look down at the printout of my new schedule to confirm the location of my first classroom and lecture.

I ignore the strange feeling, that something feels odd. I am surprised not to see a larger crush of students heading to class. I try to focus on my destination. I know this professor, Wallace Gray. Famous for his lectures on James Joyce and T.S. Eliot, he is an old friend of my grandparents. I'm looking forward to taking something completely different from the rigors of the architecture school and seeing a familiar face, a connection to my past.

"It's poetry, Gabriella." I remember how my grandmother had introduced so many great authors to me at a young age. "It's an architecture of words. The beautiful, lyrical presence of black letters building shapes on a white page."

I run up the last flight of granite steps as my hand grazes the black iron banister of the building. Their shallow incline allows me to take two at a time. I feel the heavy book-laden backpack bouncing against my body. I round the top landing on the third floor and look down to confirm the room number once more. It is difficult to see in the dim light. The doors in the corridor are all closed, and, once again, I have the strangest feeling. That I am not in the right place.

It's too quiet.

Where
is
everybody? Why, despite all my efforts at organization and precision, was I never able to get it together right? I find the room and push the door open with more force than I intend, expecting to see a class full of students. But the space is completely empty and silent. The early-morning light pours through the arched-top windows that face the east side of the campus. The shocking stillness is in marked contrast to the bustling activity in the center of campus. I walk in slowly and drop my bag on the floor, furious with myself, as I realize without a doubt that I am in the wrong place.

"Great way to start your graduate career, Gabriella. Typical!" I say out loud.

Frustrated, I sink down into one of the wooden seats that fills the room. I put my head down and feel the heat of my breath on my arm. Yet, it's not just my breathing I notice. I have the distinct feeling that I am not alone in the room. It is a sense that I have often felt, an awareness that is always with me. I pick my head up and move the hair away from my eyes as I try to focus.

Someone is standing in front of me.

I thought I had been alone and am embarrassed at my self-deprecatory speech. He looks at me as if he finds some sort of humor in the situation.

"Hello, are you looking for something?"

His voice is beautiful, soft, unfazed. He has a slight accent that I don't recognize, different than the New York colloquial ways of speaking.

Nothing unusual about that, I
am
at Columbia University I remind myself.

"My class, my first class. Poetry with Professor Wallace Gray. I thought it was in this building, this room. I must have made a mistake."

I am still clutching my schedule.

He slips his fingers through his dark wavy hair. I see the strong curve and shape of his shoulders through the pressed oxford shirt he wears, absently tucked into his well-worn corduroys. An olive cashmere sweater is tied around his waist, and his sleeves are rolled up revealing his arms. He places his hands on his hips and looks at me, taking everything in. His gaze is clear, strong, and steady, and I think I detect a slight smile at the edge of his lips, as if he's confirming who I am. He seems to be illuminated by the light entering the room. And then, I see something incredible in his face. He is looking at me with the most beautiful green eyes I have ever seen. The whole scene is so contrary to my expectation that I am unable to string words together. I can't speak, yet cannot tear myself away from his hypnotic gaze.

"I'm
so
sorry to disturb you." I finally find words and attempt to gather up my things with a grace that I never did possess, dropping books and papers.

He watches, but doesn't say anything.

"I'm so late, I don't know what happened, there must have been a mistake on my printout." I wave the useless piece of paper in the air. "I'm usually in Avery Hall, the architecture building, I mean, most of the time so—well you know, I don't get over to this side of campus that often, anymore, since I'm not an undergraduate and I was taking an elective, sure that I had an English class in this room."

I try to balance everything I am holding and look futilely at the schedule in my hands. Stay calm, make sense. I know that I am not, so I stop talking and look up at him.

"Sorry again, for interrupting, I mean, bothering you."

And then it happens.

I am practically knocked over by it. The powerful combination of the pressure in my head and the vision—what I see. I realize that I've seen his face before. It's his eyes I recognize most, their color, and also the feeling of what it's like to be near him. It's crazy but I seem to know who he is— from a dream—a definite recurring vision I have seen many times before.

It's
him.

He is everywhere in my memory and in my mind. I try desperately to separate what I know is real from what is not, push away the vision and stay in the present, standing in this room with him. Not in my head. But it is overwhelming—the images come one after another. I see it all so clearly.

We are together, under a star-filled sky, walking on a flat-topped mountain in the desert, in a cave, in an ancient garden, and many other images and sensations that come at me too quickly to stop. What is it? A memory, an experience, a dream? I feel the heat of torches, the thunder of a cheering crowd, the chill of a desert night, and the feeling of him close to me. His lips and breath—on my neck, throat, the inside of my—

"Oh my God" I gasp.

The force is so powerful that I start to back slowly away from him. I don't know what else to do, so I turn and run out of the room, away from everything as quickly as possible. I descend the steps two at a time as I try to concentrate, desperately trying to clear my mind. I can't think clearly as the intensity of the moment and the exchange with him has overwhelmed my normal sense of control. As I emerge from the building, I try to understand what has just happened. I am even angrier with myself for running away and letting my vision overtake me.

I
knew
him from somewhere; he was in the very room I was looking for. I could feel a crazy sense of unexplained excitement. More than that, however, there was something unforgettable about the way he had looked at me and how it made me feel.

Ridiculous, Gabriella.

All the same, I knew that something incredible had just happened.

I
COULDN'T GET HIM out of my mind. The unexpected encounter with the mysterious stranger stayed with me. There was something about him, different—yet incredibly familiar. I was surprised at how just thinking about him made me feel: uncomfortable, off balance, electrified. I let myself move cautiously into the dark place in my heart—the one I never really dared to look into—and allowed the unexpected feelings to wash over me. The sensation of being near him, I wanted to hold on to the way it felt.

The phone rings loudly and breaks my reverie. It's Emily.

"Gabriella, are you getting ready for tonight? You know we can't be late and—"

"Em, it's only four thirty in the afternoon, the awards ceremony doesn't start until eight. We'll have plenty of time. I need to go do something."

"Can't it wait? What is so important?"

"I need to find a book, an out-of-print text. I thought I saw it at the little bookstore down Amsterdam. It's suggested reading and I want to find it."

"Suggested reading? Please, Gabriella. Can't you just stick to what's required, honestly."

"I won't be long. I've already missed the first class and I don't want to fall behind. Not for this."

I hear her sigh. She knows that once I make up my mind to do something there is little to be done to change it.

"Promise me you'll come straight back to get ready? This is a big night for everyone, especially your grandfather, Gabriella."

"I know; I'll be ready. I promise."

I hang up the phone and look around at the spare elegance of my room. I had come in at the beginning of the semester with a can of paint and whitewashed everything. All the furniture, walls, trim, and doors, even the old wood floor. I felt happiest in this spare environment that reminded me of the beach. I drop into the white Eames chair that was a gift from my grandparents. The appreciation of the icons of modern design was something that they began to teach me at a very young age, set by their own example.

The numbers on the digital alarm clock click into place and indicate how late it is. Like so many of those typical fall evenings in New York, the air is full with the suggestion of winter and night. As I exit my building I feel the crisp fall air sting my face as I turn down 116th Street toward Riverside Park. I treasure this piece of green at the edge of the city, the shimmering trees and the gray water of the Hudson River. The sound of sirens, horns, and diesel buses create the harmonic sounds of the city, vibrations of the power, energy, and possibility that exist here. I see people stand with arms raised, alerting the eyes of the passing taxi drivers; others walk head down, chins thrust forward with determination, purpose, and direction—going somewhere. Lives being lived, believing in the possibilities that await.

The last few days had been unsettling, yet, I felt something new. An explosion of memories and clear visions of my future, taking me somewhere, pulling me in. Especially the feeling that I had in the classroom, the stranger, and what I saw in his eyes. For the first time, even with everything in my life shifting, I feel ready.

The bookstore didn't have what I was looking for. Frustrated by the futile search, I change my direction home. I considered myself a person of consistency, a creature of habit as I attempted to find comfort in the rare constants of my life. The things I could rely on—I could count them on one hand. But instead of returning back through Riverside Park as I had come, I choose instead the path that I had walked so many times with him.