The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (2 page)

“How did you…?” Dr Farrow holds up her hand and shakes her head. “Never mind. I don't need to know.”

I sink lower into the couch cushions.

She hovers her pencil above her notepad. “Tell me what you like to do, Alex. What are your hobbies?”

“I don't know. I guess I like to fix things.”

“Yes, I gathered that you're tech savvy. But what else?”

I think about that for a long while. Normal girls would say they liked volleyball or texting or going to the mall. I could lie and say I liked those things too, but I don't. I tell the truth again. “I like to stay in one place.”

She stares down her thin nose at me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” How can I put it in terms the PhD with dozens of framed degrees and certificates wallpapering her office can understand?

Dr Farrow squints her eyes and sucks in her cheeks. She looks like she's trying to bore a hole in my brain and pluck the answer out herself. I wonder if she learned that technique at Johns Hopkins.

“Do you mean you prefer to stay at home?” She says it like she just uncovered one of my major secrets. By simply staring at me.

I shrug. “I guess that's one way to put it.”

She scribbles something onto her notepad. “What do you like to do at home? Watch TV?”

It would have been so simple to say yes. Yes, Dr Farrow, that's why I'm a pariah of my own making. That's why I have no friends and I'm failing eleventh grade. I'm obsessed with television. Totally consumed by it. Is there a cure?

“No,” I say. “The only time I watch TV is during movie nights with my family. And even then, I only watch the same few classics over and over. Arsenic and Old Lace, Gone with the Wind, Casablanca. Those kinds of things.”

“Do you play video games?”

“No.”

“Read, then?”

“Never.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Not even for school?”

I tug the sleeves of my navy blue sweater down over my wrists and clutch them in my palms. “Well, some. Only when I have to, or if my sisters want me to read to them. But I never read on my own. And never any fiction.”

“What do you do when you have a literature assignment?”

“I find the summaries online. That way it's fact, not fiction. Gatsby did A, B, and C. That's as far as I go.”

“And you find that results in adequate grades on your assignments?”

I look down at my fingernails. “I get by.” I'm not sure why I lie that time. Dr Farrow knows I'm failing my junior year.

She tilts her head to the side, moving on. “What's wrong with reading fiction?”

I shift on the couch, and the leather squawks again. “I don't like being someone else… slipping into someone else's life. Fiction takes me too far away. To other places. Other worlds.”

I get enough of that already, I want to add.

She nods slowly. “And you like staying at home. I see.” She flips a page on her notepad and scribbles some more. When she finishes, she looks me in the eye. “It sounds like you may have a fear of imagination. Of role playing. That's why you try to stay away from anything fictional. Television. Video games. Books. You want to stay in the real world. Am I right?”

Not exactly, I want to say. It's not like I fear fictional things. It's that I fear what kind of vision they'll bring on.

When I don't answer, she continues. “And I suppose that's why you're OK with reading history, like you did for Mr Lipscomb's class. History isn't fiction.”

A slight smirk hitches on my lips. “I'd hardly call what we learn in history class fact, Dr Farrow.” I peel the piece of flappy rubber sole from the bottom of my sneaker and flick it onto her carpet. She follows it with her eyes, frowning.

“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.

CHAPTER 2

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

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.