Wait for me, p.7
Wait for Me, page 7
“Do you think you’ve ever written anything true about her life? Like . . . maybe she’s channeled her experiences through you? Maybe you’ve written about what happened to her? Who took her that day? How she died?”
I rack my brain, thinking of the short fiction I’d written recently where Becky’s name appeared. The latest story was more of a contemplative piece, a girl riding the subway all day without getting off because she was grieving for her mother. But that’s my story—I’d just used Becky as a name.
Then I think about stories I wrote when I was younger where Becky popped up. That first one featured Becky traversing the desert on a camel—the desert could be the beach, I suppose. But there certainly isn’t a kidnapping plot.
I remember another story, too: a girl named Becky deciding that she’d like to play the tuba, but people make fun of her for it. Again, that’s a reflection of my life at the time: I wanted to play the tuba, but my peers talked me out of it, saying the tuba was for a particular type of boy who has hefty lungs.
“I don’t think so,” I tell Pippa. “But do you think she was trying to speak through me, though? Make her presence known?”
“This can’t be a coincidence. You lived this person’s life, Casey. She’s in you.”
I consider this. Maybe it’s more than just me using Becky’s name in stories. I wonder if this has anything to do with how easily I learned to read—learned to do everything, in fact. Perhaps I already had the innate knowledge from Becky. As a child, adults often looked at me curiously, commenting, She’s such an old soul. So mature for her age. Maybe that’s even why Fran found me so strange.
It’s like they could tell, without actually knowing, that this wasn’t my first time around the block.
Out of nowhere, a new vision rushes in:
Glass rains inward. Your head hits the back of the seat hard. Someone is screaming near you, but you can barely hear because everything explodes. You’re in water, suddenly. You struggle at the door handle, desperate to wrench it open. It doesn’t budge.
I jolt up. What the hell?
But the memory rushes on.
The car starts to fill. Your dress is getting soaked. That same voice screams and screams. You stare up, realizing the car is sinking.
Now the water is at chest level. Now it’s touching your nose. You wrench at the door, but the handle still won’t budge.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
“What?” Pippa cries. “What’s going on?”
“Now I’m seeing . . .” What am I seeing? Is this my mother’s accident? The one where she . . . in the water . . . ?
Except I wasn’t in that car. I’d been thrown out when it hit the guard rail. I’m seeing this person—this other me. I flash there again:
You’re flailing, desperate to smash a window. You tip your head up, sucking in air.
“Becky!” someone tries to yell, their voice garbled underwater. “Becky!”
“Oh my God,” I whisper. Could this be true? Is this how Becky died? And she’s in a wedding dress—is it the same day? And Becky was in a car accident . . . a lot like the one that killed my mom.
“Casey?” Pippa calls again. “Are you still there? Talk to me.”
I tell her—or I try to, anyway. My story is met with a series of gasps. “God,” Pippa whispers. “That’s . . . eerie.”
I feel shaken. I have no idea if what I’ve seen is real, although it feels . . . palpable. “I wish this is something I could look up,” I say. “Just to see if there’s some kind of story . . . and when it was. A record.”
“Try,” Pippa orders me. “Do a Google search. Or here—I will.” I hear her typing. “Becky . . . crash . . . water?” There’s a pause. “Hmm. Not finding anything. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
My hands tremble. Now that I’ve been given that memory, I can’t unsee it. And the more time that passes, the more the memory settles into my mind, I feel convinced: I am seeing the last day of someone’s life. Becky’s life.
I think about what Karin said: Past lives only hang around when a loop isn’t closed. When they’re still yearning for something, or when something is unfinished.
Something in Becky’s life is unfinished. But what?
“Will,” I whisper, the answer coming to me from somewhere mysterious and deep.
“Will?” Pippa’s voice lifts. “Are you having a memory about him now, too?”
“No. But . . . I think Will is the key. I think he’s what Becky misses. Or wants. Or . . . needs?”
“What do you mean?”
I have no idea what I mean. Words are just spewing out of me from a place I can’t explain. But as I shut my eyes, the vision I’d experienced earlier—standing on that patio, the guy in the photo, someone grabbing me from behind—pounds like a sledgehammer. If anything, it’s gotten more vivid.
I’m suddenly so full of longing and sadness I can’t breathe. Except the longing isn’t for someone I know—it’s for this Will person. The guy Becky knew. Her desire for him washes over me like warm water in a shower. Grief comes next—bottomless grief, the grief of being separated for eternity. I’ve never felt this way before. It’s like a door has opened and there’s a whole new wing to my house I’ve never explored. It’s a sudden rush of Oh, is this what it’s supposed to be? This is love?
The love in the opera. Devastating, desperate love. Will elicited some bombastic feelings in Becky—but for some reason, they came apart. And now they’re separated for eternity.
Find Will a voice says. Find Will!
“I have to go,” I tell Pippa suddenly.
“What?” Pippa sounds flabbergasted. “No, Casey, wait! I’m worried! All of this has to be so overwhelming. Are you going to be okay? Maybe I should come out there . . . We could figure this out together.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, even though I have no idea if it’s true. But I need to get off the phone. “I promise,” I add. “I’ll call you in the morning. There’s just something I need to do right now.”
“You’re leaving the motel?”
I don’t answer that, saying a halting goodbye instead.
When I hang up, I pace. My mind feels jumbled. Becky is sapping me dry. But I keep hearing those instructions. Find Will. Find Will.
But how do I find a guy I’ve never met? Should I look up every person named Will in the state? Might he find me through some secret energy field, or perhaps by my aura? Should I wear a sign around my neck saying Hey, are you my past self’s true love who for some reason she didn’t marry? I mean, I guess I have some sense of what he looks like: blond hair, light eyes. Like a pro baseball player. A camp counselor. Except he would be almost twenty years older. A full-grown man.
And what happens if I do find him? What, will Becky just . . . just stop speaking to me, then? Let me go on as myself? And what am I supposed to say to Will? Hey, so I’m this girl you were once in love with. Sorry if I look a little different!
Use your intuition, a voice tells me. If Becky’s really inside me, then maybe she knows where Will is. I close my eyes. Come on. Give me an address. That number you called on the day of your wedding. Something.
Something catches in my mind from earlier. I stop and draw in a breath. There was something I’d seen out of the corner of my eye. A person.
Have I already seen Will?
But . . . no. There’s no way. The person I’m thinking of looks nothing like the person in my visions.
But the idea keeps pinging. I slide on shoes. It’s probably nothing, but I just have to see.
It’s dark out, but my feet seem to know which streets to take, which turns to make, angling away from the water and toward the center of town. Soon enough, I’m back at that low-slung building I’d noticed earlier. It’s a house that also seems to house a business, with professional-style landscaping and a six-car parking lot. A streetlamp beams down. A single business is advertised in the front window: Carson Veterinary Care.
I stand there, deliberating, and then I feel a jump in my chest. What am I doing? The weight of it sinks in. I picture Marcus watching me, trying to understand my actions. This would break his heart. If he even tried to understand what I’m doing.
I turn and step off the porch. I’ll go back to the motel and pack up. I need to live my life, not Becky’s. Whoever she even is.
Then there’s a whoosh behind me as a door to the vet’s office opens. Milliseconds before I turn, I know it’s going to be the same person from before. The same young, tall, gangly, curly-haired stranger I’d had a weird feeling about.
And then, it is. He’s younger than I ever thought—close to my age. So it can’t be right. Will would be in his thirties.
I back up, certain I’ve got it wrong, just as he stops, noticing me on his porch. “Can I help . . .” he starts, but then he trails off when he sees it’s me. “Oh.”
We stare at each other. My heart starts to pound. Another vision plays in my mind, opens up:
You’re standing together, holding hands, dancing long into the night. “I’m going, but I’ll be back,” he says.
But you shake your head, a fat tear falling down your cheek.
“Wait for me,” he begs. “Promise you’ll wait.”
The guy on the porch breathes in and brings his hand to his mouth almost like he’s seen this vision, too.
“Oh my God,” he whispers. “It’s you.”
There’s a ringing sound in my ears. Obviously I didn’t hear this correctly. Obviously. This guy doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him.
I stare at the guy, taking in just how different he is from the flash of Will I remember from the photo. This person’s features are big: big eyes, long eyelashes, prominent nose. His fingers are long. His feet in their skater-style shoes look enormous. His jeans hang on him in a way that indicates he’s probably one of those guys who can eat anything he wants and never gain weight.
And his hair. It’s the hair of hair commercials, bouncing curls that seem to have a life of their own, lifting many inches off his forehead. I want to touch it.
And yet, all put together, he’s not unattractive. In fact, I can’t stop staring at him. His exuberant, baffled smile doesn’t hurt, either.
And then he says it again. “You’re here—again. I can’t believe this.”
I draw in a breath. This is impossible. The world doesn’t work this way. Past lives aren’t really a thing. And also, why is this guy—this guy I sought out—looking at me like he knows who I am? Even like he . . . adores me? This isn’t Will. It can’t be. And yet, in the same breath, I somehow feel like it is.
I step back, blinking hard. “I’m sorry. We . . . know each other?”
He laughs. “Of course we do.” He shakes his head. “I’d never forget you. Ever.”
My head swims. Just because I rushed down here, looking for something—I never thought I’d actually find it. Careful what you wish for, I think.
“Will?” I whisper experimentally.
Surprise flashes across his face, but then he smiles. “Will,” he says in a faraway voice. “Yes. Right. Or Jake. Either one. And . . .” He narrows his eyes. “And you’re . . .”
“Casey,” I say.
He nods, but he looks unsatisfied. “But that’s not what I called you. Not then.”
I blink. I clear my throat, daring to ask, realizing how unlikely this all is . . . but also going with it. “Did you, um, call me Becky?”
His eyes light up. Before I know what’s happening, he steps forward and touches my hand with those long, sinewy fingers. His touch isn’t dangerous. It doesn’t fill me with discomfort. His fingers feel right against my skin. Really right.
“Becky,” he whispers. “I’ve been looking for you. I pretty much gave up. It’s not like the universe makes it easy, you know?”
The universe? Is he talking about . . . fate? Past lives? I fight off the notion, snapping back to myself, pulling my fingers to my chest. I need to be Casey again. And not just Casey, but the rational Casey who is too smart for believing in this nonsense.
“When did we meet?” I ask. “I’m a little . . . spotty with the details.”
His forehead wrinkles. “I saw you across that room. And I just knew. I know, I know, everyone always tells me I’m so dramatic and I should just cut it out and whatever, but like . . . I thought you did, too. You seemed so happy . . .”
I stare at him. And suddenly, a new image flickers in my mind.
Your jeans are low-slung on your hips. There’s a huge crowd tonight, and the air is humid with bodies. This is the first of these you’ve been through, and you kind of want to leave. This isn’t your scene. You’re one of those people who get filled up by a night home alone, not a night around complete strangers.
The room I’m seeing is both utterly familiar and utterly unfamiliar. I’ve never been there before. Just like I’ve never been to this beach town.
A disco ball glitters overhead. Someone elbows you, and you jerk away. But then, it seems like the crowd parts. Someone is watching you from the bleachers. You stand up straighter, knowing him and not knowing him. Tingles course down your arms. Before you know what’s happening, he’s starting toward you. Blond. Smiling. Shining.
You take in his rolling gait, his broad shoulders, his hesitant smile. He’s nervous, but he’s also determined.
“You’re Becky, right?” he says. “I’m Will. I’ve been wanting to meet you since eighth grade.”
“I’ve been wanting to meet you since eighth grade,” I whisper. It almost comes out like a question. Like I don’t quite believe it myself.
“What’s that?” Jake asks.
I’m jolted back to the present. I feel sweaty and breathless like I’ve run laps around the block. My head is thrumming. And here is Jake, dark and not light, wiry and not muscled. In a rational brain, he is not Will. And yet I feel I know him.
Jake is still talking. “I feel terrible about how things ended. I didn’t want it to be the end. I looked and looked for answers. Combed the earth for you, it felt like.” He breathes out a laugh. “And here, on a random Tuesday, you wind up on my porch! Pretty amazing early Christmas present.”
“What happened to me?” I whisper. But I don’t mean me. I mean Becky. Trapped in that car. The water rising. The desperation. Could that be what he’s talking about? He felt terrible about how Becky died?
Jake’s lips part, but I can’t hear his words. The memory of the accident washes over me again. A car is hitting the bridge. First, I’m eleven, and it’s my mom. Then, it’s Becky’s memory. The car sinks. Becky holds her breath, her lungs burning. My lungs are burning. I can’t tell us apart.
“Hey.” Jake’s face registers alarm. He steps closer. “You okay?”
His voice sounds far away. Muddled. Black spots form in front of my eyes. This is all too much. These visions, this new person, even all the new downloads of Becky’s life slotting into my brain. One person can’t handle all of this. I feel my legs crumple. I vaguely hear Jake calling me, though the sound is muffled like I’m underwater.
Underwater. I’m in that sinking car again. Or no—Becky’s in that car. Pulling at the door handle. Desperately trying to get free. Someone else is in the car, too, equally struggling, but when I try to turn Becky’s head, it doesn’t budge.
The water fills. Becky’s legs—my legs—thrash. I can feel how desperately she wants to live. As the water covers her head, she opens her mouth to silently scream. Water flows in. Her heartbeat thuds in her throat. She knows she isn’t going to make it. And as her vision starts to black out, mine does, too.
And then I feel nothing.
When I wake, I’m lying on a twin bed in a dark room. There’s one window to my left. The blinds are half drawn, and there’s moonlight shining through the slats. Several bookcases line an opposite wall, all of them stuffed with books. And there are movie posters everywhere: The Usual Suspects, Grease, Moulin Rouge. There’s a TV, a DVD player, a tangle of stereo wires. Something angular lurks in the corner—an electric guitar on a stand. Next to it is a keyboard. Next to that is a set of drums. Someone could start a band in this room. Outside, a car hisses past, and I can hear the faint thump of bass from the radio.
I shoot up, adrenaline coursing through me. I have no idea where I am, but everything rushes back: The beach. The psychic. The visions. Becky. Will.
My legs are heavy, and for a moment, I worry they’re bound to the bedposts. I’ve been captured. By . . . by that guy! That one on the street!
I screech. A chair scrapes, and someone leaps up. A light snaps on, and there he is again. Will. No. The other guy. Jake. He stands over me, his eyes wide.
“Hey,” he says, breathless. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”
“Where am I?” I thrash my legs, thinking they’ll be bound. They aren’t. “Where have you taken me?”
“You’re in my apartment. This is my room. I live above the building I was coming out of. The vet’s office.”
“What?” I can’t stop hyperventilating. “W-Why am I in your bed?”
“Because you passed out. In the parking lot. Remember?”
I blink hard. The vision of the sinking car had come back. And then, everything had gone fuzzy. I don’t remember anything after that.
“I carried you up,” Jake explains. “But I promise, no funny business happened. I’m only in here to make sure you keep breathing. I didn’t want to just leave you outside. Temperature’s dropping.”
“Oh.” I press my hands to my face. My cheeks still feel cold. Maybe I haven’t been lying here for very long.
Jake gestures around the room. “Place isn’t much, especially not for a city girl, and I apologize for all the movie posters. They’re kind of my thing, though. I was into some of them in high school, and it’s hard to let go of the memories.”
I squint. “H-How did you know I lived in the city?”
“You . . . told me.” He smiles wryly. “Oh, and I also went through your wallet.”
