by Mark Tiro
“You can call me David,” came his. It was a thought in response to my thought-question, appearing in my mind the instant I had asked him.
Just like that, we communicated.
David. Yep, I thought. I knew it. His name had hung out of reach in my mind before, but now that I heard it, it came rushing back to me. Of course. David. I know you.
“We’re old friends, aren’t we?” I asked.
“We’re the oldest of friends,” he smiled. “Good to see you again. Maya.”
We talked a while—exchanging thoughts instead of words at what seemed like the speed of lightning—catching up on memories and lifetimes I didn’t remember had ever happened. The words seemed to flow magically, and slowly, I found myself remembering a conversation here, an image there… and then, at last—entire lifetimes.
I had no clue, no memory at all, of any of these lives—until the instant they popped back, full-blown in every last detail, into my mind. The people I’d known, the people I’d been… then the ones I’d loved and the ones I’d hated—one after another, these gently came to mind, like the wistful reminiscences of an old man rocking gently on his porch as the sun sets in front of him.
But there they were again now—all there. Every memory, every lifetime—must’ve been there before, unconscious, though, hidden and tucked away, in the vaults of my mind until… David made them all spring back. He had never forgotten, so why had I? Remembering, I asked myself this. I asked myself and then then floated off again, reminiscing, remembering some more.
“It’s all coming back to me now,” I told him, even as lifetimes kept playing out in my mind. Each one distinct, I could see each of them now, playing out fully in excruciating detail. And still—this was all happening… at the same time. It was all happening simultaneously, in a single instant.
And they were adventures.
Not all of them, sure. Some were tragedies. And some were romances. Together, though—these were adventures. These were my adventures….
“Do you like our adventures together, Maya?”
“What?” I asked, thrown off balance, his question interrupting my reverie.
“Good to see you,” he went on. I sensed he was grinning a mischievous grin, though this whole thing seemed to still be playing out between our minds. “Maya? It’s Maya this time around, isn’t it?”
He laughed, so of course I shot him a stern look of disapproval. It was the look I’d make when I was messing with people. He’d get it. I knew he would.
And just to make sure, I broke out into a broad grin of my own. “Good to see you again, David. So what is this pad of paper and pen that you have me toting around all over the afterlife here?”
“Afterlife? Is that what you think this is?”
“Well, isn’t it?” I shot back. “I mean—look around. The tunnel of light… the ethereal music… you. If this isn’t the afterlife, what on earth could it possibly be?”
“Well, you seem to be in quite a bind, so I just thought it might be helpful for you if—”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, David,” I said, cutting him off.
“Oh, you don’t remember, do you?” he answered. “That’s—”
“I remember. Of course I remember. I remember everything. Past lives, future lives. Lifetimes with you, lifetimes without you. Ones where I was in power, and others where I was the salt of the earth—literally…”
“Oh, you mean that mafia lifetime where you ended up dead and buried in a vegetable garden for talking too much?”
I did remember that lifetime. The memories of how it abruptly came to an end flooded my mind.
“’Salt of the earth’, though?” He was poking fun at me now. “If I remember, there was no salt in that earth. It was just the opposite, actually: for years after they buried you there, the tomatoes from that garden were some of the best-tasting…”
“Stop that! David! Oh no, you didn’t just say that.”
“Sorry. Still too soon?”
“No! It is not too soon. But some things are better left…”
“Buried? I know,” he sighed. “I get it.”
“Stop it! That’s not funny!” I blurted back, trying my best to look exasperated. But I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s really nice to see you again, David. So what’s next? A new adventure? I would love to fly on spacecraft, exploring civilizations in different times, on distant planets…”
“Hold on there, Captain Kirk. Hold on.”
“Captain Kirk? I am not Captain Kirk.” I threw him a sideways glance, a dirty look out of the corner of my eye.
“What? Did you fancy yourself more of a Captain Picard? I get it. A lot of people do—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Maya, you need to see this lifetime out. It’s not done yet.” He said my name again, slowly, for emphasis. “You know—you’re still right in the middle of this lifetime.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeated. “I was some little girl in school or something. And now it’s done, I’m here. That’s what this tunnel of light and all this is about, no? What happened to me, anyway? Did I get run over by a car trying to save an old lady crossing the road? Or did I donate my heart to save a less fortunate child because… well—I’m just generous like that? It’s okay, you can tell me. I can take it.”
He cringed, but I ignored him and kept right on going. He interrupted me. “I told you already. You’re not dead.”
“Of course I am,” I shot back. “I mean, I’m here now, aren’t I? So why don’t we just move on? What’s my next great adventure? What can I expect from the next lifetime?”
“I don’t think you understand… Maya.” He said the name slowly, drawing it out for emphasis. Then he went on. “You’re not dead. And you really don’t remember much, do you?”
“I already told you—I remember everything,” I said, then repeated, “Everything!”
“I see. Okay then. You’re right. So, can I have a moment here, to show you these things you’ve been toting around with you?”
“These old things?” I asked, holding this old pad of paper and pen up between us.
“Those old things, yes. Let me show you how they work.”
I snickered at that. How they work? Everybody knows that…
“You might want to grab a seat,” he said, motioning behind me.
I turned around, and saw that a ridiculously oversized table and chair had materialized right where we had just been.
“Hey,” I started to protest.
“Too much?” he answered, grinning. As he did, it seemed to become just any normal table with two chairs. The next thing I knew, we were both sitting in the chairs at that table with two cups of Italian espresso in front of us. And actually—the delicate brown foam in each cup was frothed to a perfect golden brown.
“Wait,” I asked, holding one of the cups up to my lips. “Aren’t I just a little girl? How old am I? Isn’t coffee going to stunt my growth?”
“According to you, you’re already dead, so drink as much coffee as you want. You have my permission.” He paused, still grinning, for obvious effect. Then he added, “Anyway, haven’t you just been dying for a good cup of coffee?”
I laughed out loud. We both did.
“Okay, what is it with this old pen and pad of paper?”
“Funny you should ask,” he started, sitting back and taking a sip of his own espresso. Then he glanced down at the pad of paper in front of me.
He put down his cup, looked straight at me with a gleam in his eye, and said, “Before I begin, you may want to take notes.”
6
Six
“Uh, take notes?” I said.
“Yes, please. That is, if it’s not too much of an imposition for you…”
“Eh, sorry, no. Of course not.” And so I took out the pad of paper and pen in my hand and flipped it open to the first page.
The first page—just like every other page—was emblaz
oned with the familiar Shimoda Bros. Auto Repair fake oil smudge logo (Boy, that sure gets old fast, I thought), and their phone number (555-0101).
“Hey!” I blurted out. I couldn’t help myself. “That’s not real.”
“Yeah, I know. The logo is a fake oil smudge. They can’t put a real oil smudge on each pad of paper, now, can they? It wouldn’t be environmentally-sensitive.”
“The phone number! I’m talking about the phone number,” I blurted back at him. “Everyone knows 555-anything isn’t a real number.”
“Have you taken a look around lately?”
I did. There was the brilliant glow of the tunnel that wasn’t a tunnel. And then there was the light that wasn’t a light. There was the dynamic, humming symphony-like feeling that seemed to fill my heart with a warm fuzzy feeling.
Obviously, I was dead. Obviously.
But I can get used to this, I thought. Heck—I already have.
“None of this is real, you know,” he said after I’d finished looking around. His words were mostly matter-of-fact, but he still had a sort of mischievous, bemused half-smile.
“You’re messing with me.”
“No, I’m not,” he answered, a more serious, almost worried look slowly replacing his grin. “Is that what you think this is?”
“Well, sure. Of course I’m dead… I mean—it’s obvious, no?”
“No. It’s not. And you’re not dead. I thought I’d told you already. This isn’t real.”
But this is real! I thought. How can it not be?
“If I wasn’t experiencing all this right now, then yeah, maybe I’d agree with you. But I know what I’m experiencing. I mean, I’m sitting here talking to you. I know this is real.”
Still, there was a part of me that was at least happy to hear I wasn’t dead yet.
“So if I’m not dead, what am I? I mean—where are we? Is this all a dream? Am I in the hospital? It’s a near-death something or other, isn’t it?”
“Something or other?”
“You know what I mean… what do they call it?” I racked my brain until the thought came to mind. “It’s a near-death experience, isn’t it? That’s what this is called. I knew it!”
He laughed. “We could go with that.”
I wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t say anything else about it, and so I decided not to say anything else either. For now.
“So, can we get on with this?” I asked, picking up the pad so I could begin taking notes.
“Of course, of course. But you definitely don’t want to write on that pad.”
“Why not?” I shot back. “Didn’t you just tell me to take notes?”
“Well, yes… but not on that. How about this—why don’t you just pay attention to what I’m going to say first, and then if you need to take notes later, we can go from there?”
“Sure.”
“This,” he started, then stopped. He reached out his hand, signaling for me to give him the pad of paper. I gave it to him.
“This—this is a magic list. Never give it to anyone.” He smiled, then handed it back to me.
“Okay, I’ll bite. How is this a magic list? And why shouldn’t I give it to anyone?”
“Because it’s a magic list,” he said. “I thought I’d explained that. Sorry if I was unclear.”
“That’s ridiculous. How is this a magic list?” I asked, flashing him the pad and pen, but careful to keep it arm’s reach away from him, just in case.
“Well, technically, it’s not a list because you haven’t actually written anything on it yet. But when you do, it will become a list. A magic list.”
I flipped through the pages one more time to see if I’d missed anything. Nope—they were all regular-looking pages, every last one of them with that same ridiculous oil smudge logo and fake phone number printed at the top.
“See what I mean?”
“I absolutely do not see what you mean. That’s ridiculous. What’s so magical about this list… no, about this—crap, second-rate advertising junk?”
“On its own, nothing,” he answered. He seemed serious now. Then he went on. “On its own, nothing. But when you make a list on it with this pen here, it turns it into a magic list.”
I thought I could see where this was going, but I didn’t say anything. He was pausing for effect, I could tell. It occurred to me that just maybe he was delusional and actually believed it. I waited for him to go on, however, because I didn’t want to steal the thunder of his big reveal here.
“Magic list,” he repeated. “And it only has one limit.”
“It’s only limit is the number of pages, right?” I offered. I know I was probably messing up his carefully-scripted spiel by guessing the obvious, but by now, I just couldn’t help it.
“No. Sorry, wrong answer. The right answer, if you’d like to know, is that the limit is that it’s just one list.”
“Huh? How does that even make any sense? Or mean anything?”
“It’s only one list. You have one magic list, Maya. You can make one list, and then—that’s it. Don’t waste it on…”
“On what? On what? What am I keeping a list of, anyway? And why does it matter how many things I can put on my one list?”
“As many as you want.”
“As many as I want? Then why does it matter? And by the way, what do you even mean by ‘magic list’? So I can just put anything I want? Okay, sure. Great. And I suppose you’re going to tell me that everything I write down on this magic list is going to come true? I mean—this really is all just a dream, no? Of course, you have to deny it because you’re a part of the dream. But I know better. So go ahead, then—what should I wish for first?”
“You sure have a way with words, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You talk a lot.”
“No, I don’t.”
“So, do you want an answer, or do you just like to hear yourself talk?”
“Hmmpphhh!”
“So, we can get started now?”
I didn’t say anything, to prove to him I could be quiet and listen. Then I blurted out, “See, there—I can to be quiet!”
“Uh, okay. Good. So, first—this list is not about a ‘wish’? It’s a list, and you only have one. One. Magic. List. Everything you write on that pad of paper with that pen—everything you list out—you’ll experience. You can write out your list in as little or as much detail as you want—take as many or as few pages to do that. Skip lines, or double space, or write two-sided. None of that matters. Whatever you write on this list—you will experience.”
“Everything?”
“Every. Last. Thing.”
“Experience? You mean it will all come true?”
“True?” he asked, staring at me with a puzzled look. “I thought I already explained all this to you. None of this is true.”
“Can you stop playing with your words? ‘I’m going to experience it,’ you say, but then you say, ‘it’s not true’. Which is it? That makes no sense. If it’s there, of course it must be true, as long as I’m not dreaming. Which you’ve already been painfully clear—I’m not. So, can I write something down on this list and have it come true, or not?”
“Maybe it would be clearer to you if you’d give it a try. Put something on your list, and you will experience it.”
“And if I want to get something, to have something, to be something? That’ll happen too?”
“It’s your list. It’s a magic list—whatever you list out—that’s what will show up in your life. Why don’t you just go ahead and give it a try?”
“Anything I want?”
“Not ‘anything’. ‘Everything’. Be careful about that. I can’t tell you how confusing that can be to some people. Try to keep that straight, if you can. It’s not ‘anything’. It’s ‘everything’. Everything you write on your list—all of it—every last thing will show up in your life. But when the list is done, it’s done.”
Okay! Now that this was starting to sink
in, I was starting to get excited. I can have anything I want, I thought. Anything! I can get anything I want. No, I remembered. Not just anything—everything!
“Now, there are a few details you’ll want to consider before you make any firm decisions.”
Oh, here goes, I thought. He’s going to start lecturing me here, droning on like my teachers about rules and being responsible and all that.
And then he was.
Droning on.
He was lecturing me about this and that, but he didn’t seem to be looking in my direction anymore.
My mind wandered, and I realized just how much I wanted to go home. I suddenly wished, more than anything, that I could go back.
He was still talking, but by now, I had completely tuned him out. I fumbled around for the pad of paper until I found it. The pen was tucked inside. I picked it up and opened the pad to the first page. Then I pulled out the pen and wrote “Maya’s List” at the top of the page, underlining it. And then I put a big #1 right underneath it and started my list.
Then I scribbled the words, “Go back home.”
There was a sort of popping feeling in my ear, like you feel when different pressures equalize on an airplane. Or when you dive really quickly into the deep end.
And then, the next thing I knew—I was sitting back at home, on my bed, looking up at the ceiling.
7
Seven
Wow!
It worked, I’m home! Just… wow!
That was about all I could think when I realized it had worked. This magic list really was magic. It worked! Here I was, in my room… no—in my home (after all, that’s what I’d written on the list). So it was magic! The list did work…
As soon as I had the thought, I panicked. Suddenly thinking about the list, I looked around frantically, searching the room for that pad and pen. It was dark, though, and the only lights were the reflections of the street lamps onto the ceiling of my bedroom. It must’ve been raining, too, because I could hear the pitter-patter against the window and the lights and shadows were dancing, their reflections moving around on the ceiling just like what always happened when it rained.
