The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  “What she needed to hear. That’s all. Look, I’m really tired. I’m going home.”

  “Already?” they say in unison.

  “You should eat something,” Tara says. “Stay for the Botox.”

  “No really, but thanks for everything. We’ll talk again at book club.”

  “Oh, I’ll see you before then,” Cally says. “The boys have their mandatory choir session tomorrow at early morning service. Patrick didn’t tell you?”

  “No. Ugh. Then I’ve really got to go. You don’t have to walk me out, Tara.”

  We say our goodbyes.

  All the way home I hum “The Queen of the Night.” I can’t get it out of my head, actually. It’s as if my brain has been sequestered by an opera aficionado. I’ve seen it performed less than a handful of times, once in a movie. I don’t own the CD, but somehow, I seem to know it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The entire mound ignites into a roaring fire. I push the cart and jump out of the way. Noxious fumes, the hissing and crackling become unbearable. Exhausted and out of sorts, I stumble over to an empty parcel of graded land next to the school then fall flat on my back.

  Endless plumes of thick black smoke rise and swirl up high in the red sky. I lie still and try hard to distinguish familiar shapes among them. This was a game Patrick and I loved to play when he was a child, only we used fluffy white clouds with an azure background, then.

  Suddenly, the ground begins to rumble. Thunderous cracks reverberate as the earth splits apart around me. It’s here at last! The impending doom I knew would come. I roll onto my abdomen and attempt to cling against the shifting sands of the desert floor. Not a mile behind the school, across an open lot, terracotta-colored canyons break apart and sink down into massive fissures. The school buildings, the smoldering mound, everything is being swallowed whole. Helpless, I’m forced to watch my shopping cart of tools disappear, along with my purpose. The enormous cross in front of the school is the last thing to submerge.

  Perhaps someone or something saw my human smoke signal. Within minutes, I alone lie on an endless plain with one side of my face pressed firmly against the ground. I wait for it to swallow me, too. Everything will be over soon enough, and I will be released from my lonely, tedious, and gruesome duties. I’m not sure how much more I can take picking up the dead.

  Minutes pass and still, nothing happens. Maybe this is the fate I’m meant to suffer. I roll onto my back again. Cinnamon swirls of black smoke are all that’s left. They begin to merge and rotate—faster and faster. They spin together, forming a massive vortex directly above me. The nose of the funnel cloud comes down as if it were a megaphone I could shout into. I’m unable to open my mouth for a breath, much less to yell for help. All I can do is gaze up through it, and the only thing I see is a void.

  The tip comes even closer, until it is mere inches from my face, and then I hear it—faint—a whirring within the spinning smoke particles, almost a whisper.

  See.

  * * *

  I look into the darkness behind my eyes. That’s where they are. And before I do See them, I wake up knowing everything is connected somehow. The nightmares, the new ethereal dreams, and the past life déjà vu experiences, they are all related. Together they’re a story, a message, a warning, which is disheartening. I’m unable to discern whether that makes things better or worse. It’s like starting all over again, and more terrifying, because I don’t know what’s coming. Amidst all of my uncertainty, however, I sensed a familiar presence there with me. It was Dr. Light. He was in the void, but he was not alone. He was with them, a part of them. Together we were twenty-seven, and together we felt as one. Maybe the dream scripting works automatically now, Dr. Light always feels close by. Strange, though, I don’t remember doing the exercise before falling asleep last night.

  As for penning any of this down in a notebook, there is no way. Who is stupid enough to leave evidence of their insanity lying around? Not me. I could describe my experiences to him exactly, if that’s what he wants. Everything has become so vivid.

  Jon comes into the bedroom carrying two cups of coffee.

  “Couldn’t you just hook me up with an IV of it?” I say.

  “I’m sure it’s been tried. How’d you sleep?”

  “Great. You?”

  “I was out like a light. We were both pretty tired—probably our bodies catching up from the previous night’s mishap. You joining us for church this morning?”

  “You know about Patrick’s mandatory service?”

  “Yeah, he told me Friday.”

  “Well, why didn’t he tell me?”

  “He probably didn’t want to bother you. He says you’ve been forgetting things lately.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous.”

  “No. That’s a teenager.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “I’ll get him up when you’re done with the shower. If you need anything, I’m in the office.” Jon turns around and walks toward the door.

  “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Dressed and ready to go, I head downstairs and pour myself another cup before they come down. By no means are we constant churchgoers, but Patrick’s Lutheran school requires we attend and Patrick participate in several services a year. The kids can choose to sing, perform in a short Bible story narrative, or assist in running stage operations. It’s great for students interested in drama or film production. Patrick was ecstatic he got to help run the stage lights last year, even though he wound up with a minor second degree burn on his left hand.

  These performances give the church a chance to show parents what their tuition dollars are being used for. And if the show is a success—which it usually is—it’s the perfect opportunity for them to ask for more.

  These occasional Sundays are the only instances Patrick is ever on time. The very thought of walking into service after it’s underway puts the fear of God into him, or maybe it’s more the fear of embarrassment.

  Ten minutes early, Patrick takes a seat in the back row and Jon follows. This satisfies Patrick’s concern we will make a scene somehow, and then he can easily hide. It also fulfills Jon’s desire for a quick getaway afterward.

  Service begins with everyone standing up and greeting their neighbor. This is also when I notice Cally, Bill, and Kyle coming in one of the side entrances. I nonchalantly try to wave them over, but they don’t see me. They’re on the complete opposite side of the church.

  “Give it up, Mom,” Patrick whispers. “You can talk after.”

  “You’re not the boss of me. Besides, shouldn’t you be doing something?”

  “I’m ushering at the end of service. Telling people to have coffee and donuts.”

  “Does that mean we have to stay for the whole thing?” Jon says.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Jon pulls his cell phone from his suit pocket and puts it into silent mode. No doubt he’ll be checking football scores all morning.

  Pastor Dean starts his sermon with a prayer. He is the youngest pastor I’ve ever seen. Can’t be much more than thirty. Tall and handsome, with brown hair and brown eyes. Very lucky to get a large congregation like this at his age. He was merely supposed to be the interim pastor, while the former one was being charged with embezzling money from the church and school, but everybody liked him, so he was voted to stay on. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time a clergyman was charged for embezzling in Vegas. It’s not an uncommon business practice in the Wild West. Temptation is the foundation on which this city was built.

  Pastor Dean’s youth gives his sermons vitality though, and he preaches current topics. The students love him and so do most of the parents. He’s clever, knows he won’t get donations preaching to us about living in sin. I’m sure pastors in other parts of the country would be shocked by his sermons, but that’s what makes Vegas so unique. We all cater for a living here—Jon to his surgeons—and me to his career. In the end, we hope it equals success.

  Seated after singing a so
ng, we’re then told to bow our heads once more in prayer. Absorbed in my own private appeals to God, I hardly notice the deepening in Pastor Dean’s voice. Then all of a sudden, he is loud. Yelling and rattling the pews. His every word, harsh and intense, resonates within my chest.

  I look up to the stage. A strange man stands behind the podium. He is old, gruff, dressed head to toe in heavy black. He points his finger out across the congregation. “The Wicked shall be cast into Hell!” People quiver in their seats. Then he shakes his fist like a madman. “There is no salvation for sinners!” Saliva spews from his angry mouth.

  The massive stained glass cross behind the stage is gone, the towering flower arrangements, too. This is not my church. It’s smaller, simpler—old—antique.

  I’m in the front row, sitting on a wobbly unpadded bench. Jon and Patrick are gone! Seated next to me are two, young blue-eyed girls—identical twins. They’re wearing plain clothes, a heavy navy fabric—wool. Their hair is tucked up under puffy white bonnets, but several loose ringlets of curly blonde hair have spilled out over their shoulders. They simultaneously turn their heads and smile at me. I return their gestures then calmly look down. My colonial clothing matches theirs, but underneath, something tight binds my chest, I can scarcely take in a breath. The air in the church is suddenly hot and stifling.

  The child closest to me reaches her hand out across my lap. I gently take it in mine. It is tiny, fragile, and warm. Suddenly, the preacher slams his fist against the pulpit. I jump up from the bench, releasing her delicate hold.

  The collection plate flies from the usher’s grasp, then comes crashing down to the aisle with one hell of a clang. Envelopes, bills, and loose change scatter everywhere between the pews.

  Jon gets up to help the usher retrieve the donations. All of the present day church members turn around and glare. A few others rise to assist collecting the money. Jon looks at me and mouths. “Are you okay?”

  I nod yes. But I’m getting warmer, still. I have to relax. Breathe.

  Patrick is lying low across the bench.

  “Get up,” I tell him.

  He shakes his head no.

  “If you don’t, I’ll yell,” I whisper.

  Patrick coolly sits up but looks away.

  After the men finish gathering the last of the stray coins, Jon returns to my side, and we sing with the rest of the congregation.

  “Sure you’re all right?” he says.

  “It was an accident. I wasn’t paying attention and he startled me.”

  Service can’t end fast enough, but then we have to stick around while Patrick encourages people to stay. Cally, Bill, and Kyle sneak out the way they came in without stopping by to say hello. Pastor Dean shakes my hand on his way out, but he keeps his eyes on Jon and avoids talking to me.

  I’m done with this—ready to give Dr. Light the go-ahead—but only if he looks normal at our next appointment. Geez, why do I have to be going crazy now? Hypnosis, shock therapy, acupuncture, I don’t care what he wants to do. I can’t let my nightmares happen in the middle of the day, and even worse, in public. He’s the only one who can help. A little peace of mind is all I’m asking for, and right now, my only repose comes when I hear those bell chimes.

  * * *

  Patrick stays quiet and keeps to his room for most of the afternoon. Jon is outside again, but I think he snuck across the street to watch the game at the neighbors’ house. When I’m done with Memoirs of a Spa Junkie, I go upstairs and get ready for book club.

  I can’t stop wondering how it will feel to be hypnotized. It could possibly be the answer to all my questions. Take me where I fear to go—show me what I fear to See. The excitement makes my skin tingle, and the unnerving stirs up nausea.

  As I’m pulling down the driveway, Jon walks out into the street from the neighbors’ garage. He motions at me to put the window down.

  “Toni and George want to know if you’re still planning on hosting the neighborhood Christmas party. Toni reminded me that you volunteered for it last year.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” I look over Jon’s shoulder and see them talking in their garage, pretending to watch the game. Theirs is a four-car unit they transformed into an extension of the game room. It’s complete with a ping-pong table, dartboard, plasma screens, and a refrigerator stocked with an endless supply of beer—a real party palace.

  “Toni said she’d be happy to help if you need any ideas or suggestions.”

  “Tell her I said thanks.” She looks over, and I wave. “And ask her what day, evening, whatever time works best.”

  “Sure you want to take this on?”

  “I’ll have it catered. It’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, well have fun, and say hello to the girls.” He leans in and kisses me.

  Before driving away, I wave to Toni and George again.

  God, I’m tired. Now I understand why people take vacations over the holidays, but really, the thought of dealing with overcrowded airports and weather delays is just as exhausting. Normally, I would savor overbooked schedule challenges, but I guess I’m not quite the same anymore.

  Cally answers the door dressed like a maharani.

  “Oh wow. You look great,” I say.

  “Come in, Sweetie.” She motions me in. Sheer, light blue fabric sways back and forth over her arms. Numerous bangles clink around her wrists with every move.

  “We weren’t supposed to dress up, were we?”

  “No. I’ve had this genie costume stored in the attic, and I thought it would be fun.”

  “That’s a relief. I was starting to feel like I’d forgotten.”

  We both look down at her chest bulging up from the sequined bikini top. “Okay, maybe it’s a little much,” she says. “Help yourself to some wine. I’m going to change.”

  “No, Cally. It’s cute. Really, don’t change.”

  “Thank God you said something before Tara and Jordan showed up.”

  “But I didn’t say anything.”

  She shuffles down the hall barefoot with bells around her ankles jingling like keys. I’m glad she can’t see me giggling. I head to the kitchen for some wine. It’s going to be an interesting evening.

  “Is Gail here?” I say. She’s always early and usually here by now.

  “No,” Cally yells, from her master bedroom. “She’s not coming.”

  “Why?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Hmm, that’s strange,” I say to myself.

  “Yes it is,” Cally says. She’s suddenly in the kitchen.

  “Hey, I didn’t hear you walk by.”

  We simultaneously look down. She is still barefoot.

  “Ugh,” she growls. “Be right back.”

  The doorbell rings while she puts on a pair of shoes. “I’ll get that.”

  “Thanks!”

  Tara and Jordan arrive. They step into the foyer like a whirlwind of perfume, hairspray, shrill greetings, and idle chatter.

  Cally joins us wearing a new pair of boots.

  “Ooh, nice,” Tara says.

  “I got them on sale at Breanna’s.”

  “Why didn’t you call? I hate missing her sales,” Tara whines.

  “Get over it,” Jordan says. “Let’s move it. I need a glass of wine.”

  We all walk to the kitchen. I hang back and watch them eye each other’s clothes and accessories. Strange, it’s something I’ve never noticed them do before—maybe because I’m usually right up there with them.

  “Where’s Gail?” Tara says.

  “She’s not coming.”

  “Good, then we can talk,” Tara says.

  “About what?” Cally says with a grin.

  “Don’t say a word until I get some wine.” Jordan hurries into the kitchen.

  Everybody fills their glasses. Then we go into the family room and sit down on the couch and chairs.

  “Thank God you didn’t do those stupid floor pillows again,” Jordan says.

  “Okay, Tara. Tell us now,�
� Cally says.

  “Well…” Tara lowers her head but can’t hide her wide smile. “We’re in.”

  Cally screams, then they all bounce up and down on the cushions and exchange hugs. I watch wine swirl and bobble up to their rims, but nobody spills a single drop.

  “Isn’t that great news?” Jordan says.

  “Yeah. Great.” I smile.

  “You don’t seem very excited.”

  “Of course she’s excited,” Cally says. “She’s so excited, she’s in shock. Right, Stacy?”

  “Yeah, actually, I guess I am in shock. What did Jenny say about us, Tara?”

  “Well, she just loved you, Stacy. Said you’re like the down-to-earth one among us, but we all knew that.”

  “Oh my God,” Cally says. “This is so exciting.”

  “And it is, but remember.” She sighs. “We still have to wait on the other group.”

  “Who are they? Anybody we know?”

  “Some of the gals from Green Valley, otherwise known as Henderson,” Jordan says.

  Cally groans. “So it’s East Valley versus West Valley. God I hope they pick us or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “No kidding,” Tara says. “I don’t like the girls over there in Greenless Valley. They’re so over-the-top.”

  “Let’s not worry too much about it now. It’s still fantastic news. Let’s make this a mini celebration,” Cally says. She gets up from the couch. “Does anybody need a refill?”

  Jordan and Tara raise their empty glasses. “Hell, I’ll just put the bottles on the coffee table,” Cally says. She walks into the kitchen.

  “What about the book?” I say.

  “To hell with that, Stacy, this is overwhelming,” Jordan says.

  “Which means you didn’t read it,” Tara says.

  “Shush.”

  Cally comes back from the kitchen with wine and gift bags. She sets the bottles on coasters then hands out the bags.

  “Here we go,” Jordan says. “What’d you get?”

  “Oh, how lovely,” Tara says. She pulls a long silk scarf from her bag. “And what’s this?” She holds up a piece of paper. “Oh yeah, spa day. Thanks Cally. Clever of you to give us massage appointments to go with the book.”