To his lives, plural.
He’d almost slid over the edge into sleep when the phone rang. “Yeah?”
“Hey, you,” Sarah said.
“Hey back. I was just thinking about you.”
“Good thoughts?”
“Great thoughts.” Micah smiled, his eyes half closed. He stood and wandered over to his couch in front of the fireplace, letting himself freefall backward into the overstuffed cushions strewn on top.
“Wanna have some fun?” Sarah asked.
“Rhetorical question, right?”
“Yes.”
“The idea?”
“Nehalem’s Art Festival. How ’bout we go down and take a look this weekend?”
“You said fun, not shopping.”
“So that promise you made about seeing locally made crafts with me at least twice this summer . . .”
“Yeeeeees!” Micah stood and launched into his radio voice. “And that promise is about to come true! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, can you think of a better way to spend your Saturday? No? Me neither! The Nehalem’s Art Festival. Yeehaw!”
“You think that’s amusing, don’t you?”
“Mildly.”
“How’s tomorrow, as long as you’re not previously engaged.”
“And if I am?” Micah wandered toward his kitchen.
“Tell her you’re utterly intrigued by another woman.”
“You’re funny—”
“Thank you.”
“—sometimes,” finished Micah. “Pick you up at eleven?”
“Perfect.”
Micah hung up the phone and smiled. Definitely in love. The wanna-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you type of love.
||||||||
The Nehalem’s Art Festival boasted more than thirty booths, some stuffed to overflowing, others with just the right amount of merchandise, the artists manning them having figured out the fine line between having too much and too little space to display their treasures.
They wandered past dried-flower arrangements, handcrafted cribbage boards, and strawberry-scented candles before they stopped at a booth featuring paintings. The artist sat on a tall pine stool, her back to them. She was engrossed in the beginning stages of a new painting, a dried-out riverbed in the high mountains.
“You like these?” Sarah motioned to the finished pieces.
“Yeah, I do. And you?”
“Not really my style.”
“So what is your style?”
“I’ll let you know when I see it,” Sarah said.
Micah watched her move off, then turn back after realizing he hadn’t moved. He continued to study the paintings. Sarah eased back alongside him. “Why do you like them so much?”
“They make me think—create impressions in my mind. Her technique intrigues me.”
“You have thought for my painting, yes?” The artist spoke without turning as Sarah and Micah smiled at each other and mouthed in unison, “Good ears.”
“Yeah, I have a thought,” Micah said.
“You will share it with me, yes?”
“Your paintings remind me of LaQue’s work with your use of shadows and of Thomas Glover’s use of detail.”
“Good! Very good. I studied the work of both extensively. You are collector or studied art in college?”
“No, but I . . . I do like your paintings.”
The lady turned and looked at Micah with a quizzical expression. The right side of her mouth turned up in a tiny smile. “You are serious? You are not student of art? An artist then, maybe? You must be painter yourself.” She set down her brush, got off her pine stool, and walked over to them.
“No, not an art student. And no, I don’t paint.” Micah looked down. “Actually, I don’t even know where that comment came from. It came out of nowhere.”
“Thoughts must come from somewhere, yes? Among laypeople those two artists are known little. Their styles are far from each other. So your pickup on their influence is unusual. Your insight and appreciation of painting is deep, no?”
“Um, thank you. Best of success to you.”
They walked away, and Sarah poked Micah in his side. He jumped a foot and a half sideways.
“Hey! Do you have to keep doing that to me?”
“So do I need to add art critic to your list of accomplishments?” She laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
“No.”
“What do you mean no? That lady was genuinely surprised. And impressed. Obviously you know quite a bit about art to name her influences.”
Micah rubbed his forehead and kept walking.
“Micah?”
“I don’t know where that came from.” He turned and rubbed his face with both hands. “Seriously. For some reason I just knew the names and saw their styles in her painting. But it’s gone now. I can’t even remember a word I said.”
“What?”
“One second I’m just staring at the painting like everyone else; the next this lightbulb goes off in my head and—bam!—I know who influenced her style and their names. As clear as I know software. A window opens and I see another world.” Micah snapped his fingers. “Then just as quick, the memory is gone, the window slams shut, and I’m back to being me.”
“And this has been going on—?”
“For three months.” Micah stopped and looked Sarah in the eye. “And it’s accelerating.”
“Accelerating?”
“It’s happening more often.” Micah walked toward the beach.
“Want to talk about it?”
Micah shook his head and stopped again. “Yes. I’m going to take a huge risk here and tell you in detail the things that have been happening, okay?”
Sarah nodded.
“Remember the other night when you asked me what was going on with my spiritual journey? How I was doing? Well, if your ears are still standing by, I’m ready to give you War and Peace.”
“Why a huge risk?”
“Because when I’m done, you’ll either think God is at work in a rather strange, beautiful, and incredible way, or I’m long overdue for a visit to the funniest of farms.”
Sarah touched his forearm. “I already know God is constantly working in strange and incredible ways, so you’ll have to make your story really weird to make me think you’re going insane.”
“This one might do it. You realize you’ve officially abdicated your right to come back to me when I’m finished and tell me I’m crazy.”
“Agreed. Now please begin, Weaver of Fantastic Tales.”
When they reached the beach, they sat on a mound of sand, and Micah told Sarah everything: from the day Archie’s letter arrived at RimSoft to the present. He described the memory room, shrine room, skydiving room, the painting, the movie room, the Wildcat room, even the brilliant room he couldn’t enter.
He told her about the Inc. cover vanishing, about not playing racquetball with Brad, and about not meeting a man named Rafi at a party. About how Julie vanished from his history, about finding the Coast Life magazine cover with his name on it, and how his ankle went from perfect to injured in an instant.
He talked about running into an old girlfriend, the fall of his company’s stock, going from owning his condo’s penthouse to living on the eighth floor, and how his car had gained a year of miles in a day.
When he finished, Micah kicked sand toward the ocean. “Do you think I’m insane?”
“I think God is in all of it. But I wonder if you feel the same.”
“Of course I think He’s in it. Why?”
“I know you believe it intellectually. But do you believe it in your heart?”
Micah didn’t answer.
“Surrendering to the Lord is winner take all. Ninety-nine percent isn’t enough. It’s all or nothing.”
“Your point?”
“That when I hear you talk about the things you’ve lost, like the stock, your condo, your car gaining sixteen thousand miles overnight, you talk like you’ve lost y
our best friend.”
“Well, of course I don’t like it.” Micah snorted and ran his hands through the sand. “Tell me one person who would. My life is a tornado, and I’m nowhere near the eye of the storm. I’m in the heart of two-hundred-mile-per-hour winds. I’ve lost specific events in my life I know have happened and gained others I know didn’t happen.”
“But those things did happen, Micah.”
“What do you mean?”
“How can you deny the physical existence of something like your ankle? Or the magazine cover?”
“I can’t.”
“So is it real? This other life?”
“I don’t know.” Micah rubbed his eyes and sighed.
“I’m going to really weird you out now.” Sarah sat forward and took his hands in hers. “But it might help you accept that this other life you’re getting bits and pieces of is real.”
“All right.”
“I remember you talking about it.”
“About what?”
“Your ankle. The original injury. How it happened.”
“Where was I during this supposed conversation?” Micah stared at her.
“We talked about it a month ago. You told me you messed up your ankle by landing hard on another guy’s foot playing touch football about six years ago. That’s why I noticed the slight limp and wasn’t surprised when you asked for the name of a good doctor in town.”
Micah smacked the sand with the back of his hand. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. As bizarre as my life has been the past four and a half months, don’t you think a sprinkle of terror is warranted?”
“I’ll admit it’s unusual.”
Micah stared at her in disbelief.
“All right, more than unusual, but God has done some amazing things in your life since you came down here.”
“Agreed.”
“So, do you trust Him fully or not? Are these bizarre changes part of His plan or not? Do you believe no matter what happens, you don’t have to control it because He’s in control?”
Again, he didn’t answer.
“I think the reason it’s so hard for you, Micah, is because you’re still hanging on.”
“To what?”
“Your life.” Sarah stood, brushed off the back of her 501s, and reached down to pull him up.
Micah stared at her. “I know you’re good for me, even though you drive me crazy sometimes.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Sarah smiled.
The car was silent most of the way back to Cannon Beach. Sarah was unusually silent. Perceptive as always. He needed time to process their conversation, and she was giving it to him. It might have been better if she had talked. In the quiet he had to face her words. As usual she was right. A wave of frustration swept over him.
He was getting tired of her pushing him, forcing him to wrestle with . . . Maybe he’d be better off without her. What? He blinked at how powerful the thought was. Dump Sarah? No way. Crazy thinking. He shook his head, as if to toss the idea from his mind.
As they drove through Arch Cape Tunnel, Micah held his breath, a habit left over from childhood. A perfect snapshot of his life. Feeling lost in darkness and holding his breath to see what would happen next.
Tomorrow he’d do something to take his mind off his dual existence. Something so engrossing he wouldn’t have time to think.
Something probably a little bit stupid.
CHAPTER 35
Micah woke Sunday morning still determined to take his mind off his two intertwined lives. Sea kayaking would be the perfect distraction. He’d read a book on the sport and decided it was the ideal day to forage the waves of the Oregon Coast. So he’d never done it. Big deal. Maybe it was a bit risky, but how hard could it be?
Ten minutes later he stood in Cleanline Surf Shop perusing kayaks. He’d need a wet suit, too. Even though it was early September, the water temperature wouldn’t be more than fifty-four degrees, and Micah had no desire to freeze out among the foam.
“You done this before?” the clerk said as he rang up the sale.
“Yeah.” Micah thought back to the time he’d paddled around the glassy surface of Lake Union up in Seattle during high school. “Sure. Why?”
“It can get a bit intense out there. I just don’t want people to be caught off guard.”
“I’ll be fine.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
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He would put in at Oswald West State Park, a fifteen-minute drive down the coast from Cannon Beach. He’d heard it was optimum for sea kayaking. Indian Beach just north of Ecola State Park was closer, but the bay here was wider, had fewer rocks to negotiate, and hopefully fewer people would be there to watch his freshman attempt.
A fine, steady rain fell as he pulled into the Oswald parking lot. By the time he had his kayak off the car, the wind had kicked up to fifteen miles per hour.
The walk down to the beach was longer than he would have liked, but its beauty eased the fatigue the hike brought on. Massive Douglas fir trees almost completely blocked the rain, and the stillness of the forest brought a feeling of peace. The only noise was a river he crossed twice with the help of rough-hewn wooden bridges.
Just before he reached the bay, he stopped in front of a sign that said, “Unusually high sneaker waves, deep water, and strong outgoing currents. Use extreme caution.” Micah glanced at the bay, then back at the sign. No problem. He’d be careful.
By the time he reached the sand, the winds had picked up even more, but the rain was dying into a fine mist that swirled, then settled softly on his face.
He waited a few minutes to catch his second wind and watch the chaotic pattern of the roaring waves in Smuggler’s Cove. He smiled. He felt alive. And alone. Surprisingly there had been no other cars in the parking lot, and he’d seen no one on the hike down except for a squirrel that screamed at him when he sat on a log to rest.
Securing his hood, Micah watched a mixture of sand, water, and foam swirl around his ankles. The waves moved slightly north to south, so he planned to paddle out to the north end of the bay and work his way back in, letting the waves push him to the center of the cove.
Nice plan.
He sliced through the first attack of surf as if it was whipped cream, and a rhythm built in his arms and paddle, but Micah struggled with the second set of waves. They were stronger and fought to push his craft sideways. But he pushed through as his breaths deepened and his eyes went steely.
The rain picked up again, and the winds were in concert. The soft kiss of the earlier mist became stinging needles on his face and forearms. But he was caught now in a web of determination, and he ignored the distractions.
The final set of breakers loomed, and the salesperson’s words blistered his mind. “Just don’t want people to be caught off guard.”
Part of Micah wanted to make the intelligent decision, but a louder voice drew him deeper into the sea. He ached to recapture a life of living on the edge, with high risk and high reward. Like when he’d started RimSoft. He’d tasted it in the skydiving room, yes. But this wasn’t an alternate reality God had taken him into. This was here, now, in vivid living color. He wanted it. Needed it. It flicked at the edges of his heart and stirred something inside larger than himself.
A wave raced down. Above him. On top of him. Not one of the benign four-foot swells he had imagined, but the eight-foot wall he’d seen from shore but ignored. Micah strained to turn his kayak directly into it but was a few precious degrees off. Just a fraction, but it was enough, and the full weight of the water crashed down on him.
He sucked in a breath just before the ocean surged against his nose and mouth, pushing for a way in. Then a kaleidoscope of tumbling, shoving, and pulling as the wave ripped him from his kayak and shoved him to the bottom of the ocean.
Five seconds felt like fifty. He searched for sunlight—his only clue as to which way was up. The most powerful part of the wave moved over the top of him, and Micah foug
ht to surface.
He was running out of air.
He broke the water ceiling and gasped.
Another wave broke, and he was plunged under the torrent again, somersaulting to the bottom where his foot ripped across a jagged rock. The thought of sharks leaped into his mind, then instantly took a backseat to simply surviving long enough to take another breath.
He surfaced again and swam hard toward shore. His hope was to keep breathing long enough to reach the smaller waves and bodysurf them to the beach.
Micah went under again but with less intensity. Hope rose.
He was going to make it.
Except for the rocks.
A jagged cliff lined the south side of the bay, and the wave pattern pushed him toward it, much faster than he’d anticipated from shore.
The beach was only fifty yards ahead, but the rocky crest was only ten yards away, the waves still five-foot swells—quite capable of depositing him wherever they liked. He’d been caught in an unrelenting progression that would end in bone quickly meeting rock.
Panic grabbed his gut, the mental battle now as fierce as the physical one. If he panicked, he’d have little chance of surviving. A voice screamed, Give up!
“No!” he raged back. “Lord, hel—!” Micah cried out, but the words were smothered as another wave shoved him under and closer to the rocks.
Suddenly the miraculous struck. The next wave drove him north instead of south. On his right a slick, jagged, black rock slipped by his face, inches away. It didn’t make sense. Then another wave pushed him north, away from the cliff and into shore. Peace washed over Micah more powerful than any of the waves that had vowed to take his life. From deep inside a different Voice said, Look up.
At the back edge of the beach, just in front of the tree line, stood a figure in an olive raincoat. Micah couldn’t make out the face within the shadows of its hood. He couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. The moment he looked, the person turned and strode into the trees. Micah’s view was swallowed by another black wall of water, and he was once more pushed toward shore.
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