by Mark Tufo
“And you say the kid was dead? How would you know if someone was dead since you were just a kid yourself?”
Peter looked her square in the eyes. “I know, Em, or at least Chris knew.”
“You’re absolutely sure it wasn’t a hallucination? A flashback from your acid days?”
“If you’re not going to take me seriously then why the hell am I here? And I didn’t have any acid days, and you know it.”
The box of pictures were on the floor beside the sofa upon which Emma sat. Her leg, cocooned in a fiberglass cast, rested atop the oak coffee table. “Hoist that box up here,” she said, patting the cushion beside her.
“We can look it up, you know. Stanley Ross. Find out if a kid with that name died around here.”
“That’s a good idea,” Emma said. “Put it to rest either way.”
“Not quite. If it’s true, then something weird is going on. I won’t rest until I figure it out.”
“You can go back in. The picture’s here.”
Peter hesitated. He’d considered trying it, to see whether it would happen again, or if he’d simply had an episode or seizure of some kind, but he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. If it was true, then something supernatural was happening to him; if not, then he might be losing his mind. “I honestly don't want to touch it right now. Don't know if I could live that again.”
“You just said you wouldn’t rest—”
“I know, but there are other ways, like I said. Internet search of old newspapers, stuff like that.”
“You might have to pay,” said Emma.
“It’ll be worth it not to go back in the picture.”
“That sounds silly.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Peter.
A knock came on the door. “There’s our pizza,” Emma said.
“I’ll buy.”
“Put the box here, go get the pizza,” Emma said. “I’ll peruse the pics.”
When Peter returned, Emma was holding a photograph in her hand. Peter leaned over her and saw a woman in her early to mid-twenties, strikingly pretty. Dark ringlets of glistening hair surrounded a creamy white face, her deep eyes and turned up mouth telling a story of her spirit. Feisty. Something else in the eyes. Perhaps a touch of loneliness.
“She’s a beauty. Any idea who she is?”
Emma did not answer.
“Anything written on the back?” He walked back around the table and stared at Emma, seeing immediately that her eyes were not focused on anything in the room. She appeared to be staring across the room at someone who was not there. Occasionally she smiled.
Peter put the pizza box on the coffee table and sat on the floor opposite her. He started the timer on his digital watch.
He would give her no longer than five minutes.
* * * * *
The small restaurant was quaint, like someone’s kitchen at home. Lilly Morris looked around for her friend, her sunglasses on to prevent recognition by the other patrons of the diner.
The bell on the door rang as it opened, and in walked Ellen Carver, a sweet smile on her face, as pretty as Lilly remembered. “Here, Ellen!”
The woman’s smile spread across her face, and she hurried over. “Lilly,” she whispered. “It’s so good to see you! You look radiant, as usual!”
“Easy for you to say. What I wouldn’t give for your natural beauty, Ellen. Those red ringlets are all the rage. I work and work, just to make sure I’m offered another picture.”
“Nonsense. You’ve more talent in your pinkie finger than . . . well, you know that. Let’s sit over here. I’ve been dying to hear about your latest movie! Who’s in it? Is it really Bette Davis?”
“Yes, but I’ve been more taken with Mr. Flynn,” Lilly said. “The picture’s almost finished.”
“Father got me here early, so I have plenty of time before I have to start work.” She smoothed her apron-dress and smiled in anticipation. “I’m all ears!”
Lilly laughed and looked around, hoping she had not drawn anyone’s attention. “I’ve something more important to tell you than senseless chatter about my work. There’s someone I want you to meet. A gentleman at my church.”
Ellen’s eyes widened, her face looking hopeful for a brief moment. Then she frowned. “You know father. I’m sure he won't allow it.”
Lilly smiled. “He will if you’re with me, because your father loves me.”
“It’s true,” Ellen said. “He does speak of you constantly.”
“Come to my church this Sunday,” Lilly said. “In fact, I’ll have my car pick you up and take you there!”
“No! A limousine? Really?”
“Absolutely.” Lilly reached across the table and took Ellen’s hands in hers. “I’ll ring your father tonight. Ask his permission, which he’ll give without reservation.”
“Emma?”
“Who is Emma?” Lilly asked Ellen.
Ellen’s face grew puzzled. “I didn’t say that . . . who are you talking about?”
“Emma, wake up!”
Ellen’s image began to warp before Lilly’s eyes. It swirled into deep colors of brown, white, red and tan, spinning in a blurry vortex. Lilly felt a scream catch in her throat. What was happening to Ellen? She looked around, and everything was now a haze, indecipherable.
She grew frightened as her world disappeared before her eyes.
* * * * *
“Emma!” Peter stood over his friend, her arms flailing, her eyes hysterical. “It’s okay! Emma, it’s me, Peter!” He pulled her to him and held her close, her pumping heart pounding against his chest, way too fast.
“My God, Web! My God!” Her eyes focused on Peter at last.
He let out his breath and rolled off the couch, leaning against it as he sat on the floor. “I was scared to death, Em! Man, my heart’s flopping in my chest!”
Emma's eyes still wild, but tremendously calm compared to only a moment earlier, she put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “I get it now, Web. That’s what happened to you while you were driving. I was . . . I was inside that picture. Living the scene.”
“Are you okay?” Peter asked, turning to look into her eyes. “You came out of there in a panic. I tried to say your name softly, but—”
“No, I’m fine, but I heard you say it while I was in there. I even repeated it, and Ellen didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“Ellen?” Peter asked. “Who's she?”
Emma looked at him. “I don’t know . . . now I don’t know. I knew as plain as day when I was Lilly.”
“Wait a minute, Em. Let me get a pen.”
“Kitchen. Next to the phone.”
Peter got the pen and sat down beside Emma, a pad of paper in his hand. “What was your name?”
“Lilly.”
He wrote. “Last name?”
“It didn’t come up. I don’t know. I know I was someone kind of important. I mean, Ellen’s father supposedly likes me a lot . . . wait a minute.” Her dark eyebrows lifted over her face, and the glow from her intrigued eyes overpowered the bruises and cuts on her face to make her appear one of the healthiest people on the face of the earth. “I was an actress. About to do a movie with Errol Flynn and Bette Davis—no, wait a minute. I was doing it already.”
Peter stood. “Video guide.”
“What?”
“You have a video guide, right? Leonard Maltin or something? I’ll look up any movies the two of them were in. If someone named Lilly is there, too, we’ll know who you were.”
“What do you mean—” Her face changed. The corners of her mouth turned upward, twitching and creating a nervous smile. “Of course. We’re visiting our past lives through these images.”
“As a preliminary hypothesis, maybe.” Peter considered the significance of what may lie before them, the dangers that may lay in wait. Did the journeys affect them physically? They certainly did when he drove the car off the road. But what else happened to them? He stared at Emma, her bruises and cuts, her le
g in the massive cast.
“What’re you thinking about, Web?”
Peter shook his head and stood to pace the length of the living room. “I almost think we should leave this stuff alone. Kind of like taking drugs when you’re not sure what affect they’ll have on you.”
“Web, you can’t be serious. This is a discovery like . . . it could be the most important discovery in history.”
“First of all, it’s not a discovery. It’s a phenomenon. We can’t be the first to experience this. Second of all, remember LSD? Mushrooms, peyote?”
“Sure. I remember college.”
“Ha ha. Well, I didn’t do acid, but you know better than anyone else I did try mushrooms and peyote now and then. My point is, on the rare occasions I took the stuff I never knew whether I’d come around to real life again.”
“But you didn’t really think about it. You just did it, like everyone else. And voila! You’re still here!”
“I’ve got more to lose now. So do you. This could be dangerous, Em.” He waved his hand at her. “Look at you, for Christ's sake.”
Emma looked at Peter, disbelief in her eyes. “Crossing the ocean to discover the New World was dangerous, Web. So was going to the moon. Anything unexplored is dangerous, but the possible rewards are immeasurable!”
“What if this is just for us, Em? What if this is supposed to be a private journey?” The thought hit him like a wrecking ball. “It might not be meant for the world.”
Emma looked at Peter, her eyes searching. “What are you afraid of, Web? What do we really have to lose now that we didn’t then? Neither of us have kids. It’s all psychological. You’re just a full-fledged adult now, and you’re worried about your mortality. My friend, Isabel, says we’re not humans having a spiritual experience, but spirits having a human experience. We should make the most of it. If whatever controls this existence wants us to cross over, let’s go with it.”
Peter shook his head. He had allowed her to stay inside the image too long. There may be no stopping her now. “I’m just saying this may be a revelation that only we’re supposed to experience. To everyone else, these may just be boring pictures.”
“Nah. I doubt it. It depends on how much we can prove by what we report when we come back out of the—”
“I’m not going back in.”
“You’re not serious!”
Emma looked at him like he was crazy, and for a moment, Peter wondered if she might be right. The chance of a thousand lifetimes, possibly. Learning who you were, maybe finding out why we were put here, in these bodies, in the first place. He wanted to say something wise, something convincing. Nothing came to mind. “You’re hard headed, Em.”
“Get the Maltin book. In the entertainment center—”
“I’ll find it.” Peter went to the television and retrieved the book. “Bette Davis and Errol Flynn?”
“That’s what Lilly said. I was probably just an extra.”
Peter sat beside her and flipped through the pages, ran his finger down a particular page, and stared at the text in front of him, not able to comprehend or believe what he read there. Wild assumptions were playing out; houses of cards that should have simply blown into nothing were toppling to reveal hard facts beneath. What once was the stuff of fiction novels was now eerily plausible. He looked at Emma, his eyes frightened.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is she there?”
Nodding, Peter said “She wasn’t an extra. A film called The Sisters, done in 1938. Lilly Morris was in that movie.”
Emma sat up and her face went pale. “I . . . you’re kidding.”
“Not unless there’s some other woman named Lilly in the picture.”
“It was a popular name back then,” she said. “Lillian.”
“Yes, there was Gish. Others, I’m sure.”
“I’ve always loved Lilly Morris,” Emma said. “She wasn’t a big actress, just character roles, mostly. She was so sexual, though. For her time, I mean.”
“I’m not sure I remember her. Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She took the book from Peter and read the description of the film.
“You need to rest, Em. No more journeys tonight. At least we found out the year. 1938, or thereabouts. Maybe ’37.”
“I’m going to see Isabel tomorrow. I think she’ll help us figure this out.”
Peter smiled. Her psychic. A crazy old woman who lived in a decrepit old shack in Laguna Canyon. Peter had never been out there, but he knew the place. There had been a party in the house next door when he was a teenager. Psychedelic wall murals, black lights, drugs, typical Laguna never seemed to change much from the 1970s. He shrugged. “Do what you have to do, Em. I’m out of it, though.”
“I think you’re crazy Web, but mark my words,” and here she went into her best Al Pacino, “just like in Godfather III, I’ll pull you back in.”
* * * * *
Peter finished school, relieved that Emma did not call today as she had every day for the last two weeks. As he walked to his car, he wondered if he should go to her house. Over that time, Peter had not visited Emma at all. She was bound to her house, and though Peter felt guilty for not going over, her mother was there every day. Emma was well taken care of.
When he arrived at his apartment, he sat on the sofa, stared out the front window at the Pacific Ocean across the street, and held the notepad in his hands. Once in a while he glanced down at it and read the names written there: Lilly Morris. Stanley Ross. Chris. Ellen.
Who were they? He tossed the pad on the coffee table. It didn’t matter anyway, because he wasn’t going to find out. He reached for the phone and dialed Allyson’s number, already committed to memory.
One ring. Two. His finger twitched over the cradle, but he gripped the handset, knuckles white. On the third ring, her recorder answered.
He hung up. Fool! You’re a fucking wimp!
He picked it up again and hit redial. This time he left a message. “Allyson, it’s me, Peter Webster . . . uh, from the school.” Why did he say that! Sounds like some stupid kid! “Anyway, I’d love to see you if you’d like to have dinner or something. My number’s 555-0412, but I’ll call back later if I don’t hear from you. Talk to you soon . . . I hope.” Oh, great. Now sound desperate!
Hanging up the phone, Peter felt like an idiot. A few seconds later, it rang.
“Oh, man. I’m not ready now,” he said aloud. He stared at the phone for a moment or two, then picked it up and tried to put on a happy voice. “Hello?”
“Web, I am pissed at you.”
“Em, you have every right to be. Before you get mad at me though, I called Allyson.”
“Fuck Allyson, Web! What the hell’s going on with you? Are you really that freaked out about this?”
“Why aren't you, Em? What the hell steels your nerves so much that this doesn't set you on edge? I'm embarrassed about it, but I am freaked out!”
“You’re embarrassed,” she said flatly. With me, you’re embarrassed. You practically fart in front of me for God's sake.”
Peter ignored the sarcasm. “I’m downright scared, Em. I hurt you. It was like leaving my consciousness, and I wasn’t in control.”
“I’m a fucking trauma surgeon, Web. Don’t you think we could do this stuff with some level of safety?”
“Yeah, when I’m in there. Who’s going to watch out for you when you go in?”
He practically heard her scoff. “I can show you simple monitoring techniques. I have some portable equipment I can get authorization to use, and I’ll show you how to use it. Safe as pie.”
“You’ve never had my mother’s pie.”
“Web.”
“Look, I’ll think about it. You stay out of those pictures until I talk to you. I’ll come over tomorrow after work.”
“I can't believe you stood me up all this time.”
“I'll come. I'm sorry.”
“Bring Allyson with you.”
“I’m not sure she’ll call or tha
t I’ll get the nerve to call her again. If either one happens and we do go out, I think we need a real date. Not an experience in bizarro world.”
“She’ll call.”
A click interrupted his line. “Was that your phone?”
“Ha! She’s calling.”
“I’ll talk to you later. Stay away from the pictures until I get there.”
* * * * *
Peter’s first real date with Allyson Newland went better than planned. He took her to Newport Beach where they walked around Newport Harbor, watching the boats and the wealthy people who owned them and could afford to rent a slip there. When the restaurant-issued pager in Peter’s pocket went off, they made their way to the Blue Water Grill, a simple, yet high-quality and authentic old-style seafood restaurant that served only fresh fish caught that day.
They shared a table overlooking the water, and the clear glass ceiling invited the moon and its accompanying stars into the room to make it all the more romantic. As the surf lapped against the dock outside the window, they talked about Allyson’s work and Peter’s students, but didn’t discuss their families. Whether it was his imagination or not, Allyson appeared to hunker down into her plate or stare off at the water when he raised the subject. So he didn’t.
After dinner, they walked a bit more. Peter discovered he liked this woman a lot more than he originally hoped he would. She was smart and funny, not the first thing Peter expected when Emma first told him about her.
“I always wanted to have a boat,” he said, his hand brushing hers as they walked. He was more conscious of it than he could believe. “Never wanted the hassle that goes with it, I guess.”
“My father has a boat. Nice cabin cruiser. Sounds fun, but it is a lot of work. What’s your family like?”
Surprised she mentioned her family after skipping over it at dinner, Peter laughed. “A pain in the ass, like most. Did I tell you I have a twin brother?”
Allyson stopped walking and leaned on the rail. Together, they watched the harbor lights’ reflections, twisting and distorting on the water’s surface. She looked at him and smiled. “You didn’t tell me that. I think I always wished I had a twin, but since I’m an only child, I suppose that makes sense.” She touched his hand. “You mean there are two like you?”
