Micah nodded, even though he wasn’t sure, a queasy feeling growing in his stomach.
“I think you should start a plan right now.”
“To?”
“Get things right with your dad.”
Oh, boy. Here it comes. “How is that supposed to work? I have no relationship with my dad. I don’t want one. He doesn’t want one. Done. Over. End of plan.”
Sarah put on her sunglasses. “You don’t need a relationship with him to take care of what you need to take care of.”
“Oh, really? So tell me, Watson, what this mysterious thing is I need to fix.”
Sarah gazed up at him. “Forgive him, for whatever it is he’s done.”
Micah rolled his eyes. He ought to write a book: Cannon Beach Conspiracy. How an ordinary software businessman was ambushed into dredging up his dead-and-buried past.
The problem? It was still very much alive.
Micah sidestepped a wave the incoming tide sent farther up the beach than its cousins.
“I’m sorry, I said too much.” Sarah pivoted and shuffled down the beach.
Bull’s-eye. Way too much. But he’d asked for it.
She stood twenty yards away, the wind ruffling her hair, obscuring her face, then blowing it free a second later. As he approached her, Sarah turned toward the sun, and tears trickled out from under her sunglasses.
Micah didn’t speak till seven waves had rushed up the sand, then retreated back into the surf. “You okay?”
She didn’t respond.
“Want to talk about it?”
She sniffed and laughed at the same time. He reached into his shorts pocket, found the softness of a light blue tissue, and pulled it out.
She took it from him. “Why am I crying, right?”
The question wasn’t directed at him. But the answer was. She glanced at Micah before turning back toward the white-flecked waves that pounded the sand. “Because I’ve been praying for you and your choices for many years.” She walked back toward their bikes.
As they ambled down the sand together, the rays of the late-afternoon sun danced on her hair, turning it golden. He knew she meant months, so he waited for her to correct herself. But she didn’t.
“Months,” he said softly, “you meant many months.”
Her face flushed. She stopped, looked at him for a moment, then hiked away. “No,” she called without turning around, “I meant years.”
CHAPTER 18
Micah tried to resist, but Saturday afternoon he called Sarah to ask about the “praying for years” comment. He’d asked her about it on Friday as they rode back into Cannon Beach, but she deflected the question. If she was home now, she wasn’t answering, and by midday on Monday, she still hadn’t returned his call. He needed someone to talk to.
An idea flashed into his mind. A way to get answers to the two questions bouncing around his brain. After checking in with Shannon to make sure everything was running silky smooth at RimSoft, he closed his laptop and headed into town to find a hardware store.
By one o’clock he tromped through his house lugging a massive Black & Decker light-up-the-universe flashlight under his arm. He’d talked with the voice three more times since his first encounter, but Micah still wasn’t convinced it was himself. He wanted to do more than hear the voice, especially if he was going to talk about sensitive subjects. He wanted to see it. It wasn’t a Wizard of Oz voice that echoed throughout the room; it came from the center, fifteen or twenty feet back.
The voice said it had to be dark, that seeing each other would make it too difficult to focus on talking. Even if it were true, it didn’t explain why the room was pitch black.
He lugged the flashlight up to the room, hid it behind his back, and grabbed the door handle. He eased it open.
“Nice flashlight, Micah.”
Micah could tell the voice was smiling. “How can you know that?”
“We’ve been over this. I am you. You are me.” The voice laughed. “You can stop doubting anytime, you know.”
“So you know I’m going to shine this into the room in about two seconds?”
“Yeah. But do it anyway.”
Micah shot the beam straight into the heart of the room. Nothing. The light stopped two feet into the room, as if hitting an opaque pane of glass. The light reflected back at Micah, and he saw a muddied version of himself holding the flashlight. He walked up to the reflection and lifted his hand, expecting to touch the surface of something. But his hand went through the point of reflection, as if it was dense fog, and it disappeared.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” the voice asked.
Micah didn’t answer and flashed the beam to his right and left. Same result.
“Here’s something you probably didn’t realize or expect,” the voice said. “I can’t see you, either.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It works both ways. As weird as it would be for you to see me, it’d be that weird for me to see you.”
“Then explain how you know things I don’t. If I’m you, I should know them, too.”
“I can see how you’d think that,” the voice said. “But it doesn’t play out that way. The whole point and gift of us being able to talk to each other is we get to vocalize and discuss things we do know deep down but haven’t voiced even to ourselves.”
“So you’re a deeper version of me?”
“I don’t know exactly, possibly, I suppose. But you’re just as deep in different ways. Think of me as the feeling, has time-to-mull-things-over, emotional Micah. A Micah outside the constraints of time.” The voice cleared his throat. “Here’s another way to think of me. I’m more the right brain and you’re more the left. Science tells us the right brain is incapable of putting feelings, thoughts, and intuition into words, but for the here and now, in this situation at least, I can. The right brain—me—talking to the left brain—you.”
For the first time, it made sense, and Micah realized why it was such a gift from God. Micah had allowed the left side of his brain to dominate his life for so long that the right side of his brain—the creative, feeling, intuitive side—had gone into semihibernation. Now, thanks to the power of the house, it had emerged and spoken to him in a way more influential than ever.
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.” Micah sat in the chair in the room for the first time. “I just wish I could take you around with me everywhere.”
“Are you kidding?” The voice laughed. “I am with you all the time. You just need to clean out your ears so you can hear me better. In here I speak in words, out there in impressions and feelings.”
“All right, I have my ears on now; I’m tuned in.”
“We’re locked and loaded,” the voice said.
Micah laughed and stood. “Just let me know if you figure out what this home is all about.”
“Don’t worry; that mystery is at the forefront of my brain as well.”
“Oh, can we talk about Sarah?” Micah said. “About the ‘praying for years’ comment?”
“Oh yes. At some point we will most definitely talk about Sarah. In detail. But not quite yet. Not quite yet.”
||||||||
Micah woke up Wednesday morning with one thought on his mind: Archie day. After grabbing a cup of coffee full of crème brûlée creamer and two slices of multigrain toast smeared with boysenberry jam, he settled down on his deck. He saluted the kite surfer slicing through the waves in front of his house, then pulled out letter number seven and was lost to the world.
May 31, 1991
Dear Micah,
In Psalm 37 David says: “Delight yourself in the LORD; And He will give you the desires of your heart.” King Solomon says: “What the wicked fears will come upon him, but the desire of the righteous will
be granted.” Isaiah says it this way: “And the LORD will continually guide you, and satisfy your desire in scorched places.” In the second century Saint Irenaeus wrote this sentiment: “The glory of God is man fully alive.”
I could go on, but that will suffice. Our heavenly Father is the Creator and Giver of every perfect gift; gifts that could be described as the talents, attributes, and personality traits unique to each of His children. He delights in observing our growth in these talents. Not for the attainment of fame or fortune, as that focus gives opportunity for the dark areas of our souls to be fed, but for sheer pleasure of taking a gift bestowed on us by God and returning it to Him. This He delights in.
What father would not love to see his son or his daughter attain a gold medal in the Olympics? I believe it is the same with our heavenly Father. He desires us to reach glory with His gifts so we can share in it together with Him.
The thief of our souls is vehemently opposed to this. He will distract or convince us that seeking excellence is bringing glory to ourselves or, most insidious of all, lead us to counterfeits, occupations, or activities that seem to fill us with life but in reality only distract from the genuine gifts our heavenly Father has placed within us.
In an effort to be clear, let me address the issue in a more practical manner. Is there anything you used to deeply love but have not undertaken in a significant period of time?
Take it up again. A number of interests probably fit that description, but I suggest you start with the one that came to mind first. It is likely the one that needs releasing in greatest measure.
Yours always,
Archie
Micah threw his head back, looked up at the sky, and laughed. This one he didn’t have to think about; the answer popped into his mind like neon. Get in the car. Head for Seaside or Astoria. Buy a guitar.
Back in junior high and high school, he’d practiced two to three hours a day. He’d been in countless bands, none of which amounted to much, but it never diminished his love for the instrument and his drive to get better. But during college he drifted away from his music, and by the time Julie and he started RimSoft, he’d packed his guitars away for good.
But now he had the time and money to indulge, and the idea certainly fit Archie’s criteria.
He grabbed his keys and looked in the entryway mirror to make sure he didn’t need a quick shave. He stopped cold. A reflection behind him was out of place. He spun on his heel. A new door.
Rick said God was in his home. He believed it, but it didn’t mean he was excited about checking out the new room.
He walked toward the door on his toes, drawing short sips of air as if a deep breath would alert whatever was in the room to his presence. Micah’s temples throbbed; adrenaline surged through his body as he turned the knob and pushed open the door.
His heart leaped. Twelve acoustic guitars lined the back wall: Martins, Taylors, and Ovations. Among the nine electrics along the side wall were a 1959 Les Paul Sunburst and a 1969 Stratocaster. Along the back wall was enough recording equipment to produce any sound a heart could desire.
Micah wandered over to a Martin D12-20 twelve string, picked it up, threw the strap around his neck, and let the guitar settle down on him. He looped his left hand around the neck and soaked in that old familiar squeak of fingers sliding on strings. As he strummed the first chord, he closed his eyes and let that deep, rich Martin sound resonate through the air.
After playing his version of the Beatle’s “Blackbird,” he set the Martin aside, picked up the Les Paul, plugged into an amp, and cranked the volume.
The riding-a-bike principle applied. It had been at least four years since he’d picked up any guitar, let alone his own, but this felt like it were yesterday. The Crate amp pumped out a warm stream of sound with just a hint of distortion, and it was high school rock ’n’ roll all over again. He lost himself in it, closed his eyes as the music washed over him, and remembered all those licks he’d learned through endless repetition. When he finally stopped, his eyes lasered in on the recording equipment. Why not?
He roamed around the mixing board and played with the digital editing software, trying everything. Amazing. The learning curve was phenomenal. Not how hard it was but how easy. It was instinctual, as if the room itself guided him along on two separate waves of intellect and inspiration.
By seven o’clock he’d made a CD of four instrumental pieces, with bass, drums, and a piano section to accompany his guitars. He took the CD with him to the kitchen and listened to it as he mashed up avocados for guacamole.
Was he hearing the music for the first time? His head knew he wasn’t, but his emotions didn’t. The soaring guitar solos ripped open his heart, and he wept. He fell back and caught himself on the kitchen counter. A thought filled his mind.
Songs from the deepest part of you: your heart. So many good things are trapped there. So much of My glory. Your good heart cries for that glory. Remember, Micah. Remember who you are.
He went for a long walk on the beach that night. The talk with God was even longer.
||||||||
The next morning he stopped for gas, and Rick stepped up to the pump.
“Wow, out among your adoring public this morning, huh?” Micah said.
“Yeah, gotta press the flesh every now and then. And give the paparazzi their weekly chance for a photo op.” Rick winked. “Still got the Washington State plates, I see.”
“I’m not down here permanently. Plus I’ve only been around for three months.”
“Really? Seems like more, ya know?”
“Actually I’d have no way of knowing that since I’m not you,” Micah replied, with what he hoped was a crooked smile on his face.
Rick pulled back his grease-smeared Rams cap and squinted at him through the morning sun darts. “But you’ve been here long enough for me to know I wouldn’t get an acerbic comment like that from you unless something, or someone, poured oil all over your Wheaties this morning.”
“I need to talk.”
“In my office?”
“My midsection says the Fireside.” Micah patted his stomach.
“Mine agrees. Meet you there in twenty.”
Micah walked toward Morris’s Fireside and debated how much to tell Rick. He still wasn’t ready to talk about the voice.
||||||||
“How do you stay so clean working on cars all day?” Micah said as Rick slid into the seat across the table.
“I’m an angel. We stay clean automatically.”
They both laughed.
“So talk to me. What’s going on?” Rick said.
“I think I’m losing it. Hold it. Make that past tense. I’ve lost it.”
“The insanity hasn’t reached your face quite yet.”
“Good sign, huh?”
Rick stared at Micah, his arms resting on the table, head tilted slightly to the side. Micah decided to start with a shocking statement.
“I think my house is alive. And getting bigger.”
Rick didn’t give him a strange look or pretend he didn’t hear right. “Tell me about it.”
After the waitress took their order, Micah told him about the new room—the music room—and reminded Rick about the memory room and the shrine room.
“Why do you say the house is growing?”
“The shrine room might have been there before I saw it, but the memory room and the music rooms definitely weren’t.”
Rick’s eyes widened. “Weren’t there?”
“Exactly.”
Rick glanced around the restaurant and leaned forward. “You’re saying the rooms weren’t there one day and the next day they were?”
“I went through the whole house the first time I came. They were not there. They are now. I wouldn’t have missed them.”
�
�Whew. You’ve got my attention.”
“And get this. The music room isn’t the only new room. Now there’s a painting studio in the house. It wasn’t there the first walk-through, either. On top of that, every time I come back from Seattle, there’s more done to this painting.”
“You’re saying—”
“Someone has to come and work on the thing when I’m gone, or the thing paints itself. I’m not that easily intimidated, but that is more than strange. I don’t care if you say God is in it, I lock my bedroom door at night.” Micah paused. “As if it would do me any good.”
Rick looked more intrigued than surprised. “So why don’t you just throw away the key and have the thing boarded up? Or sell it?”
Micah’s eyes snapped up from his coffee. “No way.” He surprised himself with how forceful he answered.
“Why not?”
He stared at Rick. He didn’t know why. Why was he subjecting himself to a modern version of The Twilight Zone? He didn’t have to stay here. He could walk away right now and never come back. Or sell it like he’d been saying all along and buy another home somewhere farther down the coast wherever he wanted. Or give it to Rick.
Also, the longer he flirted with the spiritual hinterlands in Cannon Beach, the more it seemed to seep into his life in Seattle. Not in a good way. He could make it all stop—the strange lapses in Seattle; dealing with the past; and the intense scrutiny of his spiritual life from God, or Archie, or whatever force was behind the whole thing.
But as strange as the past three months had been, it stirred something inside he wasn’t ready to give up.
“Because I’m on the edge.” Micah leaned in on his elbows pushing his silverware to the side. “More alive than I’ve felt in years.”
Rick’s right ear raised, and he gave the slightest of nods.
“It’s like being in the deepest parts of my own soul in those rooms,” Micah continued. “Buried in ripping pain or drenched in joy and freedom. The pain is hell, but the joy is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Stuff that happens only in dreams. I’m getting close to God again, and it seems so real. . . . But I don’t know if it is real or if I’m going insane. Seriously, I think I might be slipping off the—”
Jim Rubart Trilogy Page 12
