The Past-Life Chronicles Box Set: Volume 1 & 2: Duet Omnibus Edition

by C. K. Brooke

  He smiles at me. “Willow?”

  Not breaking eye contact, I slowly return to my feet.

  “Mason.” He offers a hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you. Your name’s come up so often over the years.”

  I shake his hand, tongue-tied. For a hippie-Jesus type, Mason is…cute.

  (And yeah, some witches are cool with Jesus. You’d be surprised.)

  “I’m Henry.” My stepbrother butts in the second Mason releases my hand.

  “You’re with Willow?” Mason asks him.

  “He’s not with me,” I blurt. “I mean…he came with me, but we’re not together.” Crap, what am I saying? “I mean—”

  “I’m here for moral support,” offers Henry.

  “Cool.” Mason’s blue eyes have a warmth to them as he nods toward the loveseats. “Well, make yourself comfortable, Henry. We should be done in about an hour.”

  Henry still won’t sit. “If Willow needs me, can she wake up and come get me? Or is she going to be completely out of it until the session’s over?”

  “Willow won’t be ‘completely out of it.’” Mason turns to me again. “You’ll be in total control, able to react if there’s an emergency or any discomfort whatsoever. Okay?”

  I fidget with the strap of my crossover bag, and in spite of myself, ask, “So this isn’t mind-control?”

  He laughs like we’re a couple of teenagers watching a cheesy horror flick. For a split-second, I wonder if we have hung out before. He seems familiar somehow. But the feeling fades as quickly as it occurred, and I know we’ve never met. It’s probably just because he reminds me so much of his mother.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to make you cluck like a chicken.” He beckons me through his office door. “Come in. We’ll talk some more about the process before getting started.”

  Mason Rychards’s office is slightly smaller than the waiting area. The studio lights have a dimmable switch, and currently they’re up to full brightness. There’s a large, red leather reclining chair in a corner, with a desk against the wall across from it. The surface of the desk is fully occupied by manila folders, loose papers, a mess of pens, and two computer monitors. Lying across the keyboard is a pair of wireless studio headphones and a Bluetooth mic. The walls are bare, and a few cardboard boxes are stacked in a corner.

  “Still settling in,” he explains, pulling out a swivel chair by the desk. “The recliner’s for you.”

  I slip off my jacket and crossover bag, and Mason sets them carefully atop the cardboard boxes. With some uncertainty, I ease myself onto the reclining chair. It’s the electric kind, with buttons to make it lean back and bring up the footrest.

  Mason lowers into his desk chair backwards, resting his hands over the back of the chair. I notice he wears a pair of fraying white tennis shoes. I think I was expecting sandals to complete the Jesus picture. But tennis shoes are good. I especially like that they’re generic. I’ve never understood the pretension of people who need brand-name clothing.

  “Let’s start with why you’re here.”

  “I have anxiety,” I tell him, “in cars.”

  “Driving or riding in them?”

  “Both. Since I was little, I’ve had these nightmares about trying to drive a car that I suddenly can’t control. Every time I sit in one, I feel trapped and like I need to get out.”

  He half-turns in the chair and starts jotting down notes on one of the many scattered pages on his desk. “When’s the last time you’ve driven?”

  “Literally never.”

  “Were you or a loved one ever in an accident that may have caused—?”

  I shake my head, interrupting him. “Everyone asks that, but no, my family and I have never been in an accident.” Knock on wood. “We don’t know where the anxiety comes from. I’ve talked to shrinks about it and all they did was prescribe meds, but they didn’t help. All I can think of as an origin are the nightmares. But they’re just dreams. They shouldn’t affect me so much in my daily life, you know? It’s like it runs deeper than that.”

  Mason scribbles down more notes. “Is the anxiety present while you’re in other moving vehicles, like boats or planes?”

  “I’ve never been on a plane or a boat before…unless paddle boats count?”

  He smiles. “Sure.”

  “Then no.” I think back fondly on a trip to Lake Erie with Mom. “I’m not afraid of paddle boats.”

  “All right.” Mason sets down his pen. When he looks at me, it’s like I’m the object of his complete focus. His eyes are a deep gray-blue, like a lake on an overcast day. “Let me explain a bit about what we’ll be doing. The goal of hypnosis, Willow, is not to control you, but to put you back in control—over your own habits, mind, and body.

  “There are five primary types of brainwaves your neurons pass across your cortex.” Mason holds up a hand and begins to count off his fingers. “Delta waves are super-low frequency, like when we sleep or go into deep meditation, totally unaware of our surroundings. Theta waves are a step up, still achieved in sleeping or meditation, but with some internal awareness, or semi-consciousness, where fleeting thoughts, memories, even fears that have been repressed or stored away in the subconscious can float to surface.”

  I listen, rapt. I love it when guys talk nerdy to me.

  “Then there are alpha, beta, and gamma waves.” He ticks off his last three fingers. “All three occur while the mind’s fully awake, whether we’re simply practicing awareness, or processing and reacting to the world around us.”

  I nod to show I’m following.

  “When we practice basic awareness—like focused breathing, for instance—we’re consciously bringing the mind into alpha mode. That’s as deep as some people can go in hypnosis, and that’s fine. But once we slip one tier down, into theta mode, we’re relaxed enough to suspend the critical mind. We aren’t sleeping or unconscious, but we’re no longer hyperaware, either. Ideally, that’s where I’d like to bring you. But it’ll even work if you fall asleep, in delta mode.

  “The process is a little different for everyone. But, either way, the goal of your reprogramming today is for me to suggest new emotions and perceptions related to being in a car, which your subconscious mind will absorb, and then hopefully influence you in a positive way next time you find yourself in that situation.”

  “So it’s witchcraft,” I conclude.

  Mason looks up from the headphones he’s adjusting.

  “You know. Just manipulating the vibrations and energies within us to manifest a better reality.” I smile. “Everyday stuff. At least in our households.”

  “Well, we were raised by witches. And that’s not something I can say to most people.” He returns my grin. “You’re right. It’s a lot like magick. Mind over matter.”

  “I get it, then.” I settle into my chair, feeling considerably more relaxed.

  Mason taps a few keys on his keyboard and the monitors spring to life. “What I want you to do now is get into the most comfortable position possible. Loosen any tight clothes, scratch any itches—you know the drill.”

  I do know the drill. I’m no stranger to guided meditation; my mom has about a hundred of them on her phone, and sometimes I do them with her. I press a button to recline the back of the chair as Mason gets up and dims the lights. When he isn’t looking, I adjust my bra strap.

  He resumes his chair. “Take your time. I’ll be taping our session for you to re-listen to later. Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll hit record.”

  After I raise the footrest a little higher in the darkened room, I announce, “Ready.”

  “Good.” Mason taps a button on his computer. “All right, Willow. Your only job is to breathe evenly, and listen…to the sound…of my voice.”

  2

  There’s a soft orange glow outside of my eyelids, growing faintly brighter. I’m floating in a black pool of nothingness. I’m completely content, yet gradually becoming more aware.

  The orange is brightening.
And now I realize—there’s silence.

  Funny, a little voice in my head murmurs. I never noticed any silence before. Yet, neither had I noticed any non-silence. A second ago, there wasn’t anything at all. And now, there’s something. Thoughts, and light…

  I open my eyes.

  Mason sits patiently in his chair in front of the glowing computer monitors. A screen saver bounces across both screens. As I stretch out my arms, his grin expands. “Welcome back.”

  “Did…” I clear my throat. “Did we have the session?”

  “Yep.”

  “Whoa.” I blink as he raises the dimmable switch a hair higher, gradually brightening the office. “I don’t remember anything.” I rub my eyes. “I thought you said I wasn’t going to be out of it.”

  “You weren’t unconscious.” He swivels a little in the chair. “You were answering all of my questions just fine.”

  I’m genuinely shocked. “I was talking to you?”

  “Your subconscious was.” He straightens a few papers, but it hardly makes a dent in the mess on his desk. “Who is Ray, by the way?”

  I’m confounded. “Who?”

  “A few minutes ago, you answered that you were ready to come back. You said ‘Ray’ was waiting for you.”

  “I have no idea,” I answer honestly. Was he making this up? “I must have been delirious.” I press the buttons to lower the footrest and straighten the back of the recliner. The sudden electric noise is jarring.

  “Take your time,” Mason assures me. “Don’t rush up and out of here. If you need a few minutes to recoup, that’s fine.”

  “Thanks.” I’m feeling a little soft, like my muscles are gelatin. And now I’m beginning to wonder what to expect. When I go down to the parking lot in a few minutes, will I get into the truck to find my fears miraculously eradicated? Will I just not care anymore, like in Office Space?

  As if Mason has read my mind, he says, “Today you might not feel any different. That’s because our work isn’t finished—it’s only just beginning.”

  I feel my forehead scrunch up. Does that mean I have to come in again? I don’t know if I can afford more sessions. I didn’t even ask how much today would cost.

  “I’m going to email you the recording of our session. You’ll get it this evening. There’s a rule of thumb that it takes twenty-one days to make a habit. So I want you to listen every night at bedtime, or at any other opportunity possible, for the next twenty-one days. Think you can do that?”

  “Think so.”

  “No skipping days.” He gets to his feet. “If you miss a day, you have to start at day one all over again.”

  “Strict.” I slide off the comfy recliner as he hands me my jacket and handbag.

  “Normally, I advise clients not to listen while driving. But I guess I don’t have to worry about that with you…yet.” He grins.

  Yet? He is optimistic. Since I’ve come to, I’ve been thinking that, at best, my experience in cars might become a little more subdued as a result of this process. Maybe someday, I’ll even handle a road trip—as a passenger. But getting behind the wheel? That would literally be manifesting my worst nightmare. I still can’t picture myself driving.

  I’m beginning to wonder if maybe this won’t work. All the same, commerce is commerce, and I open my wallet. “You take Visa?”

  He waves me down. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What?” My head shoots up.

  “No charge.”

  I blink to clear my eyes, as they’re still a little blurry. “I’ve been here almost an hour. I can’t not pay you for your time.”

  “Our moms are coven sisters. We’re practically family.” He opens his office door and I follow him out, storing my wallet back into my handbag in awe.

  “That’s really generous of you.” I don’t know what else to say. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “How’d it go?” Henry practically leaps from his chair in the waiting room once we emerge.

  Although I have no idea how it went because I remember none of it, for the sake of placating him, I reply, “Great.”

  “Look out for my email,” Mason reminds me. “And if you ever want to come by for another session, drop in anytime. I’m not exactly booked up yet.”

  I can’t keep from smiling as we shake hands. His eyes twinkle even more in the full light of the waiting area. I know I’ve got to do something in exchange for his kindness; I just can’t think of what.

  “Ready to go?” Henry bumps me with his elbow.

  We say goodbye to Mason and leave out the waiting room door. As we head down the indoor stairwell, Henry says, “I’m starving. Want to have lunch at the deli? My treat.”

  Man. I want to ask him if that’s the only reason he agreed to drive me today, so that he could fenagle me into going out to lunch with him after. But he did sit in that waiting room for nearly an hour, and hasn’t complained once. I’d feel guilty saying no. Just this once, I agree.

  As we eat turkey sandwiches at a sticky bistro table downstairs, the only customers at the deli below Mason’s office, my stepbrother doesn’t pry. He asks nothing about my session, and for that, I’m appreciative. Instead, we discuss X-Men and debate whether Wolverine could ever really defeat Magneto, since his skeleton is made of adamantium.

  After lunch, we climb into his truck, and I almost don’t realize that my hand doesn’t shake as I buckle my seatbelt. I still feel the usual tension in my belly as Henry starts the ignition, but at least I’m not consumed by the urge to grip the center console, and my knee isn’t jiggling up and down like a jackhammer.

  It isn’t until Mom gets home from work that evening, and I’m helping prepare her favorite vegetarian dinner, when an idea occurs. I finish rolling the last of the veggie ‘meatballs’ into the dry herb mix and arrange them in the hot frying pan. One by one, they hiss as they land in a bed of sizzling olive oil.

  “I had my appointment with Mason today,” I inform her.

  “Oh?” She grinds some sea salt into the pot of boiling edamame noodles. “How was it?”

  “He didn’t charge me. So, I’m thinking,” I press down on the meatless balls a little with the spatula, “maybe we should invite him and Persephone over for dinner one night? You know, as a way to say thanks.”

  “That’s nice. You can make your famous lasagna.”

  “Hey, why do I have to do all the cooking around here?” I tease.

  She shrugs. “Let him see what you can do. Give him a sample of what he could be having on a regular basis.”

  “Whoa.” I pause, spatula midair. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mom only smiles in her sneaky way and grates oregano over the veggie balls.

  My face is only hot because I’m standing over a burning stove. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  After dinner, I finish up some work on my laptop and get ready for bed. Ever since the treatment this morning, I feel tired, as if my body and brain want to go back to whatever state they had achieved during hypnosis.

  My phone buzzes on my desk. I pick it up and hit the home button to see a red balloon over the email app. The sender is Mason@mrhypnosis.net. I tap open the message and read:

  Hey Willow,

  Attached is the audio of today’s session. You should be able to listen from your phone or device. Let me know if you need any help.

  Remember, 21 days.

  Mason

  I can almost hear the calm cadence of his voice as I read his email. I slide in my earbuds and tap the audio file to play it. A slow, meditative background track eases in. He must’ve edited it in, because I don’t recall there being any music during our appointment.

  Lying back on my pillows, I close my eyes as his voice, deeper and enhanced by the digital microphone, fills my ears in stereo. “All right, Willow. Your only job is to breathe evenly, and listen…to the sound…of my voice.”

  #

  At sunrise, I wake naturally. That never happens.
Gentle pink sunlight trickles in through the gap in my bedroom drapes. The whole house is silent.

  The earbuds are still in my ears, and the phone beside my pillow is dead. I slip the buds out, sitting up. I don’t remember what happened after I turned on Mason’s recording last night, but I know I’ve just had the best sleep of my life. I feel unbelievably refreshed.

  Breathing in, I look down at my hands. They don’t shake, despite what I think I’m about to do. Since the instant I woke up, I’ve had a crazy urge.

  Still in my clothes from yesterday, I get out of bed and quickly use the bathroom. After washing my hands, I creep up the hall and down the few steps of our split-level to the front door. I find the keys to Mom’s Yukon on the wall hook, and slip outside.

  The late September dawn is chilly. Eager for relief from the cold, I unlock the doors with the key fob. For the first time in my life, I hop into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut.

  There’s an utter aloneness I feel, sitting there in the car, the slam of the door resonating in my ears. But it’s not an anxious aloneness. Rather, a mellow one. It’s just me and the car. It’s there to respond to me.

  For once, I’m seeing the cab of a car not as a place where I have no control…but as a place where I can have all the control. I run my fingers along the dials and buttons on the radio, the gearstick, and finally, the wheel.

  Breathe, I hear Mason’s voice in my head, drawing out the word in a full exhalation.

  Slowly, I inhale. Then, I jam the key into the ignition and turn it. I don’t jolt when the engine sputters. I don’t even pause to wonder if this is a good idea. I’m in the moment. There is no past or future to worry about.

  I tap one of the pedals. Nothing happens.