by C. K. Brooke
My heart throbs as I swerve to the left to avoid an enormous pothole. I’m too late to correct my veer when I hit the bridge.
At an uncontrollable speed, I crash through the side rail. The deafening bash of metal against metal as the car ploughs through is the last thing I hear before I jolt awake, breathless.
My chest heaves. I rest a hand on it to steady my quaking heart, and notice my neck and throat are moist. My eyes dart around the bedroom, regaining my bearings. It was only a dream, the same stupid dream that’s recurred time and again, since I was old enough to describe it.
Exhaling, I lean over and check the time. It’s just past eight in the evening. I’d only meant to lie down for a listen of Mason’s recording, but must’ve fallen asleep. His recording has a tendency to do that to me. The earbuds dangle lifelessly from the headphone jack, having apparently loosened from my ears in all my tossing and turning.
The house is quiet, and I wonder where everyone is. Henry’s most likely at night school or studying. I remember something about Mom and Greg having plans tonight. Looks like I’ve got the place to myself.
I go to the bathroom and splash water over my face. When I glance into the mirror, I seem gaunt. My face is pale, and the contrast against my raven curls makes me look like a goth chick. For a moment, my eyes look aged, forlorn.
I blink, and my reflection is normal again.
Once I return to my room, I fire up the laptop, determined. The conversation I had with Persephone at Cuppa Joe’s is ringing in my ears, now that I’m awake. The dream is the same, every time I have it. It’s always summertime, always the fields, the barn, the dirt road, the reservoir, the road signs, the bridge… Could it be because it’s not just a nightmare, but a memory?
Another time, another place…another me?
The search engine appears on my screen. I type: past-life memory dreams and hit enter. Several woo-woo sites with words like ‘shaman’ and ‘psychic’ in the URLs appear at the top. I scroll down, ignoring a list of sponsored results at the bottom, and do something I’ve rarely done in a Google search. I click to the second page.
The third result on page two is from a website called Transcending Faith. It links to an article about reincarnation, and the excerpt reads: “…sometimes we can spontaneously recall a past-life memory through dreams…”
I click the link. It takes me to a plain website with an extensive article about reincarnation and the common beliefs surrounding it. I scroll down, reading some sections, skimming over others, until I find another link at the bottom.
READ REINCARNATION STORIES.
My finger hovers on the trackpad. I decidedly tap it. A new page opens and as it loads, the scrollbar on the side of the window shrinks to a tiny square. It must be crazy-long.
I read the top entry, dated just last week. A user named James P. Nordmann posted:
Two years ago, I took a business trip to Italy. When I arrived, I felt a strange knowingness, like I’d been there before. I could navigate Napoli without help. The concierge at my hotel was impressed that I never asked for a map or directions. One night, over dinner with colleagues, I ordered my meal and a co-worker said, “Jim, I didn’t know you spoke Italian.” I told him I don’t, I was just reading off the menu. But even the staff said I spoke like a native.
I felt at home in Napoli and have every intention of going back. My uncanny familiarity with the area and how easily the language came to me makes me wonder if there’s more beyond the beliefs of my Protestant upbringing. Perhaps I may have lived in Italy in another lifetime.
I scroll down. There’s a dividing line and another entry, this one by “Sandra F.” Sandra included her location (Colorado Springs), and posted around two months ago:
I believe my niece is an old soul. From a young age, she seemed to know things beyond her years. She’s fourteen now, but I’ll never forget one day when she was three. We were pushing her baby dolls in a stroller when she said, “I used to push you in a stroller like this when you were a baby.”
I thought she’d gotten her pronouns confused, as children often do, so I said, “Oh, you mean Aunt Sandra used to push you as a baby?” She firmly insisted, “No. I used to push baby Sandy.”
Needless to say, I found this disconcerting. I phoned my mother that night and asked her if anybody had ever called me Sandy. She said, “Your grandmother did.” My grandmother died when I was two, and I have no memories of her. But since that day, I’ve wondered if perhaps she has come back as my niece.
The evening wears on and the hours tick by, but I hardly notice the passing of time as I pore over every testimony submitted to the Transcending Faith website. There are hundreds of stories from people all over the globe, men and women, teens and adults. I read every kind of story imaginable, from spontaneous recollections of past deaths, strange coincidences, and children’s memories, to birthmarks and phobias explained, and recurring dreams like mine.
By the time I’ve made it all the way to the bottom of the page, I look at the clock in the corner of my computer screen. 12:33 A.M.
Leaning back in the chair, I rub my eyes. Normally, now would be the time I’d head into the kitchen for a snack, but I can’t eat. I’m intrigued and nervous and fascinated as I scroll all the way back up to the top menu to find out who runs it.
I click the “About” tab and read a general mission statement about why the site was created. At the bottom is a link. Contact Webmaster.
An email composition box appears when I follow the link. I don’t really think about what I’m writing as I type out a quick email to the webmaster, whoever they are, asking for more information about recalling past lives. I hit send and then stare at my inbox for a few minutes, wondering if I should look up anything else or just go back to sleep.
I’m not expecting a new message to appear in my inbox within minutes. Curious, I click on the subject line and read the response from [email protected]:
Thanks for writing. I’d be happy to give you more information. If you’d like, email me a list of questions and I’ll do my best to answer. Or if it’s easier, we can web-chat.
Regards,
Travis Herd, Webmaster
My first inclination is to write out the list of questions. I don’t think I’ve ever done a web chat with a stranger, not even for anything work-related. Yet, something about the idea of talking to someone face to face (virtually, at least) appeals for once. This is a loaded topic, and I’m feeling all kinds of scared. It’s like I’m on the brink of something and I’m eager, but also afraid of what I might find. I don’t want to do it alone, and I’m sick of typing in a room by myself. I need a human face, a voice to guide me through this.
I hit reply to Travis’s message and compose a response. Time to make sure the old built-in cam still works.
#
“Can you hear me?”
“I hear you, but don’t see you.”
I frown and double-click the screen. My face suddenly appears way closer than necessary. I back up, tucking rivulets of hair away from my forehead, just as the person who pops up on the split-screen exclaims, “There you are.”
He looks maybe sixty, with gray hair and a tan, heavily-lined but friendly face. He has a mustache, and I can see the tendrils of a tattoo snaking up the side of his neck beneath the collar of his T-shirt. I’m immediately comfortable. Travis Herd looks like any of the aging hippies my mom has hung around for years.
Although I’m reluctant to spend too much time on me—I want to know what he can tell me—I find myself explaining the chronic nightmares and the way I feel in cars. I recount the dream last night, and how my internet search led to his site. As I speak, he watches me through the screen, occasionally nodding.
I conclude with, “So, I guess the first thing I want to ask is about all those people who posted on your site. I’ve read their stories, every single one. How do they know what they experienced were genuine past-life memories and not just their imaginations, or wishful thinking,
or even a TV show they saw but forgot—?”
He clears his throat. I shut my mouth, realizing I’ve been monologuing for nearly ten minutes now. I really do want to hear what he has to say.
“No one can know for sure. This isn’t hard science; I’m sure you’re aware.” His expression is thoughtful. “Often, people write in because they’ve found they know something, or feel familiar with something they never could have known or felt in this lifetime. Maybe it’s another location, another era. Maybe it’s a family secret, or even another language.”
I recall the stories I’d read last night. There were so many like he described. All gave me goosebumps.
“But the most determining factor,” says Travis, “is how strongly you feel the emotions. Another thing to keep in mind is whether the memories are repetitive and don’t change over time. Children, for example, like to make believe. They’ll invent a new story every day. But if they insist something happened, and the details stay the same over time, then you’ve got something worth considering.”
“I see.”
“From what you’ve told me, it sounds like some pretty heavy past-life baggage you’re carrying around. Have you considered a regression?”
In my side-screen, my webcam-self looks puzzled. “What’s that?”
“Through hypnosis, you can be regressed back to a previous lifetime. Some people find it helps uncover their unfinished business. Just be sure to find a trustworthy hypnotherapist. I can refer you to someone in your area, if you’d like.”
“That’s okay.” A smile creeps up my lips. “I know a guy.”
5
“It’s Saturday.” Mom’s voice rings across the kitchen as I empty a final handful of chips into my mouth before fastening the bag closed with a rubber band. I glance at her, my mouth full. She wears sage green robes with sheer sleeves and an emerald cape she must’ve ordered through one of those weird new age catalogs, because no big box retailer in its right mind would carry that.
“I’m on my way to circle.” She grabs her purse off the countertop. “Wanna come?”
Ah, circle, a.k.a. coffee cake hour with a gaggle of middle-aged women dressed up for Ren Fest. Then again, it’s held at Miracle’s store, which is always full of great metaphysical books. I may be able to find something on reincarnation and past-life regression, like Travis Herd had suggested.
I look down at my hands, dusted with sour cream and onion, and wipe them on my jeans. “Sure,” I decide.
Mom pauses. She seems surprised, but withholds a comment. “Grab your jacket, then. It’s chilly.”
It’s sort of sad that I’m not doing anything else on a Saturday night. Even sadder than Henry, who’s sequestered in his bedroom with nothing but his books and a bag of beef jerky to keep him company, because at least he’s studying for Monday’s bio-chem test.
I slip into my flats and zip up my jacket, then follow Mom out the door. Ash and Oak is about twenty minutes away down city roads, but there’s never any traffic around here. It’s BFE, Ohio, after all.
Relief is an understatement when we arrive. I’m grateful for the ground beneath my feet when I hop out of the Yukon. Little parking signs line the side of the brick and cinderblock storefront with phrases like Witch Parking Only - All Others Will Be Toad, and pretty much every car parked here has bumper stickers of rainbow pentacles or sayings like Goddess Afoot! and The Earth Is Our Mother.
I smile as we walk by Persephone’s car. In the back window, she displays a bumper sticker claiming, Denial Is Not A River.
A handwritten sign hangs on the shop door, announcing that the store is closed for business, but all are welcome to the gathering downstairs. Mom walks behind me, carrying a bottle of sparkling champagne. I hold the door open for her.
As we enter, the aromas of incense and beeswax candles flood my nostrils and make me feel safe. The lighting is dim, and faint reiki music plays in the back room. A few women are gathered by the stairs, chatting. It’s too dark to make out their faces, but I recognize the sound of Amethyst’s deep voice and the smell of her Misty Lite cigarettes.
Mom heads over to greet them while I linger behind, taking in the tiny straw baskets of gemstones everywhere, dreamcatchers hanging on the wall, an outdated CD rack, and the locked glass case displaying crystal wands, goddess pendants, and other spiritual jewelry. It’s been forever since I’ve been in here. The layout has barely changed, but the new products are pretty neat.
“I’m going downstairs,” Mom calls to me. “Circle starts in ten minutes if you want to join us.”
“Sure, Mom. I’m just going to look at some books for a sec.” I head toward the back of the shop as the others descend the half-flight of carpeted stairs into a brightly-lit room where livelier guitar music is playing, probably some feminist pagan band like Spiral Dance or Inkubus Sukkubus.
The book section toward the back of the store is quieter. Cases of books and wisdom cards line the walls, divided into topics alphabetically: Astral Projection, Crystals, Druidism… I scan the handmade signs until I find a section on Reincarnation, where a few books by Raymond Moody and Brian Weiss are clumped together. I lift out a small handbook on regressions and page through its contents. I’m skimming over the introduction to gauge whether I like the writing style when a male voice breaches my solitude.
“Willow?”
I lower the book. My pulse jerks at the pair of blue eyes smiling across the room at me. “Hey, Mason!” Oh, my Goddess, I look like a complete slob. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
Honestly, I didn’t. Had I known, I definitely wouldn’t be wearing my dad’s twelve-year-old H.I.M. band shirt and jeans covered in sour-cream-and-onion powder.
Did I bother to put on any eyeliner tonight? Nope. Not even Chapstick on my lips. Why would I have bothered, when I thought it was just going to be my mother’s old friends? I could just let the floor swallow me whole.
“Yeah, likewise.” Dude, it’s ridiculously adorable how he must not have shaved for the past few days, and he rubs a hand over his bristling cheeks now, around his goatee, looking almost as self-conscious as I feel.
He’s not self-conscious because of me, is he?
“Do you come to circle often?” I ask as something soft presses against my ankle. I reach down to pet one of Miracle’s many cats. They’re always slinking around the store, hoping for belly rubs and handouts.
“Sometimes. What about you?”
“Like, never these days.” I straighten back up, the book still in my hand.
Mason bobs his chin at it. “Reading anything good?”
“Oh, um—”
But he’s already approaching and reading the title of the book aloud. “The Clueless Beginner’s Guide to Past-Life Regression.” I give him the book and he flips through the pages. “Ha. Is this something you’re interested in?”
“Depends. Do you do these?”
“I’ve never done one before, but I’d know how.” He hands the book back to me, and I have to hold back a shiver of pleasure at the brush of his hand, masculine with a sexy trail of hair up his wrists, disappearing into the sleeves of his leather jacket.
Okay, not cute. The guy is hot.
I slide the handbook back onto the shelf, careful return it to the spot where I found it. “So, can I be your first?” The second the words are out, I could die. Seriously, Willow?
Mason crosses his arms, leaning against the bookshelf. When I dare to look at him, he’s smirking. “Yeah, we should do it,” he says.
“Circle ees starteeng, guys,” Miracle’s voice interrupts us. We turn to see the curvy Hispanic woman dressed to the nines in a goddess gown, glamorous gold armbands sparkling up her arms and making her colorful tattoos seem to dance across her tan skin.
“Wee-low,” she greets me with a smile. “Good to see you. Register is closed, but if you wanna buy something, you pay me cash, ’kay?”
“Thanks, Miracle.”
We’re left with the sound of her high heels rec
eding down to the lower level.
“Well.” Mason’s body straightens, but his smile remains crooked. “Shall we?”
Downstairs, it’s warmer, probably because of the carpeting. The pagan rock music has been replaced with simple ritual drumming, and the soft thuds fill my ears as we enter the rec room. The sofas have been pushed to the side walls, where unframed Gaia posters and Tree of Life tapestries surround us. On the north end of the room is a long table decorated in artificial autumn leaves and a wreath from the craft store. A stone with a pentacle painted on it sits at the top; a crystal wand and burning stick of incense to the right; a lit candle and cauldron, also burning an incense cone, at the bottom; with a seashell beside a chalice of water to the left. These represent the four elements of earth, air, fire and water.
Above the pentacle are two skinny candles in faux brass holders, silver for the Lady and gold for the Lord. Wicca is a path of balance. We don’t have just one male deity, but a male and a female, as both comprise nature. Together, they are Spirit. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.
On the far end of the altar is Mom’s sparkling champagne amidst a few brown Kroger bags and Tupperware containers of homemade snacks—all presumably organic and nut/dairy/gluten-free. Because hippies, that’s why.
Persephone and one of the other coven sisters make space for Mason and me to join the circle they’ve formed. We all join hands, Mason taking hold of my right one. My heart canters, and I know it has little to do with the “cone of power” the women are supposedly raising with their chanting. My hand is in Mason’s, and I’m pretty sure I never washed it after stuffing potato chips into my mouth like a glutton back at home. I’ll be mortified if he wonders why his hand feels greasy afterward.
