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

by C. K. Brooke

  “Oh, yeah? Do you like deep house?”

  “If I want to fall asleep.”

  I make a humph noise, and he laughs again. “No, I mean, seriously. I love listening to deep house to relax.”

  “Nice save,” I tease him.

  He side-glances at me playfully.

  My smile fades. “Mason?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know you said not to dwell on today’s session, but…” The stoplight turns green through the windshield, and he coasts underneath it. “Can we talk?”

  “Of course. I’ve been curious; I just didn’t want to rush you.”

  “Thanks. So…do you think what I saw really could’ve happened somewhere, to someone?”

  To me?

  He switches on his blinker and turns before answering. “It’s hard to say. We may never find that kind of proof. The only factor that determines anything is whether or not what you saw today brings you peace.”

  “It brings me anything but peace,” I admit.

  “I’m sorry.” He looks it.

  “Don’t be. It just raises more questions. Questions Google can’t answer.” Because of course, earlier, after the session, I’d searched for ‘car crash into reservoir’ online. The only stories it turned up happened overseas, places like Cornwall, within the last year. Too recent.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I continue. “It would make perfect sense that I’m afraid to drive in this life because I died the last time I tried it. What’s bothering me is this… feeling.” I had no other word for it.

  “Describe it.”

  I shut my eyes, summoning the dull ache of emotions I’ve been repressing for so long. “Huge loss. Sadness. And like there’s something I still need to fear, people I still need to keep at an arm’s length.”

  “Sounds like you have some healing to do.”

  I’ve thought the same. After all, what have my years of therapy, banishing rituals, essential oils, and amulet-wearing been for? I’ve been trying to heal something, but that’s hard to do if you don’t know exactly what you’re healing, or why.

  “It’s like the only way I can get over this is to find out more and just have…closure.” Closure, like how those people who’d posted on TranscendingFaith.net seemed to have found their evidence, their acceptance of it all. I understand it isn’t the type of situation where we can all find concrete facts. But the personal stories I’d read seemed to indicate that those people’s experiences had been enough for them.

  “Something big must’ve been left unresolved in your past for you to feel this restless,” he remarks, “and still hurting from it all these years later.”

  Unresolved. I snap a finger. “That’s it.” He was dead-on—an unsolved mystery. One to which I’m still seeking answers, a lifetime later.

  We discuss the dreams and my visions as he merges onto the highway. The heightened speed makes me clamp my mouth shut. Mason is quick to sense my discomfort, and tells me to breathe, for a second reminding me of Mom. He shifts into the right lane and slows a little.

  As I watch the shadows of passing headlights slide across his profile, it occurs to me just how rare this is, to be talking to someone who knows exactly where I’m coming from, who gets me on more than one level. And not just someone, but a guy… who looks like a rebel Jesus in a black leather jacket, playing goth rock for me in his car, which he’s driving ten below the speed limit in the truck lane on account of me.

  As we pull off the exit, I spot the familiar fine dining restaurant atop the hill. We course through the surrounding town, past a hardware store and some fast-food drive-throughs, and make a U-turn before heading up the long driveway to the steakhouse.

  Since it’s a weeknight, the parking lot isn’t crowded. Mason pulls into a spot near the front and shifts the gear into park. The catchy bassline of “Lullaby” by The Cure is pumping through the speakers now, filling up the silence that’s fallen between us. I’m not certain, but he seems to want to say something.

  Mason hesitates, then switches off the engine. “You all set?”

  “I am. But just to warn you, Heather can be kind of intense.” I’m already beginning to second-guess myself. Was it really such a good idea to bring Mason into this? After meeting my sister, he might never want to associate with me again.

  He flashes me an easy grin. “I can handle it.”

  We get out, greeting the chilly night. How did it fall dark so quickly? We walk briskly to the brass-handled door, which a doorman opens for us. Stepping into the warm glow of the restaurant, I notice Mason’s wearing the same outfit from earlier, minus the pentacle ring. Smart move, given what I’ve told him about Heather.

  A tiny, tan hostess wearing a way-too-tight dress greets us with an overbearing smile. “Welcome to Savory! Do you have a reservation?”

  I don’t know why, but I stand a little closer to Mason. “We’re with the Huber party,” I reply.

  “Right this way.” Tiny guides us past a gathering of suited businessmen drinking wine, over to a table by the giant fish tank where I recognize the couple poring over a pair of menus perched atop a white tablecloth.

  Brad spots us first. Holding in his suit jacket, he gets to his feet.

  “Oh,” I say. “You don’t have to—”

  But the blond hourglass seated next to him shoots up and turns. Her perfect figure-eight form is girly and professional in a bright pink dress suit as she trills over the classy jazz music: “Willow!”

  She practically flings herself at me, squeezing me so tightly I lose my breath. Whoa. “Uh,” I cough, “hi, Heather. Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks! Oh, my goodness, look at you!” She stands back, stroking me down the sides of my arms, making me feel obscenely self-conscious as a few heads in the restaurant turn.

  I take a small step away. Heather has never given me this kind of reception, ever. I clear my throat, my trachea still recovering from the bone-crushing hug, and indicate Mason, who’s hanging back. “I hope it’s okay, but my friend Mason drove me here, so I was wondering if he could—?”

  “Sure.” Brad is no-nonsense as he flags down a waiter and requests an extra chair be added to our table. Once the waiter rearranges the place settings, my sister and her husband resume their seats, and Mason and I claim ours.

  Mason extends a hand to each of them, introducing himself, then lowers into his chair. “Nice to meet you, and happy birthday.”

  Heather beams. “Thanks, sweetie!” she gushes with a hint of a southern twang, which makes no sense because she’s lived in Ohio her entire life. It’s got to be the influence of the preacher at her church. He’s from the Bible Belt—Atlanta, I think.

  She spreads her manicured hands over the face of the menu. Her nails are cotton candy pink to match her dress suit. “So, Mason, where did Willow find you?”

  I’ve just sat down, and already I don’t know how to answer her question. I can’t say he’s Persephone’s son—Heather hates anything to do with Mom’s ‘witch cult,’ even though those same ‘devil-worshippers’ cooked her spaghetti and meatballs, helped her with her homework, and gave her Barbie dolls for Yule when she was little. I also can’t say that Mason’s my hypnotherapist without causing that big, phony, pink-lipstick smile to melt right off of her carefully powdered face.

  “Uh,” I stammer. “He’s, um…”

  “I’m Willow’s driving instructor,” Mason cuts in, cool as a cucumber.

  Heather’s face lights up. “Get out.” She slaps my hand across the table. “Willow, you’re finally learnin’ to drive?”

  Why the heck not. “Sure am.” I pick up what I assume is the menu, but only turns out to be an extensive leather-bound wine list. Each bottle costs north of eighty dollars. I set it back in the center of the table gingerly and find my dinner menu.

  A waitress appears to pour glasses of water and inform us about the evening’s specials. Brad orders a bottle of wine and as the waitress walks away, Heather whispers something to him. I survey them ove
r the top of my menu, the model, upper-middle class, suburban white couple. They look like they stepped straight out of a Nordstrom catalog.

  “Oh, what a blessing to spend this night with family.” Heather takes Brad’s hand in her left and bats artificial eyelashes at me. “I tell you, God has just been moving in our lives in the most wonderful ways. I forget when I spoke with you last, but Bradley’s been pulling in some major accounts…”

  Brad’s expression stiffens. I share his discomfort.

  “…and I just got promoted to head administrator at Grace Calvary!”

  That’s Heather’s church, where she’s been working since she met Brad. After high school, she moved beyond the megachurch that had first converted her, in search of someplace with, as she’d put it, ‘stronger biblical foundations.’

  “Congratulations,” I tell her.

  “Yes, the Lord hears my prayers, all right!” She sips her water and adds, “Not that I ever doubted it.”

  “What are you ordering?” asks Brad, always the pragmatist. From what I know, he attends church with Heather, but doesn’t openly share her zeal. Whatever he feels about all that is between them.

  “Oh, I think I’m just gonna have a salad.” Heather closes her menu and I fight the urge to shake my head at her. Of course. She would go to steakhouse on her birthday and order a friggin’ iceberg lettuce salad.

  “What looks good to you two?” Brad’s tired brown eyes shift up to Mason and me, and he strains to smile. Poor banker looks browbeaten.

  “I’m all over the porterhouse,” Mason replies, with an air of playful machismo.

  “Chicken Kiev.” I set my menu down. “Done deal.”

  Brad’s smile lifts into a genuine one, as if it’s his first time talking to sane people all day. “Boy, I can’t decide between the—”

  “Would we like to start with any appetizers?” The waitress interrupts. Behind her is a waiter with the bottle of red wine. He distributes the glasses and pours the first taste for Brad’s approval. Brad swirls his glass around, sniffs it, tries a sip. He gives a curt nod, and the waiter proceeds to pour us each a glass.

  However, Heather holds up a halting hand when he comes to me. “Not her.” She grins sweetly. “She’s not twenty-one yet.”

  I have to clench my teeth to keep my jaw from hinging open. Is she for real? They weren’t even going to card me.

  She simpers over at me. “Sorry, Wil. Don’t want anyone gettin’ in trouble.”

  The waiter is about to serve Mason a glass, but he shakes his head. “None for me, thanks.”

  “It’s fine, Mason,” I mutter. He doesn’t need to forego his drink on account of the fact that I’m apparently still in diapers.

  “Are you sure, sir?” presses the waiter.

  “I’m sure.” Mason nods respectfully at Brad. “Thank you.”

  Brad decides to gloss it over by clinking his glass against Heather’s. “Happy birthday, hon,” he toasts her.

  Heather’s eyes dart from me to Mason to her husband before she draws a hesitant sip of wine. Already, the familiar lines of disapproval are forming on the sides of her mouth.

  Okay, so that was cool of Mason to stick up for me. I cast him a silent glance of appreciation.

  The waitress lays down a bread basket and takes our orders. I can’t believe it when Heather orders only a grilled chicken salad, hold the croutons and avocado.

  “Seriously?” I arch an eyebrow at her. “Avocado can’t hurt you, Heather. It’s a superfood.”

  “It’s full of fat.”

  “Yeah, the good kind.”

  “So…” Mason leans in for a slice a bread, addressing Brad. “How ’bout them Buckeyes?”

  “Not doing so well this year,” laments Brad, and the two strike up a conversation about college football.

  Thanks a lot, I want to grunt as Mason butters his bread. I know literally nothing of sports. This is a conversation I can’t join, leaving me stuck talking to Heather again.

  Oh, well. As long as neither of us brings up politics or religion…

  A tall woman crosses the restaurant in the direction of the ladies’ room, wearing one of those extra-long maxi dresses. It’s sparkly purple, evocative of the grape harvest. I’ve tried on that style of dress at a Meijer once and was practically swimming in it.

  “Wow,” I say as she passes us in long, graceful strides. “I could never wear a dress like that. I’m too short.”

  Heather doesn’t glance up from her wineglass. “You may be short, Willow, but when you believe in Christ, then everyone looks up to you.”

  I haven’t even begun to process her statement when Mason murmurs in my ear: “And when you believe in Thor, no one screws with you.”

  Accidentally, I snort. I’d meant to hold it in, but his comment had caught me off-guard. I immediately try to cover it with a cough, but the damage is already done. Now Heather is watching me with a poorly-concealed glare. It looks like I was snorting at her statement, not Mason’s, since she hadn’t heard him.

  Finding his foot under the table, I step on it. Mason grins.

  Somehow, I survive dinner, but only by the skin of my teeth and the discipline to keep my mouth closed or else chewing. Heather loves to talk about herself, and goes on about her women’s bible study group, aerobics class (because yoga is spiritually dangerous), and the devotional blog she’s been thinking for a year about making, but hasn’t actually started.

  “And then, you know,” she pokes a stack of lettuce on her plate with her fork, “if the blog gets a lot of readers, then maybe it’ll lead to a book deal, and—God willing—I could pull in a lot of money from that.”

  This time, I can’t hold my silence. “No one makes money on books, Heather.” She opens her mouth to retort, but I’m quicker. “Any author you’re about to name is in the top one percent of the top one percent. When you step into a bookstore—even the huge, two-story ones—you’re only seeing a tiny fraction of the books in circulation. You’re lucky if you can self-publish an eBook on Amazon and make three dollars a year off it.”

  Heather’s fork hangs midair.

  When Mason shoots me an inquiring look, I explain, “I monitor SEO. Part of that is tracking clicks and downloads of the promotional eBook my company published last year. Sales are pathetic.” I shrug.

  “Well.” Heather dabs her napkin in the corners of her mouth. “Anyway…” And changes the subject.

  I drift in and out of actually listening. The truth is, Heather has always been this way, even before her miraculous conversion. She closes herself off to what anyone else has to say, only seeing what she wants to see, hearing what she wants to hear.

  I think back to when we were kids, how she used to want to dress me up and do my hair, and would become so disappointed when I took off the polka dot dress she’d forced me into, or undid the braid she’d styled into my hair. It didn’t matter to her that I’d wanted to wear T-shirts and scout for killdeer in the field. She wanted me to be the sister she wanted. And it was still there now—her disappointment in me.

  The staff brings out a complimentary slice of birthday cake, and Heather whines the entire time they sing the birthday song that she can’t eat it, since she’s watching her figure. When the staff walks away, she indulges in a sliver of chocolate frosting off the top, then insists the rest of us split her dessert.

  While I’m chowing down, Brad picks up the bill. Mason and I open our wallets and thrust our debit cards at him, but he waves us down, huddling aside with his pen in the black book.

  “Dang,” Mason says through a mouthful of chocolate cake. “Thanks, man.”

  “Oh, before I forget.” I reach into my purse, pull out a brown paper bag, and hand it to Heather.

  Her eyes go round. “What’s this?”

  I sigh at her theatrics. “There’s no need to look so surprised,” I tell her as she pulls on the pale pink string that binds the paper. It falls away, revealing a shrink-wrapped freestanding candle carved into the shape of
a cherub—chubby cheeks, wings and all.

  She gasps. “Oh, Willow, it’s precious! It’s…” She turns it over, apparently looking for a sticker, but I’ve removed it. “It’s not from one of those new age shops, is it?”

  “No, Heather. It’s from HomeGoods.”

  She gets to her feet and wraps me in a hug. “You’re so thoughtful. I’ll treasure it.”

  We thank Brad again for his generosity. Mason and Brad pass through the front of the restaurant and head outside, but Heather lingers in the lobby, just in front of the double doors. Before I can push them open, she hovers in front of me. We’re standing so close, I can make out just how uneven the eyeliner is on her upper eyelids.

  She searches my gaze. “Thank you for coming.”

  My mouth is about to form the words ‘you’re welcome,’ but she continues. “I want you to know, I am praying for you and Mom every single day.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I try to move to the door again, but she doesn’t let me pass. The look in her big brown eyes is imploring.

  “It’s never too late for salvation, Willow. I just want you to be among the saved when the rapture happens. I’m afraid your soul is in mortal peril. The devil comes to kill and destroy. You know that, right?”

  I want to tell her enough. I want to tell her that I’ve heard it all, that I’m not a bad person, and neither is our mother. Heather should know better than anyone, having shared the same childhood with me, the same home, that the Wiccan Rede is to ‘Harm None.’ I want to remind her. Wiccans have ethics, too, and no single organized, man-made religion has a monopoly on truth.

  Instead, the only words that fall out of my mouth are: “I have to go.”

  Her face closes. I know that look. She’s worn it for me my whole life.

  I push through the doors and make a beeline for Mason’s sedan outside. He’s already in the driver’s seat, MP3 player at the ready, with a soft stream of heat puffing through the vents.

  “Thanks.” I buckle in at the same time he puts the car into reverse. He navigates the parking lot as I take the liberty to scroll through his playlist. I settle on a familiar H.I.M. song.

  “Well.” His tone is congenial as he coasts down the long driveway into the surrounding town. “Your sister is pretty hardcore.”