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

by C. K. Brooke

  “It’s okay if you don’t know,” I tell him, secretly relieved.

  The room falls silent again. I wait with my paper and pencil perched on my knee, but he says nothing more. I glance back at the monitors and realize Mason is recording the session, the bars moving slowly across the computer screens. Two minutes pass. Then three, then four.

  Just as I’m wondering if we should wrap it up and call it a night, Henry’s voice emerges, deep and slurred and a little raspy. It sounds nothing like him, and I struggle to understand at first.

  But once I do, I don’t pick up my pencil. I can’t.

  “I done took it to the grave, you know. What happened t’ you.”

  “Happened to me?” I ask when he trails off. I don’t want to lose him to more snoring. Not this time. Goosebumps coat my arms even under my long sleeves, and I lean in, listening for more.

  He releases a gentle sigh that sounds a little like a hiss. But it’s only because I’m holding my breath that I hear the name in his exhalation: “Susan.”

  A cold chill douses my body, and I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. “Is Susan your wife?”

  “No. No.” He’s so emphatic, he even shakes his head, eyes still shut. “Was engaged…to someone else. Then Susan, she… You…” He inhales again through his nose.

  I suddenly feel sick to my stomach. I can’t say why, but this is becoming too real, too raw. Too close. I want to tell Mason to stop the session, end the recording. But Ray Sanderson keeps talking.

  “You were too young.” He frowns. “I was…torn.”

  I have to battle the urge to cover my ears. I don’t want to hear any more—can’t bear the black cloud of unexpected hurt, anger, and debilitating resentment swarming around me like so many wasps, even though I can’t logically explain any of it.

  His deep voice tightens, and my legs are shaking so badly, my knees knock together. “Had no idea,” he croaks, “what he would do t’you.”

  “What who would do to me?” I breathe. “The one who cut the brakes? Was Susan murdered, Ray? Why?”

  But Ray Sanderson isn’t speaking anymore. Gently, Mason’s hand closes over my shoulder.

  “We have to bring Henry back now,” he murmurs.

  “Wait.” I bat away a tear. “Just let me find out—”

  “No.” Mason’s tone is firmer. “We’ve gone far enough. You’re both in a state of distress.” Concern edges his tone as he begins to talk Henry up through his memories, his present existence, his physical energy levels in the body he currently inhabits. All the while, Mason keeps his hand on my shoulder, occasionally giving it a squeeze.

  As he slowly increases the brightness in the room with the dimmable switch, I find the wellspring of emotion that had so strongly overtaken me beginning to subside, sinking deeper beneath the surface, back into my subconscious as I return with Henry to the present.

  When Mason snaps his fingers, Henry doesn’t wake immediately. He snores lightly for a few more seconds, until it becomes clear by the twitching beneath his eyelids that the light in the room is registering with him.

  With a sharp inhalation, he opens his eyes. My stepbrother appears groggy for a second, then glances between us and shrugs. “See?” He clears his throat. “Told you guys I can’t be hypnotized.”

  9

  “You honestly don’t remember a word you said?” I ask for what feels like the fiftieth time as my stepbrother’s truck bumps across the country backroads. He’s driving us home from downtown, at Mason’s insistence. I guess after Henry’s session, our date was over.

  In my lap is the box of remaining donuts, to give to my mom and Greg—also at Mason’s insistence. Henry’s been eyeing it the entire drive, and when we come a red light, he finally lifts the lid and sticks a hand inside, fishing for a treat.

  “Calm down,” he says through a mouthful of pastry, and shuts the lid.

  “I am calm. It just makes me nervous when people don’t keep both hands on the wheel.” I can’t fight the squeamish feeling that doesn’t leave my belly until he replaces his second hand on the steering wheel.

  “What did I say, then?” Henry eases on the accelerator after the light turns green, chomping away. “I’m starting to feel self-conscious. Did your boyfriend perform some Jedi mind-trick and make me look like an idiot?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. And you’ll find out for yourself soon enough. Mason’s going to email you the recording tonight.”

  When we get home, Henry complains of a headache and goes downstairs to sleep it off.

  “How was your date?” Mom pries from the living room, but I pretend not to hear and head straight for my bedroom.

  I’m not listening to my recording tonight. All I can think of is one thing. The young driver in my visions had a name.

  I had a name.

  Susan.

  #

  I toss and turn all night. Because of what I’ve witnessed, and the bombshell Henry’s regression dropped on me, I’m afraid if I fall into too deep of a sleep, I’ll relive the same haunting nightmares I’ve been on a vendetta to end.

  In the morning, I multitask between working and Googling images of rural Missouri. After hours of browsing through pages of photos online, my gaze catches on a black-and-white snapshot of a little street I feel like I’ve seen somehow.

  I accidentally ex out of the tab with the email I was in the middle of typing, but I don’t care. I enlarge the black-and-white photo and stare at it. Even though the other photos that turned up in the search are in color, this one feels the most alive to me. The photo is from another era, preserving how someone who’d lived before my time would’ve seen it in their day. Had the photograph been taken yesterday, showing the same street and buildings, but with modern cars and business logos, I doubt I would’ve recognized it the way I do now.

  The caption beneath the image reads: Downtown Elms Creek, Missouri.

  I open a new tab for Google Maps. I type in the location, and the red balloon pops up on a map of the Midwest. Elms Creek, Missouri is southeast of St. Louis, down by the borders of Kentucky and Tennessee. I calculate the route from Middling, Ohio. It appears to be a little under an eight-hour drive.

  Suddenly remembering, I refresh the page and type into the search bar: Ray Sanderson, Elms Creek, MO.

  I chew my bottom lip as the results load. Slowly, I scroll down. At the bottom, I’m floored to see the name Raymond E. Sanderson in bold letters, underneath a search result from a popular ancestry research website.

  “For real?” I whisper to myself, pulling up the page. One has to be a paying member of the website to view the whole article, but I see all I need in the snippet they allow. It’s a photocopied document from the 1950 census. In 1950, Raymond E. Sanderson of Elms Creek, Missouri was just six years old.

  I sit back in my chair, flabbergasted. The cogs of my mind begin to turn. If Ray Sanderson was six in 1950, then he’d have been born in 1944. What era were my memories from? I spend another half hour Googling fifties model cars, but none of them fit the one from my vision.

  Until I decide to search through the sixties.

  Bingo.

  I click to enlarge the picture, and fail to suppress my very audible gasp. There it is, staring directly at me through the computer screen: the 1965 Pontiac GTO convertible—red, with a white hood.

  “Daddy’s pride and joy.” The words spill right out of my mouth. I cover it with a hand in shock. Neither of my fathers—biological or step—have ever owned this car. But I’m positive Susan’s dad did.

  I quickly do the math. Susan’s death had to have occurred after 1965 if she had been driving this model Pontiac—which I know, without a doubt, she was. Ray Sanderson would’ve been twenty-one years old that year.

  When had Susan been killed?

  In my dream, she couldn’t have been older than sixteen. I conduct yet another search for “teen girl car accident, 1960s, Elms Creek, MO,” but nothing turns up. No matter how many ways I rephrase it, I’m
out of luck. I can’t find evidence of the accident, of Susan, or her death. But I know it’s got to be out there. I’ve come this far.

  I pick up the phone and speed dial Mason before even stopping to consider whether he’s busy or with another client. I’m glad when he picks up. His calm relaxes me, and I minimize the windows I’m looking at. All of it is bringing up so much inside of me, like a brewing tempest.

  I lean forward in my chair, bracing myself. “There’s somewhere I want to go.”

  “Let me guess: you found the town in Missouri?”

  “I think so.”

  “So are we going on a road trip?”

  “Yes!” I feel like crying, or maybe even laughing. “Please. I’ll cover gas, hotels, whatever you—”

  “It’s all good. Let’s talk about it in a bit. My next client just showed up.”

  “Of course.”

  “But…Willow?”

  I cradle the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”

  “Are you doing okay? Last night was a lot to process…for all of us, I think.”

  “I’m fine.” I glance down at my desk.

  “Okay. Talk soon.” I hear a slight smile in his voice, and it makes me smile too.

  I end the call and set down the phone. I try to refocus on work, but it’s no use. I’m staring blankly at my desktop wallpaper on the computer screen when a little pat-pat-a-pat-pat…pat-pat sounds at my door.

  “Come in,” I call, recognizing Mom’s signature knock.

  “Thought you could use some pumpkin bread,” she says, entering my room with a plate and fork.

  “You’re awesome.” I receive her offering and devour the moist, flavorful bread. “Mmm. You didn’t put your ritual ingredients into this, did you?”

  Her lip curves mischievously. “I may have used some leftover ingredients from this month’s cakes and ale, and they may have been blessed by the high priestess.”

  I swallow my mouthful. “Thanks, Mom.”

  She sits on the edge of my bed and pulls out her oracle cards, the kind with angels and mermaids on the cover. “We’re going to do a reading.”

  I decide to let her have her fun. Whatever. Her cards are so fluffy; they can’t do any harm.

  She shuffles until I tell her to stop. Then she cuts the deck and draws the top three cards off the right-hand pile. She hums thoughtfully, examining her spread. In the past position is the “Freedom” card, reversed. The present card says “Self-Discovery.” And the future card is “All Is Love.”

  “Hmm,” I mimic her mysterious intonation. “Very generic.”

  “Well, I think it’s beautifully accurate,” Mom defends. “In your past, you weren’t free. You were struggling to liberate yourself from some type of…trap or bondage. But now you’re on a path to self-discovery, and what you’ll find, no matter which road you take, is nothing but love.”

  “Better than Persephone’s reading, anyway,” I mutter. I load another bite of pumpkin bread into my mouth when the doorbell rings down the hall.

  “Did you order a package?” Mom glances over her shoulder.

  “No,” I reply. “And I didn’t hear the mail truck pull up.”

  We wait for a minute, and the bell rings again. Together, we head to the living room. Mom descends the few steps to the front door and peers through the curtain. She draws in a slight breath, unlocks the door, and tugs it open.

  My jaw slackens to see Heather at our doorstep. My sister’s hair appears newly bleached, flat and flimsy as she’d straightened it into lifeless submission, and her makeup is looking dry and flaky today. There’s no gloss, no sparkle, and she isn’t showing that big, fake smile of hers. In fact, she isn’t smiling at all.

  “Heather,” says Mom, her voice fluttery with uncertainty. She steps aside, holding the door wide open. “Come in.”

  Heather sniffles, and I notice the tip of her nose is red. I wonder if she has a cold. She glances around the interior of our foyer, as if it might poison her, then takes a ginger step inside. Mom shuts the door.

  She leads Heather up the steps until my sister comes to stand across from me. “Is everything okay?” I ask, glancing between her and Mom.

  Heather’s chin quivers. She crouches over, suddenly sobbing. “No!”

  “Tea,” Mom orders me, and wraps her arm around Heather. I hurry into the kitchen and fill up the kettle with filtered water, which takes forever. When it’s finally full, I set it on the stove and switch the burner on high. I hear Heather’s sobs from the other room as Mom tries to console her.

  Eventually, Mom guides her into the kitchen with me and pulls a tissue from the box. Heather folds it up and dabs at her makeup—the important things. Meanwhile, the kettle begins to squeal and I pull down Mom’s signature herbal tea mix. I scoop a pile of the potpourri into the strainer over the teapot, then slowly pour the boiling water over the dry blend. I cover the teapot with the lid to let it steep, and join them at the table.

  “Tell me,” Mom coos to Heather, as if there’d never been any rift, any lapse in communication between them.

  “Is it Brad?” I ask with a sense of dread.

  Heather waves a manicured hand at me, too distraught to look my way. “Brad’s fine. It’s my period. It was a couple of weeks late. But now, I’m b-bleeding…”

  “Oh, honey.” Mom’s face falls. I get up to pour the tea.

  “I didn’t take a pregnancy test this time. After so many negatives, I was afraid of—” Heather hiccups, “more disappointment. Brad and I’ve been trying for so long…”

  “I know you have,” clucks Mom sympathetically.

  I glance up from the tea I’m pouring.

  “How would you know?” Heather wipes her eyes, smearing her mascara. “We kept it to ourselves. We never told anybody.”

  I top off the cup, shaking my head silently at Mom. She should know better than to bring up the ‘I’m psychic’ crap in front of Heather.

  After dropping in a cube of sugar and a squirt of honey, I set the teacup on the table in front of Heather. The cubic zirconia cross on her throat glimmers as she leans in, inhaling the steam. “Oh,” she sighs. “Just like how I remember.” She brings the cup to her lips. “The Lord told me to come here.” She permits a tentative half-smile. “He knew you had the remedy. This tea is going to heal me up; I can just feel it.”

  I don’t bother pointing out that, according to her, believing that anything other than Jesus—including tea—can heal her up is technically witchcraft, if not science, neither of which Heather claims to believe in.

  She draws another sip. “All we’ve wanted is a baby.”

  Maybe you don’t deserve one, I find myself thinking absently, as I put away the herbal blend. Maybe you didn’t do a very good job the last time around.

  This jars me back to my senses, and I rub my forehead, as if to dislodge the thoughts from my brain. What the hell…?

  I fall still, marveling. Could Heather have been a part of it, too? Heather, my Evangelical-convert sister, part of a past-life puzzle she would never believe in?

  I watch the scene in front of me. It’s odd, seeing Heather here, trying to be someone so different than the girl who grew up in this house, taking her meals with us at this table every day. And she’s almost selling it. Almost. Yet I see through the shield of coverup and thinly-waxed eyebrows and bleach-blond hair, the way she’s done everything possible in her adult life to be the complete and total opposite of our hippie mom. Right now, I see the same dark-haired, bushy-eyebrowed Heather, frowning after me when I wanted to climb trees instead of sitting still so she could brush my hair. I see the girl whose dolls we used to dress on her bedroom floor. The girl who’d roll up her sleeves in the kitchen with an apron around her waist, to help Mom and me prepare cakes and ale for full moon circle. She was so serious about it, wanted everything to be just so. And me? In her eyes, I could never do things right.

  If Heather would just wash the chemicals off her face and let her rich brown roots grow out, she’d begin t
o look more like the sister I once knew. If she’d drop the holier-than-thou charade and be the normal, rational person—religious or not—that I know must be hiding somewhere in there, then maybe we could begin to rebuild a relationship based on mutual respect.

  And yet, the way she’s always looked at me, like I’ve let her down…like I’m not the sister she wanted…

  I’m sorry for her loss. I really am. But after she finishes her tea, and her brown eyes begin to dart nervously across the kitchen, and she hurries to gather her pocketbook and slip out the door, leaving her empty cup on the table, my sympathy wanes. How can she wish to be a mother when she ignores the hurt on her own mother’s face as she walks out on us for the umpteenth time?

  “Children won’t come easily to that girl.” Mom’s voice is somber as she watches Heather drive away through the front window. She releases the lace curtain, letting it fall back into place. “Her mother-energy is all closed up. It’s why she can’t connect with the Goddess and carry a child. All of that patriarchal energy…” Her frown deepens. “She’s cut off her maternal nature.”

  “She’ll never believe any of this if you tell her.” I sigh.

  “I don’t have to. This is something Heather has to work out on her own.” Mom pats down her curls, looking wan. All the sparkle has left her eyes. “It’s her problem. It’s got nothing to do with me—that much, at least, I’ve learned.”

  #

  “How about the last weekend of the month?” I squint up at the mini-calendar on my bulletin board. “Could we make it a long weekend?”

  “Sure, I can take off Monday the thirtieth.”

  I draw an arrow from next Friday to Monday across the squares in pencil.

  “Not this weekend, but next?” Mason verifies.

  “Yep.”

  “Movies this weekend, then?”

  I grin, slurping up a spoonful of ramen from my mug. “What do you want to see?”

  “I don’t know. Check Rotten Tomatoes on Friday and tell me what looks good.”

  “You trust me that much?” I spin around in my chair, clutching the phone between my shoulder and cheek. “How do you know I’m not going to pick the worst-rated movie and make us see that instead?”