“Are you saying I’m walking around like a zombie while my mind is here?” I asked, horrified that I could have left my body unattended. What if I crossed the road and got hit by a car?
Singer scooted closer on the sofa and placed a reassuring hand on my arm. “No, Clare. It’s not your mind that has left your body. It’s your consciousness,” she said soothingly.
My consciousness? Dude, seriously? How can I walk around without my consciousness? “Are you saying I’m having an out-of-body experience in broad daylight?” I asked, my tone rising a little.
Older me squared her shoulders and smiled. “Not exactly. I will not be able to explain everything to your satisfaction today. That is why you are here to learn, or I should say, remember. Let’s begin with the concept of a soul. How would you define that?” she asked.
“I guess it’s that intangible part of us. When we die, it follows us to our next body,” I said tentatively. I wasn’t the most spiritual person. Ironically, this had been a regular topic of my mom’s lectures. Thanks for the info, Mom.
“That is a good place to start. I want to add a few elements to your understanding, though. With every new body comes a new life, personality, and goals. In your definition, when a new life begins, the other one ends. In truth, no life ever ends.
“For every new incarnation, a new consciousness is born. Consciousness is a new expression of the same soul. If the soul was a cookie, each consciousness would be a different flavour of the cookie. But that’s still a cookie, do you understand?” she asked. I nodded.
“Just because you ate a cookie doesn’t mean it no longer exists. On the one hand, the matter that made up the cookie is now in your stomach being digested. It has been transformed. On the other hand, the memory of the cookie is intact. The past cookie is real. And finally, before you saw the cookie and ate it, you knew it existed. That future cookie is also real,” she continued.
“You’re talking about the time continuum, how all things exist at once. Past, present, and future,” I said.
“Yes!” exclaimed Singer.
“That’s why a new consciousness has to be created with every new incarnation, because the old one is still in use,” I ventured, getting excited now.
“Correct,” said older me. “And the soul is always aware of each incarnation because they are part of it.”
“Wait, are you saying that the Castle is our soul?” I asked, standing up abruptly. I had it now!
“No, the Castle is our consciousness,” stated Singer, barely above a whisper.
I sat back down. “But who are all these people, then?” I asked, waving at the room in general.
“We are all probable versions of the same consciousness,” said older me.
My eyes closed, and a headache lodged itself between my eyes. “Probable versions?” I asked.
“Parallel versions would be more accurate. Are you familiar with the many-worlds interpretation of Quantum Mechanics?” asked older me.
My head whipped around as realization dawned on me. Every single thing my mom had been blathering on about was true. When she had me watch ‘What the Bleep Do We Know,’ I had taken it for just another sci-fi movie. It was old, and the visual effects were lacking. But the message had been clear: there are unlimited versions of everyone.
“You’re talking about the multiverse. Are you saying everyone in this room is a spin-off of the same person? Including me?” I asked.
“Yes, we are,” put in Needlepoint, who I had entirely forgotten was sitting in a wing chair a few feet away. In fact, I had entirely tuned out the lot of mes around the room. Their collective sounds now seemed deafening as I turned back to look at other versions of me.
Of course, that’s what they were. They couldn’t be cloned, and clones would have been identical. Each me was a little different. Sure, the basic structure was there: blond hair, green eyes, about five feet six inches, same face. But the hair varied in length, shade, and style. No two had the same shape. Some were lean, and some were plump. Some were clearly muscular. The posture was also different from one to the next.
“Doesn’t the concept of a multiverse imply unlimited versions of a person? I see a dozen or so. And you, of course,” I said to older me. “What should I call you?” I asked belatedly.
“You may call me Teacher. You are correct. However, we believe it would be overwhelming to meet all of them at once. Besides, we can’t all be here at the same time. No, the people in the room are a selection of Clares, aged fifteen, living in this neighbourhood.”
“Where are the others?” I asked, curious.
“For simplicity’s sake, we’ve devoted a room to each same-aged group of Clares who are in the process of Awakening. For example, in the green sitting room, you’ll find the twelve-year-olds. Twenty-somethings are on the second floor, the thirties on the third and the forties on the fourth,” she explained.
“What about older Clares?” I asked.
“No one has ever awakened beyond their fiftieth birthday. Elder Clares are usually Teachers, Guides, or Managers. Though, I must add that there is no age limit for Teachers and Guides. You could be a five-year-old Guide or a twenty-year-old Teacher,” she replied.
“How old are you? Where is your room?” I asked in fascination.
“I’m thirty-eight. Our room is pink,” she replied.
I filed this away for future reference. “If I haven’t yet awakened, how did I get here while I am still awake?” I asked.
“That is unusual. The truth is we couldn’t wait any longer. We need your help,” she said.
Chapter 3
I was sitting on one of the benches in front of the lake staring at the loons. The sun at my back was warm and I must have dozed off. Checking my watch, I saw it was almost five. I hadn’t meant to be gone this long. I texted mom so she wouldn’t be worried if she got home from work before me.
Mom was an HR hiring consultant. She helped companies hire the best candidates. She had a knack for finding diamonds among the coal. She also took on private clients with an unusual skill sets and set them where they would shine best.
She mostly worked from home, except when employers wanted her to sit in on interviews. Today, I think she was interviewing for an engineer at the big dairy plant.
She was tossing a salad when I came in. “Hi, honey,” she called from the kitchen.
I took off my shoes and padded into the kitchen, then gave her a big hug.
“That was a long walk. Did something happen at school?” she asked, dividing the leftover meatloaf between two plates. When she was done, I put the first one in the microwave.
“I got a seventy-two in my math test,” I said, getting utensils for the drawer to set the table.
“I know you were hoping for better, but it’s not a bad grade,” she replied.
The microwave beeped and I swapped the plates. Mom loaded salad onto the plate, and I placed it on the table.
“Mom, you know I need a seventy-five average to get into the advanced math and science classes next year,” I said, slapping my thighs with my hands.
She gave me her glass to fill and I retrieved the second plate on my way back. She heaved a mountain of salad on it and we went to sit at the table.
“The keyword here is average. You got eighty-one and eighty-three in the first two report cards. You’ll do fine in the third one. It’s only one exam, stop worrying!” she soothed.
Easier said than done. Since I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, I had to keep all my options open. The best way to do this was to take all the advanced classes next year to get into any program I wanted when I got to college. Hopefully, by then, I’d have a clearer picture of the future.
All my friends had already chosen their career paths. Mel was going to be an actress, Julie a dentist, and Sam was heading for law school. I had high hopes for the assessments we had taken with the guidance counsellor, but the results barely narrowed my choices. I would basically succeed at anything I did.
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br /> Which, of course, was what Mom has been telling me most of my life. I’m pretty sure that’s what all parents told their children. It also said I would do best working with people, like I needed a three-hour test to tell me that! I wasn’t into computers, and though I enjoyed my time alone, I was a social creature through and through. I liked helping people. A great quality, though not a career choice.
I asked Mom about her day to change the subject and she asked if I had a lot of homework. When I didn’t, we’d watch movies together in the evening. Tonight, I needed to prep for an upcoming physics test.
We did the dishes and I headed for my room to study. Mom took her glass of wine with her as she went to the back deck and settled in to read a book. Mom loved to read. She could sit in the same spot for three hours, moving only to turn the pages or take a sip of whatever she was drinking. Coffee, tea, or wine, depending on the time of day. Never water, though that’s all she drank the rest of the day. It was like she saved the best for her reading time. Like a date. I wish she’d go on actual dates.
We’d swipe through pictures on her dating app. Though we had a great time gently disparaging the candidates, she never found any that she liked. She said she knew too much about human nature to fall for clever dating profiles. And appearances could be deceiving.
“Besides,” she’d once told me, hugging her favourite book to her chest, “I’m waiting for my own Jamie Fraser.” I had rolled my eyes. I didn’t know much about Jamie Fraser, but I knew he made a lot of women, and many men, swoon. I actually couldn’t blame her reasoning. I had yet to find a boy I liked at school. Perhaps Mom’s pickiness was rubbing off on me. It was convenient, as I’d need to focus on school for the foreseeable future and had no time for boys.
Mom came in to say good night around nine o’clock. We each had our own bedtime routines. Mine was a shower and scrolling through the social media posts I had missed while at school or studying. I was usually out by ten o’clock. I could get engrossed with something and stay up until eleven, but that would throw the next day’s schedule completely out of whack and I resisted temptation as much as possible.
Tonight was easy. I was super tired and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow, still clutching my phone.
* * *
I was at the clearing, but I couldn’t remember how I got there. When I saw the Castle, the day’s events came back to me. Why didn’t I remember before now? I wondered. Probably because I hadn’t yet Awoken, if Teacher was to be believed.
I checked my outfit and saw it was the same I had worn earlier that day. I debated trying to change it and gave up the notion. They’d seen me wearing this and that’s how they would know it was me, the Worrier.
As I walked toward the back of the Castle, I remembered what Singer had said just before I woke up by the lake, that they needed my help. I had no idea how I could be useful to a bunch of overachieving alternate versions of me. Maybe one of them needed a babysitter. Wait, do any of my other selves have siblings? A boyfriend? A dad? I wondered. That last one had sneaked in, thinking I wouldn’t notice. I scolded my subconscious and focused on finding a door knocker on the back doors.
I stood in front of the giant-sized opening. The massive oak doors were reinforced with intricate iron patterns and had no discernable handle. On impulse, I placed both hands on one of the doors and pushed. I was rewarded with a little movement. I turned and pushed the door with my butt until the opening was large enough for me to slip through.
From the outside, I had heard no sign of life within. But once inside, I was assaulted by the chaos of what seemed like a hundred children, all girls, playing in the courtyard. Someone yelled “close the door,” and I quickly pushed it back the same way I had opened it.
I leaned against the door and stared open-mouthed at my selves. The courtyard was at least the size of a football field. The doors I had just entered through were likely the carriage doors I had seen earlier, as pebbled roads framed the perimeter of the space. Older children were walking or cycling along the path. Some were older, perhaps Teachers or Guides, and pushing strollers. A few groups were playing jump rope and other such games.
The middle part was divided into four sections. The two closest to me were gardens with large grassed areas where children were playing. Tall trees provided shade and some of them featured swings. There were benches all around the area where we could sit and read, or watch the other children playing.
The two sections closest to the main area of the Castle had more modern playground features such as swings, jungle gyms, and sandboxes. They should have looked out of place in a castle courtyard, but they were medieval in theme and blended well with the rest of the space.
There were doors that led to the wings on either side of the courtyard, but I made my way to the one in the main section. Curious to see myself at various ages, I followed the path through the gardens and playground.
You would think that seeing so many replicas of yourself would get boring or make you feel ordinary after a while. But each face I saw was fascinating. They were me, but not me. It occurred to me then that they were not completely identical. Unlike the girls I had met the last time I was here, the children did not all have blond hair, nor were they all Caucasian. Thankfully, despite their differences in personality and demeanour, they seemed to play well together.
I had always longed for a sister I could play with when I was younger, one I could confide in now that I was older. These children were so fortunate to have all these perfectly suited playmates!
I had reached the path and turned for one last look at my selves and smiled. They were so beautiful, and I felt so much love for each and every one of them that I felt my eyes tear up. I reminded myself that a dozen or so ‘sisters’ awaited me in the yellow room. Joy invaded my chest and I felt the sudden urge to run up the stairs and launch myself into the Castle. This was going to be fun.
Chapter 4
I woke up feeling more cheerful than I had any right to be. I had French and Phys. Ed today, my least favorite subjects. Both required a lot of teamwork participation, which would have been fine if any of my friends were in my class. I was the only in my group to have elected for French as a First Language, a decision I regretted on the very first day.
Since we lived in a French-speaking province, it had seemed prudent to be as fluent as possible to increase not only my career options but the number of colleges I could get into. However, it soon became apparent that my classmates were all already bilingual and had mastered the content with very little effort. I, on the other hand, sucked at French.
Like everyone else, I had taken the mandatory French as a Second language class since grade one. I’d also performed reasonably well, which was why my selection had been approved. Nonetheless, I was ill-prepared for the rigors of FFL which required reading literary novels, both French and Québécois, as well as writing essays, and debating with the same level of skill as we would in English Language Arts. My limited oral proficiency made me a liability to any team project and, instead of providing me with models to emulate, simply exacerbated my performance anxiety.
The horrors of Phys. Ed were the product of yet another ill-advised decision. Each semester, we could choose from three activities. Julie had chosen tennis because she and her family belonged to a club and she figured it would be an easy A. Mel had chosen track and field as she’s a natural-born athlete. Sam was in the sports study program and spends most afternoons at the pool. I had chosen yoga because it seemed like a relaxing, individual activity where performance would be less important than mindfulness. That’s what the brochure said, anyway.
It turned out that some yoga enthusiasts were focused entirely on appearances—it’s all about the outfit—and perfect form. I mastered neither the outfits nor the form and always left the class feeling terribly inadequate.
Complaining to Mom about it was never a good idea. As soon as I expressed any displeasure with the high school experience, she’d go into Warrior Mom
mode and insist on talking or, god-forbid, writing a pointed email to someone. Anyone. To whoever dared to make her perfect child feel less than loved, empowered, and valued.
The first few times she did it, I felt vindicated, at first. Then I started worrying that the teachers might be mean to me because of it. It never happened, but I begged her to stop it.
She promised to put away her lethal pen and just listen when I needed to talk. Which she was incapable of doing. She had to provide advice or a five-step action plan to fix the situation. Sometimes her suggestions were helpful, other times not so much.
This must make her sound as though her life revolved around me. It didn’t. Though she didn’t go out much and hadn’t dated in years, Mom enjoyed her own company. A lot. She was always taking off on some solo adventure somewhere or trying new things. She had a fearlessness that I envied. She was so passionate about everything, including me.
So even if I didn’t always feel loved, empowered, and valued at school, I knew I was the apple of my mother’s eye.
I scrolled through the social media posts of the previous evening. My friends did not adhere to a strict ten o’clock bedtime. Sam was proposing we had lunch outside today and suggesting, nay insisting, we packed a lunch and met in our usual spot on the back lawn.
This was great news indeed. Not only would it make the day more bearable, but it had been a while since we all had a free lunch hour together. Sam was often away on competitions, Mel had drama practice, and I tutored younger students in English Language Arts. When none of us was available, Julie ate by herself then headed to the library. She read almost as much as my mom.
When I came out of my room, Mom was waiting with the usual hug. I headed to the bathroom and joined her in the kitchen. Because she was up since the crack of dawn, Mom could get a little chatty when she saw me emerge from my room.
Clarity Castle Page 2
