The wild yellow dance of flames.
The scent of smoke.
Your screams.
You're in my arms, your fearful voice mumbling unintelligible words. You grip me so tightly, your lacquered nails bite into my arm, and we sit as the flames surround us and climb into the night sky. You whimper, a sound almost consumed by their crackle and hiss. You get frantic at them licking at your sleeve, scream as the hungry flames coax a blister from your pale skin. You wonder at my own untouched pale skin and black sleeves, at my implacable calm.
"Because this is just a dream," I remind you once more. "It is not real."
Your fear of imminent death, your panic as your clothes begin to be consumed, fades along with your fearful moans. You regain composure. Your back straightens, a stable, confident clarity shines in your dark eyes, something I rarely see in them these days.
The fire disappears. We open our eyes in your bedroom, on your bed. You rise and extricate yourself from our embrace. You look into my eyes, the sober clarity I saw while lost in your dreamworld replaced in the real world by a fragile skittishness that makes your eyes dart hither and yon.
"Thank you," you say softly to me.
You look into my eyes, mother to daughter, a broken toy past your playability, uncertainty and gratitude trading places within your eyes, along your features.
I kiss your forehead, lay you back down onto the bed, and pull up the covers, telling you goodnight before heading to my own room.
The smell of dishwashing soap, of lavender, of childhood mornings gone by.
The unspoken words that colour the silences between us.
The ties that bind.
Your back is to me as I enter the kitchen; you are busy washing dishes. You flick your hair out of the way with a movement of your head to see me; dark, straight hair, like mine, just past our shoulder blades. That uncertainty I saw in your eyes last night is still there this morning; shame, perhaps.
The framed blowup of an old photo of one of my great-grandfathers, a black man, stares at us from the wall over the kitchen table. Your half-finished glass of whiskey sitting there makes me purse my lips.
Obligations.
"Morning, Mother," I say to you.
"Morning," you reply.
You eye me briefly as I walk around the pale kitchen and warm some pancakes I'd made the day before.
You finish up, drying your hands on a teacloth, wiping your palms on your oversized shirt. You come and sit with me at the table.
I watch you as you eat your bacon and eggs.
You think an adult mother shouldn't lean on an adult daughter.
But can't an adult mother and daughter be friends?
You wish I didn't know your troubles. You wish you didn't need a daughter in the deep of night when your nightmares sometimes take shape.
You don't want to need me, my aid. You didn't want any of this. But most of this was put on you, in you, when you were very young.
A daddy who touched you where he shouldn't, then progressed to more intimate violations.
Brothers and uncles who partook of you on the side. A mother who chose to be blind, and blameshifted you.
And it all came to a head one day when your unique Gift manifested in your puberty—like it does for all of us—and twisted family secrets literally became the 800-pound grotesquerie in the room. Out in the open, for everyone—neighbours, strangers—to witness. Your monster, a one-time manifestation of a hideous, dangerous imaginary friend. It's not unheard of to have one-time manifestations of imaginary friends for some as their Gift. But yours-yours had to be put down.
A little bit of your imaginary friend stayed with you, and a little bit of you died with it, and a little bit of the ability remained—like an outie belly button to remind one of a past connection. Enough to make your dreams, sometimes, a problematic thing.
It shook the family to its core; no-one, nothing was the same again, was it mother, I want to ask. Not for you, for sure.
It taught you a lesson you passed along to me, saying to me with urgency, more than once, from the time I was young, your nails digging into the pale skin of my forearms, urging me to look into your eyes—or while I tucked you in after saving you from your nightmares—about men: "Always make sure," you warned, "that they love you more than you love them."
"Yes, Mother," I would reply, my own urgency increasing with understanding and age, and you would search my eyes, and finally let go, satisfied.
My eyes go now to the picture of my great-grandfather. I wonder about him, my past. I look back to you. I wonder about you, my present.
"Do you still think I am your blessing?" I ask you.
You pause for a moment, the look in your dark eyes—dark like mine—faraway; pain crosses your expression for a moment. Some memory. Then you look me directly in the eye.
"Yes." You give a smile that seems fragile, lest some emotion from others, or some happenstance, have more right to exist than it.
Yes, it was a blessing that your daughter can walk through dreams unscathed and help you heal from yours.
You see me smile at you. Your smile gains confidence, draws strength.
I rise from the table, give you a quick hug and head out for work.
The familiar smell of books and paper, of leather upholstery, of coffee when someone walks by.
Memories of waiting rooms, of office interiors, of tests and examinations.
Your loose, blonde bun.
Your entrance into your office, the hallway clack of high heels muted by contact with carpet, signals the end of my picking at my black sleeves.
Our eyes meet.
You smile down at me past your glasses as you walk to your desk, a handful of files in hand. You plop down in your leather office chair, plop down the files, plop your hands into your lap with a sound of satisfaction, and look at me, your smile broadening.
"So. How are you?" you ask me.
"About the same," I tell you.
You put a thoughtful finger to your chin. "Hm. About ... the ... same. So there's something going on you don't quite want to talk about."
You receive confirmation by my uncomfortable expression. Of course you know that; not only does your Gift allow you to get the gist of people's emotions, you taught me to say the very thing, to counter the torn feeling I got inside when feeling obliged to be immediately honest, yet not wanting to divulge.
You incline your head. "How's your mother?" you ask me gently, softer.
"She had a nightmare."
You nod thoughtfully. "Aha." You treated my mother, knew everything. When my Gift manifested you saw an opportunity to have me work here at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, and to eventually work under you.
"How is she?" you ask seriously.
"She's alright," I say, crossing my legs nervously in the leather couch. "A bit ashamed, I think, but mostly none the worse for wear."
"Mm. Reassure her more," you say, your elbow on your desk, your chin cradled between thumb and forefinger. You tap the pen you hold thoughtfully. "Okay. The reason I called you to my office is because I have an opportunity."
"Oh?"
You continue, letting me know that someone's contacted the department for help in a certain matter. That it would seem someone's son has been in an accident and has been in a coma.
"It would present a unique opportunity for you to exercise your abilities. You'd be paid handsomely, of course, but you'd have to check in with me rather than come here every day. What say you?"
"Sure," I say. "Why not."
Your eyes light up. "Great!" You perk up in your seat. "Here's his card," you say, searching for it, pen still in hand, "and he'd like you to contact him as soon as possible." You cross the office to hand it to me.
You study me, leaning on one hip, as I study the card.
"Isn't it great?" you say when I look up.
I look to the card again in my hand. Unbridled curiosity. Freedom to apply my Gift in a manner not done before. Uncertain outcome.
"Yeah ..." I say obligingly, not quite sure what to think.
The antiseptic brightness of the hospital walls.
The smell of disinfectant, of iodine.
The beeping of electronic monitors.
You look elegant in your high-end designer duds, like the cover of a menswear catalog. You speak loftily, with the soft affectations of those to the manor born. The room is in a special quarter of the hospital, the best care money can buy. But science cannot help your son.
The mind still has unexplored territory in this day and age, you tell me. Your wife, your high-end designer counterpart, sits watchfully by the bed, holding your son's hand, fashionable glasses perched atop her head, caressing his dark hair, his cheek.
Above your son's bearded face, the air is different. Like the shimmer above a road in the heat of summer. Images flit in and out of view, like gossamer in the air, like smoke.
"His Gift," you inform me. "He dreams. Not so much right now, but ..."
"You know how we know that people in comas can still hear what we say ..." your wife starts.
"That's why we originally wanted Gabriel Shofarnum," you interject, "what with his power over words ..." You shake your head. Your wife winces.
"Well," your wife continues, "sometimes his dreams show up," she points. "There."
You look to me.
"So, do you think you can help?" you ask.
"This is unexplored country for me," I tell you.
You lean against the wall and look to your son. Worry treks its path across your features, then you gain a determined look.
"Whatever it takes," I hear you mutter under your breath.
Then you seem to remember I am there. "Shall we begin?"
You watch me incline my head obligingly, uncross my legs and walk over to your son, your eyes bright with anticipation. Your wife moves reluctantly away.
I sit on the bed next to your son. "I suggest starting out gently," I advise the two of you, my eyes never leaving his features. "Perhaps an introduction, and some talk. Let him get used to the sound of my voice, so my entry into his space isn't shocking or abrupt."
"Sounds good," you say. Both of your eyes are on me, I can tell.
I take a breath. I say to your son, "Hello, Damien. My name's Sarah ..."
The overhead television in your room, playing your favourite shows.
The insufferable scent of your mother's perfume.
The quiet, pervasive tension; of wondering, of waiting.
Your parents watch as with each visit I tell you more about myself, talk about current events, the weather, even read passages from your various favourite books to you. They soon trust me to visit you by myself. I proceed from then on with my obligations to your recovery alone. I tell your parents and my supervisor at work how each visit goes.
I try entering your dreams. The first attempts are fruitless and only consist of me wandering, lost, trying to find you: all ghostly silk sensations that make one look over one's shoulder, and smoke.
Then, one day ...
I lie next to you, me all in black versus your hospital pattern whites, a blanket in blue, your favourite colour, lovingly laid on you. I say that I am entering your dreams into your ear.
At first it is like usual; time and space suspended, like walking through a movie in progress all at once, painted in cotton-soft colours. Then I see you; or you realize I am there.
You are taller, slightly more gaunt, with no dark beard, a little paler, and less substantial than your real self.
"Hello," I say to you.
You start drifting over to me, then you are there in an instant. It's disorienting.
"Who are you?" you ask.
"I'm Sarah," I say. "I've been talking to you."
The expressions on your face flicker and change in an instant, like television images when one changes channels on the remote.
"Sarah," I hear you say, but your lips do not move. "Sarah ..." Your face flicks to a frowning expression for a moment, then back. A smile flickers onto your expression, and your lips move. "I heard you."
Your parents' efforts were not in vain.
I smile at you; we talk.
The reality of closed eyes, the illusion of brushed shoulders, bumped legs.
The scent of home, the taste of heritage, the touch of friendship.
The yearning for connection.
You tell me that you're hungry for oranges, your favourite fruit; that you miss them. I fashion an orange pomander at home, all stuffed with cloves, and bring it to your hospital bed, leaving it on the nightstand.
I tell you of my deepest wishes; how I had a great-grandfather who was black, and how he came from the Caribbean, and how my great-grandmother's family owned a plantation and they got together after emancipation, and how I also had a great-grandmother who was Carib. How I have a picture of the great-grandfather but not of the great-grandmother. I tell you how I would like to visit the Caribbean and see where they lived someday. That I would love to meet them, but that sort of thing was beyond what I could afford; people whose Gift allowed them to visit points in the past did not do their work for free.
You smell of oranges and cloves, and I say out loud you must like my gift of the pomander; at least something is getting to you. You look confused.
"Well, Damien," I say eventually, "time for me to go."
Expressions don't flit on your face; I actually see your face move. Your expression droops, unhappy.
"Why do you have to go?" I see you ask.
"Because here is not real, Damien," I tell you. "This is not real. What is real is that I will get up from beside you and you will not be awake. Come with me," I say. "Wake up."
I think I am losing you. Warring emotions vie for dominance, flicking on and off your face.
"Damien," I say, "I don't have to go if you wake up. I won't go anywhere."
I leave your dreams, and rise from beside you on the hospital bed.
"I'm right here next to you, Damien," I say into your ear as if you are simply sleeping. "Time to wake up, Damien. Open your eyes. Wake up."
I wait. And wait. The electronic monitors beep out the passage of time, they beep out your heartbeat.
My shoulders slump.
I turn around and head home.
Conversations that go on and on that we don't want to end.
Our words trailing off as we get lost in each other's eyes.
The butterflies in my stomach, the catch in my throat.
"Well, Damien, it's time for me to go ..."
I feel a solid, warm hand take a strong hold of my arm. I look from your arm to your face.
"I know you don't want to go."
Why am I such an open book? Is he taking advantage of me? I wonder.
Always make sure, my mother warned me, that they love you more than you love them ...
"I'm getting quite fond of you," you say to me in a tone that makes me ache, "perhaps ... more than that. Something's ... not quite right when you're gone." Your lips are moving. I can't bear the expression on your face, the longing I see in your eyes, because I can feel the same within me.
I don't resist you.
Shared breath.
Hungry lips.
Taut muscle under slick skin.
It all feels real. You feel real. You hold me close, a firm, tangible thing in this insubstantial world. Your voice is everywhere, all around me. You're inside me. Your expression flits from exertion to eyes that can devour me whole to being carried away by pleasure. You thrust. You strain. You are spent. The bed we lay on is softer than cotton fluff, the white fabric hanging from the bedposts are whispers in the night. Your kiss tastes of orange peels and cinnamon spice. You make me sigh, but soon I am out of the bed, so like your own in real life. Your bedroom window is there next to me; I can look out, but I know this room hangs in a void. Your thinking is not beyond this space.
In the span of a thought, you are next to me. "What's wrong?"
"This is," I tell you. I stare out at the still scene outside your window, like a halted film frame.
The firm warmth of your arm around my waist almost makes me forget where I am, almost makes me go back on my decision.
Obligations.
I have a duty, an obligation to you, yet here I am, putting myself first. My heart has cashed a cheque my life can't cash.
My head leans back into you for a moment. "No," I say, an ache in my throat, "I must go. I crossed a line. We can't ... do this again."
I rise from the hospital bed; I look down at myself. Suddenly having clothes on again shocks me. I look about frantically to see if I have been seen, if anyone has witnessed your dreaming on display; no one is in the hall. I escape being seen, anger, losing my job, and god knows what else by blind luck.
When it is time to check in with your parents I tell them that it doesn't seem advisable that I continue entering your dreams, that you reject my presence and react better to my talking. I say the same to my superior at work.
I spend the rest of the day and night almost literally looking over my shoulder.
Deception's tangled weave: platitudes, furtive smiles, implied trust.
Shimmering dream images and roiling clouds.
Fear, vigilance, and sorrow as uneasy bedmates.
"His dreams are darker now," your mother tells me worriedly. "Did your visits upset him, or is he beginning to realize?"
"I think he is beginning to realize," I tell your mother, biting my lip. "It has to sink in. It will take time."
"Time, time ..." your father says pensively. "Sometimes we're not aware of it passing, sometimes it seems to go on forever. What is it like, in there, for him?"
"Maybe one day he'll be able to answer that," I'm able to say to your parents, honestly, softly. "Maybe one day we'll be able to control it."
Your parents nod thoughtfully, watching you on the bed. We all do.
My obligation to your recovery hangs heavy in my heart. My betrayal of that obligation hovers over me, storm clouds casting chill shadows.
I pray they will not find out the truth. About us.
Antithesis entering gracefully, shattering my all.
The real visit, the dream-fuelled vigil.
Heart-rending tearing no machine can monitor.
Someone new comes to see you.
On my watch.
She's dressed like your parents, understated, high-end elegance. Even her walk speaks of class.
I'm dressed in whatever I can find, all in black.
"Are you the person who is helping my Damien to wake up?" she asks.
"Yes," I tell her.
Her face breaks out into an open smile. She is beautiful.
I am not happy with that.
She extends a hand out. "Delia," she says to me.
"Sarah."
She walks over to you, sits beside you on the bed. Caresses your dark hair. Your face. "So, he can hear what we say?"
"That's the general knowledge, yes," I tell her.
"I should have come earlier," she murmurs sadly. "But I just couldn't. I couldn't bear to see him like this."
My hands tighten, curling around my chair's armrests.
I could have.
I would have.
"I'm sorry, Damien," she says brokenly to you. "I'm so sorry."
My teeth clench. Nervousness and fear vie for dominance in my insides.
She composes herself. "But I'm here now. I'm here. You hear me, Damien?" she says, leaning her blonde head in to study your features. "I'm here." She kisses your face, her tears crystal beads on your dark beard.
"I'll ... leave the two of you alone," I say.
I rise from my seat. She doesn't see that my hands are tight fists, nails biting into my palms.
Days.
Months.
Years.
How long will it take, take for you to wake? It's been days. It's been several weeks, too. We haven't crossed the threshold of months and years yet.
I sit beside you.
I sit with you.
I talk to you.
I wait for you.
More than inconstant Delia. More than your parents, who lean the burden and obligation of companionship onto me.
I can't admit to my feelings for you.
I owe you.
Have I hurt you?
Damaged you irreparably?
"Sometimes," your girlfriend had said with a gentle smile, once when she visited, "I see you."
My heart had clenched at that. "What did you see?"
"Just you. Like you usually are, all dressed in black." She eyed my clothes and gave a polite smile. "All alone. His parents thought they saw you, too, once or twice. A fleeting image."
It was then that I had panicked. Should I be preparing for the worst, be saving my career, my livelihood, my reputation—my all—and be leaving? Or bearing the responsibility bravely and be staying?
I'm still deciding. In the meantime. I wait.
For you.
Being dragged back to the scene of my sin, lead weights on my soul.
Shimmering, dark dream manifestations rotting over and over again like fruit.
Chickens coming home to roost.
Your parents were called by the hospital. They called me.
I meet them, and your girlfriend, in your room. Two nurses are present, busy checking up on you.
The two nurses were right; something was wrong. You could even feel it in the air.
"I think the only thing we can do is look to you for aid in this," your father says. "To do something."
All eyes are on me. Here was where all my lies would have me undone. I had tried—desperately—to stay back, to do what I could from a distance, to minimize my damage. For my sake—not to mention yours—I dared not go back in. Could not go back in. My skin pales, my palms become clammy.
"Only you can go in there and help."
"That's what we're paying you for," adds your mother.
Obligations.
I take a shuddering breath. Bracing my shoulders, I come to your side and lay next to you on the bed. "Damien, I am coming in," I say into your ear.
Within your world, I come to myself with a lurch—as though I'd lost my breath. But of course I'm unaffected by dreams here. There's no breath.
I rub my arms; for some reason I sense, rather than am affected by, an all-pervading chill.
The ground is a dark mass that goes to the horizon; everywhere, hanging low, are soot-coloured clouds.
And then we are there, the two of us, me standing before you, you sitting cross-legged on the mass that stretches to the horizon, your head in your hands.
I feel grief and sorrow. I'd made a real connection to your actual person. I'd upset the balance of your world. You were questioning your reality—which, ordinarily, could lead to good results—but things were going alarmingly in the wrong direction.
It's my fault.
Perhaps I am no better than Delia; I'm no good for you. I'll leave as soon as my work is over.
You look up at me, your eyes like roiling clouds.
"Why did you leave me?"
"I ... I came to help. As a professional. I had ... obligations. Things went too far. You ended up getting hurt. That was not the plan. I'm sorry."
You scowled, your features moving with emotion. "You're not real ... this isn't affecting you ..."
Then everything is dark and the world seems to spin, and I realize what is happening; a formless, eternal void is shaping.
Already I could feel it trying to eat away at me. Already, I could feel my soul shrivel. It will be easy for me, for us who are awake, to slip back into a dreamless sleep. But for you, there was no sleep now, only an endless waking.
I move unscathed to the heart of the void, to the spot where everything was pulled, to where everything was spinning away.
You're there, your body coiled around my name. The void that was being created held neither light nor darkness; you endlessly shrieked words that no one could hear, listened for sounds that would not come. In your desperation, I see you grab the tail end of your existence and, like a starving snake, begin to devour yourself whole in an effort to find an answer, to find food for your soul.
"I am real," I tell you at the top of my voice. "This ..." I gesture desperately around me, "isn't."
I realize this would require more of me; it would require truth.
I dare, here, to put myself, my heart, first.
"Damien," I yell. "Damien! I have a confession to make. I'll tell you the truth. I should have said this from the start. I have feelings for you. Probably love. Do you hear me? I feel the same way!"
I reach for you, into the heart of you. Lightning flickers between our fingers. I grab hold of your hand. Flaring white light stabs with blinding brilliance.
Then you are there, before me again.
There's no moon, no stars, there's no sun, yet it's not night. The air and sky around us are a muted pink, like the reflection of a sunset.
Something is working within you; various emotions flick into and out of existence on your face once more.
Sarah ...
"Damien ...?"
Sarah ...
Sarah!
Something shakes me. And I am back in the hospital, a stomach-lurching shift, rising up from the bed. A nurse is beside me. An electronic monitor is beeping maddeningly.
Your room is a beehive of activity. Everyone is looking at the display of your heart rate monitor.
"What does this mean? Is it a change?"
My heart goes into my throat.
"Well, his heart rate is up," one nurse says. "Something's going on in there."
"Is it dangerous?" your mother asks frantically.
"No," another nurse answers. "He's not going to have a heart attack. Just that ... something's happening."
My hands reach to my face.
"We'll just have to see," the first nurse says. "For right now, we just stay back and watch."
I may never forgive myself.
The capriciousness of your every breath, heartbeat, every moment, every monitor beep.
Footsteps on the hospital floor of doctors coming, whispering to each other, leaving.
Endless waiting.
Your heartbeat on the monitor slows down. Your chest goes to a slow, regular rhythm.
Everyone speculates. "Well, at least it's down to normal," one nurse comments. They look at the electronic monitors one last time, and one leaves the room.
Then all eyes turn to me again.
My jaw clenches.
"What do you think's going on?" the remaining nurse asks.
I shake my head. "I ... don't know."
All eyes go to you. "Well, I wouldn't recommend going back in there in any event," the nurse murmured. "Make sure things stay stable." Then she walks out.
Your parents and your girlfriend gather around you for a while; I stay with my back against the wall. Then they find seats, to stay vigil.
Long, torturous minutes pass.
The heart monitor goes up momentarily. That brings everyone to attention.
Then, unbelievably, your eyes slowly open. You blink furiously.
There's a strangled cry from your mother, and your father saying to her no, no, and other inaudible words; she holds back.
You look around. You feel your blanket. Touch your beard.
You try to speak, your voice making inarticulate sounds.
"Paper," your father says, his voice choked with emotion. "Get him something to write on!" A nurse hurries to comply.
Slowly, you try to sit up.
Now your mother can't contain herself; she rushes to your side. Your girlfriend follows. Your father walks over slowly, stunned. "We did it," he says, as if testing the words on his tongue. "I don't think I really believed it until now ..."
But for all the fussing and attention your mother and girlfriend give, and the mostly silent wonder of your father, your eyes never move from one thing: me.
Eventually you move them aside and attempt to get closer to me. It becomes apparent to everyone that your attention is focused on me; I resist the urge to stare at my shoes. My cheeks burn.
"Sarah?" you write, straining past your family to show me the paper. "Please don't go. You said you didn't have to go if I woke up, that you won't go anywhere."
My cheeks flush bright red.
Your mother's eyes narrow.
Delia's voice is a sibilant threat. "Sarah. What have you done to him?"
"She has done nothing to me," you write in angry strokes, and you alarm everyone with your attempts to get off the bed. When you almost fall—insistent on no help—you resign yourself to sitting on the side of the bed.
"Come," I think you try to say, beckoning me closer.
I nervously walk from across the room, past suspicious eyes, to stand before you. I pick nervously at my long black sleeves. You take hold of my hands and put them in your own. I can stare no place but down, at my black pants, my black shoes, your white patterned hospital gown, your darkly-haired shins, your knees.
"Look at me," your paper says, and you hold it low for me to see; you try and say the words, your voice getting stronger. "Please. I've been through heaven and hell to be able to see your face." I feel your fingertips on my chin.
I let you lift my chin. Dark eyes into dark eyes. I can't stand it.
"Anyone can be around in fair weather," I see you write. "It takes a true soul to walk headlong into the torrential shadows, and walk with others in the valley of the shadow of death."
I hear a strangled sob behind me. I hear your mother's voice in hushed, angry murmurs, and your father's in annoyed, final tones, quieting her down.
My lips move wordlessly.
You write again.
The words say, and I hear you manage to croak, "I ... am ... yours."
I think I hear another sob. Someone rushes out of the room. I think I may have gasped. All I can see is your face, your eyes full of an emotion I was trying to quell within myself; love.
The splash of the waves, the feel of sand between the toes and underfoot.
The scent of salt on the skin, and of lush foliage.
The hot, hot sun.
I'm wearing ... something bright. No black at all. Something ... lively.
I'm smiling.
I'm happy, hopeful.
I'm finally putting myself first, right now. No obligations to Mother, to aiding patients at work, not even to Damien. This is for me.
I'm also about to be doing something for myself. Something Damien's making possible.
I'm with someone who cares about me. And I care about him just as much. Really. A notion that would make my mother apprehensive. I remember my mother's warning: Always make sure that they love you more than you love them ...; but I have grown into my own since then.
I'm soaking it all in, enjoying it all, and Damien tells me it's time. I walk to meet him where the sand ends and lush tropical foliage begins. Sidestepping tall coconut trees, we enter our rental car. We drive a two-lane road, foliage on all sides, till we arrive to meet Eric. Eric, who Damien had found; Eric, whose passage Damien had paid to be here; Eric, who'll perform a minor miracle.
I pass the old photograph to Eric's pale, ringed fingers.
"Now, hold on," he says to us.
Damien and I hold hands.
Eric concentrates. The air becomes thick, like a miasma, around us. It pulsates; the bright tropical colours of our surroundings become muted. Then, like a labouring mother, the air births us, and we are through.
And there you are. Unfaded and alive.
The man taking your picture is shocked at our sudden appearance. You are too, but you're staring at me, your eyes twinkling with a smile, cutlass in hand, in red short pants, near a breadfruit tree.
"Yuh eyes dark, yuh hair dark, but you look like her ... who are you?" you ask me, your face full of pepper-and-salt beard, full of wonder.
"Who do I look like?" I ask.
"My chirren mother cousin," he says. "You her daughter?"
I'm so excited that hearing I look like an ancestor makes me even more so. All I can do is grin from ear to ear. Then I realize I haven't introduced myself.
"You're my great-grandfather," I tell you.
Your brown eyes widen in amazement. I say to you, "Hello. My name's Sarah."
Originally published in UnCommon Minds: A Collection of AIs, Dreamwalkers, and Other Psychic Mysteries (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, 2017)
