A Toast to Starry Nights (12 page)

“It's because you're a goth at heart,
hun. I accepted it long ago. Give it a try. Embrace your inner goth, Dmitri.
Its not just for seventeen year olds anymore. Jet pulls off the corporate goth
librarian look really well. Ooh! Did I tell you she got switched from Reference
to the Children's section?”

Dmitri howled with laughter. “You are
fucking with me....right?”

“Oh no. No joke... she's picked up a
Willow-like habit for after work... it does enhance her calm because of how she
bottles her rampant use of 'fuck' and it's variations now. She used to mutter
them under her breath, but now I'm just amazed her head hasn't exploded yet.”

“She's banned from walking around with
liquor if wearing a tiny bikini with the shot glass tucked between her tits. I
realize she was trying to help people get sociable, but never again. She's to
leave my rye whiskey alone, too. In fact, she can bring her own bottle. I don't
know how such a slim female can consume so much alcohol but she goes for broke
when it comes party time. She doesn't have to bring a salad or side dish.
Supplying her own booze works for fine me.”

“Bali.”

“Huh?”

“She learned to pound alcohol like that
because she grew up partying in Bali. Her dad was a Kuta Cowboy. A gigolo. Her
mom got knocked up when she vacationed there. Ended up going ex-pat... Because
her mom was Caucasian, she got into the bars and clubs for free. She grew up
boozing. She didn't come stateside until she was sixteen... by then, she'd been
living a hard-partying rock star life for at least three years. She's vague on
those details and I'm pretty sure her blacking out is partially to blame.”

“Her father is a prostitute?” I don't
think I'd ever seen Dmitri's eyebrows hiked that high before. I'm not sure if
the thought of Jet, learned yet flamboyant that she was, finally got explained
that half her genetic material was provided by a sex worker.

“Was. Died when she was eight. He had no
influence in her life anyhow. For all intents and purposes she was raised
American... just her suburb was Bali instead of Rocklin.”

“I see... Still, no shot glass and
bikini combo. There is no negotiation on this topic, should she argue.”

“She won't argue. In fact, Jet's being
extra nice. Her motive is that if she's nice to me, I'll take her to
The
French Laundry
with this advance she assumes I'm going to receive.”

“French Laundry? What's that, fancy
dry-cleaner?”

“Food porn in wine country...” I
drawled. His eyebrows shot up even higher at the mention of
porn
.

“Food porn? She's got a new fetish and
wants to drag you along to foot the bill?”

“No. It's being pretentious and seeing
if a one-thousand dollar bottle of wine tastes as good as a four hundred dollar
bottle and so forth. Through nine courses.”

“Oooh. I take it rotted milk will be
involved?” A crease formed between his eyes as his brow wrinkled in horror.

Jet and I have a thing for stinky
cheese. As we went over my manuscript to tighten it up, we'd snack on the most
atrocious smelling fromage we could find. To go along with the wine, of course.
Dmitri would leave because he couldn't handle watching us eat mold and gooey
good stuff reminiscent of gym socks and rotten potatoes. Our preferred method
of imbibing was with the cheese slathered on a baguette, wheat crackers or
slices of apple. His reaction to blackberry honey drizzled on Valdeon atop a
whole wheat cracker was fabulous. Utter repulsion at the looks of bliss Jet and
I exhibited. We sighed and gasped like groupies getting a whiff of sweat off a
gladiator. Good times.

“Hopefully. I would love to see what he
does with cheese. It'd be like a wet-dream type of good...” I moaned in delight
at the thought of stinky cheese marvelously wrought by magic to tickle my
senses.

“That's disgusting, Kaylis. Knock it
off.” Dmitri's expression of abhorrence almost made me feel ashamed.

“Don't be jealous, Dmitri. You rock my
socks like that too. And you're free to me, which is a bonus.”

“Is that a nice way of saying I'm
cheap?”

I scoffed. “You, cheap? I don't think
you know the meaning of the word, Mr. Silver Spoon up the Arse.”

He laughed. “Okay, not cheap. Just a
bonus to you. Got it.”

“You're awesome. It makes up for your
few deficiencies... let's leave it at that.”

“Who are you kidding? I'm perfect.”

“Perfectly arrogant on occasion, yes, I
agree.”

“You get lippy when you have something
on your mind.” Dmitri's blue eyes pierced me. “You haven't talked about your
visit to the shrink. I haven't even seen you do the Cabbage Patch as your
celebratory happy dance that you secured a non-alien-lovechild-inspired
wedding.”

He's right. It'd been two days since I
saw Dr. Neilsinhaur. For the past two nights, I'd did my homework assignment
without telling him. The idea of knowing and possibly loving Dmitri in a past
life intrigued me. If there were any basis of Neilsinhaur's beliefs, then the
sensation of kindred I have with Jet and Dmitri makes sense. I found the
thought oddly comforting.

“No, I haven't talked about it. All he
and I discussed were Mike and you, how I met you both and stuff like that.”

“I see. Did you tell him that when you
puked on me, that the feeling was the same as when you saw Mike?”

“Yes. According to him, we'll start
getting into the past life regression stuff at my next session.”

“So you're going to go again?” He looked
surprised

“I already told you that I wanted to get
to the bottom of why I did what I did... and I meant it. If possible, I'd
rather not heave chunks on you...unless you deserved it. And it'll finally give
me and Willow something to bond about. Perhaps I was Jane Grey too.” I gave a
nervous chuckle. “Or Cleopatra and you, some strapping Roman conqueror in their
equivalent of short-shorts.”

He gave a bark of laughter and a smirk
of appreciation. “Then you'll kick ass, Kaylis. That's just what you do. You
say Roman conqueror.... what you mean is Roman soldier doing the quick-time
march like in History of the World. Madeline Kahn has nothing on you.”

I smiled. Very few things made me feel
all warm and fuzzy as when Dmitri reaffirmed my ass-kicking abilities. Still
disturbed from thinking about all that I told Neilsinhaur about Mike and his
deeds, the affirmation helped to soothe the haunting memories. “The good doctor
suggested that people I know and am close to in this life were likely people I
knew in a past life.”

“Wonder how close we were back then.” He
stated it as if a question based on solid fact.

“You believe in past lives?” This wasn't
something he and I ever discussed before. With him being the incredibly logical
type, I assumed he wasn't a follower of that particular camp.

“I don't discount the possibility.”

It's easy to get caught up in fanciful
notions, I admit. The lurid bodice-ripped covers of romance novels belonging to
Willow numbering into the hundreds flashed before my eyes. Dmitri and I caught
in a torrid, yet forbidden embrace... he in a poofy poet's shirt and tight
breeches and I, in the required bodice and chemise combo barely covering my
bosom, legs bared to the thigh... nice mind-candy, but whether it actually
happened once upon a time was up for debate.

I prefer fact and substantiated answers.
Past life regression could be one of two things from my point of view. It could
be a delusion, induced by either the person undergoing the mental trip who then
creates things based off various media viewed previously … or by the person
guiding the trip, by using a method that subtly influences the client into
following a path laid by the guide. The second thing it could be is real,
although this seemed less likely. Neilsinhaur's method of going down stairs
intrigued me. Last night the third stair down shimmered like water when I
mentally stepped on it during homework. The fourth step did not ripple, but
when I mentally turned around to walk back up, number three waved and undulated
again. Trippy.

Sleep couldn't happen soon enough for
me. I looked forward to traversing mental stairs with both a sense of
exhilaration and trepidation. I just wanted it over and done with.

I needed this chapter in my life,
closed.

Chapter Ten-

Crickets chirped as sunset poured dimmed
rose-gold light over the back yard. I stood in the kitchen unloading the
dishwasher as the summer-night lullaby entered through open windows. Dmitri sat
on the couch in the living room to watch the History Channel. If it concerned
the Marines, it got his attention. Tonight's fare happened to be the beach
landings made during World War II. He held in his hand a pint of amber ale he
crafted about six months back. This was how he tested the quality of his beer –
it had to be good with both food and on its own during television.

A final wipe of the counter top and I
knew I was ready for tonight's adventure. “I'm gonna head off to bed.”

His eyes never left the screen. “Sweet
dreams, babe. I'll try not to wake you up when I'm done watching this.”

After a cool shower I dressed in a
cotton camisole and boxers. I lay upon the bed and stared up at the canopy
Dmitri requested I leave hanging. He was quite impressed with my improvisational
use of tools and crafting supplies.

Music from the CD player washed over me.
Willow had slipped the disk into my hand when she and I dined on lunch after my
visit with Neilsinhaur. I almost choked on my Nobby Burger when I read what she
had emblazoned in sharpie on it. Celtic Trance. Imagine, if you will, Enya with
a mellow techno beat minus half the warbling vocals.

I fetched my eye mask out of the
nightstand drawer and put it on before nestling into bed. Black silk satin
blocked out all possible light. A few deep breaths and I began doing my
homework. In through nose. Hold for a count of three. Out through mouth. Inside
my body, my mind began to sink down into a place of utter relaxation.

Dawn illuminated the coniferous forest.
Uneven red-brown earth smelled of pine and dew. No sound reverberated from my
footfalls upon feathery ferns. I walked forward into the dense growth of fir
and redwood trees bereft of any fauna. Past manzanita bushes and volcanic
boulders wearing mossy coats. Behind the stone sentinels were the Stairs.

They were steep, constructed of slippery
rock and narrow. One must walk sideways down them since the width of the
staircase's entryway was slightly narrower than my shoulders. Above, the forest
suddenly dimmed with an ambush of dusk. No sound but my breathing reached my
ears. I stood at the top of the staircase and looked down into the darkened
bowels of the earth.

Six steps.

That's tonight's goal.

Back and booty against one wall, palms
against the other for balance, head down to watch my feet placement. It was
real enough in my mind that I didn't want to slip and fall. One step. Two
steps. I looked down as I paused before inching my toe down to the third step.

Was it going to ripple like a pond after
the drop of a pebble? Half in exhilaration, half in trepidation, my foot made
contact with the third stair. The mottled gray and green stone undulated
beneath me. Solid like the rock it looked, yet moved like water. A deep breath.
Down another step to stable, unmoving rock.

Okay. Two more steps then I could
scamper back towards the surface. I never considered myself claustrophobic, but
my mental staircase definitely possessed an undeniably creepy vibe that Vincent
Price probably would have appreciated.

The smooth-packed earthen walls with
tiny, hairy roots seemed much colder where they met my palms when I stepped
down to the fifth stair. It was almost pitch-black. A sense of isolation washed
over me before sound waded through the dark to haunt my ears.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

My heart raced as adrenaline exploded
through my extremities. Tingling scalp, goosebump-covered arms... I was on full
alert. The sound came echoing from the blackness of the stair's bottom with a
menacing cadence. Hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I remained
still, positive that my heart would burst through my ribcage and make it
topside before me. I tried peering down the stairs, to where Neilsinhaur
claimed the door to my past life was located. I couldn't see the hand in front
of my face, let alone where the sound came from. Dread soaked me to the bones.

What was down there?

Six steps, five completed.

I can do this.

I don't want to do this.

Ominous thumping from the dark was
creepy in a Blair Witch sort of way. I didn't like it. Not one bit. A
never-ending tempo of fist against mud, heels against floor, bodies hitting the
ground, fans thrown against the wall, punches to a closed door... thumping.

I can do this.

I can do this... quickly.

Coaxing myself was harder than I
anticipated. Did both feet have to touch the stair for it to count? Or could I
just stand with one foot on step number six and then make a hurried escape from
the unsettling recesses of my mind?