A Toast to Starry Nights (13 page)

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Dread soaked deeper into my bones, to
the quivering masses of marrow hidden inside.

What was it down there? What pounded
against that door, rattling it on its hinges? I knew I wanted out from the cold
earthen walls that suddenly seemed bereft of oxygen.

I stepped down to the sixth stair with
courage I scraped up from a hidden reserve somewhere deep inside. Both feet
made contact with the step.

Cool.

I did it.

Thump.

Thump.

Thu--

Heart pounded harder as the thumping got
cut off and something faint took its place.

My ears sharpened. I tried to discern
what exactly it was polluting the air with foulness.

A sickening lurch to my stomach shook my
innards as the sound registered in my mind.

It was a combination of wailing and
deep, mournful moaning. The sound of physical and emotional pain of the deepest
kind. Soul-deep anguish. Heartbreak.

The sound triggered something far inside
and tears welled. My heart felt leaden.

I wanted out of this black pit of
despair.

Fingers dug into the dirt walls as
leaden legs propelled me up towards freedom.

I made my escape.

Up the steps and finally past the
moss-covered boulders shadowed with dusk, I was safe from what lurked in the
dark of my mind.

The forest was gone, replaced by black
silk satin.

Satin eye mask got tore off, flung back
into the nightstand drawer. Shaken like Bond's martini and queasy to boot... I
never anticipated it being hard. I possess a fertile imagination. Retreating
into a semi-lucid daydream state wasn't difficult in the least for me. But
exploring the dark recesses of my mind and possible past life, now that was
hard.

I arose from the bed and went into the
bathroom. After I relieved myself, I washed hands and splashed cold water on my
face. The compulsive urge to wash and rewash my hands to remove invisible
imaginary dirt from beneath my nails lurked. Made my way back to the bedroom,
sinking into the ultra-plush white carpet with each step. I sat cross-legged in
the bed's center, elbows on knees while I contemplated the unsettling sensation
washing around my brain pan.

It's all in my imagination, right?

I'm just psyching myself out.

It's not real.

Isn't it?

Bit my lip and heaved a sigh. Then I did
the unthinkable.

I picked up my cell and called Willow.

Her voice echoed into my ear.

“Hello?”

“Willow?” My nervous, twitching foot put
Thumper to shame.

“Kaylis, you ok? You sound upset.”

Uh, yeah. My mind is creeping me out,
Mom
.
Thanks for noticing.

“I have a question about the past life
regression stuff...” My voice didn't want to leave my throat. Awkward is a mild
way to describe how I felt. I swear upon my happy thoughts, the bonding with
Willow comment I made to Dmitri was facetious in nature. There wasn't any real
intention to ever actually have a conversation of this nature with her.

Yet here I am.

My delightfully spacey maternal unit's
voice changed from concerned to giddy. “Oh, yes? Ask away. I'm so thrilled
you're exploring this, I really am, Kaylis. You are doing a great job of
channeling your inner Klingon.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and stifled a
sigh in hopes she'd manage to get back on tangent. Willow was not making this
easy. And just one conversation without mention of Star Trek and its clan of
ridged-brow warriors would be just nifty.

“Umm, the first time you did the uh,
homework for the regression... did you have anything kinda, um, weird happen?”

“Weird? What's your definition of
weird
?”

“Weird as in watery steps or mysterious,
ominous sounds?” My other foot twitched as I recalled the banshee-like keening.
I made those dancing feet obey my dictate of never showing fear.

“Ominous?”

I felt self-conscious. “Yes, ominous.
Neilsinhaur is having me do a meditation of walking down stairs, and at the
bottom is the door to my past life... well tonight there was thumping and the
sound of wailing. And moaning. Really creeped me out.”

She heaved an impatient sigh. “You're
intelligent. Did it not occur to you that if you had experienced a trauma that
got etched onto your soul it'd be a festering wound... do you really think it'd
be pleasant to explore?” She sighed again, more quiet and patient. “It will get
worse before it gets better. Just be aware of that, hun. It can't hurt you
already more than it already has, whatever it is... but if you're like me,
you'll be feeling icky for a few days before you start processing it all. You
will never forget the moment of clarity when all the pieces come together.”

That was an excellent point. Trauma is
bad. Bad trauma leaves wounds, and not taken care of, wounds fester. Whatever
was behind the door would be guaranteed to not be something all
happy-happy-joy-joy
.
While her words helped me gain perspective, the sinking feeling in my gut did
not abate much. “Thanks for the insight. So I can expect things to get all
horror-show. Super.”

“You're thinking too much, Kaylis. So,
what did you think of Dmitri's surprise paint-job?”

I appreciated the irony in her thought
pattern. “What?” Playing with paint was my gig, not his. He builds, I color.
That's the deal.

“Ohh, he must not have done it yet! Oh,
damn it. I ruined another surprise. I still feel bad for telling you about him
asking my blessing before he proposed. I have no sense of timing, although six
weeks is enough time for him to grow his stones to pop the question.”

Curiosity prickled my brain. Neurons and
synapses were firing as to what this new surprise happened to be. “Just tell
me.”

“He wrote something sweet somewhere with
stuff you can't see by light. That's all I'm saying about it. Pull my
fingernails off with red-hot pliers, but that is all I'm telling you.”

“There's a mystery afoot. I think I might
channel my inner Nancy Drew to match the Klingon and solve this interesting
quandary.”

She laughed. “Distraction is just one of
the many services I provide.”

“Indeed. Goodnight, Willow. And thanks.”

“I love you too, Kaylis.”

As much as she irked me with her
singular point of view, I love my mother, crazy as she happened to be.

And I'm starting to believe I'm proof
that crazy is genetic.

Chapter Eleven-

Distractions are nice. Dmitri's brand of
distractions tend to be tasteful, well-planned, and thus to be anticipated. I'm
not terribly keen on mysteries... but distractions are another matter.

I could ask him outright. It'd
counter-act the surprise element and turn it around on him. Or I could get all
Scooby
Doo
and solve the mystery myself. Hrm, choices.

Daphne/Velma incarnation, here I come.

Okay, clue number one: it's writing.
That automatically means flat surface and excludes clothing, art supplies and
trips to Europe. Clue two: light wouldn't help me to find it. So... dark
places. Ok. Inside the closet? No, he'd avoid any sort of situation of him
“coming out of the closet”... I looked about my darkened bedroom and nothing
caught my eye. Nothing on the walls, no lipstick-penned missive on the standing
mirror next to the dresser. Then my imagination got supercharged.

What if it were on the bathroom mirror?
When Dmitri and I moved into the house, I used to take steamy showers and etch
little love notes on the steam-frosted mirror wall for him to find. He'd do the
same. It became a game for us. Then I discovered one could wet their finger,
write a message on the dry mirror to have it magically appear during the next
steamy shower.... which means light technically isn't needed to decipher the
words. Since he was known to leave messages to me there, it seemed like a
natural first place to search.

I butt-scooted off the bed and returned
to the bathroom for the first step in my investigation. Cold tile felt good
beneath my feet. Gently, I opened the glass door to the shower and cranked it
on hot.

I waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Finally, billowing puffs of steam came
pouring forth from the enclosure.

Nothing.

No message on the glass or mirror. Just
nothing.

I am okay with being wrong. No wonderful
tender words of longing nor any sentiments of naughtiness. Yeah, I'll survive.

Dammit, maybe he
di
d write
something on the wall of the closet. Willow said that something was written
somewhere that couldn't be seen with the lights on... glow in the dark paint in
the closet would do that.

I made my way from the bathroom to the
walk-in closet located in the bedroom. Pulling clothes to the side and a touch
to the wall revealed white-latex painted walls. Nothing. Dammit. Maybe on the
inside of the door? No. Nothing. Ok, fine. I flicked the light switch. Perhaps
the glow in the dark paint needed to be recharged. If applied thin enough, it
wouldn't leave much of a tactile sensation... so maybe a brief flash of
illumination would reveal the treasure trove.

I flicked the light off and hoped to see
what was hidden.

Nada.

Neurotransmitters blazed through my
gray-matter. Where would he hide his missive from me? Linen closet? That could
be it. Hidden, yet easily accessible... That could be it, indeed.

From closet to closet. I swung open the
door to the linen closet and looked for the tell-tale sign of letter-shaped
smears of clear paint in the inside of the door.

Dammit.

Ok. Let's re-evaluate, shall we? Nothing
in the bathroom, walk-in or linen closet. Workshop? Would he have decorated my
castle of crafting with his own banner? Oh the possibilities.

But wait.

I told him I was going to bed. Vast
majority of the time I mean it. Perhaps I could pass undetected, ninja-like in
the summer darkness. Perhaps he wouldn't hear me open and close the door,
stealthy ninja that I would like to be. Maybe, just maybe, all those World War
II beach landings by the United States Marine Corps in the South Pacific
Theater would hold him in such enthrall that he'd be oblivious to me moving
ghost-like in the background. Then again, the man is part T-Rex. He, like the
extinct theropod, possesses a visual acuity based on movement. NASCAR, sports
and anything that looks nice while in motion gets the attention, consciously or
not.

I decided upon the brazen approach.
Screw my inner ninja.

Gee, I feel thirsty. A glass of water
sure sounds refreshing.

That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

I took a deep breath, opened the bedroom
door and took a peep out to ascertain Dmitri's location. He was still
comfortable on the couch with his back to me and I could see his bare feet
crossed on the coffee table. He propped his elbow on the couch arm and held the
mostly-empty pint grasped in his hand. Beyond him, the TV blazed artillery fire
and narration.

Down the hall I tread with as much
ninja-like grace I could muster, making a bee-line for the kitchen. The T-Rex
was still occupied with Marines kicking ass. He gave no indication of hearing
the tiny slap-slap sounds my feet made on the hardwood floor.

I made it to the kitchen, passing only a
few feet behind my beloved T-Rex. I walked around the island and reached the
cupboard that contained glasses and tumblers for its innards. The door swung
open with nary a creak. A subtle glance over my shoulder revealed him
completely engrossed in the program. I reached in and pulled out a high ball
glass. With nearly-ninja-like grace, I sidled to the refrigerator and lined the
glass up with the tap-awakening button of power. I smirked, jolly that he
hadn't noticed me yet. Maybe I
do
have a touch of the Inner Ninja inside.

Dear History Channel, you rawk with your
engrossing programs. Thank you.

Ha ha ha! I might actually pull off my
recon mission without unwanted attention! But in the way details make
themselves known in order to distort my version of reality, the grinding sound
of the ice dispenser at work blasted noise from my vicinity.

Shit.

Cover blown.

The T-Rex's head swung around and he
leveled me in his predatory glare.

I smiled sheepishly in his direction as
I tapped a finger against the dispenser mode-selection button. “Sorry. Thought
I pushed the water button, not crushed ice.”

Dmitri's gaze softened and he asked,
“Couldn't sleep?”