All of It (41 page)

“And in case you’re wondering,” he says, as though he can see my quizzical look, “we’ve been through a lot. We’ve lived many, many lives in many different places: twice in Paris—which, incidentally were your happiest, most contented lives—four times in the United States, and all of the rest in England—mainly around London. I don’t know why, or who chooses, or what affects the locations. Sometimes we’re rich, but more often than not we’re poor. But we always find each other. Of course, I’m already madly in love with you when we meet. The cruel twist in all this is that Will, Jo, and I remember all of our past lives. But you never do. To you, the memories are nothing more than blips of déjà vu. They come to you as flashes of intuition in your dreams. You, of course, don’t realize the significance of those glimpses. How could you? But Ronnie, all of those dreams you had, all those flashes of intuition that you chalked up to your vivid imagination—those were
real
memories. Those events actually happened in the past, exactly as you dreamt them.

“Your past also visits you in the form of your preferences and predispositions. You’ve always loved reading and playing the piano, especially after you discovered Beethoven. As a young girl, you’re athletic and prefer sports to playing with dolls. Pink lilies have always been your favorite flower and sandalwood your favorite scent. Artwork, especially my paintings, will forever intrigue you. You’ve always learned to speak French during your lifetime, even if you didn’t live in France or particularly have the need to do so. It’s just that your preoccupation with Paris is part of you. You’ve always been a talented writer and a whiz at math. All of these things you thought just came easily to you were in fact the very things you’ve
always
been good at and enjoyed. They were easy for you because deep down, you already knew them.

“Oh, and you’ve always fallen in love with me,” he chuckles wistfully. “Usually, it happens quickly—like with Will and Jo. Sometimes, though, you really make me work for it.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“And with my extreme luck, not only are you always the same gorgeous, intelligent girl, but you’re also caring, giving, and kind. You take care of everyone else before worrying about yourself. You’re confident and opinionated, which means you’ve never been one to bite your tongue or hold back. You choose your friends carefully and keep them close for life due to your sense of commitment and loyalty. And your wit and sarcasm make being around you so much fun. You have a birthmark that always appears on the left side of your back. It’s always shaped like a paw print. There’s a black speck in your right iris. The habit of licking your lips when you are in deep concentration has followed you for hundreds of years, and I cannot remember a night ever that you haven’t sighed just before you’ve fallen asleep.” He clears his throat and silence settles over me. I feel his warm breath on my ear. “And …” his voice trails off, croaky and broken. He clears his throat again and takes several deep breaths. Suddenly I don’t know if I want him to proceed. His words are filling me up and breaking my heart at the same time. Finally he clears his throat again, and then continues in a whisper, “And I love it …
all of it
.”

I feel him squeeze me closer to him. I feel him take a deep breath, I feel him swallow, and I feel his chest rise as he continues. “You’re probably wondering,” he says, after a pause, “about now how Sebastian fits into this picture. I know from the start you’ve felt a strong connection to him. Sebastian came to us in your second lifetime. It was the mid-1700s and I found you, Will, and Jo living in England. They had more money than most, since Will was a successful blacksmith. Will and Jo took in an abandoned, orphaned newborn baby two years after you were born, and they named him Sebastian. They raised him as their son and you never knew him to be anything other than your little brother. You two were very close. By the time we met you were thirteen, I was twelve, and Sebastian was eleven. Sebastian and I bonded instantly. He felt like the brother I’d never had. It’s funny—in each lifetime since then, Sebastian has been born as my own brother. He is always born on September 4th the year following my birth. He is always named Sebastian, and looks and acts like only Sebastian can. And like Will, Jo, and me, he remembers every detail of his past lives. He has always considered you his sister; he loves you very much, Ronnie. I’m sure you know that.

“I’ve saved the best for last,” he says warmly. “
Our
Phoenix
. I wish I knew what to say, or how to explain it. Phoenix is still a bit of a mystery to me. The most
beautiful, life-changing, wonderful
mystery I have come across in 600 years. I honestly don’t know where he came from.” I can almost hear the blush in his voice. “I mean, I
know
where he came from … but I was never supposed to be able to father a child. In all my childhoods, I contract a severe case of the mumps, even despite modern day vaccines, and in each lifetime I am sterile as a result. So, although you and I have had many experiences, as you once called them—
hundreds
of years of experiences—we’ve never had children. Not until now. I don’t know what was miraculously different this time, but I only hope that we are blessed with him in every lifetime to come. The thought of leaving him behind is too much to bear.

“I know how smart you are, Ronnie. By now the wheels are turning and you’re putting together all the pieces inside that lovely head of yours. Everything is starting to make sense. The way I always knew everything about you and your past even before you told me. The fact that Sebastian looked familiar to you the first time you saw him. All of your likes and dislikes and all of your dreams. I also know that you must be working through the mathematical details. I’ll lay it out for you. Will and Jo died 22 years ago, which means—taking into account their reincarnation from birth—they must be 21 years old now. No doubt they found each other young, as they always do, and have married. You are always born on October 14
^th
, and given that today is January 7th, your end is drawing near.” He inhales deeply and wipes his nose with a tissue. I feel the wetness from his tears seeping into the pillow we’re sharing. “You always pass in January, but never on the same day. You’ll be born this coming October 14th to Will and Jo, again.” His voice catches again. “It’s times like these I almost hate them for being so anxious to put their family back together. But after having Phoenix in our lives, I can no longer begrudge them. They’ll be
so
happy to see you again.” A quiet sob escapes him. He’s stroking my hair now with his free hand. The other is still gently clutching mine. “Inevitably, I’ll be born to my new parents the following November 11th, and Sebastian will come along the following September 4th. The flip side to our re-birth is, of course, that this life must come to an end. We know it’s coming which, in the past, has somehow made it easier to prepare for. I know that probably sounds strange, but without you, life is
lifeless
. During our time apart I think of nothing else, except being with you again. Poor Sebastian is lost when we’re both gone. I feel sorry for him. He always has to finish out the last year alone. I think that’s why he never lets anyone else into his life for long; it’s too painful for him to lose them. And he knows loss better than any of us.

“The one variable this time around is, of course, our son. The thought of Phoenix losing both of us over the next year, the thought of leaving him alone, is almost unspeakable. I promise to make the most of my last year with him. And then, Sebastian will watch over him after I’m gone. We’ve already talked about it at length. And he will make sure that Sunny and Pedro are there for Phoenix when his time comes to an end.” Dimitri sobs silently as the weight of the situation bears down on him. His body shudders next to mine. I wish I could comfort him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, because after hearing everything that he’s shared with me I know that it will be okay. Everything makes sense now.

It’s then that I hear footsteps enter the room. It’s Phoenix. I would recognize his relaxed gait anywhere. Dimitri hears him, too, and raises himself off the bed, blowing his nose in the process.

Phoenix talks quietly, as if I can’t hear him for the moment. “Dad, are you okay? Did something happen?”

Dimitri draws him into a hug and his voice is muffled. “Nothing happened. I was just chatting with your mom. We don’t have much time left with her and there was a lot left I needed her to know before she moves on.”

It’s quiet for several minutes, and so still in the room I wonder if I’m alone. Then I hear shuffling and feel weight descend on either side of the bed. My two favorite people grasp my hands, Dimitri is on my right side and Phoenix on my left. I feel their love pulsing through their hands into my own, and I wonder if they feel mine flowing out in return. My focus is beginning to wane and I feel myself nodding off, as if I’m just too tired to stay awake. It doesn’t scare me. It would be almost comforting if I didn’t know what I was leaving behind.

But I
will
see them again. My Dimitri, my soul mate—he will find me. My hope is that I take everything I’ve just learned into this next life: all of the memories, and the knowledge, and the feelings … and that I
remember
it. And I know deep in my heart that I will see Phoenix again. He is destined to be our son, again and again, over and over. He is part of us now. He’s part of our recurring story.

As darkness creeps into my subconscious I hear the heart monitor next to the bed stutter and slow.

I hear Phoenix begin to cry. He’s squeezing my hand in both of his now and his head is resting on my chest. His warm tears soak through my thin hospice gown.

Dimitri is brushing his thumb lovingly across the back of my other hand and he’s stroking my hair gently. I hear him sniffle and gulp as he tries to hold back the tears.

The heart monitor is beeping an alarm now and has almost come to a standstill. My time has come.

All at once, I feel their lips on my cheeks at the same time, and their whispers in my ears.

“I love you Mom.”

“Je t’aime Ronnie. Forever.”

Days.

Then hours.

Now seconds.

Seconds left to tell them goodbye.

I squeeze their hands. I know it’s weak and barely perceptible but unbelievably, my fingers grip theirs. They both squeeze back. My eyelids flutter open and they swim into focus. Their beautiful faces are only inches from mine. I look at Phoenix first. His eyes are wide. “I am so proud of you, my beautiful boy,” I say in a voice as clear as day. “I love you more than you’ll ever know. I’ll see you again.” His tears have given way to sobs.

Then, with great effort, I look to Dimitri. Tears are streaming down his cheeks now, but he’s smiling. “Thank you for sharing your life with me … and for loving me … always. I’ll be counting the days until we meet again. I love you forever and ever … and the lifetime after that.”

My eyelids are too heavy now, and as they collapse they take everything with them, plunging into a deep, peaceful nothingness.

Life is sometimes … just life … and death.

I love coming to the art museum; I always have. We used to rush through it all, moving from gallery to gallery, all the images blurring together, because my mom, Jo, can never seem to slow down. Even a day at the museum is condensed down into an hour-long affair, skimming past most exhibits while lingering (I use the term loosely) on the ones she loves. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the beauty of it all, it’s just that standing still in one place for more than two seconds is challenging for her. My father, Will, used to come along, but I suspect it was only to spend time with the two of us. He travels a lot and we see him only a day or two a week.

Last month, when I turned fifteen, I persuaded my parents to start letting me ride the bus to the art museum alone. I arrive in the morning and leave just before closing time. I make the journey every other Saturday. Sometimes I talk a friend into coming with me, but usually I go alone. My friends are boys,
teenage
boys, who are more focused on sports (and girls) than art. Which is fine, I don’t mind going alone. I’m independent by nature.

I don’t know what it is about the art museum that I love so much. I’m not artistic myself, not really, but I’ve always been drawn to art, paintings especially. It’s not like I’m an art aficionado or anything. I don’t know that much about art. I just know what I like or what I think is pretty. I don’t draw or paint, that’s not where my talent lies. I prefer to play the piano. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly gifted in that department either, but I have a spot soft for Beethoven and I’ve been playing as long as I can remember.

Sometimes I sit on a bench, like I am right now, in front of one of my favorite paintings, and I allow myself to get lost in it. I get lost in the feeling, the possibility, and the beauty. And sometimes I write, like I am right now. Sometimes I write poetry. Sometimes I write fiction. Today I write a journal entry of sorts. I have a collection of them, that I guess for all intents and purposes is a journal or diary. I call it
Memoires
(that’s memories in French). Pretentious? Maybe. I just love the language. Sometimes the entries are about feelings, or events, but mostly they are collections of dreams. I have a very vivid imagination. And the most beautiful boy meets me there … in my dreams … almost every night.

The room is filling up with people and I feel the urge to move on to the next space. The inspiration has been sucked dry by the invasion of the masses. I gather my notebooks and put them in my bag, which is overflowing. I’m temporarily distracted by the amount of stuff I’m trying to put in my bag. Why do I have so much stuff?

I sling the bag over my shoulder and delicately snake my way through the crowd. I’m almost to the hallway when I risk a second look in my bag—just a quick inventory to make sure I didn’t leave my favorite pen behind on the bench.