The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (10 page)

“That's right,” Porter says. “Durham Gesh was one of the founders. Some would say he is the only founder. He was the face of the Institute. He did all the socializing and networking and schmoozing. But there were two founders of AIDA. Two very brilliant, very ambitious scientists. One was Gesh, the other was Iver Flemming.”

“Never heard of him.”

“That's not surprising. He was a quiet man who kept to himself, content to work in the background and stay out of the spotlight. Very few people know of his involvement with AIDA. He was always like that, even when Gesh met him at a private primary school in Denmark. Gesh was the charismatic, outgoing one, while Flemming was the studious one holed up in his dormitory with his nose in a book. But they had similar interests, similar IQs, so they became friends and remained friends all throughout medical school. Shortly after they graduated, they founded an organization devoted to the cure of cancer and other terminal illnesses. They were visionaries. Luminaries. Throughout the next twenty years, they cured countless diseases, even a few cancers, which attracted the attention of the media and philanthropists. People came from all around to be treated at AIDA. Everyone believed they were geniuses. There was no other explanation for their success rate. And they were geniuses. But there was more to it than that. They had an upper hand. A secret weapon no one else knew about. They could travel back in time.”

“You mean they had visions? Like me?” I push my glasses up my nose and lean forward. I rest my elbows on the table.

“No, no visions. Only you have those. But they could descend to any time period they wished, just like you can. They used their ability to their ultimate advantage. They could go back and save invaluable research that had been lost or destroyed. They could talk to other scientists and medicine men and gain their ancient knowledge. They could move floppy disks, documents, even ancient scrolls to secret locations, then come back to retrieve them when they returned to the present time. Sort of like a time capsule. They gained knowledge no other scientist or doctor had access to, and they healed thousands by forging new roads in medicine. Can you see how that ability could be used to save the world?”

Theoretically, yes, I can see it. The idea of traveling back in time to recover knowledge that had been lost sends shivers through me. All the information lost during the Dark Ages could be restored. All the mysteries throughout history could be explained. Ancient treasures uncovered. The reason for the disappearance of certain civilizations revealed.

Maybe even the information Mom needs to perfect Audrey's cure could be handed to her on a silver platter.

But the logic is still fuzzy. “How did they travel?”

“By accessing Limbo.”

“Limbo? Like Dante's Limbo?”

Porter's eyes light up like he's impressed. “Exactly, yes. The Isle of the Blessed. Elysium. Abraham's Bosom. Barzakh. They're all referring to the same place. Everyone passes through Limbo on their way to Afterlife when they die, but only a few can access Limbo while still alive. Gesh discovered how to do it as a child. He later taught Flemming.” He levels his eyes at me. “And then he taught you.”

A chill washes over me. Goosebumps rise and salute on the back of my arms. “How could he have taught me? I've never met him before in my life.”

“You have. You just don't remember.”

I narrow my eyes at Porter. “Right. Like I don't remember meeting you?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

I stare at him for a moment longer, but he doesn't elaborate. I want to know what he means, but there's something else I want to know about even more. “Is Limbo the ‘black'?” I ask, recalling the deep darkness that envelopes me before my visions.

“Yes, the black is part of it. But there is so much more to it than that.” He tilts his head to the side. “Have you figured out how to access Limbo on your own yet?”

I frown down at my cold cappuccino. “No. I just get yanked into the black randomly, whether I want to or not.”

“So you haven't figured out what triggers the pull?”

I look up at him. Was there a trigger? “I used to think it was déjà vu, but I disproved that theory a long time ago.”

Porter cracks the smallest grin at the corner of his mouth. He reaches into his jeans pocket, pulls something out, and sets it on the table between us. It's a pure white stone the size of a quarter, smooth and round, shaped like an M&M. “Do you know what this is?”

“It's a game piece,” I blurt out without thinking. Then, once I realize what I said, I cover my mouth with my hands. It wasn't a guess. I know it's a game piece, but I've never seen one like it in my life. Not even in my visions.

Porter says, “Do you remember what the game is called?”

“Polygon,” I whisper through my fingers.

Porter's grin widens, and he nods. “Exactly right.”

How do I know the name of a game I've never played?

He slides the game piece closer to me, and I reach out to touch it. Someone carved thin letters on both sides of its smooth surface. LVI on one side, IV on the other. As I rub my fingers across the engraved letters, trying to figure out what they mean – are they Roman numerals? – my mind is suddenly flooded with memories. The sights and sounds of the restaurant fade away as thousands of images shuffle before me. Hundreds of faces I've never seen before, places I've never been, sounds I've never heard; they all flurry around me, each image as brief as a camera flash, gone before I can fully examine it.

Then one single image, clearer than the others, comes into focus: I'm a little girl with long blonde braids, sitting at a little white table in a little white room. I'm playing Polygon with a little blond boy with dark brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. I place a white stone on the game board, then he places a black stone next to mine. He bursts out laughing because it's the first time he's ever beaten me at this game. He pumps a fist into the air and shouts in a language I've never heard before, “Til sidst, vinder jeg!” But I understand his words perfectly. Finally, I win.

I can't explain how I know this little boy, why my memory of him is so strong, how I can understand his language, or why I have that niggling feeling like I've known Porter my entire life. All I know is that I've never felt such strong déjà vu before. The letters carved on the game piece, the way the light winks off the little boy's wire-rimmed glasses, the way Porter rubs his pinky knuckle with this thumb – it all combines and swells and swirls until the black swallows me like a tidal wave, and I am plunged into the dark.

 

 

This time, the light doesn't rush in and flood my senses. I remain in the black. As silent as death.

No breath, no sound, no taste, no touch.

Just black.

Lonely, lonely black.

It feels like hours, days, even weeks pass, staring into that yawning black, feeling nothing but nothing itself, before I finally see something in the far distance. A blue-white flicker of light, like the guttering flame from a match. Hauntingly faint. So faint I can't tell if I'm really seeing it at all. Perhaps it's just wishful thinking.

Then, a voice.

“I'll just let you settle in, shall I?”

Porter stands next to me in the dark. I can make out his polo, jeans, and ball cap, but only just, as though he's illuminated by the faintest glow of a crescent moon. Has he been there the whole time?

“It's a bit disorienting at first,” he says. “But you'll get used to it.”

I look down and realize I have a body too, faintly lit. I'm still wearing my nerd glasses, my army-green parka, jeans, and Gran's old flowery scarf from the Seventies, but my body doesn't work quite right. I feel sluggish and willowy, and, at the same time, like I'm not there at all. “Why are you still wearing your cap?” I say, gesturing to it. “Have our bodies left the restaurant?”

“No, only our souls have left.” He taps his cap with his finger. “My cap isn't really here. You're seeing my soul through a perception filter. My body. Your body. You see what you think our souls should look like. You hear my voice as you recall it in the restaurant.”

I gape back at him in awe. The thought is too profound to grasp. “What's happening to our bodies right now? Are we slumped over at the table?”

“No,” he says with a chuckle. “Time does not pass in Base Life while our souls are in Limbo. Our time spent here will be but a fraction of a second there.”

“So I'll return to the same time I left? Just like every other time I have a vision?”

He nods, and I turn my gaze back to the faint flicker of light in the distance. “And the light? Is that just my perception too?”

“No, the light is real. That's where we're headed. That region of Limbo is called Polestar. That's where every soul passes through on its way to Afterlife.”

I expect to get a chill when he says that, an overpowering sensation of wonder, but my body remains somewhat unresponsive. I look down at my hands, turning them front to back, back to front, slowly. They look translucent. I lift a foot, then I lift the other. It feels like I'm pulling my shoes from mud. I expect to hear the slurp of suction, but there's no sound.

“Like I said, you'll get used to it,” he says. “It takes a lot of practice, but soon you'll be bounding around this place like a young colt. Just like you used to.”

I frown because he keeps saying confusing things like that. “What do you mean, ‘just like I used to'?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but hesitates. He rubs his pinky knuckle. “I'll... get to that part soon enough. For now, you need to know where we are.” He stretches his arms out wide. “This region of Limbo is called Eremus. It means wasteland or wilderness. It surrounds Polestar on all sides. It's very easy to get lost out here, so be careful. When in doubt, just look for Polestar and head in that direction.”

“How did I get here? I mean, how did I stop here, in Limbo?”

“You stepped through.”

“Stepped through what?”

He stands up straighter, like Mr Draper when he's about to lecture. “We are every one of us connected to Limbo at all times. Just as we are connected to Life, we are connected to Death. That connection is Limbo. Most souls have such faint connections to Limbo that they don't even recognize it's there. When their bodies die, they hardly see Limbo as their souls pass through. It is but a blink on their journey to Afterlife. But there are a rare few who have powerful, intense connections to Limbo. When they pass through, they see it in its entirety. The full spectrum, from one end to the other. You and I, we are in the latter group. Our connections to Limbo are so powerful, so constant, we can simply step into it and walk around, as easy as stepping through a door.”

“But how do you find the door?”

“The door is déjà vu, just as you suspected. Everyone experiences it, but it's stronger for people like you and I. It's that otherworldly pull toward Limbo, tugging at your edges. When you experience déjà vu, you let go of Earth, of gravity, of all worldly things. You let the current pull you, like you're caught in a net. That's how you step through.”

I know exactly what he means. It's the pull into the black, that involuntary tug I've felt during my visions. When I saw the Polygon game piece and all those memories came swirling in around me, I felt it full force. I've tried fighting it before, especially the time I was in Sunday School with Jensen, but it was no use. The pull was too strong. Too enticing, even.

“So that's why you gave me the game piece,” I say. “To trigger my déjà vu.”

He nods. “The game piece is yours. I gave it to you a long time ago, when I taught you how to play Polygon. You've used it as a sort of talisman ever since, a sort of key to access Limbo.”

“But why would I want to access Limbo at all?”

“Because this is only the beginning. You are merely standing on the porch steps. From here, you can go anywhere.”

Anywhere.

I held the word in my hands like treasure. Anywhere meant Chicago. It meant finding a way back to Blue.

Porter takes my hand, which feels like light pressure at first, nothing more. Then the pressure builds, steadier and steadier, weighing heavy on my chest. It feels like a wide elastic band has wrapped around me, tightening until I can't move. I can't breathe.

It feels like my soul is having an asthma attack.

I gulp and gasp but nothing fills my lungs. I try to squeeze Porter's hand, to let him know I'm drowning where I stand, when I hear his voice in my ear again.

“You don't have to breathe, Alex. Stop fighting. Let go.”

But I can't. I don't know how. The elastic band pulls tighter and tighter. My ribs collapse inward. My lungs can't expand.

“You don't have lungs,” Porter says. “You don't need air.”

The band stretches and pulls and presses, so tight it finally snaps.

A flood of sensation rushes over me like I'm caught in a wind tunnel. My skin, or what I perceive as my skin, feels like it's being suctioned from my body. Pulled in every direction. My hair whips out of my ponytail and tangles around my face. My scarf tugs at my neck, threatening to strangle me.

Then, suddenly, everything stops.

 

 

I'm standing beside Porter in the black as though nothing happened, but we've moved. We're no longer in the empty stretches of Eremus. He lifts a hand to the view stretched out before us and says, “Welcome to Polestar.”