Rooms: A Novel (23 page)

CHAPTER 34

Micah was convinced Rick knew exactly what was inside the brilliant room. But how could he get Rick to tell him?

Thursday afternoon Micah shuffled down Main Street, brainstorming an answer when a voice sliced through his mind like a knife, spinning his thoughts in an entirely new direction.

“Micah?”

He knew that voice. Micah turned. Ten feet away a woman wearing khaki shorts and a blue tank top scuttled toward him. She pushed a stroller; the features of the child inside made it obvious she was the mother.

“It is you, Micah. I can’t believe it. Really, truly can’t believe it! I always wondered if we’d bump into each other again. I mean you said you’d probably settle somewhere up on the northern coast, but we never get up here, till now of course. And well, I thought if we ever did, wouldn’t it be a kick if I ran into you? But I never expected it to actually happen and now—”

The woman threw her head back and laughed, then threw both arms around him and squeezed. “I’m sorry, listen to me going on like a jukebox packed with quarters. Tell me about you. My gosh, how long has it been? Too long, of course. Wow.”

Micah stepped back, hoping the woman couldn’t tell the grin on his face was pure plastic. Did he know her? He knew the voice, but her? Wait. Maybe. As he stared into her eyes, shards of memories slipped into his mind like scenes from different childhood TV shows all out of context with each other.

The woman waved her hand in front of his face. “Are you okay?”

“No, I mean yes. Good.” He forced out a laugh. “It’s just a shock to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. After all this time, right? We promised we’d definitely stay in touch, didn’t we?” The woman held up her fist with her thumb and pinkie finger sticking out as if it were a telephone. “But nah, neither one of us. Well, that’s life. Wow, you look good. Catch me up! What have you been doing with your life? Where’d you go when we headed for different ends of the earth?”

More memories surfaced. Late-night walks with her somewhere, along narrow beaches? The ocean? Yes. How long ago? Seven, eight years ago? More? Less? “I live in Seattle. I started a software company.”

“You’re kidding. Software? Really? That tweaks my mind, I gotta tell you. Didn’t think you’d ever go that direction, not with the passion you had for your—”

“Wahhh!” The woman’s baby split the air with piercing cries in rhythm with the tapping feet of a man standing behind her.

One glance at the perfectly pressed maroon polo shirt, spotless tan slacks, and a frown line to match told Micah this guy was the jealous type and didn’t appreciate the enthusiasm this woman was pouring out.

“Uh, honey, more than two people here,” the man said.

A slight grimace ran across the woman’s face before she turned toward the man. “Right, right, right. Honey, this is Micah Taylor. We dated for a while years and years ago; I probably told you about him one time or another. Micah, this is my husband, and this is my little prince.” She lifted the baby out of his stroller and set him on her hip.

“Passion for what?” Micah said.

“What?”

“Passion for what?” he repeated.

“I’m sorry you lost me. What passion for what? You mean, what am I passionate about?”

“No, you said something about being surprised I started a software company because of my passion for . . .”

“Oh, right. Yes, yes, yes.” She laughed as she set the baby back down in the stroller and wrapped a dark blue blanket around him. “Don’t tell me you’ve abandoned it. I never saw you giving up your dream.”

The woman’s husband cleared his throat without much subtlety, and she whipped around to face him. “Honey, don’t get your knickers twisted into bunches. We’ll go in just a second. I just want to get Micah’s info so we don’t lose touch for another six years.”

They exchanged e-mail addresses as he tried to put the puzzle pieces together. He wouldn’t be able to question her in detail, not with Igor standing over them like a Puritan chaperone at a high school dance.

“Gottta run, Micah. Great seeing you. Don’t give up the dream.”

“What
was
the dream?”

“As if you didn’t know!” She laughed and clipped away.

Was it impossible for anyone to give him a clear answer? If not software, what was the dream?

||||||||

When Micah got home, he walked through the house not going anywhere in particular, looking for—hoping for—inspiration and answers. He wound up looking down the hallway that led to the painting room.

Good idea. Time to see if anything’s changed.

He eased open the door and the painting came into view. Definite changes; subtle, but significant. The outline of two people had been added at the left edge of the painting, and near the water it looked like a little boy would build a sand castle.

“Take me into that panorama, Lord.”

The next thought followed quickly. What had he lost in Seattle?

Micah called Shannon and made up a paper-thin excuse for checking in. Once again she told him things were fine at RimSoft. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe perfection had landed on him like a butterfly and would stay forever. He hung up somewhat reassured but still uneasy. No matter what he told himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling of disaster rumbling inside.

After dinner Micah sank back in his overstuffed chair in the great room and tried to drift off. He was tired of thinking, tired of praying, tired of trying to figure out what God was doing to his life.

To his lives, plural.

He’d almost slid over the edge into sleep when the phone rang. “Yeah?”

“Hey, you,” Sarah said.

“Hey back. I was just thinking about you.”

“Good thoughts?”

“Great thoughts.” Micah smiled, his eyes half closed. He stood and wandered over to his couch in front of the fireplace, letting himself freefall backward into the overstuffed cushions strewn on top.

“Wanna have some fun?” Sarah asked.

“Rhetorical question, right?”

“Yes.”

“The idea?”

“Nehalem’s Art Festival. How ’bout we go down and take a look this weekend?”

“You said fun, not shopping.”

“So that promise you made about seeing locally made crafts with me at least twice this summer . . .”

“Yeeeeees!” Micah stood and launched into his radio voice. “And that promise is about to come true! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, can you think of a better way to spend your Saturday? No? Me neither! The Nehalem’s Art Festival. Yeehaw!”

“You think that’s amusing, don’t you?”

“Mildly.”

“How’s tomorrow, as long as you’re not previously engaged.”

“And if I am?” Micah wandered toward his kitchen.

“Tell her you’re utterly intrigued by another woman.”

“You’re funny—”

“Thank you.”

“—sometimes,” finished Micah. “Pick you up at eleven?”

“Perfect.”

Micah hung up the phone and smiled. Definitely in love. The wanna-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you type of love.

||||||||

The Nehalem’s Art Festival boasted more than thirty booths, some stuffed to overflowing, others with just the right amount of merchandise, the artists manning them having figured out the fine line between having too much and too little space to display their treasures.

They wandered past dried-flower arrangements, handcrafted cribbage boards, and strawberry-scented candles before they stopped at a booth featuring paintings. The artist sat on a tall pine stool, her back to them. She was engrossed in the beginning stages of a new painting, a dried-out riverbed in the high mountains.

“You like these?” Sarah motioned to the finished pieces.

“Yeah, I do. And you?”

“Not really my style.”

“So what is your style?”

“I’ll let you know when I see it,” Sarah said.

Micah watched her move off, then turn back after realizing he hadn’t moved. He continued to study the paintings. Sarah eased back alongside him. “Why do you like them so much?”

“They make me think—create impressions in my mind. Her technique intrigues me.”

“You have thought for my painting, yes?” The artist spoke without turning as Sarah and Micah smiled at each other and mouthed in unison,
“Good ears.”

“Yeah, I have a thought,” Micah said.

“You will share it with me, yes?”

“Your paintings remind me of LaQue’s work with your use of shadows and of Thomas Glover’s use of detail.”

“Good! Very good. I studied the work of both extensively. You are collector or studied art in college?”

“No, but I . . . I do like your paintings.”

The lady turned and looked at Micah with a quizzical expression. The right side of her mouth turned up in a tiny smile. “You are serious? You are not student of art? An artist then, maybe? You must be painter yourself.” She set down her brush, got off her pine stool, and walked over to them.

“No, not an art student. And no, I don’t paint.” Micah looked down. “Actually, I don’t even know where that comment came from. It came out of nowhere.”

“Thoughts must come from somewhere, yes? Among laypeople those two artists are known little. Their styles are far from each other. So your pickup on their influence is unusual. Your insight and appreciation of painting is deep, no?”

“Um, thank you. Best of success to you.”

They walked away, and Sarah poked Micah in his side. He jumped a foot and a half sideways.

“Hey! Do you have to keep doing that to me?”

“So do I need to add art critic to your list of accomplishments?” She laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? That lady was genuinely surprised. And impressed. Obviously you know quite a bit about art to name her influences.”

Micah rubbed his forehead and kept walking.

“Micah?”

“I don’t know where that came from.” He turned and rubbed his face with both hands. “Seriously. For some reason I just knew the names and saw their styles in her painting. But it’s gone now. I can’t even remember a word I said.”

“What?”

“One second I’m just staring at the painting like everyone else; the next this lightbulb goes off in my head and—bam!—I know who influenced her style and their names. As clear as I know software. A window opens and I see another world.” Micah snapped his fingers. “Then just as quick, the memory is gone, the window slams shut, and I’m back to being me.”

“And this has been going on—?”

“For three months.” Micah stopped and looked Sarah in the eye. “And it’s accelerating.”

“Accelerating?”

“It’s happening more often.” Micah walked toward the beach.

“Want to talk about it?”

Micah shook his head and stopped again. “Yes. I’m going to take a huge risk here and tell you in detail the things that have been happening, okay?”

Sarah nodded.

“Remember the other night when you asked me what was going on with my spiritual journey? How I was doing? Well, if your ears are still standing by, I’m ready to give you
War and Peace.
”

“Why a huge risk?”

“Because when I’m done, you’ll either think God is at work in a rather strange, beautiful, and incredible way, or I’m long overdue for a visit to the funniest of farms.”

Sarah touched his forearm. “I already know God is constantly working in strange and incredible ways, so you’ll have to make your story really weird to make me think you’re going insane.”

“This one might do it. You realize you’ve officially abdicated your right to come back to me when I’m finished and tell me I’m crazy.”

“Agreed. Now please begin, Weaver of Fantastic Tales.”

When they reached the beach, they sat on a mound of sand, and Micah told Sarah everything: from the day Archie’s letter arrived at RimSoft to the present. He described the memory room, shrine room, skydiving room, the painting, the movie room, the Wildcat room, even the brilliant room he couldn’t enter.

He told her about the
Inc.
cover vanishing, about
not
playing racquetball with Brad, and about
not
meeting a man named Rafi at a party. About how Julie vanished from his history, about finding the
Coast Life
magazine cover with his name on it, and how his ankle went from perfect to injured in an instant.

He talked about running into an old girlfriend, the fall of his company’s stock, going from owning his condo’s penthouse to living on the eighth floor, and how his car had gained a year of miles in a day.

When he finished, Micah kicked sand toward the ocean. “Do you think I’m insane?”

“I think God is in all of it. But I wonder if you feel the same.”

“Of course I think He’s in it. Why?”

“I know you believe it intellectually. But do you believe it in your heart?”

Micah didn’t answer.

“Surrendering to the Lord is winner take all. Ninety-nine percent isn’t enough. It’s all or nothing.”

“Your point?”

“That when I hear you talk about the things you’ve lost, like the stock, your condo, your car gaining sixteen thousand miles overnight, you talk like you’ve lost your best friend.”

“Well, of course I don’t like it.” Micah snorted and ran his hands through the sand. “Tell me one person who would. My life is a tornado, and I’m nowhere near the eye of the storm. I’m in the heart of two-hundred-mile-per-hour winds. I’ve lost specific events in my life I know have happened and gained others I know didn’t happen.”