Sight

The first thing I heard was the rustling through a knapsack. I was having one of those recurring dreams where I was falling off a cliff. Dr. Anthony said to help ease back into reality, I should take note of my surroundings using the five senses.

Hearing. Okay, I can hear someone shuffling papers around in a knapsack. It sounds like nylon or a type of canvas, I cannot tell from the sound alone.

Touch. I wiggle my fingers and feel leather, but the soft kind that could be disguised as being real. I move my toes and feel I'm wearing shoes. I mustn't be in my apartment then.

Smell. I smell cologne. It's like a cedar wood or pine but with the distinct smell of citrus.

Taste. I move my tongue around my cheek. No residue of food or drink. Definitely no alcohol. Dr. Anthony made sure I cut that out of my life.

Last one. The most frightening.

Sight.

I open my eyes.

I'm on a train. Not a particularly nice one, but a passenger train. The floor is carpeted and the seats are two-by-two in split rows. The overhead containers are a light gray. There are no attendants that I can see.

Odd. I don't remember getting on this train.

I look over next to me to see a man - the man rather - who was the purveyor of the cologne, and the knapsack. He's handsome. His jaw is hidden under a dark, full beard. His thick brows are furrowed in a book, and his lashes are long enough that they must get in his eyes frequently. He wears a sage green button-up with his hair nicely gelled, and I wonder why of all the empty seats I see, I am sitting next to him.

He must notice my studying him because he gently closes his book facedown and his eyes meet mine, "Malva, you're up finally."

I cock my head slightly out of sheer disbelief.

"How do you know my name?" I ask the man. Perhaps I gave it to him before I sat down. He's handsome enough, I suppose.

He takes my hand and I sharply pull it back into my lap.

"Don't you dare touch me! How do you know my name? I've never met you before."

"Malva," his says sternly, "you're my wife."

Completely astounded at the ludicrous nature of this stranger, I stand up to move.

He grabs my arm forcefully and I slap him with my free hand.

"Help! Somebody help me!" I cry.

No attendant or person comes to my rescue. I can't see the heads of any other passengers aboard. Just me and this strange, strange man.

"Malva, sit down. You're going to frighten the - "

"Mommy?"

Two small, curious heads of red curls pop out of the aisle. "Mommy, what's wrong?"

I look behind me. There's no one else there that could be a stand-in for a mother. Except for me.

"Mommy?" the other asks.

I feel the pull of the man's arm on my shoulder and my body gives in to my mind's reluctance.

"See? Look at what you did," he says under his breath.

Deep breath, Malva. You're dreaming. You're dreaming. This is just a dream.

I close my eyes.

Hearing. Touch. Smell. Taste. Sight.

I open my eyes to the same place I was in five seconds ago.

I ruefully turn to the man, "Where am I going?"

"We're going home," he answers.

"Where is home. . . to you?"

He has a kind face but I can see the frustration in his forehead.

"New Haven."

"New Haven?" I let out a nervous laugh. "I live in Chicago! I need to get off this train right now. This is a mistake!" But I don't get up. I am scared.

"Malva," he pleads.

"No," I interrupt, "no more making up new lies until you tell me how you know my name."

"Because you are my wife. I don't know how else to explain it to you, dear. Your name is Malva Francine Sharp."

I begin to tremble.

"No," I shake my head. "No, no that's not right. My name is Malva Francine Randazzo. I live at the North End Tower in Chicago. I, I - I work in a publishing house called Schmidt and Stapleton. I'm single. I have no children."

I am frightened. The man sitting next to me stares at me for a long time. My eyes begin to water.

"How. . ." I begin, "how did I get on this train?"

He grabs my hand but this time I don't snap it away.

"We got on it together. Me, you, and the girls. Sonya and Samantha. We were visiting my parents in Fredricks Town for the holiday."

"Where are my parents?" I ask, hastily.

"They're dead."

He killed them.

"You killed my parents. . . "

"Malva," the grip on my hand tightens, "I never even met your parents."

I try to pry my hand out from his slowly but his grip is too strong.

"How. How did they die?"

He takes my other hand. His grip is hurting.

"They were murdered."

I pull away from him as hard as I can. I bring all my weight and force them down and slide out of the seat, barreling to the end of the train car. I hear the two little girls crying out but I ignore them.

No one. No one is in this train car but them. I open the door to the next car and run down the aisle. No one.

I reach the next door. No one.

I begin to pace down the aisle. I am three cars away now. The train is moving fast. I need to tell the conductor I'm on the wrong train. I'm not supposed to be here. I was kidnapped. That man. . . that handsome, vile man has kidnapped me and those two girls.

I should get to them. I can't leave them here with him. Who knows what he'll do to them. . . or what he's done already.

I begin walking back to the car they're in. Every step feels like I'm walking in tar.

Am I dreaming? Is this truly reality?

Before I reach their car, I decide to use the bathroom. I need cold water on my face. If it's a dream, I'll know it by then.

I slide the door back and cram myself in the tight space. The light flicks on and I scream.

This woman in the mirror. . . is not me.

I touch my hair. I see the reflection. This has to be me.

My hair is the color of rust. Not the ice-white blonde I've always known it to be. It's plaited down my back in a neat braid. How did I not feel it? I have always had short, bobbed hair.

My eyes are a dark, bourbon colored brown. Not the sky-blue I used to see staring back at me for the last 28 years of my life.

There is a faint scar under my left eye, cradled below my lash line. Something that could be covered by makeup. I've never had a scar there. If I did, I would have had it lasered off.

I'm wearing a wool sweater, not cashmere like I usually do. My pants are fitted, not structured. My shoes are slip-ons. Not leather.

I slide my hands down the sides of my body and feel the smooth curves of a feminine figure, and feel the salty taste of tears enter my mouth. My hard, flat stomach seems to have evaporated into thin air. My legs that had spent hours at Pilates and spin classes had no muscle in them. My arms that I ran the Boston Marathon with had no definition.

Who is this woman in the mirror? Why do I not know her?

I feel the back pocket of my jeans and feel a wallet. It's fake leather, not branded with a label I would have known. There's $32 cash, a credit union debit card, a punch-card to what looks like a dive bar, and a Driver's License.

I never carry cash. I have a Black Card. I don't eat fast food or drink alcohol.

My name is not Malva Sharp. I am Malva Randazzo, esteemed Chicago publicist and editor at the top publishing firm in the United States.

But everything in this wallet, proves otherwise. Everyone in the train car ahead of me, believes the former.

I solemnly walk to the train car where my supposedly family is residing. This is a dream. I cannot have nearly thirty years of life experiences and district memories of a life for it to not be a dream.

I open the door. The red-headed girls are still in the seat a few rows ahead of the man, but I don't look at them directly as I walk by. But I feel their puppy-dog eyes locked on me.

I sit next to the man. For some reason, I am not as frightened by him at the moment. Or if I am, my mind is telling my body not to be because he is the only person on this forsaken train that could possibly provide me with answers.

"Hello again," I say regretfully.

"Hello Malva," he responds calmly, his gaze still trapped between the pages of a book.

"Why didn't you chase after me? Aren't you my husband?"

"Yes, that's right," he says into the book, "but there's no where for you to go. So I knew you'd have to come back."

My blood went cold. There's no where for you to go.

"I'll jump off," I said matter-of-factly.

He sighed with a small chuckle, "I don't doubt it."

"Look at me in the eyes dammit," I command.

He shuts his book abruptly and sets it neatly in his lap. I look at the cover.

Dealing with the Loss of Your Mortality: How Humanity Can Begin to Cope by Dr. Anthony Michael Sharp.

"You know my doctor. My psychiatrist," I whisper.

His eyes are soft. The lashes make them gentler, like a hound's.

"Malva, I am your doctor. I am Dr. Anthony."

I should have expected him to say something incredulous like that.

"Well, Dr. Anthony," I spit, "how the hell do I have no memory of this supposed life I live with you and two kids? How do I have 28 years of memories of a life you're saying no longer exists? How?!"

I feel everything moving so fast. My heart, my mind, this train.

The man Anthony - my husband, my doctor, my psychiatrist - sighs deeply. Almost like he's being faced with a chore he's done. . . repeatedly.

"This has only happened once," he began, "and it wasn't nearly this bad. But I should have known, it was bound to happen again."

"You say so much yet answer nothing," I retort.

"Malva, do you remember at your 9th birthday party when your neighbor brought you over twelve roses? You kissed him on the cheek and ran into the house and hid the roses under your bed. You let them sit under your bed until the petals dried and your mom yelled at you for making a mess?"

I nodded. No one else knew that story.

"How about when you were 22 and your boss at Schmidt and Stapleton slid a hand under your skirt during your interview and you let him? You were scared but you got the job. The youngest in the entire firm. Never told on him. Never got reprimanded. Always the first for a promotion."

Vomit began to rise in my throat. How did he know this? I never told a doctor this, not even my psychiatrist. Even if I really was his patient. That humiliating moment in my life never left the capsule of mind, risking too great of hubris.

"How do you know this." It was said like a statement, not a question.

"I know this Malva because I've seen all of it. I've watched it happen on a screen. I know every dark secret, every sweet moment, every good and bad thing that has ever happened to you. All because you let me."

I began to softly weep.

"How?" I pleaded.

He stood up. "Get up Malva. I want you to follow me."

I followed him to the back of the train. There now appeared a door. I didn't see that before?

"You need to trust me," he said. "We're going to walk through this door."

"Are we going to die?"

He let a smile cross his lips. "Not again," he answered, and let out his hand for me to grab.

I accepted it as he opened the door and I followed. Scared, terrified of what was on the other side. My eyes were closed, bracing for impact. But I kept walking. On solid ground.

I heard the door close.

Hearing. Touch. Smell. Taste. Sight.

I opened my eyes.

White. All round me.

Us.

I was still holding the man - Anthony's - hand.

I turned around. The door for the train disappeared. I was standing on solid ground, but the space around me was vast, endless, infinite. And white.

Anthony let go of my hand and I was afraid I was going to fall.

I relaxed and took a deep breath. I let my arms fall to my side. I began to feel a deep comfort run through me. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here; maybe seconds, maybe days or maybe years. But I am not frightened.

“Where are we Anthony?”

He is a few feet in front of me now, but he begins walking toward me with silent footsteps. Each movement he makes utters no sound from the white, infinite ground. But it’s still solid under my feet.

“It’s not really a place,” he replies. “Well, not in the definition that you would consider a ‘place’ to be. It’s more like a place of time.”

“I don’t understand.”

He nods, “I know, I know. It’s quite difficult to understand. You used to know but. . . anyway, this ‘place’ is a slice of time. I want you to abandon everything you think you know about time for a moment, and think of this concept. Time is of layers. We, at this moment, are in one of those layers right now.” Anthony smiles.

“How did we get here?”

His smile widens. “You. You got us here, Malva.” I stand still, motionless as he begins to circle around me.

“Malva, you helped me unlock time and all its layers. That train we were on? That is your mind’s amalgamation. Your mind’s understanding of time. This life you remember? Chicago and your publicist career? Those memories are real. But they are not of this life you’re living now. You are stuck in time, your brain is locked in a past life, and that’s okay. Many people are still figuring out how to navigate and steer their way. You’re almost there.”

“How can that life be real and also this one? How can I live two separate lives? Why do I have no recollection of this one, married with children?”

“I was your doctor in Chicago, Malva. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, but you were not him. He - or you - whoever you are, looked different than him in that life. You were, you -” my words are fumbling over each other, “you were taller than this. You had salt and pepper hair. Glasses. Round like, like your face was. You were older. Much, much older.”

He nodded, “Yes, and I will continue to look like someone else in every life you lead on from here on out.”

I can’t stop the tears from flowing, “Please. Dear god, just explain what this all is? Why can’t I remember? I’m so confused, so lost.” I want to sink to the ground but it’s infinite. It’s white and empty and solid yet so full of nothingness.

Anthony rests a rest on my shoulder and nestles his face in the curve of my neck. He breathes me in and I let the tears trickle down his face.

He lets me go, “You were my patient, and you were my lover.” He starts to slowly pace in front of me. My head begins to throb. “You were sad, Malva. The paychecks and the fancy cars and clothes did not help ease the trauma from your life. The assault from your bosses, the abuse from your drunken father and abandonment of your deadbeat mother. The money and success wasn’t enough, and it was never going to be enough. But I solved it Malva, I solved life’s greatest threat that begins at the start of our existence– time. Because time leads to death. I solved it for you.”

I begin to feel the weight of the white nothingness and the astounding reality of my circumstances in my head. It’s throbbing. My vision is going blurry.

“While we were together, you let me study you. I found the key to unlocking unused parts of our brain. You know the ‘gut-feeling’ you get when you’re about to do something? Where it feels like you’ve done it before? It’s because you probably have. In another life – another layer of time. Every day we are faced with choices. Because someone decided to take a taxi after a few too many drinks, another person didn’t die in a car accident that night. Two people. Two choices. I unlocked how we can use brains to reverse choices. We can travel through layers of time and layers of choice to find the dimension we want to live in. And Malva, you didn’t love yours. We changed it together. We created this reality for us to live in, happily. Your hair is red because your mother chose a different partner. You decided to not have to deal with family trauma so your parents are deceased. You wanted a different life and now you have it. You will never die. You will only continue to cycle through different layers of time, still intact with faint recollections of your old memories. And that’s where we are at now. You my dear, sweet Malva, have been able to not only go back in time, but have been able to cycle forward. Your memories are not leaving you and your new life is taking longer to fill in experiences. This same thing happened eight years ago. That time, I was able to coax you back asleep. Your memories of the present were able to overcome your past.”

“What year is it, Anthony?”

He looks down at his feet. “That depends. In this life, it is 1989. But if we are asking the time it has been since we’ve unlocked the layers of time. . . well, it’s been a long time.”

“How long, Anthony.” It was a demand.

“If we are following the timeline of your Chicago life that ended in 2013, that layer of reality is currently in the year 2758.”

I fall to my knees. The fall is silent on the solid, empty ground. “I don’t want to live Anthony,” I wail between fits of tears, “I don’t understand what’s happening.” He rushes towards me and gathers me in his lap, rocking me back and forth.

“You have a choice, Malva. We always have the choice. You can choose to get off the train. You can make it stop. But only if you want.”

Through the tears I ask, “Are there any other choices?”

“Of course. There are infinite choices, Malva.” He brushes a red strand of hair behind my ear. “If you choose to come back with me and our girls, we can go back on the train and all you need to do is fall asleep.”

“What happens if I get off the train?”

“It’s different for everyone, I cannot say exactly what happens. Energy is not created or destroyed. I discovered that it is conserved. You will go back into energy to be used in time’s layers. You won’t have a conscience. It will be the easiest death of all kinds. But only if you choose to die.”

We sit there for what feels like hours. My head is throbbing but pieces of memories begin circling my mind like a carousel. I see flames of hair running in a field, two young girls holding hands. A small ranch house tucked in the woods. I’m sharing a bottle of wine with a woman on a porch swing. Her hair is of honey and she laughs a deep, belly laugh and I smile. I feel the emotions of these rush through me and they bring about another round of tears. I suppose the most dangerous thing is to feel alone in this world but I see that the most dangerous thing is to know that we aren’t alone. That every concept we’ve been taught is a sentient thing. That I am not alone for I am a culmination of time and energy and space. Layers of memories and choices and dimensions of reality. Is it better to live in ignorance? To keep riding the train? Or do I get off and accept the fate which I should have known a long, long time ago?

“Anthony,” I say, “I’m ready.”

He helps me up and the train car door appears.

“Are you sure?”

I take confident strides toward the door, “Yes. I’m ready to go home now.”