“I could have sleepwalked, gone to the window—or even out onto the lawn—then experienced the floating sensation as I woke up to see the boys teepee the house.”
“I suppose. But you didn’t wake up in the street, did you?”
“No. But I could have slipped back into sleep and sleepwalked myself back to bed… couldn’t I?”
“I’ve never heard of that happening… which doesn’t mean it couldn’t or didn’t happen to you.”
“Alright. Let me describe another lucid dream. The morning radio show I wake up to was conducting an interview with a photographer who’d just come back from Tannu Tuva. She… described a couple of photos—generally, not much detail. My mind filled in the details; a gold cap on a shaman’s tooth, the images on some standing-stones. I’d all but forgotten the dream when Ken and I went to her exhibition. The photographs I saw fit the details I dreamed right down to the pattern on the head of the shaman’s drum. Needless to say, I was a little rattled.”
“Yes, I know. Ken… told me about it.
Lissa dropped the notebook strap. Hair stood up on the back of her neck. “He what? Would you mind telling me why Ken was discussing me with you?”
“When he spoke to me about becoming a monitor for my project, I had a strong impression that you were headed for some sort of disturbing experience related to a visit to an art gallery.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Genoa shrugged. “Your prerogative, certainly, but Ken did record my statement.”
“How long ago?”
“Three weeks or thereabouts… That was really what you came here for, wasn’t it? To try to understand what happened to you.” She shook her head, dreadlocks singing. “I’m sorry, Lissa. But I don’t fully understand, myself. If I did, I wouldn’t feel impelled to seek out people like Julie Pascale. I wouldn’t be up to my ears in this project. And I’d be able to give you answers. Instead, all I can do is invite you to join in asking the questions. Maybe we can work toward comprehension together.”
She rejected the invitation (out-ofhand, Ken would have said). She went for a long drive up through Sausalito and Tiburon. She sat on Stinson’s Beach and stared at the randomness of waves and thought about her father and plane crashes and endings.
Finally, she went home.
“I was worried,” Ken said.
“So was I.”
He gave her his patented over-the-ghost-glasses look.
“I saw Petra Genoa this afternoon. We talked about NDEs and lucid dreams and OBEs… and photo exhibits.”
“Oh,” he said. Just, “Oh.”
“Can I hear what she said about the art gallery?”
“Are you sure?”
“No. Can I hear it?”
He got out his notebook and set it up on the coffee table. “Are you sure?” he asked again.
She took a deep breath. “Yes,” this time.
He opened the file and fast-forwarded to a bookmark he’d set at Genoa’s prediction. On the flat screen, Petra Genoa’s attractive face wore an expression of bemused concern.
“Ken,” she said, “are you ready to start your job as monitor?”
“Sure… I guess. Why?
“Your wife is going to experience some sort of trauma.”
“What? Emotional or physical?”
“Emotional… Art gallery. I had a sudden impression of an art gallery or museum or exhibition maybe. Paintings… no, photos.”
“When?”
She shook her head, making music. “I don’t know. I rarely know, exactly. Usually my range tops out at about three months. Can you save this conversation to a file?”
“Can you be more specific about the nature of the trauma?”
“Fear. I know she’ll be frightened. I don’t know why.”
Lissa was nodding. “She does now.”
“You were frightened because you saw the photographs in a dream before you saw them in reality.”
“Yeah. I dream orange fabric on our roof; there’s a kite stuck to the chimney. I dream the neighbor’s house is tee-peed; it happens. I see a shaman with a gold tooth; Naomi Whitehorse has taken his picture. Dammit, Ken,” she complained, “these can’t be psychic experiences. I’m a skeptic.”
“Fine. Be a skeptic. Look for answers.”
“I’ve been looking. My psychiatrist doesn’t have a clue. She wants me to meditate. Dr. Genoa doesn’t have a clue either, and she wants me to help her look for one.” She fidgeted. “She quoted some science fiction writer at me: Be content with the mysterious, he said.”
“Philip K. Dick. Yeah.”
“That’s hard for me, Kenny.” She thought of Julie Pascale. “Damn, it’s even hard for me to be content with the ‘unexplainably warm and giving.’ How do you do it?”
He shrugged. “I just try to keep an open mind. Look for truth wherever it may rear its often peculiar head.”
“Even in Petra Genoa’s camp?”
“Yeah, even there.”
“OK. I’ll think about it. Right now, I’ve got an article to rewrite.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The Pascale NDE. I’m not saying I believe she went beyond the Great Divide, but I realize I reported with bias. OK, prejudice. My approach to her interview was skewed because of it. I wasn’t looking for truth, I was trying to satisfy myself that there are no mysteries I can’t personally unravel.”
“So what approach, now?”
Lissa shrugged, trying for a grin. “It’s a mystery.”
Ken smiled, bending over to kiss her as he rose.
“Where are you going?”
“To remove the kite from our roof.” He paused, giving her a cockeyed look. “Is there anything in the rain gutters I should know about?”
“No, but there’s a chubby old guy stuck in our chimney.”
They both laughed. She felt—not lighthearted—but better. “Content with the mysterious”—she would try to be that, hard as it was.
She heard Ken’s footsteps overhead. A moment later, a wad of orange polyurethane sailed past the living room window.
Oh, Mr. Dick, you said a mouthful.