Page 88 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Jim Toomey?”
“The cop in my dream. The one who my father and Big Al worked with at LAPD. Come on, Austin, I’ve only been talking about him for days.”
“Oh, right. I just forgot his name. No, I don’t think he was your near-death experience, because there wasn’t one. I believe whether you realize it or not, you remember him from your past. He was friends with your father, and you dreamt about him while you were in an induced coma, like you did everything else.”
“How do you know I wasn’t dying?”
“Because I was there. I was at the hospital by your bed, day in and day out. You never once coded, Chelsea. Never once.”
“Maybe you don’t code until you’re actually gone.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I watch a lot of movies.” His lips tip up.
“I still think it’s weird that this guy I have absolutely no recollection of shows up in my dream.”
“A lot of weird shit happens in the human mind. You of all people know that.”
He’s right. Look at déjà vu, the feeling that you’ve already experienced something that is happening in real time. Or déjà visité, having intimate knowledge of a place you’ve never been to before. Or apophenia, seeing patterns in things that don’t exist, like a picture of Jesus in your toast. Or Cotard’s delusion, the belief that you are already dead. Or hy-perthymesia, the ability to remember every minute detail of every day of your life.
So, what’s one coma-induced dream? But it feels like the dream was important, like the universe trying to tell me something. I just don’t know what.
“The important thing is that you and Al are good,” Austin says. “It was important that you made the trip, Chels. Closure.”
That’s the thing. I don’t know if I’ll ever have complete closure or be able to rid myself of the fear of being abandoned. But seeing Al, feeling his love again, was a step in the right direction.
“Do you think you’ll stay in touch?”
“I hope so,” I say, but my sense is we won’t. That no matter how good it was to see him again, it will always be painful, too. Like a million fragmented memories of my parents and Gloria stabbing me in the chest.
Austin slips one leg out from beneath the comforter. “Jesus, it’s like fifty degrees in here.” He rolls out of bed and crosses the floor to the thermostat in his underwear and cranks up the heat.
“Give me fifteen for a shower; then we’ll grab breakfast.”
While the shower is running, I jump on the Internet and take another peek at Misty’s website, sorely tempted to book an appointment. I’m being crazy, I tell myself, and shut down my laptop before I talk myself into filling out her contact form and checking a box on her calendar.
The water stops, and Austin releases a cloud of steam when he opens the bathroom door. One of my white towels is wrapped around his waist. His chest is bare except for a few droplets of water, and I feel a surge of desire course through me.
The way it used to.
And for the first time since the accident, I’m overwhelmed by optimism.
Austin doesn’t wind up coming with me to Los Angeles for Christmas.
His stepmother, who lives in Scottsdale, fell down a flight of steps. The two have never been close; in fact, they went a year and a half without talking after his father died and she sold off some of her husband’s prized possessions, including a Masonic ring that belonged to Austin’s grandfather that he wanted.
But she lives alone. So duty-bound, Austin went to take care of her. That’s what I love about him. He’s a good person at his core, even if he sometimes makes lousy decisions.
Emboldened by my driving in Reno, I decide to make the 382-mile ride alone, instead of booking a last-minute flight. The original plan was for Austin to drive his car. I deliberate on whether to take Highway 101, the more scenic route, or Interstate 5, which is by far the quickest way, and opt for speed, anticipating Christmas Eve traffic.
It’s a lonely stretch of road with not a lot to look at. Just a series of small towns with the requisite Starbucks, Economy Lodges, and Burger Kings. I don’t plan to stop, unless it’s to pee, and have packed plenty of snacks and a full thermos of coffee. Which makes me think of Knox and his ever-present insulated cup, always filled to the brim.
Will I ever stop thinking about him? About the man who doesn’t exist.
By the time I reach Harris Ranch, I can’t hold it any longer and exit the freeway. The parking lot is packed. There are rows of Teslas powering up at the electric charging stations and minivans filled to the windows with prettily wrapped gifts.
