The Pentrals (25 page)

I move toward him, but he stumbles back. I can’t let him speak, reveal what he sees, whatever it may be. This is not his secret to tell.

But my advancement disturbs him and he scurries back, right over the boat’s edge.

“No!” I scream. And without thinking, I jump in after him. The water is frigid, like tiny knives puncturing my skin, even more painful that Mr. West’s icy grasp. I expect the mechanics of swimming to kick in, just as I knew how to walk from shadowing Violet. But no, nothing comes. My past time in water was always spent bobbing on the surface, leaving me clueless to the body’s movements down below.

I panic, sinking lower, the darkness of the lake surrounding me. Panic at the thought of losing the glasses. Losing Ben.

Losing my breath.

* * 31 * *

A
soft amber light filters through lace curtains. It is warm, much warmer than yesterday, but not uncomfortably so. White cotton sheets entangle my legs, but I kick them aside, so all that touches my body are his arms.

I watch him sleep and take deep breaths in and out. Even in sleep, he holds me steady. His hands linger on my back, and I wiggle to feel them press into me. I can almost hear the music those fingers create, moving effortlessly across black and white piano keys. Dark hair falls over in waves, covering his forehead. I purse my lips and blow a tiny puff of air, pushing the strands back. He stirs. Eyes closed, brows furrowed, he grumpily turns face first into the pillow. A voice muffled by down feathers says, “Why must you torture me?”

I grin. “Because you’re hopelessly in love with me.”

He shifts, revealing one chocolate brown eye and a sleepy half smile. “Guilty as charged.”

It’s a big day, but I’m not ready for it to start quite yet. He seems in no rush either. Reaching back for an unused pillow, he quickly smothers me before I can stop him. I feign a scream, playfully thrashing about. When I am freed from the cushiony prison, a mess of blonde hair covers my face. He pushes it back and strokes my cheek with his thumb. I look up at him expectantly, giving his wrist a small squeeze. I try to fight it, but the nerves are creeping up.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly, reading my thoughts. “You’re going to be great.” He leaves a kiss on the tip of my nose.

While he showers, I repack my workbag for the tenth time. Camera, film, lenses—it’s all here, but I will probably check it again before we leave. I cannot be caught unprepared.

I walk through our apartment, anxiety buzzing in my bones. What will it be like, this city of glass? I have been told how every surface is reflective, bringing new meaning to illumination. For the unveiling, a group of reputable journalists and travel specialists have been asked to showcase all the city has to offer. I’m sure the others will be dazzled, but I am not so easily swayed.

I run my fingers over the grain of our worn wooden desk, tiny specs of dust hiding in the natural grooves. Texture. Depth. It adds so much to my photographs. What will my camera find when everything is polished smooth? All that light… it will be beautiful, but there is also beauty in shadows.

Finding what’s hidden, it is my specialty. As a photojournalist I’ve uncovered political scandals, cruel working conditions, unfair practices—with a snap of my camera, I capture truth. Though I am the youngest in my field, I am also one of the last to use traditional photography. So many have upgraded to the ease and speed of digital imaging. But I still feel there is something to be said for prints. They aren’t as flashy as what’s projected on those new holopane screens, but you can’t touch a holographic image, feel the weight of its existence. A print photo is evidence, proof of a life lived. The pixels of a 3D screen can be easily manipulated, erasing or changing facts, but photos show what’s real, what’s true.

In the other room, I hear him singing softly at his piano. His music always calms me. The song he’s playing is new, just recently debuted at the Brassy Cat Club where he plays late nights. Already, it’s become one of my favorites, and I find myself mouthing along to the words:

If I forgot my name, couldn’t see my face

My heart would still ache for you

If all my memories had been replaced

I’d find my way back to you

“I like this one,” I call out. His fingers change tempo, tapping out a quick, celebratory “Ta-da!” melody in response. Such a little jokester. We’ve only been living together for a short time, but I’ve never felt more at home. Some may say we rushed into this major life step, insisting we wait a few years before cohabitation. But when you know it’s right, why put off the inevitable? It was the same with my work. I have always been fascinated with photography, so I got my start early. I saw no point in putting off what I knew I wanted to do. Now I have more accolades to my name then others who are at least a decade older.

I dress, taking extra time to pin back my hair. I don’t like stray strands in my face when I’m looking through the lens. The girl in the mirror, though slightly shaken by nerves, looks back at me with confidence. With a pale blue dress hugging at my curves, a heart-shaped face with rosy apple cheeks smiles back at me. I always feel a rush before a job, but I can do this.

He comes from behind me, looking handsome in a gray button down shirt and suspenders. “Are you going to stare at that mirror all day?” he jokes, wrapping his arms around my waist. I lean my head back on his chest.

“Soon we won’t have much of a choice.”

We travel by boat for what seems like hours. A magnificent yacht coasts on a river through deep, twisting caverns. Tall rock formations soar on either side, cutting off the sun’s rays and leaving us only with patterns of red, orange and brown mineral to paint the scene. People drink and sample appetizers, making bubbly small talk about what we’re about to see. These other guests, they will be easily wined and dined and report back the city’s splendor. But I sense only foreboding. The deck is jam-packed, and the dark, narrow gorge offers no relief. It is claustrophobic, like the tight space is constricting my lungs. I stand at the boat’s roped railing, hoping for a wisp of air, a ray of light.

“Steady now,” he says, standing next to me. I cling to him, conscious of every breath.

Suddenly, the yacht turns a corner and the scene is flooded with light. The retaining walls break away, opening up to an expansive canyon bursting with brightness. Audible gasps escape from the crowd; it’s unlike anything anyone has seen. At the basin is a city, glittering against the water’s edge. A skyline of glass cuts out from the surrounding rock. Above the city sprawl are buildings peeking out from every rocky crevice, the sunlight reflecting off the city’s facade. I am once again breathless, only this time from the incredible sight.

He gives me a gentle nudge, shaking me out of my captive stare. It’s time to work, to be objective and see more than just spectacle.

“I almost don’t know where to look,” I admit. “There’s so much to see.”

“Well,” he says, securing back a strand of my runaway hair. “I see you. And I know you can do it.” He smiles, giving my hand one last squeeze, then heads into the crowd, giving me space to work. I lift my camera and adjust the shutter speed for all the light. Just as I’m about to start shooting, I sense someone coming toward me.

Beautiful would be too common a word to describe him. Hair more blonde than the morning sun, eyes more blue than any ocean, skin more flawless than a newborn baby, the man strides over to me, radiating confidence in every step. To others I’m sure his presence would be welcome, but I am not lured by a shiny exterior. I have been trained to see what lies beneath, to find the dirt behind the polish. And this man, a living Adonis, reeks of secrets.

“Interested in antiques, I see,” he says, nodding to the camera around my neck.

“Call me old-fashioned,” I answer, nonchalantly.

“You don’t care for holopanes?”

“I am not against them. I’m just partial to the permanence of a photograph.”

He nods, the sun gleaming off his golden skin. His perfection makes me uneasy. “I see. So I hear you are doing an exposé on the city?” he says, inching closer.

I eye him tentatively. Looks like we are both suspicious of one another. “I guess my reputation has proceeded me.”

“Yes, I’ve read many of your reports. In fact, I personally made sure you were invited to this preview. Interesting how you always find another side to the story. I am curious, what darkness could hide in so much light?” he says, casually gesturing to our illuminated surroundings.

I am taken aback. My work has received praise, but I’m not usually welcomed with open arms. Most people want their skeletons kept in the closet. This man’s words are complimentary, but I don’t trust him. “All I know is, it would be hard to keep secrets in a city of glass.”

“Is that so?” the man says through a sinister smile. He is very close to me, almost touching my side. I am nervous—these are not simple work jitters, but a real trembling of fear. I look at him, this modern-day Adonis, and notice how he tugs gently at his left shirtsleeve. At his wrist there is something, a scar perhaps, that he wants hidden, but I catch a quick glimpse. It is curved and bumpy, unlike the rest of his flawless skin.

The boat is now in the middle of the basin’s lake, moving quickly toward the city’s dock. Everyone is fixated on the sparking mirrors, but this man has his eyes locked on me. He continues moving in, my body pressing into the roped railing. I look beyond the man, searching the crowd for my anchor, my love, but he is lost, one boy in a sea of faces.

I am dangerously close to the side of the boat. Droplets of lake water splash at my heels when I notice the man’s hand rests on the rope railing’s clasp. Inches from my face, he leans in to whisper, “We’ll see about that.”

A movement, so subtle not even the gallery of glass encircling us could capture it, unclips the railing with a faint click, and I fall back, the weight of my camera pulling me down. The water is so cold. I try to wrestle my way to the surface, but the camera’s strap has wrapped tightly around my neck, and as quick as I have fallen, my airways close. Into the darkness my body sinks as the city of light fades to black.

* * 32 * *

I
am shaking. The surface below me has finally stopped rocking, but I cannot sit still. My fingers, icy blue, search for something pliable to grip onto to steady myself, but everything around me is buffed to a smooth polish. The towel draped over my shoulders does nothing to stop the shivering. Everything feels cold, wrong. Where am I?

Bodies stand over me, faces of concern. I know them, somehow. There is a quiver of recognition in my mind, but it is unwilling to fully reveal itself. I look around, wet strands of red segmenting the view of tall buildings of glass shining in my eyes. They seem so foreign, so out of place around the encompassing red canyon, but their gleam is forcing me to sit up, take notice.
Come back to the city of glass.
Voices pull at my consciousness, like a lifeline reeling me in.
Can you hear me?
they call. I resist, wanting another minute, even a second, to hang on to that place, so soft and warm compared to the cold around me.

The longer I linger, the more I am sure what I saw, where I was, was not a dream. It wasn’t a vision, or a flash of something vague sitting on the edge of recollection, but a true, full-fledged memory. It was my life. My past life, the Person I used to be. My memories, always kept in a safe beyond my reach, unlocked the moment I hit the water. It was not
déjà vu
.
I remember.

I try to stand, one foot in each reality. A boy, with dripping blond hair and water-flecked glasses, helps me up. He wraps the towel around me tighter, rubbing his hands over my arms to help my circulation. Thomas. He is so sweet, so helpful, but never has it felt truer that he is not mine.

A name, one that seems to belong to me, forms on my lips. “Ben!” I call out.

“He’s okay,” Thomas says, his eyes concerned yet stern. “You both gave us a scare.” I let him comfort me, I know I’m supposed to, but my eyes dart frantically for Ben. He was there. Not in the water just now, but there, clear as day, starring in my past life. Sleeping next to me in bed, playing a familiar tune, making me feel safe: Benjamin Kelly has lived another life, and I was there at his side.

And then I see him. The same boy from my memory: towel-dried brunette hair and light-brown skin shivering under a blanket a few feet away. Though we’re back on shore, I feel unsteady as I hurry over to him. “Ben!”

He looks up, his stare instantly warming. Goosebumps dot his skin.

“Nice day for a swim,” he says through chattering teeth. I want to reach for him, feel the warmth of the spark, but I know I can’t. Not here. I’m in the wrong body, although somehow, he has remained in his.

How? How can this be possible? If the boy from my memory was still alive, as Ben very clearly is, he should be older, not an exact replica of what once was. Flecks of gray in his hair, laughs lines on his face: something to prove the passage of time. At the very least, 17 years have passed since I was in a human body, so if my Ben lived after my death, there is no way he could look the same. Talk the same. Feel the same.

Before I can stop myself, I reach for Ben’s hand. Right on cue, electric tingles run through my fingers straight to my spine. I can tell Ben is warming as well, because he stops shivering. Mr. West’s words come rushing in:
Extreme sensations like that are not normal. They act as an alert of such, forcing fellow Pentrals to pay attention
.

I shake my head, trying to fling the notion away. No. It doesn’t make any sense. Can it be? That Ben somehow tricked the fates, just as I did when I jumped into Violet’s body? But how? Why?
Who are you, Ben?
my eyes plead, wishing I could ask out loud. Or maybe a better question is,
what
are you?

I squeeze his hand tighter as I fight to understand. “Violet?” he whispers, reading my puzzled expression. “Are you okay?”