FAYARD FOUND AN ARCHIVE OF old race films made by Oscar Micheaux in the twenties and thirties and downloaded them to his new laptop. We spend hours watching stuff like Murder in Harlem and God’s Stepchildren. For some reason they feel more relevant than the recent stuff we can stream, like we’re rewatching them instead of seeing them for the first time. I write as much in my journal, wondering if I’ll ever see Dr. Gupta again to deconstruct it all.
Fayard charms the staff in the same way he did at the hospital and barely sleeps as he pulls in new poker partners at every stop. We change our names every time we meet someone new and laugh until our sides hurt, but there’s something he’s not telling me. I hear it behind every joke and see it lurking in the corners of his eyes whenever he holds my gaze a bit too long. I’ve noticed how he’s avoided touching me. He hasn’t so much as brushed up against my arm since we boarded the train.
“We aren’t exactly keeping a low profile,” I say as we sit down for breakfast in the club car. We got the deluxe accommodations, a private compartment with two tiny beds that pull down and three meals a day. The cheapest tickets just get you a seat and you have to eat what you bring. The small tables are difficult to fit into with my crutches, but the waiters are exceptionally helpful, even if they do sometimes sit other travelers with us in a nearly empty car. Today we’re lucky to be alone. Apparently, meeting people is supposed to be part of the fun.
“We’re hiding in plain sight. People don’t make up stories about people they’ve met, but they’ll construct entire lifetimes for people they watch from a distance. Plus, it’s fun. Why be yourself when you can be anyone you want to be?” Fayard says.
I roll my eyes and hold in my irritation when the waiter sits a girl and an older woman in our booth. My smile is tight as Fay introduces us to Miriam, a girl with a thick cloud of curly hair that surrounds her head like a crown. She’s traveling with her great-aunt, who doesn’t bother to smile or say hello; she just nods, wisps of gray hair framing her preternaturally unlined face.
“So where are you guys from?” Miriam asks.
“Chattanooga,” Fayard lies, and tacks on friendly small-talk questions I ignore. My eyes are fixed on the old woman. She hasn’t said anything, but she’s paying attention. A few times I catch her scrutinizing Fayard’s face before sliding her gaze back to the window to watch a field of sunflowers roll by.
“My aunt and I are relocating. Our family had a shop right outside New Orleans for, gosh, how long, Tante?”
The old woman just sips her coffee and Miriam has to compensate. “Seventy-five years.”
I think about Auntie O reading my letter, hoping she’ll hold off on calling anyone to look for us, like I’ve asked.
Fayard presses his lips into a short whistle. “That’s pretty long. Why’d you pull up stakes?”
“Everything comes to an end. Too many bad memories. We needed a new start,” she says with excitement.
“What did you sell?” Fayard asks her.
“Readings. Our family is full of astrologers, mystics, a couple of astrophysicists, and one astronomer who may or may not work for NASA.”
He laughs. “You’re psychics?”
“Some people call us that, but I don’t like that label. We see things other people either refuse to see or cannot see. It’s much more scientific than people think, and more spiritual than some want to admit.”
“Sounds expensive if it’s both science and… spirit,” Fay says with a hand flourish. Miriam laughs. She’s hooked. I’m not jealous. Everybody gets hooked on Fay eventually.
“Now, we do provide pro bono services if the spirit compels us,” she says, and grins.
“But I’m sure that is rare,” Fayard replies, laying the charm on thick.
“Most people aren’t as special as they think they are,” she teases.
I order pancakes piled high with strawberries, and the waiter perches a pot of coffee on the end of the table along with four ceramic cups.
“Well, now that you’ve insulted me, I’m going to give you a reading free of charge, just to shut you up,” she adds.
I’ve lost the thread of the conversation, but this proclamation snaps me back to the present. The old woman seems to feel the same, because her back straightens as she utters the first word I’ve heard her say all morning.
“No.”
Her niece looks at the woman as if she’s grown another head.
“Tante? Why? Just a short reading,” she says, and turns back to Fayard. “Hold out your palm.”
The old woman pulls her niece’s outstretched hand to her side of the table and shakes her head.
“Auntie, you’re being rude,” Miriam says before she launches into a flurry of what sounds like French but isn’t. I look at Fayard, who glances back at me with an amused look in his eyes. He likes drama. I know before it happens that this argument will be the story he recites before we go to sleep tonight, the story he’ll perfect before retelling it to whoever shows up for his midnight poker game. The human condition. It’s his drug of choice.
The old woman slams her hand on the table with finality, shutting up her niece, whose mouth has disappeared into her face, angry red blotches now snaking up her neck and onto her cheeks.
“Give me your hand,” the old woman says roughly, eyes trained on me. I blink, taken aback by her bluntness and surprised that she’d even ask it.
“Why me? He’s the one who wants the reading,” I say.
“It must be you,” she says quickly, her words sharp and quick as bites.
“Go on,” Fayard urges, as if this really is just a fun psychic reading with new friends over breakfast, but he’s interpreted the room wrong. It’s clear this woman needs to prove a point, and I’m not sure I want to be at the center of it. Still, I reluctantly hold my hand out. She grips my fingers in her gnarled ones and presses a thumb into my palm as she closes her eyes. I can see her irises move from side to side behind her lids, as if she’s reading, slowly at first and then quickly. I try to pull my hand away, but she grips it harder.
“You are a traveler,” she says.
“We’re on a train,” Fayard snarks, and I cut him a withering glare. He holds up a hand in apology.
“You are… not who you say you are. You travel together on a long journey, and what you seek you have yet to find, but time is a jealous god. You have escaped your fate. Destiny finds you again, as it always has, leading you on a path to the same destination.”
This wipes the smile from his face.
“You should not be here,” she continues, “Your story…”
Her eyes flutter open and she stares into my eyes, seeing and not seeing.
Fayard laughs nervously. He laces his fingers into mine with one hand and calls the waiter over with the other. The waiter nods, and after rummaging in his pocket Fayard immediately places a few bills on the table.
“Unfortunately, we have to go,” he says, as amiably as possible. “Uh… thank you, Miriam. Madame. It was a pleasure.”
“But you haven’t even finished,” Miriam blusters, unobservant of the charge in the air. Fayard ignores her. He’s already standing when she launches into an apology for her aunt, or maybe the reading itself, but he doesn’t care.
My mobility is compromised, so it takes quite a bit of maneuvering to get me back to our room. No one could call what we did a smooth exit. As soon as the doors to our small car slide close, I let him have it.
“She scared you. I know she did. You’re going to tell me what you’re hiding. Now,” I demand.
“Tamar, you don’t understand,” he argues.
“Then make me understand. I’m essentially a runaway with a would-be, could-be, might-have-been, and may-still-currently-be criminal. You’ve got something tucked away and you don’t want to tell me. Tell me!”
“I…,” he starts.
“Tell me now or I swear to God I’m getting off at the next stop and calling the FBI myself! Tell me, Fayard!”
“We’re… we’re dead.”
“What?” I ask, confused, fear and anger warring for dominance inside me.
“You and me. We’ve lived before, died before. God, this doesn’t make sense. Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but you and me, we’re supposed to be together, like fated to be together, and we are, in every life we’ve lived, but then we—”
“Are you having an episode? I… I need to call your doctor. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m just worried. I shouldn’t have said those things.” I’m babbling as I search for my phone.
“I don’t need a doctor. Tamar, look at me.”
I stop searching and look up.
“Just before I tell you everything… you have to be honest with me. Have you really never dreamed of us?”
I’m frozen. I can hear every beat of my heart rushing past my ears. I should tell him. Yes. It’s easy. Yes, I have. All I have to do is open my mouth.
“ ‘Dream’ isn’t really the right word,” he continues. “ ‘Vision’ is more like it. Have you ever gone to sleep or gotten lost in your thoughts and seen yourself, but not the person you are right now, alive in an entirely different life?
My lips remain sealed shut. I wish I could lie and let him live in this delusion alone, but I can’t admit it to him either. It’s like as soon as I say the words out loud, they’ll be real. All this history between us will have really happened.
“I’ll make it easier for you. I’ll tell you about a life I’ve watched us live. If you remember, just nod your head.”
Maybe I move; maybe I don’t, but I feel frozen. My heart is beating too fast and too loud for me to focus on much else.
“We lived in Florida. I met you at the Excelsior Hall, where your mother made costumes and I worked as an assistant for Buster Brown on the vaudeville circuit. The first time I kissed you, I was so nervous my whole body shook. You gripped my arm and danced with me as Scott Joplin played ‘Please Say You Will’ on the main stage. It’s one of my favorite memories, but I don’t dream it often. The older lives come more frequently. You were always Tamar, but in Al-Kawkaw my name was Fayid. I fell in love with you at the stall of a honey merchant. You were a slave, and I wanted to make you my wife.”
I will my head to move and acknowledge that what he’s saying is real and true, that I’ve seen this too. The relief in his eyes is a holy thing, vulnerable and naked.
My lip quivers. “Are we crazy?” I ask, my voice cracking.
His arms enfold me, his lips press against each temple, his thumbs wipe away the cascade of tears.
“You’re not crazy.”
And then he kisses me, softly at first and then so deeply it shakes the memories from my bones and sets every reservation and fear on fire.
“I could sleep my entire life away with you,” Fay whispers into my ear as the sun sets. The train is rocking us into a blissful sleep, but there’s just too much to talk about.
“I remember what it felt like to be sold away from my mother in Charleston, how good fresh rattlesnake tastes on a wagon train, and how safe I feel when all of your weight is pressed against me,” I say. “How long have you known?”
“Not long. I thought I was losing it, but it felt too real and the dreams kept coming. I didn’t want to scare you, so I held it in. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest about all of it sooner.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the first time you asked. I didn’t want to believe it was possible. I thought it would all go away once I healed, once we left the hospital. I never know what will trigger another story, another us. Most of the time the memories come when I’m sleeping, but sometimes it’s a smell, or a song.”
His breath is hot on my chin, my face, and I think he’s going to pull back, but he leans in for another kiss. This time it’s soft and slow, and instead of a raging waterfall of images there is a soft lapping of waves, in and out. There is laughter and kindness and… music, of all kinds.
“You’re talented,” he says before he rolls over and falls back on his elbows. “Flute, guitar, piano. Music’s a theme for you. I could reach out to DeAndre. He called me the other day. We were really good friends, and he’s been doing our YouTube channel without me. If we did a series on you, maybe that might help you get your music out there.”
“Do you ever see us grow old?” I ask.
“No. I figured we could only see as far as our present age. We’ll probably get new memories, new visions as we get older, right?”
“You can’t be so nonchalant about all this,” I say with a growing uneasiness in my belly. Sure, we could be reliving our grand romance over and over. It’s possible. But something doesn’t feel right. I’ve trusted my gut this far. I’m not going to stop now. I chew the corner of my lip as I think, staring out the window and letting the corn meld into a blur of green.
“I love you,” Fay says, and snaps me out of my thoughts. I forget to breathe. My brain shorts out from the weight of the words because I know he means them. This isn’t Christmas card, Valentine’s Day love. It’s I’ll-die-for-you love.
Maybe he already has.