“I think that’s normal,” he says. “You don’t remember everything at once. It can take two or three lifetimes before it all comes back.”
“Do you remember everything? From every lifetime?” Even as I say it, I’m shocked at how normal this conversation feels. Like he’s telling me about his vacation to Hawaii or something.
He nods. “When you’ve been Akhet for a while, there are some things that improve every time you come back. You remember more things. You have more experience and can do things better. Quicker.”
“What kinds of things? Like psychic stuff?”
“That would be great. But no.” Griffon smiles. “We can’t read minds or move anything without touching it. At least, no Akhet
I
know have figured that out yet. It’s more like memory, languages, numbers, dates. They say that people only use a small percent of their brainpower. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but because of our experience, Akhet use a lot more.”
“Sounds like those autistic people who can tell you what day of the week any date is.”
He shrugs. “Sort of. Because I’ve been alive so many times, I remember everything I read and experience. Comes in handy sometimes.”
“Right,” I say. “You’re a genius.” I smile just a little. “But can you tell me what day of the week I was born on?”
“When’s your birthday?” he asks, still serious.
“Come on, you can’t really do that.”
“Hey, you asked. What’s the date?”
“August twenty-seventh.”
“And you’re going to be seventeen, right?” He barely pauses to see my confirmation. “A weekend baby. That was a Sunday.”
I stare at him, alternately amazed and a little irritated. For once, I want him to not be able to do something. Not have all the answers. Not catch me as I’m falling. Not be so damn perfect. “Lucky guess. You had a one-in-seven chance of getting it right.”
“If you say so.” He breaks into a grin so wide his dimples look like parentheses on each side of his face. If there was something more than perfect, it feels like he just attained it.
We stop beside a big black motorcycle parked in the street. Griffon reaches into his pocket for a set of keys and bends down to unlock two black helmets that are strapped to the side. Turns out the motorcycle jacket isn’t just a prop.
“This is yours?”
Griffon hands me a helmet. “Yep,” he says. “Our house is kind of far from here. Too far to walk. You okay with that?”
I stare at the big silver pipes coming from underneath the solid black body. Mom and Dad don’t want me to get my driver’s license or even ride in a car with any of my friends who have one because it’s too dangerous. They’d kill me if they knew I was even thinking about getting on a motorcycle. “Um…” I hesitate, staring at the helmet. I don’t want to look like a baby, but I’m not sure what to do.
“You worried I’m going to kill us both?” he asks, tucking his helmet under his arm.
I look from him back down to the bike. “A little,” I finally admit. “Or that my parents will.”
Griffon takes a step closer to me. “I’ve been riding motorcycles … a long time,” he says, glancing around to see that
nobody on the crowded sidewalk can overhear. He looks me in the eye. “I’m an awesome driver, and I wouldn’t risk hurting you for anything.”
I can feel my cheeks flush as I stare into his face, trying to figure out what his words mean. “It’s not you I’m worried about,” I say, looking out at the cars racing down the busy street.
Griffon pulls his helmet down over his head. “It’ll be fun. Are you in?”
I look at the helmet and then at the bike, willing myself to trust him. “I’m in,” I say, pulling it over my head, wincing a little as it presses against what’s left of the bump from last night.
Griffon pulls his heavy jacket off and hands it to me. “You’re probably going to need this,” he says. “It’s a short ride, but it can get cold.” I start to protest, but he pushes it into my hands. “I’ll be fine. Just take it.”
The fabric inside is still warm from his body, and as I zip the front I’m enveloped in the earthy scent that’s uniquely his. I wonder if I can find an excuse to keep it, just for a little while.
Griffon straddles the bike and holds it steady for me. “Just get on the back and hold on to me,” he says over his shoulder, his voice muffled by the front of the helmet.
I nod, my head feeling heavy in the helmet, and swing my leg over the seat, grateful that I don’t like to wear skirts. Scooting closer to him, I feel his muscles stiffen as our bodies touch. The vibrations are barely noticeable through the leather as I wrap my arms around his waist, but either they’re getting stronger or I’m getting better at finding them.
As we merge into traffic, I can feel Griffon’s muscles relax as
his attention focuses on the road and not on me. Stopping at the first traffic light, I realize that any nerves I was feeling have been replaced by complete confidence in his ability to get us there safely. The bike is steady underneath us, only matched by the power I feel as we gain speed on the asphalt. I wish I could stop time and make this moment go on forever, me tucked against his back as he pushes the bike faster and faster. Too soon, Griffon makes a turn off the main road and down a small side street until he comes to a long driveway beside a large brown-shingled bungalow.
I manage to slide off the bike without falling, and wait while he parks and pulls the key out of the ignition.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he teases as I pull off the helmet and pat down any noticeable bumps in my hair.
“No,” I grin, handing the helmet back so that he can lock them up. I could get used to this.
He nods to the small red pickup truck that’s parked beside the house. “Janine’s home.”
I realize that I’ve forgotten to be nervous about meeting his mother until just now. It must show on my face, because Griffon laughs.
“Don’t worry, she’s cool,” he says. “I’ve already told her about you, and she’s excited to meet you. You’ll find she’s … different from most parents.”
“Different how?”
“You’ll see,” he says, and leads the way through the small gate and into a courtyard that’s filled with tall grasses and bushes dotted with flowers of every color. “Janine’s really into naturalized
gardening,” he explains as we make our way up the path to the front porch. “Her way of relaxing.”
As we cross the yard, a small gray cat runs up to us and rubs its head against Griffon’s leg.
“Hiya, Spike,” Griffon says, bending down and giving him a scratch on the neck.
“He’s so cute,” I say, listening to him purr. “Is he yours?”
“No. He thinks he is, though. He really belongs to the neighbors.” He gives Spike a last pat on the head. “Okay, buddy, we have to go now.”
Our footsteps echo on the wide wooden porch as Griffon opens the front door. “Hey,” he calls. “We’re here.”
“Be right there,” a voice calls from somewhere in the depths of the house.
I look around at what I can see from the front door. Just ahead is a wide staircase that leads up to a small landing between the floors, where it turns and disappears into the second story. One large wall in the living room is dominated by a moody and incredibly realistic painting of an English street at sunset. Every vertical surface is covered with big African fabric pieces and intricately carved masks. A big woven trunk sits in front of a bright yellow couch covered with mud-cloth pillows.
“Crazy, isn’t it?” Griffon says, grinning as he watches me look around the room. “Looks a little bit like a Pier 1 threw up in here.”
“I like it,” I say, nervously wondering about the woman who matches the décor. I don’t have long to wait.
A small African-American woman appears from a back hallway, wiping her hands on a towel that’s stuck into the waistband
of her jeans. She has on the standard Berkeley black fleece jacket, but her hair is a mass of tiny braids, each with a bead or shell on the end that makes a faint clacking sound as she walks.
“Come on in,” she says as she approaches us. “Put your stuff down anywhere. You must be Cole—so glad you could come! I’m Janine.”
Her energy is so warm and welcoming that I can’t help but relax a little. “Thanks,” I say.
Janine grabs my right hand in both of hers, as much to feel the vibrations as a greeting, I suspect. As she touches me, I get a strong sense of excitement and confidence from her.
“Janine!” Griffon’s voice has a touch of irritation in it. “Leave her alone. She just got here.”
She unclasps my hand, and the feelings immediately vanish. “Settle down, Grif. No harm in trying.” A look of concern crosses her face. “How’s your head? Griffon told me about last night.”
I glance at him, wondering what else he told her. “It’s better, thanks.”
“Are you hungry?” she asks, leading the way back to the kitchen. “It’s going to take me awhile to get it all together, but I’ve got some snacks laid out on the island.”
We follow her back into a brightly lit kitchen dominated by a huge, stainless-steel stove that’s covered with steaming pots. Loud hip-hop music is coming from a small iPod in the corner. “I picked up some samosas at Vic’s,” she says, indicating the fried dumplings laid out on the wooden island top. “We’re not having Indian, but I’ll use any excuse to get samosas from there. Grif, why don’t you grab the plate and go into the front room? I’ll call you when it’s time to set the table.”
Griffon leads me to the living room, which is almost dwarfed by a shiny black baby grand piano. He sets the plate on the coffee table, while I sit on the piano bench and let my fingers wander gently over some of the keys. I don’t know much about piano, but even I can tell that this is an expensive instrument.
“Do you play piano too?” he asks, sitting down beside me.
I poke a key so that one lonely note hangs in the air. “No,” I say. “Kat did for a while. It’s funny; other than the cello, I’m not all that musical. Mom tried to get me to take piano lessons when I was little, but I wasn’t that into it.”
“Hmm. Guess that rules out you being a concert pianist in another life.”
“What, like if I played piano before, then I probably could now?”
“Sure. That’s the way it usually works.”
I stare at him, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it on my own. “You mean, the reason I just ‘know’ how to play the cello is because I learned in another lifetime?”
Griffon gets up off the bench and walks toward the food. “Probably,” he says. “You learn something in one lifetime and you carry it over into the next, sometimes subconsciously. You probably played cello before, and there is enough of a break in your memories that allowed that knowledge to slip through. Bam—instant prodigy.”
A feeling of dread starts to grow in my stomach. It makes so much sense. As far back as I can remember, it felt like I just knew how to play, and all I had to do was train my body to match the ability I had inside. “So it doesn’t have anything to do with talent or hard work? It’s just memory?” It suddenly feels like my whole
life has been a lie. The fact that I could play always seemed like magic. I don’t understand it, and in a lot of ways I don’t really want to, because somehow understanding it might make it suddenly vanish. But now it’s like the curtain has been pulled back, and there’s an angry little man at the controls. It’s not magic at all.
Griffon sees the look on my face. “Memory isn’t everything,” he says. “You still have to have the passion and the discipline to bring that memory forward in this lifetime.”
“But it’s not real,” I say. “It’s like I’ve been cheating this whole time.”
Griffon smiles. “Is it any more cheating than when you didn’t know the truth? When you just knew that you could pick up a bow and the notes flew like magic from your hands into the cello?” He looks at my hands and frowns. “Using what you’ve learned in each lifetime isn’t cheating. It’s what makes you special.”
Except I don’t feel special. I feel like a fake.
“So tell me what you know about this Akhet cellist,” Janine says as she passes me a bowl full of rosemary-scented potatoes. It’s a little disconcerting the way she says it as casually as other people ask about your day at school. How was English? Did you do okay on your test? Do you really think that you wronged Veronique in a past life and she’s out to get you?
“I don’t know all that much,” I admit. I spoon some potatoes onto my already loaded plate and pass the bowl to Griffon. I’ve never had such amazing vegetarian food before—it’s so good that I don’t miss the slab of meat that would have gone along with it at my house. I carefully pick the tomatoes out of my salad and put them on the side of my plate, hoping she won’t notice. If it was the last food on earth, I wouldn’t eat a tomato, but I don’t want to insult Janine. “She’s just one of my cello students.”
Janine doesn’t look surprised about Griffon being involved in my life. The way they interact reminds me more of roommates than mother and son—like there aren’t all that many secrets between them. “But you’ve never felt anything from her? No signs of danger, no uneasy feelings?”
“There have been some memories when I’m with her,” I say, not really wanting to admit to anyone, even myself, that Alessandra and Veronique might be connected. It makes Griffon’s theory that much more possible.
Griffon puts his fork down. “There have been? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t really connect the two of them before. I’ve had visions of being a cellist. I think I’m from Italy, but we’re in San Francisco. There’s another girl there, a little older than me. Her name is Alessandra. But this is where it doesn’t make any sense: in everything I’ve seen, she’s really nice to me. We’re friends. If Veronique really is Alessandra, I’m not seeing anything dangerous at all.” I picture Alessandra onstage with her cello. “But if Alessandra could play cello so well in that lifetime, why can’t Veronique play it in this one? Wouldn’t she carry that with her like you said?”
“Maybe she can,” he says. “Maybe she really can play, and is just pretending she can’t to stay close to you.”
“I think I’d be able to tell,” I say. Veronique is getting better, but I don’t think anyone can fake it that well.