Sublime Messages

Eight, B

Vanessa wondered whether Damien might be right. Since committing to this favor for Fran, she'd begun to have moments of confusion, as if her memory were a deck of cards being reshuffled by an unknown hand. She'd thought perhaps it was stress, from all the pressure or from being unpracticed for so many years. Perhaps her uncertainty had even been going on before Eli had shown up—she couldn't remember! There was no way to know what truth existed prior to the one she currently knew. Maybe that was why she couldn't quite recall her father's face or what exactly had happened to him. How many layers of her life had there been? Who could possibly want to reorder her past?

Of course, all of her surmising relied on Damien's claim of time manipulation being true, and that was in itself difficult to believe. Had so many other weird things not been happening, Vanessa never would have humored him. But when she considered the strange reactions and words of the people she'd met, the bizarre duplications of random objects, the attacks—

After Damien had realized Arlo's bar no longer belonged to him, the two had thought relocating would be wise. If Annabelle showed up, who knew what she'd think of their presence? So they'd moved outside into the warmth of the late morning, walked a short ways into town. There were more buildings there, at least, fewer empty storefronts than Vanessa remembered. People were beginning to mill about, to open their small businesses, to wander from the doors of the youth hostel. A city employee was watering flower bowls pendent from the light posts. A couple of women in athleisure hastened by with their small leashed dogs and thermoses of coffee. A bicycle passed on the road where a path had been painted. The trash cans weren't overflowing. It was quainter, more vibrant. Much was still the same—some of the touristy restaurants and boutiques were familiar—but Vanessa was sure the area hadn't looked quite so desirable a mere twelve hours ago.

She didn't exactly want to be with Damien; she wanted to be alone, to process what he'd told her. She needed some way to ground herself, to rationalize the events of the last twenty-four hours. But he'd been adamant about staying with her "this time," noting he'd made a mistake thinking she could go it alone, that she'd be safe.

"Who attacked me?" Vanessa insisted at that point. "Who was in Bill Taylor's trailer? Does it have something to do with whatever you're going through?"

They were seated on a bench in a small green space plotted between a café and a Wiccan craft store. Vanessa watched a man as he unrolled a plastic bag and bent to pick up the poop his lab had deposited several yards away from them.

Damien seemed uncomfortable, hunched over, hands entwined between his knees. "I don't know."

"You don't know anything?"

"Only that you come and go, sometimes. You don't know where you go, and neither do I."

Vanessa licked her upper lip before replying, "But you knew when it'd happen. You were there both times."

The man shifted. "It's happened this time and the last that I know of. Could've been more. But I only found out last time because I stayed the night there, after we met at the bar, and you just disappeared on me. So I figured it'd probably happen again this time."

"You stayed the night at the motel with me?"

He nodded.

"Why?"

Damien slightly smirked but didn't look at her. He picked at his fingers. "Why do you think?"

Vanessa read between his lines. "What? No way. I am not that kind of woman."

"You drank too much last time. My fault, really. I came onto you pretty hard."

"I don't drink like that. Ever."