In This Life or the Next Read online

  She didn't know where she was running to, she wasn't sure either why she was running, but she just knew she had to. She had just kissed Chris. She had kissed her best friend. She had stepped over that friendship line and ... and what? Broken the special bond that had always linked them, even in those years when they had yelled at each other constantly? Made him hate her? Or maybe ... just maybe...

  Panting, she slowly came to a halt, leaning against the trunk of a tree for support as her knees threatened to give up. What had she done? What had ever possessed her to be so bold and brash and...

  "Lauren..."

  She shivered at the sound of her name, rough and quiet, then once more when a trembling hand touched her shoulder. She turned to face him, afraid to see those fiery eyes again, afraid that the fire would have disappeared. She didn't have time to see. Chris pulled her to him, his hands gripped almost painfully tight around her arm and waist as he held her, but complaining was the farthest thing from her mind when his lips crashed down upon hers and he kissed away whatever breath she had left after her run. She tried to jerk back when he tentatively touched the tip of his tongue along her lips, but he was holding her too close, there was nowhere to go, nothing to do. Nothing, except surrender, let him in, and learn the feel of his mouth on hers, of his tongue against hers, of his hands relaxing slightly but holding her possessively still. Nothing to do but love him a little more with each passing second.

  When he pulled back, letting go of her lips with a palpable reluctance, but still holding her close, Lauren could have wept. Why did it have to end, why couldn't they just keep kissing until the end of times and...

  "Why did you kiss me?” Chris asked suddenly, his voice a little shaky, a little hopeful, a little awed.

  A few seconds passed during which Lauren remained speechless. This was not, not at all, what she had expected him to say, and she suddenly felt defensive. She would have stepped away from him, but she quickly realized he wasn't going to let her go anywhere quite yet. She could have fought him off, but she felt more like kissing him again than like kicking him.

  "Why did *you* kiss *me*?” she shot the question back at him, sounding angry when she really wasn't, and was surprised by the shy smile that played on his lips.

  "Because I love you, Lauren. I've loved you for longer than I can remember, and I can't imagine..."

  She couldn't wait for him to finish; she had to kiss him again. And she did.

  * * * *

  The kiss was chaste, no more than lips upon lips, but enough for Tania to have another vision, to remember another first kiss, one that had been the prelude to many others. It couldn't happen now, though, and she jerked back to put some distance between her and Marc. He looked surprised at her movement and strangely pained. What was even stranger though was that she felt bad for causing this pain.

  "That's ... that's not why I'm here. My husband ... I'm not sure ... I don't understand everything you've said and I...” She belatedly remembered the notebook in her hands and why she had came to him in the first place. “Look, I have these names, and I'm trying to understand who or..."

  The surprised look on his face slowly melted into a blank mask as he considered her in silence. She was trying to think of something else to say, something that would make him explain, when he took the notebook from her and gave it a cursory glance before handing it back to her.

  "They're not in order,” he said with a shrug. “And you're missing a few."

  "Order?” she repeated, looking down at her list. “What order?"

  "Chronological. That's what makes the most sense. I've tried organizing them by country but that didn't help much."

  Like earlier, he wasn't making much sense. However, while earlier he had been babbling excitedly, his answers now seemed to be kept short deliberately, as though he didn't want to say too much.

  "I ... I don't understand. What do you mean?"

  He took a few steps away from her and went to stand by a window. After a few seconds, he turned to her, mouth open and ready to speak, but stopped short and shook his head, finally asking: “How much do you love your husband?"

  Taken aback by his question, Tania was quickly becoming annoyed by his cryptic act and wanted a straight answer. She demanded it, trying her best to sound as determined as she felt.

  "What does that have to do with anything? I'm trying to understand who these people are and why..."

  She lost her train of thoughts when he shook his head again and walked away once more, this time going to one of the easels and fussing with the painting supplies spread out on a small table next to it.

  "Go home,” he said calmly, without looking at her. “You wouldn't like the answer I would give you. Just go home and..."

  "Don't talk to me as though I am a child!"

  Brush in hand, he looked back at her, surprise and hurt etched on his face. Tania wondered what in her words could have caused that reaction.

  "I never did,” he replied, so quietly she almost didn't understand. The rest of his words were louder, but no more helpful. “But I won't answer your question. Go, now. Please."

  She had been ready to argue, but the ‘please’ took her by surprise, and she found herself leaving the apartment before she even knew she was. That, she reflected as she went down the stairs, had been a very sad waste of time. Clearly, that man's mind wasn't all that lucid. She would certainly be better off forgetting about him, or these visions or whatever they had been. She had to be overworked, that was certainly the explanation to it all. A little rest and she would be fine.

  She repeated the same thing to herself all the way to the library, as though repetition would make it true, and then spent five hours doing the research she could have done in minutes if she had been entirely focused on what she was doing. More than once, as she took notes, she found herself flipping back to the page where she had written whatever she knew of these women—of these couples, since there always seemed to be a man. Every time she looked at the names, she remembered what Marc had said. There were more than these few names, and there was a chronology to them.

  At some point, thinking back on what she had seen, clothing, buildings, or any other detail she could remember, she started scribbling numbers in the margins of the notebook, trying to assign dates, or at the very least a century, to each couple. She called herself a fool when she realized what she was doing, and crumpled up the page before disposing of it in the nearest trash bin and getting back to her work. Within minutes, she had gone back for the page and had smoothed it out carefully before folding it in fourths and slipping it in her jacket's pocket.

  She finally gave up and went home, having accomplished very little other than giving herself a headache from trying to come up with answers to what her visions meant, how exactly they were linked to Marc's paintings and what he knew about them. She was also feeling guilty, because she had realized she was more upset with him for refusing to explain to her than for kissing her when he knew she was married. Shouldn't the kiss have felt more wrong than it had? All she could think about it was how much it had reminded her of Lauren and Chris, and that probably wasn't the best thing to keep in mind if she wanted to think clearly.

  Alex was already home when she arrived there, and the smell of whatever he was cooking painfully reminded Tania that she hadn't eaten since breakfast. It also made her feel even guiltier; she had a beautiful life, with a wonderful husband, what in hell had she been playing at, going to that painter's apartment and letting him kiss her? If she had been unhappy, she could have understood her mind making up a pretty love story to distract her, but she wasn't unhappy, far from it. The simple thought of how hurt Alex would be if he knew twisted something inside her and made her want to hide from him. She did her best to act normally, however, and even attempted small talk during dinner, asking about his day. It went well, until he started asking questions back.

  "So what did you do? Managed to do all the writing you had planned?"

  He couldn't know. Sh
e knew he couldn't possibly know. But at the same time, she couldn't look straight at him when she answered.

  "I tried to, but I wasn't getting anywhere. I should have given myself a day off."

  "I wish I'd stayed home, then. It would have been nice to have a day together."

  "Yeah."

  A day with him would probably have been much better for her sanity, she reflected somewhat bitterly. She wouldn't have typed the letter from Lauren to Chris; wouldn't have gone to the gallery and experienced, more or less willingly, more visions; wouldn't have been to Marc's apartment and—

  "I tried to call you around noon and ask if you wanted to come meet me downtown to have lunch together."

  The blade of guilt sank a little deeper, as did the unreasonable fear that he knew. “Sorry I missed you,” she mumbled.

  "I'm sorry too. Did you go out for lunch?"

  The fear backfired, and she suddenly found herself on the defensive and glaring at Alex. If he knew, why this game of twenty questions? And if he didn't, why was he insisting so much?

  "Why all the questions? I just went out, that's all. I'm locked in here day in and day out, I can grant myself a few hours of fresh air, can't I?"

  He seemed taken aback by her answer.

  "Gosh, Tania, I just asked where you had gone. Excuse me for caring about what my wife did with her day. I'll try not to give a damn next time."

  "Good idea,” she snapped at him. “You do that. And maybe I won't feel like you're keeping me on a leash."

  His head jerked back as though she had slapped him, and he looked hurt as he stared at her. Already she wanted to take the words back; she didn't really know where her last comment had come from. But the cold anger that slowly took over Alex's features kept her silent.

  "I don't know what's going on in your head right now,” he said, his voice seemingly cool but she knew him enough to know he was barely controlling his temper. “But I know I didn't do anything to provoke this. So don't expect an apology from me."

  Without waiting for an answer, he left the room and stepped into their bedroom. Tania watched him go, the tears rising to her eyes as she realized that he was right. She had been feeling uneasy and guilty about her visit to Marc and the kiss that had come from it; her guilt had turned first into defensiveness and then outright attack in the face of his innocent questions. She wished she could have told him about what was going on, about the visions and dreams and everything that she had been feeling since their visit of the gallery, but she didn't know where to start, or even what to say. All she could hope was that it would all go back to normal soon; no more visions, or meeting with strange men that left her a mass of tangled nerves and feelings.

  When she went to bed that night, Alex was already asleep, or pretending to be, his back firmly turned toward her. She slid in behind him and hesitantly hugged him from behind. He didn't relax against her for a long time, and only when he did could she let herself fall asleep.

  * * * *

  "Should you be out in your state?"

  Startled, Lauren brought a hand to her heart, almost dropping the basket full of eggs she was holding in the other. John was a few feet to her side, where, lost in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed him before he had spoken. It was only midmorning, and the air wasn't very hot, but his shirt clung to his chest already, proof that he had been working hard.

  "In my state?” she repeated, managing to laugh a little once she had calmed her thundering heart. “Good lord, you make it sound as though I'm near death! I'm pregnant, that doesn't make me an invalid!"

  His features fell instantly, his usual smile disappearing into contrition and the faintest blush. She was his employer, and he had always been very cautious not to talk to her with anything other than respect. Lately, though, it was friendship she had been hearing in his voice and reading in his gestures toward her. Friendship, and although she wished she was wrong and refused to acknowledge it, maybe even a little more.

  "I didn't mean ... All I meant is that the weather has been getting warmer, and maybe you would be more comfortable inside. You wouldn't want to feel faint if there was no one around to help you back inside."

  From the day she had asked the priest to mention her unborn child during the service and ask for prayers for the safe return of his father, the whole village population had started giving her advice on how to take care of herself and the baby. John was no exception, although he usually tried—and failed—to be more subtle about it. She knew it came from a good place in his heart though, and she couldn't fault him.

  "Don't worry about me,” she told him with a smile. “I have a good voice. I'll holler if I need an arm to support me when I walk up the three steps."

  His mouth opened, then closed again without a sound as his eyes narrowed.

  "Now you're mocking me,” he said after a moment, and he sounded hurt.

  "No, John, please, don't think I am. You're just worrying too much about me. I appreciate your concern, really, but I feel fine and it will be weeks yet before the baby arrives. I can do the small work."

  John seemed to mull it over before he finally said, somewhat grudgingly: “Only if you promise not to tire yourself."

  "I promise,” she agreed, repressing a chuckle, “if that's what you need not to worry so much."

  "Well, if I don't worry about you, who will?"

  Smiling gently, John brought a hand up to touch the brim of his hat and walked back to the barn. Lauren waited until he had his back to her before she allowed the tears to flow.

  He had meant well, she was sure of it, but his last words had been like a stab to the heart, reminding her all too painfully that her husband, her child's father was still away. It had been months since she had last heard from Chris. There was so little news coming in about the war, she had no idea what might be going on for him. Was he safe, away from combat, or had the front moved to where he was stationed? She wished she knew.

  She wished he were back.

  She wished a little nagging voice in her head wasn't whispering during the moments when she missed him the most that he wouldn't come back at all.

  * * * *

  Four days passed. Four days during which Tania tried her best to fight back the bits and pieces of Lauren's life that kept coming to her at the oddest moments. Four days during which she repeated to herself that the visions would stop, eventually, that they couldn't continue forever. Four days of wondering why they hadn't ended yet, since she hadn't gone back to see the paintings. She had only seen things through the other women's eyes when looking at the paintings, why was it different with Lauren?

  On the morning of the fifth day, she gave up. She sent Alex to work with a kiss and a smile and was out of the house ten minutes after him. Half an hour later, she was knocking on Marc's door.

  He didn't look completely awake when he opened the door, but she refused to feel sorry about waking him up. Instead, she walked past him and into his apartment without waiting to be invited. She wanted answers, and this time she wasn't leaving before she had them.

  "Explain to me,” she demanded as she came to stand in the middle of his living room and looked back to where he was slowly following.

  "Explain what?” he shot back, racking his fingers through his mussed up hair. The movement drew his t-shirt up, revealing a strip of bare flesh above the waistband of his sleeping pants. She had to force herself to look back at his face.

  "You know what,” she answered his question. “The names I showed you? Who are these people? Why do I keep seeing them in my dreams?"

  He raised an interested eyebrow at that, but all he said was, “Coffee?"

  When she didn't answer, he walked to the side door behind which Tania could guess was his kitchen. She started walking around the room, looking at the paintings he was working on, only to freeze in front of an unfinished portrait that unmistakably represented her. Too troubled by what she was seeing, she didn't pay attention as he called out something from the kitchen, or notice he had retur
ned until he repeated his query from just a couple of feet to her side.

  "Do you believe in destiny, Tania?"

  Her eyes jumped from the painting to him, and she frowned, unsure of what he meant exactly. “Destiny?” she repeated.

  He took a sip from the coffee mug in his hand, his eyes never leaving her, and then spoke quietly.

  "I've been having dreams for years. Dreams of different people, in different places, but I've always known it was me in those dreams, whatever name I bore. I've ... sought help.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “A psychiatrist tried to have me committed for having multiple personalities. Another one ... well, he was something else altogether. He hypnotized me, and the memories came back, all at once.” He took another sip of his coffee, and she noticed that his hand was trembling. “It took me a while to figure out everything, who was when and where, but now I've got it pretty much straight in my head, and I remember it all. That's what I paint, but I guess you already knew that."

  She hadn't known that at all, but she didn't correct him, still trying to grasp what he was explaining.

  "So you're saying ... What are you saying exactly?"

  He gave a small shake of his head and smiled as he put down his mug on a nearby coffee table and picked up a picture album on it. He handed it to her and she flipped through the pages. Above the first few pictures of paintings, a handwritten inscription read ‘Lauren and Christopher'; the paintings were not only those from the museum, but half a dozen more, some of which Tania was almost sure she recognized from her visions or dreams. She skipped ahead farther into the book, and discovered more names, including those she had picked up from her visions at the gallery, but also some she had never heard before but stirred something in her nonetheless. None of these other couples had been painted as much as Lauren and Chris, though.