Chapter 2

Chris sat at his workbench. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It read five, so he began packing his case. “Chris -- before you go...”

“Yes, Roger.”

Roger placed his iPad on the bench. “How can I configure this to synch with my personal email?”

“You can’t. It’s an office-supplied iPad. It only synchs with office email.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way.”

“I’m afraid not. It’s corporate policy -- just like you can’t synch your office desktop to your personal mail. However...”

“However what?”

“If your personal email has browser access, you might try logging in.”

“Will that work?”

“It may or may not,” Chris replied. “It depends if your email provider’s domain is on our blacklist. The bigger ones -- GMail, Hotmail, Yahoo...”

“They’re okay?”

“No -- they’re blacklisted. A couple of years ago we had a worm that burrowed into our network. We were down for two days. Remember that?”

“Vaguely,” Roger replied.

“Well ... The virus came in because someone clicked on an attachment that was on their Hotmail. Consequently we got the corporate policy against connecting office equipment to outside providers.” Chris handed the iPad back to him. “Of course, there are obscure proxy services out there. There’s no way we can keep track of all of them. Try one. If it works, it works. But -- you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Gotcha.”

“Just don’t click on any attachments.”

“Understood. By the way -- did you get your date with Carmen?”

Chris grimaced. “No.”

“Told you so.”

“I am trying to forget about her ... which isn’t easy. She kinda got under my skin.”

“Move on, Buddy. Move on.”

Chris sat dozing on his sofa. He stirred and looked up at his television. The end credits of a movie were scrolling on the screen. Shit, he thought, this always happens. I put on a film, fall asleep and wake up just in time for the credits.

He ejected the disc, switched off his equipment and headed for his bedroom. There he stripped to his briefs and slipped between the covers. Chris closed his eyes and relaxed. He eased into slumber.

Again he felt a presence in his room and saw the long, dark-haired woman.

“You again,” he said. “This is the fourth night in a row.”

“We’re going to try something a little different,” she said. “Don’t be alarmed.” She extended her hand. “Take my hand. Come with me.”

He took her hand and found himself looking down from a vantage point high in the room. He saw his own supine figure in bed. Then, he found himself standing in bright sunshine outside a long, white wall. Behind it rose a golden pagoda. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Bangkok,” she replied. “This is the Temple of the Emerald Buddha.” Holding hands she led him through a gateway into the inner courtyard.

“I’m not dressed for this,” he protested. He looked down and found himself in jeans and a tee shirt -- one he had worn in high school.

“No one can see us, or hear us. Come.”

“These buildings glitter like jewels,” he remarked. “They have pasted little pieces of mirror into the carving.”

“This represents heaven on earth,” she replied. “The temple is the holiest Buddhist site in Thailand.”

“Look at all the gilding.”

She led him into the main temple. “This is the Emerald Buddha,” she said.

“Looks more like jade to me.”

“It is carved from jadeite. The clothing is solid gold and changed seasonally.”

Together they wandered the grounds. Chris regarded gilded statues of demons and angelic attendants. He looked up at the golden spire.

“Over here,” she said, “is a model of Angkor Wat -- the most sacred shrine in Cambodia. We’ll have to go there one day.”

“It’s warm here,” he remarked and let go of her hand to wipe his brow.

“Wait -- don’t! Come back! Take my hand again!”

He opened his eyes and found himself in bed in his room. “Holy fuckin’ Christ!” he exclaimed. He hopped out of bed, powered up his laptop and searched for articles on the Emerald Buddha. As he scanned through photo images, recognition flashed in his mind. “Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, I saw that ... and that, too.” He sat back in his chair. “Carmen -- are you doing this? If so, how?”

Chris headed for Roger’s desk. He found his colleague engaged in a telephone conversation. Chris paced and rocked on his heels until his friend hung up the phone. “Roger,” he said, “I need Carmen’s phone number.”

“Sorry,” Roger replied. “It would be a breach of trust. It’s unlisted and I promised never to divulge it to anyone.”

“She has my numbers. Can you call her and ask her to call me? It’s important.”

“What’s the matter? You seem agitated.”

“Dreams,” Chris replied. “Ever since I worked on her laptop I’ve been having weird dreams.”

“What sort of dreams?” Roger asked.

“This same woman comes into my bedroom. At first she just came in, looked at me and vanished. That was Saturday and Sunday. Then, on Monday, she came in and sat. We talked ... mainly small talk and then she vanished.”

“The same woman?” Roger asked.

“Yes. What’s also weird is that I remember the details. Normally I can’t remember dreams but these are so vivid -- I remember everything. Last night was the topper. She appeared, took my hand and the next thing I know I’m in Bangkok.”

“Thailand?”

“No. Bangkok Portugal. Of course Thailand. We were at the Temple of the Emerald Buddha -- the grounds of the royal palace, looking over the sights. We were holding hands the whole time. Then when I let go -- I was back in my room. I looked up the Emerald Buddha on Wikipedia. It was all there. I remembered all the details -- the mirror chips in the paint, the gold costume on the Buddha ... the carvings, the gold leaf. It was as if I was really there.”

“You think this woman in your dreams is Carmen?”

“Who else could it be?”

“Don’t ask me -- it’s your dream. What makes you think she’s Carmen?”

“Well ... I’ve never actually seen Carmen’s face. I’ve heard her voice and this woman sounds similar.”

“What did she look like?” Roger asked.

“She’s tallish, like Carmen -- maybe five foot nine, medium build with a round face, brown eyes and long dark hair.”

Roger shook his head. “It wasn’t Carmen. Carmen does not have long dark hair.”

“What kind of hair does she have?”

Roger chortled. “Certainly not long, dark hair. Chris ... buddy ... I think you must be working too hard. You should talk to Kyle about taking some time off to relax and decompress.”

“Will you tell Carmen to give me a call?”

Roger sighed. “All right. Next time I speak to her, I’ll tell her you want to get in touch.”

“Thanks...”

Chris headed to his workshop. He sat on a stool by his bench and rested his head in his hands. “I’m not crazy,” he muttered. “Maybe I am crazy...”

Chris switched off his television. He stripped to his briefs and slid into bed. I wonder if we’ll have another night visitor, he mused. He relaxed and let himself drift to sleep.

Once again he felt a presence and again saw the dark-haired woman. She reached for him. “Where are we going tonight?” he asked.

She held his hand and he found himself standing on a dune. The sky was pitch dark but dazzled with stars. “Where are we?” he asked.

“The Arabian desert,” she replied and coaxed him to first sit and then lay on the sand. “The stars are beautiful, Christian -- aren’t they?”

“They are,” he replied. “They look close enough to touch. You can see the Milky Way ... That’s not something you can see from home.”

“Can you see what you were looking for?” she asked and caressed his forearm.

“What’s that?”

“The Magellanic Clouds?”

“No. We’re still too far north for that. We’d need to be south of the equator...” He regarded her. “It IS you, Carmen,” he said. “I never mentioned the Magellanic Clouds to anyone else -- and no one else calls me Christian. Why are you doing this? How are you doing it?”

“I ... I thought we could be together this way. You said you wanted to spend time with me.”

“Not like this. This isn’t how I want it.” He began wresting his hand from hers.

“Christian ... wait ... don’t...”

He worked free of her grasp and awoke with a start in his own bed. “Carmen,” he said aloud. “You have some explaining to do.”

He arose, headed for his living room and turned on the television and all the lamps. Then he sat, avoiding sleep, until morning.

With dawn’s light he showered and dressed. He picked up his telephone, dialed a number and left voice mail. “Hi, Kyle, it’s Chris. I need to take some time off this morning on personal business. Sorry for the short notice.”

Chris drove to Carmen’s bungalow and parked in her driveway. He bounded onto her porch and rapped on the door. He rapped again and again. “Carmen,” he called. “It’s me, Chris ... Christian. I know you’re in there. I need to talk to you and I’m not leaving until I see you.” He pounded again. “Carmen!”

The door opened and he stepped inside. She faced him wearing a long white dressing gown and another wide-brimmed hat. “I suppose I should have been expecting you,” she said.

“How?” he asked. “How did you get into my dreams?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve no place I need to be,” he replied. “Take as much time as you need.”

“The summer before my senior year in college I ... became ill. I had some rare infection.”

“Roger told me about that. He said they didn’t think you’d make it.”

“I died ... three times and each time was revived. After the third time they put me on a respirator.” She pulled open the collar of her gown and Chris regarded a circular scar on her throat, just above her collarbone. “After that I was in a coma. I began having out-of-body experiences. I would look down from the ceiling and see myself on the respirator.”

“I ... I always thought those were myths ... urban legends.”

“I wouldn’t have believed it until I experienced it. Eventually I recovered. Somewhat by accident I discovered if I meditated in the right way I could induce the effect at will. With practice I found I could project myself anywhere in the world.”

“That’s how you write those columns!”

“Yes ... I combined my unique, new ability with my training as a journalist. I mean, there’s more to it than that. I moderate the Smart Travels forum where I solicit tips from readers whom I nickname my elves. I also spend a fair amount of time doing web research. My ability is my edge -- it lets me see places so my reportage is more vivid than other travel columnists’.”

“Yeah, and without the time and expense of going there in person,” Chris observed.

She picked up a facial tissue. “Christian ... You are right. You said you liked me and you sensed that I reciprocated. I do. You’re the first man I’ve met who I respond to this way. I do want to be with you.”

“Why me?” he asked.

“I was drawn to you when I first met you. It’s your aura, Christian.”

“My aura?”

“Life generates it. You can’t see it. Neither could I before my coma.”

“What does it look like?”

Carmen took down her sketchpad from the shelf and flipped it open. She showed him the top sheet. “When I asked to sketch you, I was actually sketching your aura. I’ve never seen one like yours -- it’s like an inner mounting purple flame with a cascade of blue and white.”