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She sighed deeply. “Two steps forward, seven steps back. They are good people, Malachi—”
“You barely know them. I’ve met a lot of people, the good ones are very hard to find.”
“Then be one!” She snapped as she marched off.
I wanted to tell her I’d tried that too. I’d tried being one of the good ones but it never worked out well. If she lived long enough or at least saw the history of people unfold, she’d know it was the villains who ran the world. Part of me thought to become the villain then…but the more rational part of me wondered if this was my hell, if I was doomed to live, love, die and repeat for all time, what in the hell was fate?
It was fear that kept me from ever getting to that stage.
ESTHER
“Here you go. One Wake Me Up for Esther and one Big Man for…you. What’s your name again?” Pete asked Malachi as he placed the plate of bacon, ham, sausage, and hash browns in front him. But Malachi…he wasn’t there. He was sitting in front of me. I could see him; we could all see him. But in his eyes I could see that he was in another world…in another memory or at least getting there. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to make a scene but if it was as bad as last time…he’d be on the ground soon. And I’d have no way to keep him from the hospital or the gossip.
“It’s Malachi. Thanks, Pete.” I smiled.
Pete nodded at me before he glanced back over his shoulder towards his wife, Millie, who was in the back awkwardly staring at Malachi as if he were…a hunchback. Reaching over to him I put my hand on his wrist and squeezed tightly.
“Malachi, please,” I whispered softly. “Whatever it is…it’s already happened. Wake up. Malachi…Malachi.”
He blinked a few times before his clear blue eyes focused on me. He grimaced as he reached up to touch his scar. It took him a second to figure out that we were at the diner and when he did he glanced around and those who’d been staring quickly looked away, making it obvious they had been staring at him to begin with.
Picking up his fork he hunched over the plate and
hid his face.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed—”
“I run at night,” he whispered as he looked up. “Somewhere between one and three in the morning. I go running because normal people would be sleeping at that time—you’re sleeping at that time. But it’s the only time I don’t have to stay in my safe zone. I don’t watch television, or read the news, or travel more than twenty miles from where I’m living at the time. I avoid eye contact with those around me. Why? Because knowing that I might one day see her scares me. And now that I know who and where she is, the pain isn’t so bad anymore, but I can’t control the memories.”
He lifted his index finger to the poster hanging right beside my head. It was a Native American woman who stood on the mountains with a staff in her hands, looking over the forest. Pete was half Cree and Crow Indian so the imagery fit in perfectly with the theme of the diner.
“Your life as a native American?”
He nodded. “She was too. But from another tribe that was at war with mine. I was brought as a captive, wounded. In that life, her father’s axe gave me this.” He tapped his face. “In every life, through some circumstance I get this scar. In that life, just as I woke, and all the memories came back she was already the one tending to me. She said she remembered the moment she saw me. We spoke for an hour. We reunited for an hour before my tribe attacked and she and I both died. One hour, can you believe that?”
He snickered bitterly as he lifted a piece of bacon to his lips.
“Malachi…”
“You don’t have to look for the words. No one ever has the words. I don’t want your pity. Honestly, I don’t know what I want…I feel like…never mind.”
“No, tell me.” I reached for my fork too.
He forced himself to smile. “Are you my therapist now?”
“I’m your friend.”
His eyebrow raised. “Friend?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “You annoy me sometimes…a lot of the time actually. You’re stubborn, and you always know what to say to get right under my skin. But…you…you are both friend and family. I know my grandpa cares about you a lot too. Sometimes I would get a little jealous when you would make a bestsellers list. Grandpa always mutters under his breath ‘that’s my boy.’ It made me work harder. I’m a tad bit competitive.”
“You, competitive?” he replied. “Ms. I-brake-for-squirrels?”
“I didn’t brake, I swerved!” I said quickly.
He nodded, the corner of his mouth coming up. “Which is why a man on foot was able to beat you while you biked.”
“Correction—a trained athlete was able to beat a New Yorker in heeled boots.”
