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Another image realizes itself, becoming fuller, but I don’t recognize this woman, though she looks familiar. Or feels like I should know her is more accurate. She reminds me of my mother and a bit of me too; though she has red hair, the face is similar. She’s speaking to someone I can’t see.
“You know we can’t,” she says.
The person she’s talking to moves closer and I gasp. It’s Dugald. He looks exactly the same as he does now, but this isn’t now. He approaches the woman, his head hanging low, and his shoulders hunched.
“It’s your choice,” he says. “It’s always your choice.”
The woman touches his cheek, trailing her fingers along his jaw and I recognize that gesture. I know what her fingers are feeling because I’ve done the same thing many times myself.
“Of course it is,” the woman says.
A child cries and she turns, moving over to a hand-carved wooden cradle. She rests a hand on the side rails and pushes, causing the cradle to gently rock, and she makes shushing noises.
“She knows something is wrong,” Dugald says, moving next to the woman. He places an arm around her waist, familiar, and loving.
“Aye,” the woman says. “This is—”
She doesn’t finish the thought, her voice cracking as she chokes up.
My heart is breaking even though I don’t know what is happening in this scene. No. I do know. I know, but it can’t be. This can’t be real. I’m in the corner watching, a casual observer to a private moment that I know is the worst moment of their lives.
Dugald tightens his arm around her, and she leans into him. The love between them is clear. It’s a comfortable, long-term love. The love that is left after the hormones, the chemicals, and all the many firsts every couple goes through. Love that is deep and true, built on acceptance of your partner for who they are, not who you imagine them to be.
“What shall we name her?” Dugald asks, changing the subject.
“Moira,” the woman whispers.
“Hmm, aye,” Dugald says. “Fate. A good name, my love.”
He kisses the top of her head as whiteness floods the scene, blindingly bright.
I fall back, breaking my death grip on Moira and Dugald’s hands. Tears fill my eyes because I know. I remember. Some of it, at least.
“Moira?” I gasp, breath coming in and out fast as my heart thunders.
I look at my friend through blurry eyes. My friend. No, my… what?
“It’s okay, Quinn. Keep breathing,” Moira says, as she takes my hands in hers.
The mists have returned, thick and white, curling around our legs and rising. They’re chilly, colder than usual, but I am only peripherally aware of it. The crisp air clears my head of the lingering confusions while Moira’s hands lock me into this moment.
I’m mentally exhausted. Whatever that was has left me drained. Empty. But that last vision, the final… memory. For I know, no matter how much part of me wants to reject it because it’s impossible, I know that is what it is. A memory. Not only a memory. No.
My memory.
Dugald has spoken so many times of our time together, but I’ve never recalled it. Reincarnation, living before, whatever you call it, it’s an idea I’ve rejected without really considering it. Back home, in Columbia Missouri, only the fringe people even breach the subject. Like the groups I got involved with trying to find magic to return here. The regular folks all know, this is it. One life is what you get, but then how do I have this memory? And if this one memory is real, then all those other images, were they also memories?
“Quinn, I’m sorry, but we need to move,” Dugald says.
I wipe my eyes dry and swallow the lump down in my throat. Moira remains close, moving her hand to my shoulder and watching me closely.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I inhale, hold it, then nod. Then, on impulse, I pull her into a tight hug. Sheoofsas I squeeze with all my strength.
“Moira.” I say her name, not wanting to ever let her go.
I don’t understand everything that happened, but I feel closer to her than ever. She’s beautiful and I want her close.
