The Walk (19 page)

“Yes, ma’am.” I slid the pack from my shoulder and leaned it against the wall.

“Your name, please.”

“Alan Christoffersen.”

She looked up. “Are you related to that singer?”

“No. It’s not spelled the same.”

She went back to her register. “Very well. We’ve only one other guest tonight, so you have your choice of rooms. They’re all nice, unless you have an aversion to stairs.”

“I’m fine with stairs.”

“They’re all the same price, too, except the honeymoon suite. I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting that.”

“No, ma’am.”

“My name is Colleen Hammersmith. But you may call me Colleen.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll put you in the green room. It has a nice new mattress and duvet I picked out myself. I’ll just need your credit card and some ID.”

I took out my wallet and pulled out the essentials. “There you go.”

She swiped my credit card, then handed me back my
card and license with a slip of paper and pen. “Please just sign there.”

I signed the form.

“And here’s your key.” She handed me a brass skeleton key. “You’re in room C, right at the top of the stairway. The bathroom is at the end of the hallway. It’s shared with the other room, but you’re the only one on the second floor tonight. My room is just down this hallway, to the left next to the kitchen. Please let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I retrieved my pack and carried it up the stairs. I unlocked the door, then stepped inside. The space was dimly lit by a brass floor lamp, and I turned on the overhead light.

The room was tidy and feminine, decorated in typical Victorian style with cream walls adorned with framed pictures of flowers—lilies and daffodils—a gold-framed mirror, and shadow boxes displaying antique toys. There was a tall, antique French-style armoire and a small, leather-topped round table with ball-and-claw feet. In the center of the room, there was a large bed with a solid mahogany headboard and a floral-patterned duvet piled high with lace-trimmed shams.

I took off my pack and laid it against the wall, then removed my parka and set it on top of my pack. I walked to the window and parted the curtains. The only view was of the Strate Funeral Home and parking lot across the street. I pulled down the blind, then undressed, laying my clothes and shoes at the foot of the bed. I pulled the
duvet down to the foot of the bed, piled the shams in a corner of the room, then peeled back the sheets and lay back on the bed. The sheets smelled fresh, the way they did when McKale pulled them out of the dryer. In fact, the whole room smelled good, like lavender, and I noticed a purple fabric sachet on the nightstand next to me. The experience was a far cry from the shack I’d camped in only earlier in the week. As I lay there thinking, there was a knock on the door. Actually, more of a kick.

“Just a minute,” I said. I got up and put on the robe that hung from the closet door, then opened the door. Mrs. Hammersmith stood there balancing a basket of blueberry scones in the crook of one arm and holding a saucer and a teacup filled with steaming water and a small wicker basket filled with tea and sweeteners.

“I thought you might like some tea before you went
to bed.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped past me, setting everything down on the nightstand. “There’s a spoon in the service.” She smiled at me. “Nothing like a spot of hot tea to help you sleep well.” She walked back to the door. “I won’t bother you anymore. Good night.”

“Night.” I began to shut the door.

“Mr. Christoffersen, I forgot to ask, what time do you think you’ll be wanting breakfast?”

“Maybe seven, seven thirty.”

“I’m an early riser so I’ll have the crossword done by then. I’ll be making my raspberry muffins and egg frittata. Do you eat ham?”

“Yes.”

“Frittata with cheddar and ham it is.” She turned and walked down the stairs. I shut the door and locked it, then turned off the light, leaving the room lit only by the floor lamp.

I sat down on the bed and dropped a bag of tea into the cup. As it steeped, I took a bite of the scone. It tasted good, but I was still full from dinner, so I put it back in its basket. I lifted the tea bag out of the cup and lay it on the saucer, then poured in two packages of Sweet ’n Low. I stirred it with the spoon, then lay it, with the saucer, next to the bed. I slowly sipped the tea.

The room was comfortable and warm, but I wasn’t happy there. The surroundings were too similar to what McKale and I had experienced together. It was like going to a party where the hostess was missing.

My heart ached and I began fearing the onset of another panic attack. I set down my tea, turned out the lights, and climbed under the covers, hoping to fall asleep before panic found me.

I woke around seven or so, the morning sun leaking through the sides of the drawn blind. I put on my robe, grabbed some fresh clothes and underwear, then walked down the hall to the bathroom and showered and shaved. Walking back to my room, I could hear the clinking of dinnerware downstairs in the dining room. The delicious smell of home cooking wafted upstairs.

I hung up the robe, pulled my road atlas from my bag, and walked downstairs. To my surprise there were no other guests in the dining room. Mrs. Hammersmith smiled when she saw me.

“Good morning, Mr. Christoffersen,” she said brightly.

“Call me Alan,” I said.

“Alan it is,” she replied. “I have a nephew named Alan. He’s quite an accomplished cellist.”

“Then a name is all we share,” I said. “My musical ability is pretty much confined to my iPod.”

She smiled. “I hope you’re hungry. I’ve always had trouble cooking for so few people. I always make too much food.”

“I’m famished. Where would you like me to sit?”

“Wherever you like. This table by the window is
nice.”

I walked over to it and sat down. “Am I the only guest here?”

“You are now. The Gandleys left just a few minutes before you came down. Gigi was eager to get home to Boise. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

She walked over to a service table to get the coffee pot. “Did you sleep well? Was the bed okay?”

I hadn’t slept well, but the bed had nothing to do with it. “The bed was great. Very soft.”

“Not too soft, I hope. It’s a new mattress. How was the room?”

“The room is beautiful. My wife . . .” I stopped myself.

“Your wife?”

“Nothing,” I said.

She looked at me for a moment, then began pouring the coffee. “I’m pleased to hear you liked the room. I must tell you, one or two people have complained about the view of the funeral home. Personally, I just think they were afraid of death.”

“Well, I can understand that. Everyone fears death.”

She stopped pouring and set the pot down on a nearby table. “I don’t,” she said. “At least not since I was twelve.”

I looked at her curiously. “Why twelve?”

“Because that’s when I died,” she said. “I’ll be right back with your breakfast.”

She walked out of the dining room, leaving me to mull over the statement she’d dropped so casually, as if it hadn’t required explanation. She returned about three minutes later, carrying a plate. “Here’s your ham-and-cheese frittata. And this is a raspberry crumb muffin. You’re going to love it. I got the recipe from Magnolia Bakery in New York City. It’s out of this world.”

She set the plate in front of me. I had less interest in the food than what she’d said. “What did you mean about dying when you were twelve?”

“Just that I died.”

I wondered what I was missing. “But you’re not dead.”

“No. I came back.”

“Back from death?”

She nodded.

I had always been fascinated by stories of near-death experiences. “Would you tell me about it?”

She looked at me for a moment then said, “I don’t think
so. People get a little . . . ,” she carefully chose a word, “. . .
upset
about it.”

“Please. It would mean a lot to me.”

She looked at me for a moment, then sighed. “Okay. You eat, I’ll talk.”

She sat in the chair across from me. “The summer I was twelve, my little brother and I climbed a tree in our front yard. We hadn’t noticed that the tree had grown over some power lines, and as I was climbing, I accidentally grabbed a power line. All I remember was a flash of light and a loud snap. Seven thousand volts went through my body. It actually blew holes through the bottoms of my Keds. It melted the flesh where I grabbed it.” She held up her hand. “It left me with this.” There was a deep, channel-like scar crossing her fingers. She looked at me. “You’re not eating.”

“Sorry.” I took an obligatory bite.

“I fell about twelve feet to the ground. My brother climbed down the tree and ran to the house, screaming for my mother. I knew this because I followed him into the house. I didn’t realize what was happening until the door slammed in front of me, and I went right through it.”

I looked at her quizzically. “You mean your ghost?”

“My spirit,” she said, as if the word
ghost
bothered her. “My mother came running out, and we all ran to see my body. I tell you, it’s a peculiar thing looking down at yourself. You don’t think of it, but our perception of ourselves is what we see from pictures or the mirror—always two dimensional. I realized that I had never really seen myself
before. Not the way others see me. I looked different than I thought I did.

“My mother started shaking my body, and there I was, standing next to her, watching her do it. I said, ‘I’m over here, Mom.’ But she couldn’t hear me. She just put her ear to my chest.

“Suddenly there was a light in front of me. You hear people talk about
the light
. They say, go toward the light. I don’t think I went toward the light. I think it came to me. It was right there, passing through me.

“Suddenly I was somewhere else, and there was a being of light standing next to me. I had this feeling of perfect joy, like all the best moments of my life, all the Christmas mornings and summer vacations and new loves, everything all rolled up together but more. The feeling was indescribable.

“The Being told me that I wasn’t supposed to be there yet and that I needed to go back to earth. I remember that I didn’t want to go. I begged Him to let me stay with Him. But He said I would be gone just a short time, then I could come back after I had finished my mission.

“Then I was suddenly back in my body. I was lying on the ground, and I started crying from the pain. My mother told me that night that she couldn’t hear my heart beating, and she thought I was dead. It was several years later that I told her what had happened to me.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Yes. She always believed me. I never gave her reason to doubt.”

“What did she think?”

“I’m not sure what she thought, but she said she was glad they made me come back.”

“What was that you said earlier about your mission?”

“Everyone has a purpose for coming to earth. I hadn’t finished mine.”

“So what is your mission?”

“Nothing that will make headlines, if that’s what you’re wondering. Actually, I’ve spent my life trying to figure that out. It took me years to realize that the searching
was
the path. It was simple. My mission is to live. And accept what comes my way until I get to go back home. My
real
home.”

“You sound eager to get back.”

“I suppose I am. I’m not crazy about what I’m going to have to go through to get there, but I tell you, it’s worth the trip. Kind of like a trip to Bali.”

“You’ve been to Bali?” I asked.

“Bali, Nepal, Italy, China, Taiwan. Just because I live in Davenport doesn’t mean I haven’t seen the world.”

“You’re fortunate to have had that experience.”

“People have said that, but I don’t know. It has made my life harder. I’ve always felt different, like I don’t belong here. But, I suppose, that’s the point. None of us belong here.”

“As I grew older, I had a lot of questions. I talked to a psychiatrist, but he thought I was crazy and gave me a prescription for Prozac. I told a priest, and he told me not to talk about it. I never understood that. When I was nineteen, I learned that there are groups of people who
have had experiences like mine. So I went to one of their conferences. It validated what I’d experienced, but the people weren’t real happy. People who have had NDEs, that’s what they called them, have trouble keeping jobs or staying married. I guess we just get bored with what’s here. Normal people don’t know anything else, so they live as if this life is everything.

“It’s like Mrs. Santos, down the road at the Delgado ranch. The farthest away she’s ever been from home is Seattle. She has no idea what’s out there. She can’t even comprehend the mist rising off Sun Moon lake or the way the Italian sun gilds the Chianti vineyards. In a way that’s the way the Life-huggers are.”

“Life-huggers?”

“I made that word up. They’re people who hang on to this life because they think this is it. But they’re fools, thinking they can hold on to this life. Everything in this world passes. Everything. You can’t hold on to a single thing. But God knows they try. Some people even freeze their bodies so they can be woken again at some future time. Fools. All they have to do is look around and they can see that nothing here lasts.”