Road From the Archive (eBook)

Chapter 1

[Sara]

Don’t trust anyone who claims to have seen a place in a dream. My rules for evaluating a witness’s credibility—had I ever bothered to write them down—would have punctuated that warning with exclamation marks. Whether the person giving evidence is lying or deluded, jurors recognize a cock-and-bull story when they hear one. Dreamscapes never match real places, even if the places are familiar. How many times have you walked down a series of never-ending hallways in a dream, looking for a room—usually a bathroom—that you can never find?

Yet when I reached my destination that hot July afternoon, I recognized the doorway flanked by pine benches and agave plants in terra cotta pots as something that I had seen, more than once, just before my alarm startled me awake. You’re losing it, Sara, I thought, for probably the hundredth time in the last six months. The possibility that I was delusional had become familiar. At least I could be sure that I had come to this building in a rental car rather than a flying carpet: the brochure with precise directions was still in my purse. As my doctor had suggested, I had nothing to lose from a free consultation, especially since the LyghteGift Foundation had paid my travelling expenses. Before long, my short-term disability would run out and I wasn’t sure when or if I would be able to return to work. When you are sick and worried about money, a free second opinion is better than a lottery ticket.

Nevertheless, I hesitated on the doorstep. I’d been expecting a medical complex, yet I hadn’t seen another person, or even another car, after I had left the state highway for the private access road, where my GPS had gone dead. Only the lettering on the weathered oak door reassured me that I hadn’t taken wrong turn somewhere. The sign made it clear that this was the Gateway. The name was certainly more inviting than Desperation Clinic or Last Chance Hospital. Over the past year, I had spent hours and days in medical facilities, enduring batteries of tests that all came back negative. The Gateway was my last hope. The brochure had intimated that it was a refuge for people like me—whatever was wrong with us.

To my surprise, the door had no buzzer or bell, so I pushed it open and slipped into the vestibule. As one might expect in the desert Southwest, the entrance sported Talavera tile: a vivid blue pattern brightened the lower walls, while squares of soft gray with black edges covered the floor. At regular intervals, skylights opened the hallway to sunshine. This was obviously a place of welcome. Somewhere, a fountain was burbling, yet the space was incredibly quiet for a medical suite. The patients probably stayed in other buildings, with the Gateway as the admissions office. Anxious families would find its architecture reassuring. I wished that we had something similar in the courthouse. Where I worked, people in trouble had their status confirmed by the sight of guards and metal detectors at the main entrance.

The Gateway’s front hall led to a mesquite countertop--the logical place to wait, although there was no one on the other side. I was just about to ring the old-fashioned bell when I heard a door open, somewhere down the corridor to the right. Because I was rooting in my purse for my driver’s license and insurance card, I did not look at the attendant who came to the counter until he said, “Welcome to the Gateway! My name is James. The Director’s Office sent me to take care of you, until the proper person arrives.”

I nearly dropped my wallet, in response to this strange greeting. For a moment, I wondered if James was a patient who had wandered off the ward, because I had never seen anyone who looked less like a medical receptionist. To my embarrassment, I found myself staring, grateful that he had given me his name. If he hadn’t, I couldn’t have sworn whether the person on the other side of the counter was male or female. James was very short, with a mop of curly dark hair, and huge brown eyes, like an adorable puppy in a cartoon. His ancestry could have been Guatemalan, Syrian, Spanish, Sicilian, Caribbean, Hawaiian, Black Irish, Hopi, or Nebraskan. A cop might have pegged him as a juvenile, because there was no sign that a razor had ever touched his dimpled cheeks. Somehow, I had the feeling that he was older than he looked. His voice was soft and gentle, and he had the kindest smile that I had ever seen. My stare did not disconcert him in the least. If anything, he seemed delighted to see me. Perhaps our encounter was a welcome change to his routine.

“You’ve had a long drive,” he said. “May I bring you a pitcher of ice water?”

“That would be great. Can I use the facilities?”

“Of course. Eventually you will have a chance to visit all the buildings on campus. The Gateway is only the first.”

“I’m looking forward to it. Right now, though, I need a bathroom.”

After a moment’s confusion, James’s face brightened, as he realized what I meant. “I’m sorry: there’s one just down the hall to your right. Let me know if anything that you need is missing.”

Why did I ask for a bathroom? I wondered, seating myself on the toilet as if I really felt the ordinary physical urges. For days now, the only things that I had needed in a restroom were the sink and paper towels. This bathroom was cleaner than any of the others that I had visited during the trip, yet the bar of soap was desiccated, as if no one had used it for some time. Although I had retreated to the bathroom for a moment’s privacy, I didn’t linger. Suddenly, I felt anxious. I wanted James under my eye.

He had brought my water and a plate of fruit to a rustic table in a small dining alcove, just down the hall from the counter. Now, he seemed uncertain and shy—the kind of witness that I’m best at reassuring, or so my supervisor tells me. After we had taken our seats in the surprisingly comfortable chairs, I asked, “Do you need to get information from me? Insurance? That kind of thing?”

“Oh no. Someone must already know the background for your invitation, or the Director’s Office would not have been expecting you.” Encouraged by my interest, he confided, “Occasionally, people do come to campus by accident: a car breaks down, or they are traveling and need money for food and gas. We care for them in the Guesthouse, not the Gateway. The Gateway is private Community space.”

“Will I be staying here?”

James nodded. “There is a set of bedrooms down the hall to the left. I wasn’t told whether the Director’s Office had assigned you to a specific room, but if no word comes soon, you may take whichever you wish. Each one has a private bath.”

“What exactly is your job here?” I demanded. His apparent lack of knowledge was starting to rattle me.

“Normally, I work in the library,” he admitted. “However, this morning, I received other instructions. I brought the message to show you.” Like a suspect producing a credit card receipt to prove his alibi, James drew a piece of paper from his pocket and presented it for my inspection. The printed e-mail message was terse: “James, go to the Gateway today and take care of Sara Jensen, who will arrive in the mid-afternoon.”

“You are Ms. Jensen, are you not? Then I am in the right place with the right person.”

“The message isn’t signed,” I pointed out.

“That’s true. The e-mail address shows that it came from the Director’s Office, but several people could have sent it.”

“Are we supposed to wait here until the director or one of the other doctors shows up?”

James looked down at his hands, folded neatly on the table, for a long moment. “There aren’t any doctors on campus and the Gateway isn’t a clinic. It is a sanctuary for people who are undergoing the Change.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “The change? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I tend to grow weak and fall asleep, as soon as the sun goes down,” he confessed. “Am I correct in assuming that you have the same problem?”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It is normal to feel confusion, loss, and even anger. No one comes into the Change prepared.” James’s tone was kind and reassuring. After bringing me a box of tissues, he had waited quietly while I sobbed, my face buried in my hands.

Wiping my eyes, I tried to smile. “What you said gave me a shock, that’s all. I’ve had months of tests—every kind of scan that you can imagine—and in all that time, I’ve never met or even heard of anyone else who is going through the same thing.” Forcing myself to be frank, I added, “The doctors have obviously concluded that my symptoms are psychosomatic. I can’t be sure that what I’ve been experiencing is real.”

“It is,” James said. “I can promise you that, Ms. Jensen. But you are safe here. You don’t need to deny what is happening to you any longer.” When he smiled, I felt consoled, as if he had touched my hand very gently in a gesture of comfort. With a sigh I said, “Please call me Sara. I’m going to have a lot of questions for you.”

“I will tell you whatever I can. However, many aspects of the Change are mysterious, even for those who have completed it. Sometimes, I will probably have to confess my ignorance.” James paused for a moment to allow me to digest this. “One thing is clear—the various elements of the process don’t manifest themselves in a specific order. What one person notices first may happen much later for someone else. Perhaps we could start with...