Another Lifetime
The Insecure Writers' Support Group's First Wednesday
This story is based on something that happened decades ago. My husband, son, and I were visiting the Nez Perce National Historical Park in Idaho. I always like to look at the exhibits in the visitor centers, so I wound up standing in front of a glass case of Indian artifacts. A man joined me, commented on how interesting the exhibits were, and then moved on. His voice was so familiar that I stared after him. He glanced back at me, and the flush of attraction was so powerful that I was embarrassed. He spoke to my husband, who smiled and shook his head. Later, as we drove away, I asked my husband what he and that man had talked about. “He wanted to know if you’d gone to some high school. I can’t remember the name, but I knew you hadn’t, so I told him no. He said he thought he knew you.” Even after all this time, that encounter is vivid. I knew him. He knew me. But I was sure I’d never seen him in this lifetime.
Thank you, @SteveElliott, for jogging my memory with your STORY. You gave me this week’s dose of fiction.
Another Lifetime
Nate and I had been driving for hours without a break. When we passed a sign reading Nez Perce National Historical Park, my husband was as eager as I was to get out of the car and stretch, so he didn’t hesitate to take the turnoff.
Inside the center, I almost ran to the restroom, then settled into the air-conditioned luxury, surrounded by the history of the native people and their artifacts.
We often agreed that one reason our marriage had lasted so long was that on vacations, Nate and I were never in lockstep in museums, churches, or visitor centers. We gave each other time alone to explore, and then enjoyed sharing the experience over a coffee later. Other differences often made vacations a challenge. I loved the water. Nate did not. He loved to climb mountains. Heights terrified me. I joked about trembling at the thought of being on a stepladder, but the truth was I did.
In the center, I chose to walk counter-clockwise around the exhibits; Nate did his usual here-there-back-and-forth tour.
I was staring at a collection of intricately woven cornhusk baskets when I felt the brush of an arm against mine. I moved aside to give the man who had stepped close to me more room.
“Sorry,” he said. “But I get excited about their art. Exquisite.”
I wanted to agree, but at the sound of his voice, my words stopped in my throat, and I glanced up to see if this was some friend from my past. But no. While I knew his sound, he was a stranger. I’d never seen him before.
He glanced at me, then away, but back quickly, the way people do who are not sure they’ve seen something. Shaking his head, he focused on the baskets again. “They had a special technique for showing different patterns on each side of what they wove, you know.” His words were tinged with admiration, but also something I could only identify as sadness.
And suddenly… I’m sharing that feeling, not standing inside a visitors center staring at ancient baskets, but on a mountain trail, staring across acres of trees, a thin blue thread of a river cutting through the canyon below. Ahead of me, taking long, sure strides, is a man with a broad back, bare and sun scorched; behind, a single file of tired, but determined men, women, and children struggle to keep up.
A weariness seeps into me, and the weight of my body doubles, making my legs shake. I tremble as we creep along the narrow edge of the steep canyon, and then I’m falling before I understand that I’ve lost my footing. For an instant, he’s there, reaching out, his face terrible with fear. And the river rushes toward me.
“Ma’am?”
The word was wrong. The voice was right. Pitched low and filled with certainty, it was a leader’s voice. My lover’s voice. But no. That was impossible.
I blinked, registering the change in the light. I wasn’t under the sun; I was staring up at the glow of round ceiling bulbs. Conditioned air flowed across my skin, and I braced my hand against the display case, staring at cornhusk baskets, precisely labeled, intricately woven.
“Are you okay?” He was standing close, his hands out to steady me, but it was as if he couldn’t reach the short distance between us and knew it.
I knew it, too, and when I understood what that meant, tears stung my eyes. I pressed my fingers against my lids as the noise of the visitor center slowly returned and became a hum in the background: footsteps, a child’s question, the murmur of a ranger’s explanation.
“I—” What could I possibly say? I just watched myself plunge to my death in front of you a hundred years ago? We once loved each other?
He stared at me, searching as if he was close to recovering a memory.
“Have we met?” he asked.
I almost said yes, but instead, I shook my head. I was still having trouble thinking clearly, and speaking seemed foreign.
There wasn’t anything else to say to each other, but neither of us moved. Something was passing between us—something unfinished and important, but beyond reach.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I hope something hasn’t frightened you.”
“No. Not at all.” That wasn’t true.
He nodded once, and, taking reluctant steps, he was drawn back into the history of the exhibits.
I watched him go, that familiar broad back, that easy sure stride.
It felt right to follow him. I wanted to, but this was the wrong time.
Outside, Nate was waiting near the door, a paper cup in each hand. “There you are,” he said. “I was starting to think you’d moved in.”
I smiled and took the coffee. Our fingers brushed—familiar, easy, and right.
“Good?” he asked, nodding back toward the building.
“Incredible.”
He launched into something about the terrain, the distances, the difficulty of moving people across that kind of land. I tried to listen, but I wanted to tell him he had no idea about that difficulty.
We started toward the car, but as I stepped from the curb, that familiar vertigo I’d always experienced when changing even the slightest elevation tipped me off balance.
“Hey,” Nate said, catching me by the elbow. “Careful.”
“I’m fine.” That came out too loud, but it covered the fear in my voice and the shaky uncertainty that was now in my life.
Behind us, the door to the visitor center opened, and the man stepped out. For a moment I considered going to him. Instead, I climbed into the car, closed the door, and stared at his face, willing him to look my way. And then he did.
His stare was as intent as it had been in the Center, and then he gestured, only a slight touch of the hand to his heart. Unnoticeable if you didn’t know it so well. A silent greeting. I returned it, and with a nod, he walked away. The distance between us was far greater than the few steps from the car to the Center. It was a distance that could never be crossed.
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The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement to others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer - aim for a dozen new people each time - and return comments.
The awesome co-hosts for the June 3 posting of the IWSG are Victoria Marie Lees, Sarah Foster, Natalie Aguirre, and C. Lee McKenzie!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or a story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post, or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Remember, the question is optional!
June 3 question - Do most of your story ideas come from one place (the news, dreams, etc.) or do they hit from all over the place?
Everyone. Everything. Everywhere. These are the sources for my stories. Now that I’m writing and publishing a short one each week here on Substack, I’m more alert than ever because I need ideas, and I like to explain where I get them.
As I said at the beginning of this post, Another Lifetime came from two places—a personal experience and a fellow author on Substack who jogged my memory. I’m my answer’s not unique. Authors are by nature observers. It will be interesting to read what others have posted about this question.
My newest book is now officially launched. I keep thinking this process of writing and publishing will get old. It hasn’t. I’m as excited about this book coming out as I was about my first one. I can’t be blasé even when I try.
Wow, you did a fantastic job of balancing the past and the present, while illuminating the growing certainty of a shared past, Lee. That ending touched my heart.
Great book trailer!
Your story sounds like a good seed for a time travel romance. Also, you've captured the magic that sometimes happens when we meet someone, the instant connection. I've felt it as romance but more often as friendship, almost kinship. My high school BFF and I were like that.