“Warranted how?” he looks up. “Did you know he was suicidal?”
“Of course not,” she blurts out as though she’s just been condemned. “I mean—this wasn’t his first bout of depression. He’d been battling it for years.”
“Then why the ‘warranted’ self-blame?”
The image of her eighteen outgoing calls to Elliot flashes before her eyes.
“I don’t know,” Neve shakes her head. “I guess on some level, I feel like I could’ve stopped him.”
“You just said you didn’t know he was suicidal.”
How on earth is Neve going to explain this to him? “It doesn’t make sense, but I feel like my mind—my subconscious—somehow knew something awful was going to happen. I don’t know how it’s even possible, but I had a dream about his suicide the night before.”
“It’s not uncommon for deeply-brewing concerns to surface when you least expect them. In your case, manifesting in dreams.”
“But my dream was too specific, almost identical to how things went down.”
“And what was it about?”
Galen’s words sound inviting, but his indifference makes Neve want to drop the whole thing.
She gets that he’s probably dealt with hundreds of similar cases, but can’t he at least pretend to care?
“I was standing high up on a diving board, holding an anchor. And I jumped. And the next morning the cops told me my friend tried to drown himself at the university’s Aquatic Centre, chained to a fifty-pound weight.”
Galen’s stare deepens as his eyes dart back and forth between Neve’s. “An anchor..?”
Neve nods once. “And I remember in the dream it all made perfect sense. I knew exactly what I was doing. It was like I’d already accepted my fate.”
Galen removes his glasses, folds them gently, and slips them into his vest’s pocket. He puts his pen and pad away and leans forward, his gray eyes filled with not just intrigue, but a deep concern. “Have you ever had similar dreams in the past?”
“Dreams about death?”
“Dreams that manifest into reality. Come true.”
A wave of optimism washes over Neve. It’s like Galen has harvested her very thoughts. “I have. But just a few,” she understates.
“Can you give me an example?”
She’s already here. Might as well take advantage of this opportunity. “I don’t know if this is relevant, but when I was a kid, I had a dream about lying at the base of a pool.”
Galen leans back and crosses his legs. “Go on.”
“I couldn’t tell if the pool was filled or not, but I couldn’t move. It’s like I was dead, but still aware of everything. And I remember this dark figure walking up to the edge, looking in.”
Galen rests his elbow on the armrest and nestles his chin between his thumb and index finger. “Did this figure frighten you?”
“No,” Neve admits right away. “I even remember wanting to let her know I’m fine, but I couldn’t talk. I remember wondering if that’s what death is like.”
“For everyone to think you’re gone, even though your awareness remains?”
“You could say that,” she allows, her focus sinking through the air. “It was nice, somehow, to know that even though I’m dead, I can still see and hear. That I still have—” she searches for the right words.
“A vantage point?”
“Yeah,” she looks up. “That I’m still here.”
“How old were you when you had this dream?”
“I don’t know exactly. Five or six, maybe?”
“And why were you so certain that the dark figure by the pool was a woman?”
“Oh—well, at the time I had no idea. It was just a dark figure. But years later, when I remembered the dream again, I was pretty much convinced.”
“Why?” his gray eyes narrow, his question pulling Neve inside herself. And she starts to relive the night when it all came screaming back.
“A few years ago, I was at my best friend’s party. A different best friend,” Neve clarifies. “It was before she moved away to Paris. But anyway, her party had gotten way out of hand, so I snuck into the backyard to get away from it all.”
The details of that night fill the corners of Neve’s memory—the high-pitched chirping of crickets, and the biting freshness of the night air… It was way past midnight, and the full moon was brighter that she’d ever seen it.
“The water in the pool was black,” she continues. “It was totally still. There wasn’t a single ripple or leaf anywhere on the surface. And it was reflecting the moonlight like a mirror.”
She remembers wandering over to the edge of the pool, struggling to see beyond the glossy threshold. And she remembers wanting to crouch down and dip her hand into the black water—to break through the reflective barrier and see into the depths.
But she didn’t dare.
Because no matter how hard she tried to banish her doubts, she was convinced that something—that someone—was lying just beneath the surface.
The memory of that night haunts her to this day. Her breath is caught, her heart is pounding, and she is losing all sensation in her hands.
Because that was the night it all came full circle. The night Neve realized that the dark figure from her childhood dream was in fact her older self.
With a sudden SNAP, the side legs of the loveseat break under Neve’s weight. She slides sideways and crashes to the floor, shattering the marble tile where her elbow lands.
“Are you alright?” Galen leaps out of his chair and makes his way around the coffee table.
Neve remains frozen, absolutely mortified. “I’m so sorry,” she rises to her feet with Galen’s assistance, but her gaze remains fixed to the splintered tile. “I’ll pay for it. And the couch—”
“It’s fine, just—are you okay?” he gently rests his hand on Neve’s shoulder.
“Oh yes,” she looks up and meets Galen’s gaze, his bright eyes filled with concern.
“Are you sure?” his creased brows rise, deepening the lines in his forehead.
“Mmm hmm,” Neve nods a bit too eagerly. “Really, it happens all the time. I’m so sorry.”
Galen takes a small step back and stares at Neve with what she can only describe as… heartbreak? It makes her feel uneasy. It’s the kind of look you give someone you love, not a complete stranger who just broke your furniture.
“I should go,” Neve swoops down and yanks her purse from under the collapsed loveseat.
“My next patient won’t be here for another—”
“Thank you so much for squeezing me in on such a short notice,” she smiles and heads for the door.
“Wait—hold on,” Galen strides over and rests the palm of his hand on the door. The silver pen wedged between his fingers clacks against the wood, making his interception feel all the more invasive.
Neve retracts her last step.
Registering her unease, Galen swallows and takes his intensity down a notch. “Miss Knightly, you have opened up to me about something very troubling. I can’t in all good conscience let you leave without properly addressing it.”
Neve lingers, struggling to think of a polite way to remove him from her path.
Galen takes advantage of the lull and reaches into his vest’s pocket.
“Here—” he pulls out his business card, clicks his pen, and starts to scribble something down. “This is my home address. And this here… is my buzzer.” He hands the card to Neve. “I’m afraid I’m booked solid for the next month or so, but you can come over to my home for a private session. It’s on the house, of course. Say, tomorrow around noon?”
Sure! Do you want me to bring anything, or is your torture dungeon fully stacked? “That’s… very kind of you, but—”
“Miss Knightly. Neve—” he levels with her, all his pretentions cast aside. “I know you think you have to live with this, but you don’t.”
Neve’s focus sharpens as she tries to read him.
“
What exactly do you mean by ‘this’?”
“I’ll explain everything,” he smiles. “Tomorrow.”
Chapter 11
Retrospect
Forty-odd blocks south of Galen’s office, Neve ventures onto Mountain View Cemetery. She walks a faded stone walkway under a row of beautiful cherry blossoms, the shadows cast by their branches gliding over her like black lace.
With a gust of wind, tiny pink petals leap off the branches, chasing after the nonchalant breeze like a pack of love-struck teenagers.
It is such a spellbinding thing to behold, and yet Neve finds herself oddly disturbed by the pink hue of the blossoms. It is as though the roots of the trees have quenched their thirst with the blood of those lying six feet under.
How disrespectful for spring to invite itself to a cemetery—where only distant memories are capable of being revived. Memories of friends, foes, family, and strangers alike. Of people we may have loved or loathed, but irrevocably lost. People like Elli, whose grave beckons her from far in the distance, lonely and inglorious.
Neve drifts off the stony walkway and cuts across the open field littered with mismatched tombstones.
She weaves through them, skimming the names of people she will never know. It’s heartbreaking how the weathered tombstones have taken moss as their companion, and how the newer ones shine bright, oblivious to how soon they too shall be forgotten.
And then there’s Elli’s grave: a rectangular mound of earth, still too soft to crown with a block of stone boasting an engraved cliché.
Though the cemetery is barren, it is anything but peaceful as Neve tries to shake the disturbing images in her head: of Elliot’s cold body lying in a dark box. Of his pale, waxy face which will soon disintegrate beyond recognition.
She wants to scream. She wants to curse Elliot’s mom for burying him in a pretentious suit he would have despised. For forcing Neve to stand idly by as they lowered Elliot’s coffin into the ground against his dying wish. For having treated him as though his body is no longer his.
σ
~Three Months Ago~
At the front of the lecture hall stands Marcus Holt: one of the university’s most revered professors, and the embodiment of Satan.
“Anyone?” Holt coaxes the crowd. “Anyone want to venture a guess?”
When no one takes the bait, Holt clasps his hands behind him and starts to pace the platform in his elitist attire.
Neve can’t seem to stop staring at his hair: thick, slick, and side-swept. He looks like he’s just crawled out of a men’s magazine.
Douche.
“Op—he’s doing his slo-mo runway walk again,” Elliot whispers in her ear. “I bet you five bucks he’ll trip on his scarf.” He bites down on his grin and glances in Holt’s direction.
“I’d gladly pay fifty to see that happen,” she says.
“Show me the fifty.”
“Show me five.”
They both burst into an inaudible chuckle. Or so they think. Because when Neve looks up, she is met with Holt’s unblinking glare.
Her smile vanishes from her lips.
“Miss Knightly?” Holt cocks his head, luring her in with his raised brows. But Neve lowers her head and feigns an apology with her silence.
Passive-aggressiveness may not be her style, but it’s by far Holt’s least favorite form of dissent.
“The principle of déjà vu—” Holt declares with a raised volume as he resumes his walk, “is actually rather simple. Any time you experience something, the information is first processed by the frontal lobe of your brain, and then stored as memory. But there are times when the fatigued brain fails to process this information in the correct order. As a result, you wind up remembering something before you register that you’ve already seen it. So you experience seeing something twice.”
He stops center-stage and faces his audience, but no gasps of utter bewilderment or standing ovations ensue. Holt’s disappointment is evident even at this distance. All this picture is missing is a tumbleweed rolling across the platform.
His chest deflates as he exhales. “The lesson here? Perception is circumstantial,” he checks the time on his watch. “This weekend’s assignment is out of body experiences—”
The entire class breaks into a frenzy.
“Five pages, double-spaced,” Holt raises his voice over the commotion, “no Wikipedia, I’ll know.”
He then looks directly at Neve and holds her gaze for an uncomfortably long time, before proceeding to pack up his belongings.
“Wh—” Neve’s jaw drops.
What the hell was that?
“Don’t.” Elliot rises from his seat.
“What?” she looks up at him, having no clue what he’s talking about.
“Just let it go.”
“Did you not see that?” she subtly points in Holt’s direction.
“See what?”
“He’s taunting me again.”
“He is not,” Elliot grimaces. “You’re just looking for an excuse to start something with him.”
“You do know he’s a horrible teacher, right?” her glare follows Holt out of the lecture hall’s exit. “The university just keeps him around because of all his research, or whatever.”
“The man is brilliant,” Elliot sighs longingly.
Neve looks up at him and scoffs. “I cannot believe you’re taking his side.”
“Yeah… nice try,” Elliot throws his backpack over his shoulder.
“What?”
“You’re not going to drag me into this.”
“You’re already in it,” she says. “We all are.”
“Let it go, Neve.”
“He gave me a D, Elli.”
“You passed.”
She stares, baffled. “A ‘D’ is not even a valid grade in university. And he knows it! This is all just a sick game to him!”
“You passed. Seventy percent of the class didn’t.”
“Seventy-three percent. And you’re only taking his side because he gave you a B+. You’re such a whore.”
“Okay, one: I don’t think you actually understand how prostitution works. And two: you expect me to just waltz into his office and start bitching about the highest grade he’s ever dished out?”
“Could ya?” Neve grins.
“HELL no.”
“FINE!” she slides out of her seat and begins to cram her belongings into her bag. “I’m not afraid of him. And I don’t need you to fight my battles.”
“Hope you’ve updated your will.”
σ
Neve’s knock on Holt’s office door was so meek, she might as well have caressed the damn thing.
“Yes?” Holt’s cold and dispassionate voice oozes from the gaps in the doorway.
Neve takes a deep breath, forms a small ‘o’ with her mouth, and shakily exhales the tension. He’s just a teacher. He has office hours for a reason.
She grabs the knob, steels herself, and enters.
Directly across from her, Holt is sitting behind a shamelessly large wooden desk, grading the paper at hand with palpable indifference.
Neve’s grip of her graded assignment tightens as she approaches Holt with small steps. She waits at the head of his desk, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Instead, he remains preoccupied as though she’s not even there.
He reaches for a red sharpie, uncaps it, and draws a thick ‘C-’ in the middle of the page.
As he casts the paper aside onto his amassing pile of disappointments, Neve wonders how he sleeps at night having spent the day stomping on his students’ aspirations.
He snaps the cap back onto the sharpie and puts it down. He then intertwines his fingers, leans onto his elbows, and looks up at Neve for the first time.
“What can I do for you?”
Suddenly, she’s aware of how dry her mouth is.
“Hi. Um—” she swallows, “I was hoping to discuss my grade on last week’s assignment.”
“Which was?”
; The cup size I wish I had… “D.”
Holt nods as though expecting her to continue. “I’m assuming you’re not satisfied with that?”
It’s not even a grade, you bitch. “Well, no,” she says with a bit of hesitation. “It’s a well-written paper.”
Holt’s gaze jumps to the corner of the room. “And, you’re qualified to make that assessment?” He blinks a slow blink and drags his focus back onto her.
“Well—you asked us to think outside the box. To propose a new—”
“Ah ah—” Holt holds up the palm of his hand. “Let me stop you right there.”
Neve cranes her neck back, utterly dumbfounded.
“Do you have any idea how many of these I mark every term?” he points at the pile of graded papers.
Neve squares her shoulders. “Hundreds?”
“Thousands.”
“It’s your job,” she says, and then watches as the last remnants of civility drain from Holt’s face.
“Miss Knightly—” he leans back in his chair, “I’ve been doing this a long time. Long enough to be able to differentiate between a provocative assertion and asinine drivel. Often with just one glance. And since grading is subjective, I’d appreciate you letting me be the judge of the quality of your work.”
“The quality of my work is impeccable.”
“Impeccable!” he laughs. “Wow. Now that is a big word. Here—” he reaches out, “hand me your paper and I’ll add a little ‘plus’ to your D.”
Neve’s blood is boiling. Even if her work is subpar in Holt’s eyes, there is no need for him to humiliate her by calling it ‘drivel’.
Whatever the hell that means.
“With all due respect, professor, you don’t need to be so—” she hesitates, treading with more caution.
“Yes?”
Don’t do it. DON’T DO IT. “Condescending.” Fuck.
Holt’s eyes narrow, a faint smile creeping onto his lips. “Are you sure you’re in the right program? You might want to consider switching majors to Creative Writing. Or Poetry.”
“I’m happy with the field I’ve chosen,” Neve says, sounding far too rehearsed.
“Yes, well, Cognitive Neuroscience is exactly that: science. You’re not here to romanticize a bunch of groundless assumptions, dress them up in ten-dollar words, and get an ‘A’ for effort.”