The Past-Life Chronicles

9

"You honestly don't remember a word you said?" I ask for what feels like the fiftieth time as my stepbrother's truck bumps across the country backroads. He's driving us home from downtown, at Mason's insistence. I guess after Henry's session, our date was over.

In my lap is the box of remaining donuts, to give to my mom and Greg—also at Mason's insistence. Henry's been eyeing it the entire drive, and when we come a red light, he finally lifts the lid and sticks a hand inside, fishing for a treat.

"Calm down," he says through a mouthful of pastry, and shuts the lid.

"I am calm. It just makes me nervous when people don't keep both hands on the wheel." I can't fight the squeamish feeling that doesn't leave my belly until he replaces his second hand on the steering wheel.

"What did I say, then?" Henry eases on the accelerator after the light turns green, chomping away. "I'm starting to feel self-conscious. Did your boyfriend perform some Jedi mind-trick and make me look like an idiot?"

"He's not my boyfriend. And you'll find out for yourself soon enough. Mason's going to email you the recording tonight."

When we get home, Henry complains of a headache and goes downstairs to sleep it off.

"How was your date?" Mom pries from the living room, but I pretend not to hear and head straight for my bedroom.

I'm not listening to my recording tonight. All I can think of is one thing. The young driver in my visions had a name.

I had a name.

Susan.

#

I toss and turn all night. Because of what I've witnessed, and the bombshell Henry's regression dropped on me, I'm afraid if I fall into too deep of a sleep, I'll relive the same haunting nightmares I've been on a vendetta to end.

In the morning, I multitask between working and Googling images of rural Missouri. After hours of browsing through pages of photos online, my gaze catches on a black-and-white snapshot of a little street I feel like I've seen somehow.

I accidentally ex out of the tab with the email I was in the middle of typing, but I don't care. I enlarge the black-and-white photo and stare at it. Even though the other photos that turned up in the search are in color, this one feels the most alive to me. The photo is from another era, preserving how someone who'd lived before my time would've seen it in their day. Had the photograph been taken yesterday, showing the same street and buildings, but with modern cars and business logos, I doubt I would've recognized it the way I do now.

The caption beneath the image reads: Downtown Elms Creek, Missouri.

I open a new tab for Google Maps. I type in the location, and the red balloon pops up on a map of the Midwest. Elms Creek, Missouri is southeast of St. Louis, down by the borders of Kentucky and Tennessee. I calculate the route from Middling, Ohio. It appears to be a little under an eight-hour drive.

Suddenly remembering, I refresh the page and type into the search bar: Ray Sanderson, Elms Creek, MO.

I chew my bottom lip as the results load. Slowly, I scroll down. At the bottom, I'm floored to see the name Raymond E. Sanderson in bold letters, underneath a search result from a popular ancestry research website.

"For real?" I whisper to myself, pulling up the page. One has to be a paying member of the website to view the whole article, but I see all I need in the snippet they allow. It's a photocopied document from the 1950 census. In 1950, Raymond E. Sanderson of Elms Creek, Missouri was just six years old.