MADE OF STARS — CHAPTER FOUR

Chapter 4GabrielAs I lie on the floor staring up at the girl, I recall Sinclair's instructions. "Physical contact," he'd told me.I grab Lila's hand. I hold on tight.And now the noise in my head increases.We shared a life before, back when she visited me with the first doorway card. This is different. I know it's different. That time, the life we'd shared in a span of moments was like looking at a scrapbook. Pages blowing from beginning to end, twenty years wrapped up in one small package.This.This is different.This feels real.More real than life on the secret island. Much more real than that.She is looking at me. She is holding my hand. I want to smooth the crease between her brows. I want to tell her everything will be all right. It hurts.I don't know what I expected love to feel like, but not this. Not this weight in my chest and this tightness, this thickness in my throat.  What has Sinclair done? It's as if he's dumped every possible emotion into this experience, then amplified them by a thousand. This is too much. I can hear the sound of our daughter's flute. I can feel the wobble of our son's bicycle as I cling to the seat, afraid for him."Let go!  Let go, Dad!" Alastair shouts. And I let him go. And he pedals away, down a street lined with perfect trees, bathed in a perfect sunset. I run after him, because how will he stop? What will happen when he stops? Who will be there to catch him?And as I run, I hear the flute. And as I run, I hear Lila singing in the kitchen. I hear the clatter of silverware, and I know she's setting the table. For us. For her family. My son doesn't fall.He stops and waits for me to catch up, a grin on his face. And now I see that he is older. Much older. Probably in high school. And he is waiting for me.  His father. And I can feel our connection. How he is a part of me, but separate. A good son. A kind person. Waiting for me. Smiling.A car is heading our direction. It stops in the middle of the road. My daughter is driving, Lila is on the passenger side.  She puts down the window and I drop the bike and hurry to the car. I lean in and I kiss her. She draws back, surprised. A smile blossoms. "What was that for?" she asks. "I just felt like it."She places a palm against my face, and I can smell the soap from the bathroom sink on her skin. Vanilla and oranges. She mouths the words: "I love you."And I can feel our perfect life. Our perfect love. Yes, we fought. What couple hasn't? And we struggled, but even the struggles seemed wonderful. The tiny apartment when our son was born. The business that collapsed. The night classes. Rushing to the hospital after her water broke. The birth of our son. Our daughter.  The laughter at the dinner table.The car pulls away, mother and daughter waving. "See you at the house!" Lila shouts, her arm out the window.I want the day to stop. I want time to stop.A sound intrudes. The ring of a cash register. I'm still holding Lila's hand.  Too tightly. She's trying to pull away, and I just cling to her all the tighter. But her hand finally slips from mine…and I tumble. Back. To the café and the hard floor, the people bending over me, and Lila, my love. Our life together dissolves, but the pain of love remains.  Now the girl's eyes no longer hold deep recognition, just concern. Concern for a boy who's fainted on the floor of her café. But I sense that she somehow remembers. Not consciously, but there is something in her eyes. Puzzlement. Slight recognition.The pain in my chest is such a weight. Such an incredible weight. We just shared twenty years in the span of minutes. "I'm okay," I manage to croak. I stagger to my feet, and I'm surprised to see that my body is once again that of a young man. I'm the age of my son on that day he paused in the street to wait for me.  A son who doesn't exist. A life that never happened.I let out a sob and I run. I crash into the door, shoving it open. I run down sidewalks, the world a blur. I have to tell Sinclair that this is bad. This is awful. This is terrible.But to say so would mean to say that life is awful. To say so would mean to say that love is awful.  I experienced life. I experienced love.People stare at me. A woman steps back, a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. And then she kind of reaches for me, and I understand that she's a mother. And I'm a hurt child.I keep running.Far, far away.Away from Lila. Away from the staring people. And suddenly I'm on the street. The street where I pushed my son on his bicycle. The street where Lila and our daughter stopped in the car. And oh, my God. There is the house. The house where we lived. It actually exists. This is too much.The front door opens. I half expect an older version of myself to step out, but it's not me. It's a man. A middle-aged man, but not me. He walks to his car —and he drives away.I run.To the city limits. I recall Sinclair's warning, but I don't care. I keep running. When I reach the edge of town, I feel a change. The air becomes thick and my legs feel heavy, but I keep going and the light begins to dim.  The air is like water or heavy oil or tar. I can't see, but I can hear. A flute. A song from my life, from the world Sinclair made. And then my lungs quit working. And my legs quit working. And I slip into nothingness.
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