Picking Stones Chapter 22

"Museums"

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3 & 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6 & 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11; Chapter 12 & 13; Chapter 14, 15, & 16; Chapter 17 & 18; Chapter 19; Chapter 20; Chapter 21; Chapter 22; Chapter 23 & 24; Chapter 25 & 26; Chapter 27; Chapter 28; Chapter 29; Chapter 30; Chapter 31 (Final Chapter)

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Museums

It was hard to wrap my head around. That idea that Graham Gordon and Ramona and the bookseller and maybe my mom and Phil and millions of others held. The belief of there not being an end, but a new beginning. Was that it? The lines were blurring, and so did my vision blur behind watery eyes. I was in a kaleidescope of possibilities both liberating and terrifying. Everything around me seemed to fade in and out and I drifted further and further away from myself, from the Nim card, and from the little book in my pocket.

There had to be more! If the story I was spinning to myself over the past few weeks was true, and I believed it was, it meant flipping the script on everything. I saw the pure bright blinding whiteness of the light. Was it a new chapter? Would it be a new beginning? Peace for a mourning soul? A final gift for a life of labor and melancholy? A reprieve from the evil we’re hosts to on this planet? Surrounded by light, hope, happiness, calming and peace? Eternity. Was my grandfather there? Who was he with? I pictured a barrage of all the dead, billions upon billions. It made me dizzy, not making sense.

Then came the black. The suffocating claustrophobia of nothing. Absolute oblivion. I got queasy and forward to suck in air, trying to eradicate the image from my mind and ease the tightness in my chest.

If that was true it meant life was a waste. It meant that everything we’ve ever worried about was for nothing. Everything we ever hoped or dreamed or loved was meaningless. That moment, sitting on a couch in the middle of the lobby of the Portland Museum of Art, was when I realized that idea of nothingness made even less sense than the first one. Isn’t there a thing in physics about energy not being able to die?

Speaking of, the night before had been a whirlwind. The energy sparking through my chest every time I thought about her was unbearable. She was amazing. I felt like a little kid. I’d seen her that morning when I went for a coffee. She told me to go; I promise I wasn’t stalking. While I was there she mentioned that I should check out the museum. We were exchanging messages like I had my own personal tour guide. She told me she wished she could have come with me, but she needed to work. Was I dumb enough to believe it?

I got up off the couch and decided to go inside and forget about things for a while. Whose turn was it to take a match? Mine or Nim’s? Was the spilled drink an omen that he had made his move? I was surprised I didn’t have a hangover.

“Are you a member with us?” The woman at the front desk asked.

“I’m from New York,” I said. Although it wasn’t the answer to the question she asked, I was accustomed to saying it and figured she’d get the point.

“Alright then. That’ll be…” Point taken.

Brilliant white dazzled from floor to walls to ceiling. I sucked in air and wished I didn’t have to go back to work, or my real life. Letting that thought in completely eradicated the high Ramona, and the book, had given me.

 Staring at a sprawling painting of a deep red sky over and lush green forest I asked myself, “Do I quit?” An old woman taking in the same piece quickly shuffled away when she heard the vibrations come out of my throat. I didn’t mind. It was an opportunity to pass wind.

It was already Monday. Work was set to start back up in a week to the day. I shuddered. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough time.

Another painting stared at me. Red circle, blue square, yellow triangle. One balanced on the other against a blank background. Admittedly, I didn’t get it, nor did I care.

Enthusiastic texts were sent back and forth. The less she knew, the better. I needed another week. I couldn’t go back. The idea was agonizing. My hotel was expiring Friday. Initial booking made me think I’d need the weekend to recoup at home before going back to work. Maybe I could call out sick.

This wasn’t working. In a different world, museums had once inspired me. I was getting nothing out of this one. It wasn’t the museum’s fault, but my own. Negative negates room for anything else. Could I call? Did I have time? Would I lose my job? Did I care?

I needed to act cool, casual. I needed a change of scenery.

Ramona didn’t need to know I bounced out of the museum early. Or, maybe I could tell her, or—

Getting ahead of myself again. Anyway.

Door to car slammed shut. Only ten minutes away. Empty highway, no traffic.

“How’s it going?” I asked my mom, who entered the car through Bluetooth.

“How’s the trip?”

“Great. I met the love of my life last night.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I got to go, losing service.” Click.

The parking lot was big, serving a brewery along with the museum. A giant statue of Bigfoot loomed outside, glinting sunlight off its lacquered fur. I entered the International Museum of Cryptozoology. Inside, I greeted the woman at the front. “I’m from New—” I stopped myself. She hadn’t asked; just said the price. Forking over the money, I stepped through the gift shop and ventured into the museum.

This place was much more my speed. A haven for the spooky, fantastic, and downright weird. Bigfoot was all over the place, as were the other usual suspects in that industry. Forever I had thought it all to be utter nonsense, but drastic times called for drastic measures. Maybe the museum would have a section all about Nim.

Under statues of exotic fish I scanned for the word mogwai. Nothing. In the Mothman exhibit, I searched for the three letters. Nothing. The card buzzed in my pocket, but I was getting nowhere. When I got to the life-sized replica of Bigfoot, I took a selfie with him and contemplated sending it to Ramona. Thankfully I zoomed in on the uneven smile, the greasy hair, the tint of sadness in the eyes and decided not to.

“Excuse me,” said a man shuffling his young son past me to take a photo with Bigfoot. My head was buried in my phone, logging into the company website to check how much sick time I had left. Could I fudge the numbers and get more time?

Beings that stalk in the night, people disappearing into thin air, aliens, mermen, ancient cities and civilizations advanced beyond our ability to comprehend. All of that, yet nothing that fit my bill. A thought crossed my mind and made me shudder. The things in that museum were all creations of the human imagination, made to entertain us. My situation wouldn’t be in there because it was real, like the story of the mogwai and the shoemaker that Peter told me. I started spinning.

Under the stairs, off to the side in a little corner of the museum was a bookshelf hidden behind glass. Nearly missing it, it was the last place I could check. On the shelf was a book that looked a thousand years old. Hundreds of browned and crinkled pages poked out from the sides. Its cracked and splintered brown cover revealed no name or author. The placard beneath it revealed its title, The Book With No Name. Very original. The one at the museum was a replica of the real one, which was said to be the most sinister book of spells and magical lore to ever have been written. By “author unknown.” Cute.

On a different shelf was pictures and descriptions of places said to be portals to other dimensions, other worlds. You cross through them and enter the spirit world or the world of evil fairies or worse. Once you enter a portal, it was almost impossible to escape. I shook my head and moved on, but a funny thought floated with me as I walked away from the exhibit, maybe I had crossed through one of those when I found the card.

Outside the museum I saw Ramona invited back to the coffee shop to hang out if I had nothing to do. The next thing I remembered was being back in the city walking down a brick sidewalk. Above me the sky was a vibrant blue and the sun shone down on me and warmed my face, but I still felt cold and detached. It hit me all at once, like stepping in a puddle. No reflection in the black water. A sinking feeling, but you aren’t sinking. The puddle is rising around you. It ebbs over your ankles then slowly trickles up your legs.

The feeling crept up to my waist. I groaned, desperately looking at store windows on the cold street to see if I could spot something in their reflection to blame it on. But I was met by me. Breath was seeping in and out of my mouth and rising like smoke from a dying fire. I wanted to go back to the hotel and close my eyes. To not move for the rest of the day, the week.

Wallowing was useless. I needed to move, to the surprise of no one except myself, my healing of body and mind would take longer than a two day bender far off away from home.

“What about last night?” I said. A woman passing turned around and we made a brief bit of eye contact. I didn’t break away, waiting for her to turn away and make her escape. I thanked the woman as she quickly sped away. In that moment of hesitation an idea struck me, from somewhere up there. Ramona would have to wait. I needed to go somewhere else, even just for a little while. The moments of euphoria from scrawling in that notebook last night were present in my head. Something, or one, told me that would do the trick.

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I was frozen in my seat, pen quivering in a loose grip. Under the dim lights of a coffee shop with equally, if not better coffee than Ramona’s place, I knew that something had been right. Before me, set at a slight angle with corners crimping up to the ceiling was a piece of paper. On it were an amalgamation of words forever etched onto three quarters of the paper. With the words, whatever they meant, if anything, came sweet relief.

Once I was finished I walked to her place. Little else mattered. Breathing was clear, heart rate normal. “I need to do this more often,” I said to myself before going inside.

Her face lit up when she saw me. I was sure mine did the same. Who’d make the first move? “Welcome!” said someone else. To Ramona’s right was the only other employee I’d seen in the place. We’ll call him Jasper since I hadn’t gotten his name nor was I interested in finding it out.

All the paintings hanging on the walls sung to me. They really were beautiful and completely blew away any of the pieces the museum had. Good for her, trying to make her dream come true. I gave her a smile while I walked up to the coffee bar that seemed miles away.

When I passed the table with all the books, I almost jumped. A book I hadn’t yet seen was staring up at me, a paranormal book for kids. One take, the book was called The Haunted Card. Double take, and I read its real title, The Haunted Car. Still seeing things. I shook my head and made it to the counter.

“Find something you like?” she asked.

“It was a book I had read when I was a kid,” I lied.

“Oh cool! Well, how’s it going?”

“Could be better,” I said. “I’m on vacation with nothing to do.”

“Well, I’m free tonight.” Were plans just made?

Jasper dodged her a look of surprise, or was that a look of judgment saying, “him?”

“Do you want anything to drink?” she said. Damn, I  had missed my window to ask her out. Disappointed, I calmed myself and tried to play cool. “Sure what do you recommend?” That was a mistake. I knew exactly what kind of coffee I liked. Now I risked falling prey to some fancy drink I’d hate.

“Oh you need to get a latte. Chris makes awesome latte art.” She pointed at Jasper who nodded in pride. “Alright, I’ll try one.” I didn’t even know what a latte was, still don’t.

Small talk ensued. I told her about the cryptozoology museum which turned out to be one of her favorite places in the city. We set a date to go out for dinner a few hours after she closed up. Enough time for me to stand in a hot shower to think. Hopefully there was room for a nap and—.

“Here it is,” Jasper said passing me a smoking cup. “Thanks, Chris!” Ramona replied. We both peered over to the top of the cup, and I shot my head briskly forward when I saw what Jasper had created over the white foam. Glimpsing it only for a split second since Ramona and I knocked our heads together after my fierce head shot forward. Awkward apologies were exchanged; luckily I took the brunt of it. The coffee and milk sloshed back and forth in the cup, half of it on the floor.

“Oh no, we’ll make a new one. I’m so sorry!” Ramona said.

I was already on all fours wiping up the spill while the steam for a new latte started to hiss behind the counter. “He’s a keeper.” I swore I heard Jasper say to her. When I got up she was blushing. “Thanks, Will.”

“Least I could do.”

“That’s the second time in two days you’ve spilled your drink. I’m noticing a trend.”

“Yeah…” Before I could think up a comeback a fresh latte was handed to me and scalded my hands. “Thanks, Chris,” Ramona said. Jasper nodded. This time we took turns to look inside the cup to see a heart swirled together by two separate swooshes of milk. He chose not to recreate the yin yang symbol that I swore had graced the first one.

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