LEN BIAS: CROSSOVER
A novel
By: Michael D. McClellan | September 19, 2010
chapter 3
I fall asleep sometime during the night, and for the first time in forever I don't have that dream. No steal, no dunk, no darkness, no draft. Nothing but lights out rest. I wake with the morning sun hitting my face. A gentle breeze. The sound of birds. I'm on my back in the tall grass, disoriented and sore - but alive. Alive. And how can I be dead if I'm alive? This singular, semi-rational thought makes perfect sense. It energizes me. I sit up, ramrod straight, my eyes like saucers and my heart pounding hard in my chest - the same heart that had failed me in those visions last night.
"Good morning, Leonard."
I spin around at the sound of the voice - Alyssa's voice. She's sitting at a large, rectangular wooden table, on one of two matching benches. The tabletop is made of thick, rough cut timber, and is overrun with breakfast food; waffles, eggs, fruit, grits, bacon, biscuits, gravy, ham, milk, juice. I can smell the bacon from here, and it triggers a hunger inside me that I haven't felt in as long as I can remember.
"It's time to talk," she says, "but first you need to eat. Please, sit."
I look around - the park bench is gone, having vanished into thin air. Same with the tree and the swing. Poof. Gone. As if they never were. It's just the two of us, alone with breakfast, hovering somewhere on this deserted island in the sky.
~ ~ ~
Food has never tasted this good. I eat until I'm ready to bust, asking Alyssa desperate questions between each gulp and swallow. She refuses politely, insisting that we discuss everything in detail after I'm done. She sits and sips on a glass of water but doesn't indulge herself in the food at the table. She's wearing a yellow summer dress now, a large white belt, black buckle, matching yellow shoes. She projects something clean, wholesome, All-American. Fresh. She has the timeless looks of a model.
"You went through a lot last night," she says softly. "The first night is always the hardest. There's a lot to absorb, and it's very intense. I need you to close your eyes."
"My eyes?"
"Yes, close your eyes."
I do as she says, and when I finally open them we're still at the table but the food is gone. And we're no longer outside. We're sitting in the middle of an old farmhouse, a stone and wood structure that looks centuries old. It's small, one-story. A fireplace nook is notched out of the far wall; an iron rod extends out from the stonework and a black, cast-iron pot hangs from it, suspended above the flames. Two wooden chairs are positioned in front of the fireplace. One of them is short and squat, with three legs and matching spindles connected to a curved backrest, scarred and gouged. The other chair has four legs but seems much more flimsy, as if it would collapse under a child's weight. A large grandfather clock stands sentry against the adjacent wall. The hands are frozen on 8:51.
"This used to be my home," Alyssa says. "In Wales. A long time ago."
"How did you-"
"I can do a lot of things. That's why I'm responsible for your crossover."
That word again. "Crossover?"
"You died from ingesting all of that cocaine, Leonard. Mounds and mounds of cocaine. That's why you're here."
"No, no way. I don't believe you."
"I'm sorry, I truly am, but at this point it doesn't matter what you believe. What's done is done. It can't be taken back."
Alyssa watches me with those emerald eyes, and I feel my newfound confidence vanish as quickly as this tiny farmhouse had somehow wrapped itself around us. You're not dreaming, her eyes assure me. You're not high, either. This is all real, none some figment of your imagination.
"But I'm alive," I say defensively, shaking my head and feeling the first tinge of anger building in my gut. I press my middle and ring fingers against the inside of my left wrist. "I can feel my pulse." I stand and pull my T-shirt up to my chin. "Where's the scar? Where's the pacemaker?"
"My purpose is to prepare, not persuade. But I can understand your confusion. You have plenty of time to understand and accept your situation, because the mechanics of space and time work differently here. What you perceive to happen in hours actually happens in fractions of seconds. So we're in no hurry. If we need even more time together, then everything we say and do will happen within fractions of those fractions."
