Chapter Six

When I stopped tumbling, I hit something hard. I blinked rapidly as I tried to focus on the surface below my feet.

And let out a gasp. I’d landed on the top of a cottage, of all places.

I flailed on the ice-covered rooftop, my stance awkward on the sloping surface. I reached out for the chimney that lay a couple of feet to my right but lost my balance. I fell on my butt, landing hard on the icy shingles. With nothing to grab onto, I slid down and pitched forward off the roof. A bank of snow helped cushion my fall, but I still came down on my side…hard. Pain shot up my ribs. I lay there for a minute or two, my breaths shallow, a cold wind chilling my body. I half-expected someone to come running out of the cottage, alarmed by the thud on their roof, but nobody showed.

As I finally summoned the strength to sit up, a panicked voice rang through the air. A male voice.

Nick?

I cocked my head, listening. The calls came from somewhere on the other side of a thin stand of fir trees just a few yards away.

My head throbbed and my side burned, but I struggled to my feet. I took a ragged breath and the pain intensified. Lines of black wavered before my eyes. I shook my head until they disappeared, then began to wade through the blanket of pure white snow that stretched around me in every direction.

Soft, pillowy landing spots everywhere and I had to end up on a friggin’ roof.

I stumbled towards the voice, moving through the pain, clinging to the hope that Nick was on the other side of the trees. With a hand pressed to my side, I nudged my way through them, their bright green branches stirring in the breeze.

“Help!” the voice called.

My heart sank. That wasn’t Nick.

As disappointment coursed through me, I stepped past the trees and onto the bank of a frozen river…frozen except for the jagged opening where a head bobbed up and down.

It was Luke.

Idiot. He should’ve listened to me about staying back instead of goading me.

“For Christ’s sake, help me!”

Luke’s reddened fingers curled over the edge of the hole in the ice, but his hands were starting to slip. Immersed in that ice-cold water, he wouldn’t be able to hold on for much longer.

“I’m coming. Hang on!” I scanned my surroundings and spotted a tree branch lying on the ground farther down the bank. It hurt to move—hell, it hurt to breathe—but I scooped up the branch and cautiously stepped onto the ice. I began sliding towards Luke. When I was about halfway to the hole, I heard a loud crack. I looked down in horror as a long line split the ice between my feet. I skidded backwards and scrambled back up on the bank, where I collapsed on the hard, cold ground.

Luke flailed in the water, his cries hoarse now. His face had turned a sickly blue.

“Help! Help!” I screamed the word and over, even though I had no idea if anyone was alive in this place.

What seemed an hour later but was probably only a minute, a deep voice drifted towards us, followed by the sound of footsteps crunching on the snow. A man appeared beside me, dressed in a blue coat and matching hat that sparkled like no coat and hat should. “Good God!” he said.

“Please help him,” I panted. “I couldn’t pull him out. The ice is cracking.”

“Hold on, son!” he called to Luke. “I’m going to get a rope.” He sprinted away, and I could only stare, helpless, as the bottom half of Luke’s face disappeared beneath the water, then reappeared again as he fought to stay afloat, coughing and sputtering.

“Hang on, Luke. Just hang on a little longer!”

While I waited, my teeth chattering, his head slipped underwater several more times as exhaustion set in and the frigid water seeped into his body.

The man crashed through the trees, a long, thick rope in his hands and two younger men in tow. Their clothes shimmered as brightly as the first man’s.

“I’ll go, Dad. I’m lighter.” One of the young men, tall and lean, grabbed the rope and tied it around his waist. Then he lay flat on his stomach on the ice. He inched towards Luke while the two others held onto the other end of the rope, their feet planted firmly on the riverbank.

I held my breath as the young man slithered on the ice. I was sure the crack would widen and he’d join Luke in the water. But his movements were slow and careful, and he reached Luke without incident.

He caught hold of Luke’s arms. The two men on the riverbank pulled them both across the ice, which started to splinter again under their combined weight. Frantic now, I stood behind the men, taking a firm grip on the rope myself and pulling with all my might, even though it hurt like hell. With the ice heaving and groaning in protest, we hauled Luke and the young man onto the bank, where they both collapsed.

I knelt over Luke. He lay sprawled on the ground, shivering violently. “You’re okay now,” I said.

Although his lips moved, no sound came out. He looked up at me, his eyes glassy.

The older man put one arm under his back, the other under his knees and hoisted him against his chest. “Do you live nearby? We need to get him out of these wet clothes right away.”

“N–no,” I stammered. “We’re just passing through. We don’t have a place to stay.”

He glanced at me curiously. “Well, my cottage is just past the church. We’ll take him there.”

As he began to cut through the trees, I glanced back at the river—the river that I’d painted, my brush smearing silvery-white tones across the wall that was my canvas. Another chill swept through me…one that had nothing to do with the cold.

* * * *

Something was wrapped snugly around my body. My feet lay in a cocoon of heavenly warmth. A soft pillow cradled my head, easing the ache. The pain in my ribs had abated slightly, now that I was lying still, but they felt constricted. I was groggy, my throat dry and scratchy.

Footsteps approached, and I forced my eyes to stay open. A woman appeared, crouching so she was at eye level with me. I caught the scent of cinnamon and pine. She was in her forties and had a round, kind face with eyes that crinkled at the corners. Her skin was strangely luminescent, and her hair framed her face with curls as red as the poppies in the van Gogh painting. She wore a green dress that matched her emerald eyes. Those eyes focused on me now, dazzlingly bright. I knew her from somewhere—knew her well, actually. So why couldn’t I remember how I knew her?

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

I rubbed my face, still reeling from the fact that I was not only in my mural, but in one of the cottages. During the short trip from the river, the two young men had held me steady on either side, while the older man had carried Luke like he was as light as a feather. Breathless and in pain, I’d barely noticed my surroundings, other than to marvel at the brilliant colors that coated everything.

The woman had taken our unexpected arrival in stride, first instructing the older man, who turned out to be her husband, to take Luke into a bedroom. She guided me to a small living room, where she settled me on a couch, cinched warm blankets around me and covered my feet with a hot water bottle. I had fallen asleep almost immediately.

“I’m…tired,” I said now, in answer to her question.

“I’m not surprised.” She patted my hand. “My name is Susan, by the way. And you are…?”

“Julia.”

“Nice to meet you, Julia.” She smiled, her rosy red lips peeling back to reveal a set of blindingly white teeth. “Seems you’ve had quite the adventure—and a bit of a shock. But you’re safe now. Thank goodness my Gregory found you in time.” She smoothed my hair back from my forehead.

Her motherly touch reminded me of Karen. At the thought of my aunt, I was stabbed by a pang of guilt. I wondered if she’d gotten out of the hospital by now. If she had, she would know I’d gone into the mural without her. In Luke’s car, I’d dashed off a short text explaining that I couldn’t wait.

I focused on Susan again. Suddenly I knew who she was—one of the first villagers I painted. I’d put her on her cottage stoop, her curls peeking out from under a soft blue hat, her cheeks apple-red from the cold and a warm smile lighting up her green eyes.

And now she sat in front of me, no longer just a figure in a mural but a living, breathing person. My heart gave a stutter.

“What is it, Julia?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I guess I am still in shock. Um, how long was I asleep?”

“A few hours.”

“And Luke? Is he okay?”

“He has a mild case of hypothermia, but he’ll be just fine. He’s still sleeping.” She shook her head, her red curls bouncing. “It’s a good thing Gregory and my sons got there when they did. It could have been much worse.” She paused and peered at me curiously. “What happened out there? How did he fall in the ice? And how did you get hurt? The way you were holding your side when you came in, it looks like you may have bruised your ribs. My son moved the same way when it happened to him.”

I fiddled with the edge of the blanket, which shimmered in rich tones of blue and gold. My black sweater looked dull and washed out in comparison. “We, um, didn’t know the river wasn’t completely frozen solid.” I knew it was a lame explanation, so I hurried on before she could press me. “Anyway, I have to go. I need to find someone.” With a grimace, I struggled to sit up.

She laid a hand on my arm. “You’re hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to go.”

“I don’t think so, dear,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “You need to rest before you do anything.”

“You don’t understand.” My head throbbed again and panic speared me like an arrow. I couldn’t lie there doing nothing, not when Nick might be in the village. I had to look for him.

Susan shook her head again. “I don’t recommend moving around just now. You’ll aggravate your injury.”

I stared at her. Her hand on my arm was solid. She watched me with her bright green eyes, reminding me of a cat. She was as alive as I was, but she couldn’t be real. Could she? None of this was real.

“You’re not real,” I whispered.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“What’s the name of your town?”

“It doesn’t have a name,” she said, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “We’ve just always called it the village.”

“And have you ever left the village?”

“Heavens, no.” She laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “Why would I do that? This is my home. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Of course it is. Because I made you. I plucked at the blanket and laughed along with her. But I wasn’t amused like Susan. I was laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Yes, my dear, you certainly are in shock. Let me get you some tea to help soothe your nerves.”

Yeah, she was a lot like my aunt. I wondered if subconsciously I’d been thinking about Aunt Karen when I had painted Susan.

My hostess was looking at me expectantly. A hot drink actually did sound good before I went back out into the cold. In my haste to get into mural-land, I hadn’t thought to bring so much as a pair of gloves. “Okay, fine. One cup before I go.”

Susan’s animated expression returned as she got to her feet. “Coming right up.”

“Hey,” I said. “You got anything strong to put in that tea? Um, you know, to help with those nerves.”

She thought for a moment, head tilted to one side. “Oh, you know what? I think I do have a bottle of whiskey tucked away. It has great warming and medicinal properties.”

As she busied herself in the adjoining kitchen, I examined my surroundings for the first time. The living area was small but cosy. In addition to the couch I was lying on, there was a pair of maroon wingback chairs that flanked a glossy wood coffee table. A stone fireplace was set against one wall. A fire crackled in the hearth, shooting up sparks as bright as shining stars. I stared at it, mesmerized, and felt myself being pulled into sleep again.

The flames rose all around me as the house on Ennis Avenue burned.

“Nick!” I screamed. “Where are you?”

“Upstairs…hurry.” His voice was faint in the midst of the roaring inferno. I climbed the steps, tried to take them two at a time, but my ribs ached and it took ages to reach the top.

“Hurry…hurry.”

I staggered in the direction of his voice, following it to Mom’s bedroom. When I got there, I faced a thick wall of smoke. “Nick! I can’t see you.”

“I’m over here, honey,” came Mom’s voice.

The smoke cleared, and I saw her floating above her bed, her body fading in and out. Her hair, so like my own, hung down in a dark curtain. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Vistas,” she said. “But at least you got to live some of your life normally. Please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Mom. I just don’t understand what to do here!”

“Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.” Her voice was fainter now, and so was she. I could barely see the outlines of her body. “Now go. Save Nick. I couldn’t do it, but you can.”

“But where is he?” I asked, frantic.

“Right here, Julia,” said a voice.

I spun around, but there was no one there. I stumbled forward and tripped over something soft and squishy. Bending down, my hand closed over the object—a teddy bear streaked with soot. Its black eyes were hard and unblinking, but its mouth twisted in an evil grin. “You forgot all about me, but I’m right here.”

“Julia.” A hand shook my shoulder. “Wake up.”

“Huh?” I slowly crawled out of the fog of my dream and looked around. Susan squatted in front of me, her eyes pooled with concern.

“You were dreaming.”

I blinked at her. She had to be part of my dream, too, didn’t she? But I was awake now, and this woman—the one I’d painted on the cottage stoop—placed a comforting hand on my arm, reminding me that she was real. All of this was real.

Susan folded back the covers. “Drink your tea. It will help.”

“Ah…yeah. Okay.”

She helped ease me to a sitting position. I winced and pressed shaking fingers to my flushed cheeks, the fiery images of the dream still imprinted on my mind. The sense of urgency I’d experienced in my dream mirrored the one I felt in real life. Nick, where are you?

When Susan handed me the cup and saucer, it rattled violently. It took a sheer force of will to steady my hands. I took a sip. The tea coated my throat like caramel, warmed my still-cold insides and, after a few moments, took the edge off the pain.

Susan sat across from me, watching as I drank. “There… Isn’t that better? I really do think tea is the answer to everything.”

“It’s good. Thanks.” I wrapped my hands around the cup and let the warmth of the ceramic seep into my fingers. “Listen… You said you’ve never left the village.”

“That’s right. No one has.”

“But has anyone new ever come into the village? Like, recently?”

“Well, you and your friend.” She smiled pleasantly.

I bit back my impatience. “Other than us. About two months ago? A man in his fifties and a guy my age?”

“Hmm-m. I don’t think so.”

The cup and saucer rattled again. “Are you sure? Their names are Nick Allen and Tom Mercer.”

“Sorry, dear. I don’t know anyone by those names.”

“Here,” I said, thrusting the cup and saucer at her. Then I fished in my pocket and pulled out the photo taken on the night of the junior high grad. “The guy. Do you recognize him?” I pointed at Nick.

Susan leaned over and peered at the picture. Recognition dawned in her eyes. “Oh my goodness. That looks like a younger version of Daniel.”

My throat tightened. I clenched a fold of the blue and gold coverlet, which dazzled my blurred eyes. “Daniel?”

“Yes, but that can’t be our Daniel, can it? I don’t know where that house is.”

“That’s the house I grew up in. And that’s Nick. He lived across the street from me in a city called St. Peter’s.”

Susan gave a light chuckle as she got up to take the dishes into the kitchen. “Then it certainly isn’t our Daniel. This has always been his home. Strange, though, how much they look alike.”

It was him. It had to be. They called him Daniel, which meant he didn’t know who he was anymore. But that was okay. I had the picture.

I took a shallow breath. “Where is he? Can you take me to him?”

“Hmm. He’s either at his cottage or possibly at the village café now. I can get John or Eddie to go find him.”

“I want to go, too. It can’t be that far, can it?” Or maybe it was. In my mural, the cluster of cottages were separated from the main buildings by a short trail through the snow, but who knew how the distance translated in real time?

“A five-minute walk, but you really should stay off your feet.”

“Please,” I begged. “I’ll be fine. I just… I need to see him right away. It’s important.”

She studied me for a long moment, her lips pursed. Finally, she said, “Okay. I’ll get John to take you. But go slow,” she added. “You still look pale.”

“I will.”

“And you let your friend stay here and rest. He’s definitely not ready to go back out in the cold.”

“Yeah, he can just—” I broke off as I felt the blood drain from my face. What if Luke didn’t have a memory trigger? He’d been carrying around that cigarette lighter, but I had no idea if that would work or not—or if it had even survived his dunk in the water. “I better check on him before I go.”

“Of course.”

She helped me up and led me to a small bedroom with cream-colored walls. The hardwood flooring continued into this room, covered by a brown and green area rug at the foot of the bed. The curtains had been drawn from a window, letting in a shaft of daylight that shone onto the double sleigh bed. There was a wooden rocking chair to one side of the bed. Gregory rose from it when he saw us enter the room.

“How are you, miss?” he said.

“Oh, hanging in there, I guess.” I barely glanced at him; my focus was the bed, where Luke lay propped up against a mound of pillows. Wild tufts of hair stood up on his head. His face was a square of white against the deep plum of the top quilt, his lips pale in the light coming from the window. His eyes were half-closed.

“Please, sit,” Gregory said, gesturing to the rocking chair. “It might help your friend to see you. He’s been disoriented ever since we brought him in.”

“Sure, yeah,” I said, licking my dry lips. I took my time crossing over to the chair. As I lowered myself onto it, the soreness returned, and I gritted my teeth against it.

“He stopped shivering a while ago,” Gregory added, standing at the foot of the bed with his arm slung around his wife. “But he’s been muttering off and on and doesn’t seem to remember what happened.”

“Oh my God.”

“Now don’t be too alarmed. Confusion is common with even a mild case of hypothermia. It may just take him some time to really come back to us.”

I sucked in a breath. Easy for you to say. I knew that without a memory trigger, Luke wouldn’t come back to us.

“Luke?” I said.

His head lolled in the direction of my voice, his eyelids fluttering open. When he didn’t answer, I said, “It’s me. Julia.”

He looked at me with a dazed expression. “Who?” he muttered.

“Julia,” I said again, louder.

“Don’t know you.” He shook his head and winced, as if the movement pained him.

“Do you know your name?” I tried.

Something like recognition broke through the confusion on his face. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m…” He stopped, frowning. “I’m not sure.” His eyes closed again.

“Gregory,” I said sharply. “Where’s the leather jacket he was wearing?”

“It’s hanging up in the washroom with his other wet clothes.”

“I need you to check the pockets for a cigarette lighter. And hurry.”

He gave me a quizzical look but didn’t question me. When he returned a minute later with the lighter in hand, I heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

“What’s this about?” Susan asked.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “We’re not going to use it. I just want him to hold it.”

Luke’s eyes opened when he felt the mattress shift under my weight. “Hold what?”

“Give me your hand.”

He slowly withdrew his hand from beneath the mountain of covers. I pressed the lighter against his palm. “Feel that. Look at it. It’s yours.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It is,” I insisted. “See those initials there? LM? Those are yours. Your name is Luke Mercer, and you came here with me. We’re here to find your dad.”

I waited a long moment as he rubbed his thumb over the initials then turned the lighter over and over in his hand. Finally, he looked up at me. His blue eyes seemed a little more focused, but when he spoke, he said, “Sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Don’t panic, I commanded myself, even as my stomach gave an uneasy lurch. Maybe he just needed a little more time.

I felt the sudden urge to laugh hysterically, but another glance at Luke’s glazed expression sobered me quickly. “Whatever you do, make sure he doesn’t let that lighter out of his sight,” I said, turning to address Gregory and Susan. “It’s important that he sees it. And get him to hold it again, whenever you can.”

“Well,” Gregory said, scratching his chin, “sure, if you think it’s going to help him.”

“Thanks. If he asks for me, tell him I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

And with any luck, I wouldn’t be coming back alone.

* * * *

I still couldn’t wrap my brain around the fact that I was in my mural. It was so surreal to be moving around in something I had created, to see the familiar fir trees swaying in the brisk air, to catch glimpses of the nearby river and the snow-crested mountains in the distance. The cottages were like 3D images on a movie screen, only I didn’t need the glasses to get the full effect. The sky was the color of deep cerulean. I’d finally chosen it after like an hour of waffling between three different shades of blue. Seeing it above me now, shimmering and cloudless, I knew I’d made the right choice. The sun—my sun—shone in that sky, and the powdery white snow sparkled under its abnormally brilliant rays.

John wrapped his arm around my waist to support me as we made our way to the café. He felt as solid and real as his mother, and that boggled my mind, too. He was even less curious about my reason for being there than his mother had been, remaining silent except for the occasional murmur of encouragement.

I didn’t walk so much as shuffle through the snow. It hurt to breathe, let alone walk, and every movement made me gasp in pain. But the thought of Nick kept me going. I wouldn’t stop until I saw him with my own eyes. And if it was him, really him, I’d get him home.

“Almost there,” John said. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” I panted. My head was down as I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. I had stopped taking notice of my surroundings, excruciating as it was to move through the pain. But when John spoke again a moment later to tell me we’d arrived, I lifted my head.

And there it was, its big front window glinting in the sun, the deep red of the brick façade vibrant beneath the snow-coated roof. I recognized every detail of it, of course. My hand tingled with the memories of outlining the window with olive green, brushing lemon yellow over the door, and painting the blue-and-white striped awning. Above the awning, with careful strokes, I had spelled out Village Café in bold, black letters. Those letters stood out in all their 3D glory.

My breath caught in my throat, and a wave of weakness washed over me. If John hadn’t tightened his grip on me, I would have collapsed in the snow.

“Let’s get you inside and off your feet,” he said.

I nodded, unable to speak.

John opened the door with his free hand and guided me inside. I was instantly engulfed in a sea of warmth that took the edge off my chilled body. A concoction of heavenly aromas reached my nose—rich coffee, hickory bacon and sweet oranges intermingling with the scents of maple, pine and vanilla. I paused just inside the doorway, my breathing shallow, and soaked up the warmth and the smells. I examined the interior of my café. It was everything I’d imagined it would be.

It wasn’t a big restaurant, about the size of Aunt Karen’s first floor, but it had a high ceiling that gave the impression of roominess. It was crisscrossed with beams the same shade of green as the window trim. The walls were hung with a series of watercolor paintings done in pastel blues, yellows and pinks. Six square tables were arranged in a zig zag pattern, their wooden chairs tucked in neatly. A thick cream-colored candle sat in the centre of each table, encircled by a plain silver holder. A small counter stood at the rear of the café, and behind it, a door that I assumed led to the kitchen. There were no customers at the moment, and no one was at the counter.

“Café just opened,” John explained. “Daniel must be in the back.”

My heart pounded in my ears and my palms grew slick with sweat as John helped me over to a table. I lowered myself into a chair.

“You okay? Do you want anything? Water? Coffee?”

“No,” I managed. “Just…”

He smiled with understanding. “You just want to see him. I’ll be right back.”

I watched him walk around the counter like he’d done it a time or two. He disappeared through the door at the back.

Anxious knots twisted in my belly. It was happening. In just a minute, Nick would be there. I’d see his face again, a face I thought would only come to me in dreams for the rest of my life. While everyone had assumed that he was dead, he’d been stuck in the mural for two months, unable to get home. Guilt stabbed at me again. I swore that if we got back to St. Peter’s in one piece, I’d never let him out of my sight again.

I waited for the door to the kitchen to swing open, my labored breathing the only sound in the café. But the minutes ticked by, and the door didn’t move.

With a groan, I rested my head in my hands.

Then, finally, I heard the door open. I raised my head. Through the tangles of hair hanging in my face, I saw a tall figure standing behind the counter.

“Hello?”

I pushed my hair behind my ears…and stared.