The Walk-In By Dick Sutphen Kevin Forester left his body on February 1st and didn't return. On February 2nd the new inhabitant started getting Kevin's act together for the first time in his life. The transition had started two weeks earlier while Kevin was asleep, out of body on the astral plain. "We need to communicate." The man was dressed in white. "Why?" Kevin tried to push past him. "I can offer you a way out of the life you seem intent upon destroying." When freed by sleep, Kevin often visited a lake in the Ozark Mountains. The environment was a tranquil contrast to his waking life, and he very badly wanted to go there now. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Are you happy?" asked the man. "Who is? I gotta go." "I can help you stay at the lake as long as you want." "You know about the lake?" "You lived a simple, happy life near there in the late 1800s." "I always have to leave the lake before awakening." The man in white had Kevin's full attention. "Kevin, you're a drug addict, you love no one, and you're irresponsible to your family, friends and employer." "I'm also two months behind in my rent and they're about to repossess my car. Tell me something I don't know." "I'm offering you a painless way out of the physical, without incurring any negative karma. You would then be free to remain here on the astral plain until you're ready to move on." Kevin looked closely at the man and perceived the intensity of his vibration. "You're a Master?" The man smiled. "I don't remember what happens over here when I wake up." "It doesn't matter." As the two entities talked, others drifted past; sleeping incarnates exploring out of body, new discarnates still adjusting to the astral plain, upper level souls, guides, and Masters. They flowed past and through each other like fish beneath a sea of ever-changing colors. Although this was a nonphysical realm of existence, each soul appeared to the others in attire of mental manifestation. Those who were projecting in their astral bodies while asleep on earth, appeared as they did in life, clothed as they preferred. The discarnates existed within their etheric bodies, usually projecting an earthly appearance from a previous life. These etheric bodies were electromagnetic fields of a particular vibration -- the intensity indicating their soul level. The soul atom containing the chakras, all memories and a pattern of character traits, talents, and attitudes were contained within the electronic field as a blueprint for a future incarnation. "I'd leave my body without dying?" Kevin asked the man in white. "You'd go to sleep, and your etheric body would slip away as another soul replaced you, retaining your memories. His etheric body would replace yours, and he would agree to set your life in order or incur the karma you've created." "Why would he do that?" "For the opportunities offered by incarnation. Maybe to accomplish a task or fulfill a goal. Walk-ins always have a purpose." "Does someone out there want my body?" "No one in particular, but there are always souls wanting to walk-in if an opportunity arises." "So this new guy would have two minds, mine and his own?" "For a few weeks. But by the time he established new directions, his own conscious memories would fade, leaving him remembering your past, with an intuitive awareness of his totality." "His totality?" "He'd maintain subconscious recognition of ties with other souls. This isn't conscious recognition; it's the intense attraction or repulsion you sometimes experience upon meeting a person for the first time." * * * * * Kevin inhaled smoke, opened his eyes and coughed. A naked blonde with smeared mascara was sitting up on the other side of the bed, taking a long hit on a roach. "Mornin', sweetie." She spoke without exhaling, offering him a hit. He shook his head. Pain! The woman -- Pam -- blew smoke and stared at the empty apartment wall. Kevin swung his feet out of bed, sat up and lowered his head into his hands. It was the first time he'd experienced physical pain in 12 years. "We closed down the Hideaway," Pam said. He couldn't remember. Naked, standing unsteadily, he took a deep breath and shuffled to the bathroom. "You couldn't get it up last night." He closed the bathroom door. The alien reflection in the mirror had red eyes with dark circles beneath them. What a way to start a life, he thought, searching through the medicine cabinet for aspirin and a toothbrush. The hot shower helped. He stood before the mirror looking at his foggy image in the condensation. Kevin Forester, 34 years-old, six-foot-one, thinning brown hair, blue eyes, attractive enough, with a flabby but well-proportioned body. Circumcised. He smiled.  "Kevin." Pam knocked and immediately opened the bathroom door. Leaning against the door frame, she stared at him with unfocused eyes. "I thought we'd shower together." There was disappointment in her voice. "Next time." He forced a smile. "I have some things I have to do." "Go to hell, Kevin." She punched the door, slamming it into the bathroom wall. "What?" Kevin said, surprised. "I always look good to you when you're stoned, but not in the cold light of day." She stretched eye wrinkles with an index finger and patted her pouchy stomach. "You look good right now, Pam. You have no idea how long it's been since I've made love to a beautiful woman." She sighed, looked at the ceiling, then met his eyes. "Last Saturday, with me in that bed, or didn't that count?" "No, you don't understand how ..." "I'll make the coffee," she said, walking away. They left the second-floor apartment together. Kevin walked Pam to her car, parked at the curb a half block away. They kissed quickly. "See you at the Hideaway," she said, gunning the motor and pulling away. Kevin strolled slowly back up the palm-tree lined sidewalk, nearly overwhelmed by physical sensations. The trees shivered in the warm breeze, rustling the green fronds and drawing attention to the brown, untrimmed skirts of fallen branches. Birds chattered. Bushy hibiscuses glimmered along a wall. Magenta and red bougainvillea engulfed a fence, shedding blossoms that sprayed across the walkway. The smell of the air, even the smog ... wonderful. The intensity of color and sound. I've almost forgotten. Even as he marveled at his surroundings, Kevin Forester's familiar memories overlaid his childlike sense of wonder; Air, smog, birds, bushes, so who gives a good goddamn? His '90 Mustang convertible was parked in the garage beneath the apartment building. Sitting behind the wheel, Kevin adjusted the rear-view mirror and wondered about his attire; a white T-shirt, black cotton sport coat, Levi's, and white running shoes. As Alistair Alexander he had always worn exquisite suits. But of course Alistair Alexander of St. Louis Park, Minnesota, was dead, and Kevin Forester of Woodland Hills, California, was very much alive. And without a single suit in his limited wardrobe. I don't even own a black pair of shoes or socks, he thought as he twisted the key in the Mustang's ignition. The assistant manager at the local branch of Wells Fargo Bank was working the Saturday morning shift. With the banker's help, Kevin examined his credit history. Pathetic. Then he made arrangements to forestall repossession of the Mustang and catch up on all his debts, which amounted to $5300. A paltry amount to Alistair Alexander, but an overwhelming figure for an addicted Kevin Forester who made $380 a week before commissions and taxes as a stationery-store clerk in Topanga Plaza. Saturday afternoon he pawned or sold outright everything of value in his apartment: the stereo system with surround-sound speakers, the nearly new 27-inch Sony television set and VCR, a seldom-used set of weights, a .308 automatic handgun, and a Martin guitar he'd owned since he was 16. It was enough to pay the back rent on the apartment and leave him enough for a decent suit of clothes. On the way home he stopped at a convenience store for the early Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times. His body longed for a cigarette, a drink, some grass, cocaine ... anything to ease the ever-increasing internal tremors. No way! It's cold turkey. First things first. Trembling and sweating, he returned to his apartment. He stripped to his underwear and draped a towel around his neck, then sat blankly staring at the spot where the TV had been. One part of him was enjoying the physical sensations of being alive, no matter how bad he felt. Another part of him wanted to die and end the torment. The apartment was a typical San Fernando Valley one-bedroom, with a kitchen and breakfast bar in a corner of the living room. The Navajo-white walls were decorated with framed posters featuring Kevin Forester's materialistic dreams. A naked woman lay on the hood of a fire-red Ferrari Testarossa. The words, "Living Well Is The Best Revenge" were reversed out of the night sky above a blue Lotus. Another poster invited him to "Ski Aspen." The apartment furniture was right out of an Ikea catalog with a little Pier One and Pottery Barn thrown in. Simple designs constructed of metal and plastic, cushioned in black, white or red -- take your pick. Kevin padded to the balcony and stared down at the pool, which was flickering with sunny reflections. Two bikini-clad women reclined in lounge chairs, absorbing the day's last rays. A girl of seven or eight played in the shallow end, watched by her father who sat in shorts, his bare feet dangling in the water. Kevin watched the little girl for a moment, shivered violently, and repressed a moan. Clutching his stomach, he hurried into the bedroom, sat in the middle of his unmade bed and wrote a note: "THIS IS A NOTE FROM KEVIN FORESTER TO KEVIN FORESTER. WHEN I FIND IT, I MAY NOT REMEMBER HAVING WRITTEN IT, AND I WILL CERTAINLY QUESTION THE IMPORTANCE OF THESE WORDS. PLEASE REALIZE THAT THIS WAS NOT WRITTEN WHILE DRUNK OR STONED, BUT WHILE IN AN EXPANDED STATE OF AWARENESS THAT I MAY NEVER BE ABLE TO DUPLICATE. PLEASE DO NOT QUESTION. SIMPLY ACT, KNOWING THAT DEEP WITHIN THERE IS AN IMPORTANT REASON TO SEEK OUT MARY LOUISE ALEXANDER, 29, OF MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA. HELP HER IN EVERY POSSIBLE WAY." Placing the note in an envelope, he sealed it, wrote his name on the front and placed it in the bottom of his sock and underwear drawer. Kevin spent the evening trying to ignore the demands of his body while he studied the business section of the newspaper. He couldn't believe a Dow of 3000, and that wasn't all that had changed in 12 years. Alistair Alexander's specialty was futures -- a fast, dangerous way to make or lose money in the stock market. It looked to be a new game and he had a lot of studying to do. * * * * * "I don't know what's come over you the last few weeks, Kevin," said the stationery store manager, a balding man in his sixties. "Your commissions have started running more than your paycheck. I want you to know I appreciate your efforts." He handed Kevin his pay envelope. "Sorry it took me so long to get the hang of it, John." Leaving the shopping mall with dozens of other store employees, Kevin spotted his friend Danny who worked in Nordstrom's. "Hey, Kevin, join us for a drink." Danny, accompanied by a pretty young woman, reached him as he was about to cross the street to the parking lot. "Sorry, I have a date." "This is Kathy. What's going on, man?" Kevin smiled at the attractive woman. "I'm cleaning up my act." "Does that mean giving up your friends? Nobody's seen you. Pam says you've 'turned weird.'" "Sobriety is weird to Pam." Danny laughed. "Not even one drink?" "Some other time, Danny, I've taken a night job to catch up on my debts." * * * * * Nine months later, dressed in a Brooks Brothers' suit, and wearing black wingtips, Kevin used his lunch hour to open a $2,800 account in a Woodland Hills brokerage house. $2,000 of this amount was used to control 15,000 pounds of frozen orange juice on the futures market. In three weeks he had parlayed the $2,800 into $8,700. * * * * * "Dad, this is Kevin." His hand trembled, holding the phone. "Why the hell are you ..." "Please don't hang up, Dad. I know I haven't talked to you in a long time, but I'd like to patch it up if we can. I want to see you again." He listened to the hum of the long-distance line. "You still up in L.A.?" "Woodland Hills. Can I come see you?" There was another long pause. "You know where I am." "Tomorrow, okay?" "Sure." The line went dead. Kevin's father lived in a trailer in Yucaipa, California -- a small desert community between Redlands and Palm Springs. The drive south was filled with bad memories -- fights mostly. His parents had divorced when he was eight. He had lived with his mother until she died when he was 15. The court sent him to Yucaipa to live with his drunken father. "I may just kill you," Kevin had screamed one night, punching his father in the face, breaking his nose. The older man crumpled to the floor, holding his face in his hands, blood oozing from between his fingers. "Get out and don't ever come back," whimpered his father. Kevin bounded out the trailer door, 17 years old with no money and no place to go. When he reached the highway he stuck out his thumb. Los Angeles was two hours up the road. Although he'd occasionally heard about his father from an uncle, Kevin had not returned to Yucaipa or talked to his old man in 16 years. The exit off the 10 wound under the freeway in the direction of the rolling brown hills. Santa Ana winds bent the trees and tossed dust and debris across the blacktop. He drove through the few businesses that passed for the town and followed a gravel road five miles to the Shady Rest Trailer Court. The only thing that had changed was the height of the palm trees, which still offered no "shady rest." He maneuvered the Mustang through the narrow third lane to his father's trailer. The front door of the mobile home was open. As Kevin climbed out of the car, Hank Forester stepped out onto the porch. Kevin hardly recognized him. Years of heavy drinking were etched on his face; he was stooped and carried an oxygen bottle connected to a nose mask. "Dad." He walked up the porch steps. "Kevin." They shook hands and Hank motioned his son inside. "You get the breath knocked out of you or something, Dad?" "Emphysema." Kevin sat on the sofa. Hank slid into an armchair facing his son. The living room was as Kevin remembered it. The old worn-out furniture had been replaced with new worn-out furniture, but the pictures on the wall were the samepastoral scenes his father hadn't looked at since they were hung. A few slats were missing from the picture-window blinds. In the silence, Kevin noticed the Santa Ana winds gusting against the side of the trailer, producing a chorus of creaks and groans from the structure. "I'm sorry," Kevin said. "How's that?" "I'm sorry I hit you, and ran away, and never came back." Hank Forester stared at his son. Finally, he said, "I wasn't ever the best father, but you already know that." Kevin shrugged. "Tell me what's happened." "I never remarried. Had enough of that with your mother. The V.A. over in Loma Linda takes pretty good care of me. Liver's shot to hell. Got my pension. It's enough to get by." He removed the oxygen mask, slipped a cigarette out of a pack and lit it. Exhaling, he said, "Gave up the hard stuff, but can't shake the coffin nails. I made us some coffee." At first, conversation was difficult, but as the two men shared remembrances, they began to laugh about old angers. "What is, is," Kevin said. "We can't change it, but we can rise above it." Before leaving, he gave his father $5000. "I hit it lucky in the stock market." He promised to return the next month. * * * * * Six months of buying and selling futures generated over $100,000, fulfilling Kevin's first monetary goal. He quit the stationery-store job and moved into a two-bedroom apartment that served as both home and office. It was while rebuilding his wardrobe -- replacing old white athletic socks with new black dress ones -- that he noticed a sealed envelope with his name on it in the dresser drawer. Trying to remember what the envelope contained, he opened it and read the contents. His expression mirrored his confusion. Mary Louise Alexander, 29, of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Help her in every possible way. It was ridiculous. Why would he write such a thing about someone he didn't know? And when did he write it? Minnesota, for chrissake. Igloo land. The phone rang while he was rereading the letter for the fifth time. "You have to be the sharpest trader" -- his stockbroker could hardly contain his excitement -- "in the San Fernando Valley. Soybeans have gone through the roof." He related the figures. "Sell," Kevin said, hanging up the phone and taking the Yellow Pages Directory out of his desk drawer. He thumbed through the thick volume to "Investigations." Danner Detective Agency. Fast, Accurate, Local, National, International Investigations. * * * * * Aboard a Northwest Airlines 727, somewhere above Colorado, Kevin opened the investigator's report. He looked again at the photographs of Mary Louise Alexander: a driver's license picture and two black and white 8x10's taken with a hidden camera on a downtown Minneapolis street. She was not pretty. Five-eight, 135, freckle-faced with red hair. Her lips were too thin and her nose too big. But there was something about her that touched Kevin's heart. Why? He reread the report: "Mary Louise Alexander (M.L.A.) attended the University of Minnesota, majored in marketing and graduated in the top five percent of her class. For the last two years she has worked as a marketing consultant for the Dayton Hudson Company in Minneapolis. She lives alone in a luxury apartment in Edina (a Minneapolis suburb) and drives a 1990 Mercedes 190E. Her mother died in 1972. Her father, Alistair Alexander, was a successful stockmarket speculator who died of cancer in 1980. From age 14, M.L.A. was raised by her aunt (Charlotte R. Alexander) who took up residence in the Alexander family home. There are no other known relatives. Upon graduating from college, M.L.A. inherited her father's five million dollar estate. She is an active investor in the stock market and manages her own portfolio. ENCLOSURES: Photographs of M.L.A., her address and auto license. The addresses of her aunt and employer." Kevin tapped his pen on the report. Poor little rich girl, her father a successful stock speculator. He had done his own research on Alistair Alexander. What he found was a man who specialized in futures and whose buying and selling style mirrored his own. What the hell is going on? The drive out of the airport overlooked the Mississippi River, swollen by spring rain. Beautiful! The green landscape, clean streets, and lack of graffiti were refreshing. As they neared downtown Minneapolis, the skyline came into view -- as contemporary as any in the West. The cab driver was a one-man chamber of commerce. By the time he reached the hotel, Kevin had a general awareness of the city, its cultural and recreational offerings, weather, politics and the best suburbs. In return, the driver wanted to know about L.A. gangs, freeway shootings and how often Kevin attended the Johnny Carson Show. It was 1:45 P.M. by the time he had unpacked and changed clothes. After rehearsing the words, he picked up the phone and dialed the Dayton Hudson Company. "Mary Louise Alexander, in marketing, please." "This is Mary Alexander." Her voice was like a delicate wind chime on a warm spring morning. Kevin shivered. "Yes, Mary" -- he hesitated -- "my name is Kevin Forester and I'm from Woodland Hills, California. I'm in town on business and I have a most unusual request." He waited. "Yes." For a flash, a millisecond, he was running through a field of yellow wildflowers, holding her hand. "I'm an admirer of your late father. His buying and selling techniques mirror my own" -- he hesitated again, fearful -- "and I was wondering if you'd be willing to see me, talk to me about him." "How do you know about me?" Her voice was cautious. "In researching your father, I learned he had a daughter, although I know you were only 14 when he died. He had a remarkable ability. Do you have a pen?" "Yes." He gave her his California stockbroker's name and telephone number. "Please call him and ask about me. Then, if you're willing to meet me, I'm staying at the Whitney Hotel. I'll be in the lounge, wearing a dark suit with a red carnation in my lapel at six this evening." * * * * * Mary Louise Alexander was waiting in a shadowed corner of the hotel lounge when Kevin walked in at five-fifteen. He sat alone at a table with a clear view of the entrance. She watched him order soda water with a twist of lime. He wasn't what she'd call handsome, but he was attractive. For some reason that didn't make any sense at all, she wanted to run over and hug him. "Mr. Forester, I presume," she said, approaching him from the side. Kevin jumped, nearly spilling his drink. "Mary Louise." He stood. She held out her hand. He took it. They both trembled. "Please sit down." He pulled out a chair. Running through wildflowers. They smiled at each other. Nervous. Her long hair was fire red, her eyes emerald green. She was wearing a navy blue double-breasted cotton sports jacket, a white blouse and white linen pants. He observed her graceful movements and thought, absurdly, of a ballet dancer dressed in a pink tutu spinning across a stage and gliding onto a chair. "Why do I have the feeling you already knew what I looked like?" Mary Louise said. Kevin nodded. She's much prettier in person. The waitress took her drink order. A glass of Chardonnay. "Your broker thinks you're the best trader in Southern California. He said you've only been in the market for nine months." She felt dizzy. "I did a lot of studying." "There has to be more to it." My God, he's gorgeous. "Even most market professionals avoid the futures market." "A knack, I guess." "My father had the knack." "I'd like to know more about him." The waitress returned with the wine and another soda with a lime twist. "Why did you really call me, Kevin?" A look of desperation flashed across his face. Their eyes met, he looked away, back at her. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." "I think you'd better tell me." "I do want to learn more about your father, but I'd rather get to know you better before I try to explain. Please?" She looked at him for a moment without responding. "Are you going to try to sell me something?" "Absolutely not." "A confidence game?" "Mary Louise, the only thing I want from you is the pleasure of your company for dinner." She smiled. "All right. For some reason I feel I can trust you." A candlelight dinner in the Whitney Grille was as impressive as the view of the garden plaza overlooking the Mississippi River. A champagne toast to friendship was followed with a main course of Great Lakes trout. They talked about their backgrounds, their approach to investing, their music and culinary likes and dislikes. They talked about Los Angeles and Minneapolis. And they talked about Alistair Alexander. "And now you're going to tell me why you really called me, aren't you, Kevin?" She leaned back in her chair, sipping an after-dinner liqueur. Nodding, he withdrew the note from his pocket and handed it to her. "Don't ask me to explain, because I can't." She read and reread the words. Finally, she said, "But I don't need any help, Kevin." "I realize that. Maybe it was a psychic way to get to meet you." He raised his hands in a gesture of futility. "All I know for sure, it that I'm glad I've met you." She smiled shyly. "Can I see you again?" he said. "I'd like that," she said. * * * * * The following morning Kevin studied the market in a local brokerage before calling buy and sell orders to his California broker. At noon he met Mary Louise for lunch. She was more beautiful than ever, dressed in a tan cotton sport coat, white blouse and silky, pleated pants. It was raining and they snuggled under her umbrella for a two-block walk to a restaurant featuring Northern pike. "You'll never settle for Pacific Coast fish again," Mary Louise assured him. "We'll see," he said. "Here are the family photos" -- she withdrew an envelope from her purse -- "you said you wanted to see." While Mary Louise ordered for both of them, Kevin looked at the pictures. Alistair Alexander seemed so familiar; with his wife and daughter at a lake, in front of a stately home, laughing around a birthday cake with twelve candles, holding hands with his daughter in a field of yellow wildflowers. "Where was this taken?" he asked, holding up the wildflower photo. "It was a family tradition to spend my spring vacation at our family cabin near Brainerd. A fisherman took the picture of daddy and me. It was a few years after my mother died." Kevin nodded. He was experiencing an overwhelming sense of nostalgia ... for something. But what? Sharing Mary Louise's enthusiasm for the Northern pike, Kevin suggested they have lunch at the same restaurant the following day. That evening they ate fast food in a fifties-style diner. Afterwards, she took him on a tour of Walker Art Center. On the third evening, she invited him to dinner at her apartment. The decor was as he'd imagined it, integrating elegance with informality. "American antiques and nineteenth-century English Naturalist," she said, "inherited from my parents' taste. While Mary Louise cooked, Kevin looked at her family photo albums. So familiar. So damn familiar. He was fascinated by a photo of Mary Louise dressed in a pink ballet tutu. The caption said, "Age 12. Daddy's girl at her first public performance." "I think about you all day," he said, helping her set the table. "I think about you too, Kevin" -- smiling as she lighted candles -- "I called a friend who's involved in metaphysics and told her about your note to yourself." "And?" "She didn't think it was unusual." "She didn't?" Mary Louise stepped into the kitchen and returned holding two plate -- grilled chicken breasts with an onion marmalade, served on open-faced garlic French bread. Kevin opened the Chardonnay. Seated next to each other at one end of the formal dining room table, they lifted their glasses in a toast. "To us," he said. She smiled, lovingly. "To us," she whispered. "Tell me what your friend had to say about the note." "She thinks you either received it in automatic writing because we're some kind of soulmates, or you're a walk-in." "I don't understand." "Neither do I, but it made perfect sense to her." They laughed. Kevin leaned over and kissed her on the lips. She hesitated only a moment before returning the kiss. Breaking away, they gazed into each other's eyes, then kissed again, more passionately, holding each other with a desperation neither understood but which both wanted to prolong. "What's happening?" Kevin whispered as he released her. Tears blinded his eyes and choked his voice. Mary Louise shook her head. "I think our dinner's going to get cold." Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Taking his hand, she guided him out of the dining room, upstairs to the bedroom. There were no more words. Words were far too limiting for what they were experiencing. Their desire was beyond logic, beyond rational explanation. Standing beside the bed, Kevin's tongue explored her mouth, then trailed a path down her cheek to the moist hollow of her throat. Mary Louise lightly bit his neck, her arms solid and strong around him as she moved her hips against him in a suggestive body caress. In response, he pressed every inch of her body to his as they fell onto the bed and rolled over. He was above her, running his hands through a sea of long red hair. She whimpered, and he let her roll him over until she was on top, straddling him on her knees, bending forward, kissing him deeply, possessing his mouth. Slowly, sensuously, silently, they undressed each other. Their bodies came together in reverence as they looked deeply into each others' eyes. They didn't move, didn't breathe. She shivered and cupped his face in her hands. "I feel like I've always known you." She moved against him. "I know." He matched her movement. At first their thrusts were slow and measured -- a train inching up a mountain -- the fires of expectation building as they climbed higher and higher. Finally, upon reaching the top, they released the brakes to cascade down the other side -- a runaway, out of control, leaving the tracks on a dark curve in an explosion of physical sensation. Afterwards, he held her, warm in his arms. Neither spoke as the orange glow of sunset filtering through the gauze curtains faded to darkness. Outside, the lights in distant windows glowed like faraway stars. "Soulmates or a walk-in?" he said. "I guess," she said, nuzzling her face into the chords of his neck, running her hand slowly down his chest, tickling, teasing, down, across his stomach, tickling, teasing, down ... * * * * * Mary Louise took the rest of the week as vacation days. "We have Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday." She smiled at him with sleepy eyes. "What shall we do?" "Make love for four days and nights." "I won't be able to walk." She laughed. "What else?" "Get to know each other. Show me the city; where you grew up, where you went to school, where you go to meditate about life." * * * * * Sitting together on a hilltop overlooking the Mississippi, they watched a barge work its way up river. The late afternoon sun tossed their shadows halfway down the hill. A fragrance of blossoms wafted on the spring breeze. Kevin kissed her, looked in her eyes and said, "I love you." "I love you too." "Is this a dream?" "Feels like a dream." "I love it here -- he held her tighter -- "but I don't know about the winters." "We could winter in Los Angeles." "Well, that solves the complications." They were married six weeks after they met, the first weekend in June, in a small ceremony at the Edina Unitarian Church. Hank Forester flew to Minneapolis for the wedding. The reception was held at Aunt Charlotte Alexander's lake-side home, elegantly decorated for the occasion. "I don't understand why you two aren't going to Europe or someplace wonderfully romantic for your honeymoon," Aunt Charlotte said. "Mary Louise wants to stay at the family cabin in Brainerd." Kevin sipped champagne. "It's fine by me." "Her most joyful memories are there," Charlotte said, looking across the room at Mary Louise dressed in a white bridal gown, talking with friends. Aunt Charlotte was a petite woman whose blue eyes and raven hair belied the 66 years she claimed. "She's not that old," Kevin had said after first meeting Mary Louise's only living relative. "Charlotte's had a little face work, dyes her hair and does yoga. Plus, her excitement about life keeps her young." "I like her." "When I told her about you on the phone, she assumed you were a fortune hunter after my inheritance." "And now?" "She wants you for herself." White balloons and crepe-paper bells were woven into the streamers that crisscrossed the ceiling of the living and dining rooms. Kevin watched his father mixing easily with the other well-wishers. "Kevin, this is Kathy, my metaphysical friend." Mary Louise introduced her husband to a hazel-eyed blonde with a fashion-model figure. "Right. Soulmates or a walk-in." Kevin extended his hand. "What's a soulmate and a walk-in?" Mary Louise was called away by another friend. "It's really romantic," Kathy said. "A soulmate relationship is a destined, idealized pairing of two souls who have known each other in numerous incarnations. They're totally happy together." "Past lives?" Kevin drank the last of the champagne. "A walk-in takes over someone else's body. It's like being reincarnated as an adult." "That sounds like something out of The Exorcist." "Oh no, it's very positive. Was there a time in the past when you were miserable or nothing was working, then all of a sudden everything started changing for the better?" Kevin stared at the beautiful woman before him. "Yes. Almost a year ago." Kathy nodded. "Well, then you're probably a walk-in." "Wait, wait, Kathy. I'm not getting this." She leaned into him and whispered, "You were dead, but you wanted to come back without having to go through childhood to get here." "But wouldn't I remember?" "For awhile, maybe long enough to write yourself a note." "That's ridiculous." "Is it?" "Where did the real Kevin Forester go?" "If you're a walk-in, his awareness is within you. His soul is on the other side." "Then who am I, or who was I before I took over his body?" "You had a reason for coming back, but there's no way to know what it is. This Kevin Forester is about to start a new life with Mary Louise, and your destiny will unfold naturally." Kevin looked away, out the picture window at the lawn. "I'm not even religious. I'm sure not ready to accept something like this." "It doesn't matter" -- Kathy took his empty champagne glass -- "if you do or don't. What is meant to be, will be." Charlotte called from the dining room, "Kevin, the photographer wants to take pictures out on the lawn." Kevin and Mary Louise danced together, across the lawn to unheard music, as if they were in a great ballroom. Everyone applauded. When they cut the cake, before placing a bite in Kevin's mouth, Mary Louise touched the white frosting to his nose. Everyone laughed. While Mary Louise changed clothes, Kevin talked with his father. Aunt Charlotte had invited Hank to stay in Minneapolis for a couple weeks as her house guest. She promised to show him the sights. He accepted. "Mary Louise seems like a wonderful woman, Kevin." "I'm the luckiest man in the world, Dad." "You just don't seem like the same kid I used to fight with all the time" -- he shook his head -- "I guess it's true about people being able to change if they want to bad enough." Showered with rice, the newlyweds ran down the driveway to the Mercedes. Pulling away, in the rear-view mirror, Kevin saw his father waving happily. He smiled and glanced at his wife. She was watching him, her face an expression of love. They held hands, driving silently into the warm evening, north, along a highway paralleling the Mississippi. "It's a two hour drive," Mary Louise said. "I asked the caretakers to have the cabin ready." "I hope the water line didn't freeze and rupture again," he replied. "It was a cold winter." "How did you know about that, Kevin?" "What?" "The trouble we used to have with the water line." "Didn't you tell me?" "Twelve years ago, we buried the line deeper and insulated it better. There's been no problem since." On the outskirts of Brainerd, Mary Louise directed him to turn right at the next crossroads. He already knew that but didn't tell her. He also knew they would arrive at the back entrance of the cabin, and that the picture window in the main room would look directly east, toward the lake. Kevin carried his wife over the threshold into the kitchen. They kissed and he told her she was beautiful. She lead him into the living room. The window framed a meadow of yellow wildflowers leading down to the lake, the last rays of sunlight turning the tranquil surface of the water into shimmering gold. "The Cunninghams even prepared a fire. All we have to do is light it," Mary Louise said. While she busily opened windows and checked the cupboards, Kevin explored the front porch. The rocker's gone. He descended the stairs to the meadow. Good Lord, if I'm Alistair Alexander, I've married my own daughter. There has to be another explanation. They made love, serenaded by crickets and a mournfully hooting owl. They talked about having a large family, learning to ski together, and buying a home in Edina. "Mary Louise Forester," she said over and over, as if her new name was a spiritual mantra. The moon had nearly completed its pass across the night sky when they fell asleep. The next morning they drove into Brainerd to shop for groceries and supplies to stock the cabin. Mary Louise purchased a large bottle of liquid antacid. "I think preparing for the wedding gave me an ulcer," she joked when Kevin asked her about it. She tried to get him to go fishing. He said he didn't want to murder the fish in the lake. He preferred to run back into town and purchase more Northern pike. "We could open a Northern pike restaurant in Los Angeles and make a fortune," he said. Taking turns reading aloud, they often used the chapter breaks as excuses to make love. They went swimming, boating, hiking, and took hundreds of photographs of each other. And they ran hand in hand through the yellow wildflowers. "I don't want to go back." He fell exhausted into the flowers.