"Oh my god, oh my god," the old man said. He snorted softly and shook his head. "Maybe because you are her?" he asked. "Has this happened before?"
"No, but I always have some terrible dreams lately."
"Bernice always said that dreams are your soul talking, rap, and rap to attract your attention. Some dreams, they do beat harder than others. Yes, they do this," he mused.
"If my soul stops talking or knocking on the door, I will be very happy. In the past 28 years, it has not said anything important. Now is not the time to start."
"I bet," he said thoughtfully, "maybe because you had a car accident in the same place. Do you know how athletes talk about muscle memory, maybe soul memory?"
"So you really think I am her?" I asked.
"It's her," he clarified.
"Really?" Although I am not sure whether this distinction is important, I amended it.
"Yes. I think so."
"So you believe in reincarnation?" I asked. All this is wrong to me. I was fidgeting in my seat.
"I'm just an old Christian, but I don't know any other explanation. I saw what I saw," he said solemnly.
"Are you talking about those Yansè? Tell me more about them. Are you seeing my breath?" I don't know anything about Halo, except for one time I looked around in a mysterious bookstore in San Francisco Look, there is a big display inside, showing photos of your halo. The photographer in me immediately became interested in such a unique self-portrait. If I had cash, I would do the same.
Silas Nelson put his lips in his mouth, lost in thought. "No, it's not a halo in nature," he said. "In a way, it is a residue of higher energy, a kind of fingerprint. If I really focus on God, with my inner eyes, I can see anything you touch. I can follow you Walk away, because no matter where you go, that mark will stay with you for a while until it disappears.
"This is a gift from our family, passed down from generation to generation, and that's what my grandfather said. Back in the motherland, in Africa, my family is hunting stalkers. They can directly enter the earth and use their inner eyes to see To these soul marks, and then follow them into the game. My family’s reputation as a tracker is legendary. What you need to understand is how valuable this gift is, especially in that era and place. My The tribesmen are regarded as the royal family in their tribe. The health and wealth of their tribe depend on them and their abilities.
"When I first noticed these faces, I was very scared. I was a little boy at that time, probably six or seven years old. I asked my grandfather, he told me everything about them, he called me And told me that I was lucky. I was the second American in our family with this vision. He said I should be proud. In fact, when I was a child and turned to a young man , I don’t pay much attention to Yan sè, but as my age grows, especially when my vision begins to decline, I begin to realize how lucky it is. I just adjust my inner eyes and I can see As good or better, if you ask me, I can think of me as a younger boy than I am."
"This is really a gift from heaven," I said.
He smiled slightly, a little happy, and a little shy. "It is true, but like all the gifts God has given us, we must use and share. The Bible says that people don’t light up lamps and put them under baskets, but put them on shelves to shine. Light up all the people in the room. We should put the lamp on the shelf. For a long time, I put my lamp under the basket. That will never please God," he said softly with his white eyes . "I believe he will find a way to encourage you to put that lamp on the table. Anyway," he rubbed his hands on his trouser legs. "So, girl, what are you going to do now?"
"I have to go back to Portland. My car is completely scrapped," I said.
"A bus departs from Cannon Beach every morning, but it's gone now. You show me what I can do," he said. "This is the only thing I can do."
He patted my hand. I know he didn't help me at all, but his help to Annabeth Sugerman was the least.
Silas got up from the compartment and shuffled away. I waited, too tired to move. All I want to do is sleep, and I think I can easily fall asleep on the surfboard booth. I think I did doze a bit, because I was taken aback when Terry cleared his throat.
"Mr. Nelson said you want to take a ride to Portland?" he asked. "I would be happy to take you there. I will leave this afternoon."
I rubbed my eyes with one hand and accepted Terry radiantly. My mother would tell me to wait and take the bus tomorrow, for God’s sake, I didn’t see those prison tattoos
"Thank you. I really appreciate it."
"Then it's fixed. Four o'clock. We're leaving here. Mr. Nelson has to go on a date with his grandson. He asked me to tell you to be careful. He hopes to see you again and he treats you to breakfast." Terry packed our breakfast plates, turned around, waded across the table and returned to the kitchen.
It's four o'clock, I put a few dollars on the table as a tip, and then I left through the front door.
Before meeting Terry in the cafe, I had hours to kill. While taking a taxi that morning, I noticed a parking lot a few blocks away from the restaurant. I hope it is quiet and clean. To be honest, I just want to find a place to sit down. I don't want to move anywhere. If this park has a bench, it would be my favorite park in the world.
I walked slowly and painfully along the street. The ibuprofen I took before did not relieve the pain. The sun is shining, warm and the breeze slowly, and the coastal wind in August is beautiful. The closer I get to the park, a warm feeling washes over me. I feel comforted and nostalgic, like hearing a song that I haven't heard for a long time, a song that reminds me of happy memories.
Instead of going to the park as originally planned, I continued to walk three blocks north and another block east until I found myself seeing a beautiful old house with a wide porch in front. A porch, which looks a lot like the porch of a sugar shed, rotates the spindle in exactly the same way. There is no doubt that the house is dilapidated, but anyone can tell that it was once loved, hidden under the peeling paint and the low-hanging front steps. It is located in a corner with many knee-high weeds and withered grasses. It is not as eye-catching and popular as before, but droops and sags into the ground. Just like the courtyard, this beautiful house is in its own right.
No one told me that this is the Sugman's house. This feeling is as familiar as the house I grew up in. Maybe more. Without thinking, I opened the latch of the front door and walked into the yard.
The house looks like it lives in it, but it's dark and quiet now. I walked around the house to under a big tree in the backyard. I sit on the grass with my back against the bark. This feels good. I ran my fingers through the blades of grass, twisting absently. My eyes felt heavy, and I let them close.
Just a moment.
Anna Beth sat with her back against the tree. Her heels curled up to her hips, her arms wrapped around her knees. She cried, sobbing violently. She cried as if she could never stop crying until she kept crying. Today is Sunday. Mom and Dad are going to church. She didn't want to go.
"I don't believe in God anymore, Dad. What kind of god will make this terrible war happen? What kind of god will take Clark away from me and send him to death?" She told me earlier that morning. The father cried.
"Annabeth," her father said harshly. "I want to pretend that you didn't say those things. You'd better ask God for forgiveness for your blasphemous words. You must go. We serve as a family. As long as you are part of this family, you go! You get in the car .now!"
"I won't!" she yelled.
"Annabeth!" he growled. "now!"
"If you want me to go, you have to pick me up and carry me. I swear to you, Dad, I will scream that God killed the baby during the sermon. I will do it. I swear."
She stood there, her feet stuck in stakes. Agree with her father. The flame in her eyes.
"Louis," her mother said in a gentle voice. She put her hand on Louis Sugerman's arm.
He looked at his wife's pale hands and took a deep breath.
"Okay," he said softly. He is outnumbered. He simply put his hand on his wife's.
"Okay," he said again, then turned his back to Anna Beth and left the house.
"Annabeth," her mother said, "I am very disappointed in your behavior. Treating your father like this? What a shame. I am ashamed of you."
She followed Annabeth’s father out the door, Annabeth had not had time to say I’m sorry, she didn’t mean it, but she should have said it. Anna Beth slammed their backs on the door, almost not throwing her mother inside. Her mother did not look back. She did not flinch, nor did she appear surprised.
Annabeth wished she had done this before.
Now, under the tree in the backyard, the tree she climbed up when she was a child, and under the tree her father built a tree house specially for her, Anna Beth stared at the beautiful sunny child. Ann Beth thinks it is hypocritical.
She took out an envelope from her pocket and carefully stuffed the contents into her hand.
She held a letter from Clark in her hand, which was written on a coaster in a bar in Louisiana. On some roller coasters, the text moved from the left to the desk. But on most coasters, the text is written in a circle that curves inwards from the edge, and Annabeth has to turn the coaster to read them. (To be continued) (End of this chapter)