Rooms - James L. Rubart [41]
An hour passed before he moved and then only to grab a bowl of Banana Nut Crunch. He brought it over to his desk and slurped it down while he watched his monitor. Another hour with no change. When the market closed at one-thirty, he slumped backward and closed his bloodshot eyes.
Exhausting.
Tuesday the stock was down two, Wednesday up three, Thursday down a half, and Friday up a quarter. When the market closed Friday afternoon, Micah snapped his laptop shut and sighed. A headache throbbed in his temples and radiated down his neck. Finally over!
It was more than the money. It was his company’s clout in the computer world. With the stock in the low 60s, RimSoft wouldn’t be as influential, making key alliances harder to secure.
But it was more than even that. He’d invested his life in the company. Blood, tears, and gallons of sweat had been poured into it. Even a sliver of it slipping away ripped at his heart. RimSoft gave him identity, a reference point for his entire life. He was RimSoft; RimSoft was him. Sure, maybe Cannon Beach was changing him, drawing him to a deeper identity and things eternal, but it didn’t squelch the sinking feeling inside of losing his world in Seattle.
Saturday morning he guzzled a cup of Seattle’s Best Coffee, wandered out onto the deck, and watched the seagulls canter back and forth on the wind. He worried. Not about his sanity. Not really. He knew he wasn’t losing his mind. It was the daunting images that darted through his mind of other things that might change in an instant.
Time for a run.
On his way to change clothes, the painting room popped into his mind. Yes. Just the thing to take his mind off the madness. After he opened the door, he didn’t know whether to feel fear or joy. Significant changes again. He felt light-headed and teetered on his Nikes.
Lush Douglas fir trees now covered the hills, emerald carpet at their feet. The sky was a brilliant sapphire blue, with cotton candy clouds peppered sparsely through the heavens. The artist had started the ocean, but it was too early to tell if the waves would play or rage.
He studied the painting for half an hour. Where the artist would take it next fluttered at the edges of his heart like a riveting dream that fades upon waking. The artist could put people in the painting, a sand castle, kites . . .
When he finally left, he walked toward his bedroom to get ready for his run. The plan was abandoned a moment later when he spotted another door down the hall he’d never seen. It was framed by ornate carvings of trees interwoven with otters, wolves, and eagles.
This, he would have remembered.
The door was cracked open, the inside tar black. He peeked through the narrow opening. Light from the hall spilled onto the first few feet of carpet in the room and stopped abruptly. Odd. Micah eased the door open halfway.
There was no furniture in the few feet of the room he could see—nothing but carpet washed into the darkness. There was no sound, although it felt like there should be. The room was too still. Too silent. Images of the memory room filled his mind.
A faint rustle came from the back of the room.
“Hello?” Micah called out.
“Hi, Micah,” came a voice out of the stillness.
Micah’s heartbeat jumped from 65 to 180 in an instant. He staggered back across the hall and smacked into the wall behind him. But he stayed there and didn’t run. Something about the voice riveted him to the floor.
“Who are you?”
“Come in,” the soft voice soothed.
“Who are you?” Micah shouted.
“Hey, get in here.” The voice laughed easily. “Come in.” The tone was light and welcoming. “Don’t freak out on me.”
The voice was familiar, as if he’d heard it many times before. He hesitated.