Outview by Brandt Legg

her.”
    “Yeah, I’ve got your back. But listen, she’s
been worried, and your dad would want me to be here for you. And I am. Is
everything cool? You’d tell me, right?”
    “Everything’s fine.”
    “Come to me anytime about whatever. I’m not
your mom; I’m your friend. Okay?” He patted my shoulder.
    “I know.” I pointed to the monitors. “My
friends are out there. I’m gonna join them.”
    Mom was still on the phone. Another wave
and smile; I was back on her good list.

 
     
    12
     
    Amber, Kyle, and Linh were filling out music
requests for the DJ. The waitress carried them off to a slot in the studio as I
joined them.
    “So?” Kyle asked.
    “Josh said a few weeks before his death,
Dad was worried about a close friend who was planning to go public or testify
about something big and then died of a brain aneurism the night before.”
    “It keeps getting weirder,” Kyle said.
“It’s like a conspiracy.”
    “You have no idea,” I said. “You guys are probably
wondering what Amber’s doing here. She can explain it much better.” They both
knew who she was, but we’d never hung out. Amber talked for more than ten
minutes before anyone else spoke. Kyle and Linh had studied enough Buddhism
that they were more open to reincarnation than I was. Our food came, Kyle had a
Tracy Chapman, Linh the Pearl Jam, Amber the Adele, and a David Bowie with
extra cheese for me.
    “I call them Outviews because it’s like I
go out of myself and see a view of another person, another place . . . another
time.”
    “How many have you had?” Linh asked.
    “Hundreds, I don’t know.”
    “Are they always awful?”
    “Pretty much. I die in each one.”
    “It’s like a punishment,” Kyle’s voice
became low, “to have to relive a hundred deaths. Why?” he looked at Amber.
    “I’ve been reading nonstop since Nate told
me, and it seems that the most common entry point into a past life is through
its death, a kind of backdoor. But with practice, he can get deeper into the
lifetime. Eventually he could go to any point in a life and not even need to
bother with the end.” Amber’s light strawberry blonde hair fell below her
shoulder, and her cheerleader looks belied her knowledge of the esoteric
subject. “There’s a ton of research and case histories of people doing just
that.”
    “That sure would be easier because Kyle’s
right, they do feel like punishment, actually more like torture,” I said. “Maybe
now you’re less likely to think I’m whacked out, so I can tell you everything
else that’s been happening to me.”
    “There’s more?” Linh asked.
    “I was hoping,” Amber added.
    Kyle rubbed his hands together. “It’s a
scandal.”
    “Scandal,” I added.
    Amber looked confused.
    “Don’t mind them Amber, they’re really a
pair of clowns.”
    “I always liked the circus,” she grinned.
    “Trust me, this one’s not Ringling Brothers;
it’s more like Dingaling Brothers.”
    Everyone laughed. Normally I would have
tossed one of my fries at Linh, but I didn’t want to act so juvenile in front
of Amber.
    “We’re waiting,” Amber said.
    “I remember feeling different from other
kids even before kindergarten. It was as if everyone else knew what to do and
how to fit in except me,” I began.
    “I still feel that way,” Linh said.
    “But at the same time I used to think that
everyone saw and heard what I did. When I figured out they didn’t, I was around
six or so. That’s when it stopped, or I stopped paying attention, and it went
away.”
    “Like what?” Kyle asked, sipping his tea.
    “Movement, almost seeing someone in the
trees. Shadows moving independently, lights, hard to describe but like little
points and trails of light in the woods, the grass, shimmering around people
and plants. I don’t remember everything, but I can still recall the feeling. It
was joyous, magical, like discovering where you left a treasure you’d forgotten
about.”
    “I can just picture