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blond?”
       “I suppose so. My hair was very short. I couldn’t see it but I could feel it with my hands. God, I was sweating like a pig. They were filming outside. This is really boring, right?   Like telling each other’s dreams, really boring. I must have been asleep.”  
       Although I needed someone else to tell me what was going on, I realized I didn’t want to sit here and tell Tom there was a man in the dream and I loved him in a way that transcended anything I’d ever felt. Tommy and I weren’t in love and we both knew it, but still, he was a great lover and well, the whole thing was too ridiculous and embarrassing.
       “Maybe I’m losing my mind.”
        “Any minute now,” Macbeth agreed.
       The three of them exchanged looks and I knew them all so well, I could have supplied dialogue for their silent agreement. We will talk about something else and let April calm down.  
       They spent the rest of the evening arguing about a fictionalized biography of Napoleon that had been a PBS special, and whether or not Napoleon was fond of garlic. That’s how mind-boggling important our conversations usually were. For some obscure reason, Tom favored the Napoleon-loved-garlic theory and Cyd opposed it.
       “How can anyone know?” Macbeth demanded of them.
       He didn’t like theories. I’d heard his argument before. According to him, theories were either intentional lies or were an excuse for lack of research.
       He continued, “At best, all you have are written accounts of the man by people who may have sat near him at dinner, and did he clean his plate because that’s the way he’d been raised? Or did this writer assume anyone with Italian heritage likes garlic?   He could write anything about Napoleon, depending on the impression he wanted to create, and so could anyone in the past who claimed to know him.”
       “So you think biographers make facts up?” Cyd asked.
       “Look at the magazines at the supermarket checkout counters. And those people are all alive to refute the writers. Most don’t bother.”
       Tom said, “We have to accept history on the basis of what’s been written. There is no way to verify past events.”
       Cyd took off her glasses and then stared at me and said slowly, “Except by going back to them. Maybe reincarnation has a purpose.”
       “Shell game,” Macbeth snorted. “Have you ever heard of anyone having a reincarnation memory that clarified an historical fact?”
       “How do I know where biographers get their stuff?   Maybe Lisa is on to something. Maybe we should all go to this hypnotist and get regressed. And don’t bother telling me I am already regressed, bloody boy.” Pushing her sleek hair back from her face, Cyd scowled at him.
       Macbeth did his gap-toothed smile at her.
       Tom sat beside me on the couch, his arm loosely around my shoulders. He leaned toward me and said softly, “You don’t have to go with Cyd if you don’t want to. How about this, I’ll go with her and then I’ll tell you what it was like. And you can think about it and say yes or no.”  
       I nodded but I didn’t say anything. Maybe it was a premonition or maybe it was just common sense trying to regain control, but either way, it seemed to me the pursuit of the past would lead to disaster. But the choice wasn’t mine. I’d like to believe that. Some other power controlled me.
       Maybe predestination, that was a good cop-out, right? Maybe I was predestined to remember another life and therefore all the blame belonged to someone else, not me.
     
    CHAPTER 4
       It wasn’t me who opened the flood gate. What did? What triggered all this memory? I don’t know. But once started, I raced   toward disaster.
       I was home alone the next day, Cyd off to work, me gathering up laundry to take down to the apartment building’s laundry room, when it hit again.
       Shocked, I held my breath to listen. A man and woman were