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  "Anyway, it's all speculative, Philip, but the idea is captivating. Almost mystical," I speak the last word quietly.

  "Ah yes. The great mystical tradition of your family. Let me see if I remember, Gabriella, something in that book you carry around with you. The one from your grandmother—about Kabbalah?" He grabs a broomstick that is leaning against the wall and pretends to be flying around. "Gabriella, the good witch."

  I throw a pillow at him.

  "Stop it, stop teasing me. It's not funny. I have no sense of humor right now. Be serious, Philip."

  "I am being serious. No really, let me see. Where is your backpack?"

  He drops the broom suddenly and runs over to the pile of my belongings, which are on the floor near the door, knowing I will try to stop him.

  "Don't you dare. Philip, get away from that. It's private!"

  But he is too fast. I dive for him, and we both crash onto the couch together, his arm raised in the air holding the book out of my reach. As we catch our breath, I realize how good it is to be here, laughing, conquering the fear of sharing this part of myself with someone. Beginning to trust.

  "Please, Philip, be careful with that book."

  I watch as he respectfully turns the pages, stopping to notice passages that have been highlighted and turned over.

  "Here it is, 'Bringing light into the darkness of existence, into the world.' Isn't that the essence of Kabbalah?" He pauses and looks up at me. Then he continues reading, turning the small volume sideways. As he squints to make out what is written, I know he is reading my grandmother's notations, her thoughts and comments that fill every page. Her messages to me. Everyone has divine energy that can be harnessed at any time. That's the greatest contribution to be made, whether in science or art. Whatever you choose G. He stops. "Gabriella, that must mean you."

  I look up at him, grateful, trying not to give myself away. This is a reminder of the many things she had written for me.

  "Philip, I don't know what I'd do without you."

  He comes and sits down next to me. I lean back into him as he tucks his chin over the top of my head. "You bring so much light into the world—to so many. Always remember that."

  I don't want him to see the tears in my eyes, the deep emotion these words arouse in me. How I remembered her reading to me from that very book, as she taught me this concept. I miss her so much that the pain is almost unbearable. I need to find out why my grandmother's death is a subject that my grandfather will not discuss with me. And I need to remember everything she taught me about the darkness. And the light.

  * * *

  24

  * * *

  I DROP MY BAGS on the floor of the architecture studio and look down at the drawings and models that wait on my desk. I can feel the intensity, the powerful energy in the room as students rush through last preparations for the day.

  "This is what we live for, right? The notorious juried critique. We'll see who survives," one of my classmates says as he sees me staring out the window.

  "What? Oh sorry, I was just noticing. There seems to be a lot of activity today around campus. Police and—" I lean my head into the window and see flashing blue and red lights. "Security."

  "Yeah." He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not sure really. I never left the studio."

  Philip pushes around the corner and back toward my desk. "Gabriella, what are you doing?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing, Philip. I'm getting ready for the review. Come on, let's go downstairs. We're going to be late."

  He tries to balance everything he's holding and block my exit at the same time.

  "Philip, please, move over, we need to go."

  "Stay here. Something crazy happened last night and—I want to find out what."

  "No." I start to shake my head.

  "Please, just wait here until I get back, okay?" He turns and runs off, leaving me standing there with no explanation.

  "Great." I slump facedown over my desk as I try to collect myself.

  Everyone knew how important this day was. The architecture review was the foundation of our design education. In an age-old tradition, students would present their ideas in front of a panel of critics and students to be evaluated. The many sleepless nights of the past few weeks were taking their toll as we prepared to show our embryonic projects to the academic team and invited guests. Sometimes encouraging and often tortuous, a student's spirit could be destroyed by a critic's subtle look or comment. Even though Columbia encouraged experimentation and innovation, there was no certain system for success. I had serious doubts as to how the very personal interpretation of my project would be received, and I knew that I needed to prepare myself for anything.

  "Hey, Gabriella, are you ready to go downstairs for the review?"

  It's David, another student from my studio section.

  "Yes, I'll be right there. I told Philip I would wait for him."

  The way he looks at me makes me blush. He had been out with the group last night and had seen Philip and I leaving together. I feel the need to explain. "I wasn't feeling well last night, David. Just exhausted I guess, so Philip helped me get home. He's an old friend of mine."

  "Hey it's all right, whatever. I mean, given the insanity of what happened last night on Broadway, I'm just happy to see that you're okay." He shakes his head at the disturbing memory.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You and Philip ran out together. Nobody got to see you, to say good-bye. We tried to call, but you weren't answering your phone."

  I look down. "Oh, sorry, my phone was—"

  "Anyway, they had to block off the street in every direction. I have never seen so many police cars and fire trucks, and we couldn't get out of the club until about an hour ago. You know—being questioned by the police and the detectives."

  "Police?"

  But I knew what it was. It was the sensation from last night, my premonition.

  "Kind of cool," he continues and points at the uniformed men outside the window. "Being questioned by the cops. Living in New York, I guess it comes with the territory. I'm from a small place on the West Coast and we never— "

  I have no stomach for small talk and am beginning to feel the familiar sensation, when things around me start to slow down, decelerate. I open my mouth and somehow try to form the question I'm afraid to ask.

  "David, please tell me. What are you talking about?"

  But, I know what he is going to say.

  "Gabriella, there was a murder last night. A girl who had been at the club on Broadway. She was a student here at the university." I look at him and feel like I'm going to pass out. "Gabriella, what's the matter?"

  "I, I just don't feel well. How do you know?"

  I feel crazy. Insane. Things are once again whirling out of control. The space and security of this piece of my new life is being invaded by my abilities of the past. Ghosts. I am afraid to hear what he will say next as I know he will confirm what I sensed all along.

  "It was the girl who had been sitting right near us. She had an argument with her boyfriend, and, well, he shot her as she left the club."

  I realize why I had felt the way I did the night before. The intense headache, knowing and seeing so clearly what was, without a doubt, about to occur. The future.

  "Gabriella." He reaches out to steady me. "Let me get you some water."

  "No, thank you, I'm all right. I'll be fine," I say, trying to convince myself, forcing my thoughts back to the studio and the day ahead.

  "Are you sure?" He certainly is not.

  I nod. I want a few moments alone.

  "Do you need help getting downstairs? The reviews are starting and they just pinned up the order. We can go down together and—"

  "David, what the hell is going on?" Philip bursts back into the bay where my desk is and shoves him away from me.

  "Stop, Philip! David was just telling me what happened last night." I force a tight smile as I look up at him and say through clenched teeth, "T
he murder?"

  "Get away from her!"

  "Hey, what's the big deal, man?" David picks up his drawings, pushes past Philip, and glares at him. "I'll see you downstairs, Gabriella."

  I try to find something to say as I watch him storm away. I turn to face the windows and take a deep breath, wrap my arms around my body. My back is to Philip because I don't want him to see my eyes. The grip of his fingers squeeze into my arm as he turns me around.

  "We need to talk." His jaw is set as he says the words.

  I want to get away from everything I am feeling, the wild thoughts that race through my mind. And I know how. It's a skill I have perfected from years of dealing with these situations.

  "Not now, Philip." I try to think of something, anything I can say. But I see the look on his face. "Really, I'm fine." I'm trying to convince myself. I'm going to make it that way. I pull my arm out of his grasp and look again at his distraught face. I need to find a way to lighten the moment.

  "Come on, you look like you've seen a ghost."

  "Gabriella." He's very serious. "You're the one who saw the ghost. You're going to have to tell me what this is about. What the hell is going on with you. How you knew."

  "No, Philip." I gather my drawings and models, forcing the memory of last night as far out of my mind as possible. I need to brace myself for the day ahead. "This review is important. Let's go."

  I ignore his question and the pleading in his eyes.

  * * *

  25

  * * *

  A SINGLE ROW OF black chairs is lined up at the front of the room, facing the boards and tables where the students pin up drawings and place models. Testament to the star quality of the new dean of the school, an illustrious group of jurors has been invited, and the anticipation in the room is palpable.

  "One of the perks of going to Columbia," the admissions officer had said. "World-class city attracts world-class talent."

  I see the dean, smiling and talking, as he makes introductions and sweeps around the room, clearly enjoying the moment. Originally from Switzerland, his success in socializing was notorious and he used it well for both himself and the school. He had recently completed a controversial park outside of Paris, and championed the belief in taking risks. We loved his passion, his unequivocal belief that Beauty alone could save the world.

  I recognize several well-known New York architects and watch as they evaluate the first few projects that are pinned up on the boards—and each other. The guests, studio critics, and two invited luminaries from the scientific world would form the review board. They were chosen for their ability to lend insight into the nature of the projects being presented. Everyone has arrived except for one of the scientists.

  Sunlight pours through the large pyramidal skylight that anchors the central atrium. The walls are hung with contemporary art and photographs of projects from alumni who have gone on to distinguished careers. It is an honor to have the chance to present in this space as the openness on all sides lends a sense of drama and importance to the occasion. Caterers have set up a spread of baked goods and fruit, which remains untouched, and lots of coffee. The students cluster around the back of the room, a tentative and exhausted composition, as we wait.

  I can feel the excitement, the fear, which intensifies the energy in the room.

  "Gabriella, you're going third." I jump as Suzanne, a classmate throws her arms around me, clarifying the order of the juried review.

  "Thanks, that's good, I guess." I try to sound optimistic, forcing my thoughts away from the discussion upstairs.

  Just then I see Emily arrive. She is breathless, fresh, and colorful in comparison to the head-to-toe black uniform worn by the architecture students.

  "Gabriella! This is so exciting. I hope I didn't miss anything!" She runs over to give me a hug, then without letting go, takes a small step back to pause and look at me.

  "What is it?"

  "You don't look so good, honey. Are you okay?"

  "Of course, Em, I'm fine. Everything is fine. I just didn't get much sleep last night. You know getting ready for—this." My hand fans across the room.

  "Of course, yes; that explains it. Oh there's Philip! I haven't seen him in ages."

  He strides over to greet her. "Emily." He pours on the charm.

  "Hi, Philip, so great to see you again. Is New York treating you well?"

  "Couldn't be better."

  "Well, I can't wait to see how this review thing works."

  "Em, if you don't mind." I try to separate my two friends. "Please go sit down. Get some coffee. I need to pin up my stuff."

  "No problem." She leans into him, two people aligned for my benefit. "And, Philip, could you please do me a favor? Keep your eye on Gabriella."

  "That's really not necessary, Emily." I kiss her on the cheek and give her a quick hug, then point her toward the seats.

  The program, the Design of a Spiritual Retreat for Scientists, was remarkably similar to many things in my own life. I had spent hours over the last few weeks discussing my design ideas with my grandfather. Even though he was traveling, we spoke frequently. I remember sitting at my desk in the studio and looking out at the campus. I held the receiver to my ear and listened to his voice.

  "Papa, where are you? On the other side of the world again?"

  "Almost. Actually, I'm inside the world."

  "Near Geneva right? Back at the Supercollider."

  "Yes, under the surface of the earth."

  "I wish you were here, in New York. You would understand the nature of this project, the challenge of a spiritual retreat for scientists. I mean, do these places even exist?"

  "I'm at one right now."

  "I can't do it."

  "Of course you can, you already have. My beautiful library in Gloucester. Besides, this is an ironic opportunity for you, to design a place for the souls and minds of members of the scientific community."

  "Those like you, Papa, who I admire most."

  "And?"

  "The project is completely consuming all of my waking and, of late, sleeping hours. I have had many dreams about it."

  "Tell me." I heard him sigh.

  "I can't explain it; I guess it's how my mind works, in three dimensions. As if I was there, actually walking through the space. But I could never tell that to the critics. They would laugh me out of the room."

  Yet I had dreamed this space, seeing a perfect vision of what I wanted my project to look like.

  "You are like your grandmother," he had said, "living so much of her life through her dreams."

  "Sometimes I look in the mirror and I barely recognize myself."

  "Nonsense."

  "No really, there is something different. I'm changing in ways I didn't expect."

  "Well, my dear, things don't always turn out as you expect them to."

  "I know—"

  "Maybe better. Things might turn out better than you could have even imagined."

  That comment stayed with me.

  * * *

  26

  * * *

  OUR ARCHITECTURE critic stands at the front of the room. Introductions are made and she explains the charge given to the students so that all those present would understand the scope of work. The visiting critics and guest jurors listen, and the reviews begin. The first student is often the sacrificial lamb as the invited guests try to evaluate the level of the student's presentation and understand the intricacies of the challenge. I feel uncharacteristically drained and am not in the mood to defend my work, especially to describe its very illusory inspiration.

  "We asked the students, in thinking about this project, to question everything. How we perceive ourselves and our place on Earth at this moment in time. What can modern architecture learn from the art and science of the past? And most importantly, how can we look at the world in an original way. Add something new."

  The first two students take their turns in front of the jury. They painstakingly present their projects, showing drawin
gs and models as they point to their work and answer questions, challenges, inferences. Each review takes over forty-five minutes, and I realize that with ten students in the group, we are going to be here all day. I try to listen to the exchanges and comments, which end with somewhat disastrous results for the students.

  Just what I expected.

  "What a bitch," Meghan complains as she drops dejectedly down into the chair next to me. "That critic thinks she can rip into us. Did you hear what she said? That this could never be built? She hasn't been out of school that long herself."

  "When your father is one of the most prolific real estate developers in the United States, you can open your own firm, design, and start building," someone responds to her as the student group huddles together, trying to gain support from our shared misery.

  "Well, she's also amazingly talented," I add, hoping to channel some good karma my way by saying something nice about her.

  "And my own critic." Josh looks over at the panel of jurors, disbelief on his face. "Yesterday he loved my project, then today, he didn't defend me at all. I hate going at the beginning of the day." He holds his head in his hands.

  Exhaustion and defeat. A rough combination.

  "Well, it's only the beginning of the semester, so take it in stride," Suzanne says cheerily. She is lucky enough to have drawn the spot to present last. Usually a good omen as the critics have run out of criticism and are ready to end.

  I knew I was next and could see that the panel had replenished their coffee and were ready for me to present my project. I take a deep breath and look out at the jury, my classmates, and the other guests in the room. Philip slowly nods his head to indicate that I should begin, encouragement in his eyes.

  "My name is Gabriella Vogel, and this is my project for the scientist's retreat," I begin, my voice low.