UpSpark: A New Adult Inspirational Romance (The Five Elements Book 1)

by Nicole Wells

  If he was a girl, he would be self-conscious about what he ordered and how he ate, because everyone would feel comfortable passing judgment on his weight. But he's not, so he doesn't know that self-recrimination. He catches me staring at him and makes a funny face, skewing his black rim glasses. I throw a fry at him.

  The time flies by and next thing I know, we're waiting for the check and watching the last rays of the day, knowing these will be our last minutes together for a long time.

  "Don't," Yasmin whispers, her eyes daring me not to cry, again. "Don't say goodbye. Because you're going to text me, just like you always do. And it won't be any different." She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and I kiss and hug her back, getting a big lungful of her clean clothes scent.

  "'Bye, Jacob. I'm gonna head back from here. Thanks again for bringing me out. It means a lot." He aims a cool head nod her way, keeping things from getting too awkward as emotions build up at my end of the table. He's doing a good imitation of someone who hasn't been listening in on our conversation, giving me space to get it together as she walks away. I sniffle, already missing her, when my phone vibrates.

  Girl, the waterworks! I'm like one block away ;) <

  > yasmin, you're the sister i never had.

  > i'm gonna miss u so much!

  > u better kit

  And you're like the only family I have. Lylas <3 <

  There's a pause and I'm about to put my phone away when she sends another text:

  So ... last chance for confessions… <

  You and Jacob??? <

  > omg! what???

  > no! just no.

  Hmmm. <

  Well, then <

  be gentle with his heart. <

  He's a good guy <

  > wtf yasmin?!

  Just a hunch. <

  Sleep tight zzz <

  I put my phone away before he might accidentally see the screen. Luckily, he's looking at his own phone, tracking our new Uber driver. I know she's got to pray once she gets back to her dorm — the sunrise and sunset prayer time are always easy for me to tell — so I don't bother her. In my mind, though, I curse Yasmin for making this awkward with Jacob. Then I realize she's just crazy. It's not like Jacob's acted any differently than he always has. What does she know about boys, anyway?

  By the time we're back at the RV, any awkwardness on my part is gone. I also feel surprisingly beat for doing nothing all day. Jacob wants to try the water slide in this park, even though it's freezing. Preview to him bonding with nature, I guess.

  I make my bed on the sleeper sofa and send off a quick text to my mom. While waiting for her reply, I review our itinerary. Tomorrow is Chicago. We can take our time getting there, driving through the city, see Millenium Park, and then move out to Minneapolis. Most Natives live in cities these days, and a large group lives in Minneapolis, the traditional home of many tribes. Jacob's hoping to learn about as many traditions and cultures as he can, getting a feel for the uniqueness of each as well as the common experiences.

  My phone dings and from the text it sounds like my mom is doing good. Even though it's only been a day, she's done a lot in her free time. I didn't think about how she might want some time by herself, rare until now since she's either with me, taking care of me or working. I snap and send a selfie, proof that I am smiling and that I am going to bed so early.

  After Minneapolis, we're going to Standing Rock in South Dakota. Jacob says he doesn't know a lot about other tribes, but he does. I admire that he wants to learn about other Native cultures — focus on what they have in common, knowing their united strength and respect for each other is the only way to improve the way things are. It's been almost one year exactly since the worst escalation of the pipeline protests, and we want to pay homage to that movement. It was the largest gathering of Native Americans in 100 years.

  I brush up on Sioux history now so I won't look so ignorant. Standing Rock is the sixth-largest reservation. Its story goes back to Sitting Bull and General Custer, the familiar tune of gold and greed, and the start of reservations in the United States. They stole the Sacred Black Hills from the nomadic people whose livelihood was being annihilated at the same time. Even according to the U.S Supreme Court, "A more ripe and rank case of dishonorable dealings will never, in all probability, be found in our history."

  We'll hit Wounded Knee after that, then Wind River Canyon Scenic Byway and the associated reservation before the highlight of the trip for me — Grand Teton and Yellowstone. I'm also excited about seeing the west coast for the first time. We'll spend two days at Grand Teton and Yellowstone, but if we can't keep to the schedule after Yellowstone, it's not so critical. The plan is to have three days at Berkeley. I can't wait to see the Pacific Ocean.

  I yawn as I pull up info on Standing Rock. The heartbreaking stories and struggles of so many people are tough to read, and my sleepy brain ends up picturing Jacob's grandfather, a grandchild to an honored medicine man, stolen from his family when he was being watched by his aunt. Taken from his people at five years old, and adopted into a white Catholic family, he struggled to find his identity. Jacob's dad found more of his biological relatives, and learned some of his aunts and uncles were also taken. The Indian Adoption Project caused so much pain and suffering to people who already bore such trauma and tragedy. As I start to drowse, I contemplate how my doomed future pales compared to a cruel present. I imagine a young Jacob, also struggling with identity, but finding strength and resolution to not be contained, and becoming more than anyone would have dreamed.

  I fall asleep cradling my phone, my heart full and heavy, but for the first time in a while, occupied with compassion for another's sorrow.

  When I rouse sometime in the night, my phone is on the bedside table and the blanket is tucked in around me.

  chapter 10

  EACH OF MY BREATHS IS DEATH. Each breath is life. Each moment I am treading closer to some defined end.

  I read about being in the present moment. But if the guillotine is hovering over you, doesn't it make sense to acknowledge it? Is that not being in the present moment? Right here, right now, there is a guillotine over my head. Right here, right now, I have a limited number of days left. Yes, I am not dead now, but does being in the moment always preclude preparation?

  Lao Tzu says, 'A man with outward courage dares to die; a man with inner courage dares to live.'

  I am prepared to die, how can I not be? Railing against the inevitable is such a waste of precious time at this point.

  And I am living to prepare for that death. Is that inner courage? It seems like being in the present moment — what they call “being present to what is” — is the only way to manage. The only way to have that inner courage to truly live.

  But that sounds like throwing all caution to the wind and not caring to me. That sounds less like courage and more like stupidity. It seems like a cowardly way out, like a denial of what is, actually.

  My dad's cursive scrawl dances across the page, the ups and downs more jagged peaks than curves. I finally got the nerve to look at the papers Mom gave me, while Jacob takes the wheel for these two days of city traffic. I started with this one because he hand wrote it. I was surprised to find them folded and tucked into the folder of printouts behind the plastic pocket for the flash drive, and I treasured their tactile presence.

  I read on. The writing resumes in another entry, the handwriting more composed and loopy.

  I've been reading all the great guides, past and present. Searching for my happiness. So many seem to say the same thing in different ways. Let go, come present. I think it must be madness to only think of the now. To be in a state of constant wonder with the world. “Oh, a splatter of bright colors. How curious. Oh, that noise, those sound vibrations. Interesting. Oh, this sensation. Ah, so it is." That sounds like someone who is just above comatose. I feel anger at the thought, the casual disregard for deeper emotion. Life is more than that.

  And yet, it is the only answer I find if I don’t
want to hang all my hopes on a miracle.

  So, if the way to happiness is madness, I am willing to descend to those depths.

  It seems these handwritten pages are more journals. Maybe he didn't want to include these dark thoughts in his positive research document. I gently tuck the pages back into the folder and shift to the printouts.

  The first quote I see reads:

  We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves…

  Gautama Buddha

  Yes, but how do I make my mind pure, I wonder? I think it all sounds good, but I find myself annoyed at the quotes. They seem overly simple, a generic balm to a mortal wound. It isn't until I get to the next section I feel some of the inspiration I imagine my dad found:

  We live in illusion and the appearance of things. There is a reality. We are that reality. When you understand this, you see that you are nothing, and being nothing, you are everything. That is all…

  Gautama Buddha

  There is no path to peace. Peace is the path…

  Mahatma Gandhi

  I read his notes below the quotes:

  I have known fear. Now, I can know courage to try something new, to be something different. I am more than this body, more than my roles, and more than what I have accomplished. Courage to let go of what I want. Let go of my expectations. Just Be. That is the Peace, that is the Path.

  I close my eyes and can see my dad holding this in his mind's eye, those moments he seemed at peace. I strive to follow in those steps. I take a calming breath in and out and think of just Being. Not doing anything. Letting go of my roles as a friend, daughter, student, woman. Letting go of my expectations, for my death, for tomorrow's itinerary, even for what I want out of this spontaneous meditation.

  I sink down into myself, into the comfortable place I've found before with acupuncture and yoga. I breathe in and focus on the sensation of breathing. The gentle sway of the truck feels like it's breathing with me, like I am a strand of seaweed in the tide. Minutes fall away, as my awareness expands and the prison of my body opens up.

  Sometime later, I gently open my eyes, smiling. I get it, Dad. Now, I just have to stay here. I resolve to meditate every day, maybe multiple times a day. I think about Yasmin's habitual praying. I can do this.

  Excited, I get up and set a recurring timer on my phone. Next, I sift through the stash of jewelry I brought, things I wasn't worried about losing, looking for just the perfect piece. There, a yin-yang ring. It was a gift that I never wore; it seemed a little loud for my style. But it's perfect now. I slip it on my middle finger since it's a little big, but that's perfect too. The loud, large, uncomfortable ring will help remind me to meditate every time I notice it. It will help me remember to be grateful, courageous, and peaceful. To let go.

  ——— ———

  THE ATMOSPHERE AT MILLENIUM PARK in Chicago is amazing. Another bright and beautiful day has lured everyone out of their homes, and I crave this human connection. The magic of human artistry, from the mirrored bean to the technologic fountain, and nature's artistry in the flowers and the shoreline, help bolster the peace I've been cultivating. I find myself able to let go more — of negativity, of our agenda, of trying to have fun, of trying period. Being with Jacob has always felt natural, but without my expectations things feel even more unbidden.

  That evening we play board games, and I laugh so hard my sides hurt.

  “Your turn,” Jacob says as he turns the box of cards towards me. We’re playing Cranium, and he just made the funniest clay model of “jumping” — abstract art at its finest. I can't stop laughing as I pick my card. It's a word challenge. I try to read the words aloud to him, but I keep picturing his face from the last round. Suppressing the giggles just seems to make them stronger, and I struggle to get the words out. I look to him, partly pleading, partly apologizing, only to find he’s making the most ridiculous face at me — reminiscent of what an angry bear might look like if someone spiked his salmon with Tabasco and then controlled half his facial muscles with randomly firing patterns.

  We both lose ourselves to the laughter. He is definitely the king of making funny faces. For the rest of the game he makes funny faces at me, especially when it’s my turn! My cheeks are sore when I finally concede defeat. I pillow my head on my arms and snort-laugh, wiping the tears on my elbow.

  “What kind of guess was that? It’s a wonder you even like board games, when you don't even try half the time. You just laugh the round away! You are the least competitive person I know!” Jacob pretends to rant, as he pellets little balls of clay into my hair.

  “Yeah, and you’re, like, the worst sculptor ever!” I’ve massed a bunch together and lob the chunk at him.

  “You totally should major in science, and stay far, far away from the fine arts.” Chunk.

  “They’ll just become crude arts in your hands!” Chunk. This one flies wide and knocks his ear. He grabs it like it's a fatal wound and falls to the ground, writhing. I know our joking isn’t even really funny, but we’re past the point of no return, and we both laugh like it's the best punch line we’ve ever heard.

  “Your ears must finally be registering all the Taylor music.” I say it with snark and try to give him the stink eye, but honestly, she’s grown on me. And it's really hard to look serious when you’re laughing so hard that your eyes are tearing again. Jacob takes one look at my twitchy face, and we both dissolve into another fit of laughter.

  “Hey, c’mon,” Jacob finally says when he’s somewhat composed. “Taylor can capture the feeling, the moment, better than anyone else. She reveals the magic.” He’s talking in earnest now and I start to sober up.

  Until his mp3 player fills the silence with its next song. Dark, threatening chords herald Taylor’s unmistakable “...Ready For It?” Our smiling eyes snag on each other, and without prompting we burst into song, belting out verses, competitively rapping, and miming concert theatrics that would put any diva to shame.

  With the next song, we sing and dance like we are in our own musical.

  I wouldn’t dare tell Yasmin, but Taylor has definitely grown on me.

  That night, I lay in bed, still too buzzed from our fun to sleep. Around Jacob, feeling this warmth in my heart, I can let it all go.

  I know cultivating happiness, this place of gratitude and peace, will be hard work, but I am committed and courageous. I will focus on the positive. On memories like tonight. Or other happy times playing board games with my family and friends. On the memories of when my dad was happy, instead of his undoing.

  I will break the cycle of death and despair. I’ll find a way.

  chapter 11

  “Push!” There is a long grunt and the typical noises of a hospital are drowned out by the classic drama of a mother giving birth. Everyone’s back is to me, and I can barely make anything out in the darkened room, but the sounds come in clear. A newborn wail, a doctor proclaiming, “It’s a girl!” and sounds of joy. I also overhear the nurses whisper. Their words escape me, but they are amazed. The whispers spread, gaining force, out into the hallway and beyond.

  ——— ———

  DAY THREE AND I THINK I am getting the hang of this. We're en route to Minneapolis, having left a little later in the morning to avoid some commuter traffic around Chicago, and to let Jacob be his anti-morning self. Having finished another session of meditation, I’m just tidying up our space as I reverberate with this feeling of peace.

  Even though it's only been a day and a half since what feels like an epiphany, I feel like a new person. I know it sounds frivolous, but I am so damn tired of being mad, angry, or sad. Like Dad said, if it takes madness to be happy, I'll take it. So I've cultivated the joy in my head and I feel great. I've kept meditating at least five times a day, and I am repeating mantras to myself every hour. I am even starting a habit of pointing out the bright side of things.

  I’ve texted Yasmin and told her, but at the same time I don’
t want to go into too much detail. She’s getting settled into college life and busy making big decisions. I don’t want to be a distraction. So I try to keep my texts to one a day. And on the plus side, it’s like a cocoon we’ve created, Jacob and I bonding in our own bubble of new experiences. I look at him sideways, a little flutter of appreciation in my chest. He really is a great guy.

  Jacob realizes something's different, especially with all the time I take going silent to meditate, but it's a wonderful change, and I don't let either of us dwell on it or jinx this fragile newborn state.

  I want to tell him about everything that happened before our trip, though. My meditations lead me to a peaceful place, and it's like my heart's voice is getting louder, less overpowered by my negative thoughts. Part of this feeling during meditation reminds me that I should come clean and talk to him.

  I plop down into the co-pilot seat. We've burned through so much music, we've started appreciating the silence, although I notice him working in some audiobooks while I'm going through dad's pages. Right now it's relatively silent with the windows partly open and the breeze flowing through. It's a little too breezy for me, so I've got a thin cardigan on, but he's not bothered. I can imagine him as some sort of modern-day Zen master, just rolling along through the countryside, unperturbed by anything. It seems like the perfect time to open up.