Edwin's Reflection: A Novel

by Ray Deeg

  “I can’t imagine what I would have done if you didn’t remember my name,” she replied.

  Tom’s lips pressed together. I remember, all right. They had dated for nearly six months here at Columbia. But he was young and dumb then, focused on his studies and incapable of sharing in a two-way relationship. He now found himself stunned, dazed by the memory of their time together and by the sight of her standing right in front of him. “What a fool I was then,” he said as he straightened himself out.

  “Does that mean you’re not a fool anymore?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

  He struggled for an answer, feeling vaguely guilty. She’s interrogating me. “We were just kids then, weren’t we?”

  Gwen shrugged. “We were kids, but fools age too,” she replied. Tom was silent, waiting for an explanation for her presence. “I sat in on your talk upstairs; I enjoyed it very much. And I have a confession to make: I was your heckler. You’ve always been your best when you’re under pressure, so…”

  Tom had heard through the grapevine that Gwen was a psychiatrist now. He wondered if she was toying with him. “My words came from the heart, to inspire those kids to think critically about their contribution. To use their hearts and minds. So what are you…” Tom trailed off. Her eagle eyes were even more brilliant than he’d remembered, nearly hypnotic up close.

  “I spoke here, too,” she replied. “About an hour before you.” She handed Tom a pamphlet, Experiencing Life in Real Time with Gwen Pierce. “My audience wasn’t nearly as large as yours, but I saw your name on the schedule and decided to hang around and say hello.”

  Her explanation for the encounter sounded perfectly reasonable, and Tom was feeling embarrassed for allowing himself to think so defensively. “Well, it’s amazing to see you. I suppose I should be grateful to have been heckled by an old friend. Well, not an old friend—I mean, someone I haven’t seen in so long. You look great,” he concluded lamely.

  Gwen smiled warmly. She remembered his character, energetic and genuine. She thought about the attention he’d shown her most of the time and his abundant kindness. They had certainly been younger then, and she recalled her own imperfections—her need to organize everything, fit people and things inside boxes, her incredible impatience. “And how is Empire inventions?” she asked. “You’re a bigwig, I hear.”

  “Empyrean Ventures. It’s great. I work with amazing people; we’re doing amazing things. We have over a thousand employees now, and…” Tom paused. “Can I be honest? That stuff I was saying about being a hamster on a wheel? That’s how I feel most days. It’s like you never get there, you know. I walk in every day, and all the work is there again, all the same problems that we solved yesterday somehow mutated and replicated. It never ends.” Tom pretended to brush away sweat from his brow and then smiled. “But I’m still grateful for all of it, the sweet and sour.” Gwen kept eyeing him. “Oh, and Conrad Perth works with me, too,” he continued. “You remember Connie from school, don’t you?” Gwen nodded but stayed silent, studying him. “Yup, Connie is great, too…”

  Tom trailed off once more, distracted. He would have recognized her scent anywhere. He studied the structure of her fingers and wrists, the way she stood, the way she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. He noticed the way her hair curled around her forehead, touching her eyebrow on one side. As the silence turned the corner toward awkward, Tom realized that this was one of those unscheduled but critical moments in life. That voice in his head began speaking. Shut up! Shut the hell up about work problems and Connie—you’ll blow it. You’ve already blown it—too much time has passed now. She knows you’re a total moron. Tom considered this verdict in silence, wondering in passing if the last few years had made it impossible for him to experience his life in real-time, without play-by-play narration.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” he asked abruptly.

  “Just my patients. I have a shared psychiatry practice with three colleagues in midtown. I live in Chelsea now. Mom and Dad still live in Westport, and I see them a couple times a month.” Gwen looked away. “Tom, I was at a party with Alison Porter about six months ago. She mentioned Veronica’s passing. I was so sorry to hear about your mother. She was a wonderful woman.”

  “I remember how much she liked you,” he said, feeling more confident. “Would you—would you have dinner with me…to catch up, I mean?”

  “Now?” Gwen asked, looking at her watch. “I have a dinner date with some patients; it’s a group I teach.”

  As Gwen explained her refusal, Tom noticed a billboard behind her: Chester Montgomery for city council. A new hope for a better tomorrow. A New hope, he thought. “How about lunch, tomorrow, in New Hope, Pennsylvania?” A grin formed on her face. “It would be like a day trip,” Tom continued. “I’ve never been, but I hear it’s beautiful. I would pick you up.” Tom sensed her reluctance but continued his campaign. “It’s not far, and I hear it’s teeming with cafes and quaint antique shops. We’d have a great time.”

  Gwen was quiet for an awkward moment, and then she smiled. “That sounds lovely.”

  “Really? You’d go with this fool?”

  “I guess we’re both fools,” she said, reaching into her bag. She scribbled her address on a business card and held it out to him, their fingers touching briefly as he accepted it. She remembered Tom’s patience and childlike curiosity. She was just as excited about this encounter.

  “It’s about a ninety-minute drive to New Hope,” he said. “I could pick you up at—say—ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  “I’ve never been so grateful to be heckled.”

  “Is that the voice inside your head talking again?”

  Tom was taken aback by the comment. “Don’t tell me you can hear it, too,” he said.

  “So you do still have it, then…”

  “If I admit I do, will I get a bill from your office?”

  “Only if you don’t have coverage. See ya.” She smiled, turned, and began walking away.

  “Bye,” Tom said, watching her move down the stairs and to the curb. She raised her arm and hailed a cab. She turned again and smiled before stepping in. I can’t believe it, he thought.

  CHAPTER 9

  RANDALL’S PHONE VIBRATED, and his eyes opened. Kulish had sent him Amar Sharma’s address and phone number. He immediately closed his folder, removed the magnetic antitheft strips from the books, and then placed them in his satchel and left the library without checking them out. Outside, he hailed a cab and gave the driver the address Jolanda had sent. Evans peered out the window, following busy people on the move. He wasn’t interested in chasing suspects anymore. He’d only skated by these last few years because—at some point many years back—he’d been a likeable guy. But the people who had known him then had already moved on. Between the fatigue from his frequent bouts of drinking and his general disinterest in being an agent, he expected to be fired any day—it was inevitable. His wife knew it, too, and the way she’d looked at him in the last few months only made it worse. But all those things were just symptoms of something far deeper. He wanted to inflict pain on others. It had been so long since he had hurt Stazo. He’d held back from doing it for so long now, but it couldn’t be contained any longer.

  “Are you wanting off on right or left?” the driver asked in broken English, interrupting Randall’s reverie.

  Still daydreaming, Randall exited the cab and found the address, a seven-story building. He walked into the vestibule and scanned the resident directory. He spotted a Divya Sharma, but nowhere was there an Amar Sharma. How many Sharmas can there be in one building? He pressed the black button.

  “Can I help you?” a female voice inquired through the perforated metal speaker cover.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Amar Sharma,” Randall said.

  “Who may I say is calling?” the voice asked.

  “My name is Randall Evans, and, um, I’m with the FBI.” There was a long silence. “Oh
, this has nothing to do with the FBI, though,” Evans quickly offered. “I read a book he authored, and I’d like to speak with him about it.” The speaker was silent. You’d better say something fast, Randall. “This is actually personal, you see. My grandfather told me some stories many years ago…” The silence continued. “My granddad told me about a man named Swami Vivekananda, whom he followed many decades ago, and this led me to Amar’s book.”

  Randall was abruptly cut off by the female voice. “OK. Come up, Mr. Randall.”

  A buzzer sounded, and he entered the building. The lobby smelled like lemon cleanser and yarn art. It smells like the seventies. He took the elevator to the fifth floor and knocked on the door. An attractive East Indian woman in her midthirties appeared. “Please come in,” she said. “The FBI, very interesting.” The woman’s eyes were dark brown, and her eyelashes were impossibly long, fake looking, almost cheap. Her teeth were pearl white and perfectly formed. As he followed her through a hallway into the living room, he noticed her long, reddish-brown hair sway across the back of her form-fitting shirt.

  The room was larger than he’d expected and was immaculate except for a large bowl overflowing with incense ashes and flower petals. Four packed bookshelves gave strong hints as to the household pastime. Even more books were stacked neatly into piles around the room. “Randall is your first name?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, Randall. Thank you.”

  The woman sat down, crossing her legs and interlocking her fingers as if in prayer. Her nail polish was dark red, her skin dark brown. Her eyebrows were full, almost bushy, and just a tad too close together, almost touching in the middle. Randall glanced at the shape of her neck and collarbone. He noticed small black hairs on her arms but didn’t think it unattractive. He smiled, lips closed, and allowed his eyes to move about the room, signaling that he was waiting to speak to Amar.

  “My name is Divya Sharma, and Amar is my creation,” she said. “Amar Sharma is my pen name, you see.”

  Randall sat up straight, ashamed he hadn’t suspected it.

  “Many of the people who buy my books are from the Middle East, and authors with male names sell far better overseas and on the Internet.”

  Randall pressed his lips together and nodded. “What if someone finds out?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s common knowledge for those who already know me, and it creates even more intrigue about my work once new audiences find out. Plus, I still sell more books to those who will only buy from male authors. My publisher likes to say it’s an ancient mathematic formula that can make one and one equal three.” She offered a playful smile, and Randall suddenly felt at ease. She was forthcoming as few in his line of work were. He’d developed the nasty habit of assuming everyone was lying.

  “Of course,” Randall said. As he removed his jacket, he could feel the weight of the coil in his satchel. He was silent for a moment and then opened his folder. “I’ve taken a personal interest in my grandfather’s research. I now realize the stories he shared were like metaphors. I was just a kid when he died, but I want more than anything to understand.” Randall paused, searching for the words.

  “All of us are searching,” Divya said. “You are not the first to seek answers. On this journey from birth to death, we are all trying to awaken ourselves from the illusion that blinds us. Our obligation in life is not to pay rent but to discover what all this is. If you search without fear, you may find it. Speak your mind; you cannot shock me.”

  Randall eyed the ceiling. “My grandfather once told me that when I made time to look, I would find something more profound than anything I’d ever dreamed. He told me I could find a way out of this maze—he told me it was my destiny. The stories he shared were based on things he’d learned from the Vedanta. So I…”

  “What are you asking me?” Divya asked in a soft tone.

  Randall looked around the room. “I don’t even know what question to ask. What should I be looking for in the Vedanta? The cosmos? Patterns? What do you look for if you want to catch your destiny—or, as you say, awaken yourself from the big illusion?”

  Divya pondered Randall’s question. “Swami Vivekananda is very famous. He had profound beliefs about the nature of creation. I am a believer in his teachings. Your mentioning his name is the reason I buzzed you in, since we are being so honest. Did your grandfather instruct you?”

  Randall shook his head. “No, he passed when I was eleven. I’ve just recently discovered the connection between his stories, the Vedanta, and a recent event that might tie things together.”

  Divya looked more curious. “An event?” she asked.

  “That part is confidential, I’m afraid, but I’m finding connections to quantum physics. He was interested in how human knowledge—human thoughts—might be transported, broadcast—somewhere. How a person might change the world—change events. We’re being honest, right?” A coy smile grew on Divya’s face as she listened. “I understand the pieces,” Randall continued. “I understand the concepts, but I don’t have a firm grasp on the whole, and that’s why I’m here.”

  Divya unlaced her fingers and grabbed the front of her knee. “You present with very common symptoms, almost cliché. It’s a pattern I see over and over. Patterns themselves are the first pattern: something has your attention here and here.” Divya pointed to her heart and head. “This thing that is to be human is to thirst for answers. As life continues, one comes to a point where these big questions suddenly become precious, far more important than the routines of emptiness and transit we see every day. There are many pieces, but you must step away from your routines to see them. Brushing your teeth, dressing, paying bills, commuting to work, checking your phone—all these things ensure you are in transit. It is only at death that you will awaken. Then you will see that this endless circle of suffering presents itself as an illusion, a dream of ignorance. The fool who thinks himself wise is a fool indeed, but the fool who knows he is a fool is already that much wiser. But if you persist, you’ll eventually discover that every piece you find, no matter how large or small, is a perfect reflection of the whole. Here it is, Randall, since we’re being honest. This whole thing, everything you can ever remember, is a hologram created by you.”

  Divya paused, as if to gauge Randall’s reaction, and continued. “It’s a reflection of yourself and others. This is the action of a cause giving rise to an effect created by another cause—from and to infinity. You experience your life inside this hologram, a house of mirrors where we suffer. It has no beginning or end. And even the smallest piece of this grand hologram contains the pattern, the same characteristics as the whole. But you already know all of this, and none of it surprises you.”

  Randall shrugged, finding himself lost in her large brown eyes.

  “For one, it’s not a unique concept,” she continued. Divya repositioned herself, and Randall noticed a small tattoo on her ankle. It was squiggly, some sort of Hindu symbol. “Many hear these things and think about them briefly, but brush them aside in order to get back to their routine. You’ve known this all your life; we all do. You are a beautiful example of creation contemplating itself, seeking answers to what and why on a playground you yourself conjured.” Randall was enjoying Divya’s voice and intonation. “Is it coincidence that you sought answers, that you found my book, and that we are now seeking answers together? But as I’ve said, this is very common. I’ve seen this many times, so let me save you some steps.”

  Randall nodded in approval. “Yes, please do.”

  Divya took a deep breath. “If you continue seeking, you’ll learn that what physicists call the Big Bang was not just a physical event from nothingness to something, but the direct cause of a consciousness that willed everything into existence. This has happened many times; it always has and always will. Just after the Big Bang, ordinary matter was so hot it could only form basics like quarks and gluons, shining brightly at temperatures more than one hundred thousand times hotter than our sun. As it cooled, gravity formed elem
ents. Then came planets circling the stars, solar systems, black holes, quasars, galaxies. And all that stardust blowing around down here formed amino acids and then simple life such as protozoa, algae, and worms. Soon more complex animals evolved, with tissues and organs, and nervous systems.”

  Randall knew this part, but he was enjoying Divya’s story. “These animals developed simple brains, and over time those brains gave rise to more complex minds capable of channeling consciousness, pulling it directly from the collective. And this was the intention of consciousness all along, to pass through the mirror to see itself from the other side. Presently, we are the highest form of this evolution. But as I said, now the universe is able to contemplate itself, celebrating its own creation as we look into the sky and marvel at ourselves. And we ask questions because we are not ready to know the truth yet. We are not ready to come out of the oven; we need more time. But in the meantime, the questions can be overwhelming. Is this just God’s grand experiment? If so, what would God need to find out? What experiment would God need to perform? God is God, after all.

  “Perhaps this is our own grand sideshow. To make a biological organism that carries inside itself a spirit. For evolution to create us, to give us pain and want, to form our bellies that feel empty and need filling. To instill in us primal instincts, the need to mate, to fight, and then to ask us to become our own gods. And this is where I can save you the most time. As you seek, you’ll learn about the double-slit experiment, which has proven to modern physicists beyond any shadow of a doubt that the act of observing matter by a conscious entity literally causes atoms to transform from their wave form—the possibility state—into a solid state. It might be hard to understand, but this simply means that our consciousness creates this hologram, forming it into the solid we experience.” Divya knocked on the coffee table with her knuckles. “Once you realize that, everything you learn thereafter will reinforce that belief. You’ll learn about fractals and Mandelbrot sets, the side effect of creation. You’ll see the pattern of creation, God’s fingerprint, repeating itself in the shapes of seashells and hurricanes, DNA, and pinecones—even in the tail of a sea horse.