With gentle movements that imply peace, Harold closes his eyes. The smile of someone who understands the ways of the universe crosses his face. “It’s not time for that yet. You can return to Jensen whenever you like. Let me show you what prayers do.” His hand extends in a gesture of trust. Then he twists his hand so his pinky is extended. “You’ll be back soon. I pinky swear.”
Seriously? I can’t say that I trust him, but in light of my revelations that he is an ally, and feeling deep in my soul that things are happening for the greater good, I sucker into it. Our pinkies lock, and my heart soars as the power of love flows through the touch. I swallow back the emotions of accepting that I am in the presence of a true angel. The peace he fills me with must be a taste of Heaven. Why hasn’t he always shown me this? “Close your eyes,” he says. “Now, focus on that text Laura sent.”
The whoosh of wings breezes against my back, sending my hair twisting in its wind. My stomach turns woozy, and the dank smell of pot, alcohol, and rotting food hits my nose. Harold is nowhere in sight when I find myself standing in the threshold between a kitchen and a living room. Empty take-out boxes overflow in the garbage can, and crusty utensils are piled in the sink. The recycling can overflows with what must be as many hard liquor bottles as a bar would discard in a week. Some guy is passed out on the sofa.
White powder, a credit card, and a rolled up twenty-dollar bill are on the coffee table. I’ve never seen that stuff in person, but I don't need to be a genius to know it’s not baking soda. Why would Harold send me here?
In the corner, Laura sits while staring at her phone. Black mascara and eyeliner run down her cheeks and are smeared across her face. Her finger is still on the send button from her last text to Jensen, “Please help. It's ugly here.”
She sent it at least half an hour ago. How she still waits in hope of a reply tugs at my soul. This poor woman. Her heartbreak isn’t from being jilted by an ex-boyfriend; it’s from being spat on by life.
The crash of symbols comes from another room. It’s accompanied by thumps and laughter. Was someone pushed into a drum kit?
The crack of a fist against a jaw follows, and applause erupts. “Cheers!” is yelled, and bottles clank.
With tender care, Laura touches a finger to her lips and kisses it, then places the kiss on the screen. “Goodbye,” she whispers, before walking away and leaving the phone behind. Now, the lines of coke on the coffee table hold her attention. Softly she concedes, "If he won’t help me, no one will." She drops to her knees, grabs a rolled up bill and snorts up a line before switching to the other nostril and taking up a second one. Her hollow eyes that reflect a heart of broken dreams stare at the remaining five. I don't know anything about coke, or how much it takes for someone to OD, but she has got to stop.
Laura rubs her nose, and a trail of blood coats her hand. Her laugh is a nervous one.
From the room filled with drunken laughter, a man says, "Yeah, she’s totally worthless. You’d think she could at least get a horn dog to drop his pants. Guess she only wants Daddy now."
Her eyes stay on the lines of death as she states, “The beginning is the end. Or is the end just the beginning?” Then she whispers, “Somebody please stop me.” Her head drops and she brings the bill back to her nose.
My chest turns heavy for this horrible person who introduced me to a life-long battle with my body image and who nearly crossed Jensen over to the point of no return. How many others has she hurt? When I was a kid, every day I fantasized that she would move far away. Guilt plagued me for weeks after I dreamt of attending her funeral. Now she is about to leave this world in an act of weakness. Part of me wants to scream at her—to ask how she likes the desperation of knowing she needs to end the pain brought on by someone else’s actions. She has to make the voices that tell her that she is worthless shut up. I had to do it. Jensen did, too. For both of us it was her voice—a voice that we will struggle to silence all of our lives because we let it get to us. But we are, and will stay, stronger than it.
She can be stronger too. Everyone has the strength to conquer the useless words of the hateful. I touch her shoulders, hoping she can feel love, and that it will be enough to guide her. “Please, Laura. Please stop. Don’t let others control you. You are stronger than this.”
Her motions slow, yet she continues on.
“Laura, think of Jensen. He will always blame himself, and this is not his fault.”
With the bill in her nose, she plugs the other nostril.
“Laura! Stop!” I try to shake her, but all I can do is vibrate my hands and scream in her ear, “Laura, stop! Stop!” She rattles her head and shoulders and then freezes cold. Her eyes stay on the coke while growing bold. Like a flash, she heads for her bedroom and locks herself inside. She falls onto the bed and buries her head under a pillow. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m safe. I just won’t open the door.” I reach out again and offer her words of hope, but instead of her finding the comfort I hope to give, she screams, “Go away! Everyone, go away and leave me alone!”
Harold appears at the head of her bed. He brushes her hair aside and gives Laura’s forehead a kiss. Her body takes on a hint of Heaven’s glow, and her breathing calms. “She needs more than this, but this experience will stay with her. See what Jensen’s prayer has done? Each of us has the power to bring love to the world. Love transcends all, even death. So by extension, Laura will always carry this love.”
I used to think prayers were merely messages to God. This experience has brought me a new level of enlightenment. Prayers do not reflect a one-to-one relationship. Jensen prayed for Laura, and that persuaded Harold to take me to her. For that, she will live to see another day. Messages to God are love letters to the universe that transcend all boundaries.
Please, God, give Laura strength and show her mercy. Help her find what she needs to escape her world and find your glory on earth.
I used to envy her. I wanted to have her looks, her popularity, and her self-esteem. Now I'd rather be dead than even step into her shoes.
This time, we have all accepted that the doctors are right.
I felt Lizetta next to me when I woke and wished her good morning. It almost seemed normal. Then my arm flinched. Often when I sense Lizetta near, I have moments where my body experiences a hum of energy. This morning, the energy was a fizz that faded into nothing. Before I could reach for the phone, Jimmy’s call came. Even now, here beside Lizetta’s body, I can barely sense her.
How do you bargain with God? What can you possibly promise that He doesn't already have? That you'll do better? That you will bring more joy into the world? That you'll spread His word? If you believe in God, these are all things that you should be doing anyway, so to make that kind of promise now means you either haven't been doing your job or were never a believer in the first place.
It’s too late for prayers. Soon it will even be too late for goodbyes.
Where the hell is Mom? We don’t have much longer.
Griffin paces with Judy as she shakes the stress off of her hands. Jimmy sits in a corner with his guitar case leaning against his leg. He taps it frantically. We need to rewind the clock a bit—back to before two big blood pressure drops happened—when Jimmy was here playing for Lizetta, before the machines went crazy—back to when I still felt miracles were possible.
Paul enters with his cell phone still in his hand. His eyes are evasive, meaning the news is bad. It’s all the more reason not to let go of Lizetta’s hand.
Everyone makes a beeline over. Paul’s hand on my shoulder offers no comfort. “The attorney said, in California marriages are considered too personal in nature to fall under the rights of someone with Power Of Attorney. I’m sorry, son. For what it is worth, I know I speak for everyone when I say that in our eyes, you upheld your promise to marry her long ago.”
The air leaves my lungs, and the last of my hope flees with it. One of the biggest promises of my life is now broken and shattered.
Mom finally
arrives. Paul looks to her and shakes his head, conveying the bad news. She sets her purse on a chair and heads over with that look of sympathy that only a mom can have.
I won’t stand for this. There is no room left on any of our plates of tragedy for a serving of broken promises that are topped with remorse. Having a piece of paper that says you are married may have its perks, but some get those through marrying in vain, like for money, convenience, or to keep people in the country. The lucky ones are those who get that piece of paper when they marry for the right reason. But the ones who get what marriage is really about are those who exchange vows even though it’s not legal. Paperwork is for the now; vows are eternal.
He was going to marry me anyway. Mom was going to sign the documents on my behalf. It was a dream too good to be true. I’m heartbroken. Why does a law-making stranger have more of a say in my right to marry Jensen than the person I trust with the power to end my life and handle my final affairs does?
“Everyone, gather around,” Jensen announces. “We have something very important that we want you all to witness, legal or not.”
A river of hope coats my eyes. Oh, please, Jensen. Yes. I want this so badly.
Jensen pulls Etta’s collar, along with a picture of her, from his pocket. He asks Griffin to hold them. He then kisses my engagement ring, and I add my apparitional hand to the grip, so that our three left hands are joined. My chest tightens as the man I will love for all of eternity shows the world one of the many reasons why I feel the way I do.
My tears build before his first word forms. “There isn’t a doubt in my mind that Lizetta can hear me. I made a promise, and I am going to keep it.” His tone of resolve breaks as the true sentiment of the moment takes over. “Lizetta, I take you to be my wife. To love, honor, and cherish for all of my days here on earth and for all that follow. No matter where you are, I will somehow be by your side, like I know you will be by mine. Please stay here, and continue to grace our lives with your beauty, but if you can’t—” His voice shudders. The words are locked in by emotion, but love forces them out. “I promise to uphold your memory, to lift you up, to show you honor and dignity in any way that I can.” The tears land on my sheets, covering me in a blanket of dreams half fulfilled. “I love you, now and always.”
I’m in awe—floored by the level of love in this room that shows in bittersweet smiles and tight holds on loved ones. Mom is secure with Paul. Etta is here in spirit under Griffin’s care. What really gets me though is how Jimmy not only has an arm around Arlene, but also how she and Griffin hold hands, having never been introduced. My family is giving me one last gift in showing they will stick together after I am gone. There is really only one thing left of importance. Lord, if I truly have to leave now, then please, at least let Jensen somehow know how I feel.
My heart races and breaks at the same time, as I make my vow to Jensen while having to accept he won’t hear it. “Jensen, the day I met you, I became real. My heart may have been open, but my soul was closed. Then you showed me the light. Through that I grew and became whole. I take you to be my husband. To love, honor, and cherish for all of time. Someway, somehow, I will remain by your side, just as I know you will be by mine.”
No kiss could seal this more than our hearts have. I step into the space where Jensen stands, and finish the process that began long ago—joining our souls as one. “I will love and be with you, always.”
My wife of three hours lies in her hospital bed while her life slips away. Does she know that in the eyes of everyone here we are married? I have to believe that she does, else my sanity may flee.
Just outside the room, Griffin and Mom are involved in deep conversation. Her concern is so indiscreet that I can't even head to the bathroom without her following in fear that I'm going to slip off and ingest something off limits. I don't blame her. Hell, I'm freaked out about what lies ahead for me, too.
What will become of my relationships with these people? They accepted me into their family long ago, and while they have accepted my marriage to Lizetta, will my welcome last or will I become a painful reminder of what they have lost?
I plop down next to Jimmy in our usual seats by Lizetta and take her hand. He looks at me, and although his shoulders don’t move, I know he is shrugging in resignation to waiting for the worst. I slump back in the chair to stare at the ceiling. “Band names. We need to settle on one.”
“You still want to do it? No matter what?” It’s nice to hear hope in someone’s voice again.
“No matter what, brother.” I put out my hand, and he low fives it before mirroring my slouch.
“Okay. Let's do this. No screwing around this time.”
Pain tears at my lower back, and my shoulders are tight even though I have none of those things. The cord that tethers me here has faded and thinned, going from silver fettuccine to glimmering angel hair.
Jensen and Jimmy brainstorm band names, and some of my fears about moving on release. My heart aches when I touch their shoulders, knowing they will make so many great things happen, and that I will miss every one of them. “Don’t let my leaving end your kinship.” Their conversation halts. How they swallow in unison is a sign of hope for their brotherhood that I accept with gratitude.
“You get that?” Jimmy asks.
Jensen nods and they stare at each other a moment before resuming talk of the future.
Mom sits with Paul. I can't look into the red orbs of my mother's pain. The decisions she has faced have been devastating. With a touch to her shoulder I tell her I love her. She curls into Paul's arms, sobbing. “Mothers are not supposed to bury their children. This can't be happening. I'm supposed to get to spoil the dickens out of my grand babies. What kind of god lets life work out this way?”
I want to give her words of wisdom—to comfort her in this awful time, to let her know it's not God's fault, and that in an odd way I brought this upon myself—but all I can do is say, “It's all right, Mom. God's going to take care of us all. I love you.”
My touch to Paul’s shoulder is accompanied by a simply stated, yet complex, message. “Thank you, Second Dad. I love you.” Paul has always given me pearls of wisdom, and I have nothing to give back other than a whole lot of love to the man who saved a little girl from growing up a distraught, traumatized wreck after losing her father to a disease. Paul taught me how to trust. Without him, I never would have accepted Jensen. I may not have even accepted myself. A tidal wave of love flows out of my heart and through my touch to convey how grateful I am that Paul came into my life.
Outside the room, Griffin and Arlene are locked in conversation. “I tell you,” Griffin whispers, “we are missing something critical.”
“Something has been bothering me since Lizetta and I met,” Arlene says. “She triggered the tip of a memory that I haven’t been able to form. Is there anything you've left out?”
Griffin taps his lips. “Psychic … Read the cards … Pull an extra card for clarification … No, that's all. Believe me, we were hanging on every word that woman said.”
“Something isn't right here,” Arlene muses.
“What was it Lizzie said that got you all tweaked out?”
“That's the thing. When I heard the seriousness in her voice, a memory flashed, but I couldn’t grasp it. It had something to do with the patches in the painting.”
“Are you talking about the patches of different colored grass?” Griffin asks.
“Yeah, do you remember something?”
“Not really.” Suddenly he grips her arm. “Do you think the two different types of grass have something to do with the two influences? If Lizzie was the first, who is the second?”
Arlene’s hand flies to her mouth, and my heart jumps in hope. “While I was painting, Dad went on about everything being one cohesive unit. Did the psychic say anything about two being one?”
Hope fades. None of that sounds familiar. I don't remember a single thing that Zolta or Harold said that could lead me to believe that.
Arlene reminds me of a teenager as she gasps, nearly breaking her whisper. “The Wheel of Fortune?”
“Yeah, that's it!”
She grips Griffin’s arm, and I’m giddy with hope again. “Upside down or right side up?”
Confusion blankets Griffin’s face. “Up so she could see it. How else would she know what card it was?”
“No!” Arlene smacks his arm. These two are peas in a pod. “Was the card’s number at the top or at the bottom for her?”
Excitement tickles my veins when Harold appears in the corner and winks. “Listen to a mother’s wisdom,” he reminds me, and then disappears.
“I saw it dead on, so it was upside down for Lizzie.”
“That’s what I couldn’t remember! They're not patches, they are spokes in the wheel of the Four Ages of Man, but in reverse of the way it normally turns. Griffin, you and I are messengers! Go distract Jensen.”
Griffin casually approaches Jensen, asking how Etta is handling everything. Meanwhile, Arlene leans into my ear. “Lizetta, the dream is about phases. The answer lies in the past. Whatever you find there will change your soul forever.”
Phases? Reverse spokes? What does … And suddenly it hits. The painting feels like it is moving left, or rather, counter clockwise. Time is the key. We want more of it because we think of it as something that is limited, but that only applies to our bodies. To our souls, time is boundless. Harold flicked me out of Zolta’s house and into this room. A moment later Jensen walked in. He and Bertha peeled out of the parking lot in frustration, which means he would have been driving fast. But when he walked into the hospital, he was moving slowly. If he had been racing Bertha, he would have been charged with adrenaline. When Jensen gets angry, he takes time to calm himself. Since I was thrown into the future, I didn’t see how that was possible.
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