Vanessa

by David Howells

Chapter 12 – IMAGES and REFLECTIONS

  “Private Elijah Cooper. All this time...son of a bitch! I’ve been riding next to Great Granddad Elijah. Eight generations represented, only three accounted for.” His family had never been interested in roots, though he did recall his father telling him something about Great Granddad Elijah having fought in the Civil War. There wasn’t more said about it than that and Ryan had never pursued it. There were too many other more interesting (to him) pursuits; scholastics, girls and the Navy were more than enough to occupy anyone’s mind to the fullest. He didn’t even recall the name ‘Cooper’ ever being used. No wonder he hadn’t caught on earlier. As Ryan reflected on old memories, smiling, sometimes gently shaking his head, his friends watched respectfully, correctly assuming that the man was taking a needed break down memory lane. Ryan came back to present-time consciousness and said, “Thank you, Allen. Now, would you show me how this ID program works?”

  Everyone scooted over. The executive island had something like encircled couch sections. Each section had a seat belt, a head rest and the standard hatch where an oxygen mask would pop out to keep someone alive long enough to enjoy a crash landing. The picture of Vanessa/ Mary that had been scanned in before came up on the screen. The program had produced a three-dimensional character that was slowly rotating. When a function was used, the figure temporarily stopped rotating and assumed either a side or frontal pose (or both on a split screen), depending on the wishes of the user.

  “We’ll start with this. It’ll take less time than starting from scratch. Ryan, you said somewhere along the line that there was some resemblance between Mary and Vanessa. You take the cursor and click the area you want to change.”

  Ryan tapped on ‘Hair’. A menu popped up and gave ‘Options’: ‘Color’, ‘Style’, ‘Course/Fine’. He tapped the first and a spectrum bar showed up above the figure of Mary/Vanessa. Ryan took the cursor and placed it on the bar. He could move it right and left and, as he did so, the color of the hair changed. When he had come to ‘Light Brunette’, he tapped again, assuming this would lock in the choice. It did. Next was ‘Style’. Vanessa’s spiritual presentation was hopefully what it was when she was first alive. Ryan hoped that Vanessa hadn’t unconsciously made changes somehow to better please herself, or him. The next item was ‘Length’, followed with variations on ‘Presentation’. Those were locked onto a mid-shoulder length with ‘Light Wave’.

  ‘Thickness’ caused Rachel to comment; “Must have been hard to get the soap out.” Satisfied with the hair, Ryan clicked on ‘Eyes’. A box appeared superimposed over the face that amplified the eye and nose bridge to three times the size. He changed ‘Color’ from ‘Sky Blue’ to ‘Hazel’ with a core of green near the center. Vanessa assisted by staying right in front of Ryan to the side of the table and screen. The shape of the eyes and their distance from the bridge of the nose were altered next. ‘Brows’ were changed to be a little longer and thicker.

  “I probably hated plucking. It was bad enough with Mary’s body.”

  The nose was made narrower, the lips fuller. Each change was minor, but you could see that the person on the screen wasn’t Mary, anymore. In a brief fit of evil, Ryan changed ‘Bust’ to ‘Double D’, followed immediately by an “ouch” and a hand held over a reddening ear. “All right, all right, just a little wishful thinking. OUCH!” The other ear was now red.

  Marianne said, “Men!”

  Rachel responded seamlessly, “They’re all alike.”

  Correcting to ‘C’ with no additional ear-raids, he went on. Variations on ‘Breasts’ offered by the program would keep a male adolescent agog for months. That feature had been originally designed for professional use when breasts were removed surgically for cancer treatment. It also assisted with tailoring bra padding and, later, was utilized in surgical reconstruction planning. Ryan had to go ‘best guess’, as Vanessa’s front was always covered (do ghosts wear bras?). She tried to help, but Vanessa had no recall of ever seeing that aspect of herself other than by looking down. It was slightly embarrassing for Ryan to focus that aspect of the love of his life before a group of people, friends or not.

  Next step was to shorten ‘Height’ by three centimeters and widening ‘Hips’ a full size level.

  “Sigh, a moment on the lips, forever on the hips. Chocolate is the tool of the Devil.”

  Ryan made a few more adjustments and stopped. The figure was still dressed as Vanessa/Mary, though Allen assured him that clothing style didn’t matter for the ID part of the project. But Ryan wanted to jog Vanessa’s memory. Clothes, he had said yesterday, were powerful statements of self. The woman on the screen was dressed as Vanessa was in her second life. He hit ‘Apparel’ and, with the ladies help on style types, made a pretty good approximation as to how the first Vanessa was dressed. There was an additional benefit in that the style could be researched on a side-program, which said that hers was popular in the early 1930’s.

  Gustav looked at Ryan. “Well?”

  “She’s looking and, seems puzzled. She’s not seen herself since before she first died. No reflecting in mirrors, you know.” Ryan’s ears were still smarting, so no comparison to vampires was ventured. Besides, this was not a time for levity, given how much this meant to his beloved soul mate. It was quiet for a long time. She looked at Ryan and began speaking. Ryan whispered to the others during her pauses what he had heard.

  “I’m getting impressions of things, sounds that are just beyond making out. There are voices in the distance, adult and children, I think. I see, windows? Tall walls, with windows. Shadows quickly moving about, small ones and big ones. There’s a flickering of light.” Then she stopped. Ryan could tell she was doing her best to concentrate, but like a dream, the harder she tried the more she pushed memory into the mists.

  Finally the others heard Ryan say, “Give it a break, Sweetheart. There are clues there that Allen can use. He’ll get it. You just have to be patient. Now calm down, it’s all right. You will know. I swear to you, you will find out who you are. We’ll do this together, with everyone’s help. Please, don’t cry, Baby, don’t cry.” Ryan’s own eyes were misting up. The others could see the frustration in his face that he couldn’t hold his Vanessa and comfort her as he desired to with all his heart. He could only speak to her, look at her and be there for her. That would have to be enough.

  The announcement came over the speaker that they would be landing in Savannah in ten minutes.

  Rachel thought Ryan must have an obsession/compulsion for limos and spending money. The business must be doing well in order for him to afford primo-transport everywhere and (from what Marianne says) eating out almost every meal. Mr. Fitzgalen may be a man of many talents, but cooking must not be one of them.

  What a roller coaster! She hadn’t cried so much since Carl had died. She hadn’t laughed so much since he was alive. Thinking back to those times was becoming too frequent, and it wasn’t helping her temper with Frank. There was a nagging in her mind that she was doing something wrong; probably Angel again. Luckily, (she didn’t like being morally lectured to) Cat was dominating the main stage, lately. Cat liked variety and, with curiosity natural for her, loved mysteries. Speaking of which, she wondered what it was that had made Marianne blush earlier on the plane. She had asked her about it on arrival at the airport restroom, but found her evasive. She thought, “What was on her mind? She’s too old to be attracted to Allen, isn’t she? She’d be more interested in someone Frank’s age. “I wonder if she would be interested in Frank?”

  Cat had gone too far. Angel forced herself into the main stage spotlight to give a good stern lecture on sacredness of wedding vows, staying out of the matchmaking business and yadda, yadda, yadda. Cat lay down and flattened her ears for the duration. She was only kidding, wasn’t she?

  Gustav was mentally wandering, looking at the countryside as they left Savannah and headed west. Red cla
y country. That stuff gets in your clothes and you might as well throw them away. Clay was a bear to get out.

  They were going to confront Mad Annie again. That spirit was truly mad. Well, her daytime part was. He had done research into treatment of insanity but most of the protocols just wouldn’t fit this situation. Exorcism might be a better bet, but Annie wasn’t evil, just mad and only half the time at that. He had discussed things with Ryan, who passed the ideas onto Annie via Vanessa both during the day, or night, depending on whether he wanted to help or to mislead.

  Ryan had once tried, personally, to present Gustav’s logic to Mad Annie, laying it out like a legal brief. Her husband died honorably and bravely, as did many on both sides of the Mason-Dixon. No one was evil for having pulled the trigger of the rifle that killed Col. Archibald I Edwards. Knowing the accuracy of the non-rifled barrels in those days, the person who shot Archibald was probably aiming at someone else and hit the Major by accident. It could have just as easily been a Reb’s bullet as a Yank’s. There was no cause for revenge there, just sadness. The Union Cavalry that trampled Annie’s two children were not evil and did not deserve punishment. It was an accident. The children were playing behind shrubs and could not be seen by the riders. Sad, but not malevolent. Those men had been punished many times over for something that didn’t deserve punishment. Her anger over General Sherman’s swath of destruction was understandable, but this was war. Shortly after the ‘March to the Sea’, Sherman turned his forces north to do more damage, but the war was soon there after ended. Sherman may be vilified or praised for doing a difficult deed that seemed wicked in the short run but heroic in the long run. Kind of like the bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. That ugly and obscene destruction avoided an Allied beachhead invasion that would have been likely the bloodiest event of that particular war. The men she daily tortured didn’t decide to start the Civil War, nor did they decide on the course of southern scorched earth. They just followed orders - like the Nazi’s.

  Where did that come from? Down deep in his brain rested his counterpart to Rachel’s ‘Cat’. This one he called Rommel, famous for appearing quickly, getting his digs in, and then disappearing. Rommel was hard to catch, but he always left a mark. Kind of like graffiti artists.

  Anyway, cutting to the chase, Mad Annie heard the words he had given to Ryan but none of them made much of a difference. She had responded that the North had no business being down there in the first place. It was their invasion, not the South’s. After all, her home was in the South. If the Yanks had stayed where they belonged then none of this tragedy would have happened. On top of that, what made Ryan think that her husband or children were dead, anyway?

  Madness did not necessarily follow logic, but it always had a clear goal. How it was accomplished was often not accessible to moralization or discussion. The connection to the decision maker in a mad person’s brain didn’t allow much throughput from the logic centers, or the ears and eyes.

  What was Annie’s goal? ‘Revenge’ would sum it up. How do you get revenge? Punish the perpetrators. Were those men perpetrators? Yes, to a degree. That was the difficult part of it. Annie’s mania for revenge on those responsible for her misery had a seed of truth in it. That is all someone needs to start a snowball downhill and it never takes that long for it to become an unstoppable avalanche. Unlike the literal analogy, though, the one who started the figurative snowball almost always got caught up in their own avalanche. Hitler had found that out.

  “Damn you, Rommel!”

  Marianne remembered school. She got bored a lot, being a very bright child. Homework assignments were beneath someone of her talents. Often she would just skip them. It usually didn’t make much of a difference as she could ace the tests, leaving her with a lot of high C’s and low B’s. Her parents were at their wits end trying to find out why she kept missing assignments. There were teacher’s meetings, councilor meetings, and promises to do better. Promises she made that were seldom kept. She winced when she remembered how much extra effort and heartbreak her self-centeredness had caused those she cared for.

  Deja vu. She had been eavesdropping and snooping, throwing a moral (this time respect for personal privacy of guests in her own house) to the wind in the interest of her own expediency.

  There was that day Dad told her that her favorite band was playing at Ulster Performing Arts Theater. It’s funny, but she could not now recall which band. She was all dressed up and ready to go, coming downstairs for the promised ride and ticket. Her father was sitting at the kitchen table. She was fifteen then. She said she was ready to go. He just kept reading. She had gotten more and more impatient, not wanting to be late. She had even made a sign to hold up. Her father didn’t move and her mother was in the kitchen doing dishes, silent. Finally she asked if he was going to take her or not and she could see the extreme sadness in his eyes, those eyes that hated to see his only daughter hurt. He just said, “No.”

  She blew up, big time. She raged at how he had given his word, that she had planned on this for a week, how badly he had hurt her and how could he do that to someone he loved, and on, and on. Dad just sat there looking three seconds from crying, which is saying a lot for a Sicilian. It took a while for her to regain some rationality and when she had fallen silent her father quietly said: “Never forget, Marianne, how badly lies hurt ones who love you.” She quietly turned around, went to her room and proceeded to soak her pillow out of anger and shame. Marianne recalled her history teacher once saying that if there was one thing we can learn from history, is that we don’t learn from history. “So true, Mrs. Perkins, so true.”

  Allen looked again at the picture Ryan had formed on his PC. Vanessa, her real self, was beautiful. She wasn’t stunning or breath taking, but she could certainly be called beautiful. Who was she? Looked to be in her early twenties, he supposed, but didn’t know if women aged differently in the early 1900’s. He wondered at how wearing one dress for all those decades must have chafed Vanessa, what with female inclinations to style changes. Nothing Allen or Ryan could give her would stay on. He smiled at what that thought might do for Ryan. “Better not. He’s got two red ears already,” he thought.

  Ryan liked the smell of Georgia. It had become a second home state, thanks to Annie. Strange how coincidences occurred. What was the word? Serendipity? Synchronicity? Was it fate that Private Elijah Cooper was his great grandfather? Was Vanessa sent to him somehow, by forces unseen, to draw him to rescue his kith and kin? It was always a slightly frightening thought to realize that you may NOT be the master of your fate, but were guided like a puppet with unseen strings. This was getting into predestination, of powers maneuvering people-pawns for unseen ends beyond mortal comprehension. How can you prove or disprove the supernatural?

  Ryan held the personal belief that free will did exist. God was not a being of preplanned manipulation of all events, for Ryan couldn’t conceive of any Heavenly purpose to tragedies he had witnessed. Rather, he thought, God was a being of conciliation, support, wisdom and grace. There wasn’t a purpose engineered into a tragedy, but it was a person’s obligation to his or her maker to rise above tragedy.

  He remembered Phillip. Gustav was in the hospital with a gall bladder attack five years ago. While there, Ryan had come across a child with treatment-resistant leukemia. Medicine had made advances against the disease, but this form was stubborn and remorseless. He spent time with the boy, one evening, while Gustav slept. Like many others in that sad state, Phillip was more concerned about his family than himself. Here was a child whom fate had decreed would never have his first date, marry, see his first-born walk, or conquer his adult personal mountains. It wasn’t fair, but fairness was not in life’s contract. You are born, you live, and you die. That’s the only guarantee. Phillip had talked for hours with Ryan. The parents had welcomed the break in the routine that was tearing them apart. Phillip seemed to connect with Ryan, f
or he was someone who had perspective of what happened after death. That subject wasn’t broached specifically, but it gave Phillip an ease of heart when they talked. The child could sense the forced conversation and false cheer from parents, schoolmates and family members. Since the boy’s time on earth was short, Ryan had chosen to take Phillip into his confidence. If Phillip could not live a full ‘four score and ten’, then Ryan could at least share his life where his time cup had ‘runneth over’.

  Phillip marveled at the wonders of Ryan’s life. No attention deficit with this boy, perhaps because he instinctively knew that he hadn’t much time to waste. Phillip passed away two days later. Even more sadly and all too typical, the strain of the loss eventually destroyed Phillip’s parents’ marriage.

  That boy had given back to Ryan far more than he had received. Phillip was a shooting star, burning brightly for a short period of time and blessing many with a glimpse of a grace and beauty that far exceeded what long-lived mortals offer in the Passion Play. Of all his encounters, the few hours spent with Phillip had made that boy one of the most precious friends and experiences he ever had.

  Phillip had made Ryan feel old, slow and pale by comparison. Then, he smiled to think that, as before with Allen, Phillip was the perfect master and Ryan but the apprentice. It had taken a great many years to teach Ryan that age has nothing to do with being a teacher.

  Vanessa could be where ever she chose to be, instantly, as long as she had been there before at least once. Travel was cheap and quick for spirits. Maybe that was where they got the term ‘the quick and the dead’.

  The experience of seeing herself on the PC screen had picked open a scab and let out fragments of clotted memory. “Yuchh.” Why would she pick such thoughts to describe her recent memory glimpse? What could have been so bad that it would cause her to erase those memories? Would they be best left buried? If they were buried, was that why she had never crossed over? She looked at Ryan and knew that she didn’t want to cross over, not vet. Then she looked again at the image of her self that Allen had left as a screen saver. Not knowing who she was had torn her apart for so long. She had to know.