Without Fear of Falling

by Danielle Boonstra

  The visions kept coming in what seemed to be a random fashion. I was young, I was old. I was a handsome man, a haggard woman. The pictures shifted and changed; the settings and times never the same. One time when I was riding in the car with my mother, I looked over at her and saw a man in a turban praying silently. Instantly I knew this was my mother somehow, in some distant time and place. I kept it to myself though, not because I thought she’d be upset, but because I didn’t like talking about it too much. I didn’t like feeling different.

  I would, however, confide in Mrs. Dawes about what I saw. Mostly she would just smile and say: “That’s nice, dear.” Or at times she would ask for more detail with pursed lips and a knitted brow.

  Her questions helped me to softly work past the fear around my visions. Though they remained brief, over time I was able to interpret what I saw more easily. Instead of trying to figure them out, I let them wash over me and comprehension came effortlessly. I remember seeing a quick flash of a woman making bread in a stone fire oven. In an instant I knew the year was approximately 1600 and the woman was me. There was a little boy playing at my feet and I had a strong sense he was my mother, Frances.

  Another time I saw myself in a tent sitting around a fire with a group of men. I was a young man and I saw myself passing a pipe to an elderly man. I knew that he was Mrs. Dawes. I told her about this memory and I could tell that she was intrigued.

  “Was I dressed in feathers?” she asked immediately.

  I squinted tightly, trying to recall. “Yes. You were. The feathers were all around your head, like the chief in Peter Pan. I thought you were really smart. I was wishing you were my father because you were so much wiser and kinder than he was.”

  She smiled and quietly replied, “I know, love.”

  I remember wondering how she knew, but then deciding not to ask. Somehow I figured that one day I would know what she meant.

  During this time, my mother shopped at the health food store less and less. She would drive all the way into Owen Sound and stock up on all the grains, vitamins and incense she needed. Frances never had an unkind word to say about Mrs. Dawes, but I could feel that something wasn’t quite right. Not having a father around, I revelled in having both my mother and my “boss” to look up to. I innately knew that Frances would never begrudge me that.

  The more time I spent with Mrs. Dawes the more relaxed I became about everything I saw. It wasn’t long before I started having glimpses of the present and future.

  Once when I was nine I remember dreaming soundly. I dreamt I lost my breath. My left arm went numb and the right clutched my chest. Gasping for air I tried to scream, but no sound escaped my lips. I remember feeling terrified and then suddenly calm. The last thing I saw was the cuckoo clock in front of me striking three, mocking me.

  When I awoke the following morning, Mrs. Fisher, our next-door neighbour, was sobbing with my mother in our kitchen. Mr. Fisher had died during the night. He had gone downstairs for a glass of water at three in the morning and never made it back to bed.

  For a few moments I was awash with guilt, as if I had killed him with my mind. I felt tears forming in my eyes and a sudden sense of panic. I was just about to run to Mrs. Fisher and confess what I had seen the night before when I heard a voice: You know better than this Ellie. You saw it; you didn’t do it. I shook my head as if to force the voice flying out of my ears. I thought to myself that I had spent so much time with Mrs. Dawes that she now lived inside my head.

  I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes with my sleeve and ran to feel the comforting embrace of my mother.

  “It’s ok, baby. I know it’s sad, but mommy’s here,” she said in a whisper, tucking my hair behind my ear.

  I would see Mrs. Dawes later that day and she would tell me everything was ok, but for now I only wanted my mother. I wanted her scent, her feel and her soft, reassuring voice. With my mother, words were not necessary. I could just cry. That was enough.

  Mrs. Dawes was the one who introduced me to meditation. Even though my mom had been meditating for as long as I could remember, there was something cooler about Mrs. Dawes doing it. She taught me to sit up straight and to focus on my breath. It took me a lot of tries before I could do it with ease. I kept hearing distracting noises, or thoughts about what I had done at school would pop into my head. Mrs. Dawes told me to gently brush them aside and again focus on each inhale and exhale. At first I thought it was boring, but then I began to feel so calm and loved. It felt like arms were hugging me tight and mouths were whispering that I was ok. I had never felt so safe in my life. Mrs. Dawes said that is how we are meant to feel all the time. She would often say that the feeling of love and security is who we really are.

  When I was twelve I had a vision as I was filling up the herb bins. I caught the smell of kelp and suddenly, I experienced a flash. I was floating above everything. Below me was a cloak strewn about the rocks. There was a great big dog pawing at it and then I heard a loud bang. At that, the vision was gone. It shook me for a moment and I had to take more than one deep breath to recover.

  I had been caught off guard by a vision before, but this was different somehow. I was more a part of that scene than the others, as if I was closer to it in time or in being. I was able to communicate none of this, but the feeling was there all the same. That vision lingered, as though something about it could no longer be ignored.

  Mrs. Dawes happened upon me and my confusion was written all over my face.

  “What’s the matter, Ellie?” she asked pulling up another milk crate to sit beside me.

  At first I hesitated, but eventually explained to her what I saw. For a moment I thought I saw tears in her eyes, but they were never shed. She simply nodded, gave me a hug and reminded me to record it in my journal. I did as she instructed later that night and I often thought about that scene. It looked so much like Tobermory and yet I knew somehow that it wasn’t.

  CHAPTER 3

  When I was fourteen, I gave up working at the store. I never told Mrs. Dawes that I was quitting. There was a silent understanding between us that once I started high school, I wouldn’t come around anymore. After getting off the bus that first Friday, I walked past her store and stared straight ahead. I could feel her watching me walk by, could sense her silent resignation. She was letting me go. She understood.

  I was almost angry with her for not asking me to come back and work for her. I wanted the opportunity to tell her that I no longer needed her. It bothered me that she would not give me the satisfaction. I hated that she “just knew”.

  Reaching high school in Tobermory was anti-climatic. I had to transfer to the school in Lion’s Head, a town fifty kilometres south, starting in the fourth grade because there weren’t enough students to continue locally. Lion’s Head Public School wasn’t even a proper high school since kids as young as four go there too. I suppose I didn’t know any different, but TV and movies showed me that I was missing out somehow.

  My teenage years were awkward to say the least. While most of my classmates drank beer and got high, I tried desperately to hide the visions and attempted to block them out. I was successful for the most part. The tender understanding I had felt with Mrs. Dawes suddenly became silly.

  All these doubts I had about past lives and the relevance of what I was seeing began to surface. I started to think I was crazy. I even asked my mom to put me on medication so I wouldn’t have to deal with it.

  She refused.

  It made me try to wish away my time in high school. Nothing seemed right. My mother began dating a local painter named Jack Bailey and all she wanted to do was paint. Who did she think she was? As if just anyone can paint. It was ridiculous. Jack was undeniably himself; flamboyant, honest, unapologetic and talented as hell. I had to hold back tears when I glimpsed a portrait he had done of a local fisherman, pensive and pained. The yellow rain hat, the lines in his face, the cigarette in his mouth: each brushstroke spoke of compassion, respect.

  Jack mostly left
me alone. Though he once quipped “If you had something intelligent to say, I imagine you would have said it by now. We’ll talk once you’ve had your heart broken…once you’re interesting.” I had an inkling of what he meant, but I resented him nonetheless. He was taking my mother from me. I felt rejected and even though I was pushing her away, I didn’t like to feel pushed back.

  “What’s so amazing about Jack anyway?” I asked her as we were putting groceries away.

  “Amazing? I suppose there’s nothing so amazing about him. I just like him…a lot. He challenges me.”

  “Whatever that means…” I said, rolling my eyes.

  Frances grabbed the almond milk from the bag and bent down to put it in the fridge. “It means he helps me learn more about myself, about what I’m capable of. You’ll have that one day, Ellie. Someday, someone will show you who you are and all that you’re meant to give to the world.”

  She stopped to look up at me and gauge my reaction, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I was too annoyed. Really, there was nothing she could have done to change my teenage attitude. It was unfair to her and I knew it, but I didn’t care.

  I turned on my heel and walked away muttering, “Whatever.”

  I was lonely. I resisted all the visions my mind attempted to show me. As soon as one would pop up, I would force myself to black it out. High school was no time to be strange. I wanted to fade out and float along. Then soon I would be an adult. Then I could deal.

  Everyone at high school was nice enough. I didn’t get picked on, but I also barely spoke unless spoken to. It’s possible that drugs and alcohol would have helped me fit in, but no one ever offered me any. Frances is a vegan health-freak and so stealing anything mind-altering from home was out of the question too. Unlike my peers it very seldom occurred to me to get drunk or high. There was a part of me that feared it would only make the visions worse and that was the last thing I wanted.

  My saving grace during this time was Tynan. Tall, white-blonde hair and perpetually clad in denim, he had an aura that drew you in. Kind, witty and unafraid, I watched him tease without insulting and convince people to do things that, only two minutes earlier, they had no intention of doing. You know you’re getting swindled, but you endure it just to see him smile and to know that for a moment, his attention is for you and you alone.

  I admired Tynan from afar for a month during ninth grade before I worked up the courage to talk to him. Flashes came every time I looked in his direction, flashes of bodies he’d been. I tried, unsuccessfully, to wish them away. The one that was relentless was of him as a hunter in Mongolia. His jaw square, determined; riding his horse proudly over the plains as a rainbow chased his form. He owned each moment, even then.

  One day during lunch, I spotted my chance to talk to him. He was standing against a tree, smoking a cigarette and I felt that he was awaiting my arrival. My eyes must have spoken my wonder and admiration, because the second thing he said to me after ‘hello’ was, “I think I should tell you up front that I’m gay. It’s nothing personal, of course. Men are just beautiful, you know?”

  Yes, I knew.

  “That’s ok,” I said, nervously tugging on the straps of my backpack. “I just wanted to say hi.”

  He smiled at me widely, came to my side and put his arm around my shoulders, “Well hi, Ellie Stewart, I’m Tynan Malpass.” Offering me his cigarette casually he asked: “Do you smoke?”

  I shook my head.

  “Gotcha. You’re smart not to start, you know.” He took a long, sweet drag. “Tell me, Ellie, why haven’t you talked to me before? I mean, I moved here two years ago. It’s not a big school. Why now?”

  I considered how to respond to that for a moment but decided to be honest. “I’m lonely,” I said simply. It turned out to be the right tactic. Tynan is big on sincerity.

  “Uh-huh, well, not anymore you’re not. Ok?” He bent his head towards mine and willed me to look at him. His blue eyes full of sympathy beneath feathery white lashes, I nodded lightly. I tried not to betray how happy I was to hear those words. He would be my protector.

  If there is one thing that Tynan is good at, it is accepting people for who they are. He once said to me: “It’s not like you’re ugly or even plain. It’s more like you exist simply to fade into the background. Is that your aim? There’s nothing extraordinary about your looks, but you’re clearly pretty. I don’t know how you do that. You must work hard at appearing to disappear.”

  He was right. I wanted to skate through life unnoticed, unquestioned.

  Another time a teacher had described me as shy and Tynan piped up right away in my defence: “She’s quiet, not shy. There’s a difference.”

  There is a difference, subtle though it may be. Shy implies I have something to say but I keep it to myself out of fear. I am quiet, waiting for the words. Whatever it is that needs to be said by me is lying dormant somewhere, holding still until it is stirred.

  I feel a stirring coming on.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ellie

  I walk past Stokes’ Fish ‘n’ Chips up the hill along Little Tub Harbour. It’s the first week of November, two weeks after my twenty-second birthday. The chill in the air is biting and yet reassuring; reminding us all that winter will once again invade and dominate.

  My blonde hair is flying in the wind so I reach a gloved hand up to sweep it over my left shoulder. Clad in my autumn uniform of a Nordic sweater, black tights and hiking boots, I hug myself tightly. I am safe.

  I work at the local dive shop. I’ve been here two months and am amazed at the breadth of knowledge I’m expected to have regarding diving and diving equipment. I was hired as a favour to my mom. The owner of the shop, Dave, is in her drumming circle and after hearing my mother complain for months about my unemployment, he finally broke down and offered me a position. I have a sinking suspicion that Frances described me as a “quick learner”. The thing is, learning how to properly bag groceries is a far cry from gleaning the seemingly impossible intricacies involved with diving in Northern Ontario.

  Living in Tobermory all my life however, I do know that divers are an interesting bunch. Misfit daredevils, bored mommies, overconfident tourists, Tobermory sees them all and they come from all over the world. This is another reason I tell myself that I have no need to travel. The world truly does come to me.

  On any given day there are travellers from places like Germany, Japan and Joplin, Mississippi. For the past two months I’ve been pretending to know what I’m talking about to all of them. Thankfully, there is usually an instructor around for questions that could result in life or death.

  Today a group of men in their fifties are in the shop looking around and laughing with each other. Dave is explaining something about oxygen tanks to them and every so often I feel him look in my direction, waiting for me to come over and learn something, or hoping I’ll take on the knowledge through osmosis.

  A couple of the men wander from the tank discussion and begin to look at the dive suits. Over and over in my mind I tell them not to approach me and not to ask any questions. Unbelievably though, one of them dares to ignore my silent plea.

  “What’s the temperature rating of this dive suit?” he asks from behind a rack of suits. He has a bit of what sounds like an Irish accent, muddled over time by years in Canada perhaps.

  “Uh, I’m pretty sure it indicates the rating on the tag there,” I say. I’m not sure at all, but I pretend otherwise hoping my guess is correct. Thankfully it is.

  “Oh yes! Thank you, of course,” he says with a laugh as though it’s impossible I could have offended him.

  It never ceases to amaze me how happy people are to be here. I mean, I like it here, but I have to. They like it because of its beauty, its promise. There is something so untarnished and real about this place. We adapt to the land. We don’t expect it to adapt to us. It wouldn’t in any case.

  The man takes a step towards me and then turns to look me in the face. For a second, he looks su
rprised. I can only surmise that he didn’t expect me to be so young, but he remains quiet for another thirty seconds, just staring at me. “Is everything ok?” I ask, finally.

  “Yes, of course,” he laughs self-deprecatingly. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “Are you Irish?”

  Again, he laughs. He puts his hands in the pockets of his down-filled vest and shifts closer to me. “I am. You’ve got a good ear. I lived in Limerick until I was twenty and then moved to London. Ontario, not England. I’ve lived there ever since.”

  “Ah I see, that would explain the muddle,” I reply, hoping to sound more confident than I feel.

  He appears charmed by my cheekiness. “Do you dive, my dear?”

  “Oh God, no!” I shout in spite of myself. “I mean, I’ve never been able to muster the courage.”

  Now he laughs loudly. “You live in the diving capital of Canada and you’ve never gone diving?” He’s doubtful and yet amused.

  I wave a hand in front of my face, “Don’t get me wrong, I love the lake. I love water! There’s just something about diving into the unknown that frightens me. And all those shipwrecks? They freak me out. I’m sure you’ll hear all about our town’s history during your stay here. People love to talk about it.”

  “I see,” is all he replies with a gentle smile. He steps closer to me and I think I notice what looks like a flicker of sadness in his clear blue eyes. It’s there for a millisecond and then it’s gone. I wonder for a moment if I’ve said something wrong.

  “So you must be part of that private charter group, eh?”

  “Yes, exactly. We’re here for one week of diving and then next week, we’ll just hang out…maybe do some hiking. Our plans aren’t too firm.”

  “Are you going to the Fathom Five?” I ask him. It’s a National Park and a favourite dive site for tourists because of all the islands and shipwrecks it holds.