by Scott Blum
As Martika collected her thoughts, one of the spirit babies floated down from above and hovered between the fire and its mother. I was surprised that no one seemed to see the baby, although I received a pointed gesture of acknowledgment from Uncle Wayne when he noticed that I was also aware of our guests.
“You were my second child,” Martika said in the direction of the spirit hovering in front of her. “I was very young when I found out I was pregnant with you—I was only seventeen years old. I was overwhelmed with taking care of my first child, and when I found out I was pregnant again …”
Martika’s voice cracked, and she attempted to wipe away tears with the back of her hand before continuing.
“When I found out I was pregnant again,” she repeated softly, “I left my baby and my husband—I ran away from both of them. And when I was gone … I just couldn’t bear the thought of caring for another child …”
She broke down sobbing and bent over so her forehead rested on the ground, her body shuddering with every whimper. It was painful to watch the agony my friend was going through, although I had a strong feeling it was inappropriate to comfort her at that moment—she had to deal with this alone. After a long, emotional cry, Martika sat back up and looked directly at the spirit baby, who was still hovering in front of the fire.
“… so I made them take you away from me—from my body. And you were gone. Gone forever.”
Martika took a deep breath before continuing.
“I’m sorry I didn’t want you. I wasn’t strong enough to be your mother. Anybody’s mother. I just couldn’t do it. I hurt you deeply, and I’m eternally sorry. I just couldn’t be your mother …”
Her words trailed off, and still shaking, she turned to Uncle Wayne. Even as the fire continued to roar, there was a palpable chill in the air that blew over us all.
Uncle Wayne nodded and began to speak directly to the first spirit baby, who was now looking in the Road Man’s direction.
“It is time for you to go. You go to spirit world now. That is your home.”
He began to chant in his native tongue and gesticulated dramatically in the direction of the spirit baby. He continued praying for several minutes before picking up a narrow white tubular object from among the ceremonial items laid out in front of him. He brought the slender animal bone to his lips and blew, coaxing out a high-pitched whistle.
The spirit baby visibly shuddered and appeared to be sucked toward the fire with every note. Suddenly the essence connected with the raging fire and shot up the flames and out the top of the tipi. As soon as it was gone, the Cedar Man rushed over with his beaded pouch and threw a generous handful of dried cedar into the fire. The needles smoked and crackled, seemingly ushering the baby’s spirit to the next world.
Uncle Wayne nodded approvingly at the Cedar Man before returning his gaze to Martika.
“Continue,” he said to her confidently.
Without warning a second spirit baby descended from above and floated into position, patiently waiting for its mother to speak.
“You were my third child,” Martika continued, letting out an exhausted sigh. “I became pregnant with you while your father was still married to someone else. I didn’t want you because I wasn’t sure if he and I would be together. I didn’t want to further complicate the relationship.”
Martika’s sobs continued as everyone’s eyes were glued to her.
“We married the following year and remained together for seventeen years. But I never told your father about you—I thought he would leave me if he found out.”
The second spirit baby began to spin around in place, faster and faster.
“I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry with me. But yesterday I mailed him a letter and told him everything. He will know soon.”
The baby slowly came to a halt, and its gaze softened. I felt a connection open between the infant and its mother, and a sense of peace filled the tipi.
“I will always love you as my third child. You are worthy of my love, and I will never again hide you from anyone.”
Martika pressed her fists firmly to her eyes for several seconds before continuing. She turned to Uncle Wayne and uttered two words:
“That’s it.”
Without missing a beat, Uncle Wayne retrieved the bone whistle and began to speak to the floating infant.
“It is time for you to go. You go to spirit world now. That is your home.”
The Road Man repeated his chants and passionately blew the whistle, and the Cedar Man returned to the fire and sprinkled a generous handful of needles, which filled the tipi with smoke. The baby followed the path of its sibling and floated into the flames and out the tipi’s peak to its new home.
With his free hand, Uncle Wayne retrieved the rattle and once again accompanied Keyan in the percussive duet they had begun hours before. The drumbeat was precise and insistent, while the rattle sounded more emphatic and purposeful than it had before. Periodically, the bone whistle sounded; and when its piercing, shrill notes reached our ears, another spirit baby would descend from the floating nursery above us. It would then connect with the fire at the precise moment that another handful of cedar was cast onto the flames, crackling and smoking, propelling the infant soul up and out of the tipi.
Drum. Rattle. Drum. Rattle. Drum. Rattle. Rattle.
The ensemble repeated its refrain as the fire rose higher and higher toward the sky, licking the air inside the canvas walls of the tipi with its scorching orange tongue.
Whistle. Whistle. Crackle. Roar.
By the time the last baby departed, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I was in awe of the raw stamina Uncle Wayne had displayed during the relentless refrain, but I no longer had the energy to remain fully present.
The ceremony lasted for several hours longer, and I essentially checked out mentally and spent the rest of the night staring out the peak of the tipi where the babies had exited. I watched for hours as the pinhole constellations revealed the next world, where the children would finally be able to live in peace.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Summer came quickly that year, and our lives had nearly returned to normal by the time of the solstice. Ashland was always a beautiful town, but the warmest season of the year attracted hordes of tourists to the Shakespearean theaters, spurring a flurry of activity on par with a city five times its size. Many locals avoided the downtown area during the summer for that very reason, but I would often enjoy the surge of energy the visitors brought with them.
Madisyn and I were outside as often as possible and made a point of visiting the many hidden gems showcasing Ashland’s natural beauty. Our favorite place was the Fairy Ponds at the edge of town, and we spent as much free time as we could exploring, and soaking in its charms. One of the most magical settings in all of Ashland, it felt like a medieval forest shrouded by natural arbors of hundred-year-old trees stretching majestically along the creek. A suite of shallow ponds gave the water a place to rest before rushing across the smoothed rocks and fallen branches along the meandering waterway. “Did you see her in the tipi?” Madisyn asked one day after perching on a favorite boulder adjacent to one of the smaller ponds.
“No.” I knew when she was talking about Autumn because of the way she always arched her left eyebrow in the shape of a bassinet. “But I had an epiphany about how to remain present, and supportive of her transition.”
“What was that?”
“It’s hard to describe, but it boils down to acting more like a father and less like a friend.”
“I think that’s an ongoing challenge of being a parent.” She smiled.
“Probably.” I picked up a twig and tossed it upstream. We both watched as it deftly navigated around the maze of rocks before gracefully floating out of sight. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s any point in having the ability to communicate with spirits in other dimensions.”
“I know.” She laughed. “Why can’t they just leave us alone?”
Although Mad
isyn’s psychic gifts were much different from my own, she was also burdened by supernatural communication. I was sure I would have gone crazy if my life partner hadn’t been able to relate to what I was going through.
“Exactly,” I agreed. “It would be much easier if the only voices we heard were those of the people physically in the room with us.”
She nodded sympathetically.
“It’s hard enough to learn how we’re supposed to act in the world with all the different types of people on this planet. Everyone has different wants and needs, and it’s so easy to say or do the wrong thing even in the best of situations. But when you have to balance that with the expectations of disincarnate souls, it’s almost impossible to make everyone happy.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if we were born with instruction manuals?” Madisyn asked rhetorically. “Something that would explain all the rules about how we’re supposed to live.”
“That sounds like a good idea—maybe you should write one.”
“Maybe I will.” She smiled. “But at least we’re lucky we weren’t raised in families whose religious beliefs would demonize us or make us feel bad about our gifts.”
“That’s true—that would be horrible. But are psychic gifts really that special, or is everyone born with them? I mean, don’t we all have the ability to tune in to other dimensions if we simply nurture it?”
Madisyn shrugged. “Probably.”
“Because it seems like everyone has had at least one experience in life when they’ve felt some sort of communication from the other side.”
“Like when you think about a friend right before they call—”
“Exactly,” I interrupted. “Or when you have a bad feeling before turning down a dark alley.”
“Right. What people don’t seem to understand is that everyday intuition is the most basic form of supernatural communication. They assume that there needs to be a huge ‘sign from above’ before they will believe it’s happening to them.” Madisyn wasn’t usually a fan of “air quotes,” but in this case she couldn’t help herself.
“It seems to me that we’re all born with intuitive abilities. Look at children—they don’t have the same preconceived ideas about what is real or imagined. They just look at all of the information they are getting as part of their lives.”
“Like imaginary friends.” Madisyn smiled.
“Who’s to say that those friends don’t exist? In fact, many of my best friends have been imaginary.” We both laughed.
“But then society tries to convince us that certain feelings aren’t real,” I noted. “Over time we’re conditioned to deaden our feelings with huge intellectual calluses that give us only a fraction of the intuitive ability we’re born with. Perhaps it was helpful during the past few centuries to put our intuitive gifts on hold, allowing us to evolve faster in the fields of science and technology.”
“The gift of tunnel vision.”
“Precisely. But isn’t it time to get out our psychic loofahs and scrub off our intellectual calluses so we can become whole again? We now have computers and biotechnologies, but at what cost?”
“They should let us rule the world,” Madisyn said dryly.
“Yeah—we could revamp the educational system and require formal metaphysical training for everyone. Starting with Intuitive Finger Painting in preschool and continuing through Conscious Business and the Art of Soulful Finance for MBA candidates.”
“Isn’t all finger painting intuitive?”
“Exactly. But very little finance is soulful.”
Madisyn nodded thoughtfully, and an impish smirk crept onto her face. “And once all the schools were fixed, we could outlaw mullets and gas guzzlers and hippie sandals …”
“Hey, wait! I like my hippie sandals!”
“I know you do.” She rolled her eyes.
It was nice to see Madisyn in a lighthearted mood after all the intensity that had plagued the previous several months. There was nothing like a miscarriage to dampen a playful spirit.
At that moment a bright blue dragonfly appeared from nowhere and hovered between us. It floated for several seconds and turned from one of us to the other, appearing to look directly into our eyes.
I reflected on how Autumn had often revealed herself as a dragonfly in the past. “Did you see that?” I asked Madisyn after it had flown away. “It looked just like …”
Madisyn nodded as a knowing smile shaped her lips. “Speaking of such things …”
“What?”
“You know.”
“Are you … ?”
“I am.”
“Pregnant?” I wanted to be sure I was following the discussion.
“Of course, pregnant! What else would I be talking about? I peed on the stick just before we left the house—pluses all around. Although I’ve been pretty sure since yesterday.”
“Wow.” I gave her a hug. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, her eyes beginning to water.
“I’m sure it will be much easier this time.” I did my best to comfort her through my embrace.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It’s a good sign that you’re having so much nausea,” Madisyn’s obstetrician and every armchair physician we knew would opine. “It means the baby is healthy.”
Of course, that didn’t make my wife feel any better, especially after going days without consuming more than a tablespoon-sized gulp of water. By then I was spending multiple hours each day driving to and from every store in Ashland so I could gather anything rumored to curb nausea or be mild enough for Madisyn’s stomach. She would have good days and bad, although the bad ones were quickly starting to outnumber the good.
Fortunately, she was having a good day when the eighteen-week ultrasound had been scheduled. We had gone to several imaging appointments during the first pregnancy, and each would result in more blood tests and medical appointments. But this was the first ultrasound of the second pregnancy, and we were both very excited.
Madisyn disrobed and reclined on the whitesheeted examining table, as she had before. The small linoleum room remained exactly as it had been previously, from the gallery of black-andwhite fetus images lining the walls, to the imposing metallic-tubed cart barely containing all the computers, television monitors, and wires that would produce the images we had come for.
“Howdy!” the most chipper lab technician I’d ever seen squeaked as she bounced through the door while flipping through Madisyn’s chart. “I see you came in for baby’s first pictures!”
Her demeanor was much more suited to a preschool talent show than a doctor’s office; however, on this day I appreciated her unrelenting optimism. During the multiple appointments connected with the first pregnancy, her personality had definitely worn thin, but since we were starting anew, it was good to be reminded of the joy we were hoping for.
“Should I put my feet in the stirrups?” My wife sighed in resignation, eyeing the invasive wand that she had become quite familiar with during previous visits.
“Let’s try the old-fashioned way first.” The technician giggled as she lifted Madisyn’s gown and squeezed a tube of clear gel onto her lower belly. “Oops—that might be a bit chilly!”
She then retrieved a small brick-shaped paddle from its holster and began smearing the gel with the white plastic cube. The black-and-white television screen blinked to life. At first the monitor revealed the familiar scene of jumbled pixels we were used to from previous visits. I imagined a postmodern video artist hiding in the next room while muttering in a mock-French accent, “I call it Snow Falling on Ocean #32.”
Unexpectedly, the sea blizzard coalesced into an image resembling something much more recognizable.
It. Was. A. Baby.
“Do you see that?” I gasped while squeezing my wife’s hand.
“Uh-huh.”
The impersonal computer monitor had transformed into a miraculous window into the wonderland with
in my wife’s belly, and there was no mistaking what was living inside—a squirming fetus with tiny arms, minuscule fingers, and a massive head that looked at least three times too big for the little body. Before, we had been lucky to see a darkened circle with a glowing halo, but this time it was a baby. A real baby. I was so enthralled that I forgot to breathe for several seconds.
Madisyn and I smiled at each other, and I could see tears of joy pooling at the corners of her eyes. Those tears said more than a four hundred–page novel could ever begin to capture. The joy. The relief. The hope. The surrender.
As the technician shifted the plastic cube, a bright light began pulsing in the center of the screen.
“What’s that blinking?” Madisyn asked with a concerned tone.
“That’s your baby’s heart!” The technician giggled again as she began tapping on the attached keyboard. “One hundred fifty-three beats per minute.”
“That seems like a lot—are you sure that’s okay?”
“Perfectly normal. Your baby seems perfectly healthy in every way.”
She then pressed a button and froze the image on the computer monitor and began drawing lines along different areas of the baby. Every time she would complete a line, she would mumble a measurement to herself and quickly enter it on the keyboard before unfreezing the image. As she continued, the images looked less like a baby and more like a study in abstract expressionism. The faux-French video artist was smiling again.
Rotate. Freeze. Draw. Measure. Type. Repeat.
It was impressive how quickly she was able to collect the array of measurements, although her gentle approach became decidedly more forceful as she began to dig the plastic cube deep into Madisyn’s abdomen to get the final angles. In less than two minutes flat, she had collected enough measurements for an Italian tailor specializing in the finest of womb wear.
“Hmm.” The technician’s permanent smile faltered slightly as she pursed her lips.
“What’s wrong?” asked Madisyn.
“Well, I should probably let your doctor tell you about this, but …” She paused as if to weigh the professional ramifications of spilling the beans. “… I’m just seeing a few unexplained masses that concern me.”