by John Edward
“It damn sure isn’t forgotten,” POTUS said. “It will be remembered on Earth for one million years, if the Earth is around that long.”
“Mr. President, sir, do you understand now?” IRA asked, showing the patience of a first grade teacher teaching someone how to read.
“I do. I got it,” POTUS replied.
POTUS said that he understood, but now he was actually trying to work it out in his mind. He could understand the level of pain and grief and suffering that one family feels, but to multiply that by the millions of lives that Hitler was responsible for ending, then that pain had to be enormous.
As he was considering this, he suddenly found himself back in the Governing Hall of Wisdom, though whether he returned of his own volition, or was brought back by IRA he didn’t know.
Hitler was still there, but he no longer even looked like Hitler to him. Now he looked like a soul in torment. Earlier, POTUS had recognized him as he was, so he could reconnect with his earthly historical perspective and human judgment. Only in this way, could he grow.
“He has no voice here,” the Governor went on. “At his death he made a choice not to join the Dark Forces for whom he had worked throughout his earthly life. His power died with him, and it will take an eternity for him to regain his voice, if he ever does, and to be accepted in the company of the good, if he ever is. His presence at this Council is the ultimate caution to any who would presume to act in a way contrary to the will of the Source.”
The President, who had now received more knowledge and revelation than he could possibly absorb, stared at the apparition of Hitler even as he heard the strange words spoken by the Governor. “So he, too, is here for a greater purpose. But the pure evil he unleashed upon so many innocent people during his lifetime … How can that ever be forgiven, even by a loving Creator? Is there no limit to the evil that the Source can tolerate?”
“There is no question of toleration. Every small act that opposes the good and every global act of darkness that destroys men, women, and children on the planet Earth is abhorrent to the divine. Yes, great evil must be punished on a grand scale, more than a little lie or bad act. Look at him and you will see the price that can be—and must be—paid. There is a divine scale in Heaven. It has less to do with the so-called wrath of God and more a system of checks and balances.”
The pitiful creature, so out of place in the company of saints and sages.
“And is it not better that he is here for now, rather than among his onetime dark allies? He is, in fact, free at any time to join them, to leave us. It is his choice, so his own free will is now the means by which he suffers the eternal fires of hell.”
“It is very difficult for me to accept this,” the President replied.
He could not unlock his eyes from those of the pitiful remnant of a man who stood before him with crossed hands.
“We require that you first accept your own situation. You understand that you have been chosen to be here at this time, and that we seek your help in the fight that lies ahead. There is no time, in this reality, to hesitate or to doubt.”
“I am here to effect the change I was not able to accomplish in my lifetime. The Source has a new purpose for me.” POTUS did not speak these words, but he heard them, none the less. As did the Governor and the Council of Elders.
Then a curtain fell between him and the Council, and suddenly, unexpectedly, IRA appeared at his side. POTUS now felt less startled at the phenomenon of rapid change in his environment. It seemed to happen with increasing frequency on the Other Side. He was quickly getting used to these swift comings and goings and changes in perspective in this still-new place.
He could tell by IRA’s quick, jerky movements that he was prompting POTUS to move to another place.
Where? What is happening now? What am I supposed to be doing?
* * *
Then his vision cleared all too sharply and suddenly. It was night … and he no longer knew sleep. Constant wakefulness and never a moment of tiredness in this realm.
He saw it happening and was absolutely helpless to prevent it. He did not know who was perpetrating the crime against his own son, his family, or why. He could see his wife going about her business in the aftermath of his death, not yet knowing what was happening to their son. Every emotion he had ever experienced as father and husband came flooding back into his consciousness. If he could shed tears … but he could not.
Marcus Jackson, Jr. was being abducted at this moment in time, in this segment of eternity.
Part
THREE
CHAPTER
60
New York
Singers, dancers, actors who could not go out in public without being inundated by that public, could come to the rehearsal hall and prepare for their appearances without being bothered by unwanted attention. That is because the people who worked at the rehearsal hall, the janitors, the plumbers and electricians, the manager and the secretaries were accustomed to famous performers rehearsing for an upcoming show.
But it was different with Charlene. Her voice had never been better, sweeter, purer, or more powerful. As she sang the songs she would sing during her show in Mexico City, the rehearsal hall employees, jaded though they were, would gather in the dark shadows of the far corner of the hall, just to listen.
Tom Colandrea, a tough-as-nails, sixty-two-year-old marine vet, who had held his friends as their life bled away in far-off wars, found his throat choked up, and his eyes welled with tears, as he listened to the music. Melinda Peterson, a secretary whose father had died one month earlier, could actually feel his presence. There were no jokes, no conversation, but there was a mutual sharing, and understanding of the feelings that washed over them as they listened. It wasn’t just the purity and sweetness of the music. It was the lyrics, words that unlocked a secret longing in everyone’s soul.
I dreamed a dream that day
Of lost love on a beach so far away
A time and place that I can feel
Oh please tell me that it is real
Charlene would be introducing the song for the first time at her show in Mexico City. The words and melody had poured out in a long, unbroken stream of consciousness—not one word changed or altered, not one note rearranged.
It had been six weeks since she left the hospital, and Pam had moved in with her, to help her prepare for the show. The preparations weren’t physical, Pam would be the first to say that she had no musical talent. Nor did she have an idea of the type of costumes Charlene should wear—that was Sue’s purview—or how the stage should be set, or the mechanics of the show, that came under Paul’s bailiwick. Pam had taken upon herself to get Charlene mentally, and even more importantly, spiritually prepared for what was to be her farewell performance.
“I have always thought that God manifested Himself through the art of His people,” Pam said. “And from the first time I heard you sing, I knew that you were channeling His love. But never, ever, have I felt more of God’s presence than I do now, listening to you sing. And your new song, ‘Time in a Dream,’ is unbelievably moving. I can’t explain how, but there is no doubt in my mind that when you had that attack, you actually did stand in the presence of God.”
Charlene had told Pam, Sue, and Paul about her unique experience standing on a beach somewhere, talking with her father and with Ryan.
“There is no God,” Charlene said.
“Charlene!” Pam gasped. “How can you, of all people, say such a thing? You stood before Him. You saw Ryan, you spoke with him. And you saw your father again.”
“I dreamed of Ryan, and of Daddy,” Charlene said. “And that wasn’t the first time I ever dreamed about them. I have dreamed of them many times.”
“Let me ask you something. Have any of your dreams ever been as intense as the experience you described to me?”
“No, but then I’ve never had a heart attack before, either.”
“Where did ‘Time in a Dream’ come from?”
“What do you mean where did it come from? I wrote it,” Charlene said. “It certainly isn’t the only song I’ve ever written.”
“No, it isn’t. But you have always had to struggle before, changing words, changing notes, often abandoning one idea to go off on another entirely different tangent. But this one, you said yourself, came streaming from your mind as quickly as you could put the words on paper.”
“It just happened that way,” Charlene said.
“No, it didn’t ‘just happen that way.’ That song was inspired.”
“If you say so,” Charlene said.
“Charlene, I don’t know why you, of all people, can’t believe.”
“If it was true, Pam, I would have stayed there, on that beach, with Ryan and my father. Don’t you understand? I didn’t want to come back!”
“Didn’t you say Ryan told you that God had work for you to do? That’s why you came back.”
“Right,” Charlene said sarcastically. “Some work. I have a growing tumor behind my heart that is killing me. Whatever work you think God has for me will have to be done pretty darn fast.”
“I wish I could make you understand,” Pam said. “But true understanding, like true faith, has to come from within. I think the time will come when you will know.”
“When will I know? And just what am I gonna know? I don’t have much time left.”
“You will know when you know,” Pam said.
Charlene laughed. “That’s very profound, Pam.”
Despite herself, Pam laughed with her.
Charlene heard the phone ring, and heard her mother answer it. Like Pam, her mother would not take no for an answer and had insisted on moving in with her.
“Charlene, honey,” Louise said, bringing the phone to her. “It’s Paul.”
Paul was already in Mexico City, having gone ahead to make all the arrangements, and make sure that the hotels and venues were ready and secure.
“Hello, Paul,” Charlene said. “How is it going down there?”
“I’m doing what has to be done,” Paul replied. “But how do you feel? Do you still feel up to it? The reason I ask is because it’s not too late to cancel.”
“I feel fine, Paul.”
Louise reached out. “Charlene, let me talk to Paul.”
“Mama wants to talk to you,” Charlene said.
“Paul,” Louise said. “Are you sure you can keep my little girl safe down there? I’ve been reading about Mexico, and Mexico City in the papers, and seeing stories about it on the TV. All those killin’s, and the kidnappings and everything. You know those drug cartel people would love nothing better than to get hold of someone like Charlene. That place is pure evil. I don’t know why you ever booked a show there in the first place.”
“Louise, don’t worry. The President of the United States wouldn’t have more security than I’m arranging for Charlene.”
“Forgive me, but I am not all that impressed, given the fact that we are right now mourning the death of our President. How do you know that the Mexicans that are supposed to be guarding Charlene won’t kidnap her themselves? I’ve read about all the corruption in their police force. And you know that any private security force you might hire there would be even more corrupt.”
“Okay, the presidential analogy may not have been the best. But we aren’t using Mexican security,” Paul said. “I’ve already arranged for our own security. Trust me, nothing is going to happen to her while she is here.”
“I don’t like it, but I am going to trust you, Paul,” Louise said. “What other choice do I have?”
After discussing a few more last minute details with Charlene, she punched the call off and handed the phone back to her mother.
“I wish I could go with you,” Pam said. “I would go, if I hadn’t agreed, six months ago, to a seminar at Georgetown… but maybe I could get out of it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pam,” Charlene said. “You signed on to do that seminar six months ago. You know that the school has made all the arrangements for it already. If you backed out now, it could be disastrous for any future speaking engagements.”
“You just be careful, Charlene. You hear me? You be very careful while you are down there.”
Sue called Pam and asked her to come help her for a moment. Louise went into the kitchen to help Lucien, and Charlene found herself alone. It was funny, before her—Paul called it an “incident”—Charlene had spent a lot of time alone. Now, it seemed, there was someone with her all the time and she found this unexpected and brief period of solitude welcome.
She went over to sit on the window box seat and looked out over the expanse of her lawn. She looked for her furry, gray-tailed Mr. Fitzpatrick, but didn’t see him.
* * *
“Ryan, what is this all about?” Charlene asked. “You said God wants a favor. What kind of favor?”
“I will try and explain it to you,” Ryan said. “But I will only be able to open the window a tiny crack. You will have to open the door to understanding yourself.
“There are positive and negative forces in the Universe, and the veil between those forces is weakening as the Dark Forces are gaining strength. We are all a blank slate when we come into our physical form, and our ability to make choices, our free will as it were, is being lobbied by these positive and negative political forces.”
“Ryan, you are saying things like positive and negative forces, but what you are talking about is simply good and evil, isn’t it?” Charlene asked.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand. Oh, I understand good and evil all right. But I don’t understand what role I can play.”
“There is a war brewing, a war of Armageddon proportions, and souls are at stake. Believe me, Charlene. You can make a difference.”
* * *
Charlene was startled back to the present. Had she just now dozed off for a moment and dreamed that? Had she just experienced a vivid memory? No, it was much too vibrant, much too real to simply have been a dream, a memory, or even a hallucination. She had actually gone back, had actually revisited that moment! But how? How could that be? Is there really a God who moves in such mysterious ways?
That reminded her of the hymn by William Cowper. She had sung it in church when she was twelve years old, her very first public performance.
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
She remembered a story she had read about Cowper, how he was often depressed, and once became so depressed that he decided to throw himself into the Thames River. He hired a cab and told the driver to take him to the river, but a heavy fog moved in, and the driver couldn’t find his way. He wandered around lost until, in a pique, Cowper told him to just let him out and he would find his own way. He was surprised to find that after the aimless wandering around in the fog, the driver had let him out in front of his own doorstep. He believed then that God had sent the fog to help him find his way home, to safety, a changed and renewed man.
* * *
On the day Charlene was to leave for Mexico City, she stood in front of a small table in the bedroom she had shared with Ryan. The table was her own little shrine to him: a picture of him, their wedding picture, one of the footballs that had been used in that Super Bowl game, signed by all the players (Ryan had paid a fortune for that), and most treasured by her, the dried blue rose he had given her.
She took off her wedding and engagement ring and placed them next to the rose. It had been reported in every newspaper, magazine, and on every talk show that Charlene had never removed her rings. Now it was done. So she thought. Now it was time to move on. She didn’t have much time left.
CHAPTER
61
New York
“I have dealt with these syndromes before,” one pop-psychiatrist guest on a highly rated, afternoon talk show said. “She is showing classic traits of defense mechanism, arisin
g due to traumatic loss. In other words, she is in a state of denial, and as long as she continues to wear the rings, she will be able to convince herself that her husband is still alive.”
“Is that bad, Doctor?” the host asked, the expression on her face one of sympathy and concern, shared with the millions of regular viewers of her afternoon show.
“Yes, it is very bad,” the psychiatrist replied. “It is a failure to grasp reality, and I fear that if she does not get therapy soon, she may never recover.”
* * *
She knew that as soon as she hit the airport terminal, someone in the popular press would see that she had removed her rings and was ready to move on. They should only know.
When Charlene got to the airport, the car was stopped by security guards. Because the rear windows were tinted, they made Raymond put them down. They looked inside the car from both sides. Charlene stared straight ahead, not wanting to get into any conversation with a fan, but to her surprise, and if she were honest with herself, her chagrin, they did not seem to recognize her. Instead they went about their duty, mechanically, and professionally.
They made Raymond open the hood so they could look at the engine. Then they held mirrors attached to long sticks under the car. A dog sniffed all around the car before they were allowed to proceed. Charlene noticed they were doing the same screening to every car that came onto the airport grounds.
Raymond passed by the passenger terminals and drove straight to the general aviation hangar. Ryan had always had a private jet complete with crew, and after his death Charlene had kept them on. That was one of the things she most appreciated. Because of that, she was able to avoid flying commercially. In addition to the general hassle of commercial flying, she found it impossible to fly commercially without being recognized. Then she would have to undergo a flight-long dissertation on how her music had changed the passenger’s life, allowed them to find love, or to cope with the death of a loved one.