When The Spirit Moves You

by Thomas DePrima

  "At least all of you had an opportunity to spend your lives with your husbands and children," Megan said. "I feel so cheated."

  "I know, Meg," Arlene said sympathetically. "It wasn't fair to you. And at the time, I thought that it was the end of your mortal life, which would have been far worse. I'm grateful that you're able to continue with your life here. At least that makes up a little for the other loss."

  "But I didn't get to marry Tad," Martha sniffled. "Now he's gone and I'll never see him again. Life isn't fair."

  "You'll see him again one day, dear. But for now we just have to go forward and live out our lives in these bodies, as was originally intended."

  "It'll never be the same as before," Erin said. "You, Renee, and I have all lived very happy and complete lifetimes already. What can the future hold that we haven't already experienced?"

  "You don't really feel that way, do you, Er?" Arlene asked. "I mean, you don't feel like you'd like to end your life or anything?"

  "No, but I miss my husband and my family. I'd give anything to be able to go back again, even if I had to do it all over from the start like we talked about with the looping paradox."

  "I know, dear. I'd trade the next sixty years here to have just one more year with Jeremy. But that's not possible. At least we have something comforting that most people don't. We know, for a fact, that there is an afterlife. We've personally spoken to the people that have crossed over. We know that we'll see our husbands, children, and all our loved ones again one day, and that our love will continue for eternity. So there's no need to rush the date we join them."

  * * *

  One bright Saturday morning, a few weeks later, Arlene walked alone to the city library. Using the microfilm reader, she read though the old newspaper accounts of the Westfield family. For the most part it was like a wonderful walk down memory lane as she read about her former life— and death. How many people get to read their final obituary? She had received wonderful write ups in the local papers, which praised her contributions to charities and community as they traced her life from marriage into the Westfield family, through her years as wife and mother, and then as grande dame and matriarch of the family. The list of surviving family members was long. The town had virtually closed down on the day of her funeral, and the date was honored for many years thereafter. Growing up, she had never known, nor could she have even suspected, that Westfield Park in the center of town had been renamed for her in the days immediately following her death.

  She took the time to trace the history of all her children, to the extent possible from the microfilm records, and it saddened her that they had all passed away so long ago. Her first child, Jeremy Jr., had been born more than 120 years ago. Outliving most family members instills an incredible loneliness in your heart; the loneliness that can only arise from the loss of so many loved ones, and which is never long absent from your thoughts. She knew that some of her grandchildren must still be living, and many of her other descendents, the ones who had attended her last birthday party, would certainly still be alive and well. But she also knew that she could never contact them and inform them that she was their great, or great, great grandmother. Can you imagine how ridiculous that would sound coming from the mouth of a sixteen-year-old? Yet she ached to have contact with her other family again.

  Finding some humorous accounts of her family's chronicles, she was able to cheer herself up, and even giggled a little, but tears filled her eyes and she wept silently as she read Jeremy's obituary. Throughout their years together, he had never ceased to both like her and love her, and she him. He was her one true love and she doubted she would ever meet another like him.

  Finally, she happened upon an account of Peter's death in the skies over France. She began to weep uncontrollably as she read the article and again relived the utter agony of that day so long ago when she had received the telegram. Peter had been her youngest, her baby, and she had been so proud of him. A young female librarian, hearing her pitiful sobs, came over and tried to console her. Arlene quickly wiped her nose and eyes and hurried from the library, leaving a very confused librarian wondering how an almost century old newspaper article could cause such a reaction.

  Wandering aimlessly for a time, lost in her thoughts, Arlene found herself down near the waterfront when she regained her placidity. Having listened to the weather report earlier in the day, she knew that a storm was making its way up the coast, but for now the sky was a brilliant blue with just a few white puffy clouds. The temperature was comfortable, and there was a freshening breeze. As she walked along the port, she saw small boat owners working industriously to better secure their boats before the storm arrived, while several ships completed preparations to get underway.

  Arlene loved it down here. She remembered back to when she and Jeremy had first walked along the shore, holding hands while they talked about their future together, and later, when they had walked along, still holding hands like teenagers, while they talked about the decades of happiness they had shared. The small wooden sailing ships of those early days were gone, replaced by steel behemoths that could easily sail around the world beneath calm skies, but some things hadn't really changed that much.

  Sitting down with her back against a tree, the powerful smell of saltwater assailing her nostrils, she looked out at the ocean and contemplated her future. What would she do with herself now? She had already lived a very full lifetime, loved and been loved, and traveled the world. But after living eighty-two years, she was back in the body of a sixteen-year-old high school student.

  Prior to her travel into the past, Arlene hadn't developed a clear plan for her future, but given her lifetime of experiences, she decided now that a career as an author might fill the void she felt. And for her first story, she wanted to tell of her other life. But would anybody believe her? Could anybody believe her? Promoting it as a work of fiction, she concluded, would enable her to tell the story without fear of being ridiculed.

  Opening her notebook, she began to write, 'Her youthful face a study in intense concentration, Arlene Watson absentmindedly brushed several stray red hairs away from eyes of vivid cobalt blue as she focused on the exquisite tarot cards arrayed…'

  * * *

  Epilogue

  It was just a few weeks before Arlene returned to college to begin her junior year that the dark-green Lincoln sedan pulled up in front of the house. An elderly, stately-looking gentleman stepped out and scrutinized the house for several minutes before climbing the steps to the font portico. Mrs. Caruthers, the housekeeper, had just left to do some shopping, the cook was up to her arms in bread dough, and the rest of the family was out, so Arlene closed the book she was reading and walked to the front entranceway when she heard the door chime.

  As she opened the massive left door, the gentleman smiled at her and said, "How do you do, young lady. Do I have the honor of addressing Miss Arlene Watson?"

  "Yes, I'm Arlene Watson."

  "I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance, Cousin Arlene."

  "Cousin Arlene?"

  "Well, I've never been very good at figuring out complicated familial relationships, so I might be a great, great grand uncle or something like that. I find it easier to call all family members 'cousin', as they seem to do in the south. I'm Vincent Westfield."

  Arlene's right hand flew to her face as she stared wide-eyed at the senior citizen in front of her. "Vincent? Oh my God, are you Robert and Hazel's son?"

  "Uh, yes," the man said, slightly taken aback by her reaction and the specifics in the question, "my father was named Robert, although he's been gone since, well, before you were born. My mother, Hazel, passed about twelve years ago."

  "Do please come in, Vincent," Arlene said, composing herself and opening the massive door fully as she stepped aside. "You're most welcome here."

  "Thank you, cousin. I was hoping to have an opportunity to see the interior of the old place again. I spent many wonderful vacations here when I was small. Miss Amelia was
my great grandmother, you know. She passed when I was ten."

  "And this is your first time in the house since then?"

  "Well, since the day of her funeral. Once her will was probated, the house was vacated and then sealed by the trust people according to the instructions left by Nanna. My word," he said, looking around the foyer with amazement, "it's just as I remember it. And it looks brand new."

  "It is almost like a new house," Arlene said. "I wanted the entire downstairs to look as it had when the house was built, so after every square inch was photographed, and molds were made of the original plaster work, the house was quite literally gutted. The upstairs floors had begun to sag, badly in some places, and the electrical wiring and plumbing was hopelessly out of date. The architects I hired suggested that the house be torn down and rebuilt, but I couldn't bear that, so instead they came up with a plan whereby all the walls would be opened and a steel I-beam skeleton erected inside them. After the iron work was completed, the electrical and plumbing replaced, and the exterior walls insulated, the plaster craftsmen, carpenters, and stone masons went to work. They did such a wonderful job restoring the walls to their original condition that you'd never know that they had been touched. We used as much of the original marble and wood as we could salvage, and replaced what couldn't be used by closely matching the color and grain with new. The work was only completed a few months ago."

  "I was afraid that the interior might look like one of these modern houses, all stark and sterile white plasterboard, and totally devoid of character. I'm glad that you appreciate the fine craftsmanship that went into producing a magnificent structure like this."

  "I certainly do. Please, come into the study so we can talk. My cook just made a fresh pot of tea for me."

  Vincent followed her to the study, redecorated after Grandfather Westfield passed away, although he could have led the way, he knew it so well. As he walked he marveled constantly at the refinishing effort.

  "Please, have a seat over here by the terrace door," Arlene said as they entered the study. "I love to sit in here and look out upon the gardens at the rear of the house."

  "That was Nanna's favorite place also," Vincent said as Arlene sat in her usual seat. "She used to sit there for hours, reading or writing, and every once in a while she'd stop and stare out the terrace doors for a while. You have the furniture arranged exactly as she did. Is it original? It looks so new."

  "Yes, it's the same furniture that's been in this room since the house was built. I had everything stripped, refinished, and reupholstered by the best craftsmen in the business."

  "I feel like I've stepped back in time."

  "I know the feeling," Arlene said, as she placed the book she had been carrying onto the coffee table. The signed first edition of The Time Machine by H.G. Wells included a personal note inside the front cover from the author to his friend, Amelia Westfield, whom Herbert had met in Paris while he was still a young school teacher from Wales. As she poured two cups of tea from the still very warm pot, she said, "It would be so wonderful to return to that gentler time."

  "Yes. I sometimes dream about that, but then I wonder if it's only a foolish old man's desire to be young again."

  "No, things were different then. Not so crazy. The world is moving too fast now."

  "That's usually what I hear from older folks like myself, not young women with their entire lives ahead of them."

  "Perhaps I just appreciate older things."

  "After seeing how you've cared for the house, I can agree with that. You seem to have an appreciation far beyond your years. We weren't expecting that."

  "We?"

  "The Westfield clan." Vincent stopped to put a spoonful of sugar into his tea, and add some cream. As he leaned back again, he said, "Uh, I'm here as a sort of a representative. When we learned that the trust had been settled and the mansion had finally been transferred to an heir, we were curious. We've determined that you're a direct descendant of Nanna, but we don't understand how you, specifically, wound up with the inheritance. Could you enlighten me on that?"

  "Are you considering a legal contest of the trust action?"

  "No, of course not. The family surrendered their rights to contest the trust many years ago, and practically had to sign in blood before the lawyers would release the bulk of the estate to the heirs. Of course no one would have imagined that a small trust fund established in the early thirties with fifty thousand dollars would grow into a hundred million before it was transferred to an heir. But Nanna was brilliant with financial matters, and I understand she left very specific investment instructions. Nanna obviously wanted things this way, so this is the way it will be. It was always like that with Nanna. She always got what she wanted."

  "Are you resentful of that?" Arlene asked softly.

  "Resentful? Hell no! Oh, excuse my language." He paused to breathe deeply and release it slowly. "I never resented anything Nanna did, not for a second. She had the wisdom of Solomon, and the personality of— Mary Poppins. We were pals, and I loved her with all my heart, God rest her soul."

  "She loved you too, Vincent; very, very much."

  "I'm sure she did, but how could you know?"

  "Do you have a couple of hours?"

  "Uh, I suppose so."

  "Good. I'd like to tell you a little story. Once upon a time there were four bored teenage girls…"

  Two hours and eighteen minutes later, Arlene finished her story. Vincent had listened quietly and attentively at first, but had grown increasingly uncomfortable and restive. Arlene had decided not to rush to the conclusion, but rather to maintain a steady pace unless he actually got up to leave.

  "… and Erin is in pre-med now, while Renee is working hard to realize her dream of becoming a chemist. Megan married this summer; a young dentist that loves her every bit as deeply as Tad. She's finally happy again."

  Vincent continued to stare at her in silence after she finished.

  "That's the end of the story, Vincent," Arlene said.

  "Do you honestly expect me to believe that you are the reincarnation of my great grandmother?"

  "Reincarnation? Certainly not, dear; that would imply that I was her before I was me."

  Vincent blinked, twice, and quickly thought through her story again. "Then you expect me to believe that you traveled back in time to become my great grandmother, and then returned here after she died?"

  Arlene sighed gently and smiled. "I'm not expecting you to believe anything, dear. I simply told you a story; nothing more."

  "I see," he said grimacing softly. Looking at his watch, he said, "I suppose I should be going now. I have a bit of a drive." Using the arm of the sofa, he pushed his frail frame to a standing position.

  "Thank you for listening to my story," Arlene said as she stood. "I just had to tell somebody."

  "You haven't told anyone else this tale?"

  "Not since 1883. Jeremy was the last to hear it from my lips. I couldn't keep such an incredible secret from him if we were to marry."

  Vincent nodded. "I believe you mentioned that you're in college now?"

  "Yes."

  "You wouldn't happen to be considering a career in writing, would you?"

  "I'm a Liberal Arts major, and I've been leaning in that direction."

  "Ah hah! Then this story is something that you've concocted for a school assignment, isn't it?"

  "You don't believe it, do you?"

  "I'm sorry. No."

  "I understand, dear. Jeremy didn't believe it either, at first. I'll see you out."

  As they walked through the corridor to the front of the house, Vincent couldn't stop himself from again commenting on the quality of the refinishing efforts. "This is all so marvelous! Would you permit other family members to visit? Uh, so they can see the house."

  "Of course. All family members are welcome here. Although my name is no longer Westfield, I am still family on my mother's side."

  "That would be wonderful," he said as he opened one of the
massive doors at the entrance. "I know cousin Virginia would love to come. And she really is my first cousin."

  "Virginia? That would be Teddy and Eleanor's daughter?"

  "Uh, yes," he said as he stepped out onto the porch and turned to face Arlene, "although they're both gone now. I have to say that your knowledge of the Westfield family is amazing."

  "Do you think I could so easily forget the names of my own grandchildren and great grandchildren?"

  Vincent cleared his throat, and said, "You might not want to mention that little detail to the others when you meet them."

  Arlene smiled. "Okay, Vincent. I'm just delighted that you came to visit again after all these years."

  "It's been my pleasure. Thank you for welcoming me into your home. I loved seeing the old place. Everything is just as it was when I was young."

  "Well, not quite everything."

  "What do you mean?"

  "When you were young, a beautiful crème-colored ceramic vase, with delicate red roses hand-painted on the surface and gold leaf edging around the crown and base, sat on the small table in the study. I purchased it in Paris during the 1889 World's Fair. A very naughty little boy, who had been told repeatedly not to bounce his ball in the house, knocked it off the table, whereupon it shattered into a hundred pieces."

  Vincent's mouth had opened as she talked, and now he fixed Arlene with an intense stare. "Did you read that in one of Nanna's journals?"

  "No, dear; it was never written down."

  "Then how do you know about it? Nanna told me it would be our little secret if I promised never to bounce the ball in the house again. She promised me that she'd never tell a soul that I broke her favorite vase."

  "And I never did," Arlene said, smiling softly. "I'm not really betraying a trust by telling you, dear. Oh, I hear the telephone ringing. I hope you'll come to visit me again sometime— Spotty. Have a safe journey home. Goodbye."