Am I my dreams of gold and love and perfection?
Am I my cold, dreary apartment?
Am I a man who is waiting to die, or a hero waiting to be reborn?
I need to find out what the hell is going on in my mind. I must figure out if I can help Kristen and Rupert, and all of those other lost souls. And if I can't, then I need to make an even more penetrating decision. If I cannot be the saint they expect, the savior they are counting on . . . then I must either live or die.
What I cannot do, though, is both. I will either live among the people in this world, or I will crossover, and never return. I belong somewhere . . . but this . . . this isn't right. To be alive waiting to die—even if only for a couple of minutes a day—that is not a life at all. I might as well be dead.
And without her . . . I may already be.
Chapter 46
R.H.D. Memorial.
Neurology Department, Wednesday morning . . .
Last night was difficult. I was finally shown just a glimpse of what I shared with Kristen. And although I find myself no closer to what we were, I know it was wonderful. And to know that I lost all of that, it hurts . . . deeply.
Today, I’m lying back in a plush blue chair, in the waiting room of the Neurology Department, waiting to be called in for my weekly meeting. I suspect this will be an awful affair because I'm meeting my new caseworker—seeing as the last one took a dirt nap. I suppose that's a mean thing to say, but the guy seemed to have it coming.
The tanned, quite attractive receptionist raised her eyebrows at me, and I guess that's my signal. For whatever reason, she didn't feel the need to use the microphone this morning. Evolution, I figure. It happens in baby-steps.
I got up, headed past the turtle-shaped table with the two-year old issues of GQ and Esquire magazine. I pass the pastel-green door that makes me want to set fire to a Toys-R-Us, and into the lavender and off-white hallway. This is the quiet hallway where you plan out what your going to say to the shrinks who will be interrogating you. And on the way back you try and figure out what exactly you said wrong.
The nametag on the door, 'Dr. Smith', was still there. I knocked a few times, hoping nobody would be there and I could ease myself out without the meeting I knew we were about to have.
“Come, please,” a woman's voice said politely.
Reluctantly, I pushed open the door and saw a short, older woman doctor. She had a kind of Dr. Ruth look about her. Although with longer hair, and thicker glasses. She was probably in her mid to late 50's, wearing a powder blue suit.
“You must be Jack,” she said, standing from the desk and walking around to shake my hand. Dr. Smith never did that. “I'm Doctor Evans, but you can just call me Monica. Actually, I would prefer Monica.”
Okay . . . Doctor . . . Monica.
We shook hands and she kind of observed me with a motherly smile. “You've been through quite a bit, young man.” Then she nodded, as if she was proud of me. “Let's talk.”
She glanced around the room, seeing the brown leather chair and the similarly upholstered couch. “You pick one, I'll take the other.”
This is odd. Shrinks are supposed to be safely on the other side of the desk. This area over here, this is our territory. This is like when handicapped people park in normal spots. It's alright . . . but it isn't right. What's going on here?
She seemed to notice my apprehension. “Jack, I'm a different doctor than some of the neurospecialists that you might have worked with. I'm a psychologist first, and a doctor second. I am intrigued by the mind, and do everything I can to learn about it . . . so we can help it. Now, I didn't say fix . . . just help.”
She sat down in the chair, willing me to the couch. “You see, I don't think that a brain injury is something as simple as a broken finger. We can't just set it right and let it heal. The process of mental health takes time and effort. It is deep and all encompassing, and too rich a subject to be patched-up in a matter of minutes.”
I sat down on the couch. This Doctor Monica, she seems alright. She's different. Open-minded, kind of in your face, but she doesn't crowd you. I ask her, “What do we do now?”
She smiles, “We just talk. Get to know each other. We begin what I hope to be a marvelous friendship. Some of my most interesting and unique friendships have come from people who sat next to me, just like you. Just like this.”
And I noticed two things right off. One, she has a wonderfully caring smile. As if she really wants you to be better. Two, she doesn't refer to me as her patient. Not yet. That means she considers me a human being, like herself. And I have to admit, I kind of liked Dr. Monica.
Did I like her enough to start talking about the spooks, my dead girlfriend, and trips to the netherworld? No chance. But I felt comfortable enough to talk to her like a person, instead of guarding my feelings and emotions like a captured enemy spy.
“What would you like to talk about?” she asked softly.
She had no notepad, no folders, nothing. This was definitely the new-school of psychotherapy.
I don't know, I said. I guess I need to tell you that I heard about Dr. Smith's passing.
She nodded, “I know, I know. That was just . . . one of those things that happens, and we all think about it. Death—that is to say, the passing of a person—it is a huge moment for everybody involved. Even if you only knew the man peripherally, you feel this tug on your soul that leaves you curious about your own mortality.” She shrugged, “I didn't know Dr. Smith that well, but I felt his passing.”
You're a very open minded doctor, I said. Are you religious?
She smiled, “Religion, spirituality, we all have some degree of them inside us. I like to think of myself as thoroughly spiritual. I have a love for science, and the foundations that it provides us, but I would like to think that we—as in our souls and emotional constructs—are more than simply electrical charges that disappear as we fade into death.
“I like to imagine a wonderful place of transition and catharsis beyond this life. Somewhere that we are allowed to take stock of our trials and tribulations here, on earth, and learn from them. Maybe we pass along to some other place, maybe we don't. Perhaps we come right back down and start it all over?”
Until when? I ask.
“ . . . until we get it right.” She lifted her hands, her palms open, “ . . . that is the adventure of life, I suppose . . . to not be sure. The constant guessing, that makes life interesting. If I knew all of the answers, what fun would that be?”
And what place, I asked, does love stand in the scheme of things?
“Love is the energy that pushes life forward,” Dr. Monica said as she leaned back, getting more comfortable. She had on a gold beaded necklace that reflected tiny sparkles of light from the window behind her.
How do you know, I wondered, what love is worth?
“How do you mean?”
Well, I said. How can I tell if a love is worth fighting for? When is it that valuable?
She considered my question. “I'd say love is worth fighting for when it helps you to be a better person. A greater being. It has to be positive. There are many, many unhappy people out there that are deeply in love with somebody, but that relationship is detrimental to their psychological, and emotional wellbeing. Take it to the extremes. You'll often see people who are trapped in abusive relationships that they willingly stay in, just because they are in love with their partner. That is not healthy. That is not a love worth fighting for.”
But one person's health, I say, could be another's destruction.
She nodded, “ . . . and one man's trash is another man's treasure. That is a relatively semantic argument. I'd say that each of us knows, if we were to do a risk-versus-reward analysis, if the love we have for another is benevolent, or malignant. Because love, it infects you. Leads us to do some very complex things, sometimes dangerous.”
So you wouldn't believe in self-sacrifice for the one you love? I posed to her.
She narrowed her eyes
at me, “Why Jack, you might just be an undiscovered romantic?” She sat there for a moment, studying me, not like a lab patient, but as maybe a flower that had not yet bloomed. An uncut gemstone.
“So tell me about this girl you can't get out of your mind.”
I told her about Kristen, but not the stuff about her being dead and all that. Just the feelings I had toward her. I said that she was still like a stranger to me.
Dr. Monica, she has to have looked over my files, so she knows that I just woke-up about five months ago. Following that, she probably assumes that I just met this girl, and that I am investing way too many emotions in a person that I cannot possibly know. Even if she doesn't say this, I know it's on her mind . . . because it's absolutely right.
She says, “When you're in love, you're in love. There's no explanation for it. Sure, I could give you a whole bunch of fancy psycho-babble about finding synergy with a person of compatible mental state and emotional flexibility. But all of that would be a cookie cutter fix. Love is far too complex an issue for psychology to have solved. We know more about the life and death of the universe than we do of affairs of the heart.
“And I think . . .” she said as she leaned forward, “that's the way it was meant to be. Some things, we just have to take on faith. We must let loose our chains and rise until the heat of the sun burns us.” She folded her hands in front of her. “That is the majesty of true intimacy.”
But it's risky, I propose. I might think I'm in this wonderful kind of love, only to later find out that I was looking through rose-tinted glasses. I might not be healthy enough to make a proper evaluation. Crazy people usually don't know they're crazy, and thus don't think they're being out-of-line in their actions.
She laughed, “You're not crazy, Jack. In fact, you're probably much more grounded and level-headed than I am.” Then she lowers her voice, “In my field . . . I'm considered a bit of a rogue.”
Me too, I thought to myself. Me too.
“Are you in love, Jack?” she asked, sitting up. Her eyes were deep brown, piercing through me.
I shook my head. I don't remember what led to it. How I got there, or even if we were ever there in the first place. But, I said . . . yes. What other answer do I have? These psychologists, they are so clever at getting you to ask yourself the questions that they could never come up with on their own.
Yes.
“Is it something that you think you need to fight for?”
Oh, I'd say that's a fair understatement.
She stood up, suddenly. “Jack, we're done for today. I would like to meet you again on Friday, if that's alright with you?”
Sure, I say. That would be nice. I'm going through a sticky time, right now.
She handed me a business card with her phone number written in blue ink on the back. “That's my cell phone. It's just the cutest little thing, an i-Phone4Gs. So don't hesitate to call. And I really mean that. If, for any reason, you want to talk. Even if it's about the color of paint you want on your ceiling, the books you're reading, or the frozen pizzas in your refrigerator . . . I'd love to talk.”
That was kind of spooky. I wonder if she could tell I like frozen pizzas, or if she was just making the point that she's available to take my calls? I'm a bit baffled.
Then we shook hands, and she lowered her glasses, leaning forward as she peered into my eyes. “You are so much more than you know, Jack. There is a wonderful power inside of you . . . just waiting to get its chance to shine. Soon, you'll see. I'll see you Friday.”
And now I'm whistling the first 8 bars to the Twilight Zone in my head, hoping that she can't hear what I'm thinking.
Chapter 47
First Church of Christ, North Dallas.
Wednesday late-morning . . .
On the way back from my meeting with Dr. Monica I had a wild hair to go into this church. It's on the corner of Valley View and Webb Chapel, and I walk by it almost every time I leave my apartment.
This particular church, it's clean and crisp, as if it was made to perfect religious specs. To fit the design of what a church should look like, I guess they have industry standards. The walls of the church are the same reddish brick that they used in the landscaped walkways that lead to the main entrance. There is a large set of steps leading to an even larger set of white painted doors.
These doorways look big enough to drive a tank through without scratching the thresholds, and I can imagine people pouring in on a Sunday morning, all dressed in their finest clothes, trying to impress the big man upstairs.
As I walk towards the church, for reasons I'm not completely sure of, I noticed one of the doors cracked slightly open. Since I'm not well versed in the ways of religion, I'm not sure what the proper etiquette is for entering a place of God.
I'm not trying to buy myself an unexpected bolt of lightening or a freak killer bee attack. Smite, smote, whatever you call it . . . I don't want it.
So I just walk on up and knock a few times. I wait. If anyone is here, they aren't answering the door, or they just can't hear me. I glanced back towards the parking lot, having this eerie feeling that kind of grabs me out of nowhere. I'm wondering if I missed something.
I'm not sure why I was suddenly paranoid like this. This whole God thing, it's so new to me that everything is suspect. Like if every nuance, each religious sign I see, is legislated by some group with an agenda. A spiritual Cold War.
Really, I don't know how I feel about the concept of a divine being, or if I'm just searching for another explanation to my situation. On the one hand, I have this Book of Sighs—supposedly a secret addition to the bible—telling a dark and sinister story that I know they don't teach in Sunday school. So, at least as far as the book is concerned, there is something biblical going on here.
And if I concede that the book is a legitimate document, then it seems I might have to give God a serious consideration. Whether or not I admit to it, that's probably why I'm standing here in the doorway of a church.
I pry open the heavy door, slipping in under the audible cover of the squeaking hinges. Once inside, I smell incense, but not like at Ms. Josephine's Shop. They're much more corporate, more mandated and uniform. I bet I could find this clean, coffee and Christianity smell all across the country, in every church I enter.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I realize I'm in a small lobby. There is dark grey carpet, and several sets of smaller double-doors that appear to lead to the main church area—whatever they call that. Still I see nobody. Still I hear nothing. They say that the House of God is never closed; nor, I suppose, empty.
Count me as undecided on that.
I walk to the nearest set of double-doors and give them a gentle nudge. They open quite easily, and there is a dramatic difference in pressure in the main auditorium area as I enter. This is a lot like the stadium seating at the theater we were in last night. Although, with a much shallower angle of decline. And no naked 40-foot queens.
Slowly, I make my way down the pathway between the rows and rows of hard-looking seats. I can picture kids squirming around almost uncontrollably while some preacher goes on and on about things that kids aren't trying to listen to. These chairs, they look so uncomfortable—designed like those chairs in the food court, at the mall—and they are so tightly packed together—like at the theater—that I can't understand how anyone could enjoy this.
But then, here is that suffering that Ricky was talking about. Maybe the joy and elation of faith has to be mixed with equal parts discomfort in order to be really appreciated.
Everywhere I go for answers, I end up with bags full of questions. My mind is one tangled question mark with three little dots after it. In progress . . . All solutions are forthcoming, or in flux. It's like a television drama that doesn't ever give you enough information to stop watching it. Lost. Yeah, it's a lot like watching Lost and trying not to blow your brains out.
I walked about halfway down and then stopped. I guess I was waiting for something extraordinary to sudde
nly occur. Although my litmus for extraordinary may be skewed by my recently discovered ability to walk among the dead. But, I don't know, I was hoping for a sign. Some divine insight that points me in the right direction. Maybe not a burning bush, but something.
And I got it.
“Sir,” a voice beamed from behind me, “ . . . we're closed for cleaning, right now.”
I turned and nodded, laughing to myself. The House of God is never closed . . . except for cleaning. I had asked for a sign, and I got what I came for. I made my way back up to the small set of double doors and a young man, probably in his late twenties, was holding open the door. His head was cleanly shaved, with the hint of a black mustache starting to show. My guess is that he's been trying desperately to grow the thing for years, but with little success.
He had deep-set blue eyes and a calm, almost meager, manner about him as if he used to be a monk, or an insurance agent. His clothing was modest—jeans and a dark green sweater.
“We have a service at five-thirty, if you'd like to attend,” he said politely, looking me up and down. I guess he's trying to figure out if I'm in the saved, or to-save category.
I smiled, nodding to him as I walked by, and headed to the tank doors.
Then he followed me, asking, “Sir . . . is there something you would like to talk about? Did you have some questions?”
I turned, studied his face. He looked like a kind and compassionate man. The type of guy who can truly empathize with his congregation. Who really does care about his flock.
“ . . . can I help you get closer to God?” he continued, his words full of tolerance and humility. This guy probably did want to help me.
And I smiled at this nice preacher man, realizing that a sincere, faithful, devoted, unwavering man of God, he wouldn't stand a chance among the monsters that lurk around in my world. Guys like that, they'd never make it past the first spook.
See Jack Die (Part 1 in the Paranormal Series) (See Jack Die Series) Page 22