Cross Roads

by Wm. Paul Young

  Jack held up his hands in surrender. “Tony, calm down, this is just an illustration, not a reprimand. May I continue?”

  Tony folded his arms and nodded. “Yeah, sorry; as you can see, not a favorite topic of conversation.”

  “Yes, I do understand,” resumed Jack. “That is also for another time. Again, my question: Did Loree at any time believe that your love for her was real?”

  It was bold and almost absurdly personal in the current circumstances, and Tony took a moment before answering candidly. “Yes,” he admitted. “There was probably a time when she believed my love for her was real.”

  “So, you think it was real to her?”

  “If she believed it was real, then yes, it was real to her.”

  “Then it begs the question, was your love for her real to you, Tony? Did you truly love her?”

  Instantly Tony felt an internal guard go up, the discomfort associated with a perceived accusation. Normally, now would be the time to change the subject, to make a witty or sarcastic remark to deflect the emotions being exposed and turn the river of words toward more lighthearted and irrelevant banter. But Tony had nothing to lose in this exchange. He would never see this man again, and he was intrigued by the moment. It had been a long time, he thought, since a conversation had gone so deep so quickly, and he had allowed it. Such was the safety of dreaming.

  “Honestly?” He paused. “Honestly, I don’t think I knew how to love her, or how to love anyone for that matter.”

  “Thank you, Anthony, for that admission. I am certain you are correct. But the point is that she believed in your love, and even though it didn’t exist, it became so real to her that she built a world and life around it… twice.”

  “You didn’t have to bring that up,” muttered Tony, again looking away.

  “Just an observation, son, not a judgment. On to a second illustration, shall we?” He waited for Tony to catch up and then began. “Let’s just suppose, for the sake of this example, that there is truly a God, a being of—”

  “I don’t believe any of that stuff,” interjected Tony.

  “I am not trying to convince you of anything, Tony,” maintained Jack. “Not my job. Keep in mind that I am dead, and you are… confused. I am simply positing something to amplify the difference between real and true. That is our subject if you recall.” He smiled, and Tony couldn’t help but respond with one of his own. There was a kindness in this man that was disarming, almost deeper than genuine.

  “So let’s suppose this God is good all the time, never a liar, never a deceiver, always a truth-teller. One day this God comes to you, Anthony Spencer, and says this: ‘Tony, nothing will ever separate you from my love, neither death nor life, not a messenger from heaven nor a monarch of earth, neither what happens today nor what may happen tomorrow, neither a power from on high nor a power from below, nor anything else in God’s entire created cosmos; nothing has the power to separate you from my love.’

  “So, you listen to God tell you this, but you don’t believe it. Not believing it becomes what is real to you, and you then create a world that holds not believing the word of this God, or the love of this God, or even in this God at all, as a fundamental cornerstone of your life’s construction. Here is one question nestled among many others: Does your inability to believe the word of this God make what this God has said not true?”

  “Yes,” Tony responded too quickly, and then, thinking, changed his mind. “I mean no. Wait, let me think about this a second.”

  Jack paused, allowing Tony to sift through his thoughts before speaking.

  “Okay,” Tony replied, “if what you assume about this God is true… and real, then I guess my belief wouldn’t change anything. I think I’m beginning to understand what you’re saying.”

  “Do you?” challenged Jack. “Then let me ask this: If you choose not to believe the word of this God, what would you ‘experience’ in relationship to this God?”

  “Uh, I would experience…” Tony was struggling, looking for the right words.

  “Separation?” Jack filled in the blank. “Tony, you would experience a sense of separation, because separation is what you thought was ‘real.’ Real is what you believe, even if what you believe does not exist. God tells you that separation is not true, that nothing can ‘really’ separate you from the love of God—not things, behaviors, experiences, or even death and hell, however you choose to imagine it; but you believe separation is real, and so you create your own reality based on a lie.”

  It was too much for Tony and he turned away, rubbing his hands through his hair. “Then how does one ever know what is true? What is truth?”

  “Aha!” exclaimed Jack, slapping Tony on the shoulder. “Pontius Pilate speaks from the dead. And there, lad, is an ultimate irony! Standing at the fulcrum of history in the very presence and face-to-face with truth, he, as so many of us are wont to do, declared it nonexistent, or, to be more accurate, declared ‘him’ to be nonexistent. Thankfully, for all our sakes, Pilate did not have the power to turn something real into something that wasn’t true.” He paused before saying, “And Tony, neither do you.”

  The moment was frozen for a brief second and then the ground shook slightly, as if a small tremor had occurred deep beneath their feet. Jack smiled his enigmatic best and declared, “Well, I think that means my time with you, for now, is finished.”

  “Wait!” objected Tony. “I have questions. Where are you going? Can’t you stay? I still don’t understand where I am. Why am I here? If this isn’t hell exactly, what is this? And you said something about it not being exactly home either? What does that mean?”

  Jack turned back to face Tony one last time. “Tony, hell is believing and living in the real when it is not the truth. Potentially you could do that forever, but let me say something that is true, whether or not you choose to believe it, and whether or not it is real to you.” He again waited. “Whatever you believe about death and hell, it is truly not separation.”

  The ground shook again, this time a larger statement than previously, and Tony steadied himself against the rock wall. When he turned back Jack was gone, and night had fallen.

  Suddenly, Tony felt exhausted, tired to the center of his bones. He sat down once again, rested against the colossal structure, and looked out at the road and scenery that were quickly exchanging their colors for shades of gray. His mouth dry and clammy, he felt around him, hoping Jack had left his flask, but his searching hands found nothing. Drawing his knees up into his body, he secured a little place of protection, a huddle against the cold that had begun a relentless creep inside, like a thief stealing away fragmented pieces of warmth.

  It was too much! An icy wind had risen, blowing his questions away like bits of paper scattered by a gale. Was this now the end? Finally? Could he hear the groaning approach of emptiness, a swallowing nothingness determined to extract from him the last vestige of heat?

  He was shivering uncontrollably when a light appeared, a bluish luminescence that surrounded the most beautiful dark brown eyes he had ever seen. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t remember who. Someone important.

  Fighting to stay conscious, Tony managed to form the question, “Who am I? No, wait, where am I?” A man sat and cradled Tony in his arms, and carefully poured another warmer liquid into Tony’s mouth; he could feel it expanding and soaking into his frozen center, spreading outward. His shaking slowed, then stopped, and he relaxed into the man’s embrace.

  “Safe,” the man whispered, and stroked his head. “You are safe, Tony.”

  “Safe?” Again Tony could feel darkness descending. His eyes were heavy, his thoughts thick and slowing. “Safe? Never been safe.”

  “Shhhh.” Again that voice. “It’s time to rest a little. I am not leaving. I will always hold you, Tony.”

  “Who are you?”

  If the man answered, Tony didn’t hear him as the night, like a blanket, wrapped him in a tender caress and he slept safely without dream or eve
n wishful thought.

  4

  HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS

  I long, as every human being does, to be at home wherever I find myself.

  —Maya Angelou

  Sunlight?

  It was sunlight, again. But this time different, muted and softer. Tony sat up with a start. Now where was he? With the question everything instantly returned: the tunnel, the trails with the myriad of choices, the door, Irishman Jack, the other man.

  The other man? That was the last he remembered. Was he still dreaming? Was he in a dream inside a dream? He had been asleep, or dreaming that he slept. The sun streamed through curtains, lighting the room well enough to reveal he had awoken in a makeshift bedroom. A thin mattress covered a sagging spring frame. The blanket he had slept under was tattered and ragged, but clean.

  Pulling back the curtain, he spied the same sprawling countryside he had briefly seen from the portal in the wall. When had that happened? Last night or yesterday or never? Stone walls rose in the faraway, and inside of them were terraced open spaces, trees growing haphazardly, some in clumps, others solitary. A few buildings dotted the landscape, barely noticeable and unremarkable.

  Tony heard a knock at the door. Three taps, like before, and Tony steadied himself against the wall, prepared for another inside-outside switch.

  “Come in?” It came out more a question than an invitation, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  “Can you grab the door?” came a vaguely familiar voice from the other side. “My hands are full and I can’t open it.”

  “Uh, sure, sorry,” apologized Tony as he pulled the door inward.

  There stood the stranger from before, with the penetrating dark brown eyes, and suddenly Tony remembered “safe.” This man said he was “safe.” “Safe” had been a relief, but was now deeply perplexing.

  “Okay if I come in?” the man said with a grin, holding a tray of coffee and pastries. He appeared about the same age as Tony. Dressed in jeans and a woodsy shirt, the man had dark bronze skin that looked hued by sun and wind.

  Tony suddenly became aware that he was wearing a blue-and-white hospital gown, a draft notifying him that it was open at the back. It seemed oddly appropriate and disturbing. Feeling exposed, he used one hand to clutch and close the opening as best he could. “Of course, sorry,” he apologized again, not knowing what else to do, and stepping aside, he held the door open so the man could enter.

  “I’ve got some of your favorites: coffee from Barista, a McMinnville Cream and Mango Tango from Voodoo Donuts, and a jelly from Heavenly Donuts. The almost perfect way to start a day.”

  “Uh, thank you!” Tony picked up a large mug of steaming coffee, a vanilla latte with perfect foam, a feather design etched into its surface. He took a sip, piping hot, letting the flavors settle before he swallowed, and then sat down carefully on the edge of the spring-loaded bed. “You’re not having any?”

  “Nah, tea man myself, and already had enough this morning.” The man pulled a chair closer to Tony and sat down. “I suppose you have more than a few questions, son, so you ask and I will answer as best you can understand.”

  “Am I dreaming?”

  The man sat back in the chair and smiled. “Well, for a first question you ask an involved one, and I am afraid the answer will not be very satisfying. Are you dreaming? Yes and no. Let me see if I can answer the question you meant and not just the one you asked. Anthony, you are in a coma, up the hill at OHSU, and you are here, too.”

  “Wait, I’m in a coma?”

  “Yup, I’m right here, and I heard me say that, too.”

  “I am in a coma?” Tony was incredulous. He sat back, and without thinking, took another sip of his scalding drink.

  “And this?” He nodded at the coffee.

  “That is coffee.”

  “I know it’s coffee, but is it, you know, real? How can I be in a coma and drinking a latte?”

  “That’s part of what you wouldn’t understand if I tried to explain it.”

  “I can’t believe it, I’m in a coma,” he repeated, stunned.

  The man stood up and put his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Tell you what, I have a couple things that I want to do, so I’ll be right outside. Why don’t you gather up your questions and meet me out there. Your clothes are hanging in the closet over there, and you’ll find your boots there, too. When you’re ready, just find your way out.”

  “Okay” was all Tony could manage, hardly glancing up as the man slipped out of the room. It strangely made sense. If he was in a coma, then these occurrences were only expressions of deep subconscious wanderings. He would remember none of it. None of this was real, or true. The thought reminded him of Irishman Jack, and he grinned to himself. The realization was attended by a sense of relief. At least he wasn’t dead.

  He slurped his latte. It certainly tasted real, but there must be triggers in the brain that could stimulate other parts like memory and together could manufacture a pseudoreality, like drinking coffee, or, he thought as he reached for a Mango Tango and took a bite, like one of these. Wow, if you could package this somehow, you could make a killing—no calories, no coffee or sugar side effects, and no supply-chain issues.

  He shook his head at the sheer lunacy of this experience, if it could even be categorized as one. Does an event that isn’t real and will never be remembered qualify as an experience?

  With the last bite of donut, Tony felt it was time to face what awaited him on the other side of the door. Though he assuredly would remember none of this, here he was, with nothing to lose by going along with whatever this was. So he quickly dressed, grateful his imagination supplied warm water to wash his face. Taking a deep breath, he stepped outside the bedroom.

  He found himself emerging from the wing of a rambling ranch-style house that had seen better days. Paint was flaking off the woodwork and everything felt tired. Sad and tidy, it was much below the standard to which Tony had grown accustomed and definitely was not ostentatious or pretentious. His room opened onto a wide wraparound deck, it, too, worse for wear. The stranger stood leaning against the railing, picking at his teeth with a piece of grass, waiting.

  Tony joined him and looked out over the expanse of property. It was an odd mix, this place. Parts of it looked somewhat managed but much of it was unkempt and disorganized. Behind nearby broken fencing he noticed the barely recognizable suggestion of an abandoned garden overrun by thistle and thorn and dense weeds, an ancient oak at its center from which hung a dilapidated children’s swing barely moving in the breeze. Beyond that lay an old orchard, unpruned and fruitless. In general, the land looked worn and abused, spent. Thankfully, patches of mountain wildflowers and the occasional rose had populated some of the worst scars, as if softening a loss or grieving a death.

  Probably something wrong with the soil, Tony surmised. It seemed water and sun were in supply but so much depends on what lies beneath the surface. The breeze shifted and Tony picked up the unmistakable scent of daphne, sweet and gentle, a reminder of his mother. It was her favorite plant.

  If, as he suspected, all this was a manifestation of his brain trying to find its way by connecting stored thoughts and images, it made sense that he felt a surprising, unexpected ease here. Something here called to him, or at least resonated. “Safe” had been the word this man had spoken over him. Not exactly a word he would have chosen.

  “What is this place?” he asked.

  “It’s a habitation,” the man responded, looking into the distance.

  “A habitation? What exactly is a habitation?”

  “A place to dwell, to abide, to be at home in, a habitation.” The man said these words as if he loved this place.

  “Home? Huh, that’s something Jack said about this place, although he said it wasn’t ‘exactly’ home. He also said it wasn’t ‘exactly’ hell either, whatever that meant.”

  The man grinned. “You don’t know Jack. Extraordinarily clever with words, that one.”

  “I didn’t un
derstand everything he said, but I started to get the gist of one thing—the difference between real and true.”

  “Hmmm,” the man grunted and remained silent, as if not to interrupt Tony’s processing. They stood for a time, side by side, each seeing the place through different eyes—one compassionate, the other uneasy and a little dismayed.

  “So, when you say this is a habitation, are you talking about this old run-down house or does that include the property, too?”

  “It includes everything, everything you saw yesterday and more; all that is inside this enclosure and all that is outside of it, everything. But here,” he said, his hand spanning the entire enclosure, “is the center, the heart of the habitation. What happens here changes everything.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “No one. This place was never intended to be ‘owned.’ ” He enunciated the last word as if it were slightly repulsive and didn’t belong in his mouth. “It was intended to be free, open, unrestricted… never owned.”

  There were a few seconds of quiet as Tony considered the right words for his next question. “So then, who ‘belongs’ here?”

  A smile toyed at the corner of the man’s mouth before he answered, “I do!”

  “You live here?” he asked before thinking. Of course he did. This stranger was a complex projection of Tony’s own subconscious, and somehow he was interacting with it. Besides, no one would actually live here, in the middle of nowhere, alone like this.

  “I certainly do.”

  “You like living alone?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve never lived alone.”

  That piqued Tony’s curiosity. “What do you mean? I haven’t seen anyone else here. Ohhh, you mean Jack? Are there others like him? Can I meet them sometime?”

  “There’s no one like Jack, and as for the others, in due time.” He paused. “There’s no hurry.” Another silence followed, almost awkward in duration. During these spaces between conversation, Tony had been trying to conjure up some image or memory that would begin to make sense of what he was seeing, but nothing came. No picture, no idea, and as far as he could remember not even an imagining that resonated with any of this. How was it possible that all this was simply a projection of his drugged brain scrambled inside a coma? He was drawing a blank.