by Shawn Inmon
Many babies, especially newborns, and especially newborns from the same mother look alike, so it was not surprising that this baby would match Veronica’s memory from four lifetimes ago. Be that as it may, there are some things a mother simply knows, and there is no arguing with. One of those things was that first time Veronica held that little baby, she knew it was her Sarah. She recognized her spirit.
Over the next few weeks, months, and years, that was confirmed to her again and again. Every little habit, speech pattern, and peccadillo that this baby named Sarah had, was an uncannily accurate echo of the Sarah she had held so many years before.
Veronica became pregnant again two years later. This time, she gave birth to an active, always on-the-move little boy. They named him Maximillian. Veronica had never met the other Max, of course, but DJ knew him as soon as he saw him. There are things a father knows as well, and he knew his own son.
Nellie was the last to join the party, arriving just after Valentine’s Day, 1969. This time, Veronica had every reason to believe she might recognize the baby when it was born, and it came to pass. She cried grateful tears when all three babies were born.
In between having babies, Veronica put her degree from Pacific University to good work and began teaching English at Middle Falls High.
In 1970, Veronica invested as much money as they had been able to save in one of her magic stocks that had been permanently added to her brain. It wasn’t enough to make them rich, but it was enough to start a nice college fund for the kids. She also put enough away for them to take thrifty vacations around the country. She wanted Sarah, Max, and Nellie to grow up appreciating the beauty and majesty of this life they had been born into.
Just for fun, Veronica started a lady’s investment club in 1972. She invited Ruthie, of course, a few friends from the neighborhood, and several of DJ’s cousins. They called themselves the “Tea and Cookies Investment Club.” Even though Veronica didn’t use much of her knowledge of what was to come, the club’s investments flourished. They had one simple investment philosophy. If they used it and loved it, they invested in it. It was a wonderful excuse to get together once a month, and it made a difference in their lives.
Once Veronica got the household a little ahead of their household budget, she sat down with DJ one beautiful Sunday morning in May of 1977.
They were sitting in their own house, in a neighborhood of other nice family houses. In fact, it was only a few doors down from where Veronica had woken up in what had been the Weaver’s home in 1958. It was a neighborhood full to bursting with parents and kids. Just as the Village had been the perfect home for them as newlyweds, this was the same for them as a family.
At that point, DJ had been working in construction for almost ten years. He had risen from gofer to foreman, and was making good money. He was also spending a huge amount of his life doing something he didn’t love.
“Let’s take a drive, honey,” Veronica said.
“Sure, let’s get the kids together, we can be ready to go in what, two or three hours?”
“It’s not that bad, and you know it. But, today, we are going without them.”
Just then, there was a knock at the door, and DJ’s mother, Maria, popped inside. She looked like she was holding a secret, but wouldn’t be able to hold it for long.
Veronica pushed DJ out the door and into their sensible station wagon. “I’m driving,” she said.
DJ narrowed his eyes at Veronica the whole time. He knew better than to try and get information out of her when she didn’t want to give it. They drove the loop that the teenagers still drove, then turned into Artie’s parking lot. Veronica pulled into the parking spot right in front of the door where she had carried thousands of trays to thousands of cars.
“The old place looks so sad,” DJ said. “I hate to see it like this.”
The paint was faded and cracked, and the overhead sign canted at a dangerous angle. Everything about the place screamed of neglected maintenance.
“It’s been like this ever since Zimm died, though. No one else could ever run this place and make it work like he could, even though he was a terrible bookkeeper. He was a great boss, though.”
“Let’s get out and look in the windows.”
“Why?” DJ said. “We already know every inch of the place.”
“You could humor me every once in a while.”
They peeked through the cobwebbed and dirty windows at the grill area, which looked sad and abandoned.
“I guess whoever owns it now will try to sell it again. I don’t give them much of a chance, though,” DJ said.
“Unless it’s us.”
“What?”
“I’ve been to the bank. Our credit’s good. We’ve got enough money set aside that the bank will give us enough to buy the place, and a little more to rehab it. If only we knew someone who was handy ...”
DJ’s eyes lit up. He took four steps back into the parking lot, looking at the place with new eyes.
“I think I smell smoke.”
“That’s what you always say when I’m thinking,” he said.
“So, what do you think?”
“What do I think about signing up for many hours of back breaking labor, followed by years bent over a hot grill, watching my wife, and eventually my kids, schlepping burgers out to the hungry citizens of Middle Falls? Well, I think that’s the about the greatest idea I’ve ever heard.”
THE HARDEST DECISION they had to make was what to name the place. They considered calling it “DJ’s, or “V’s, but they didn’t feel right. For the longest time, they talked about calling it “Zimm’s” in honor of Perry. In the end, they wanted to keep the history of the place intact, so they left it as “Artie’s.”
DJ wasn’t kidding about the long hard hours to get it back up and running. For the first few months, he continued working his construction job during the day, then putting long hours in at night. That saved their scant remodeling budget, but wore DJ down to a nub. He was still a young man—only thirty-six—but he was rapidly aging himself.
Finally, Veronica took him aside, reminded him that she had enough put away in their investment account to allow him to quit his other job, and he did. The work went faster, then, and Artie’s reopened in mid-November, 1977.
Veronica called down to KMFR and inquired if they would be interested in putting the old radio tower up and broadcasting live again on weekend nights. No one at the station had been there long enough to remember that, and frankly, they were a little doubtful it had ever been done.
As soon as Artie’s reopened, it was a hit. Happy Days was on television, and the whole country was in the mood for the innocence of the fifties.
By the time that fad had once again passed, Artie’s was back to what it had always been—a key part of Middle Fall’s makeup.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
From an outside perspective, Veronica and DJ’s life was an ordinary, if somewhat blessed, existence. All three of their children were healthy and bright. They all started work at Artie’s at an early age. Sarah was retrieving trays, emptying trash cans, and restocking soda cups from the time she was eleven years old. When she turned fifteen, she became Artie’s youngest carhop. Max and Nellie weren’t far behind her.
Eventually, all three of the kids held their weddings right there in Artie’s parking lot. Veronica and DJ made sure that everyone in town knew they were invited. There was no charge on those wedding days, and all tips went to the wedding couples. Between that and the envelope dance, they all began their married life with a nice head start.
Veronica and DJ became grandparents for the first time in 1989. Sarah blessed them with a beautiful dark-haired boy. She named him Dimitri, after the first man she had ever loved. Over the next dozen years, Max and Nellie chipped in with babies of their own. The crowds at family dinners grew.
Bunica lived to be over 100 years old, but finally passed away in 1990. At family gatherings, everyone agreed they could still feel her presenc
e.
Both Wallace and Doris McAllister lived much longer in this life than they had in her first. Doris had a heart attack and died shortly after that in 2001. She was eighty years old. Not surprisingly, when Veronica went into her childhood home to comfort her father, he handed her an envelope. On the outside, it read, “For when I’m gone.” She had made all the arrangements for everything well in advance.
Wallace was lost without Doris to tell him what to do, and wasted away over the next year. DJ and Veronica asked him to come live with them time and again, but he stubbornly stayed in the same house they had always live in. “It’s the nicest house on the block, you know,” he told Veronica, again. He, too, had a heart attack and passed away in 2002. He was eighty-two years old.
In 2004, DJ turned sixty-five and Veronica sixty-four. They knew they had run Artie’s long enough, and sold it to Nellie and her husband Kelly. DJ couldn’t stay away forever, though. He still came back to man his grill for a shift now and then, whistling along to the music and telling all the carhops they were beautiful.
In 2006, Veronica and DJ decided to travel while they were still young enough to enjoy it. They started in England and worked their way east across Europe, covering many of the same stops Veronica had when she rode the train across Europe in her previous life. They loved the trip, and Veronica particularly enjoyed seeing Romania, where so many of DJ’s family traditions had begun. When all was said and done, they realized they loved their grandchildren even more than they loved seeing the world.
They built a swimming pool in their backyard, which made them a popular destination over the summer months. They added a massive playset for the times when the sun wasn’t shining.
They lived a happy, fulfilling life that neither ever wanted to end.
When they were alone, they often spoke about what was next for them. Neither had any intention of leaving this life early, but when the inevitable time came, neither one knew what would be next.
One day in 2015, as they sat on their back patio, watching a grandchild do dive after dive into the pool. DJ said, “If we thought it would work, either of us could end our own life right after the other died.”
Veronica shook her head. “No. I think each of us will start over and find the body of the other, but not the spirit. Not the soul. I can’t imagine what it would be like to meet you all over again, but have you not know me. That would break my heart. This has been such a wonderful life, but I don’t want to start it over again. Not without you.”
“Luckily, we don’t have to, any time soon.”
THREE YEARS LATER, Veronica felt a familiar pain. That it was still familiar to her across so many years and lifetimes of not feeling it, shows how memorable the pain was. With sinking hearts, they made her an appointment with their doctor, who referred Veronica to an oncologist in Portland.
They felt they were only going through the motions, but they did it anyway. The news they received from the specialist was exactly what they had expected, and it was terrible. Veronica was told that she would need to undergo chemotherapy first, then radiation treatments.
DJ and Veronica thanked him, but told him she would not seek either treatment.
I’ve been down that road once, and I will never do it again. I’d rather die naturally.
The oncologist then referred her back to her family doctor, who would see to it she was as comfortable as possible.
Initially, she didn’t even want to take the pain medications. She wanted to be as present as possible as she watched the final weeks, days, hours, and seconds of this perfect life slip away. Before long, the pain became too intense, and she had to give in and take the medication.
DJ arranged for all their living room furniture to be removed, and replaced it with a hospital bed. They didn’t bother with all the monitors and paraphernalia that would have given readouts every hour. They already knew the story those machines would tell, and they didn’t want to see it.
When Veronica’s final day arrived, their house was filled with friends, relatives, and the sound of playing children. It was exactly as she wanted it. Everyone who had ever known and loved her, lined up to say good-bye. When that ritual was complete, everyone stood around her and sang the songs she loved. The songs were happy, but they all knew they were singing her good-bye.
At the end, DJ leaned in close to her and kissed her deeply. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes set deep in their sockets. “You are my life, my love. In my heart, you will live forever. My life will be empty without you. But, I know it’s time for you to go. I release you. If there’s a way to find you when I follow, you know I will.”
Veronica smiled and took one last look around the room, soaking up the love. She spoke her last words. “Thank you, my love.”
Veronica McAllister died for the final time.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Veronica McAllister did not open her eyes in the Weaver living room in Middle Falls, Oregon, in 1958.
She had completed her cycle. She was stuck no more.
She went on.
The Changing Lives
of Joe Hart
The Changing Lives of Joe Hart
by Shawn Inmon
Copyright 2018 © Shawn Inmon
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher, with the exception of brief quotations in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to events or people, living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
1960
Chandra Hart screamed.
Her cry was a thing of beauty. From the diaphragm, with a full column of air to support it. It climbed in register, but never moved to shrillness. The scream of a trained singer, it was heard in every corner of the Middle Falls maternity ward.
Abigail Bunting bustled into to the room at a trot. Given her impressive size, it was as if a tank entered the room at full roll.
She walked to Chandra’s bedside and slapped her face. It cut off the scream just as it seemed it would go on forever.
The slap was forceful, but Nurse Bunting’s voice was calm when she said, “That’s enough.” Turning to the younger nurse, she said, “Where’s Doctor Graham?”
“Not here yet, ma’am. We’ve called his house and practice.”
Bunting looked back at Chandra Hart, who was not cowed by the slap, but had quieted. “This won’t be the first baby I’ve delivered without Doctor. Likely won’t be the last. Let me have a look.”
THIRTEEN HUNDRED MILES away, a Cessna 172 was buffeted by high winds. It was flying blind because of a sudden blizzard. The pilot, twenty-four-year-old Andrew Dahl, was not rated to fly by instruments only. This had not been discussed, but was evident to his passengers by the huge, stomach-tumbling drops and painfully slow climbs in altitude they experienced.
Inside the plane were Dahl, Rodrigo Hart, and two other members of Rodrigo’s touring band. They had played a gig in Bismarck the night before and were scheduled to play in Billings in twenty-four hours.
They would not make the show in Billings, or any other, ever.
At the precise moment that Chandra Hart’s scream pierced the quiet halls of Middle Falls hospital, the Cessna slammed into the ground and everyone but Rodrigo Hart was killed instantly.
The plane bounced skyward after that first impact, but gravity and momentum twirled and smashed it to the ground, where it skidded to a stop. The second impact broke the rear half of the fuselage off. Dahl and Hart, who were strapped into the front seats, tumbled end over end, until the front of the plane came to rest, nose down.
Rodrigo was knocked unconscious, but revived an unknown time later. “Billy? Slim? You guys okay?”
The whistling wind provided the only answer.
“Oh.” Rodrigo tried to reach out to shake the pilot. The movement made him nauseous, and he could tell he was pushing against dead weight. He did his best to crane his neck to
see, but there was nothing visible except destruction and blanketing snow.
He tried one last time. “Guys? Pilot? Anybody there?”
He realized he was about to die. His thoughts focused on Chandra, and their unborn baby. “I’m sorry, honey. You’re going to have to take care of our little one. I’m sorry to leave you on your own.” Hot tears ran down his rapidly freezing cheeks.
Rodrigo lingered an unfair amount of time, waiting for his fate. He spent the next few minutes in an unaccustomed state. He prayed. As there are no atheists in foxholes, there are rarely atheists who are the sole survivors of plane crashes. He didn’t pray for himself. He knew his life was ebbing away. Instead, he prayed for his bride and soon-to-arrive baby.
If an ambulance had been standing by the crash site to rush Rodrigo Hart to the hospital in Dickenson, he might have survived. As it was, he died of internal bleeding, alone and shivering, on a flat stretch of nothingness. It looked like every other flat stretch of nothingness in western North Dakota, and the wreckage and bodies would not be found for many days.
Rodrigo Hart took a last, shuddering breath, said, “Damn it,” and died.
CHANDRA WHIPPED HER head back and forth. The pain of her contractions had grown to fill her world. She couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t being contracted, stretched, and torn.
Dr. Graham arrived just as the baby’s head was crowning. He rubbed his hands together, looked at the gathered nurses, and said, “Let’s deliver a baby, shall we?”
If Chandra Hart had been capable, she would have risen from the bed, ripped his arm off and beaten him senseless with it. Instead, she continued to see-saw her head back and forth, seeking some part of her that wasn’t in pain. No matter how hard she sought it, it never appeared.