Never Again

by Heather Starsong

  Anne hurried to the door to hug me. “I’ve got a nice organic wine. Let’s start with that. I’m dying to hear what happened.”

  We settled on her couch with wine. Camille came to nestle between us, purring sporadically.

  “Now tell me,” Anne said. “I can’t believe you broke up with Zachary. It seemed like it was going so well.”

  I gave her a brief account of the ending with Zachary.

  “Men!” Anne exclaimed. “They think they are God’s gift to women and it’s their ulada to spread the joy around.” She’d had her own fill of unfaithful husbands and lovers. “How’re you doing? You seem calmer than I’d expect.”

  “I’ve done a lot of crying. It hurt. But now I’m mostly relieved. It never could have worked long-term. One part of me enjoyed the ride for sure, but there was always another part—I call her my inner old woman—who knew from the beginning it would have to end, that we were on diverging tracks, and all we really had in common was sex and tango. Ephemeral pleasures.

  “But there’s something else I want to talk to you about, something much more important than Zachary. I made a big decision yesterday.”

  Anne refilled our wine glasses and nodded to me to go on.

  I bit my lower lip, suddenly tense, fearing that if I could not persuade Anne of the rightness of my decision, I might dissuade myself. I took a breath.

  “It came up because I started to open a big garden like the one I used to have. You remember?”

  “Yes. With the flagstones and beds in a spiral and the medicine wheel made of flowers at the center. It was beautiful.”

  “Well, when I started to lay it out, I realized I’d need a strong, young body to take care of it”—I started speaking faster—“and that I didn’t want to be an old woman in a young body anymore. So I decided not to open the big garden and to ask the Elirians to change me back to how I was when they found me.”

  Anne’s eyes widened. “But you were dying.”

  “They said they could change me back and keep me from dying, keep me warm—it was cold I was dying of—until people found me.”

  “I thought you were dying from lightning.” Anne put down her wine glass and leaned over to touch my thigh. “Did you already ask them?”

  “Not exactly. I only asked them if they could. When I connected with them just after Christmas, before I met Zachary.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be making a decision like that so soon after breaking up with him. There’s more to life than a relationship with a man.”

  “Of course. But my decision isn’t because of Zachary, except that the failure of our relationship only clarified how out of sync I am.”

  “Clara, this is huge. You’re so beautiful, so alive. You have everything.”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t keep the irony out of my voice. “I know, the wisdom of age and the strength of youth. And a split personality. It feels awful.”

  “I didn’t know you felt that way. You seemed so happy, especially when you were with Zachary.”

  “That was actually when I felt most torn.”

  “But you were failing before. You had so much pain, and your heart—I was worried about you. If you go back to how you were you might not live much ­longer.” Anne picked up her wine and sipped. There were tears in her eyes. One slid down her cheek, leaving a faint salty track behind.

  “I know,” I said, “but I don’t want to go on and on. I don’t fit in the world anymore. And I wasn’t that decrepit. I did make it up to my special place.”

  “Okay.” Anne turned to face me. “I’m getting contradictory messages. You don’t want to go on and on, but you want the Elirians to keep you alive after they change you back.”

  “Because I haven’t completed my ulada.”

  “Couldn’t you complete your ulada in your young body?”

  “And then go on and on?”

  Anne gestured briefly.

  “I thought of keeping my young body until my ulada was complete and then—but I couldn’t. An old body near death I might hasten along, but not this perfect young body.”

  “No. That wouldn’t be right.”

  “Besides, even though I don’t know what I still have to do, I’m clear I have to do it as an old woman. Which makes this young body even more of a problem.”

  Anne was silent. I reached over to take her hand. “Listen. I lay on the lawn for hours yesterday afternoon, going over it all. I need you to hear me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Remember when gas stations were service stations? You’d drive up and a friendly man would come out. It was always a man; gender roles were still set in those days. He would greet you, check your tires and oil, and wash your windows while the tank filled. We’d chat about the weather, or whatever, ­connect. Remember that?”

  “Yes. Sometimes they’d even sweep out the floor of your car.”

  “Now I swipe my credit card, pump my own gas, and leave without a word to anyone. Remember when you walked on a trail and people greeted you, sometimes stopped to exchange a few words, even if you didn’t know them? Now the people you meet have plugs in their ears, listening to who-knows-what or busily talking on their cell phones. Eyes don’t even meet.”

  I watched Anne’s face. Her lips were pressed together, holding back protest. “Remember when going to the library was a time to chat with the librarian about the books you had just read and get help in finding the next ones? Remember the card catalogue? I know computers are probably more efficient, but I miss the card catalogue. You could touch it. Most days now I walk into the library, find the book I want, check myself out electronically, and leave without speaking to anyone. Everything’s electronic.”

  “Clara, that’s how the world is now.”

  “I know. My point exactly. I hate it being so impersonal. Someone used to answer the phone when you called a business. Now it’s press this, press that, and often you never get to speak to a real person.”

  Anne poured us more wine. I took a sip. “Everything’s electronic,” I repeated. “Zachary with his whole life on his cell phone, people thinking they have ‘friends’ on Facebook. I can’t function in the electronic world. I don’t belong. I don’t know how.”

  “You could learn.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  We sipped our wine. Anne frowned.

  My voice caught when I spoke again. “But the worst thing is, if I lived on and on I’d be lonely. I’ve been lonely enough in this life, always the odd one on the outer edge of the social spiral. You know. But I’ve had a few friends and my children and brief times of respite when I became involved in a new love affair. Always too brief. Then the loneliness returning.”

  I took another sip of wine. “My friends. As I am now, all my friends are forty or more years older than I… Remember Shirley?”

  “Of course. It was shocking how fast she went.”

  “I sat in hospice with her the last three days, watching her struggle, holding her hand when she breathed her last breath. Who will be next? Sage? Amanda? You?” My fingers tightened around her hand. “I don’t think I could bear life without my friend Anne.”

  Anne moved closer and put her arm around me, upsetting Camille, who jumped up and stalked off.

  “My children,” I said. “I don’t want to sit in a hospice room and watch my children die.”

  We sat together in silence. I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. Evening light came through the window, touching the silver in Anne’s hair, the laugh lines around her eyes. I leaned my head against her brow.

  “That’s how it would be,” I said after a while, “everyone I loved dying, one by one, until the only people left were today’s young people, absorbed in their electronics, who could never understand me. I can’t stand another lifetime of loneliness.”

  Anne tightened her arm around me.
“I get it. Oh, Clara. Your beautiful young body. It’s a lot to give up. And a lot to take on, being old again.” She shifted to look into my face. “You’re really going to do it? You’re sure they can change you back?”

  “They said they could.”

  “When?”

  “We arranged to meet again at my special place a year from when they first found me—that will be my next birthday—to say goodbye before they leave Earth. I’m going to ask them then.”

  “What if it was the lightning you were dying of? What if you die after they leave? It’s all very well for you to talk. What about me? How do you think I’ll feel if you get changed back and then just die?”

  “Anne, I’m going to die. And so are you. It’s the only thing we can be sure of. One or the other of us will go first.”

  Like rising flood waters, sorrow filled the room. Death loomed, both friend and foe. His shadow fell between us.

  I tried to lighten up. “Maybe you could get that psychic friend you’ve been telling me about, the one who communicates with people on the other side—what was her name? Morna? Who would name a child that?”

  “No one did. She chose it.”

  “Even worse. Maybe after I die you could get her to put you in touch with me, and I’ll tell you all about it. Maybe when you die you’ll find me, and we’ll dance together again.”

  “Maybe.” Anne brushed away a tear.

  It had grown dark. She kissed my cheek, then reached past me to switch on a lamp. “I’m famished. Let’s fix dinner.”

  “I think I’m tipsy.”

  She picked up the wine bottle and held it up to the light. “I think I am, too. No wonder. We almost finished this bottle.” She stood. “I’ll start the salmon.”

  I got up unsteadily. We were clumsy as we prepared our meal. We collided in the middle of the kitchen, I with a bundle of asparagus heading toward the sink, Anne with salmon on a plate heading toward the stove. I lurched and the asparagus flew out of my hands to land in a jumble like pick-up sticks, fortunately on the counter. The salmon was not so lucky. It slid off the plate and landed on the floor. Anne barely had time to retrieve it before Camille pounced. We started laughing. There were more bungles. We laughed harder with each mishap until we were in tears.

  When we finally sat down to eat, the salmon was beyond crispy, the asparagus limp, and the salad wilted, but we were too hungry to care. We bowed our heads and gave thanks for life and ate. Camille relished the salmon skin we scraped into her dish when we were through.

  Zachary called eight times. I counted them. I checked my caller ID, did not answer, and erased his messages without listening to them. Finally he gave up. Then the week came when we had planned to go to Buenos Aires, and I imagined him returning to Seattle. I wondered what he would do about Suzy.

  Tim called a few weeks later. “Lover boy’s gone,” he reported. “You can come back now.”

  “He’s gone?”

  “Yeah. He got transferred back to Seattle. Said he had family stuff to deal with. Sally and I and Roberto are heading down to Denver tonight. You want to ride with us?”

  “I can’t tonight. Thanks for thinking of me. Have a great dance.”

  Even after I knew I wouldn’t meet Zachary, I didn’t go back to tango. There is an expression in tango world, the tango moment. A tango moment is a tanda that is perfect and luscious, everything we long for the dance to be. It is said that when you have a tango moment, you should go home so as not to diminish it by following it with a lesser dance. I had had a four-month tango moment with Zachary, and could not bear the thought of dancing with any other.

  Not dancing left a hole in my life, but there was plenty to fill it. Four months, I told myself, before I lose my strong body. Remembering the fatigue of being old, the awkwardness of painful knees, I resolved to put my house and garden in perfect order so they would be easier for me to care for when I returned.

  I went through every cupboard, closet, and bureau drawer in my house, clearing out things that I knew I would never use again. As I worked I kept up a steady stream of chatter to myself—“You certainly don’t need that anymore… Maybe I should keep these… You haven’t worn that in years”—to focus my mind and shut out thoughts of Zachary. I cleaned out the basement and the garage. Big piles for Goodwill. I filled the recycle bin with the contents of my files, keeping only essential documents. I took boxes of books to the used bookstore.

  Spring is always a busy time in the garden, but that year I worked harder than ever. I planted the small vegetable garden on the south side of the house with peas, tomatoes, pole beans, zucchini, and greens to feed myself for the summer. I worked over all my flowerbeds, putting in perennials that would be easy to care for. Flowers had become even more important to me than vegetables in recent years. Especially roses. Food for the soul. Beauty.

  I went back and forth about whether to tell my children about my decision, and finally decided not to. I knew they would try to dissuade me, and that would make it hard for me to stand firm. I could spend time with Robin and Greg over the summer, and Lisa—she was so far away. I would call her often. I will see them all again after it’s over, I assured myself. The Elirians said they would not let me die.

  I continued my massage practice but did not take new clients. I had decided to close my practice on Summer Solstice and spend my remaining months of strength in the mountains.

  Sometimes I woke in the night gripped by fear. Was I insane to let go of a healthy body and return to the pain, the fatigue, the racing heart? I didn’t know what damage the lightning had done before the Elirians healed me. I remembered the black headache, the paralysis, Herb saying there had been blood on the rock. What if I lived the rest of my life twisted and crippled, unable to care for myself? What if, after all, I died when the Elirians left? I knew I must die eventually, that indeed I was making this choice in order not to live on and on, but I wasn’t ready. Something was still incomplete. When the fear was worst, I told myself I could always change my mind. But I knew I wouldn’t.

  Then with morning light, morning meditation, clarity would return, and I would rise from my pillow and plunge into the next task.

  I thought of Zachary more than I wanted to. Sometimes I raged at him, all the words I hadn’t said, all the hurt. Other times I grieved and ached with longing. Still other times, these extremes dissolved into quiet caring for him. I hoped he had married Suzy. After all, they’d gone together for five years and found each other so attractive they’d had sex the first time they met again. They both danced tango and wanted kids. It would probably work. Having a child might settle him down.

  Then I would rage anew. Maybe it will be better, I told myself, when I’m old again. I was peaceful then. Maybe this tumult is just because of my young body.

  One afternoon when I was in rage mode, I left the house seeking to calm myself with a walk. As I passed through the back entry, I saw a bottle of bubble soap I kept handy for when the children came to visit, and impulsively stuck it in my pocket. I’d always enjoyed blowing bubbles, loving the way they caught the sun in rainbows, floated on the wind, and then just burst. Gone.

  The spring afternoon was cool and sunny. I walked swiftly through the quiet neighborhood and came to the lake. There I slowed my pace, drinking in the light on the water, the new leaves unfolding, the song of a meadowlark.

  As I came to the far side of the lake and started up the path into the foothills, I felt the jar of bubble soap in my pocket. I pulled it out and sat down on the hillside overlooking the lake. Maybe, I thought, some bubbles would lighten my mood. Under me, the new grass was soft and green, growing up between last year’s dead stalks.

  Then I had an idea. A bubble for each lover I’ve had in my life. Let them drift away, burst, and be gone.

  Taking the wand out of the jar, I opened my memories and began. A bubble for the young boy to whom I surrendered my virgi
nity at age fifteen. It didn’t go far before it burst in thin air. A bubble for Dan. His caught an updraft, shone briefly with a rainbow, then drifted downhill and broke against a young willow. A bubble for Jon. His came out, not singly, but in a cluster of bubbles. For him and all his mistresses, I thought. Four more for the men with whom I futilely sought love and permanence after Jon left. I spoke each one’s name as I sent a bubble out into the soft spring air. None of them lasted long.

  “Let them go,” I whispered.

  Last of all, a bubble for Zachary. It floated high, a rainbow bright in its curved surface, then descended, caught on a dry stem of last year’s grass, and burst.

  “Let him go. Let them all go,” I murmured, my throat thick.

  I sat a while, gazing over the lake below me, watching the ripples moving in the sunlight.

  There was more to let go. It was not coincidence that the other half of all those relationships was the same person—me. Let go my unskillful ways of relating. I began blowing bubbles again. Let go clinging too tightly. Let go fearing and pushing away the very intimacy I longed for. Let go trying too hard to please until I was all bent out of shape and resentful. Let go complaining. Let go making poor choices of lovers out of desperation. Let go hanging onto relationships long after it was clear they would never fly.

  All the futile ways. Let them go.

  For a moment I wavered on the brink of tears. Then I picked up the wand and blew three more bursts of bubbles. As they drifted around me, I let out a long sigh, and lay down on my back on the sweet earth, arms and legs spread wide.

  On the day of Solstice, I took my first high country hike. Anne went with me. But we got only as far as Sapphire Lake before we were stopped by snow. Two days later I went alone carrying snowshoes and climbed Whale Ridge, a long, rounded mountain that humped up south of Silver Lake and rose to over 12,000 feet. The snow was deep on the forest path, but at the top the ground was blown clear. I hiked to the highest point I could reach and opened my heart to the immensity, mountains upon mountains spreading away into the distance. I will drink this in, I promised myself. I will fill myself with this glory so if I never come to these high places again after this summer, I will still be full.