“Oh my gosh, Regan, thank you.”
Raine pulled at my sleeve, “I need the bathroom,” he said.
“Oh,” Regan answered. “The toilet is just there,” he said pointing. “Come on then, I’ll take yi.
Raine glared at him suspiciously.
“It’s alright, Raine. You go with Regan and I’ll take Elizabeth.”
“To the baaaath-roooom,” Raine said as he opened his mouth wide exaggerating the word for Regan, “not the toilet.”
Regan was warm and friendly and took us directly to our flat. As promised, a large basket filled with fruit, biscuits, jam and cheese sat on the counter of the small kitchen.
“Well then,” Ian said after unloading us. “I’ll leave yi to it then. I’ve written my phone code for yi should you need anythin and there is information for the markets and bus schedules an that, into the city. I’ll check in after a day or so. Right, cheers then.” He finished and hugged me good-by.
“Thank you so much, Regan, the place is really nice.”
The flat was located just outside of Edinburgh and days after our arrival, I took short bus rides into the city and things seemed to fall into place.
My nostril’s flared as I tipped them toward the sky breathing in the aroma of yeast and hops so prevalent in the city of Edinburgh. Cold mist moistened my cheeks in the early morning despite the late summer month as I made my way down Princess Street, known as the Royal Mile. Fragments of conversation floated past as I walked.
“Oh aye, hen. I ken whet ye meen. Those wee barins Ill ge up ti no good, so they will."
The two women chatted happily as they passed. Behind them a few paces a couple strolled arm in arm. “Aye, aye yer right, luv.” the man said, “You’ve ti listen if ye”… Another man clutching a briefcase hurried past gently bumping against me and mumbled, “Pardon, luv, cheers-ta.”
I took it all in. Although I was a visitor, I didn’t feel like one.
Edinburgh Castle loomed over the city, dominating like a giant sentry standing guard. Its origin dated as far back as the 9th century BC, but its first royal occupation was by King David 1 during the 12th century. The medieval design was constructed by determined Scotsmen, who would be proud to witness their blood and sweat evidenced some 800 years later. I admired the ancient stone structures that dotted the landscape, sculpted with steep turrets, stained and blackened with streaks from acid rain.
I was delighted to find on Sunday mornings, that bagpipers lined Princess Street stationed at each corner playing their Chanter and Drone for passersby. At the sweet rendition of Amazing Grace I cried, my heart was carried by the pipes’ wail while my soul was delivered home. The lyrical speech of the Scottish people sounded oddly familiar and had a calming effect on me. I had no difficulty understanding their thick brogues and in no time my children and I sounded as though we were born here, and I couldn’t recall ever feeling so at peace.
I walked the city streets in search of a job and on my third day, I found one at a bustling café on Rose Street. An enormous art-deco chandelier hung sparkling and bright in the center of the room, and on every table sat a shiny cafetiere filled with aromatic black coffee. The place looked hip and popular and I knew this was where I needed to be.
The manager was a dark haired, dark eyed, Scotsman of Irish descent, who poured on the charm smiling devilishly as he listened to my plight. I was hired as a waitress earning just two pounds an hour with no tips, the wage was offered “off the books” because I had no working visa. He promised to make me feel at home and show me his beautiful city, and he did.
His name was Robert and we spent all of our time together fascinated with one another’s past. Although we were young and not really in love, we made a commitment and several months later, Robert agreed to marry me so I could stay and work legally in the country. He dutifully accompanied me to the stuffy, institutional immigration offices where, after several visits of holding hands and exclaiming our love, I was issued a residency card. We couldn’t manage a long-term relationship, though we tried, and after six months we separated and lost track of one another.
Meanwhile, the children had their own reactions to our big move – very different from mine, and from each other.
Sleeping through the night was nearly impossible for Raine due to bad dreams. He developed tired, puffy bags under his sweet seven-year-old eyes. Raine struggled and fought against the new school and its rules.
He came home one afternoon during his first week, red- faced and angry. Violently, he tore off his blazer turning its sleeves inside out and threw it to the floor. He ripped the bright yellow and blue striped tie from his throat wrestling it over his head, slamming it in the heap with exaggerated vigor and screamed, “They sent me to the stupid head masters office because I ate pizza with my fingers! I told those stupids, THAT’S HOW YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO EAT IT! and I’m not using a stupid fork like a stupid sissy! And,” he huffed, “they call me Ah-MAIRR-ick-an and say I have a tail and chase me around. Look,” he said spinning around, “I told those stupids, I don’t have a tail. I hate it here!”
He was no longer a toddler who didn’t complain. He was a boy who’d been forced to give up his friends and his prized BMX bike and the toys he’d treasured because we couldn’t bring everything. A boy who was already uncertain of life. I hadn’t given him a stable home and the horrendous events in his young life shone bright in his wide green eyes, evidenced in a melancholy far too heavy for a child so young.
I’d focused so intently on survival and building a new life that I failed to see the damage my son sustained, both from the trauma we’d escaped, and the neglect and abandonment at my own hands. I couldn’t see the depth of his fear, distrust and sadness - that would boil and fester for years - creating an anger that billowed up from inside of him - exploding into a toxic cloud that threatened to destroy his life.
Raine would struggle with pain and anger for years, developing a false bravado for protection. He fought me until his spirit was bruised and bloody. He fought until he found his own inner strength, truth and a solid determination to love and be loved. But - as a seven-year-old boy in Scotland, he began to exhibit behaviors of a confusing and tumultuous life.
Conversely, Elizabeth loved clutching her brother’s hand while marching to the end of our gravel drive, clad in a smart school uniform, waiting for the bus to deliver them to school. She was delighted with her pleated, tartan skirt, gray tights and crisp white blouse all the girls wore. In her much younger class, she was not teased but admired for her golden hair and quick smile. Her teachers swooned over her, calling her, “A wee angel” who made friends easily and did not rail against the rules. As a youngster, she idolized her big brother and trusted him implicitly, until Raine began to take his anger out on her.
From the beginning, Elizabeth did not forget when a wrong was received, especially if it was dished out by her brother. As a toddler, she once cold-cocked him in the side of his head with a cowboy boot, while he sat, unsuspecting, watching television. Apparently, days before he’d pinched her taking away a toy that belonged to him, leaving her squalling on the floor. Her retribution wasn’t swift but it was measured. Now, years later in Scotland, she plotted her revenge for his mistreatment by being the “good child.” She followed rules and completed her studies while she watched her brother lie, break rules and rebel against authority landing him, time and again, in hot water. Thus, the good girl-bad boy dichotomy was born in Scotland.
Months after we arrived, my mother, having taken early retirement, came to Scotland and moved in with us. I was excited to have my mom for support and much-needed help with Elizabeth and Raine. We’d begun to build a relationship with one another through my ordeal with Aaron’s arrest and trial.
“Nita!” My mother called from the top of the stairs, “Raine needs his school jack
et and tie and Elizabeth needs more knee socks picked up at Marks and Spencer today. I’ll take them into Edinburgh and get them.”
“Ok, thanks Mom. I’ll have to work until nine tonight. I’ll see you later.”
We fostered a new respect together and I felt free to discover who I was without disappointing her. She supported and encouraged my abilities and pushed me to learn about them. It had happened a few months before our move.
“You’re not crazy,” she said to me one night when I revealed stories of having pictures and hearing voices. We sat Indian style on the floor face to face and drank our second glass of wine and talked late into the night. “Your psychic.” My mother stated.
“But, how do you know?” I asked.
“Because, I’ve read about it and I have always known things myself.”
“Really? Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she said and paused. “Like, I knew your father was cheating on me. I get feelings about people and I’m usually right. I know things about them that I shouldn’t. I’ve always believed in past lives because I remember one of mine. I was an Indian and I had a horse that I felt so connected to, it was like he was my brother instead of an animal. I’ve known it since I was a child and Boots confirmed it for me in my reading. I have just always known.”
“Why didn’t you ever talk about that stuff?”
“I don’t know.” she paused. “I did a little with my friends. I didn’t as much with you girls. I knew all of you had some ability, but I didn’t realize how strong your gifts were. You need to give readings and open a center one day.”
I was floored by my mother’s response. I felt validated and like maybe I wasn’t crazy after all. It would be a friend of my mother’s to whom I gave my first professional reading.
I never imagined that my mother would not only support me but believe in me, too. It was a new experience for us both. After that night we talked about our experiences and our past without needing to judge each other. We forgave and moved forward. We began a healing process and built a relationship based on the present instead of the past. We grew close and I got to know my mother as a woman for the first time.
When she arrived in Scotland we lived in the flat I’d rented. Later we’d move into a house I was able to buy. The flat had an occupant we hadn’t known was there. Off the kitchen under the stairway there was a pantry where we kept some canned goods, cleaning supplies and the rubbish.
Occasionally, when the pantry door was opened, a foul smell like a rotting animal would linger, seemingly out of nowhere. After a few weeks of that, the rotten smell became more constant and I knew there was something in that pantry that wasn’t a dead animal or rubbish responsible for the offending odor. I could feel it. One morning when I pulled the door open, a wall of energy rushed toward me that felt like pressure pushing me backwards followed by the stench. I stepped back in surprise and with my heart racing I screamed, “Okay enough! Get out! You are not welcome here.”
The smell disappeared instantly and I knew I’d been right, but that wasn’t the end of things. We began to hear loud banging late in the night that came from the crawl space above us, and sometimes from the stairway.
The noise would wake the children and, Raine would call out in a frightened voice, “Mommy, what’s that noise? It’s scaring me. Is someone on the stairs?”
“It’s ok, Raine, go back to sleep. It’s just the house,” I lied.
The pesky invader continued to stink things up. I meditated and prayed and filled the house with light and asked for angelic help to rid the space of the malicious intruder and eventually, it left and not long after, we did too.
I secured a loan and bought a house that was a short train ride from Edinburgh. It was a “listed” building which meant it was historic. It’d been built in 1798 and was located at the bottom of the Pentland Hills. It’d been completely refurbished on the interior and was situated on an acre of farmland that held the remnants of a stone carriage house at its borders. The views were breathtaking.
I vowed I would never go back to the states and I felt truly safe for the first time in years.
I refused to let other people’s fears and limiting beliefs belong to me.
I landed a job at a four-red-star hotel as an assistant manageress. I’d been working in the hospitality industry since the age of seventeen and I was well versed in service. Several months later I was hired to open a pub and bistro, from the ground up and manage the property for a large brewery in Scotland. I hadn’t carried such responsibility alone in the past, but I was determined to make things work. Failure was simply not in my vocabulary.
On my first day, I met my district manager at an abandoned stone building whose top floor was once a popular pub that boasted of serving Robert Frost his daily brew while he visited Scotland. I was given a chair, a phone and a phonebook, in an empty room with only the skeletal remains of an old and deeply scarred bar.
“There yi are luv,” my district manager said with a smile. “Let me know how yi go. You’ll need ti find a chef for the bistro below, as well as staff. We will take care of the opening inventory for the pub. No worries there.” And with that, he was gone and I had to figure it out for myself. Fortunately, I did.
The most valuable item I brought to Scotland, was a dog-eared book my mother had given me years before named, “You Can Heal Your Life” by Louise L. Hay. As a teenager, when I attempted the positive affirmations suggested in the book, my stomach lurched and I’d think, you’re such a liar and so full of shit, and I’d stop and look away, disgusted with my reflection.
Now, years later, I realized I had debilitating and negative thought patterns that ran in my mind day and night. I began to hear my thoughts affirmed, I am weird and don’t fit in. People don’t like me. I am ugly. I am a bad mother. I am cheap and stupid. If people knew the things I have done, I would disgust them. On and on the thinking process went. So, each time I had a hateful thought about myself, I replaced it with a loving one like, I am beautiful. People are drawn to me. I am a good mother, and I love and approve of myself. I am not crazy. I am worthy of love. I taped my affirmations all over my house and I carried one in my wallet. Every time I passed a mirror, I spoke a loving statement about myself and blocked out any negative response. Sometimes, tears filled my eyes as I spoke my affirmations. My throat closed and I fought the urge to look away. I wanted my children to learn to love themselves and I knew it had to start with me.
Over time, with perseverance - I began to like myself. It was the beginning of love for me. I embraced a transformation of who I knew I could be - that was born first with Raine and then with Elizabeth. I discovered that being a battered child, drug addict, neglectful mother or victim of rape, did not have to define me. Rather, all my experiences were purposeful and I could find strength and meaning in them. I could decide who I’d become. You can create your life, you can. Who do you want to be?
Scotland was my home now and the girl I’d been before disappeared, she belonged to another life I no longer lived and I believed I’d never revisit. I would, however, revisit again and again in an attempt to heal and forgive myself. The process would take decades of conscious exercises to release self-doubt, blame, rejection and hate.
But to begin, I listened more attentively to the voice within and I learned to trust in the flow of life. I recognized that the voice I’d heard for so many years came from me, my divinity, my intuition or god consciousness. It was my connection with God. It was my very soul.
Once I started to meditate and converse with the light-body, that I now called my father guide, I no longer saw it hovering outside of me. It was the decision to change that began my transformation. A simple decision to heal and forgive. The key was in the learning and the ability to trust, and if I could believe in myself and my process, the understanding would fo
llow. That was where I started.
One afternoon nearly a year after my mother had moved to Scotland, we stood huddled against the icy wind on a train platform waiting for the Waverly to deliver us into Edinburgh. My mom decided to return to the US, and had already purchased a ticket for her return flight. She wanted to stock up on items she couldn’t buy in the states before she left. Her neck was wrapped with a thick scarf that covered her mouth as she spoke. “I’m going to stay with Maggie, Ronnie and the kids until I can find a place of my own. I certainly won’t miss this weather,” my mother said, with a smile that lit in her eyes.
I’d recently accepted a new job as the manager of a trendy restaurant in the city of Glasgow, which I was to start two weeks later. I was sad to see my mother go, but had no intention of returning with her. But as my mother talked of her plans, I heard the voice. If you stay and don’t return with your mother, you may regret your choice. The voice went on. It’s time to go now, time to go home.
Hell no, I thought. I’m never going back! But I knew the voice was right and although I didn’t want to go, and I was terrified with the idea of it – for some reason – I had to. I reluctantly sold all I owned again and bought three one-way tickets to California. Maggie would have a house full.
Chapter 12
Sleeping homeless people crowded every open doorway and overhang. They lay on tattered cardboard mats and newspaper - the lucky were wrapped in blankets or sleeping bags and others huddled under layered clothing - their heads covered in wooly caps. Sidewalks and gutters saturated with urine brought to mind an outdoor latrine whose smell could not be escaped in the damp morning air.
The San Francisco sky was heavy with fog that left a cloud of moisture clinging to my face as I walked to Pete’s for my morning espresso. As I approached the street corner, a homeless man sat up and leaned against the doorway of where he’d slept. Jumbled in a heap beside him, in a filthy burrow of despair, was fishing net stuffed with clothes tied in a tight ball, a torn plastic Safeway bag that brimmed with crushed aluminum cans and his bedding in a tangled mass of guarded treasure. His feet were bare and blackened with street grime, his toenails shockingly yellow and long and the odor of his unwashed body wafted toward me carried in the mist. Webbed with deep cracks that looked raw and painful, his swollen hands shook as he carefully opened a pint-sized bottle that contained his salvation and lifted it reverently to his lips.
The Knowing: Awake in the Dark Page 17