Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  “You must have an angel on your shoulder,” I huffed.

  “Oh, quit being such a fussbudget,” Anne said, her moon and star earrings dancing like fishing lines.

  I gave an unladylike snort. “I’d rather drive with a ninety-year-old granny.”

  Anne took no offense and pointed into the distance. “Look!”

  Nestled between the trees, on a large volcanic rock, surrounded by crashing surf and shifting sand, stood The Point Sur Lighthouse. A rush of emotion brought a lump to my throat. I love lighthouses. They stand tall and firm during times of difficulty, serving as beacons, guiding, protecting, and comforting. I released my grip on the console and relaxed my feet.

  “Feel better?” Anne asked.

  “The access gate is locked, and there’s no one here.”

  Anne waved her hand. “The docent will show up soon enough.”

  “You called ahead?”

  She clucked. “Rest up, worry wart. We’ve got a three hundred and sixty-foot climb ahead of us, one-mile-round-trip.”

  I straightened my spine. “Good. I need the exercise.”

  “Now, remember why we’re here,” Anne said. “To meet with the beacon that will help us navigate the waters of materialism and wealth and the sea we call life.”

  “To see the light,” I summarized. Who or what would serve as my beacon as I attempted to pull back the curtain of Oz? Was there an access point for what I was searching?

  “And to access our third eye,” Anne said, touching the center of her forehead.

  Anne could slide between depth and humor as naturally as an otter at play, and sometimes I couldn’t keep up with her. About to comment on what a crazy and wonderful person she was, I heard the distinctive roar of a Harley. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “You got a problem with Harleys?” Anne asked.

  “If it’s the one I think it is, yes.”

  Sure enough, in roared the massive Fat Boy with its monstrous wheels and fenders and chrome headlight the size of a boulder. And riding it were Cecil and his centerfold sidekick, Claudia.

  Anne twisted in the driver’s seat to get a better view. “Tassel handlebars! Nice touch!”

  “It certainly gets your attention, doesn’t it?” I said.

  For once, Anne wasn’t in tune with my mood. “Wow, fork tubes the size of tree trunks.”

  “Wait until you meet its owner,” I said. “You might take a different view.”

  “Can’t wait,” she said.

  The docent pulled in next to us, unlocked the gate, and led our small caravan into the parking lot at the base of Pt. Sur’s giant rock formation. After we’d stretched our legs and paid our fees, an elderly couple drove in and parked their Ford Taurus next to the Harley. How were two old people going to make it up that hill? The place hardly looked disabled-accessible. Neither Anne nor the docent appeared concerned, so I put my misgivings aside.

  As we began our half-mile walk along the curvy, paved road, the docent introduced herself as Linda and, in typical tour-guide fashion, started right in with a litany of lighthouse facts. “It’s one of the few remaining examples of a complete, self-sufficient, turn of the century light station,” she said, before I switched my attention to the old couple walking several paces behind us. They had to be in their late seventies, and I marveled at their stamina.

  “The lighthouse has been in continuous operation since 1889,” Linda said. “It’s on the National Register of Historic Places and—”

  “Who operates the light?” Cecil broke in. He edged past Anne and me to the front of the line, Claudia trailing him, leather-clad-hips swaying.

  “Quite a distraction,” Anne whispered, eyeing the couple as if they were hot celebrities who had strayed out of Hollywood.

  “You bet,” I said, once they were out of earshot. “When they’re around, nothing else seems to matter.”

  Anne chuckled. “It looks like they’re joined at the hip. Although it’s kind of romantic the way she’s holding his hand.”

  “More like clinging,” I said. “Like she’s afraid to let go.” Why would a woman with a body and face of a siren need to cling to anyone?

  Anne gave a soft whistle. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to look like that. Big Bambi eyes. Thick lashes. Lips plump like ripe fruit.”

  “Don’t forget the hair.”

  “Yeah, like in those intense hydration shampoo ads. And I always thought those pictures were doctored.”

  I poked Anne in the side. “She’s looking at us.”

  “Probably wondering why we’re staring.”

  “Nah, she’s probably used to that. More like wondering how anyone’s hair could look so bad.”

  Anne ran her fingers through her curly locks. “Speak for yourself. I’m a goddess.”

  On seeing this handsome couple advance toward her, Linda brightened as if experiencing a mini power surge. For a minute, I thought she hadn’t caught Cecil’s question. But she was apparently too practiced for that. “The Coast Guard operates the lighthouse, but the California State Parks and the Central Coast Lighthouse Keepers maintain the buildings and conduct the tours.”

  Cecil was either fascinated with Linda’s answer or a good actor, because he gave the appearance of hanging on to her every word. As he continued to question her, I spaced out, which had been my intent in the first place. To let go and keep the channels open for those energy messages sent from all of creation that Anne had talked about.

  The massive, offshore rocks, the crashing surf, and the panoramic views of the ocean and mountains provided all the ingredients for a meditative state. In fact, they took my breath away. What there was left of it, anyway. I was definitely out of shape.

  Speaking of which... I peered at the old couple walking several yards behind us and slowed my pace, motioning for Anne to go on without me. The pair seemed engrossed in their surroundings, and each other, not in the least bit perturbed at missing the field trip spiel.

  Eventually, our group made it to the summit, only to meet a chilly wind blowing in gusts around sandstone buildings, restored barns, and a visitor center. Linda pointed out a blacksmith and a carpenter shop. I tried to envision the people who had once lived and worked here. What had life in such an environment required in personal sacrifice? How had they dealt with the loneliness and isolation?

  Linda mentioned a ghost tour.

  No thanks. There were enough ghosts in my life already.

  I hung back some more, deciding it was time to introduce myself to the old couple and see if they needed a hand. The rest of the group continued on, oblivious to my desertion. When the couple caught up with me, I asked, “Are you okay?” They smiled and nodded, but I noticed the strain on their faces. “How about we take a breather? We can catch up with the others later.”

  “That sounds like a mighty fine idea, young lady,” the man said, wobbling as if he might topple.

  I reached out with the intent of offering my support, but ended up shaking his hand. “My name is Marjorie.”

  His hand felt skeletal, yet strong. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Marjorie. I’m Bill, and this is my wife, Emily.”

  For the first time, I noticed Emily’s striking blue eyes and prominent cheekbones, currently pink with cold. “This is a tough hike,” I said. “I’m amazed at how well you’re doing.”

  Emily reached for Bill’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “We came here on our honeymoon, fifty years ago—”

  “But it didn’t seem this steep at the time,” Bill finished for her. He smiled at his wife with the love-struck expression of a newlywed, and my chest grew warm, in spite of the outdoor chill. Suddenly, this couple didn’t appear bland anymore.

  “Ready to catch up with the group and tackle those stairs?” I asked after a short rest.

  “Guess if we can make it to the top,” Bill said, “we’ve still got a few miles left in us.”

  By the time we’d climbed the spiral s
taircase to the lamp tower, Linda had reached the end of her spiel. “Point Sur’s Fresnel lens was replaced in 1972 with an electric incandescent lamp. In 1975, the incandescent lamp was replaced by a rotating aero-beacon mounted on the fog signal room’s roof. The aero-beacon was later moved into the light tower to protect it from the wind. Light from today’s aero-beacon is visible for 23 nautical miles.”

  I sighed, glad we’d made it, then left the elderly couple to themselves. They were doing just fine without me, giving each other the strength they needed.

  The docent turned to head back down the stairs, and that’s when Cecil recognized me. His wide-eyed look and sudden smile implied that I’d just made his day. “Hey, aren’t you the Butterfly Lady?”

  Anne looked at me with question marks in her eyes.

  “Yep, that’s me. And you’re the Harley Guy.”

  Cecil’s eyes strayed to Anne. “And who’s this New-Age goddess you’ve teamed up with?”

  “The Good Witch of the South,” Anne quipped, “fierce protector of simple, kind folk.”

  He struck his forehead with his palm. “Of course.”

  She reached out her hand. “Been waiting to meet you with bated breath.”

  “A witch, with a sense of humor,” he said, shaking her hand. “I like that. The name’s Cecil.” He turned to his partner, and I sensed the special bond missing between them that had been so evident between Bill and Emily. “And this is Claudia.”

  “No nickname?” Anne asked in mock surprise. “Harley Guy, Butterfly Lady, Good Witch of the South, and...”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Cecil said, as though daring Anne to come up with one.

  With an I’m-not-going-there smile, Anne winked at Claudia, who made no response. Apparently, she was as zoned out as I’d been much of the morning. Or maybe she just didn’t give a darn.

  “Hey,” I whispered to Anne, when Cecil and Claudia turned to follow Linda down the stairs. “What happened to all that talk about navigating the waters of materialism and wealth?”

  Her eyes hardened. “Once I was attracted to men like Cecil, like a moth to a flame. But not anymore. They want to own you and then proceed to feed off you like vampires, leaving you weak and them strong—at least until their next feeding.”

  “You sound bitter,” I said, surprised. During the short time I’d known her, Anne had come across as tolerant to a fault of other people’s foibles, including my own. “You must have gotten burned.”

  “Cremated, darling. This is my second life, and I’m back as a warrior.”

  “Anyway,” I said, “he already has a girlfriend.”

  As I watched the northwesterly wind push the sand across the narrow neck of Big Sur Point, I realized that, in the matter of a few hours, I’d seen the difference between the relationship I once had with Cliff and the one I now had with Morgan. Like the Big Sur Light House and the northwesterly wind, I wanted to cast my own light and push the sands of my own life story. Cliff hadn’t understood that, Morgan had. Like Cecil, Cliff had walked ahead of, rather than next to, the woman he loved. His life’s agenda, not mine, had taken priority in his mind. Morgan, by contrast, had released his urge to fence me in, thus freeing me to pursue my own path, strengthened by the assurance that he would wait for me and care for Joshua until my return.

  I had accessed my third eye, and the flash of my future with Morgan, as seen while observing Bill and Emily, the elderly couple honeymooning after fifty years of marriage, assured me that I was headed in the right direction.

  Chapter Ten

  “HOW’S ADAM?” I ASKED over coffee at my campsite the following morning. The fog that had plagued the Pfeiffer Big Sur campground practically since the day of my arrival had lifted, which bode well for a warm, sunny day.

  Anne inhaled the steam misting from her mug. “Pretty good, considering. He has a routine going that’s just about automatic, but it’s never a sure thing. If one link in the routine breaks, then the links that follow are lost. The mini-computer attached to his key chain helps. As do Buster and his personal aide, Brock.” Anne shifted on the log we were sitting on and blew into her coffee, sending out another stream of vapor. “Somehow, Buster, barely more than a pup, sensed Adam’s predicament from the get-go and elected himself guide dog. It’s almost as if he has an innate ability to sense nonverbal communication and mirror it back.”

  “Holly knows about Adam,” I said, offering Anne a blueberry scone. I was all out of stroopwafelen.

  She patted her stomach and shook her head. “Yes, Adam told me. But so far, she and her brothers have kept his existence to themselves, thank God, considering who they have for parents.”

  “I’d like to believe they’re just watching out for their kids.”

  Anne quirked an eyebrow. “If they were watching out for their kids, they wouldn’t leave the little tykes alone as often as they do. This is a family-friendly park, but that doesn’t guarantee their safety.” She set her cup on the log next to her and extended her legs in a long stretch, her sandaled feet poking out from beneath her long skirt.

  Who wore sandals while out camping and hiking, especially in this variable weather?

  “Want to go see Adam?” Anne asked.

  “Sure.” I grabbed the empty mugs and took them to the community faucet, my primary source of water now, ice cold and straight from Mother Earth. Water, like emotions, shouldn’t be bottled, but allowed to run free. Happy water, I decided, tasted better. A small bird crept up the redwood nearest me, poking its thin curved beak into the bark as it climbed.

  “Maybe Adam can beat AD,” I said on my return. “Miracles like that happen all the time, you said so.”

  Anne stood and did a yoga-style stretch. She inhaled and raised her arms over her head, then exhaled and bent forward until she was touching her nose to her knees. One second, two seconds. My muscles tightened protectively. “You’re not being realistic,” she mumbled through the folds of her skirt.

  I put down the rinsed mugs and tried to imitate Anne’s stretch—hold, hurt, hold. But I couldn’t get my nose within a foot of my knees. “Isn’t there a way to slow Alzheimer’s down?”

  “That’s why I’m here, dear. I spend time with him, make sure he’s eating right, and provide him with vitamins, herbs, ritual, and ceremony.”

  “Ritual and ceremony?” This surprised me coming from Anne, though it shouldn’t have, considering she had the worldview and lifestyle of a modern-day hippie.

  “I use a little Christianity mixed in with the wisdom of other religious traditions, add a little Native American philosophy, and even a pinch of white magick to help him accept the will of the Divine.”

  Her methods intrigued me. She intrigued me. Maybe we were more alike than I’d realized.

  “I’m leading him on a journey, my friend, kind of like the one you’re on, to discover his internal beauty and forgive his body and himself.”

  I nodded, though not sure I agreed with Anne. As far as I could tell, Adam and I were not on the same journey at all. While Adam was losing his mind and trying to hold on to his past, I was releasing the hold of my past in order to discover my mind.

  “Ritual and ceremony help him access whatever it is that can heal him,” she said, “so he can die in peace rather than resentful and angry.”

  The stretch Anne had performed earlier was beyond my ability, so I resorted to a more attainable variety. I bent down and touched my toes, reached to the right, reached to the left. “What about medical science?”

  With a smile that appeared suspiciously like a challenge, Anne put her hands behind her back in a prayer position and brought her head down to her front knees. “At the moment, medical science offers him little hope, other than drugs to slow down the process.”

  Was this woman made out of rubber? “So, you’re his nurse, medicine woman, and priestess.”

  “Witchdoctor,” she said, coming out of a forward bend that required the flexibility of a contor
tionist.

  I smiled—couldn’t help it. Witchdoctor sounded appealing, considering medical science more or less gave up on people like Adam. Still, I felt the need to make another argument in favor of traditional medicine. “Shouldn’t he be in some kind of care facility where he’d be more comfortable?”

  “In prison, you mean?” Anne asked, eyes smoldering.

  When I didn’t answer, she shrugged. “Anyway, we can’t make the choice for him.”

  “Says who?”

  “Officials with Adult Protective Services, the Geriatric Network, and the Public Conservator’s office for starters. Would you like me to go on? Adam made his preferences clear—in writing. He wasn’t merely involved in the planning, he instigated it. Anyway, he has a right to be on his own. He’s in no eminent danger, he’s not suicidal, he’s not homicidal, he provides himself with food and shelter—”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “He can’t cook, let alone use the camp stove. He can’t even remember where he puts things much of the time. How can he provide for himself?”

  Anne’s expression softened. “Simple. He hired me. He also hired Brock to help him bathe, accompany him on trips to the doctor, and act as a sitter when I’m not around.” She paused, let out her breath. “I won’t force him into a shelter, Marjorie. I won’t take away his dignity.”

  “You call this dignity?” I blurted, feeling an urge to burst into tears. What was wrong with me? I hardly even knew the man.

  “Open your eyes, girl.” Anne spread her arms wide and turned in a circle. “This is holy ground, a place of compassion, honesty, and love. I’m trying to make his journey worthwhile, regardless of the outcome. Adam is learning what it means to let go...and to die.”

  Let go and die. Was that what my adoptive father had learned to do after he was diagnosed with terminal cancer? I’d caught him crying once when he thought he was alone. But I’d never heard or seen him cry again. He’d remained kind, loving, and upbeat until the end.