Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  “You’ve served as an instrument, my girl. Beyond the clay, behind the shape, texture, and color, something shines through... Radiantly.”

  Thank goodness, I hadn’t painted it black.

  “We can show it at the gallery after all,” Anne said, her face beaming.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Anne sighed, and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand my reluctance to share something I’d considered an abomination only minutes before. “It’s not for sale.”

  “Who said anything about selling it?” Anne asked. “Two days ago, you were vehement about displaying one of Adam’s sculptures at the gallery, and now you’ve become as protective as a new mother.”

  Mother; birth; possession; ownership. Something from deep inside of me, something unfamiliar and totally unexpected, had materialized in the form of a sculpture. Exposing that part of myself involved crossing a bridge from a life of certainty to one of uncertainty, reaction to action—and then burning the bridge behind me. My mother had tried to create the perfect world for me, but that kind of control wasn’t possible. I’d learned that much during my stay in Carmel Valley and continued to do so while here in Big Sur. The illusion of emotional safety blocked progress toward self-discovery. And that was no longer an option.

  It was time to open a new door instead of staring longingly at an old one.

  “If Adam can share a piece of himself, so can you,” Anne said.

  Nothing outside of yourself, including a piece of glazed and fired clay, can give you what you think you’re missing. “It is inspiring.”

  “It uplifts. It reaffirms. It arouses,” Anne said.

  I shivered and pulled myself from its hold. “If Adam agrees to show one of his, then—”

  “Three days won’t give him enough time to complete a sculpture using my reinforced clay,” Anne said, “but maybe he can get one done in time for the gallery showing in two weeks.”

  It was time to give myself permission to change my life story. “Okay, if he’s in, I’m in.”

  Even as I said it, sparks went off in my head like a premature Fourth of July fireworks display. In celebration or warning? Only time would tell.

  ~~~

  The fireworks at the wharf had made me feel like a kid again. I’d cried out in excitement and celebration right along with Anne and the rest of the impassioned crowd, not only in celebration of the Independence of our great country— “Sovereignty of the people! Independence forever!” —but also in celebration of my expanding sense of freedom and independence. And now I was tired.

  Too bad the Circus Campers weren’t.

  Holly, Christopher, and Nathan were too wound up to sleep. Understandable. But their father’s behavior was less easy to comprehend—and forgive. Beer made him mean. He screamed at the kids and cussed at his wife, so often that I lost count.

  Worry would haunt the little sleep I would get that night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “NO,” ADAM SAID when Anne asked if he would like to go to her studio to work on a sculpture. He bent down, scooped a handful of clay from the bank of the pond, and squeezed it until muddy water ran down his arm. Buster yawned and rested his scraggly head on his paws, eyeing us with what looked like amusement.

  “The coyote’s smiling again,” I said.

  Anne squatted in front of the dog and scratched behind his ears. “Actually, dogs and coyotes don’t smile, but yes, it does look like Buster’s laughing at us. The Native Americans call the coyote ‘trickster’ for the jokes it plays on humans.”

  “He doesn’t play jokes on Adam,” I said.

  “No, you don’t, do you, fella?” Buster squirmed with what appeared to be pleasure as Anne rubbed his hairy back. “Anyway, lightness of being supports healing.”

  Lessons from a smiling coyote? “Adam agreed to do a piece for the gallery, right?”

  Anne stood and the dog whimpered, following her with his yellow-brown eyes. “Yes, but he didn’t say when or how. Looks like we’ll have to bring the clay here.”

  Another delay. With only two weeks until the next gallery showing “How long will it take for a sculpture the size of Adam’s to dry?”

  “Probably a week,” Anne said, still eyeing the dog. The relaxed expression on her face and the faraway look in her eyes implied that her thoughts were elsewhere.

  “So, if it takes Adam four days to sculpt, and it needs a week to dry, and then it still needs to be bisque fired, glazed, and re-fired... Anne, we’ll run out of time.”

  “There’ll be time enough,” she said. “Brock’s on call. It’ll take him less than fifteen minutes to get here. Let’s go get that clay.”

  We paused to wave at Adam before heading out of the grotto, but only Buster appeared to notice. He gave a short yelp and appeared to grin even wider.

  ~~~

  Two hours later, we were back, lugging our clay burdens on our shoulders, but Adam was no longer in the grotto. I tried not to let my impatience show or let on that I had a painful stitch in my side. Darn, the clay was heavy.

  “He can’t create if he’s not in the mood,” Anne said, shielding her eyes from the sunrays shimmering off the pool of water.

  I paused to listen to the raucous chirping and chattering of hidden birds and the whisper of the afternoon breeze as it swooshed through the redwoods, oaks, and pines, marveling at the gentleness of nature’s music and feeling a sense of tranquility take hold. When would I learn that some things just couldn’t be rushed?

  “Come on,” Anne said. “He’s probably having lunch.”

  As we neared Adam’s campsite, I heard squeals of laughter.

  “Oh, oh, guess who?” Anne said.

  We stepped into a clearing of soft wild grass just as Holly announced, hands on hips, “Brock said it was okay, so mind your own business.”

  “Holly, let’s go,” Christopher pleaded. “Mom and Pop are looking for you.”

  Holly stomped her foot. “I haven’t said goodbye to Adam yet.”

  “Hurry up before we get in trouble.”

  Holly shot off, tangled curls flying. “Adam!”

  “What a handful,” I said, amazed, even envious, at the girl’s tenacity.

  Anne dropped her bag of clay. “Thank God for her love and innocence. It just streams from her.”

  “And her trust,” I said, my throat tightening. “When do we lose that?”

  “Too soon,” Anne said. “Too darn soon.”

  “Hi Marjorie! Hi Anne!” Holly called after giving Adam a peck on the cheek. “We have to go now.”

  “See ya,” Anne said.

  I raised my free hand in farewell just before Holly and Christopher disappeared through a break in the underbrush.

  Adam stood—smiling.

  “We brought you some clay,” Anne said, pointing at the plastic sack I still lugged over my shoulder like a burden basket of gripes and grudges. “And there’s more where that came from.”

  Was it my imagination, or did Adam’s eyes dull just a bit?

  “You can work with it here if you like,” Anne said, nudging the bag of clay at her foot. “All you’ll need is a piece of plywood as a base and a bucket of water.”

  “In the grotto.” he said, his voice barely audible amid the piercing chatter of birds.

  Anne yanked the bag of clay back over her shoulder with a grunt. “Your wish is my command.”

  Adam nodded, but made no move to follow us. Neither did Buster. Instead, he raised his furry head and sniffed the air.

  When we reached Adam’s outdoor studio, Anne dropped the clay and huffed.

  I let the bag of clay slide off my shoulder and land next to hers. “Okay, so now what?”

  “We leave Adam alone and check back with him later.”

  ~~~

  When we returned that evening, Adam and Buster were still hunkered down next to the unlit fire pit where we had left them. Adam stared heavenward, shoulders slumpe
d.

  “Whatcha doing, Adam?” I asked.

  He pointed at an opening between the trees.

  I crouched beside him and squinted at the star-studded sky until I grew soft and weepy. What was he thinking? What was he feeling?

  “Be back in a bit,” Anne said, heading in the direction from which we’d come. “I’m meeting Brock at the Lodge to discuss this weekend’s schedule.”

  Before I could react to her desertion, Adam said, “Look!”

  “Wow,” I said, not wanting to disturb the tranquil mood by asking him what he was referring to.

  “I’ll follow that star home,” he said.

  Guilt gripped me. All I’d been concerned about lately was getting Adam to create a damn sculpture, when instead I should’ve been concerned about his health and well-being. Actually, he was doing a better job of adjusting to the changes in his life’s journey than I was. What could I learn from him?

  “Do you know what it’s like?” he asked.

  I wrapped my arms around me, suddenly chilled. Was he asking if I knew what it was like to lose my mind? “Yes. I think I do.”

  “You have AD, too?”

  “No, but sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “Did you go in for...um...help?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Did they figure you out?”

  I thought of Dr. Tony Mendez, how he’d guessed that I was hiding things. “In order to help you Miss Veil,” he said. “I need to know... What have you not told me?”

  “Sort of.”

  “I hated that place,” Adam said. “There were pictures...of...of brains on the wall.”

  Dear God, he’d been through hell.

  “They asked me questions, and... I got mad.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “I didn’t know the answers, so I...”

  “Ran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too. Doctor’s orders.”

  It was almost dark now, except for the moon and stars. I hoped that Anne would remember to bring a flashlight on her return.

  “There is no cure,” Adam said.

  I made a choking sound.

  He turned his attention from the stars to me. “You sound in despair.”

  The simple statement caused my throat to swell and tears to slide from the corners of my eyes. Adam, a man who was losing his mind, had sensed my mood and given it a name, thus unlocking a door to my heart that had just about rusted into place. I wanted to go back to Morgan and Joshua, but couldn’t until I’d contacted Antonia. Or until she’d contacted me. She was caught between dimensions, lost between worlds and, in a way, so were Adam and I.

  I sensed Adam watching me. “I hear other people’s thoughts,” he said.

  I froze. Just like me. What a pair. “I’ve been hearing other people’s thoughts, too, Adam. It scares me, but I try to listen.”

  Adam shifted closer to me.

  “Normally I don’t take on other people’s problems,” I said. “I have enough of my own. But I care about you, Adam. I’m just not very good at showing it.”

  “I miss my son,” Adam said.

  “Where is he?”

  Adam took in a shaky breath, but didn’t answer.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you let us contact him for you?”

  “He’ll come after me.”

  “Isn’t that his choice to make?”

  I felt Adam’s body sag next to me. “I won’t be a burden.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I HAD BEEN CAMPING at Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park for fourteen days now, seven over the usual park limit. Doctor Mendez had worked hard to “bend the rules” and procure fifty-six consecutive days for me in the same location. It took some doing, but somehow, he’d convinced seven people to rent this space for seven days each and then pass them on to me. I had thirty-nine days left, and here I sat in my mega-tent no closer to contacting Antonia. Of course, I hadn’t been trying that hard. There had been many distractions.

  What surprised me, though, was that Antonia hadn’t contacted me either. Should I just wait it out, as Adam had suggested— “She’ll contact you when she’s ready” —and continue hanging around until she made the first move? Maybe she was okay now. Maybe she had resolved what had been bothering her. But if this were the case, why was she communicating with Adam, a complete stranger? Was it because AD somehow dissolved the barrier between her world and his? Or did Adam’s lack of the need to control—what she might say, what she might demand—open him up to her message?

  I crawled out of my tent only to find myself separated from the rest of the world by a swirling curtain of morning fog. The temptation to crawl back into my sleeping bag and wait for Mother Nature to be more cooperative drew me with a force that proved hard to resist. In two days, it would be my twenty-ninth birthday. Twenty-nine and still searching.

  After starting my campfire, I heard a trembling voice penetrate the fog. “Marjorie?”

  “Holly? Over here, sweetheart.”

  She materialized out of the mist as if the fog had taken on human form. Her outstretched arms guided her into the dome-like clearing created by the heat of the fire. “Could you make me some hot cocoa?”

  I motioned for her to sit down. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “I know you think I’m brave, but I’m scared,” she said, scooting as close to me as the physical constraint between familiar strangers would allow.

  I put a saucepan of bottled water onto the fire to heat. “It’s daytime and your parents and your brothers are nearby.”

  She peered at the grayness all around us and pulled her pink jacket more tightly around her footed pajamas. “Daddy says there are ‘Dark Watchers’ out here.”

  Darn that man. “He did?” I’d heard of the Dark Watchers legend: giant human-like phantoms, shadow people, only seen at twilight, silhouetted against the night sky, along the peaks of the Santa Lucia Mountains, staring into space, seemingly at nothing.

  “I think they’re watching me,” Holly whispered.

  Yeah, me, too. I shrugged, hoping to downplay her fear. “What’s wrong with that? You aren’t doing anything wrong. Maybe you make them happy.”

  She bit her lip as she considered this. “They see me visiting Adam.”

  “Maybe they visit Adam, too.”

  “They do. Adam talks to them. I’ve seen him.”

  “So, if Adam isn’t scared of them, why are you?”

  “I don’t know. I just am.”

  I emptied a package of cocoa into a mug and added a spoon. “Someone very wise told me once that fear is just an illusion.”

  “What’s an illusion?”

  “Something that’s not real.”

  “It’s real to me.”

  She had a point there. Though most of our fears are about things that might happen, but likely never will, they seem real indeed. “Tell you what. You’re welcome to stay here whenever I’m gone. As long as you take good care of my things.”

  She nodded, her curls jiggling in silent imitation of Anne’s bangles. “Okay.”

  “But you’ll have to let your parents know where you are.”

  She avoided my eyes. “Is the water ready yet?”

  As I blended hot water with the cocoa in her mug, mini marshmallows floated to the top. I inhaled the sweet, chocolaty aroma. “At least tell one of your brothers, okay?”

  She reached for the steaming mug, still avoiding my eyes.

  I stirred the cocoa before handing it to her. “Is your family staying here long?”

  Holly tested the cocoa with the tip of her tongue before taking a sip. “Dad and Mom’s summer jobs here pay for the park fees. Otherwise we’d be homeless.”

  “Doesn’t the park supply some kind of dorm housing for its employees?”

  “Not for their families. Anyway, Dad says camping here is like getting a free vacation.”

  “What
about school?”

  Holly shrugged, keeping her eyes on the mug. Marshmallow foam lined the top of her lip, reminding me of a milk ad, except with an angel instead of a celebrity. “Adam has a God jar.”

  It took a moment for me to adjust to the change in subject. “What’s that, dear?”

  “When he has a problem, he writes it on a piece of paper and puts it in a jar. Then God takes care of it.”

  Let go, let God. “What an excellent idea, just letting God handle things.” A matter of not trying so hard. Allowing the battle between what you know in your heart and what you have been taught to believe time to play out. Watching, listening, and staying on track. Even if that track leads away from all that’s familiar. Holly and Adam—direct and uncomplicated—served as golden threads to the spiritual side of the universe.

  “I can make you one,” Holly said. “There’s lots of jars around here that people forget to put in the trash. I’ll wash one and decorate it for you.”

  “Why thank you, sweetie. I could sure use a God jar right now, a reminder to let our father in Heaven handle things when I feel out of control. And since you’ll be tent-sitting for me, I’ll pay you five dollars a day.”

  “Then I’ll have a job,” she said, eyes bright as firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

  I added lukewarm cocoa to Holly’s mug, more conducive to warding off a child’s fears than the steaming hot variety. “But you can only tent-sit if it’s okay with your mom and dad.”

  The brightness left her eyes. “They don’t like you.”

  Even considering the source, the words stung. “Probably because they don’t know me.”

  “Dad says women who travel alone are asking for trouble.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I get into more trouble when I’m with my brothers.”

  Little girl pout, Buddha brain. How right she was, though sometimes “getting into trouble” is a necessary ingredient in life, an ingredient I had purposely avoided—until my dead mother came calling. “You’re pretty wise for your age. Now finish your cocoa and head back to your tent before your family wakes up and notices you’re gone.”