The Invisible Choir

by Tessa Lynne

  “Had Michael achieved remission, and the two of you had been allowed to meet, it would have been a gift, one blessed by the Creator.” To recognize it would have been a gift does not bring me the peace I crave. The tension of trying to accept the Council’s reasoning combines with the stress of the last six weeks, and I give vent to my accumulated anguish. “All I want is to have Michael take me in his arms and tell me that everything is going to be all right.” Knowing that we are the only ones left in the office, I allow myself to give voice to the depth of my pain, a guttural and then higher pitched wail. It is a needed catharsis, this crisis the catalyst. In that one moment is all that I have not been able to express to another person. Amelia comes, looks at me with compassion, and adds her support.

  “How may we help you, Child?”

  I can only reply: “You cannot give me the one thing I want.”

  As we continue our conversation, I am more in touch with my spirit and again centered in the depth of my belief. I am comforted by the deep concern shown by Zachary and Amelia, but even more so by how they reference the Creator and a greater purpose—in their authenticity is revealed their truth.

  8/12

  My second meeting with Michael, and I can’t help but speak of my reaction to his scent. He shows his irritation—not so much with me as with the Council, that they would interfere with his efforts. I ask him how he would react if our roles were reversed. What if he had to accept me appearing to him through a male—say, a large bearded man with a deep gravelly voice. What if my scent, the one he was so enamored of, was obvious only in that man’s presence?

  “I have not considered that possibility, but I know it would be just as difficult for me, if not more so.”

  It is easier then to move on. I am beginning to hear and see the Michael I knew in the body before me. He tells me of the lessons he learned in the months that his life was extended after I reached out to him.

  “My love for you was more complete than any I had known, in this lifetime or in any previous lifetime. It was unconditional. Also, I found forgiveness for my father and for a superior officer in the army whose actions had led to the death of two of my friends. He had reminded me of my father.”

  Michael speaks to me of his experience of death, of again going to the Light, how it was a familiar journey.

  “In my near-death experience, I wasn’t told that the reason I needed to return was for the lessons yet to be learned. This time it was made clear to me—because I had now learned those lessons, return was not possible.”

  My face must betray a wish that it wasn’t so.

  “Sweetness, please know that, as a man, I would have chosen to achieve remission and come to you, but, when death came and I returned to the spirit world, my desire to be with you was not a factor. The decision to stay or return does not depend on relationships or other desires of this world.”

  I am aware of wrestling with myself as we talk, caught between conflicting desires. I wish it was Michael, the man, here with me—and I want to accept him this way—to quiet my mind and simply hear him. The first is impossible; the second is nearly so. It becomes easier as we talk of our children, our mutual love for them a bond that bridges the distance between us.

  “I have been close to all three of them. Vince’s grief is less now. He is focused on medical school and on his life with Tara. Please tell Kenna and Callie that every day, without fail, I give each of them a hug.”

  Michael says he has been aware of my grief. I don’t like to think of him observing me in tears, incessantly blowing my nose, and I express my regret that I can’t always bask in the sheer pleasure of his presence. He makes an intriguing comment that I think is his way of giving me a message, some small physical proof. As he speaks of being close to me at home, he deftly slips in a comment about chocolate ice cream and then moves quickly on—he has said more than he should have. He has noticed my indulgence, my coping mechanism, but he is careful to not be too flagrant in his breaking of the rules.

  I have just noticed that our time is almost up when Michael refers to the one he calls his adversary.

  “I was too quick to react the last time we met. He is a good spirit, and a strong one. In previous lifetimes we have been both friends and brothers. I know you will be happy in the life that lies ahead for you.”

  In effect, he gives his blessing. I cannot yet imagine a new relationship, but I will call back his words when the time comes. We have swiveled our chairs a little closer and occasionally reach out to touch the other’s hand. As we say our goodbyes, we are more accepting of the limitations of our physical contact in this world.

  8/15

  I return from a morning walk and go to my bedroom, see some-thing on my pillow. I go closer. It is the red stone and the card that Michael took with him. I gasp in dismay. He told me their return would be a sign it was time for each of us to go on with our lives, spiritual or temporal. I quickly calm down and plan to ask Amelia about it later today.

  I have only a minute with Amelia. She tells me that Michael’s intent was to please me.

  “You may think that spirits have a perfect memory but, especially for one in transition, caught between two worlds, it is easy to lose track.”

  I ask her how he could have taken the objects with him; it seems an impossibility to me.

  “It is not unusual for spirits to take items with them when they leave this world, but it requires the strength of a higher status—the process defies explanation. There exists, on the plane of transition, what you might compare to a set of safe-deposit boxes, in which items can be kept until they must be returned.”

  I have read of loved ones not being able to find a treasured object and then thinking it a miracle when they find it, weeks or months later, in an unexpected, improbable, place. This would explain it.

  8/21

  I walk every day seeking the serenity of nature, Mahalia’s presence, and Michael’s. Lately, I more often go to the lake but this evening, when the heat of the day has passed, I drive to the island. It is easier to be here now, to be at one with my surroundings, to know peace.

  I reflect on the process of my grief, able now to take a step back and observe its course. It has been a journey within a journey. I have traveled to the depths of longing, the depths of despair, have discovered hidden dimensions to my soul.

  I see an image of a physical path—a rocky ascent, beset by obstacles. My path eases, until I stumble into a deep crevasse; it eases again, until I get stuck in the quagmire of my mind; and then back to the beginning to repeat the sequence. I think I have now reached an extended plateau, no more peaks and valleys, the way is easier; my grief has entered a phase of fond reminiscence. And then—just as I am thinking that—I am decimated anew.

  Coming toward me on the path is a couple about the same age as us, similar in looks, holding hands. They say polite hellos and must wonder why I ignore them, why the stricken look on my face. I move past them, grasp for some memory to hold on to, but the ones within my reach are anything but comforting. I reach out for an image of Michael’s body—it is not his that I see. I reach for the sound of his voice—it is the voice of another that I hear. I reach for the memory of his touch—it is clouded by the body that has been imposed between us. Then the assault escalates—every discrepancy that has ignited the slightest doubt comes tumbling down from whatever high shelf on which I have stored them. I am trampled under their weight as they stampede over my certainty that I know truth.

  I am close to the shelter and stop, overwhelmed by this onslaught. I am knocked out, feel it as a blow to my solar plexus. Too upset to sit or meditate, I catch my breath and then make my way to where a faint path of flattened grass leads to the far end of the island. After five minutes of a slow walk, I am calm enough to bring my focus to my body, to feel the strength that is returning to my legs, even to run for half a minute. By the time I reach my destination, I once again feel connected to myself.

  I think now that I can meditate, but as I e
nter into the initial calming stages the feelings return—anger, loss, betrayal. Minutes pass as I hold them in awareness without fighting them or encouraging them. They want to be recognized, and that is enough. I reach a deeper level of meditation and the feelings are gone. More time passes. I reach out to the Light, to the Creator, and pray: open my heart to thy presence; strengthen me to thy service; sustain me; guide me on the path that is thy desire for me. Renew in me serenity … truth … purpose.

  I repeat my prayer, make it my mantra, and then continue in silent meditation, aware now of the spiritual energies that surround me, Michael among them. A short time later, I am aware of an intense white light that lasts for more than a few seconds. I feel an opening of and lifting up within my heart and a distinctive presence—warm and comforting, of the most gentle intensity. I sense a message, so clear that I can easily put it into words: I am to believe in my own experience and in all that has been revealed to me.

  I do not doubt that I have reached out to the Source, the Creator, the Great Spirit, to God—and I have been answered. I express my gratitude for all that has been given to me: opportunity, knowledge, trust, and faith.

  8/22

  Today is our final meeting, and I am aware of keeping at bay the incongruity of our circumstances. It is impossible for me, still, to immediately recognize Michael in the body before me. Apart from these meetings, I have such a strong sense of his presence that it now creates a jarring sensation. I proceed on faith.

  We talk of the life, the joy, that might have been ours. I have brought with me a dozen photographs of Kenna and Callie through the years. Michael looks at them with love and longing, holds them tenderly. He has seen images of our life as they exist in the spirit world, but the tangible paper snapshots of this world return him to very human emotions.

  Michael gives me glimpses of what would have been our future.

  “If not for the fluke that caused my death, I would have left the hospital two weeks later and continued my path to remission. We would have met early in September in the place that we had planned, and we would have been married there a few weeks later. We would have built a house in the country, overlooking the lake, and we would have traveled a great deal, always staying in places surrounded by nature.”

  Hearing his words, I am caught up in an emotional pinball machine. I experience again the angst of learning it was a split second that determined Michael’s death, mixed with a deep, penetrating loss for the life we might have had. My emotions collide, ricochet, ping, glance off the edges of my soul, drop down to be hit again. My feelings are short-lived, just a remnant of what I experienced at the time. Michael looks on, with concern but helpless, constrained by the limits of what he can do to comfort me. I take a deep breath and wait for him to speak.

  He tells me more about the life we would have led, both of us quite active, our love the key to our strength. I want to give him one pure experience of being the woman he has seen in that future, untouched by grief. I want to ignore the stark reality of our circumstances.

  A short time later, I tell Michael that I want to keep his memory alive, even if there is to be another man in my life. When he questions if that would be realistic, I reply, “It is not unusual, especially when there are children involved.” I speak spontaneously, as if we had shared a full life and had raised our children together. It is almost the moment that I had wished for, that I could respond to Michael as himself and be the woman he loved.

  As we relax into a greater sense of knowing each other, it is obvious that there are insurmountable limits to the expression of our feelings. I tell Michael that the sense I get of him when he is near has made it even more clear to me how completely I would have loved him, would have given myself to him.

  Our time is almost up. It has become painfully apparent that further meetings would frustrate us more than satisfy our desires. In our last moments together, we join both hands, gradually let go.

  I sit at home now, wishing we could have had even one moment together before Michael’s death. I want a memory of his face, his voice, his touch, a physical image I can call to mind in the years ahead. I cannot go to my bed, cannot face being there alone. I lie down on the couch, make an effort to stay in the moment, and soon can feel his presence, warm and comforting, surround me. I think now that I can sleep, as close to being in his arms as I will ever know.

  8/23

  Michael is not here, must have left while I was sleeping. He said he would now have to devote his time to completing his transition. I will need to be careful to not let myself fall into the dark hole of his absence.

  I am distracted by plans to spend a week with my mother and seeing other family. This annual August trip will put some distance between me and all of the memory-provoking places in which I have been close to Michael. It feels as though I will be leaving him, but it may be helpful. I am looking forward to having more concentrated time with Callie and Kenna as we retrace the road trips of their childhood, likely one of the last times in which we will travel together from here to there. It will be difficult, though, to arrive where I had thought Michael would accompany me, to catch my first sight of those I had looked forward to introducing to my love.

  8/29

  We had a good trip, the three of us, and enjoyed reconnecting with family, but my mother greeted me with no indication that I had suffered a recent loss. When I had some time alone with her, I brought up Michael; she did not acknowledge either his reality or my grief. With no prospect of his imminent arrival, she is now skeptical. She was not blatant about it, but I could read between the lines. I was disappointed, and hurt, but I can understand her reservations.

  I have wondered if it would be helpful to have one last meeting with Michael after he has completed his transition. Will it be more evident, then, that we inhabit different worlds? I will ask if it is possible. He has not been close. His presence had been so obvious and constant that it now seems he has moved out of my home, has packed his bags and left me.

  8/30

  I am back to work and meet with Sally today. She can now easily go an extended time without contact and is ready to make the shift to weekly appointments. I take this moment of transition to tell her of my meetings with Michael and to thank her for the time taken from her life this last year. When I add it up, it comes to just over twenty hours. She tells me that is nothing compared to the hours I have been available to her for crisis calls and emergency appointments, and says to take whatever time I need.

  Amelia comes long enough to say that Michael was given permission to write me a letter using another receptor, the elderly woman. He has made brief visits here, to the physical realm, and the woman’s spirit allows him access. Amelia says she will deliver his letter to me later this evening. I ask her why she can’t give it to me now, but she refuses to explain.

  I sit here in my corner chair where I have been all evening, looking out to the street. I write a bit, but mostly I wait. I look out the large picture window as a hundred cedar waxwings descend as one and briefly inhabit the hedge. I see young children at play on a swing set and can hear older ones, up the street, call out to each other. A man jogs by, two neighbor women visit across a wooden fence, and Charkey patrols his fiefdom.

  Two hours, and there has been no knock on the door, no sound of the unmistakable screech of the mailbox since I opened it when I arrived home. No one has walked up the driveway, clearly visible through the window. It finally occurs to me to check the mailbox. Michael’s letter is there.

  Dearest Teresa, I have asked Amelia to deliver this to you in the same manner she would deliver your letters to me, by some unseen force. I remember how mystified I was, at first, to discover one in my journal.

  Were you aware of my presence after our last meeting? Being so near to you, my longing became unbearable. As I watched you sleep, I was grateful for the time we were given to laugh and talk and cry together. I didn’t want to go, but Eli summoned me upon the rising of the sun, and I had to leave you.
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  As I reflect back upon my human needs, it is even more apparent that I must complete my full transition and leave behind my earthly wants and desires. I am continually expanding my knowledge. When I have completed the current phase, and my spiritual body is stronger, I will again be close to you and my daughters. There is so much I wish I could say to them. Please tell them I have been near only to watch over them, never to judge them. They must grow and learn from their experience, including their mistakes.

  My beautiful love, it is several days since I have written. I must finish this and leave it for Amelia—she has been my strongest ally. Sweetness, I pray that you will keep me in your heart as I keep you in mine. Forever and always, Michael

  The handwriting is obviously Michael’s, but it now has the waver-ing quality of an elderly, trembling hand, and I am reminded of my grandmother’s writing. Having read it once, I absorb its essence, bringing back memories of favorite passages from his letters, of the strong sense they carried of the man who wrote them. I mourn the ordinary memories we might have had. I treasure the extraordinary ones that were ours.

  29. Man Becomes Spirit

  I WANT TO EXIST OUTSIDE of time—where I do not have to face this month when we would have met. I imagine the preceding weeks. Michael’s tests show he is closer and closer to remission; anticipation is coursing through our veins, impossible to convey in our letters. We meet in the mountains as we had planned. I see the drive there, our first sight of each other, and invite my grief to return full force. It is not our lost past that I mourn—we would have shared these very moments.

  I immerse myself in images of our life together, knowing that time will wash over the eight months we shared while Michael was yet in this world. It will mellow and fade the highs and the lows, leave in their place a chiaroscuro print of light and shade. I am not yet ready for that. I need to let myself feel the full force and depth of our experience.