by Donna Bishop
The psychic told her she would be having a son who had also been her son in a previous life. She said they’d lived by the sea in Scotland and had been burned to death together in a fire. At the time, she found it amusing but hadn’t taken it seriously.
When Liv found out a few weeks later that she was indeed pregnant, the emotional chaos that ensued was unbearable. Ross accused her of cheating on him and she was so hurt and angry, they had a huge fight. She threatened to leave him. He didn’t seem very upset at the thought, which made her even crazier. In the end they sorted it out, but it was the first time she had any sense that their marriage wasn’t perfect — that he wasn’t perfect and neither was she. She began to question him more. He seemed to trust her a little less. It was as if they had both been knocked off the pedestal they had placed each other on, and the only place to go was down.
It’s funny, even though I didn’t pay any heed to what the psychic told me, when Micah was born I did feel a strong sense of recognition, a sort of feeling that we’d done this before. It’s always seemed like we had an unusual connection — the way we share insight into each other’s thoughts and moods. Sometimes he’ll surprise me by saying exactly what I’ve been thinking. And this prevailing fear that I’ll lose Micah — that he’ll die. Did I inherit that memory, that intense fear, from Moragh?
Liv turns toward Celeste and quietly speaks, “Remember that time when we had the bonfire at the skating pond and Micah tripped on a rock and nearly fell into the flames? He missed by millimetres and got through it with just a small gash on his forehead. I freaked out, took the kids and left because I could see him burned and dead and I couldn’t get that image out of my head.”
“I remember how scared you were that night. But I also know you have done an amazing job of protecting Micah. He can be a really scary little dude with his love of heights, power tools, fire and speed! There’s a certain amount of protective mama bear in all of us, but it does seem that yours is excessive — it could’ve lingered in you because of Moragh.”
“You’re right. Hopefully, now that I know that, I can overcome it. And if I inherited her fears, maybe her strength and wisdom were also passed on to me.
“There’s a reason I survived my childhood, Celeste. I think it’s because I’ve always carried Moragh’s strong and wise spirit with me. And Hannah’s indomitable one as well…and perhaps others I have yet to meet.”
13
~ Gravity ~
“Where are you, Ross? I can hardly hear you!”
“China. I have to go to China — there’s some really bad shit about to go down and I have to stop it.”
“China? Seriously? I don’t understand. Why would you do that? What can you do about something that’s happening in China? Are you telling me you’re a secret agent or something?”
“Funny, Liv, but it isn’t a joke. In a way I am an agent. Liv, can I trust you? Can you take the earpiece off the phone to check and make sure there are no bugging devices, please?”
“What? No! You’re talking crazy.”
“You’re the only person I can trust. They’ll kill me if they find out I know what they’re up to.”
“Kill you? I don’t understand any of this. Are you really going to China? Is this real, or are you drunk or having some kind of breakdown?”
“LIV, you have to listen to me! This is real. We are running out of time here. I need you to believe me. I’m going to tell you what I know so far: Hu Yaobang has been disgraced and now Peng Zhen is trying to challenge Zeng’s authority and primacy. This is a major threat to the balance of power, not to mention the interference of Russia. There are Nazis in China, Liv and they’re taking over the Communist Party, and the German Nazis leftover from World War II are there and Gorbachev is in there like a dirty bastard and World War Three is about to happen!” He’s talking very fast and so loudly that Liv has to hold the receiver away from her ear.
“Ross, you’re scaring me. Come home right now. Please? You need some help.”
“Oh fuck! Here they come, they’ve got guns. I have to go, Liv. I love you.”
There’s a click and the line goes dead. Liv stands stunned for a moment. Here she is with three sick kids and a farm to manage, and her husband is in crisis in an unknown location.
“Liv, come in, come in, I’ve missed you! How are the kids? Chickenpox — what the hell! All three at once, and Ross off on some wild trip to China?”
Liv relays the whole story, at least what she knows of it. Ross is home now. Liv spent the previous week trying to track him down, in between caring for her three poxy children. Molly suffered with high fevers and lots of spots. Micah and Leah had a slightly gentler version and the homemade calendula lotion Celeste had sent over helped a great deal with the itch. The kids slept a lot, so Liv got on the phone with friends in Vancouver and with Mastercard to do some investigating as to the whereabouts of her husband. Friends were no help, as they hadn’t seen him, but a helpful Mastercard representative told her there had indeed been a charge for a return ticket to China. Other recent purchases were for alcohol, cash and restaurants in Vancouver. She needed to know if he was holed up with Anya, or if he’d actually flown to China. She couldn’t tell from the charges if the meals were for two or not. That wouldn’t be proof anyway — he could be with anyone. All scenarios were equally terrible to her, including the one where he had simply lost his mind. When he finally arrived home, he looked like a bedraggled homeless person. In contrast to his look, he had a new car — a ridiculously impractical luxury Thunderbird sedan — and a debt of $8,000.
“I told Ross that’s exactly what a person with bi-polar disorder would do, but he ignored me. He won’t talk about China, Vancouver or the car. He took to our bed without even asking about the kids or noticing that he’d missed both Thanksgiving and my birthday. That isn’t like him.
“By the way, Celeste, thanks for the moon earrings — my best birthday gift. My only one, actually. I love them — they remind me of Moragh.”
“You’re welcome, Liv. Sorry I didn’t deliver them myself, but I had the house full of family and I’ve never had chickenpox so I didn’t want to risk it. I felt so bad missing your birthday — your thirtieth is a landmark. Our gang has rescheduled your birthday bash for two weeks from now, so make sure you get a sitter.”
Liv takes a seat on Celeste’s sofa in anticipation. But Celeste isn’t ready yet.
“Do you know what you’re going to do from here, Liv?”
“Not really. When Ross was gone, his faculty head, Fielding, kept calling from the university because he missed a whole week of classes and a bunch of important meetings — they’re in the midst of faculty and institutional evaluations to do with accreditation. Fielding appealed to me as if I had some kind of influence over my husband’s behaviour and he couldn’t seem to accept that I have none. Finally, I was so worried that he might be fired that I lied and told him Ross was home, but sick in bed with the chickenpox!”
“Protecting him.”
“Yes, even though I really wanted to hex him with a virulent pox curse for real! I can’t help but feel some compassion for him. I get that he’s not doing these things to hurt me. Why can’t he just stay home, let me take care of him and help him get better, so the kids can have their dad back, and so I can try to love him again?”
Celeste’s expression is serious. “Liv, it sounds to me as though he’s in the manic phase of bipolar disorder. I’ve been reading up on it. It all fits — the affair, delusions about saving the world, paranoia, the headaches and the crashing depression. Wow!”
“I have no idea what to do. He’s so exhausted, Celeste. He didn’t have any classes today so I told him I was going out so that if he needed to he could sleep all day. I don’t know how much he’s drinking or how many pills he’s taking, but I know it’s a lot more than usual. I called his doctor in Twin Rivers, but he couldn’t tell me anything confidential. He did say Ross was there two weeks ago, before China, and that my concerns were v
alid and if he got worse, I should take him to the hospital. He’s willing to refer Ross to a psychiatrist, but it takes months to get an appointment. When I suggested that Ross probably would never agree to take medicine or to stop drinking, his doctor agreed, so that told me a lot, without telling me anything for sure.”
“He needs to deal with this, Liv. It’s not your responsibility to see that he gets help. You have no control over that. You can only encourage him and hope that he follows through. You need to set the boundary and get you and the kids out of there if he crosses it.”
“You’re right, Celeste. I hate conflict, but I have to take control, for all our sakes. We can’t go on like this.”
“Do you feel up to a session today?”
There is firmness in Liv’s voice, but exhaustion in her face. “Yes, I don’t want to be home today, not with Ross like he is. I don’t want to let go of that blue thread. Maybe this next life we look at won’t be as harrowing as Moragh and Hannah’s… or this one!”
“I’m so happy if this is helping you. You do have the strength and wisdom of Moragh and the resilience and adventurous spirit of Hannah and I know you will get through to the other side of all that’s happening in your life right now. Are you comfortable? Ready to start?”
Liv relaxes into the spongy cushions of the couch and nods.
“I want to go somewhere exotic and warm.”
“Okay, slow even breaths…here we go down the path, through the trees…ten, nine, eight, seven…counting down the stairs toward the sea…six, five, four… through the mist…three, two, one. Reaching the sands of time and following your soul’s thread to wherever it leads you today….”
14
~ Peaceful Resistance ~
Session No. 7 transcript, Oct. 17, 1987
Veda, 1918
I descend down the stairs that curve around immense, majestic cedars to the ocean’s edge. My glowing thread beckons me out and across the sea and I thrill at the sensation of floating over the water to a much warmer place. The humidity grows stifling as I pass over the sandy shoreline and look down on a hilly, lushly vegetated terrain. I dive and weave amongst laden mango trees, groves of tamarind and coconut palms, inhaling their exotic aromas. My spirit line swirls and turns to dance around an Indian elephant who is gracefully pulling down a tall palm frond with her trunk. She bellows softly — perhaps she’s communicating with the little one playing near her feet, but it sounds to my ears like a warm greeting to my spirit.
Now I’m travelling over an arid grassland dotted with scrub and bush, toward a settlement. Oh! Quite suddenly it’s become dark — I can’t see a thing.
I remember to look up. My grandmother once told me if I ever got lost at night, I could get my bearings from the night sky. The waxing moon and the Southern Cross constellation share some silver light with me. I’ve steadied myself. There’s my spirit line. It’s leading me toward a woman wearing a dark green sari with a tattered shawl covering her head and face. She’s moving as quickly as she can along a well-worn path, her range of motion limited by her narrow skirt. The blue cord is dancing toward the tiny bundle she holds tightly to her chest. The dwelling place of my spirit in this time appears to be the tiny brown-skinned baby in her arms.
I’m hoping my spirit hasn’t chosen to enter this perfect little body only to be snuffed out a few moments later. The mother’s emotional state suggests the infant is in grave danger. This wee one’s spirit is barely a glowing ember, unsure whether it wants to stay in this world or not. I hesitate to join with her because she seems so frail, yet she is the carrier of my soul from many years ago and I want her to live and carry on.
Celeste gently speaks, “Go with her, Liv. If your connection is strong, you’ll still be able to engage without fully entering her fragile body.”
“You’re right, Celeste. The infant’s soul is speaking to me. The story is coming to me as if it’s one I have always known.”
She is wrapped in a threadbare scarf and only a shock of her wispy coal black hair can be seen. The woman carrying her is weeping, her mouth twisting in anguish. She’s exhausted and in terrible pain, having just given birth. Blood soaks through the front of her sari, staining it a dark brown. Her heart is pounding as she considers what her next move should be.
Had she given birth to a son, her labouring pain might have been transformed into pride and gratitude, but alas, the child is a girl. Her first daughter was allowed to live, but the second was killed and the same would have happened to this child. Even though her baby is barely six hours old, she is already considered a worthless mouth to feed. Had she stayed, her husband’s brother would have come and taken the child, smothered her and buried her beneath a tree, as is custom in their village.
So, her mother has fled, hoping to give her away and save her life. Failing that, she will take her child’s life mercifully, with her own hands.
She doesn’t give a thought to her own safety — if she is caught, her husband’s family, with whom she lives, will kill her.
Desperation is the prevailing emotion I’m sensing. Darkness is turning to dawn and there is music coming from the larger road that intersects the narrow red dirt path we’re on. The mother is trying to decide if she should avoid this sound, as someone she knows might see her and report back to her family.
She strains to see more now. A large procession of what seems like hundreds of people comes into view, led by a man wearing a white sarong. They’re singing and chanting Satyagraha, rejoicing in the power of truth.
Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram
Patita Pavan Sitaram
Sitaram, Sitaram,
Bhaj Pyare Mana Sitaram
Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram
Patita Pavan Sitaram…
Now a chorus of voices is calling for the man in white to speak. “Mahatma Gandhi, Mahatma Gandhi,” the people chant.
The man is small and thin with wire-framed glasses. He stands before the crowd and smiles and it seems as if he’s beaming that smile to each person individually. My spirit soars with shock at first, like I’ve just won the lottery, and then immediately my disbelief transforms into humble honour, being in the presence of such an admirable, spiritual, important person in the history of our world. The energy of his spirit is so powerful and gentle that I sense all will be well — this child of my soul’s past will be allowed to live her life.
“The only devils are the ones running around in our own hearts,” Gandhi begins, and goes on to say, “An eye for an eye will make the whole world blind.” He explains how each of us must first take responsibility for our own pain, our own problems and our own suffering — only then can we gain the strength to stand up for what is right, and only then can we do this with a peaceful mind and in a way that truly benefits the world.
He talks about the futility of war and says, “The only way to conquer one’s opponent is with love.” He says all people are born equal and deserve to be treated with kindness and respect. He speaks about the caste system and the salt tax and unfairness — how this unjust tax is causing the poor people in this country to starve and turn against each other. He speaks of the need to band together and show the government they are strong, united and peaceful. He bids his followers to join him on his walk to the sea.
“We are the salt of the earth and we have traditionally made the salt from the earth and the sea,” the great man says.
When the speech is over, the woman weaves her way through the crowd and I follow, invisible. Some of the people smile at her and nod their approval at the tiny bundle in her arms. She speaks to a group of women, asking them if there might be anyone who would save the life of her baby daughter. Hushed voices carry her request from woman to woman, sharing the plea. Every one of them knows this heartbreak and is aware of the huge risk she’s taken by fleeing, much less trusting her secret with strangers.
My spirit cord suddenly throbs with energy and splits into two distinct, bright threads. One still binds me to the baby and her mother, whil
e the other twists about and extends toward another woman who’s standing nearby. She’s perhaps forty years old, dressed in a simple white tunic, and her head is shaven, making her brown, angular face seem especially small and delicate.
I’m able to read this woman’s thoughts as clearly as if she was telling me her story. She’s a widow who has no children of her own. When her husband died, she refused to follow him into death by throwing herself on his funeral pyre, as is the custom, so she was shunned by her family and the entire village. She doesn’t want — nor is she allowed — to remarry, so she’s lost her chance to bear a child of her own. With Gandhi, she found acceptance. She follows him because she shares his belief in equality for men and women, for children and all religions and for the abolishment of the caste system.
Her smile is wide and warm. Surrounding her is an aura of intense azure blue and as she moves closer I can see her light expand and mingle with the thread that connects this infant to me.
This woman gently lifts the scarf covering the baby’s face and looks deep into her amber eyes.
“Welcome to my life, little one.”
It’s as though she’s been eagerly expecting this child for years. Tears of joy run down her face. She turns to the birth mother, whose face is haggard with grief and pain. As their eyes meet, the young woman manages a weak smile, “Please have these two gold bracelets in gratitude for saving my baby daughter.”
“No,” says the woman, knowing there would be severe consequences to the mother if it were ever discovered she had given away her only gold possessions. “What do I need gold for? You are giving me the most precious gift I could imagine. My name is Suraya. I will care for this child as if my own.”
My spirit is awash with the emotions charging between these two courageous, beautiful women.
“My name is Puja,” the exhausted mother tells the woman. “Thank you for your kindness. I hope we might meet again one day when it is safe.”