“I was trying to impress you. Guess I did a pretty good job.”
I closed my eyes and played back the memories from all those years ago.
“You looked rather contemplative sitting there all by yourself when I came walking by,” John Phillip said. “Can I help in any way?”
I took in his boyish face, wondering if somehow, in his own mischievous way, he’d discovered the path to true happiness. “I don’t think so.”
He tossed up his arms as if breaking into a Hallelujah. “Hey, why not try me? You may find I’m still full of surprises.”
I liked his cheekiness, his irreverence to usual priestly seriousness. How had he made it through the seminary and into priesthood with such an upbeat attitude? I’d always thought that carefree spontaneity was quashed during a priest’s reshaping while a seminarian. I patted the fountain ledge next to me. “If you’re going to hear my confession, you might as well make yourself comfortable.”
John Phillip sat, folded his hands, and gave me his full attention.
“I haven’t been to Mass in years,” I said while taking in the church’s pointed arches, pinnacles, and lancet windows—great marketing tools for spiritual seekers like me. “Today I hoped to come back and feel something again, you know, like sneak in through a crack in the door and take up where I’d left off.”
No use in mentioning Cliff or my mother. If I had really wanted to celebrate the Mass, no one could have stopped me.
“You always appeared so devout, so calm, so together,” John Phillip said. “You were all I wasn’t, and I believed you’d become a nun.”
His words surprised me, though they shouldn’t have, being so close to the truth. Entering the convent had crossed my mind on more occasions than I cared to admit. But more as a running from than a calling to, especially after Morgan had disappeared off my radar.
“You’d never guess what Morgan used to call you,” John Phillip said.
“Out with it,” I said. “I know you’re dying to tell.”
“The little nun.”
So much for romantic fantasies. “Well, I called him hottie.”
John Phillip hooted with laughter. “I didn’t think the word, hottie, was in your vocabulary.”
“Some prime examples of false appearances,” I said. “You distracted me from my prayers, but so did Morgan, in a different way.” It felt good letting go of past secrets like pieces that no longer fit the current puzzle. Wrong size, wrong shape, wrong color.
“We all had a crush on you,” John Phillip said, “David, Morgan, and I. Of course, Morgan never admitted it. No cradle robbing for him, thank you. But I watched him watching you. In the name of brotherly rivalry, of course. All’s fair in love and war.”
“I never thought I’d say this to a priest,” I said between giggles, “but you’re full of it.”
John Phillip snorted, not unlike the snorts he once shared in church, along with the whimpering puppy sounds that had driven his parents nuts and caused his sister, Teri, to cover her mouth in amusement. “Actually, you scared me to death,” he said. “Whenever you favored me with a bit of attention, I got the shakes, wondering what I’d done wrong.”
“Now that I believe.”
“Enough about old times,” he said. “What brings you here?”
Crystal white clouds drifted past the sun, causing light and shadow to vie for attention, while I told John Phillip about Cliff, Dr. Mendez, and the Voice. Then, unexpectedly, I told him something I hadn’t put into words until that moment. “I think the Church has failed me.” It came out like a whispered prayer, and Father John Phillip apparently took it as such, because where I had expected censure and judgment, I sensed only connection and love.
“I prayed for a messenger but never guessed it would be you,” I said.
John Phillip dipped his fingers into the fountain and crossed himself. “As the saying goes, ‘God works in mysterious ways.’”
Couldn’t argue with him there, considering all the unexplainable things that had been happening to me lately. “Talking to you seems appropriate somehow.”
“I’ll always be that prankish kid to you,” he said, “which will make it difficult for you to value anything I offer.”
“No, please. I want to hear what you have to say.”
“Maybe it’s not the Church that has failed you,” he said, his eyes nearly the same color as Cliff’s, though warmed by sunshine rather than frozen by ice.
I drew in my breath, about to tell John Phillip that this line of thinking solved nothing. I’d heard it before, that it wasn’t the Church’s fault, but my own, that I no longer felt a connection.
He stopped me with the shake of his head. “And neither have you failed the Church.”
I felt caught between the urge to laugh and cry.
“You just aren’t open to its message right now.”
I stared at him, yet through him, realizing that he was right and had simply put into words what I should’ve known all along. Messages had been coming at me from all directions, but I hadn’t been listening.
“Like millions of other people, you’re trying to figure out who you are and why you’re here on this earth. Sometimes, understanding comes slowly, when you least expect it.” John Phillip studied me with the pensiveness of a priest rather than the levity of a prankster. “I happen to see a well-adjusted woman in front of me.”
I nearly laughed out loud. Well-adjusted was not a term my mother and Cliff would have applied to me right now, but I let the thought pass. Father John Phillip’s opinion came gift-wrapped with lightness and optimism and therefore carried more weight than the opinion of my detractors.
As we stood to go, I said, “I’ve never been able to talk to a priest before, but you made it easy. I predict you’re going to help a lot of lost souls and misfits like me.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” he said. “You’d be surprised how many souls you may touch along your journey. You’ve just touched mine.” He paused and then added, “It reinforces my belief in miracles. I don’t belong to this parish, Marjorie. I was only visiting for old time’s sake, haven’t been here in years.”
“So we both just happened to show up at the same place at the same time,” I said, my inner skeptic betrayed by the noticeable edge to my voice. “It’s probably just a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said.
I could think of nothing more to say.
“Where are you going on your getaway?” John Phillip asked.
Sunbeams streamed through gaps in the clouds and illuminated the white steepled church, just like in my mother’s beloved Thomas Kinkade prints. “Carmel Valley,” I said.
A quick glance at John Phillip revealed an odd expression on his face. “That should be interesting,” he said.
Chapter Ten
WITH MY BAGS STACKED in the back of the Jeep and my house secure, I was ready to set out on my journey. At least physically. Emotionally, I balked at the very idea of leaving the comfort and security of my home. I reminded myself that Carmel Valley was only a few hours away, and as I backed out of the driveway and drove down the street, I was careful not to look back.
As arranged, I made a detour to meet with Dr. Mendez. I parked on the curb next to the gray medical building, standing straight and unappealing against the drab morning sky. When I turned to grab my purse, I caught movement in the back seat. Goose bumps shot over my skin in the seconds it took me to recognize my stray cat.
“How’d you get in?” I snapped. My face and hands felt numb and tingly as if I were recovering from multiple injections of anesthesia. I didn’t want to return home and repeat the process of leaving again. It had been hard enough the first time.
I slid out of the Jeep, fully intending to walk off without a second glance, until I realized that the windows were closed and the cat might suffer. “You owe me,” I said as I cracked open the back windows for air to circulate
through.
How had I managed to get involved with a homeless cat and a mute child? Each had approached me at a most inconvenient time, and each had a way of looking at me that prompted a response I wasn’t prepared to offer. If they wanted help, they’d picked the wrong person. I was like a rock rolling downhill in need of a place to land before I could be of use to anyone.
Jane, looking crisp and cheerful in her teal quilted jacket and white-collared shirt, directed me to Dr. Mendez’s office with a he’s-expecting-you wave and a smile.
On locating the doctor sitting behind his desk, I started right in. “I know you’re not supposed to discuss your patients with outsiders, but you’ve got to admit, there’s something weird going on here, which makes this case an exception. Is it too much to ask if Joshua’s okay? I mean, just tell me if I’m going crazy or hallucinating and we’ll go from there, but if this vision was real . . . oh God, if it was real . . .”
“Sit down,” the doctor said, indicating the chair I’d occupied during our first mindboggling chat.
“I’d prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.” By retaining a foothold on terra firma, I hoped to act less defensively than I felt; keep some semblance of normalcy; keep from falling apart. Besides, the carpet bolstered my feet like an anti-fatigue mat. A good thing in my current mood.
“No problem,” the doctor said, and, after a quick glance at the notes in front of him, he finally addressed my concern. “First, let me assure you that I do not reveal information about my patients without their permission, except in special circumstances, such as probable abuse, suicide, or homicide. However, Joshua has granted me consent, through his caseworker Mona, to release certain details that I believe will serve both of your best interests. Understood?”
Why the need for a caseworker? Where is Joshua’s mother? “Yes.”
“Okay then, for starters, Joshua lives in Carmel Valley.”
Great. Of all the places I could have chosen for my retreat, I ended up picking Joshua’s hometown. “So, what was he doing all the way here in Menlo Park? Aren’t there any psychologists locally?”
“Standard psychological diagnoses and routines were not working for him. His condition required support rather than suppression. Thus, the need for transpersonal psychology.”
“What condition?” What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with me?
“Let me start by sharing a bit of Joshua’s history,” Dr. Mendez said, “and I believe you may begin to understand. A year and a half ago, Joshua lived with his parents, Paul and Theresa Alameda, in the tiny settlement of Jamesburg near the Tassajara Hot Springs in the Ventana Wilderness of the Los Padres National Forest. Paul guided tourists on excursions through the area. There was a fire in the Jamesburg/Tassajara Hot Springs region that year, caused by a lightning storm. It consumed over 87,000 acres of the aboriginal homeland of the Esselen Tribe of Monterey County. Joshua and his parents became trapped in that fire. Only Joshua survived.”
The floor seemed to rise and fall, then sway side to side like the deck of a ferry broadsided by a sneaker wave. “Oh my God.”
“By some miracle, Joshua walked out of the smoldering wilderness alive. The firefighters who found him reported that he was in shock and had a small stone gripped in his hand, the stone he gave to you.”
Only then, did I realize how much the child had suffered and what a true sacrifice the gift of his totem had been. Giving up my opal ring had amounted to zilch in comparison.
“The child has not spoken since, except, of course, to call you ‘Sunwalker.’ We believe he is aware of what happened to his parents but have had no success in getting him to share.”
“My vision” —I grabbed the back of the chair in front of me for support— “I saw him in a fire. But how? I’m not psychic.”
“Are you familiar with the holographic model of the universe?” Dr. Mendez asked.
At my blank stare, he added, “The concept of the universe as a giant hologram?”
“Sounds like something straight out of Star Wars,” I said.
The doctor smiled and shook his head. “Believing that the universe is an illusion like the three-dimensional laser image of Princess Leia is shocking and contrary to our current world view. However, the holographic model of the universe makes sense of many phenomena beyond scientific understanding, especially when it comes to experiences in which the consciousness transcends the customary boundaries of the personality.”
“Boundaries my consciousness presumably transcended when I saw Joshua in the fire.”
“Such non-ordinary experiences are beginning to be taken quite seriously by quantum physicists and transpersonal psychologists and psychiatrists these days,” the doctor said.
“And likely still trashed by the majority of doctors and scientists,” I countered. “So by most standards, I’d still be considered loco as a cuckoo bird, which includes you, too, in a Carlos Castaneda-ish sort of way.”
“I wish I could disagree with you.”
“So, can you explain in laymen’s terms, just how my consciousness transcended the boundaries of my personality where Joshua is concerned? Are we talking clairvoyance here?”
“In a holographic universe all things, including consciousness, are interconnected, which makes us beings without borders. Our brains in such a universe operate as a holographic frequency analyzer, decoding projections from a dimension where even space and time may not exist as we perceive them.”
“Sorry, Doctor, but that explanation isn’t quite laymen enough for me.”
“Let me put it this way. You may have formed an extrasensory interconnectedness with Joshua. Possibly a moving picture or holographic memory of a past experience that he was reliving in vivid detail became accessible to your perception.”
“But I saw him through my own eyes, like in a lucid dream, which means I wasn’t in his head but my own. Or” —I shivered at where my thoughts were taking me— “in the head of someone else with him at the time.”
“The world out there and the world in here,” the doctor said, touching his temple, “are not always clearly delineated. The holographic theory suggests that there is a fifth dimension or parallel reality, which most people do not possess the sensory skills to perceive. The holographic theory is also compatible with Carl Jung’s theory of the collective unconscious, derived from our two-million-year-old collective history, which we may be able to tap into through our dreams.”
“So why the connection between Joshua and me? I hardly know the child.”
“You may be resonating at similar frequencies.”
“You mean like tuning forks?”
“That is one way to look at it. When two people are in resonance, they create enormous energy, powerful enough to affect those around them. But for now, what is happening between the two of you remains a mystery.”
And mystery it would probably remain.
“What I do know,” the doctor said, “is that meeting you has been good for the child.”
“Then why’d you practically kick me out of your office last week?”
“You were not ready.”
Ready for what? “Does Joshua live in an orphanage?”
“He’s in the custody of a Native American adoption service, in a group home.”
“What about his relatives or his tribe?”
“His parents kept to themselves and apparently went by assumed names. Their belongings were few, no credit cards, no phones, no car, no bank accounts, no pictures of themselves, no personal records. In other words, they and their extended family have been nearly impossible to trace. Word has it that Joshua’s father was Native American with links to the Esselen tribe, but, so far, that’s all we know.”
At the shake of my head, he added, “Unfortunately, the agency is reluctant to place a child who requires ongoing therapy. The emotional and financial and cost to adoptive parents can be prohibitive.”
“Has he been back to where he lost his p
arents? Maybe if he returned . . .”
“Whenever we approach the subject, he becomes extremely agitated.”
“So, what can be done for him?”
“This case has proven to be a difficult one. You precipitated our first breakthrough.”
“So, what now?”
“That is up to you.”
“Me?”
“Do you want to see Joshua again?”
I felt shamed at what I knew must be my answer. How could I help this precious child when I couldn’t even help myself? I shook my head no.
“I understand,” he said. “Have you started your journal?”
“There are some strange scribbles coming out of my pen,” I said, my mind still on Joshua, the nightmare of his past, the loneliness of his present, the starkness of his future.
“Continue to write everything down and, if you feel threatened, call me.” The doctor stood. “I’ll have Jane send you my contact information to make it easier for you to reach me if you feel the need. I may not be in my office the next time you call.”
I studied the man who I was beginning to consider a friend and said, “You’re saving my life.”
The shake of his head hardly registered as far as body gestures go, but I could tell by the slight uptick of the corners of his eyes that he was pleased. “You are saving your own.”
Then, as previously, he escorted me to the door.
When I got back to the Jeep, the cat was asleep on the back seat. I started the engine and turned on the radio, but the tabby didn’t stir. “Okay, wise guy. It’s time I gave you a name.”
Something tender blossomed inside of me that somehow bypassed the numbness surrounding my heart. I didn’t even like cats. But for now, this was my only friend, a hitchhiker along for the ride. “And I’m not hauling you back home, buddy. You’re coming with me.”
What had inspired the stray to hitch a ride in my Jeep? Was it a messenger of some kind?
It opened its eyes, leaped into the front passenger seat, and curled up next to my purse.
Between Will and Surrender Page 6