1 - Resurrection
I hear Bennu, the bird, flying. The thump-thump sound generated by his giant wings reverberates through the mountain passes and resonates inside the hollows of my ears. In the back of my mind, the sound echoes thunderously. It threatens to tear me from the black hole I delve in. I struggle to remain in the deep darkness surrounding me. The shadowy cocoon holds me tight, engulfing and suffocating me, but I like it because, here, I am without fear. Which seems strange given my past aversion to anything that makes me feel like I’m drowning. In this place I feel at peace. Content. Set-free from life’s trivia and tribulations.
I assume I have found nirvana, a place I’ve spent most of my sixteen years assimilating while studying the summary of principles inscribed in the Catholic Catechism, memorizing verses of the Bible and reveling in Father Frankee DeGraw’s fist-pounding sermons. Is this place Heaven? I do not know. But even if it isn’t, this is where I want to be. Where I want to stay. I don’t want to move. In fact I don’t have energy to move. Only to lay still. I don’t want to wake. I just want to be. To float, suspended in the clouds. Not knowing. Never searching. My physical self—if one remains—absent of pain. I feel saturated with air, floating lightly, sky-high like a balloon, but absorbing it how? For I am not breathing. Nor do I expect I ever will take a breath again.
Do I really want to wake up?
The thrumming increases, the grating sound drawing ever closer. The wind, caused by the beating of Bennu’s wings, scours the exposed skin of my face. Yet I don’t feel cold. I feel numb, apart from my physical self. I feel alone. Yet I am not, for I feel the warm breath of my savior wash over my face.
And then my eyes open—on their own.
I look up to see Aaron, his beautiful face awash in red, pointing up and away. His eyes searching. His lips moving. His voice calling out. Yet I cannot hear what he’s saying. I tilt my head. Look to where he has set his sights. And I see. I see the white-out has dissipated. Completely gone. As though in the tick of a second, something has come along and whisked it away. In the distance, I see a red band sitting just above the horizon, growing ever brighter. In the middle of this, I see a silhouette, the shadow of Mount Shasta. And I know. The sun is rising. It’s morning. We’ve survived the night.
How can I know this? I wonder.
I should be dead. I am dead, aren’t I? I gave up the core of my life force so Aaron might live on. That’s how Garl had died at the hands of Bernard. By unconsciously—through anger—opening up his core and having his life force sucked from his being. And yet here I am. Or am I? Maybe I have slipped through. Maybe this is the other side. I don’t know. I can only guess.
And reflect.
I remember Aaron kissing me on the lips, my heart merging with his, and my life-force sifting from my core. And it would be as Aaron said. I would die. But I knew; if he lived, if he carried on, my sacrifice would not be in vain. And yet here I lay. Straddled in Aaron’s arms, hanging limp, trusting he will not drop me over the thousand-foot cliff I sense below us. We have not moved from our foothold of last evening, gone nowhere, for Aaron stands as before on the flat rock, which faces west and lies just below the spires of Casaval Ridge. But stood all night? Braved the raging blizzard? How can this be?
It’s not Bennu, the bird, who arrives to rescue us. As I look out, I see the belly of a machine swinging down from the skies, rushing to close the distance to us. It’s a small helicopter, one made for the transportation of a few people. And two people, I see, already occupy the plastic bubble. Attached to the helicopter’s skid is a basket stretcher. Only one. Where will Aaron sit? Or is it I who will not return? Could it be I am seeing, dreaming, doing what those who have crossed over do? And what I think is taking place is not? I reach up to touch Aaron’s face, to lay my hand upon his weather-chafed cheek. To feel the warmth. To feel life. To determine if I am flesh or spirit. Yet my hand does not stir, even though I mentally summon the order.
As the helicopter nears, Aaron drops to a knee, lowering himself—and in doing so, lowering me—so we won’t be chewed to pieces by the rotor. The wash from the propellers thumps us against the flat rock. His hair remains still. I know he’s protected by his shield. I look into Aaron’s eyes. For some reason, I can’t speak. But I tell him anyway. With my eyes. I will not go without you. He sees. He acknowledges.
“You’ve got to go, Julissa. They can help you,” he says as he strokes and pins my hair down, so it won’t whip my face. “I’ll be all right. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
And I wonder; why can’t you help me? You’ve done so before. Re-energized me with life force. And then I remember again. I gave all my life force to Aaron so that he might live on. So where did he get enough life force to give some back to me? I look at him. He stands rock solid, warm-blooded, even in the frigid tempest stirred up by the helicopter. His pupils are back to abnormal. His normal. I pull my arms out from their lax position, string them over his neck, and pull him in close.
I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you. I think I say this, but I don’t know if I have formed the words. I float between reality and nirvana. But even if I had spoken, I don’t think Aaron would have heard me over the drone of the helicopter.
The pilot lowers the skid onto the flat rock. He lands the helicopter skid as gentle as a dragonfly lands on a flower. Aaron rocks forward, slips his hands out from under me, and slides me into the basket. The man inside the helicopter reaches around, pulls a heavy blanket over me, wraps me in a cocoon, and straps me in.
And then we’re gone. Up and away. I watch as Aaron shrinks to nothing, soon lost in the maze of rocks, spires, and rubble. Had it not been for the snowless flat rock he stood upon, he would have quickly disappeared. As it was, even though I could no longer look down and see him, I know he’s looking up. Wishing me God’s speed.
As the helicopter barrels down around the flank of the mountain, I slip back into darkness, for it is here where I wish to stay.
*****
I hear rustling in the background, sounds of stirring, which seem far away but I know are near. Images form, little by little, breaking through my foggy vision. I swim through the soup in search of an exit, drawing near to the light and then slipping back into the dark. An inner voice tells me to remain in the shadows, to stay hidden, to keep the light out.
Once I wake there will be no turning back. I don’t know if I can face what lies out there. The chaos of life. The demands of existing. The knowing that I can never measure up, that I can never succeed to my full potential, and, even if I did, why bother when there are others who know more than I do, who have figured out life, who know exactly what it is the soul needs. I don’t. And I don’t know if I ever will.
But then I remember. I remember Aaron has the answers. His kind, the pure Lemurians, know what it is I need to know. And if there is a chance, even a small one, I should reconsider. I should open my eyes, rise from the bed, and embrace life wholeheartedly. Yet I lay unmoving, straddled on the high-line of indecision.
I hear voices, words jumbled together, the clanging of silverware, and the smell of chicken-soup. Soup for the soul, I remember, has always been my Mom’s answer to the variety of sicknesses I’ve endured over the years of growing up, whether it was just a common cold or full-blown pneumonia. The voices draw near. The words channel, form in my mind, and become a continuous string. I recognize I’m wrong. There’s only one voice. Dierdra’s voice. It sounds strained, wrought with emotion, weeping tainting every syllable.
I feel hurt, pangs of remorse. How can I be so selfish? I could stay here, lying in the dark, reveling in peace and solitude, welcoming my end for all eternity. But what of those I leave behind? Is this what my Dad thought? What Chuck Segovia mulled over as he lay in the hospital ward after surviving for a day from near drowning in the frigid waters of a Minnesota lake? Did they cry out? Struggle to live? Or were they like me; resigned to death, for, upon discovery, isn’t this the lone place one finds harmony? Finds peace? And relief from pain?
I don’t sense this nothingness. I don’t feel it. I don’t taste it, see it, hear it. And that is the pleasure of it all. For it is in the senses life is lived, endured and, in the end, found exhausting, depleting, many times not worth the effort to plod on. Who can say the risk is worth the reward when life is so full of pitfalls and often lacking conduits to contentment?
If Aaron would have me as his own, if he could turn back time and take me to Mu, the Lemurian paradise, where life doesn’t tear at your fabric every day and in every way. Where, as he said, no man raises a fist to another, where only love is to be found. And the earth and all that inhabit her live and breathe the Law of One. Then maybe, just maybe, I would return.
But to a cold, ruthless world I say no. I say I want to stay in my cocoon, wrapped up in a world of dark, slipping ever deeper into the bowels of an abyss from which there is no escape. This is where I’m headed…until I hear Aaron’s voice.
He’s talking in that low tone of his, attempting stealth and succeeding, except there is no other sound and my ears are attuned to listening, just as they were on the window ledge of the Crags when he plugged me into the aural world I had forgotten or may have never known from the very beginning. Listen, Grasshopper, I tell myself. Listen deep. Focus on his voice. Decipher his words. Let them into your subconscious. Devour them. For they are the life-force that can bring you back. Return you from the brink of death and deliver you into life.
And then I hear Dierdra speak. Menacingly so! Words I can’t decode. Verses and tone, so filled with hatred they lay on me like lead weights, driving me back down deep into the chasm. And I hear Aaron again, the soothing voice, the apologetic tone, the undercurrent begging for forgiveness. His words draw me out, lift me up, set my impression of the world to rights, and restore my vision of what life should be. They grant me a sliver of hope. This I cry for. The other world I despise. And again, as Dierdra opens up a salvo of foment, I shrink back. Bury myself beneath the physical covers of my bed and the emotive shield I hide behind. But Aaron’s words are drawing me out, pulling at me, tugging at my every nerve. Coaxing, prodding, and prying me from within. I hear him, begging, pleading, prayerful, and Dierdra, still, in words, lets it be known she has no room in her heart for compassion. She wants him out. Gone. Vanquished to hell, I hear her say and intone.
And he goes, leaving, his footsteps fading, the scraping of the sole of his shoes upon the snow-packed pavement of the driveway resound in my ears. And this is what thrusts me back into life, the potential loss of Aaron. He never to return.
I cry out. Not with words, but with a bleeding heart. I don’t have his telepathic ability, his skill to form mental images and correspond. I have no walnut on my forehead. But I do have my heart and it is speaking vociferously and in earsplitting volume. If only he would hear. If only he would turn around, return, and fight the good fight to gain entrance pass Dierdra. This I will live for, fight for, die for if necessary. Aaron is innocent. I am guilty. For wasn’t it I who cajoled Aaron into taking me to mountain high? Forced him to expend his life-force to save the man with the broken leg? And caused him to deplete his energy while assisting me in climbing the mountain to the Sacred Rock beneath the spires of Casaval Ridge? Dierdra must know. I must tell her. Aaron is not to be held accountable for my near-death. After all, only he could have saved me. And rescue me he did.
And then I hear another voice. Unfamiliar. Rough in texture, similar to the sound of gravel crunching beneath one’s feet. A male voice, an old voice. Curt. Prodding. Wanting to know. “How is she doing today?”
Dierdra responds. “She hasn’t wakened.”
I can’t see it, but I hear it in Dierdra’s voice. The concern, the wringing of her hands. And I hear something else, too. She hasn’t been drinking. Her voice is clear, unfettered by liquor, her words set like stringent notes in music.
Both of these souls draw near. I can hear their breathing. Feel their fixed stares upon me. There’s noise to my left, hammering at my ear, the sound of heavy cloth—maybe leather—setting down on wood. I hear the lock turned, the clasp pushed open, the tinkering of instruments jostled around. I remember in the movies how the doctors of old would make house visits, lugging their black carriage bags filled with stethoscopes, thermometers, and medicines. And needles!
I feel fingers and hands on me, prodding, testing my pulse, the laying of the palm on my forehead, the squeezing of my finger to gauge blood flow, the lifting of the eyelid—the lifting of the eyelid—and I do not see for it is not my sight that is blind to the world, but my mind, heart, and soul. And yet, after my eyelid is allowed to close, I do see. Mental images form in my mind. A man, old and gray-haired. A face worn blunt by age and over-worked living and squinting eyes peering through bushy eyebrows shadowed by the overhang of a push-broom mop. And leaning over his shoulder, my mom, her pleading eyes visible, her mouth pulled taunt, her face contorted by lack of sleep. I silently cry out, torn in two for the pain I am causing her.
I pull back, mentally, emotionally, but cannot do so physically. I am bonded to the bed, unable to advance or retreat. I don’t see it, but I hear it. The tapping of the casing on the tube, the squirt of fluid to remove any air bubbles. And then the pain. The sting of the needle. The prick into my shoulder. And then the flood of warmth radiating through my body.
“What’d you give her?” I hear Dierdra ask?
The gravelly voice grinds out the words. “Another shot of epinephrine.”
“Adrenaline?”
“Yes.”
“How much of this can she take?”
“That’s not the question that needs to be asked. What we need to know is if it’s working.”
“Is it?”
“Hasn’t had an effect yet.” A drawn-out pause. “You know she’s lucky to be alive, given her life-signs gave little reason to hope for anything more. Not many live after being exposed to the elements for as long as she has. Or having their prana depleted to the level hers has.”
I hear the clanging of instruments. I feel my night gown pulled opened and the cloth moved to the sides. I know I’m lying naked, my chest exposed. My breasts feel the nip of cold. I feel the brush of rough skin and the slap of metal on my skin. The stethoscope rests easy in the vicinity of my heart. Together, the good doctor and I listen as my heart pumps one beat after the other. It’s slow, lithe, under stress as directed by me to let life slip away. I can sense it. And the doctor can too. I’m dying, beat-by-beat, and then something happens.
I don’t know if it’s the epinephrine shot or the fact I see—in vision—Aaron walking toward me. He has his arm extended, his hand out in invitation. I see my hand lace into his. I feel his warmth, his energy surging down his arm, through his hand, into my hand, and up my arm. I feel the jolt jump-start my heart. It pounds in return, escalating my pulse, spreading warmth through my body, energizing my lungs. Breathing deepens, the mind clears, and my eyes flutter and open. Aaron is gone. I see the old man and Dierdra peering down at me.
I shove the old man’s hand (and stethoscope) away. Draw my night-gown closed. And yank the covers up to my chin. Mom smiles. A big one. Her eyes bulge with tears. She swipes them away, as if she doesn’t want to rain down and wash away the miracle she has just witnessed.
“Well, young lady,” the old man with the gravelly voice says, “welcome back.”
“Who’re you?”
“Doctor Oakly. Retired, of course. But your mother here,” he leans to the side so I can get a clear look at Dierdra, “needed someone to keep an eye on you. Make house calls. So I offered. How you feeling?”
“Like crap.”
“No doubt, given we’ve snatched you from the brink of death.”
Dierdra slides around Doc Oakly. She squeezes between the two of us and sits on the bed. I can see in her eyes she is still astounded I am alive. She reaches out and caresses my hair, which at the moment feels more like a wet and soiled mop on my head then the soft mane I remember. She leans in, stares into my eyes, and speaks.
“Welcome back, Jewels.”
I see the doctor gathering up his things. He’s mumbling to himself, something about foodstuff, rattling off a grocery list, because—he says to himself— “Can’t be forgetting the coffee this time.” I assume he’s going grocery shopping on the way home.
“I’ll leave you two at it.” Doc Oakly places a hand on Dierdra’s shoulder. “You call me if you need anything.”
I see Dierdra raise her hand and pat Doc Oakly’s hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it raises an emotion within me. One of distaste. Why should I care if Dierdra touches another man? Right now it bothers me. And I don’t know why. And yet, when I puzzle through the emotion, I’m enlightened.
I followed in Dad’s footsteps, chased his ghost up the mountain, sat with his spirit on the Sacred Rock, staring out into the white-out, knowing full well my time had come. I greeted death with open arms, allowed the grim reaper to escort me out of life and into the unknown. But at the last, I was grabbed away, slung into Aaron’s arms, hailed by the vision of Bennu, and transported to the lowlands by the bird’s mechanical equivalent. Where before I had no closure with my father’s death, I think I do now. So why the revulsion at my mother’s laying of a hand on another man?
I can guess why. Dierdra had pushed Aaron away. I heard her. And now she’s pushing Dad away with the patting of a hand on another man. I know this is nonsense, frivolous jealousy on my part. But I come to the realization that this isn’t true, either. I’m not envious. I’m not mad at the thought of Dierdra touching another man. What’s bothering me I know is this; if I can’t have Aaron, if Dierdra is going to push him away, then she can’t have anyone either. I’m barely awake, barely alive, yet I’m seeking retaliation? Is the evil in me so strong it is the last thing to die and the first thing to raise its ugly head?
As I see Doctor Oakly step out through the front door it occurs to me that I am not lying in bed in my room. It is my bed I’m lying in, but it has been placed in the front living room, near the fireplace. I sense the warmth of the fire as it ebbs out from a single direction. The heat makes me feel clammy. I push the covers off and down. The smell of stale sweat fills my nose.
“What am I doing here?” I ask.
I see Dierdra’s face cloud. I can tell she’s thinking one thing, but she says another.
“We thought you’d be more comfortable in the front room. It’s so stuffy and cold in your bedroom. Dark with that small window. Not near enough light.”
I look around the room as if I hadn’t visited for a very long time. The couch has been shoved off over to the wall opposite the fireplace to make room for my bed in the center of the room. Other than that, nothing’s changed, not even—I see as I turn my head and look—the layer of dust and soot gathering on the picture of Mount Shasta that is sitting on the fireplace mantel. I’ve always kept it dusted. Obviously Dierdra hasn’t. By the darkening light slipping in through the front window, I know it is either early morning or late in the evening.
“Did the helicopter bring me here?” I ask, thinking it must have been quite a show for the neighborhood if the helicopter landed in the street out front. Cherrie alone, I imagine, would have found delight in my unorthodox arrival via helicopter while I lay hanging on the landing gear in a basket. No doubt she would find a way to verbally poke me in the ribs for that one. I could hear her now, chortling and knocking me down with a few of her witty barbs.
Dierdra’s eyes roam, searching, questioning my statement.
“Course not. It couldn’t land here. They took you to the hospital first. They brought you here in an ambulance.”
“In an ambulance? Why in an ambulance?”
I can see the strain in Dierdra’s face. It’s the same look she gave me the day she thought I had vanished up on the Crags and her emotions entertained the thought that I might be dead.
“You’ve been in a coma, baby.”
I think about this for a moment. I’ve heard of people suffering a catastrophic event and subsequently slipping into unconsciousness. Chuck went under, sinking into himself, locked away in a coma for two days. Only he never came out of it. Others, I have heard, lay comatose for days, months, years! How long had I been out? I search the room again, looking for answers. For the first time as my vision and my mind find clarity beyond the near, I see a row of vases lined up on the far wall, sitting on the coffee table. They’re filled with flowers, something you might see at a funeral or wake.
Dierdra sees me focusing on the bouquets. She smiles. “You’ve had quite a few visitors,” she says as she gets up and walks over to where the coffee table sits. She reaches down, gathers up a thick handful of envelopes, and brings them to me. She raises the bundle in the air. “Cards and letters. You’ve got a lot of friends. Even folks from back in Minnesota sent well-wishes.”
She says this with a hint of surprise in her voice. I remember how she had mentioned she was concerned I wasn’t making enough friends. It occurs to me I really don’t have many friends, not the kind that would run out and buy me flowers and cards simply because I had been missing for a day and, at the most, sick for three days. What gives? Suddenly I feel chilled.
“Mother,” I say, “what day is it?”
“Monday.”
Monday. I repeat it. Monday. Climbed Saturday. Huddled with Aaron on the flat rock on the Casaval Ridge Saturday night. The helicopter crew rescued me on Sunday. And now it’s Monday. Three days later. Why all the fuss then? Why all the flowers? Why all the cards? The moving of the bed? Doctors coming and going. Dierdra with bags under her eyes, deepened wrinkles, graying of the skin.
“Mom.”
“Yes, baby.”
“How long have I been out?”
“That’s not important right now.”
“I want to know.”
“The doctor said you should take it easy. Not to worry about things. No need to concern yourself with what’s happened.”
“What has happened, Mom? How long was I out?”
Dierdra sits down on the bed. She pretends to smooth out the covers. “Okay,” she says, “if you promise me you won’t get upset.”
“Mother, you’re making it worse.”
“Promise me.”
“All right. All right. I promise I won’t be upset. How long?”
“Nine days.”
Nine days? Nine days! I try and sort this through my mind. I remember the helicopter lifting off from the flat rock. I remember watching as Aaron became a small speck as I was transported down and away from the mountain, him standing tall, the swirl of snow stirred up by the helicopter rotors settling down and around him. But not on him. He was safe, tucked away in his bubble, shielded by his life-force energy. I know he made it home. I heard him at the door, turned away by Dierdra, but I can’t remember what transpired between that time and this. How could I have lost nine days? And remember nothing?
As I lay deep in thought, searching for an answer to my questions, Dierdra sets the envelopes aside. She stands and takes to fussing over my bed covers, straightening them, smoothing the wrinkles out with her hands, performing busy work while her eyes dart back and forth, watching me for signs of seizure. Through the denseness that has settled in my head I hear her mumbling, saying she doesn’t want me catching cold, that she’s going to fix me some hot chicken soup and I’d better eat it, because that’s what the doctor ordered. She says Cherrie’s been in and out, many times, and this new girl, oh, what was her name? came too.
“You mean Nani Doris?”
“Yes. I think that was her last name. What a beautiful girl. And so nice.” Dierdra points. “She brought you those flowers,” she says, leveling her finger at the largest vase with the biggest bouquet of flowers. She shouldn’t have done that. It must have cost her a lot. Too much, I’m afraid. But she said you were worth every cent. That you were a special friend.”
Dierdra stops her fretting. She looks at me. Discord fills her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me you had such a nice friend?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s returns to her swatting of the bedding.
“Mom. It’s okay. Leave it alone.”
I see the hurt in her eyes as she withdraws. The tone in my voice strained. Curt. Filled with angst. What the hell was Nani doing visiting me in my sick bed? Why would she spend what was a month’s worth of hard labor on flowers for me? She wasn’t my friend. Not even an acquaintance. Sure, she saved me from further abuse from Wide Body Ann, but that didn’t give her the right to assume I owed her anything, especially friendship. As far as I saw it, we could never be friends. She wasn’t my type. Too beautiful. Too pretentious. Too ridiculously confident in her abilities. All rightly spot-on, but that wasn’t the reason we couldn’t be friends. We were different. Worlds apart.
In seeing the hurt in Dierdra’s eyes, I try to set things right. Mix it up. Change the subject. “I’m sorry, Mom. Thanks for all you’ve done. When did you bring me home?”
“On Friday.”
I do the calculation in my head. “So I was in the hospital for six days!”
Now it’s Dierdra’s turn to look off, to crunch the numbers. “No. Just four.”
I backtrack. Friday, Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday. “Mom, you must be mistaken. The helicopter picked me up on Sunday. That’s six days to Friday.”
