UpSpark: A New Adult Inspirational Romance (The Five Elements Book 1)

by Nicole Wells

  "Do you remember how you asked about those papers I've been studying?"

  "Yeah, you said they were some things of your dad's. Some journal."

  "Yeah. Apparently, he started amassing notes, research, and quotes and stuff, when he started having some symptoms. It was his way of coping, and mom says a lot of times, it worked."

  I fiddle with my sleeve and the silence lapses as I search for the correct words. He glances over at me and I catch his eye.

  "She thought I would find them useful."

  He nods like this makes sense and turns back to the highway.

  "Because I got tested just about four weeks ago. It's positive."

  One hand grips the wheel hard, and then he reaches out to me with the other and grips me hard too.

  "Oh, Enya. I had hoped that wasn't the case. I'm so sorry."

  I pause for a second. "What do you mean, you had hoped?"

  "Well, you went AWOL for a few days, two weeks after your eighteenth birthday. It didn't take much to put it together, that you probably got tested and it probably came back positive. It surprised me as your birthday came up that you weren't talking about whether or not you should get the test, so I figured that meant you had decided. And when you stopped answering both Yasmin's and my calls, well, I think we both knew what had happened. We didn't want to rush you or pressure you. We just wanted you to know we were here for you, whatever you needed."

  I didn't know one could feel like a fool and yet feel so grateful for such amazing friends at the same time. It's definitely a weird sensation to have yourself reflected back more accurately by your friends than in your own mind's eye.

  "Thank you. For understanding — giving me space. And for sharing this trip with me."

  "Honestly, please don't have any hang-ups about the trip. It's more than a fair trade in my book."

  I snuggle back into the seat, idly toying with my sleeve again, just now realizing I had been sitting up with my back straight and canted forward in my nervousness. I can feel a silly smile grace my face. Jacob is so sweet. My heart pounds at the thought of how considerate and patient he is with me. I really want to do something nice for him, for all this. A great gift? Maybe a keepsake photo album of our trip? Nothing seems enough, though.

  "So, has it been helpful?"

  It takes me a moment to figure out his meaning. I brighten up and sit forward again, "Oh, yeah! I feel re-invigorated. I don't want to talk about it too much; it's still so new and precious. But I think meditation might be the key. I'm inspired by how Yasmin's prayers have helped her, and all the yoga and acupuncture help me too. But I need to do it more often as Yasmin does. It's too easy to get lulled back to the way of the world."

  "I think it's great, that you're so happy now. And it's ok, you know, whatever you feel."

  "Yeah, I know. I just realize that my happiness is a choice, and I'm really trying to choose to be happy."

  "That's awesome, Cloverleaf. It really is amazing. It makes the trip worth it, you know, and we're only through, like one-fifth of it!"

  "Guess it just gets better from here!" I meet his grin with one of my own.

  "Hey, you hungry?"

  I look at the time and can't believe it's already the afternoon. We should be there soon. Jacob and I need to get to the RV park, and then take Uber to Franklin Street in south Minneapolis, where we'll spend the rest of the day at the American Indian Cultural Corridor, exploring museums, art, and even some Native food we'll treat ourselves to for dinner.

  I jump up and head to our awesome kitchen. How lucky are we to have this awesome RV? How lucky am I to have great friends like Jacob and Yasmin?

  I pop some Hot Pockets into the microwave and pivot towards the cab. "Hey, do you want juice, milk, water, or soda?" A reusable water bottle or a juice box is always a safe bet, but Jacob likes living a life of danger and dares to have drinks with an open top.

  "Is that pepperoni and cheese?"

  "Yeah, one of them is."

  "Soda, then." He replies.

  The microwave dings its completion and I carefully wrap our meals in paper towels. I put mine on a plate on the table, next to my water bottle in the cupholder. I've got more quotes of my dad's spread out to read during lunch for inspiration, weighed down by a rock from Illinois. I've pilfered a rock from each state as mementos. Grabbing his hot pocket and soda, already open because I'm considerate like that and he should stay focused on driving, I head forward.

  Suddenly he shouts and swerves, and I'm screaming as I'm knocked against the table, soda spraying everywhere. I've accidentally squeezed the hot pocket as I try to catch myself, and my hand gets scalded. The pain is really registering now as the RV straightens out and Jacob pounds the horn. It looks like a car tried to cut us off, merging into our lane without adequate room.

  Jacob shouts back to me without taking his eyes off the road.

  "Damn, I'm sor-"

  "Goddammit Jacob!" I curse. I fling the scalding cheese innards from my hand into the sink and run them both under cold water just enough so I can use my hands again. Grabbing tons of paper towels, I blot all the soda off the notes. Jacob must have spared a quick glance back here, because he asks, "Do you want me to pull over?"

  "No!" I growl. I have to bite my tongue from saying more. It's not his fault. It’s that stupid driver. I keep blotting; thankfully none of the handwritten pages are here.

  "At least you weren't using your computer," he says. I can't believe he has the audacity to try to make this better. I glare at the table, covered in my last connection to dad, ruined. He can get his own damn lunch; I'm staying seated and buckled from now on.

  "At least we didn't crash! At least no one died!" I shout back sarcastically.

  "Yeah," he drawls, significantly.

  I've done all I can to salvage the papers and I plop down onto the bench at the table. And then realize there's no seat belt here. I grab my food and drink and stomp over to the third seat, behind the shotgun seat. Here, I buckle and set upon my food, even though it's tasteless in my mouth. My hand throbs and I know I should put something on it, but I don't want to unbuckle anytime soon, and perversely, I want the pain. It keeps me angry, justified.

  "Cloverleaf," he says, mollified. "I'm sorry. Are they ruined?"

  I grunt out something unintelligible. Honestly, I can reprint those pages since they're not the handwritten pages. I just can't print them out here because we have no printer. But I have a hard time telling him that. I'm still trying to get a hold of the situation, of myself.

  I'm staring at my lap, having given up on attempting to eat, when I realize he's taken an exit and is pulling over. He puts the RV in park — we've pulled into a gas station right off the exit — and comes over to me. I press my lips together, holding it in. So much for letting go.

  "You okay?"

  "No. Yes. I burned my hand." I hold it up lamely. He reaches to look at it and I tsk, pulling it in towards me, more frustrated at myself than concerned about my hand. "At least no one died" I echo.

  He squats in front of me. "You know, in Lenape tradition, there are good spirits and bad spirits. You try to win their favor, but sometimes things just happen. There's only so much you can do. Even with death. Sometimes, it just is what it is.”

  He pauses and reaches out for my other hand, realizing I'm still quite mentally stuck. "Hey, what did you do to get to your happy place?"

  "I meditated. But there's no way I could meditate now."

  "What if every moment is a meditation? A choice to resist what's happening or find your peace with it?"

  "How do you find your peace when a jerk almost kills you?"

  "Sometimes, you don't know if it's a good spirit or a bad spirit. What if it's a spirit trying to guide you? When you are on the cusp of adulthood, you go on a vision quest. You know there will be hardship. Serious fasting. Finding your own way in the woods at twelve years old. A spirit guide would not gift you with its presence if you were resentful of the process."

&n
bsp; "So it's okay that some jerk totally thinks he owns the road and doesn't know how to drive?"

  "No, of course not. But does that help you to have that story? Does righteousness and judgment help your hand feel better? What if she was having a seizure, or maybe a bug stung her? Have you ever made a mistake while driving? Have you ever had an accident?

  "Or what if, in some weird cosmic way unknown to us, that just saved us from some worse fate? And we actually owe that driver our thanks?"

  Rather than answering his question, I'm realizing I've never seen him angry. Upset, disappointed, but never really mad. Sometimes I think he's not being serious enough, but otherwise, he's pretty steadfast. My yoga teacher would call it equanimity.

  "Jacob, how do you not get angry?"

  "Oh, I get angry. I just am a little more practiced at catching it. Anger is like poison. You speak angry words to a plant as you harvest it, and the food will taste bitter. You prepare food when you are angry, and you are serving poison. When you have a lifetime of viewing the importance of it like that, you get lots of practice at halting your reaction before you say or do something stupid."

  I chew that over in my head.

  "So, pull back on the judgment and try not to get angry."

  "I'm not sure 'trying' works. It's more like what you were doing — build up your peaceful place. Keep yourself pure, healthy in mind, body, and spirit like you'd been doing with all your integrative stuff. Then you have more wherewithal to resist the upset, more things re-centering you when you're pushed off balance. You felt better before this. Happy. That wasn't an illusion."

  I think about one of the quotes my dad liked. It mentioned the world as an illusion. I get it on a theoretical level, but not on a practical level. All this is real for me. Life and death are real. I acknowledge I have a lot more to learn, a lot more work to do.

  As if reading my mind, Jacob says, "Meditating worked for you. Remember every moment as a meditation. Just focus on handling this moment, don’t worry about doing more. There is peace in every moment. You just have to choose it. Or, rather, let it be."

  "I remember reading something about Being versus Doing."

  "Exactly! It's an easy, Western mindset. Only Doing is worthy and productive. But you meditate not to Do but to Be. You don’t do happy or peaceful. It's a way you are Being. And when you're there, the Doing follows naturally.”

  "'There is no path to Peace. Peace is the Path'," I quote.

  "Gandhi. Good one."

  "How do you know so much?"

  He ducks his head. "I dunno. I would say I had to grow up fast. There was so much emotional undercurrent and trauma. But my life is not that bad compared to so many other Natives. I mean, it's been really rough, but I’ve been really blessed too. And I’ve had some Medicine Men and Women to help me.” I remember that Medicine Men and Women are usually elders, and considered spiritual healers for the tribe. He cringes a little, like making his spirituality personal is embarrassing, or like he feels guilty for his growth. It definitely makes him stand out. Jacob is wise beyond his years, a Medicine Man himself.

  “But, really, I'm just a dork. I don't have much else to do other than read and learn." I wince at his use of my retaliatory nickname for him. He is much more than a dork, and his wisdom is more than knowledge, but I don't push him on it now. He’s so uncomfortable getting his smarts acknowledged sometimes. He’s incredibly humble.

  "So, you probably need to put some homeopathic medicine on that or something, right?"

  I look down at my hand. It's red, but not so bad that there are blisters. I massage the acupressure point Small Intestine 1 on my pinky, and direct Jacob to my purse, where I keep my homeopathic gel for all types of skin traumas.

  chapter 12

  There is a woman. She is all alone. It looks like she is cradling some round object, and covered in an angled striped gray comforter. I think she is curled up on a floor. My heart goes out to her. There is such despair. She is heaving, sobs wrenched from deep within. I want to help, reassure, do something. But my intentions mean nothing. She cries on, inconsolable. I hope that someone comes to help her in this dream-vision, but no one does. It ends as it began.

  ——— ———

  WE ARRIVE AT THE AMERICAN INDIAN CULTURAL CORRIDOR along Franklin Avenue at 4 pm, already in a somber mood. I've been reading up on the plight of Indians, and it's heartbreaking, both the facts themselves and the fact that I, a well educated high school graduate, know so little.

  Jacob wanted to stop here because most Natives don't live on reservations. They live in cities. And this gives him a chance to connect with modern Native culture. Going in, I knew it would be depressing. Natives are the invisible minority. Despite being as numerous as Chinese or Jewish Americans, you hear little about them. You don't hear about Native American achievements and you don't see many Native Americans in Hollywood. I never learned about all the injustices that have happened since the 1900s, the ramifications of the past and current injustices. Native Americans are the most likely race to suffer police violence. Poverty, alcoholism, and other horrors have ravaged their communities, while the world continues to dismantle their way of life .

  I prepared by learning all this, but seeing it firsthand is another matter.

  We see a lot of homeless people. Jacob explains to me that the concept of ownership is not natural to Native ways. Inside an art gallery, I'm drawn to one section that focuses on biographies and personal stories. A boy talking about his 12 year old sister’s suicide. A teenager, homeless since she left the town where she was abused by a police officer, taking each day at face value, uncertain if she’ll make it to the next one. A young woman who went in search of her roots and ends up a sex trafficking victim, but fights her way out and then dedicates her life to saving others. A high school dropout and former gang member, physically sick from Uranium mining polluting Native land, turning to the alcohol he swore off after watching his father succumb to addiction, and finally finding forgiveness and community as he works to protect their sacred lands.

  Each one could be its own blockbuster movie, but these dramas get no press. The perseverance and resilience for each person to find their way out of rape, abuse, addictions, separations, economic hardships, illness and so many other forms of violence and injustice, leaves me feeling so very humbled.

  We have little time, but I feel each story seared into me, becoming timeless. I am a witness to their bravery and stalwart spirit.

  Back at the RV for a late snack before we're ready to turn in for the night, Jacob is quiet. Eventually, we both share what we experienced with each other. We mourn the past and the present and hope for a better future.

  “I want to study molecular biology, and cure incurable diseases. Find out what when wrong on the molecular level and design genetic and molecular solutions,” he says. He is fiddling with his empty cup, and I reach out over the table and still his hand.

  “I believe you.” I wait until he meets my gaze, “I believe in you.”

  His smile is brief and endearing before he looks back down at our hands. I pull my hand back as he says, “Some Elders in the tribes think so too. You know the ones I’ve been in contact with and visiting? They’ve been teaching me things. The way of a healer.” He shrugs sheepishly, as if this conversation embarrasses him.

  “I’m really glad you’ve been able to connect with some of your community. And this trip will just cement that more.”

  “Yeah. There’s so much I want to do, I just have to believe I can cram it all in. I want to help my community, all the Native communities. I figure if I double major in social work, that will allow me to help the most. And if I have time, I’ll go to law school while continuing my medical research. I think increasing legal resources will help the communities the most.”

  “If anyone can do it, Jacob, you can. You’ve got the smarts, the drive and the determination.” I can just picture his dream coming true, and I don’t realize I’m smiling and nodding to myself until
I catch him smiling back.

  I feel like he's a superhero on top of the world, and I'm his trusty sidekick sitting on a precipice beside him, looking down at civilization as we discuss the failings of humanity and how to fix the injustices. We can change the world. We can make a difference in the brief time we have here.

  In reality, I reach across the table and hold his hand. “That's what we're here for, to change the world” I vow. I believe in him, and that I know he will make a difference. This is what he was meant to do.

  "What about you?" he asks.

  "I thought I used to know ... I can't imagine doing medicine now though."

  "You don't have to be a medical doctor to be a healer."

  "I know, it just all seems so, I dunno, worthless for me to do it."

  "I still see you as a healer."

  "It's not that it's not a nice vision. I'd still love to be able to fulfill my dreams. It's just not in the cards for me now. It's just not realistically something I can do."

  "No, not the Doing. The Being. The person who you are. It's healing." He's looking at me with an intensity, a sincereness. I have no idea when my presence was a solace for him. If anything, it seems like it goes the other way around.

  I'm about to say as much when he gets up and starts doing the dishes, smiling over his shoulder and telling me I better get some shut-eye, even though it's only ten o'clock. I've kept uninspiring hours, but I keep adhering to it since I'm getting up at dawn to meditate and watch the sunrise. And tonight, as Jacob suggests, it's especially important because it's my turn at the wheel tomorrow.

  ——— ———

  I GET UP BEFORE JACOB, as usual, and do my morning meditation. Today I have a tough time concentrating, though, because I left my hoodie in the bedroom. The mornings are chilly here. I eventually concede that it’s not going to be a very productive meditation, and turn my mind to just being thankful. I realize then that my very expectations and judgments of my meditations were getting in the way. Laughing at myself, my ears perk up when I hear the sounds of Jacob using the bathroom.