Spirit Invictus Complete Series

by Mark Tiro

  “My mom told me the same thing. Probably an Asian thing.”

  “Well, I hate her. I really hate her. You know what? Tom, my brother, the bastard? Well one time, when we were in high school, Tom got hit by a car. They had to take him to surgery. It was actually pretty bad, but he made it in the end. You know what though? My mom walked around the hospital like he had been run over trying to help an old lady crossing the street. ‘My favorite,’ she called him to anyone who would listen. Can you believe, she fucking said that! Not to me, but I was right there, right there in the waiting room. I heard her. ‘Why my son? Why not the girl?’ My mom’s acting like she’s talking to God. Bullshit! She’s a goddamn psychopath. I’m in the room mom! Hello! Well fuck her. Fuck God! You talk about God David. But where was God when I needed him? When I was a little girl?”

  And now Maya screamed.

  Later she would remember that no deputies had bothered to come check to see why there had been a scream coming from the interview room. Not that it mattered much to her.

  She sat there, half doubled over in the chair, shaking slightly. Maya had never cried before in front of a client. This was a first. Her face was streaked and her body was mostly numb. But for the first time since she could remember, she felt a terrible burden lifted. She felt free.

  Maya looked back up at David, through tear-streaked mascara. “The rose?” she asked.

  “Only love is real,” he answered. “The rest is illusion, clouds covering the love that’s there. Just look at the clouds. Look at the bad stuff—look at it, and then over-look it.”

  He stopped, and they looked at each other quietly for a moment.

  “You have to forgive Maya.”

  “No I don’t.” She was unsure where her obstinacy came from. It seemed almost reflexive.

  “Well, let me rephrase that then. And I’m sorry. You are right. You don’t actually have to forgive. You don’t actually have to do anything. You’re free to choose. And by ‘forgive’, I don’t mean to say that any of this is okay. Not the acts, that is, not the ‘what happened’ part. Of course that’s not okay. By forgive, I mean more to look straight at all the pain, all the pathology—to look at all the bad stuff, at all those dark clouds. The bad stuff you were just looking at Maya. And if you’ve come this far, maybe you’re willing to—”

  “No. Absolutely not.” She cut him off. She was having none of it. “Whatever you want to show me, wherever you want me to come—I don’t want it. I will not forgive her. Not her, and not him. Not my bastard brother Tom.”

  “Do you see how good you felt though, just a few minutes ago when you’ve looked at it? The catharsis of the release?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well that’s only part of it—that’s the looking part. Letting that anger come out might make you feel good for a little bit. But it won’t undo the pain at its core. It’s a necessary first step, but unless you take the next step, it’s not going to bring you inner peace.”

  Maya stared at him. But she didn’t say anything. She narrowed her eyes slightly, but mainly she just sat there, looking at him dubiously.

  He seemed to be oblivious to her own inner reservations, and after a small pause he went right on talking. “But see—you’re at a good jumping off spot now. Now that you’ve looked, you’ve come to the place where you can change your mind and see things differently. You’re in the place you can make a different choice. Here again, now that you’ve looked, you can choose again. You can choose to over-look. Past the bad stuff, past the clouds… past these dark, painful projections. You can look past all of it. Now you’ve looked an instant. That is enough. Please don’t luxuriate—or to wallow for that matter—in your pain. You’ve come this far. Now you can forgive. I know it’s painful, but that doesn’t make what happened any more real. The pain is in your mind. That’s where you have to return, to undo it as well. Forgive, and the pain will be gone from your mind. You forgive for you Maya, not for them. Not for anything outside of you.”

  “No. Why should I? Why should I forgive them?”

  “It’s the only way left to see what you’ve denied. It’s the only way to peel back the layers of the onion. Keep at it, and eventually you’ll find that only love remains.”

  “I’m more of a garlic than an onion girl,” she said trying to break the tension. He didn’t bite, and just looked at her with the same gentle kindness as always.

  “It’s the quickest way to be done with the pain. It’s the fastest way home. We can’t see directly what we’ve forgotten. It’s unconscious. But you can look at what’s reflected out from that. You can look at your projections.”

  She was quiet a long moment, again. At last she told him, “Well, maybe. I think I understand. It’s like Medusa, right? You couldn’t look on her directly, all those snakes in her hair, right? So he—what’s his name?”

  “Perseus, Maya. Are you talking about Perseus?”

  “Yes, thank you. So to kill her, Perseus had to look at her indirectly by using his shield as a mirror.”

  “Exactly,” David said.

  “And so what I hear you saying is that I should probably just cut off my mother’s head and be done with the whole thing—like Perseus?”

  “Maya! No! That is not what I am saying!”

  “Well that would be simpler, no?”

  “You’re funny,” he grinned.

  She returned it with grin of her own.

  “You know, though,” he went on, “act, or react, normally under the circumstances, as best you can. When the anger or the pain comes up, your mom, your brother—whatever it is, anything other than perfect love—you just take the opportunity to practice your forgiveness. And then just act normally and do whatever’s the appropriate thing to do, in any given situation.”

  “So I don’t get to cut anyone’s head off?” She frowned, mostly in jest, before they both broke out grinning again.

  “Sorry, afraid not.”

  “Too bad.”

  “In any event, you can’t really attack anyone except yourself. The shattered rose, Maya. Every part contains the whole. That’s the only part of what you think of as your ‘mind’ that’s real. And it’s a part we all share. One mind, appearing as many. When you attack anyone—you’re really only attacking yourself.”

  “Collective unconscious?”

  “Something like that. Your willingness to forgive is the way out of pain. If there’s anything to practice, it’s your willingness to forgive. Practice willingness, and it will be enough.”

  “Forgive? What? Willingness for what?” she asked.

  “Whatever makes you angry Maya. Or uncomfortable. Or sad or depressed. Whatever threatens your peace of mind in any way. This is your curriculum, and these are your forgiveness lessons. You forgive it, not because it really happened. You forgive it because—in reality, it hasn’t happened at all.”

  “Well that’s a relief,” she said.

  “Yes!” he said, proudly. “The important thing is that you practice willingness.”

  “Even when I don’t want to? You’re telling me I have to be willing to forgive—when I’m not willing to forgive? I’m pretty sure I don’t want to do that.”

  “That’s when you make your greatest strides. Just try to recognize when you don’t want to forgive. That small opening is enough. At some point you’ll find that you’re just sick and tired of living with the unhappiness and the mess that holding grievances makes in your life. Even when you don’t want to, trust your willingness implicitly.”

  “Well, David—I trust you implicitly.”

  “Don’t. Don’t put your faith in anything, or anyone, external. Everything you see with your body’s eyes will crumble and fade. It will eventually let you down and disappoint you, and in the end, turn to dust. Not in me, not in a book, not in a person, or an ideology or a religion—not in anything in the world. Just your own, inner willingness. Trust that. It will be enough.”

  “I can try,” she said, none too sure if she actually c
ould. Or would.

  “That is all it takes,” he said. “You know, I won’t always be here to talk to you about this.”

  “I sure hope not, David. I mean, I’m hoping to get you out as soon as possible. Of course, I think I’m starting to enjoy these talks of ours. Maybe after you’re out of here, one day, we’ll meet at Starbucks.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  25

  “Maya, where have you been?”

  After she got back from her jail visit with David—it had taken most of the day now—Maya tried to slip quietly into her office, unnoticed. At this, Maya failed. She heard Alma closing fast on her.

  Half the lawyers around stopped to watch as Maya’s secretary chased her down the hall. One of the newer misdemeanor lawyers even piled on, shouting from three offices down, “Yeah, where’ve you been Lee? We all have to be here first thing. Where were you at 7:30 this morning when the rest of us were here? You’re too important to follow the rules?”

  “I know,” she shouted back. “I’m supposed to be sitting at my desk, staring at the walls every morning right? Office hours?” Maya flashed the briefest of smiles. “I’m sorry, but are you actually even a lawyer? Do you realize what it is that lawyers actually do?”

  Maya looked straight in his direction, calm as ever. “Listen, I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot,” she started. He seemed to relax at this, and she went on. “If you ever need any help with anything—you know, like directions on how to find the courtroom—just ask me. Okay?” She had a gleam in her eye as she said it. Then she turned around and walked away.

  Something in Maya had changed. Having just gone though the emotional, hours-long jail visit, beginning early that morning with a client who was facing murder charges and looking at spending the rest of his life locked up, Maya expected to feel rage at the ridiculous pettiness of it all. It would have been a familiar anger, and one she’d known for so much of her life. But she didn’t feel it. Where she had expected anger, she now felt just a calm tranquility. The anger was gone, replaced, for now at least, with a calm, enveloping balm… For now at least, she felt a reasonable inner peace. The other stuff hadn’t affected her. Maya sensed the faintest, almost imperceptible, beginning of change.

  She didn’t recognize this at the time, but when she looked back years later, it would be obvious that this was her watershed moment. This was the moment she was done being a Public Defender. This was the moment she laid down the burden of her self-imposed crusade. It was the moment she went, in her mind, from being a Public Defender back to being a lawyer. And that was enough.

  Something else was changing in her as well though. Maya also realized she had just attacked the hapless misdemeanor lawyer. This became clear to her, and she decided now that it was not okay anymore. Instead of beating herself up, however, and feeling guilty about it, she tried what David had suggested. She thought of the satisfaction she had felt earlier, when she’d delivered her zinger to the young lawyer, and she decided she’d had enough of that. She did not want to attack anymore. She was done. Maya tried to forgive herself for her mistake. And then she walked out of her office, went three doors down, and apologized.

  Years later—after the thought of forgiveness had become habit; when peace had come at last, to replace pain and depression in her mind; when the continuous battles that had once filled her mind had ceased and their memories had dissolved and lost all hold on her—Maya would remember this moment.

  This was her Rubicon. She was headed home, at last now, and there was no turning back.

  As her secretary rounded the corner by her office, Maya flashed back to her talk with David. For just an instant, David’s voice filled her mind. David’s words, however briefly, fluttered into, and then out of, her thoughts.

  “Maya!” her secretary was now standing directly in front of her. Alma didn’t say anything else just then, as she leaned over onto Maya’s desk and tried to catch her breath.

  As she waited for Alma, Maya drifted effortlessly into reverie, bouncing back and forth between playing out the different ways she would payback her secretary for chasing her down the hall, and her nascent thought of forgiveness. She became quiet in her mind at last, and then, very sad. Maya realized that, after a lifetime practicing payback, she was good at it. Before, this realization would have been made her proud. Now however, it only made her sad.

  “What is it Alma?” Maya answered. Quietly.

  “Where have you been? Your expert, well, I’ve been trying—”

  “I was in jail. Visiting a client. I told you that yesterday, remember? It did take a little longer than I’d expected though, and I am sorry for that.”

  “Well, your expert on…” she looked down at the scribbles on the yellow post-it note sticking to her finger. “Maya, call your accident-reconstructionist on your David Nagai case. He says he’s been trying to get a hold of you all day, left you messages.” As she said it, she took the post-it note and put it in Maya’s hand.

  “Okay. Thank you by the way.” Maya said it as tenderly as she could. “Listen,” Maya took Alma aside before her secretary walked out, “I’m sorry all those times I got mad at you.”

  “Did you? Well thank you for saying that, but honestly I didn’t even notice. Same old Maya. I know you’re never going to change. Glad to see you, though,” Alma said and turned back towards her office down the hall.

  Maya played over David’s talk about forgiveness, considering first her secretary, and then herself. Maya spent the most time considering Alma’s last comment, about Maya never changing. Maya was surprised at how sad she was.

  After closing her office door, Maya sat down in the chair at her desk. She relaxed a little, for what seemed like the first time all day. Once she did, Maya reached for the office phone and dialed the number Alma had given her.

  “Hello. This is Maya, Maya Lee from the Public Defender’s Office. I got a message, you’ve been trying to get a hold of me on the David Nagai case?”

  “Ms. Lee? Hi there. Can you hold on one second while I get the file?”

  “Of course.”

  Probably ruffling through sheaves of papyrus, Maya thought, growing somewhat impatient. After a few moments, she realized she was attacking again out of habit. Just then, he came back on the phone.

  “Got it,” he told her at last. “Sorry, I called your office and left messages with your secretary. I was hoping you’d get back to me at some point.”

  Hmmmpphhh, Maya thought. But she bit her tongue, realizing just how quickly her harsh judgments rushed back in to fill her mind.

  “Listen, as far as the accident-reconstruction, I don’t have much to add to the report I already gave you. But I was at a seminar last weekend, and someone spoke about this thing. I couldn’t stop thinking about how it’s so weird, and it would never apply. But it does. This is your case Ms. Lee. I think you might be able to run with this.”

  “What is it?” she asked, her interest piqued.

  “I vaguely remembered this from somewhere,” he said, chuckling, before adding, “Probably traffic school.” Maya, on the other end of the phone line, was not laughing.

  “Anyway, I must have heard about this, but I’d completely forgotten until I heard it again at this seminar. It’s more up the alley of a psychologist, but I couldn’t stop thinking that this is what’s going on with your case. I think you should have a psychologist take a look at it.”

  “Take a look at what? What are you talking about?” Maya said sternly, trying to prod him into getting to the point.

  “Have you ever heard of something called ‘Highway Hypnosis’?”

  “No.”

  “Highway Hypnosis. Or maybe White Line Fever. Sometimes it’s also called DWAM.”

  “DWAM?” she asked.

  “‘Driving without attention mode’,” he said. “I think that’s what your guy had. Caused him to get in the accident. You know, where he killed—”

  “White Line Fever?” she abruptly int
erjected. “You’re saying he was high on coke?” she retorted. “Because he wasn’t. We got the drug screen back and it was completely clean. White Line Fever?”

  “Please. Let me explain Ms. Lee.”

  “Well, you’d better. I mean, it sounds like you’re talking about an 80’s soft-core coke-sploitation movie.”

  “Uh—” he stuttered, unsure what to even make of her comment. He didn’t have to consider it long.

  “Seriously?” she said. “You actually heard this at a seminar?”

  “It’s the only thing that didn’t bore me half to death. It’s like you’re there, but you’re not there,” he started to explain.

  It was getting late. It occurred to her that she’d like to not be there anymore either. She didn’t say this of course. She listened as patiently as she could, while he kept on talking.

  “White Line Fever, Ms. Lee. It happens when someone’s driving the same route over and over. You know, like if you were to drive the same way to work everyday for years. Hell, even for half a year would be enough. You can do it without thinking. I mean, it’s not like you’re going to miss your turn, right? Or your freeway exit. So you kind of go brain dead, mind wandering that sort of thing. And then, next thing you know—voila! You’re at work, or wherever you were headed, and you have basically no recollection of anything that happened while you were driving there. Outside of your own head, that is. Also happens when someone is tired, or even just plain relaxed. They’re still studying it, but they think it’s something about the repetition about passing all those white lines or something. Anyway, it’s basically like you’re driving on autopilot. Your body is driving just fine, but your mind is a million miles away. Like it’s in some hypnotic state.”

  “Driving while daydreaming? Or sleep deprived?” she asked.

  “No, that’s the thing. It’s different. You’re not tired, I mean what the psychologist said at the conference is that it’s just like being hypnotized. Your brain is fully functional, your body is driving the car, and as long as nothing out of the ordinary happens, you can just drive for miles—for hours even—without a problem. You can drive for long distances and be completely unaware of the surroundings, while your mind is off doing—thinking about—something else entirely. Driving unconsciously. A lot of times, you’d retain really no memory of it at all.”