Beyond the Darkness

by Angie Fenimore

  Closing my eyes, I wished for death. At once I saw what I thought was the warm glow of morning light filtering through my eyelids, but this time I noticed there were bright red lines scrawled across the yellowish-peach background, weaving in and out, like dozens of tiny streets spread across a road map. At the same time I began to move through a cocoon of soft warmth toward a black spot at the end. I started to realize that I must be seeing some kind of mucous membrane, but it couldn't possibly be the inside of my eyelids. Instead my whole body felt enveloped in a warm, comforting embrace that gave me a greater sense of peace and security than I had ever experienced. Could this be death?

  I still wanted to see myself, so again I opened my eyes, and again I was abruptly sucked back into my body, still lying in a crumpled heap on the couch. Now I knew that I was somehow controlling this transition between life and death. Though I had done what was physically necessary to die, I still had to choose.

  Squeezing my eyes tightly, I engaged my thoughts and will toward death. I was pleased with myself, exuberant—I could hardly believe that I had the courage to do this thing. The trembling roar swallowed me up, and again I was sucked into the warm tunnel. Its golden walls, lined with blood vessels and capillaries, squeezed me as I passed through slowly. The experience felt familiar, though I knew I had longed to feel love like this all of my life.

  Suddenly I felt the strain of contraction within my own abdomen. It was only later that I recognized what the strain meant, though I have borne two children of my own. I was experiencing my own birth, my first memory. My perspective was both that of a participant and that of an observer. I could feel the physical warmth and pressure from within the canal as well as my mother's contractions, just as she had experienced this joyous event twenty-seven years earlier. As if I were her, I could feel my mother's sense of awe, her reverence about what was taking place. I could feel my own excitement, my innocent love as a newborn baby entering the world for the very first time. There was no pain. I knew only the intoxicating euphoria of love, a wonderful tranquillity mingled with pleasant resolve. My mother wanted me, and I wanted to come to her.

  Suddenly I was pushed out of the tunnel with great force and speed. Once outside, I could feel myself being cradled, my head resting in the calm support of a hand. I was gazing up at a woman, but since I could feel the emotions of both the woman and the baby, I wasn't sure which one of these people was me. From the baby's viewpoint, I didn't know who the young woman was, but I was secure in her presence. From the woman's viewpoint, I recognized the feeling that I'd had so many times as I held my boys, studying their delicate features with wonder as the cords of interdependency and security had solidified, creating the unique bond between mother and child. And as sort of an outside third party, I thought that this young woman must be me. She had my nose and my smile.

  The woman was talking to someone I could not see, but the words sounded muffled and like nonsense to me. I was content just to be held, and I was not bothered that I couldn't understand what they were saying. I recognized that what I was hearing was a pleasant exchange, but that was all that the words meant to me. I didn't even expect to comprehend the adults' garbled talk. All I cared about was my intense feeling of peace and security.

  Then the woman smiled down at me. I realized that her brown hair was straight, not wavy like mine, and shorter than my own. I recognized that this was my mother nearly three decades ago. I was enthralled with her and also part of her. I didn't seem at all aware of having my own body or my own life. I was aware of my very basic and pure feelings, but I had no sense at all of being an individual, separate and complete. I was tied to this woman who gave herself to me. She was my identity.

  It would be a long time before I realized the significance of the fact that these first two memories—of my birth and of being cradled by my mother—were the most protracted, detailed, and emotionally colored of all that I would be shown. Through them I came to understand that my mother had cherished me just as much as I did my boys. I'd never imagined that—and so I could see her in a different way, realizing that what she'd done for us was the best she could.

  My mother's attention was drawn away, and now I noticed that there was a large screen before me. I was being drawn into a three-dimensional slide show of my life that played out before my eyes chronologically, while I experienced every part of it from all points of view and all points of understanding. I knew exactly how each person felt who had ever interacted with me. In particular, however, I was being shown in vivid detail exactly what my childhood was really like. The pictures flew past me, but I easily absorbed every moment, each one triggering an entire memory or a chunk of my life. So this was what people meant when they said, "My life flashed before my eyes."

  As each picture flashed before me, it filled me and I became immersed in it. In front of me was a birthday cake set on a spanking white Formica tabletop. Gold and silver glitter sparkled through the slick finish and brought a flood of memories of meals I had eaten in this kitchen. I could smell the sharp burn of candles as they stood proudly upon the cake, announcing that my fifth birthday had arrived. I was excited and fidgety. My crisp dress shifted as I moved, and I could sense its color— red. My feet, clad in little white socks and shiny black shoes, dangled over the edge of the cold chair, and the backs of my skinny little legs stuck to the vinyl seat. Wiggling around, I pulled myself up so that my legs peeled off the chair. The scene seemed so familiar and so real, but I felt that I had never experienced it before. I didn't know what was going to happen next, nor could I change the events.

  I was sitting at the head of the table, surrounded by all my neighborhood friends. Birthday plates and plastic forks were neatly arranged. My next-door neighbor and best friend, Mary, seemed so mature, being two years older than me. Her blond curls bounced on her shoulders as she turned her head to look at the other children decked out in party hats. We were buzzing with excitement over these hats, strapped under our chins with thin elastic, and we were giggling and pointing at each other. These were things and people that I had completely forgotten.

  Standing across the table from me, my mother was all-knowing, all-loving in my mind. Her slender form, so perfect, so beautiful, moved with elegant adult grace as she laughed and chatted with Mary's mom. Her arms were neatly folded now, but I knew she could perform any task flawlessly. Her bright smile testified to me that this was an important day and that I was the center of it all.

  She interrupted her conversation to gently direct me in the next step, according to proper birthday etiquette. "Make a wish, Ang." The voices of happy children danced in the air. The mothers' shoes clicked and scuffled across the sparkling white tile as their attentive, commanding forms responded to the needs of squirmy partygoers. The cake was so magnificent, so huge, the candles on top all aflame. My job—to blow them out—was so important.

  I could see my friends' faces so clearly that I felt I could touch them. Mary's sister, Susie, sat with her elbows on the table, her fingers propped against her lower lip. Her shyness apparent, she patiently waited for her piece of the cake while the other children called dibs on their little sections. Since it was my birthday, I was granted the honor of first choice and first piece. I felt so important. I was having so much fun. I was tiny and quick, full of energy.

  Suddenly we were sitting in a circle in the living room. Like a silent ghost peering in, undetected, I could see myself squabbling with my little sister, Toni, over who was going to sit where. I wanted to have my favorite friends near me, and since it was my birthday, I didn't think that Toni should be allowed any choice in the matter. The outburst was quickly resolved. I watched in amazement as the grown-ups talked and the children became engrossed in the unwrapping of presents.

  In front of the window stood the flocked, artificial Christmas tree that my dad pulled out every year. For a moment I thought that I had skipped to a later memory, but then it dawned on me that my birthday comes in early January and we must have left the tree up w
ell past Christmas. Red, green, and yellow glass balls dangled from its fluffy white limbs. I was enchanted that each globe held a reflection of my face in its own color. The lower branches of the tree had a few silver cellophane needles exposed. Toni and I loved to crawl under the tree and pinch off the flocking, which felt so wonderful between our fingers. My mother was very upset when we did it, but the feeling was so satisfying that we couldn't resist.

  Our new tract home was simple and immaculate. The big picture window that framed the Christmas tree let the Arizona sun paint everything with a white glow. Beloved and familiar objects came into focus: the scratchy green carpet, the beige vinyl sofa, my Raggedy Ann, of course, my red blanket, thick, new, and bright in this picture. My fuzzy blanket went everywhere with me. I loved it so much that I would pick the little "fuzzies" off and eat them because it wasn't enough to be wrapped in my blanket—I wanted it to be part of me.

  I was living my childhood all over again, literally from everyone's point of view, including that of my adult self. As the somewhat callous third-party outsider, I saw that while all our furniture was new—the pumpkin-orange chairs with the thin legs and the plain cherry coffee table with rounded edges and narrow trimwork—it was unmistakably of the sixties. Simplicity and functionality rather than glamour were the decorating principles in our home. Above our large sofa was an elaborate gold-framed picture of stormy waves crashing on a rocky beach. It hung slightly off center.

  But at the same time I was seeing it all through my eyes as a little girl, hatching detailed plans for playing make-believe and hiding in the forbidden drapes. The coffee table was a ballroom dance floor for my dolls, and the stuffed chairs were Barbie mansions, complete with rooftop decks. Shoes were doll cars. It was a world of magic possibilities.

  From the outside I saw myself unwrapping a present. At the same time I was inside my own tiny frame, feeling the paper tearing as I ripped to see what was inside. It was an Etch-A-Sketch, and it seemed so big and awkward as I wrestled it out of the huge sheets of paper. Pure delight! I wanted to open all the presents as fast as I could. I was surprised by how little effort it took to scramble around and by how quickly my attention shifted.

  Time sped past me again, and suddenly I was sitting on the kitchen counter making toast. It was a cloudy morning, but the sky was bright white. Soft light soothed and warmed the sharp lines of the toaster and the edges of the counter. My mother was there at the kitchen sink rinsing something off. I could hear the water swish and ping against the sink. I thought about the washcloth that was draped over the faucet. It was "yucky," and I hated having my face wiped with it. My mother's hands glided from the running water to the towel, and I admired the ease with which she accomplished her chores in the kitchen. She was perfect, and I was proud to be her daughter.

  She was singing, as usual. Her gentle voice comforted and protected, but the song was an old familiar folk tune that was sad and created in me an uneasiness, feelings of foreboding. I wanted to cry.

  It was another hot day now. The sliding-glass door was open, and I could hear a lawn mower humming in someone's back yard. Daddy was reading the newspaper on what my sister and I called the "kitchen couch," which stood against the wall in the dining portion of the room. I loved the word davenport, and sometimes we referred to the couch that way. We sat there to watch television. Daddy's legs were crossed, and there was a lit cigarette between his pursed lips. His head was tilted back slightly as the stream of smoke curled through the air. He was patient and adoring as he tolerated my energetic company. I was bouncing from his lap to the pine-green canvas cushions and then back on top of him. The skin on his face felt loose and sandpapery to me as I pressed my little hands against his cheeks. I loved to be close to him. The kitchen couch was thin and uncomfortable, and the cushion was easily shoved from its place with my foot.

  Amazing! "Remembering" from my firsthand child's point of view was such a revelation to me. As an adult, I had retained only simple scattered memories from my childhood. But as my life continued to progress in hologram style, I was beginning to understand that I had forgotten very important emotions and events of my past. As a little girl, I had felt secure in my home and in myself. I saw myself with pure, accepting eyes. My emotions were clear and intense, not muddled and conflicted. My picture of myself was dipped in the pride and love of doting parents—the exact opposite of what I had come to believe. My mother's presence, especially, brought me warmth and happiness. She was the central figure in most of the early memories.

  As my darker years approached, the images became less detailed. They had the same electrical charge, but I passed through them very quickly with confusion and detachment rather than with the full absorption and the emotional glow of my earlier memories. I was seeing single frames of my life from different time periods, with some events apparently being more significant than others because I went through them slowly. Many parts of my adult life—the parts I'd made peace with either by granting or receiving forgiveness—were brushed over or completely missing, though I knew that I could recall or refer to them if I wanted to. I wasn't permitted to stay in any of the later memories, so it seemed that this part of my life wasn't being screened for my own benefit. And indeed, I became aware that I wasn't viewing my life alone.

  There was definitely a presence with me, though I could see no one. I knew that the presence was male and that he didn't judge my life—no condemnation or empathy emanated from him. The only feeling I got was, "This is the way it is. This is the life that you lived."

  The closer I came to the end of my life, the faster the pictures flew past me. It was incredible! In an instant I had experienced the entirety of the twenty-seven years from my birth until the moment that I found myself dying on the couch and passing into the warm tunnel. Then the fast motion of my life rushing past and through me stopped abruptly.

  Now what?

  THIRTEEN

  JoAnne had described death to me as an embrace, a warm enveloping of peace, but there was no peace in my deliverance. She had told me of the brilliant white light that surrounded her and of the familiar beings who welcomed her. The comforts of those reunions and the sense of being bathed in the glory of God's love—His light—left her and many others, I've since learned, loath to slip back into their old, comparatively empty and grim human lives. But for me there was no blaze of radiance, no arms waiting to usher me into the Divine presence. There was only blackness, as though I were suspended in outer space, unbroken by a single glimmering star. I considered the possibility that my grandparents and my Uncle Sam had gone to Hell and weren't allowed to meet me, but I knew that my cousin Carrie couldn't possibly be in such an awful place. Surely her gentleness, her acceptance of her brief afflicted life, would have earned her a place in God's presence. So I peered into the dense blackness, willing her form to emerge. I looked in vain.

  Where was I? I was immersed in darkness. My eyes seemed to adjust, and I could see clearly even though there was no light. I was aware that I was standing on what felt like solid ground, but nothing was there. The darkness continued in all directions and seemed to have no end, but it wasn't just blackness, it was an endless void, an absence of light. I knew that it had its own life and purpose. It was completely enveloping.

  I was still very excited that I'd made it this far. Death was quite an adventure. I swung my head around to explore the thick blackness and saw, to my right, standing shoulder to shoulder, a handful of others. They were all teenagers. "Oh, we must be the suicides." With a laugh, I opened my mouth, but before I could form the words, they came tumbling out. I wasn't sure whether I had thought the words or had attempted to say them, but they were audible without my having to move my lips. Then I wasn't sure if these other people had heard me, until the guy next to me responded.

  He had a tall, slender build and wild black hair that looked unnatural, as if he had colored it. He wore heavy black eyeliner. His appearance struck me as odd because I assumed that makeup and hair dye were physical
things that a spirit would leave behind with his physical body. He was dressed in black, as were the others. His black T-shirt, rolled up to expose his upper arms, the leather vest, black denim jeans, and biker boots made me think that we shared the same taste in music. He didn't say a word to me. He slowly looked down at me and turned forward again. There was absolutely no expression on his face, no warmth or intelligence in his eyes. Suspended in darkness, he and all the others stood fixed in a thoughtless stupor.

  Second over from the other end of the line was a girl who looked to be in her late teens. Her blond hair hung straight and dull about her narrow shoulders. I got the feeling that we were the only females in the group. I was coming to see that feeling —what some call intuition or the sixth sense—was the preferred method of transferring information here, where unvoiced ideas grew audible. As I exercised my new power of "sensing/ feeling," I had an inkling that I was remembering a long-forgotten, natural, familiar skill that had been supplanted or subverted by words, and I quickly grew proficient at this new way of gaining knowledge. I felt a fleeting hint of sadness for the blond girl, knowing how sensitive teenagers are and how overwhelming problems appear to be during those difficult years. Whatever made her kill herself was probably temporary and solvable. Nothing in her brief life could possibly have been so bad as to warrant suicide.

  But she did not connect with me. Her empty gaze, fixed on nothing, continued uninterrupted by my thoughts about her. She was just like the rest of them, staring blankly forward, with no concern or curiosity about where we were. They were dead, and so was I.

  Then came a whoosh! Suddenly, as if we had been waiting for a kind of sorting process to take place, I was sucked further into the darkness by an unseen and undefined power, leaving the teenagers behind. I was flying upright, moving at warp speed, like a comet shooting out of nowhere. I sensed that I was going faster than any man-made aircraft could fly, but without the physical effects of flight or the pull of gravity. Nor did I have any sense of the temperature, of the coldness you'd expect to find in deep space, or any way to judge time. I was probably flying for only a fraction of a second.