“Guilty,” Mac murmured, placing the plates on the table. “I’m divorced, and you’re right—I miss married life.”
“All of it or some of it?” she challenged.
Mac placed flatware at each plate. “Why do I get the impression you’re a feminist?”
“Because where I come from, there is none of this ‘man rules the roost.’ My people are matriarchal, and that means women are held in just as high esteem as any man. We own the land, and it’s passed on from one woman to another, instead of from man to man.”
“Reverse of what it is out in the real world.”
“Oh?” Ellie whispered. “My world is just as valid as yours, Major.”
“Touché.” Mac smiled a little and sat back down.
“You’re not done yet, Major.”
“I’m going to earn this dinner, I can tell.”
“And then some.” Ellie pointed to the top of the refrigerator. “Get a couple of those rolls and bring them down. Put them in the microwave, please.”
Ordinarily, Mac might have been annoyed, but he wasn’t. Ellie intrigued him. He liked her use of authority and the way she made him a part of the kitchen—whether he felt he should be helping or not. Johanna had always shooed him out of the kitchen and called him when dinner was ready. Retrieving the rolls, he placed them in the microwave. Then he took a butter dish from the refrigerator and set it on the table.
“Very good,” Ellie praised with a laugh as she put hamburger meat into the skillet she’d heated. “You’re getting the idea.”
“Is this called karma?” he teased as he stood next to her, leaning against the kitchen counter, his hands resting on it.
Ellie nodded. “Our whole life is karma as far as I’m concerned. The people we meet, the ones we work with, the ones we bump into on the street.” She glanced up at his face, which now seemed more relaxed. “Karma is about living life, Major.”
“Mac.”
“Yes…”
“I feel like I’ve stepped into a whole new world here.”
“You have. I’m Native American, raised to respect all people as equal. I’m a shamaness, and I’ve been trained to look at reality very differently than you.”
“I’m a city kid from Portland, Oregon,” Mac admitted. “My father was an electrical engineer until he died of a heart attack at forty-five. My mother stayed at home and raised me and kept house.”
“And I’ll bet she never went out and had a job or a life other than that.”
“Correct.”
“You white men are a spoiled bunch,” Ellie said with a chuckle. “One hamburger or two?”
“Two, please.”
“Manners. That counts with me.”
“Are you always this feisty or is this something special for me?”
“I’m not treating you any differently than I would anyone else—regardless of gender.” Ellie turned the hamburgers in the skillet. “Get the mustard and ketchup from the refrigerator?”
“Sure.” Mac opened the refrigerator door.
“How long have you been divorced?”
Mac hesitated as he placed the ketchup on the table. “Two years.”
“You don’t seem to be over it yet.”
Her insight was unsettling. He paused briefly, then said, “I think if you love someone, it’s tough to leave it behind.”
“The heart never forgets,” Ellie agreed gently, handing him his burgers. “All our good and bad memories are held in it. Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
Mac ate with relish. The baked beans, hamburgers and garden salad were perfect. It had been a long time since he’d had a home-cooked meal. Ellie had a healthy appetite, too, unlike Johanna, who had weighed every ounce of food she ate, always scared of gaining a few pounds. Ellie certainly wasn’t fat, but Mac saw that she truly enjoyed her food and obviously didn’t agonize over caloric content.
“Do you have any grounding in metaphysics, Mac?”
He shook his head. “Absolutely none.”
“With your engineering background, the only thing you know is your left-brain reality.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?” Mac liked the smile she gave him as she wiped her fingers on her pink cloth napkin.
“Neither. It’s merely an observation.” Ellie pointed to the right side of her head. “I need to give you some basic information so you’ll understand what is potentially happening in your Hangar 13.”
Mac added more ketchup to his second hamburger. “Okay, shoot.”
“Native Americans and women tend to be right-brain dominant. Science has established that the right brain’s function is very different from the left brain’s. The left hemisphere processes information based on logic, on physical evidence from our senses. It can speak to us with a sound, a voice, and we all hear it.” She tapped the right side of her head. “The right brain can’t speak to us in the same way.”
“So,” Mac said, buttering a second roll, “does the right brain ‘talk’ to us?”
“Excellent question,” Ellie praised. “Yes, it does, but in a far-more-subtle form. You’d call it intuition, or a gut feeling. I’m sure you’ve heard talk of women’s intuition. Well, some women are simply more in touch with their right brain. Unfortunately, society doesn’t always take this kind of knowledge seriously.”
“I see.”
“You may ‘see,’ in one way, Mac, but you can’t really understand the process. In the Native American culture, we are taught that women know what they know, and that it is different from how men know the same thing. One way isn’t more right than another.”
“Johanna, my ex-wife, used to tell me that when she was in college, she’d come up with the right answers on her math tests, but she wouldn’t be able to remember the formula or how she got the answer.”
Ellie smiled broadly. “That’s right. That’s the right-brain way—making the quantum leap to the answer. It doesn’t care how it got the answer like the left brain does.”
“She flunked the algebra course because she couldn’t prove how she arrived at the answers.”
“I’m sure she did, because most schools and colleges are based on left-brain thinking.”
“How did you do in school?”
“I was able to stay home and be taught by my mother. Right-brain methods of learning are very different from left-brain methods. My mother used a very practical teaching method with me—show-and-tell. I learned by doing, or what is known as hands-on experience. My father, who is a white man and a plumber by profession, taught me his business as I grew up. I watched him do it, and then mimicked his actions. It was very practical.”
“Not a lot of theory, philosophy or left-brain stuff?”
“Precisely.” Ellie got up and removed their plates. “Would you like a slice of homemade cherry pie?”
Mac grinned sheepishly. “Will I be indicted if I say yes?”
“There’s no guesswork with you,” Ellie said with a chuckle as she removed the cherry pie from a cupboard and cut two thick slices.
“My stomach has always been my downfall,” he admitted. “I like home cooking. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it as long as you help with the cooking and not just the eating.” She smiled and put the plate before him.
“I can’t even boil water. I’d make a crummy cook. Thanks, this looks good.”
“That’s because your mother never made you come into the kitchen and learn to cook.” Ellie sat down and enjoyed the silence that blanketed them while they ate dessert. It was obvious Major Mac Stanford had enjoyed the meal.
“Do you make your own meals?” she wondered aloud.
With a shrug, Mac said, “Usually I go to a restaurant off base for dinner.”
“I see….”
“I’m sure you do.” He liked the sparkle in Ellie’s eyes as he met and held her gaze.
“Let me take it a step further, then. The right brain, scientifically speaking, is the creativ
e side of ourselves. It is the seat of our emotions, our feelings. The left brain is tied into lists, black-and-white issues, practicality and strict visual observation.”
“That’s why women are more emotional than men?”
“I’m not letting you get away with that generality,” Ellie said grimly. “Let’s put the shoe on the other foot, Mac—both genders have both brain hemispheres in their head. There is nothing that says men can’t begin utilizing their right brain more.”
With a groan, Mac said, “Now I get it. This is the sensitive man of the nineties you’re talking about, the one who is using his right brain?”
“And his left.” Ellie waved her fork at him. “Don’t you think it’s better for both genders to use both parts of their brains?”
Mac nodded. “Your argument has some interesting concepts, Ms. O’Gentry, but what does it have to do with my problem in Hangar 13?”
“It has to do with metaphysical law. The left brain’s entire function is to keep our focus—our living, if you will—strictly channeled in this third-dimensional world. It has a filter that stops potential information from any other dimension from coming in and disrupting our reality.”
Mac stared at her. “Okay, so far, so good. You’re saying the left brain puts a certain kind of blinders on us, like you would on a horse pulling a carriage?”
“Exactly. The right brain has no such ‘blinders’ or filter in place, so it’s open to receiving all the information that surrounds us, whether it can be seen with our physical eyes or not.”
“What else is out there that the right lobe perceives?” Mac asked.
“Great question. Science acknowledges that we have at least three dimensions.” Ellie touched the table with her long fingers. “We can see three sides to this table, so three dimensions are involved.”
“Science would agree with you.”
She smiled a little. “The right lobe can see into the fourth dimension, Mac, the one scientists don’t want to confirm exists.” She touched the middle of her forehead. “Remember earlier I told you that the right lobe’s ‘eye’ was located here, the brow chakra?”
“Yes?”
“Well, if a person wants to, he can see through this table, which means he is viewing it through the fourth dimension. But he is ‘seeing’ with this invisible eye here in the center of his forehead. Anyone, with some work, can literally ‘switch’ to his right brain, close his eyes and do this.”
Mac sat back, digesting the wild allegation. She obviously believed that what she was saying was the absolute truth. “I’m having a tough time buying this.”
“Of course you are. Everything in your life has been predicated on left-brain ways. If you can’t see it, weigh it or measure it, it doesn’t exist. Yet—” Ellie smiled “—how do you explain dreams that come true, or a mother knowing her child is in danger or has been hurt before the phone call comes to validate it?”
“Okay…is that right-brain territory? Dreams? Telepathy?”
“Yes.” She was pleased with his ability to catch on quickly. “People utilize their right lobe every day—they just don’t realize it. As a shamaness, I have a special talent for using my right lobe. That’s how I’m able to help people. And now,” Ellie concluded, “back to the drawing board regarding your problem at Hangar 13.” She found herself wanting to ask Mac a lot more personal questions, because despite his military background, and his very one-sided view of the world, he was trying to comprehend her world, too. She found that praiseworthy.
“The fourth dimension is already acknowledged by the scientific community,” she went on. “Quantum physics is about that dimension. Our right brain has the capacity, the genetic setup, to see into that dimension, just as our physical eyes comprehend the first three dimensions. People like myself who have a strong genetic predisposition to right-brain activity, and who do a lot of personal work developing that lobe, can see into the dimension at will.”
“How is it done?” Mac asked. His curiosity was piqued; he always liked exploring new territory, no matter where it was located.
“The right brain’s ability to perceive the fourth dimension can be triggered in so many ways. For some, it’s achieved through meditation. For others, through hallucinogenic drugs.”
“And you?”
“A drum.”
Mac gave her a blank look and saw her smile slightly.
“Native Americans, at least in North America, use the drum, a rattle, or a song or series of songs to create the proper vibrational environment that allows us to slip into the fourth dimension.”
“So,” he said, not at all sure he was putting the theory together properly, “you’re saying this sound creates a doorway, a passage into the right lobe, where this opening is located?”
With a sigh, Ellie got up. “I wish everyone was as perceptive as you.”
Mac sat back, content as never before. The sound of water running and dishes being piled in the sink lulled him pleasantly. “You are able to go into this fourth dimension with the sound frequency created by a drum?”
“Yes.” Ellie pulled down a dish towel and placed it on the counter next to the sinks. “Come on, you can help dry, Major.”
He grinned and stood up. “Considering the great meal, it’s the least I can do.”
Ellie met his very male smile. She noted how relaxed Mac had already become. He was like so many people when first confronted with metaphysics: threatened and ignorant. Once she was able to explain the process in nonthreatening terms, most people lost their wariness. She didn’t expect Mac to believe her, but in order for her to answer the question he’d come to her to solve, he had to understand the basic mechanics of what she did.
As Mac stood beside her drying the dishes, he said, “So tell me—how does this all fit with the potential problem out in Hangar 13?”
CHAPTER THREE
Ellie scrubbed the skillet as she spoke. “Shamans—and shamanesses—have a very unique skill,” she told Mac as he waited patiently at the sink, dish towel in hand. “We operate in the fourth dimension.” She glanced up at him to register his reaction. “What we do is talk lost pieces of a person’s soul into coming back to that person. That’s what we call a healing.”
“Pieces of your soul?” Mac gave her a very skeptical look.
“Don’t judge what I’m saying yet,” Ellie warned. She rinsed the skillet in hot water and handed it to him to dry. “Our belief embraces the possibility that people, as they go through life, lose pieces of themselves to another person or situation. If you’re having trouble with the words soul or spirit, then consider it a loss of energy. People, when traumatized by a situation such as a divorce, the death of a loved one, the loss of a job or some other kind of tragedy, will very often lose a piece of themselves or their energy. Because of the shock, the ‘piece’ becomes stuck or lodged in that time period of their life.”
Mac slowly dried the skillet, scowling. “Shock or trauma creates this condition?”
“Yes.” Ellie took the bean pot and washed it. “And it’s shock or trauma as perceived by the person, not by the world at large. For instance, a child of six falls off her bike and breaks her arm. Now, for an adult, this might not be such a shocking thing. But to the child, it’s a horrible trauma. That little girl will, in all probability, lose a piece of herself.”
Mac shook his head. “What does this losing of pieces do, then?”
She smiled a little and handed him the rinsed pot. “With enough pieces of energy or spirit lost, people fall out of balance with themselves. It’s a highly unconscious thing, but people who have suffered major soul loss begin to automatically rebalance in not-so-positive ways. A woman who gets divorced and loses a large piece of herself to her ex-husband may begin to binge on food, or drink, or be stuck emotionally in the past, never able to let go of that time in her life.”
Mac put the pot aside and leaned thoughtfully against the counter. “Divorce is something I can understand,” he said.
“M
ost of us do, unfortunately,” Ellie said. She pulled the plug to drain the soapy water and rinsed her hands under the tap. Leaning over, she pulled a dry towel from a peg on the side of the cupboard and dried her hands. “There’re a lot of what I call ‘red flags’ that tell me whether or not a person has lost a piece of himself—or herself—in a divorce.”
“Such as?”
She smiled. “I can see I have your attention a hundred percent.”
“I’m interested,” Mac said, “but that doesn’t mean I believe in this theory of yours.”
With a shrug, Ellie motioned for him to sit down. She began to put the pots and pans away. “That’s fine. I don’t force anyone to believe as I do. But to me, a sign of soul loss is a person who cannot forget the divorce—the hurt, the anger or whatever negative feelings were created as a consequence.”
Mac pulled out his chair and sat back down at the table. He could see dusk begin to settle outside the kitchen window, a few high clouds turned red-orange by the coming sunset. “I’d think it would be natural to have all those feelings after a divorce.” He certainly did.
“Yes, but two or three years afterward? No, that’s not healthy, Mac.”
He scowled.
“Have you been able to adjust to it? Have you gotten on with your life? Or are you carrying the divorce around with you like a good friend?”
“Ouch.” Mac rubbed his jaw. “My life hasn’t been very good since Johanna divorced me,” he admitted slowly.
“And you still think about it and her almost every day?”
He eyed her warily.
“I’m not being psychic, Mac. What I can tell you from my experience is that you two have taken pieces of each other. You’re still living in the past with your ex-wife. You’re probably wishing you had back the ‘good old days’ before the divorce happened.”
He shrugged. “You’re right….”
“That’s a sign of soul loss.” Ellie rested her hands on the table. “In a divorce where no pieces were taken by the partners involved, both are able to get on with their lives. They aren’t constantly thinking about the partner, about their part in causing the divorce. They are able to live in the present and look to the future.”
Hangar 13 Page 3
