Messenger Between Worlds

by Kristy Robinett

  I started to tear up, confused how to further explain. “But I know that my name is Sara and not Kristy.”

  I had an affinity for old-fashioned names. My favorite stuffed dolls and stuffed animals were named Hannah, Mary, Anna, Ezekial, Abigail, etc. There was never a Jennifer or Michael in the bunch. And, the more stuffed animals and stuffed dolls that surrounded me, the more secure I felt, almost as if they were the large family that I didn’t have and yearned for.

  The Sara name debate continued for years. I never asked anybody to call me Sara, but I just knew that I wasn’t a Kristy. Both my mom and my dad informed me that if I still felt the same way when I turned sixteen, they would allow me to change my name, but by that time I was certain my friends would think I was crazy. Honestly, how do you go sixteen years as one name, only to suddenly change it to another? You don’t. And I didn’t. Many people have asked me why I don’t use Sara as a pseudonym or stage type of a name, and the reason I don’t is that it is much more special than just a fake name—it was and always will be my soul’s name.

  I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, but I can still remember sitting in my bedroom with my Fisher Price castle, quietly humming and playing when I saw a bright white shadow in the doorway. I raised my hand to my eyes to shield the brilliance of the light. I had nowhere to run except through the light, so I just sat and stared. It was only a few seconds when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Take care of your mommy, Kristy, and tell her that I love her, but I am happy here.”

  I knew then that it was Grandma Helen. But I already had gotten a spanking for predicting her death; wouldn’t I get the same for bringing a message afterwards? I thought I would, so I just stayed quiet.

  Even though Grandma Helen had passed on and left her husband and her daughter, my uncles had passed away just a few years beforehand and everybody missed them. I could only imagine the reunion she had with her sons as they met her on the Other Side.

  So with my mom’s sadness for her mother’s loss, the talk of my name not being my name, and the constant conversations with so-called invisible friends, my mom thought that perhaps I was bored or lonely and marched my four-year-old self up to the local Lutheran school for an admissions test. The school informed my parents that I was mature enough to start school and I was granted an early entrance.

  School was something I was good at, but didn’t much like. I didn’t fit in with the kids and related much better with the adults. And, although I had strong opinions, I was painfully shy. Kindergarten, a time that’s supposed to be filled with the happiness of playing and coloring, was, instead, just plain awful.

  My teacher was a large woman with a booming voice, not the sweet, grandmotherly type that you would visualize teaching kindergarten. In fact, she reminded me a lot of my dad’s mother. It was a common occurrence for me to be sent to the corner many times for senseless things—well, at least I thought they were senseless.

  Every morning the teacher would tell a Bible story and then ask the class questions about the story. One morning I was called on to answer the question, but I had been preoccupied by the teacher’s father, who was in spirit, and who wouldn’t leave me alone. “You have to tell her that she has diabetes,” he kept saying, nudging me. The message was just too large for a child to understand and too complicated to explain to anybody, and so I shook my head at him. My teacher thought I was being sassy in not replying to her question. Truth be told, I didn’t know the answer; I was much too busy trying to shrug off her concerned father. A ruler was smacked on the desk and I was sent into the corner until I could answer the question, which resulted in a whole morning of sitting in that same corner making friends with a spider (which I still remember naming Dosey) and being very angry at my teacher’s father. My mom picked me up at school and on the walk home I vented, obviously removing the part of talking to a dead man and complaining instead about being sent to the corner. “If I didn’t know the answer to the question when the teacher asked it the first time, how would I know it later on?” I asked her. My reasoning often resulted in an amused grin from my mom.

  The spirit of my teacher’s father bothered me that entire year with various messages that I knew I couldn’t share for fear of being disciplined. For fear of not being believed. For fear.

  “Tell her I’m sorry,” he said. “Please … you can see me. Tell her.” I just shook my head and tried to avoid him as much as I could.

  That year couldn’t have gotten over fast enough. But if I thought kindergarten was bad, first grade was even worse.

  [contents]

  two

  Guided

  When my Native American guide presented himself at the end of my bed when I was three years old, to say that I was startled would be putting it mildly. I’m pretty sure that I screamed and ran down the stairs as fast I could. Standing over six feet tall, with dark skin and a scowl on his face, he wasn’t exactly who you would expect to be a child’s spirit guide. But he was my guide, and he took his job extremely seriously. It wasn’t until he came in a dream where he explained that he was my protector, forever and ever, that I understood that he meant no harm.

  Alto, a man, or spirit, of few words, brings me my night visions, and he helps me believe in my daytime dreams. At such a young age, I was completely unaware of his role in my life, and since I was repeatedly told that ghosts and spirits do not exist, I was confused as to why I could see him. I could touch him, and I could hear him, just as well as I could my own parents and my siblings. He was no different to me than any person who walked this earth—except that nobody else could see, hear, or touch him. He didn’t float like people envision ghosts. He wasn’t transparent. He wore clothes, he had expressions, and he spoke in full sentences. At that early age, he would tell me stories of the places he had lived and of his family in North Carolina. He would also tell me one day that I would write and tell my own stories. It was a lot of information to take in as a kid.

  A year later, I noticed another spirit that was around Alto. The house was sometimes so full of spirits that it was difficult to decipher who was a guide or who was just a spirit hitchhiker. This spirit had long strawberry blonde hair, with a slight wave. Her skin was the color of peaches, and her demeanor much less intense than Alto’s personality. She was soft-spoken, mild-mannered, and, most of all, patient with both me and Alto.

  One day as my parents were arguing, I closed my eyes to wish myself away, and when I opened them, the Irish beauty stood in front of me. Her gentle turquoise eyes were enough to reassure me that everything was all right. “I’m Tallie,” she said. But instead of hearing her as if she was in the room with me, her voice resonated in my head telepathically. Her voice held a slight Irish accent that was calming. It startled me for a moment before she explained that it was easier for her to communicate that way. It would also make it easier in a crowd. I wouldn’t have to look for her like I did for Alto. Instead, I would first feel her energy around me—an energy that felt like warm towels out of the dryer and a scent that smelled like clean linens—and then she would talk to me. She also made sure not to startle me, unlike Alto, who I think thought it was funny. (Although he rarely smiled, I could see the smile within him.) I was like his daughter, and for Tallie, I was like her favorite niece. My love for them grew as our relationship developed. Through dreams, journaling in my diary, and daydreaming, I was able to build the communication and figure out the personalities and their roles in my life—and mine in theirs. They became an instrumental part of my life and my growth, yet it would be several decades before I recognized the true importance of our relationship, and the importance of spirit guides in the lives of others.

  At the same time I started to recognize my guides, my household was falling apart. My mom’s mother had crossed over, my mom was going through an array of undiagnosed ailments, and my older siblings were entering their teenage years, which generated the usual trials and tribulations for our par
ents.

  One warm afternoon my mom and dad were once again having another argument. Well, my mom was having an argument while my dad stayed silent, ignoring her, which only infuriated her more. Mom screamed, yelled, and threw things, doing everything and anything to get his attention, but he stayed stoic, staring at the television.

  “Fine,” she said, “I’m just going to kill myself.”

  I did what I always did when they fought; I held on to my stuffed animals and cried.

  She looked over at me, her blue eyes blazing with anger. “Are you coming, or do you want to be stuck with him?”

  Even though I was only a child, I knew the depth of every single word she said. She wanted to die, and she wanted me to die with her. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to kill myself. I sat motionless on the stairwell that could easily take me to my bedroom where I could hide underneath my blankets. Instead of running, I mentally begged my father to do something, to say something, and stop the ridiculous argument. But he continued to sit in his chair and stare at the television screen.

  “Fine,” she repeated, and stormed out the front doorway.

  I ran over to the screened door to see her walk off the porch and turn left down the street.

  “Do something,” I begged out loud at my father, but sensing that he wasn’t going to do anything, I ran after her myself.

  “I love you, Mommy,” I told her over and over as we con-

  tinued walking.

  She pulled out a cigarette and lit it with her shaky hands. Tears uncontrollably poured down her face.

  About a half mile away was a small bridge that overlooked a river. “I should just jump,” she said. “We should just jump.”

  I was heaving now, physically ill. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want my mom to die. And I loved my father. I threw up on the sidewalk, and continued to beg my mom to stop and walk back home. “You won’t go to heaven, Mommy,” I told her in between heaves. “You won’t see grandma or Uncle Freeman or Uncle Mel. You won’t!”

  At the mention of heaven, I felt a presence around me, a warmth as if someone was hugging me, and saw Alto and Tallie standing next to me with a crowd of spirits, some of which had wings. Angels.

  “It will be all right,” I heard Alto say telepathically.

  As if my mom also sensed the peaceful presences, her tears stopped. She grabbed my hand and, without a word, led me back to the house.

  By the time we got home, my father’s mother, Francis Schiller, was there. Instead of feeling as if everything was all right, I screamed to Alto out loud, “How is this okay? Please just make this okay!” I begged.

  But nobody was paying attention to me. Instead, my grandmother was screaming at my mother.

  “You’re sick, Sally. You are sick!”

  My grandmother was a heavy woman with a loud voice who despised me from the moment of my conception. When my mom announced her pregnancy with me, my grandmother told her that she would drive her to get an abortion and instructed my mom to get in the car. My grandmother’s attitude toward me didn’t get much better after I was born. My brother was eleven years older than I was and my sister was nine years older, so I suppose she figured that just as my mom and dad could finally begin having a life, I came and broke up that party.

  I constantly asked both my mom and dad why grandma didn’t like me and they would only shake their head as if they didn’t know why, or at least how to explain it.

  The strangeness of my gift just added another issue to the already heated hate, and predicting my other grandma’s passing just a couple years before, I kept thinking that maybe she was just afraid of me. Maybe she thought I made my grandma die and would do the same thing to her. I think my grandmother tried to like me; she even told my dad that we needed to go to counseling in order to help heal our relationship, but my dad, who never liked confrontation, laughed at his mother and asked her how much healing could be done—I was just a child!

  Grandma Schiller had become pregnant with my father at the age of thirteen and claimed to be raped. Her parents had objected to getting rid of the baby. Motherly instincts had a difficult time settling in, and the lie regarding the rape became a black energy that took root within her. She married an emotionally disconnected man and went on to have three more children, all of whom were given names that began with the same letter, while my dad, whose name wasn’t even close to theirs, was an outcast. My father, a brilliant artist, begged to go to art school, but was told he could not, so he enlisted in the Army at a very young age. Later, his parents allowed his youngest brother to enroll in the art school that he so sorely had wanted to attend, a point of contention that I believe sat like lead in my dad. His grandparents, however, adored him and raised him for many years in Florida.

  My grandmother would take my siblings on trips to Disney World while I was left home. She would pick my cousins and me up for a shopping trip. After choosing cartloads of new clothes for my cousins, she would tell me that she didn’t have any money to buy me anything. However, it was the one day she had picked me up, with my cousins in tow, to take us out for ice cream that hurt me the most. My grandmother ordered an ice cream for everybody but me. When it came to my order, she looked down and told me that I didn’t need one and would have to watch as everybody else enjoyed their sweet treat. I tried to hold back my tears. It wasn’t that I wanted ice cream so badly; it was that I was confused as to why I was singled out to be punished for no apparent reason. When I went home, I hid in my room and sobbed. My mom finally got me to spill out what was wrong, and the visits to my grandmother were immediately stopped.

  My mom was already raw with emotion from the argument and angry at my father, and even more furious with him for calling his mother. She now felt ganged up on.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked my grandmother.

  “You need help. Mental help.”

  My mom ran past her mother-in-law to the kitchen and down the basement steps. My grandmother and father followed at a brisk pace. I crept down the stairwell to see my mom hiding behind the dryer and crying. She screamed, “Stop it, just stop it. Leave me alone.” But they didn’t. They grabbed her, dragging her up the steps, out the back door, and into the car.

  My sister grabbed on to me as I sobbed, crying for my mom like any six-year-old would. Although I loved my dad, he was a typical military man who rarely showed emotion. He went to work, came home, sat in front of the television while my mom served him dinner, and then went to bed. My mom, even with her depression and sadness, would read me stories, or at least talk about her childhood or the military travels she had with my dad. I felt as if Alto and Tallie let me down. My dad and grandmother let me down. And now my mom let me down.

  As if I hadn’t felt like an outcast before, I began first grade with my mom in the psychiatric hospital, her cries etched into my memory forever.

  I learned how to read in first grade, a skill that I picked up quickly, and books became my escape from the drama. I closed myself off from everybody at school and from my family—even my father. I look at my first-grade school picture and think what a mess I was with a dress that looked like rags and hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed in days. It was a glaring reminder of my absent mom.

  During her absence, I felt shut out from the spirit world. Tallie and Alto were there, but I was angry and sad. My sister became my pseudo mom, helping cook dinner for us, and my dad attempted to keep a source of normalcy by going to work, returning home, and waiting for dinner, which had to consist of meat, potatoes, and vegetables, and if bread and dessert was available, all the better.

  I wasn’t able to visit my mom in the hospital, but my dad would take me to the parking lot, and my mom would wave at me from her fourth-floor window. I politely waved back, as if waving to a long lost relative.

  It was several months before we were able to pick up my mom from the psychiatric ward. I sat in t
he backseat, thinking that for sure she forgot how to love me, and maybe she wouldn’t even recognize me. Those months that she was gone, I blamed myself. If I hadn’t predicted that death, maybe her mom wouldn’t have died. And maybe my mom wouldn’t be so sad. And if I wasn’t alive, maybe the family would be okay and not so messed up. And maybe it was my entire fault.

  My mom climbed into the passenger seat, turned around, and smiled at me. “Hi honey.”

  I didn’t even recognize her. Her personality seemed to change, her energy was different. Although her voice was upbeat, her eyes had lost their sparkle.

  I felt utterly and completely alone.

  [contents]

  three

  The Ghost Cottage

  As if to try to make up for the last year, my grandmother decided that we should all go on a vacation together and a trip to Ludington, Michigan, which is just a few hours’ drive from our home in Detroit, was planned.

  My mom, dad, sister, brother, paternal grandmother, and I arrived at the Lake Michigan beach cottage for a weeklong getaway. My dad and brother, anxious to put the boat into the water, ran down to take a quick boat ride while the women unpacked the car. Sitting down to catch her breath, my mom glanced at one of the beds and let out a scream.

  “I just saw a skull,” she gasped.

  “What do you mean by that?” my grandmother asked, confused.

  “I saw a skeleton head on the bedpost—a skull,” my mom repeated, shaking in fright.

  My grandmother, ever the cynic, smirked and glanced under the bed. Her large frame sprung to life. “Help me move the bed,” she instructed in an urgent tone.

  My mom and sister helped push the bed aside to discover an extremely large pool of dried blood. There was no skull found; it was only within my mom’s vision.

  As quickly as it was pulled away, the bed was pushed back into place and my mom and grandmother were on the phone searching for an alternate vacation spot.