“If I understand correctly,” Anne said. “You’ve been hearing your mother cry, Marjorie. Can you remember what you were doing at the time?”
“I heard her cry for the first time after constructing my Medicine Wheel. I was sitting in the position of the East, concentrating on the initial step of the Medicine Wheel journey. Awareness.”
“And the second time?” Anne prodded.
“Sitting near a stream, looking into the water.”
“Where?”
“In the Los Padres National Forest near Carmel Valley.”
“Apparently both times you were in a tranquil, meditative mood,” Anne said, “during which you surrendered your conscious mind, allowing your subconscious to send out feelers.”
Anne turned to Veronica. “What about you? Have you heard your mother cry, too?”
“Yes, soon after coming to Carmel Valley and finding my mouse totem.” She hesitated and looked at me.
I unzipped my pouch and dug out the small, smooth stone. “Veronica gave it to Joshua, and Joshua gave it to me.”
“It’s a long story,” Veronica said.
Anne nodded, then asked, “Did you hear her cry again?”
“The crying stopped after I gave away the totem,” Veronica said. “And to be quite honest, I was relieved. I didn’t know at the time that the person crying was Antonia. I also didn’t know that I had a twin.” Veronica looked at me and smiled, which altered the appearance of her face from mean girl to loving sister. “It started up again when I followed Marjorie to Tassajara.”
“What do you think your birth mother is trying to convey?” Anne asked.
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Veronica said. “Maybe she’s lonely.”
“She spoke to me at the Esalen Institute,” I said, “in a way I could understand. Not that I could make sense of her message.”
Anne stilled and looked at me, her eyes wide.
“Our instructor said our minds are fields that interact with one another. In one of our workshops, he had the participants form a circle around me. Then he asked them to focus their attention on my goal of communicating with my mother. It worked, Anne. It really did. Antonia talked to me.”
“What did she say?” Anne asked.
“That she was sorry.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know, but she said our father knew.”
Veronica slid from the lounge onto a bed of needles. “Shit.”
“When I asked her where my father was, she told me to ask my sister.”
Veronica stood and dusted off her jeans, avoiding my eyes.
“She said my sister’s name wasn’t Veronica.”
The breeze rustled the lapels of Veronica’s leather jacket and lifted strands of her hair.
“But First Dawn.”
Veronica took a shaky breath and stared into the darkening sky.
“We’ve got to help her,” I said.
“She’s waited twenty-nine years to contact us,” Veronica said, her voice toneless. “What’s a few more days?”
“Days?” I said. “We can’t wait days.”
“We’re headed for a dark moon,” Anne said, “not a good time to practice magick. Instead we’ll meditate and relax in preparation.”
Meditate? Relax? “Till when?” I asked.
“To quote from the Wiccan Rede, ‘When the moon rides at her peak, then your heart’s desire seek.’”
“But that won’t be until—”
“Actually, the full moon energy is available three days before the date of the full moon and three days after,” Anne said, “which happens to be August first.”
I shook my head. “So glad you cleared that up.”
Anne’s eyes twinkled like the stars now visible through breaks in the redwoods. “Anytime.”
“I think I’ll start calling you Sister Anne,” I said.
She stiffened for a second, then quipped, “Oh dear, you’ve found me out.”
We both laughed, but Veronica appeared thoughtful, as though she’d just been handed a piece to an unsolved puzzle.
Anne stood. “Sorry, girls, but I need to stretch my legs.”
When neither of us spoke, Anne said, “I realize this is all new to you, but” —she dropped back her head and contemplated the misty heavens— “with practice, these new insights may become part of the way you think and act.”
Veronica eyed her with that piercing blue stare that had on more than one occasion caused me to feel like I’d just exited a freezing pool of water. I held my breath, waiting for her verdict. I couldn’t do this without her, but we needed Anne, too.
“It’s hardly that simple,” Veronica said. “I insist on the security of rules and regulations.”
Wow, Veronica and I have more in common than I thought. “She’s applying for a job with the DEA,” I said, as if that explained everything.
But Anne wasn’t buying it. “Rules and regulations are limiting.”
“Can’t argue with you there,” Veronica said, “considering I break the ones that don’t serve me all the time. Still, rules and regulations are made for our welfare and protection. They ensure our rights as citizens against abuses by other people, organizations, and the government.”
“Okay then,” Anne conceded, “maybe you’ll agree to take just a wee little peek to what’s on the other side.”
Veronica folded up the starburst lounger and leaned it against Anne’s yurt. Then she sat next to us on the yoga mat with its geometric angles and shapes, which, if you looked at them long enough, transcended language and the rational mind and produced visual and spiritual harmony.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO in the meantime?” I asked over Annie’s organic French roast coffee the next morning. Not only did I prefer her one-dollar-per-ounce brew to mine, but her campsite as well, so darn colorful, in an upcycled-from-Goodwill sort a way. A Steller’s Jay voiced a loud shaq-shaq-shaq and the river rushed in the distance, now familiar and comforting forms of white noise. The air was crisp, scented with pine and wood-smoke. Paradise, yet... I dreaded the idea of spending the next nineteen days twiddling my thumbs, waiting for a full moon.
“You could stop thinking about contacting your mother for a while and concentrate on Adam instead,” Anne said, her voice soft. “Sometimes we find answers in the most unlikely places.”
I stared at her as if she’d just suggested going out dancing again. Adam didn’t need my company, let alone my intrusive thoughts. What could I possibly do for him?
Anne patted my arm. “Be his friend.”
Clasping my mug in both hands, I inhaled the chocolaty scent of Anne’s artisan specialty, no comparison to the coffee I served up at my campsite, which Anne compared to sipping pesticide. “He’s got you, Brock, and his coyote friend, Buster.”
With anyone else, I would’ve considered the sudden contortion of Anne’s eyebrows an expression of anger, but by now I knew she accepted me as I was and she didn’t anger easily. “You blow hot and then cold when it comes to Adam,” she said. “One minute you’re arguing his case as if your life depended on it and the next you back off. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were more concerned about his art than his soul.”
Her comments hurt, but that’s usually how it is with the truth. If nothing else, she was making me stop and think.
“Allow yourself to be The Great Spirit’s instrument,” she said.
Adam would likely reject any gesture of friendship on my part, considering that he lived in a world of his own, in which I was not included. But the part about being God’s instrument worked for me. “Okay.”
Anne stood and released the hem of her skirt from the belt around her waist. “I need to check up on him. Want to come along?”
I set my mug next to hers and stared at it for a while before shrugging and rising to my feet. Next thing I knew, I was jogging to keep pace with Anne’s energetic stride.
“I’ve always wanted to bring the spiritual back into nursing,” she said without slowing down. “I want to prove that nursing programs need to integrate religious studies and spirituality into their coursework.”
I managed to adjust my step to hers, unwilling to admit that I had difficulty keeping up with a woman at least ten years older. “What do you mean, you want to bring the spiritual back into nursing?”
Anne pulled in a deep breath, more likely due to my continued questions than physical exertion. “In the days of old, spirituality was a big part of healing. People relied on priests, shamans, medicine men, and—”
“Witches,” I said, catching on.
Anne grinned. “Some very wise witches.”
I brushed strands of hair off my face and tried to control my rapid breathing. This woman had super powers, and it took more stamina than I possessed to keep up with her. “Adam’s lucky to have you.”
Anne halted, then turned to face me. “For Adam, the past and future are dissolving into a sensorial present that embraces him and makes him feel whole and secure. His present moments are very large, and I don’t want to take that away from him.”
I took in the redwoods that soared to dizzying heights, the musty odors that managed to smell good out here, and the birds that chirped and screeched in chaotic chorus. In an institution, he would be cut off from all this.
“We can’t fix him,” Anne said, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t help him heal.”
At that moment, a wall of doubt evaporated from inside of me. Not fix, but heal.
“As far as I’m concerned, this is holy ground,” Anne said. “A place of compassion, honesty, and love, of emotional and spiritual health, of passion and purpose.”
The flow of the Big Sur River greeted us as we entered Adam’s camp. As did Buster. He yipped, sprang to his feet, and ran toward us.
I froze.
“Sweet, isn’t he?” Anne said when he halted in front of her and pinned her with his yellow-brown gaze.
I waited for my heartbeat to decelerate.
Anne rubbed the coyote’s head and behind his ears. “Hey, Adam,” she said. “Whatcha doin’?”
He sat in a grassy clearing, playing with a deck of cards, and didn’t look up.
“I gave him Tarot cards to aid his memory,” Anne said as we headed his way. “Each has an image of a different saint. He plays with them for hours.”
A pagan divination tool based on Christianity? My mother would consider putting saints on Tarot cards as irreverence to the sacred. Yet, in this case, what she would call sacrilege filled me with hope. Maybe my dream about all religions uniting wasn’t naïve after all.
Adam spread the cards in front of him, doing a pretty good rendition of a Las Vegas dealer, though more slowly and with a tremor in his hands.
“I thought Tarot cards had pictures of fools, magicians, and priestesses,” I said.
Anne’s eyes danced to the tune of another one of my brilliant comments. “St. Francis was a fool for Christ. St Nicolas was a miracle worker. St. Mary Magdalene was the First Papesse. The way I taught Adam to use the cards doesn’t involve memorizing their meanings. All the information he seeks is already in his subconscious, which the cards help bring to the surface. They serve as reminders, friends, and meditative tools. Anyway, they’re beautiful and he loves them.”
Adam selected a card from the spread and held it up.
Anne laughed. “St. Anne. Yep, that’s me.”
He passed his right hand over the cards, once, twice, then selected another.
Anne leaned in for a closer look.
“She wiped the face of Jesus with her veil,” Adam said.
I stared at Adam, feeling a strange sensation come over me like a chilly mist. Only one saint I knew of had wiped the face of Jesus with her veil.
Adam picked up the card and ran his finger over its surface. “He felt so alone...”
“Anne,” I said. “Did you tell Adam about my sister?”
She looked at me, her expression sedate, restrained. “No, sweetie, I didn’t.”
Of all fourteen Stations-of-the-Cross commemorating Jesus’ long and painful journey to His crucifixion, I’d always been most fascinated by the sixth, depicting Veronica’s veil with the face of Christ imprinted on it. I’d made a point of sitting in the pew below the sixth station each time I went to Mass as a child. I hadn’t known back then that I had a sister named Veronica, and now I faced yet another mystery. Who told Adam?
If Antonia had communicated with Adam about me, she may also have communicated with him about Veronica. But why refer to either of us? What would compel her to reach from the other side to a complete stranger with AD?
I met Adam’s eyes, but found no answer there. I did, however, sense a thirst for intimacy. Anne was right. I could be Adam’s friend. Not by nagging him or telling him what to do, but by providing him with company and the gift of a listening ear.
While Anne fixed Adam’s breakfast and gave him his vitamins and medication, I hunched next to him and watched as he sorted through his cards.
Anne glanced at her watch—an astronomical contraption that she wore on a chain around her neck. “Would you stay with Adam for a while? I won’t be gone long.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said. “I’m not very good at—”
Buster nudged me with his nose, and I lost my train of thought long enough for Anne to wave and take off in the direction from which we’d come.
I sighed and turned my attention back to Adam. “Tell me about your sculptures.”
It took a while for me to realize that he wasn’t going to answer. Either he hadn’t heard my question or it got lost in his mind like a missed target. I detected a slight angling of his head and a momentary scrunch of his brow before he asked, “How are you?”
“Fine,” I said. “How are you?”
No answer.
Then it hit me. “How are you?” was a question that came easily for him, a question he’d asked thousands of times during his lifetime and therefore slid from his mouth as automatically as a recorded message on an answering machine. But when he was asked the same question, no prerecorded message, so no response.
“I’m going to die,” Adam said.
The suddenness of his words jarred me like the blast of a bullet. I wanted to tell him that we were all going to die, but didn’t. It makes a big difference when you’re not sure of the when, where, and how. I looked at the ring of keys attached to his belt, keys to his car, his home, his safe deposit box, his totems, reminders of the possessions that no longer mattered to him. While the rest of the world continued to grasp for more.
“Let’s go visit Kathleen and Anthony,” I said.
Adam looked at me and smiled. “Okay.” He put the Tarot cards back in their box and placed the box in his coat pocket. Then he stood and, with Buster at his side, headed for the grove that held the possessions still dear to his heart: the sculptures of his wife and child.
As I followed, I was struck anew at Adam’s talent. By freak chance—or miracle—I’d created a single sculpture that struck a chord within those who saw it, but I could never replicate it. Adam, on the other hand, produced masterpiece after masterpiece.
Had he started the statue for the gallery showing? Maybe he would be more inclined to create a piece if the profits from a sale were used for Alzheimer’s research?
There I go again.
~~~
“Sell one of Adam’s sculptures for AD research,” Anne repeated when I presented my brilliant idea on her return. “I don’t know. If it generates a lot of money, the pressure would be on for him to produce more. He can’t be forcefully inspired.”
I got what Anne was saying with my mind, but not with my heart. Something told me that it was important to preserve some of his work. “No one would be forcing him to do anything. He said he’d do one, remember?”
“Don’t you see?” Anne
said. “The demands and pressures of recognition and celebrity are exactly what he’s been trying to avoid.”
I thought of my one venture into the world of an artist. What was the truth behind what appeared to be an undesirable outcome? “How about if he donates a sculpture anonymously?”
Anne sighed and shook her head. “Okay, I’ll discuss it with Adam and his attorney, considering Adam has already expressed an interest in donating funds to AD research. As I said, he only creates when he feels inspired. Speaking of which...”
“What?”
“While you were at the Esalen Institute, Adam created a magnificent replica of Kathleen and their five-year-old son, Anthony.”
I stared at her, speechless.
“Anthony is sitting on Kathleen’s lap and she’s reading to him. His eyes are wide and his mouth open, his little hands clasped in delight.”
Adam had shown me his work only an hour previously, but I hadn’t seen anything like this.
Anne laughed, apparently amused at my baffled expression. “It’s in my studio.”
“How’d you get it to there in one piece?”
“I didn’t.”
My hopes crashed.
“Before the clay fully dried, I separated the sculpture at key junctures, then encased the pieces in plastic and reassembled them at the studio with the help of some water and potter’s glue. The clay we gave him was reinforced with fiberglass, which made it especially strong.”
“Did you fire it?” I asked, finding it hard to breathe.
“Not yet. It still needs to dry. If I get it into the kiln by Wednesday, though, Thursday at the latest, and, if all goes well, I could deliver it to the gallery in time for Saturday night’s showing. I’m sure Alfonso will be happy to exhibit it. Especially if, this time, the piece will be for sale.”
~~~
“Keep your fingers crossed, hon,” Anne said as we entered her studio Friday morning. “Anything can happen during the firing stage. Pieces of this magnitude and complexity have been known to explode in the kiln.”
Between Darkness and Dawn Page 20
