Between Darkness and Dawn

by Margaret Duarte

  As I crested Vista Point, I noticed the strips of bare soil between the coastal shrub and grassland, otherwise known as bare zones. California sagebrush and black sage produce toxic chemicals that inhibit the germination and growth of the seedlings of competing plant species, sometimes even inhibiting the germination and growth of their own. Add to that the lack of sunlight, due to the dense canopy of their branches, and the area appeared uninhabitable indeed. I took in the sweeping 360-degree panoramic view extending across the entire Big Sur area. What had nature taught me about survival in the bare zones of life, the seemingly barren patches of the in-between? As I took another slow turn, scanning the Santa Lucia Mountains, the rugged coastline, and the sheer coastal cliffs, I decided it was time to find out.

  ~~~

  Cecil, Claudia, Anne, Adam, Veronica, and I settled on logs in a circle around the campfire in what was left of Adam’s camp. It was dusk and almost everything, except for the tents and sleeping bags, had been packed away for the group exodus to Los Angeles.

  I glanced at Cecil, who sat at my side. From the start, I’d disliked his strut, his wisecracks, his unapologetic display of wealth, and the way he lived and acted from a place of inner authority. I had misjudged him. He and I were more alike than different, and were ultimately seeking the same thing—he with the massive chrome headlight of his Harley lighting the way, and me weighed down by the stuffed cargo hold of my Jeep. Cecil’s inner strength, his money, his connections, his ability to live life out loud would serve his father well during the last chapters of his life. I hated to admit it, but since Cecil and I had let down our surface barriers, with the purpose of helping Adam, we had connected in some inexplicable way. I thought of Holly, Kate, Jennifer, Claudia, Adam, Anne, Veronica, and, yes, even Buster, each a traveler on the road of life, each a teacher, each a messenger.

  Cecil poked me in the side and presented me with a wide grin. “I’m returning your sculpture.”

  Sculpture? With the turbulence generated by Adam’s disappearance, Antonia’s strange request, and news of my father, I’d forgotten all about it. Like Adam’s ring of keys, the sculpture now served as a symbol of what had once mattered: a useless possession, something that would only weigh me down.

  Cecil laughed. “Cat got your tongue?”

  I opened my mouth to speak, then thought better of it. What could I say? He’d paid $10,000 for my sculpture and was offering it back to me. Too late. I no longer cared.

  “I’d like to see it,” Veronica said, perking up at the news. “It must be something special, for Cecil to steal it. Right?”

  “Actually, it’s rather coarse and amateurish,” Cecil said.

  I felt myself bristle, but said nothing. He was right. I’d been dabbling with clay, untrained in the medium, unaware of what I was doing.

  “But the darn thing hit me in the gut,” Cecil said. “Either Marjorie got lucky, or I have exceptionally bad taste in art.”

  Everyone laughed. Except me. “I really hated you, Cecil.”

  “He hated himself,” Claudia said, her voice soft, but sharply focused. A simple acknowledgment and acceptance of fact. It occurred to me that she accepted Cecil for who he was without the need to change him. How amazing was that? What I’d perceived as needy clinging and insecurity on her part was in fact a sign of her unwavering support. Her love, like the light of the sun, was not selective. She, the silent watcher, was possibly the most enlightened among us.

  Cecil gave her a swift look and lifted his brow. “I know it sounds crazy, but I was trying to turn a mystery into something material, something I could own and control. Your sculpture was like a porthole into the unknown, Marjorie, into which I wanted to take a peek. It had nothing to do with workmanship.”

  A flash of lightning, lit up the sky with a sheet of light.

  “Maybe it was God speaking to you,” Claudia ventured.

  Go Claudia.

  Cecil gave a mirthless laugh. “I don’t believe in God.”

  Buster whined, followed by the clap and rumble of thunder, bringing to mind the sharp inhale and extended sigh of nature.

  “Guess this is as good a time as any to start on a new path,” Anne said into the sudden silence.

  “The old path brought me here,” Cecil said, “but I know what you mean. It’s hard to understand, or accept, what I’ve experienced in the past weeks without believing in something.”

  The warmth in Cecil’s eyes as he looked at Adam made me wonder if I’d ever look at my father in this way. Or would he be beyond reach, as Adam nearly was?

  The blackened sky lit up with a flash of lightning, followed seconds later by another clap of thunder.

  Odd, how often we gathered in darkness, only to experience light.

  “Anyway,” Cecil said. “I’m pretty good at getting people to do what I want.” He shrugged and presented another of his smartass smiles. “That’s why I’m successful at my job.”

  Yeah, using manipulation, control, and intimidation.

  “Do you think you could use that special talent of yours to get someone to buy my sculpture?” I asked with an equally smartass smile.

  Cecil, Claudia, Veronica, and Anne stared at me as though I were speaking a foreign language.

  “Sell? What for?” Cecil asked.

  “For Alzheimer’s research. Add to that the $10,000, minus commission fees you already paid me for it, and it’ll amount to a tidy sum.”

  The collective sigh of approval that followed felt like a supportive wind behind my back. I looked at each member of our circle, sensing so much love that I felt I could fly.

  “I could organize an auction,” Cecil said, rubbing his forehead with both hands, “which brings out peoples’ competitive spirit and their sense of fun and generosity.” He glanced at his father. “Maybe even Dad and Buster could help.”

  Adam’s gaze settled on Cecil from the opposite side of the campfire like the touch of a butterfly, gossamer on steel, and I swear, even with only the illumination of the fire and moon, I glimpsed comprehension in his eyes.

  Cecil frowned and shook his head. “It’ll take some doing. Actually, it’ll require a whole new frame of mind on my part. I’ll have to call in some markers in favor of a good cause, instead of my own pocketbook for a change. It’ll also take cooperation and trust. Not my forte, I’m afraid.” Cecil looked at Claudia, who squeezed his hand. “Guess you can say, the life I’ve been leading thus far has been rather stagnant when it comes to personal relationships.”

  “You can bet your Harley boots on that one,” Veronica said. “You were in a foul state when I first met you, and, from what I understand, you nearly dragged your father down with you.”

  The angry tone in Veronica’s voice, suggested that she was comparing Cecil to our father.

  “And I have the opportunity to set things right again,” Cecil said.

  He cocked his head and looked at Veronica with the sharp eye of the entertainment lawyer that Anne claimed him to be. “You and that sister of yours are like two sides of a coin, one side dark, the other light, each setting off the other, each necessary to form the whole.”

  “Antonia implied that the circle isn’t yet complete,” I said, unable to shake off my mother’s words. Fallen Light. Ask your father about Fallen Light. You must complete the circle.

  “Then ‘Fallen Light’ may be the center,” Anne said.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  IT WAS TIME to say goodbye to Adam.

  As Veronica and I entered his camp for the last time, I wondered if he would recognize me. The tents were gone, everything packed, leaving not a single trace of Adam’s stay. Cecil and Claudia sat in a head-to-head huddle, deep in muffled conversation, so occupied with each other that they failed to acknowledge our presence.

  Anne, in contrast, looked relieved to see us. She waved us over. “They’ve been like that all morning. You’d think they just united after years of separation. “Anyway, if you’re looking
for Adam, Marjorie, he’s in the grotto.”

  Was she trying to get rid of me?

  She turned to Veronica. “Okay, out with it. Is it true that the DEA instills fear in physicians, concerning how they treat their patients and what they prescribe?”

  I’d been dismissed.

  “Don’t worry,” Veronica said when she caught me frowning. “We’ll be fine.”

  I wasn’t worried, just miffed. But I could take a hint.

  Adam sat in the center of his evacuated grotto, arms resting on raised knees. His hair was trimmed, his face clean-shaven, thanks to Cecil this time instead of Brock. Brock’s employment as Adam’s personal care aide had come to an end. And not a moment too soon, according to Anne. After Adam’s return from the care facility, he’d become even more averse to water. Washing and showering had turned into a battle. Though Brock and Adam had forged a companionable relationship, the assignment had stretched Brock’s resources to the limit, and he was eager to move on to a less challenging position.

  Adam’s clothing appeared to have materialized straight out of a Banana Republic catalog. He looked like a normal, well-outfitted camper. Except for the vacant stare.

  I sat next to him. He glanced my way, then looked back at the barren circle his grotto had become. Hawks called to one another as they perched in the sycamores, alders, and redwoods that encircled the pond—from which Adam was now keeping a guarded distance. Apparently, the water spilling from the outcropping of rock and trickling into the pool no longer evoked in him the peace and tranquility it once had.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, my mind settling into a waking-dream state. Spirit surrounded us; I sensed It everywhere. So, I appealed to It for Adam. Please God, help Adam in his final journey.

  Adam touched his fingers to mine. I turned my hand over, palm up, and he clasped it.

  The words Adam had written in the final pages of his journal returned to me as though carried on the whiff of perfumed air coming from the wild flowers interspersed between the shrubs and ferns.

  The last thing I’ll lose is love. I may forget people’s names, where I am, and what I’m doing, but I will remember love.

  Buster rested his furry head on our joined hands.

  ~~~

  Anne swept raised arms over the vacant camp. “All is ready. Accept what is.”

  For me, it wasn’t that easy. I’d never had many friends, never made the effort, never felt the need. But now I felt as if part of me were leaving. Anne would say it was the part of me I’d given her as a gift, making room for what I was still to become.

  She pressed a ring of keys into my hand. “I own a home in Pacific Grove where you’re headed. The house is kind of...” She shook her head as if lost for words. “It’ll be a good home base for meeting with your father.”

  The assortment of keys jingled as I inspected them. Not tokens of power or possession. Not something to hoard or tie one down. But a gift meant to be shared and enjoyed.

  “Stay as long as you like,” she said. “As a matter of fact, keep the keys for whenever you’re in the area, which I hope will be often.” She looked at Veronica, and her face softened. “We’re sisters now. What’s mine is yours.”

  A home in Pacific Grove. I squelched the questions that threatened to ruin the moment. Accept with gratitude and generosity. It’s part of the plan. Her generosity was beyond comprehension. I didn’t know what to say.

  “Actually, you’ll be doing me a favor,” Anne said, “sort of like house-sitting. The key to the art studio in Monterey is on the ring as well, in case you feel the urge to play some more with clay. And my closets... They’re packed to the hilt with clothes that’ll fit you both, many with the tags still attached. I’d love to know you were wearing them.”

  All those clothes. Questions again sprang to mind: Where’d she get the money, the clothes, the house? Again, I squelched them. They would be answered in time.

  We hugged. I sniffed in Anne’s ear.

  “Stop it,” she said. “That tickles.”

  I sprang back. “Sorry.”

  A smile from Anne. “You’re expressing emotion. See how far you’ve come?”

  True, my emotions were flowing more freely now, if not at full force. All these years of storing them up—as if releasing them would amount to bleeding—had taken their toll. I glanced at Veronica. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Tears? Talk about coming far.

  She reached for Anne’s hand.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Anne said, pulling her into a bear hug.

  Cecil had likened my sister and me to two sides of a coin, one side dark, the other light. I, instead, envisioned a coin imprinted with Janus the Roman god of two faces, one face looking backward, the other face looking forward, both on the same side of the coin. What appeared on the other side would, for now, remain a mystery.

  I thought of my father, the man I was about to meet in Pacific Grove, and felt my heart contract. Could Veronica and I uncover and live with his secret? Could we release our dark yesterdays and uncertain tomorrows and open to the avenues and surprises that lay in the light of the present? Or would we remain stuck in our private worlds, ruled by our own narrow perceptions, sealed from the hidden meanings of life?

  I put my arms around my two sisters, confident that it was the former rather than the later.

  With love, anything was possible.

  Acknowledgments

  MY DEEPEST THANKS TO:

  My husband and family for their continued patience and support while I wrote and revised yet another novel in my “Enter the Between” series. Two more to go, and I’m done. Promise.

  My line and content editors Judith Reveal, Moira Warmerdam, Marianne Chick, Linda van Steyn, and Jodine Turner. Thank you, thank you, for finding those pesky typos and setting me straight when I veered off course.

  My critique partners, past and present, for their valuable suggestions: Jo Chandler, Lee Lopez, Dorothy Skarles, Natalia Orfanos, and members of the Amherst Writers and Artists Group, directed by Gini Grossenbacher, especially Judy Vaughan.

  My sister, Theresa Adrian, brothers, John and Ron van Steyn, and friends, Kathy Simoes and Louis Silveira, for your faith in my writing. I wish I could express in ways other than words how much this means to me.

  For fellow authors and members of the Visionary Fiction Alliance, Jodine Turner, Victor E. Smith, Eleni Papanou, Sandy Nathan, Saleena Karim, and Jim Murdoch for your help in bringing the genre of Visionary Fiction into the public eye.

  My cover artist, Clarissa Yeo of Yocla Designs and Jonnee Bardo of Gluskin’s Photo Lab and Studio for my author photo.

  So many books were helpful in researching for this novel that I can only mention a few: Earth Medicine and The Medicine Way, by Kenneth Meadows, Dancing the Dream, by Jamie Sams, The Field, by Lynne McTaggart, Spiritual Emergency, by Stanislav and Christina Grof, The Natural History of Big Sur, by Paul Henson and Donald J. Usner, The Person with Alzheimers’s Disease, edited by Phyllis Braudy Harris, PH.D., The Truth about Witchcraft Today, by Scott Cunningham, The Map of Heaven, by Eben Alexander, M.D.

  About the Author

  Margaret Duarte's parents immigrated to the United States from Holland (the Netherlands) with her two older brothers the year before she was born. She grew up on a series of dairy farms in California into what became a very large family—seven brothers and two sisters.

  When she entered high school, her fascination with creative writing began. She was fortunate to receive excellent instruction, plus a great deal of encouragement from her English teachers.

  Scholarship in hand, Margaret entered California State University, Sacramento, where she earned a degree in English and a secondary teaching credential. Then she did something she swore she would never do—married a dairy farmer.

  Over the following thirty years, she helped on the family farm, raised two sons, taught at a local middle school, and dabbled in an assortment of hobbies, but did lit
tle writing other than in her journal. It wasn't until her sons were grown that she finally returned to what her teachers had encouraged her to pursue while in school—writing.

  Though it delayed her career as a writer, she never regretted her decision to marry and raise a family. Her years as wife and mother taught her about love and selflessness and fueled her for the years of writing that lay ahead. They also uncovered what would become the driving force behind her work: the call for spiritual and emotional freedom. Through her novels, which synthesize heart and mind, science and spirituality, Margaret hopes to inspire people to activate their gifts, retire their excuses, and stand in their own authority.

  For more information on Margaret and her books, visit her website at: www.margaretduarte.com.

  Book one: “Enter the Between” Series

  Silicon Valley resident Marjorie Veil has been conditioned to ignore her own truth, to give away her power, to subjugate in relationships with others, and to settle for the path of least resistance. But she has many surprises in store, for there are synchronistic forces at work in her life that, if she listens, will lead her to her authentic heart and happiness. The seemingly impossible happens in the wild of the Los Padres National Forest where Marjorie goes on retreat to make sense of her life when she thinks she has gone insane. The innocence of the Native American orphan Marjorie befriends, as well as more mystery and adventure than she bargained for, show her how love can heal in what turns out to be a transformative spiritual quest. Available at Amazon

  Book three: “Enter the Between” Series

  When Marjorie Veil takes refuge at a friend’s Victorian mansion in Pacific Grove, otherwise known as Butterfly Town USA, she seeks answers to two burning questions. Why had her biological father abandoned her at birth? And why is her mother sending messages from beyond the grave, shedding light on agonizing secrets she took with her when she died?