The Invisible Choir

by Tessa Lynne

  You do not have to hide your pain from me—it is familiar. We both sometimes feel the despair of our situation, but more often we revel in the joy of shared moments, of loving and being loved. Do you get a sense of what the spiritual world is all about? During my near-death experience, it was the overwhelming sense of love that enticed me to stay.

  Sweetheart, to keep anything from you would make a travesty of our love. Not long after you came into my life, I lost my hair from the chemo. I begged Amelia to describe me as she had first seen me. Then, every day I would look closely for any new growth. This morning, I noticed a fine bit of fuzz, no more than what you would find on a peach. Can you love me with no hair?

  I feel a winter melancholy, a letdown from the intensity and seemingly endless discoveries of our first months together. We should be moving on to the next stage of our relationship. You are out on your own, living a normal life—your home should be my home.

  It is twilight. I stand at the window wrapped in a natural-fiber shawl that reaches to the floor. I stare out at deep drifts of snow as five deer slowly pass in single file across the ridge of the hill, stop to sniff the air. I wait. A great horned owl descends from the sky to take his perch on the highest branch of the tallest tree. I wait. The wind comes up and swirls the snow around, obscuring the break in the trees. I wait. I am Morning Star, drawing my blanket around me, looking for Bear Hunter, returning home.

  What I sense is a discordant note. During our first months together, we were caught up in a joyous symphony that should by now be reaching its climax and resolution. Instead, I am struck by the incongruity of our separate lives.

  I am anxiously awaiting your letter, the first since I told you of my hair loss. It is difficult to talk about my leukemia and its side effects. I want you to think of me as the man of your dreams. I want to be strong for you. I do look better—my clothes no longer hang on me and you can’t count my ribs unless you really try.

  I need to tell you of the dream I had last night, another glimpse of our past lives as Bear Hunter and Morning Star. You were pregnant for the first time and close to giving birth. An old medicine woman of our tribe spoke to me of her concern for you—the child was large and you had a small frame. She urged me to seek a vision. It is not clear how long I remained in the Medicine Lodge, praying, before a white buffalo appeared to me and said, “Your wife will live and you shall prosper. Your son will one day take your place—he shall be named Talon Qua.” Our son was born the next day. I wept at the sight of him.

  Michael, this is not easy. You are here with me and then, suddenly, you turn and walk away. You grow smaller and smaller, then disappear into that final dot of perspective where our path meets the horizon. I try to call you back, to no avail—you keep retreating from my sight, deserting me.

  I take my misery to the river, drive out forty some miles on a rolling, curving road. The skies are low to the ground, weighted with thick clouds in shades of gray and bluish black that reflect my dark mood. I have to make an effort to shake it off and come into presence with my surroundings. I can see now that the somber hues of the clouds make up a color palette—there is light contained within their darkness.

  The ground is snow covered; native grasses add accents in ochre, taupe, burnt umber, and sienna. I am entranced by their many varieties and colors, the grace and beauty of their forms. It reminds me that Emerson referred to beauty as “the instant dependence of form upon soul.” It is a truth I recognized when first I read his words.

  I turn off the highway and stop to look out over the river, shallow here, a frozen, wind-swept expanse of blackish green. I look up to the river bluffs, their contours defined by drifts of snow caught in the shadows of cliffs and ravines. Close by, a red fox darts across a stretch of open prairie. I roll down my window to the sight and sound of honking flocks of low-flying geese, instinct guiding their ever-changing V-formations. I gaze at them and think of how they mate for life.

  Winter is hardly my favorite season, yet it touches me deeply, has its moments. In spring, it is the nascent quality of life itself that calls to me. I reach out to embrace the world, feel myself come to life with the whole of all creation. Summer brings the contrast of early mornings and late evenings with the oppressive heat of the day, the silver linings that remind me to find them where I can. Then, as autumn mixes its rich, pungent blend, I feel a oneness with the earth. It is in the dead of winter—with its cold, stark beauty—that I know a piercing intimacy with the pain of the world, and with the elemental forces that stir my soul.

  Michael mine, as I write it is once again as if I am talking with you. It was only this morning and somewhat yesterday and that day last week, an hour here and there, sometimes two or three, that I had lost that feeling. One minute is enough to know the utter desolation of being separated from you.

  Have you just been here with me? Is your question about your hair answered? Did you feel me caress your head, kiss it, and brush my cheek against its new growth? It will not matter in the least.

  I felt your presence today during the chemo. The biopsies, and the bone marrow and spinal taps, are scheduled for next week. Darling, do you realize that when I am in remission I will still need frequent tests? My sweet love, you need to know how emotionally trying that can be, waiting for the results. I’m suddenly not sure we should be planning our future together. I am going to take a drive up along the river and consider all that I am asking of you.

  Sweetheart, I have come up with only heart-wrenching alternatives. I know this: I love you with all of my heart, it seems beyond all reason. Do we need to let reason prevail? Help me, my love. I can’t bear the thought of letting you go. Please think carefully before you answer this letter. My mood has gone from bad to worse—to write of the details would serve no purpose.

  My love, if you were close just now you know my answer. I hesitate to write so soon, lest you think I haven’t given it enough consideration. I will let last night’s dream inform you. I was to be married to one of two men, but it was not to be my choice. One man was you; the other one was a bit younger, attractive, perfectly healthy, etc. I was in bed with him, not intimate, but close. I was repulsed, afraid they were going to choose him. I woke up before their decision was made, still apprehensive, wanting you.

  Michael, I ask myself: how much time would I need with you to believe it worth this agony? The answer is: any time at all. I then ask myself: what if it were only for one day? The answer is the same—if it were for one hour—if I were to reach your side in the final moment of your life.

  Sweetness, you were with me last night in a dream. I was not consciously reaching out but was inexplicably being drawn to you. I did not protest but allowed myself to be transported until I felt us merge as one. I can no longer question these encounters.

  My hair is definitely growing back, but it still looks a little funny, like the haircuts we used to get as kids in the fifties. Did I ever tell you about my weekend in San Francisco before going to Vietnam? It was an experience I’ll never forget. I saw Judy Collins in concert at The Forum. Downtown, everyone was protesting the war. After one of us was beaten up for being in the military, we left and spent the next two days in Carmel. I didn’t have much hair then either, so it wasn’t easy to blend with the crowd in San Francisco.

  Your letter brought strong affirmations of all we are to each other. How can I continue to think as I have been? I believe you when you say you have given careful thought to your decision. I need to stop wasting precious time and get myself in remission.

  21. Love: it is an imperative

  February

  Michael, you once wrote that the spiritual world is all about love. According to Amelia, there is one lesson common to every life-time—each of us is to learn a lesson of love. While the experience is often a romantic one, it might be love of a different kind. She said, “The Creator’s purpose was to give mankind the capacity to love, not only in relationship to themselves, but selflessly.”

  Love is one of
the four essential attitudes. You will recognize the others: Faith, Hope, and Charity. She said, “The greatest of lessons are those of maintaining these four attitudes—under a variety of circumstances that are increasingly difficult. It was the Creator’s intention that these attitudes would positively affect brain processes and lead to higher levels of physical and mental health.” I wish I could say they are my constant focus. Over my lifetime, I have held them generally, but I do not intentionally cultivate them as often as I might, and I do not consistently draw on them to guide me. It is easy enough to do so in the abstract, removed from the world, but it is in the nitty gritty of life that we are called to apply them.

  Amelia also spoke of the future of our planet. “It is of the utmost importance that this message be conveyed—you must practice and embody these four attitudes—for the sake of each other and for the sake of the world you have been given to survive in.” Her tone conveyed her deep conviction in the necessity of us doing so: it was an imperative.

  Vince stopped by last night, and he was the one to bring up your name. He finally accepts that we have a long-distance relationship through our letters—he didn’t mention our delivery system. Am I wrong to let him accept what he will without trying to explain the significance of our angels? He is anxious to meet all of you, even said, “Imagine that, Dad, I’ll finally have some sisters to pick on.”

  J.T. called to say he is stopping by soon with my test results. I am worried, my love. I have to remind myself that my symptoms are diminished, and I rarely take any pain medication. Except for the tests, and some horrendous headaches I’ve had lately, I almost feel like my normal self.

  I have felt you close since J.T. left. Can you sense my excitement, my strength? The results were very good. There is no evidence of cancer cells in the spinal fluid or in the testes, and there are fewer in the bone marrow. I am not yet in remission, but I am confident of our future together.

  Last week, Amelia told me of some scenes from our secondary lives, what might have been if you had taken my class twelve years ago. You made an excuse to come up and ask me a question but couldn’t understand why you were drawn to me (so much for any sex appeal I thought I had then). She said that you were nervous and felt awkward and that I was aware of your discomfort and a little amused by it. You maneuvered to sit next to me at dinner and then asked if I would like to go to the lounge for a drink. It wasn’t long before you asked me to come to your room. I am only a little surprised at what she said my reply was, that I had been waiting for you to suggest it. (Out-of-town propositions were not infrequent, but yours was the first I accepted.)

  As Amelia described what she saw, Mahalia and Alexander drew so close that I could have been recalling an event from my past. I can picture us both then, in our early thirties, vibrant with energy and good health. How do we accept that there was wisdom in the intervention that caused the class to be canceled? There must have been other possibilities—a one hour delay in leaving, a different route taken home … something.

  Michael, you write of a loss of yourself as we part. I too feel that. As I write, your scent reaches me from your last letter, your physical absence a gaping hole in my center. I want this wait to be over. I don’t want to leave you, but I need to go to work.

  Can you feel my joy? As positive as I have been, I did not react with a calmly stated, “I knew it.” After Amelia told me, I needed to speak with Sally again, so I had to set my feelings aside. When I got to my car, I turned on the radio. Guess what song was playing? I was smiling and cheering most of the way home, and then I was crying—tears of relief, tears of joy. It is late, the end of a long day of celebrating our love and our future.

  J. T. is coming soon. We are going out to lunch, and then I hope to persuade him to come in for a while. Amelia is concerned about my headaches and suggested it will give her an opportunity to appear and do an exam.

  It worked according to plan. Amelia did not tell me much, except that there are some tests she will somehow convince J.T. to order. I didn’t dare test his credulity by telling him of her visit, that she used his body again. I don’t know how much he can accept. Will you spend the night with me? Tomorrow is a chemo day.

  It is late. The chemo still makes me sick but not as much as before. Thank you for the card with the white buffalo and the explanation that it is held to be sacred and a sign of hope. How is it you know exactly what will raise my spirits? I kept the image in mind for most of the day. I am very tired—will you be content to just hold me tonight?

  I have been making two small gifts for you and should finish them in time to leave for my afternoon appointments. I will likely see Amelia and will ask her to include them with this card for tomor-row’s celebration of love.

  My beloved husband, my life’s companion—there is no doubt that we will find each other in the world beyond this one. It is in this world that we did not recognize each other until, with the help of angels, we were given another chance. We celebrate a love that has transcended time and space, that has lost and grieved and grown stronger, that is teaching us a meaning of itself that deepens with each passing day. Let us celebrate our love—as one.

  My darling Tessa, I am hopelessly in love with you. I want you in my loving embrace, now and forever—to love, protect, and cherish above all else. Come live with me and be my love.

  I have admired your gifts and have read your card. To know that I am so loved is a gift in itself. I have finished the entire book of quotes about love, and I put the mix tape in the first thing. Did you feel my tears? It is a little early in the night to let you know that I want you, need you. I will wait.

  I love that you took the time to find the lingerie. I had guessed from your hints what you were looking for, including the rose and the ribbons. Did you have my stationery in mind? Will you keep your eyes on the pearls and the satiny ivory fabric as they reflect the soft glow of candlelight? How will the beads feel as they slowly traverse the midline of your body? Will you promise to let me keep it on long enough to find out?

  How did you know what I had in mind as a gift? Am I that trans-parent? I had to go out of town yesterday to wrap up the sale of my house. On the way back, I stopped at my favorite men’s store and bought a suit for our wedding. It is a light gray with tiny black flecks through it, with pleated slacks. I plan to wear a white shirt with a tie that you choose for me. Have you given any thought yet to what you will wear?

  This letter is not going to be as light-hearted as I would like it to be. Maeve brought me a plate of cookies and then Amelia came. She said, “I have consulted with those in the spirit world who spe-cialize in assisting with medical issues. They believe it is necessary to convince J.T. that you should have a CAT scan or MRI as soon as possible. I want you to tell him more about the headaches when you see him tomorrow. I will take it from there.” I am going to tell J.T. that the pain is now excruciating—it will not be a lie.

  Amelia brought up the topic of love again today. “One kind of love is that found in human relationships—you must contend with the individuality, flaws, and weaknesses of others. Can you nourish the capacity to see both the person and their spirit? Can you recognize their struggles, withhold your judgment, and believe that their choices have not diminished their innate worthiness? I am once again humbled as I recognize my failure to consistently practice this form of love.

  I am just back from a long walk, more than my right leg could take. It was such a gorgeous day that I ignored the first warning twinges and kept going through the mud, slush, and ice. I had to trudge back, limping, trying to focus on the beauty all around me. I don’t want to accept that I have to set limits on myself. Will you keep me in line or let me go my foolish way and then suffer the consequences?

  Amelia said we are not allowed to send photos, but it would be okay to send you a small copy of a painting showing two girls about the age Callie and Kenna were in 1983. Everyone assumes it is them. They were as sweet as the girls in the picture and they still are at heart, even l
et it show at times.

  Sweetness, do you have my letter by now? Do you like my tee shirt? The picture you sent of the two girls was my undoing. If you tried to reach out to me last night, I was beyond consoling. I would be proud to be their father, and I am angry that I wasn’t given the opportunity many years ago. I would have been there for them as they grew up. Damn the unfairness of this! I can’t write now.

  You may know before you read this that I am having surgery to-morrow. I wanted to keep it from you but Amelia, in her infinite wisdom, said, “Michael, do you not think the two of you have come too far to do that?” Yes, my love, you have every right to know. She said she will inform you as soon as the results are known.

  The girls came home as I sat down to write. Whenever they notice I have a new letter, they ask, “How is Michael doing today?” We were eating lunch, spending some time together, and now I’m sitting here in my corner chair, listening to them in the kitchen … they just had a skirmish over clothes but were teasing and laughing as they went out the door.

  I too cry out at the unfairness of it all, and then I remind myself there are many others whose destinies have not been fully realized. We may be unique—in that we were told what we have missed—but I would not exchange our experience for the bliss of ignorance.

  You get one guess what I am wearing, caressing. I buried my face in your tee shirt as soon as I opened the large envelope, drinking in the scent of you. I love the idea of wearing what you have worn next to your skin, within limits. I will wear it to bed tonight, hug it to me as though it were you. How I wish that you were in it, that our wait was over, that we had spent the last twenty years together, that we had been allowed to meet in November.