The Invisible Choir

by Tessa Lynne

  “Errant spirits are more likely to try to influence a person who is engaged in destructive or negative behaviors. I wish no harm. I know that my status could be affected by my actions and that has helped me stay within the rules.”

  Our time is almost up. This is my last appointment and I expect Callie and Kenna to stop by. Just as I faintly hear their voices from the waiting room, Amelia turns abruptly to Michael—he is no longer there. A minute later, I hear her sharply admonish him.

  “Michael, you are not to leave my presence while we are engaged in conversation.”

  Amelia repeats his reply for my benefit. I hear no note of repentance in his tone or in his choice of words.

  “I will not miss a single opportunity to be close to my daughters.”

  Michael and I communicate through Amelia for a few more minutes. His presence is obvious to me, distinct and apart from her. I feel a sense of relief—I do not need his appearance through a different receptor as proof; however, I would not pass on that opportunity.

  I visit with the girls for awhile, then sit in my office and consider our dilemma. I do want Michael to find a receptor similar to his physical self, but would that make it more difficult for us to accept the limits of our relationship? I expect it would, but I can’t help but anticipate the possibility of him appearing to me through a man.

  7/25

  Michael is next to my chair again today and communicates with me through Amelia.

  “I am disappointed and angry. There are few receptors in this entire area. I have found only two in this city. One of them is a man, a homeless alcoholic; the other is a frail, elderly woman in her nineties. I do not wish to use either of them. If you agree, I will request permission to appear through Sally again.”

  I tell him I am disappointed, but I would choose for him to speak to me through Sally if the only alternative would be no further contact between us. I remember Zachary once said it isn’t meant to be easy for spirits to speak through mortals, and I can imagine the havoc if it were a common occurrence, but my mind is not eased. Amelia turns to me and provides some insight into the Council’s reasoning.

  “I expect it was meant to be a lesson for Michael. He was not misled but merely allowed to go his own way, to discover for himself the futility of trying to connect with you as if he were still in human form. And now, I must leave you.”

  It is just as well that we are out of time. I would want to press her for more of an explanation of why we were led down this path. I feel betrayed. We were led to believe that it was only a matter of time before Michael would find a receptor. Our hopes were allowed to grow with each passing day. The possibility has been dangled in front of us, then jerked away whenever it was within our grasp. We have anticipated a reunion, of sorts, between a physical man and a physical woman.

  It is hours still until dark. I need a change of scene, but the island, with its trees in full leaf, will press in on me, suffocate me. I need to breathe. I drive home, change into my swimsuit and some old denim shorts, then drive twenty minutes up to the lake—miles of shoreline and a seemingly endless expanse of water. Trees are a scarcity, killed off in the years of high water. The marine air is fresh, not stultifying. A light breeze carries the mysteries of the water’s depths and the mingled calls of kingfishers and red-wing blackbirds. Against the backdrop of a clear blue sky, vultures glide in the air currents far above, alert for carnage.

  I walk along the shoreline, bend to pick up small, polished stones, put the best ones in my pockets. I imagine their origins: chipped from boulders, churned and tumbled in a tumultuous journey, their rough edges worn smooth. I feel like one of them—tossed about at the mercy of unknown forces. When will I be polished?

  Michael is not close. Into the vacuum of his absence returns the feeling of betrayal. It infiltrates my mind, attaches to my grief, and demands proof. Why has the Council done this to us? I dwell on my unmet expectations and the idea that we have been misled. I can’t shake it off.

  It seems I am in the middle of some crazy card game in which every other player can see their cards—mine are laid face down in front of me. The others know the rules of the game—only I do not. I can’t even see the other players. In a mixing of metaphors, I see myself as a pawn in a game of chess: moved about at the whims of others, expendable, the first to be sacrificed. My thoughts propel me on a downward spiral.

  I feel again the pain of hearing that Michael is dead—the least compensation would be confirmation of his existence. The pain intensifies. I want to pluck it from my heart and cast it away. I want to watch the vultures descend and devour it. But to excise the pain, I would have to take the whole of my heart, cut it from my chest, and fling it, still pulsing and bleeding, onto the rocks. There is no compensation.

  I catch myself before I spiral completely out of control. I came here for a fresh perspective, not to be embroiled in this tempest conjured by my mind—which still can’t accept there is a realm beyond its understanding. I need a diversion. I kick off my sandals, slip out of my shorts, and feel the bite of the cold water as I swim out as far as a steep drop off. The shock clears my head, and I remember—my mind is not the arbiter of my belief.

  I walk awhile to dry off, then find a smooth spot in the sand, warmed by the sun, and sit in a lotus position. I enter into a deep meditation and draw on an inner guidance that knows what reason does not. I am aware of my spirit and, after a time, of her message: you must rest in what you know.

  I recall my intuitive belief in my spirit when she first spoke to me last October and wish I could immediately interpret my overreaction to every discrepancy as arising from the limited capacity of my mind to understand. I once wrote that the influence of my spirit is ultimately stronger than that of my mind, but I do not make it easy for her. I ask Mahalia’s forgiveness.

  My surroundings suggest an analogy—my belief to a deep lake, still and serene within its depths, the place of spirit. The surface is vulnerable to the onslaught of heavy weather. When doubts, or dashed expectations, intrude most strongly upon my belief, my mind seeks to prevail, and I find myself sitting in a small boat upon the water. I do not seek refuge in the deepness of my belief, in what I know to be true, but allow myself to be tossed and turned about, at the mercy of the storm.

  28. Not One; Not the Other

  I AM TAKEN BY SURPRISE TODAY when Amelia tells me there has been a change of plans.

  “Michael has finally accepted that he is not going to find a different receptor, and the Council has granted him permission to speak to you directly through Sally. You and he are to have three one-hour meetings, the first one today.”

  I have to make a quick mental adjustment, not an entirely successful one—this is not how either of us wants to meet.

  Michael greets me by name, with quiet emotion. The fullness of my greeting is once or twice removed from that of my desire to speak to him. How do we accept our circumstances? I cannot connect his loving gaze to the man I had known. How different the look on my face must be from the one of pure joy he would have seen if we had met.

  I struggle to get beyond the obvious—the body before me is nothing like the one I had longed to touch, to feel surrounding me in pleasure and in comfort. There is a mere suggestion of masculinity, just the other side of gender neutrality. There is nothing of the male heat, pheromones, or virility of Michael so apparent when we were together with our spirits. He is not one; he is not the other.

  It becomes somewhat easier. As we move past the barriers that separate us, I gain a greater sense of who he was in life. I can hear him in his voice—it carries a tone, cadence, and inflections similar to those that came through in his letters. I see him in facial expressions and gestures that fit the Michael I knew. I consider closing my eyes to make it easier, but I would miss too much of the man that was. Then my sense that this is Michael speaking to me is threatened by something he says.

  “I had wondered, when I anticipated our life together, if you were a good cook. I enjoy watchi
ng you now as you prepare a meal, and I can tell that you have a fair amount of skill.”

  In a split second, I am again aware only of the body before me, only of Sally. Michael’s words were so generic as to have no meaning. Why did he not mention a particular meal, the pasta dish I made last night? My mind jumps to con artists and charlatans, to how they speak in generalities. I shake off the doubts, take a deep breath.

  When Michael suggests that I will someday move on with my life, that my grief will have an end, I share with him what Amelia told me last week—our relationship has not changed the new destiny that had been set for me twelve years ago. I am not expecting his anger, the grimace that rearranges his facial features, the tightness in his raised voice.

  “I do not know the human identity of this man. I do know his spirit. He was my adversary for your affection in two previous lifetimes. I can’t stand the thought of him taking my place by your side. I won’t have it.”

  I observe his spontaneous reaction—it is that of a jealous man. I recall Amelia saying that spirits in transition retain their human emotions, and then I hear a softer tone.

  “Sweetness, it would be difficult for me to see any other man in your life but most especially my arch rival.”

  Michael’s emotional outburst enhances his reality—anger is easier for me to accept this way than words of love. Then, just as he begins to seem more real to me, it is time to say goodbye.

  Our spirits fueled the intensity of our initial experience. It is not something that can be replicated now, hardly hinted at, but it has been a subtle presence, providing the context in which I am able to recognize Michael. The one hour we have been allowed, for all its frustrations, is over too soon.

  8/1

  I do not expect to meet with Michael today but, as I am wrapping up my session with Sally, I am aware of the scent he used. It is obviously a masculine scent, but I can’t help asking if she is using perfume, though I’ve never known her to. She tells me that she has used no scent, but that she, too, has just noticed one in the room.

  I am perplexed and unable to disguise it, disturbed by this overlapping of Michael and Sally. She leans forward in her chair, and I can tell that the scent is nearer to me than to her, on the side of my chair where I have sensed Michael’s presence. I realize now that he is here too, has brought his scent. A moment later, Amelia explains it to me.

  “Michael wants me to tell you that he was able to replicate his scent, which is not uncommon when spirits return to this world. He has done it to please you.”

  I am disconcerted, anything but pleased. Why does he make his scent known in Sally’s presence? How could he not anticipate the effect it would have on me? There is no time to express my thoughts. Amelia is telling me she cannot stay, that she came only to convey a message from Michael. She looks in his direction again, then back to me.

  “Michael says he is anticipating his next meeting with you, and he will remain close for the rest of the evening.”

  I look forward to Michael’s scent accompanying him. I go to my car, do not notice it there, but I fully expect to be surrounded by it when I walk in my front door. I open it to the usual scents of home, nothing more, but his presence is so strong that I do not dwell on the absence of his scent. He is still close when I go to bed and as I fall asleep.

  8/2

  I wake to find Michael gone, a distinct emptiness where last night there was its opposite. I am busy with long-neglected yard work all morning, so it is not until a midday rest that I flash back to the scene in my office yesterday. I can focus on only two things—the scent and Sally’s physical presence. They are inextricably linked in my mind, which is no surprise. The sense of smell is first registered in the primitive limbic area of the brain, and our reactions are based on emotional associations. To me this scent equals Michael, his letters to me, my love for him. Inserting Sally into that equation distorts it and threatens to destroy my truth.

  I begin to torture myself. I see a detailed image of Sally—at a particular store, standing before the display of men’s cologne. I see her select the one I know. Then I see her in my office, applying it through some sleight of hand. I flash back to Michael appearing to me through her body and then further back to seeing each of his letters withdrawn from her bag. The implications are devastating. I flash on every possibility, every permutation of the facts as I have known them. Have I been wrong all along?

  I remind myself that the scent was simply there in the room, did not emanate from Sally’s body, wasn’t noticeable until the end of our session, and it was next to my chair where I could sense his presence. These facts make no impression upon me. I rail at unknown forces for allowing the doubts to be triggered. I cry out to them: “Isn’t it enough that I have to endure the pain of Michael’s death? Why must I be faced with conditions that fuel my doubts?”

  I allow this episode to overtake me. I think of how I have talked out loud to Michael when I have known he was close, yet in our conversations he has made no reference to what I have said. I know there are restrictions—he is not allowed to confirm my experience—but I speak from my heart of my deepest feelings and he ignores them.

  It is Friday afternoon, no clients to divert my attention. The girls are at the lake with friends. There is no one I can talk this out with, no one who shares my frame of reference. I make no attempt to connect with a spiritual resource. Once again, I place myself in that small boat upon the water—without a paddle—and the winds are fierce. I let myself be tossed and turned about, caught up in a maelstrom of doubt. I do not seek the lifeline that is always here, within my reach. I do not seek to rest in the deepness of my belief.

  8/3

  My misery of yesterday is not resolved, but I do not let it take hold today. I make a conscious effort to immerse myself in a large project I have contracted with a local agency. It is a change from client work, uses knowledge and skills from when I worked with organizations, with people as they function in groups, a step or two removed from any personal issues they might have. As I research new material in the field, I feel relief to have this external focus. I am lifted out of my angst—or that of anyone else.

  I take a break, drive up to the lake and turn off on a dirt road in the opposite direction. I maneuver my small car over deep ruts until I come to rolling hills. This is pure prairie, tall grasses turning from green to burnished gold. I open the car door and am hit by the ubiquitous, aromatic scent of deep lavender monarda, recognizing that it is similar to my scent with its notes of bergamot, jasmine, lavender, and sandalwood. I bite into a minty leaf, then pick some spikes of purple gayfeather to use in dried arrangements and collect tiny seeds from the smiling yellow faces of black-eyed Susans. Then, facing the sun, I do some standing yoga routines, the last one a meditation. I am replenished.

  I decide to attempt a challenge that has defeated me these last three years—climb the hills. I try one, not too steep or too tall, but formidable. I make it to the top, go down the other side and up the next hill, then back. My success is heralded by the crystal clear notes of a meadowlark’s song as he tilts his head to the heavens from his perch atop an old, weathered fencepost. I stop and listen as he takes an encore, transfixed by its purity.

  Exhilarated, I return to my car and drive on to a cluster of chokecherry trees, their sun-drenched fruit hanging in bunches. I eat from the ripest and juiciest, my fingers staining a blackish purple. I strip handfuls of the pea-sized fruit and listen to their distinctive clatter as they drop into the empty bucket. I anticipate their full-bodied, fruity aroma as they slowly simmer to a thick syrup that will flavor my Greek yogurt for weeks to come.

  I am interrupted by the unmistakable warning sound of a rattle-snake, in close proximity. I freeze in my tracks, then look down at it—coiled inches from my feet, rattles still aquiver. One more step and I would have forced him to defend himself. I take a slow step back, then another, and then stoop to pull up my short, lightweight socks. I laugh at the absurdity of it; they offer no prot
ection. I take the dubious precaution of moving on to the next tree, hoping that the rattlesnake was a lone traveler. This is my summer experience of an atavistic return to a time long gone. I will not be denied this pleasure.

  8/5

  As I wait for Amelia, I can sense the remnants of my emotional tailspin of a few days ago, but it is not she who appears. Hearing Zachary’s voice, tinged as it is with emotion and concern, my tur-moil returns full blown.

  “Tessa, I know of your recent torment. Some members of the Council are adamant in their belief that it is in your best interests, and Mahalia’s, to be given no sign of Michael’s presence, only that which you know in your heart and can sense when he is near. They have interfered with his efforts to make you aware of his scent. It is not that they wish to cause you any further pain—their intent is to assist in your growth.”

  I reply with my now too familiar refrain: understanding is easier than acceptance.

  “Amelia is here with me. We entreat you to believe—not in us but in the Creator, and in the greater purpose for which you and others have been approached.”

  I tell him that I realize the greater importance, and I do, but at a deeper level than where I have allowed this episode to impale me, caught on the sharp tenterhooks of my mind. Zachary shows his understanding of my dilemma.

  “You have had to accept, and believe, much more than we had initially intended. Your relationship with Michael, and then his improvement to where a life together was possible, became a barrier to your belief when his death left you with no physical proof. You were tested in many ways before being approached, but it was never our intention that you be tested in this very personal manner.”

  His answer does little to satisfy me. My logical self persists in wanting to know why—if Michael had achieved remission, allowing us to meet and providing the ultimate proof—I cannot be given some proof now. Why did both, Michael and proof, have to be taken from me?