On the Divinity of Second Chances (22 page)

I shrug apologetically. All of us up here hate the noise—the wolves, the antelope, the deer, the birds, Lightning Bob and me—we all hate it. How is it that someone with a fifty percent genetic likeness to me could be so . . . well, different?

Lightning Bob watches my dad in his telescope for a minute and then sits down. “If unhappiness is the source of his music, maybe for the sake of all wildlife in a fifteen-mile radius, you should go talk to him.”

I get up and look through Lightning Bob’s telescope. The music stops and I see Dad rest his head in his hands. For the first time ever, I catch a glimpse of his vulnerability.

Grace on Jade’s Illusion of Separateness
(July 11)

Jade wakes up and immediately feels shattered. She cries and cries, barely able to get enough air. She buckles over, holding her gut, as if she’s puking, puking grief. She bends down and brushes one of the holes Aretha dug next to the little privacy fence in the gravel next to the condo where she would lie, as if to touch any energy that might linger, as if to admire Aretha’s work. Jade crawls in the hole, curling up in a tight ball on her side, and cries and cries. She picks through the gravel, picking out clumps of Aretha’s fur. She strokes her face with Aretha’s fuzz and smells the fibers, but does not smell Aretha.

Rationally, she knows better. She knows that this is just a blip in the continuum. She knows Aretha is always right next to her, like me, despite the fact we reside in a different dimension. She even knows that she will be with Aretha again. After all, she was with Aretha when Aretha was the dog that lingered around her church when she was the Reverend Byron James. She has little snippets of past life memories of Aretha and herself all over the world, all throughout time. She knows, rationally, that she cannot be separated from Aretha. It never has been and it never will be.

But if knowing this helps, it doesn’t help much. For even though she knows there is no such thing as separateness or permanence, these illusions seem so real here on Earth they bring her to her knees. This is the part of the human experience a soul forgets about when she agrees to come down for another Earth life. These illusions are so clearly illusions up there in Heaven, that a soul cannot imagine feeling this kind of pain over them. Even here on Earth, Jade usually recognizes illusions for what they are. But no one on Earth can completely escape the experience of grief. It is not in the contract. It’s in the contract to simply feel everything, including the polarity.

I sit next to Jade, stroking her hair and cooing comforting words she can’t hear, but can sense a little. I sing Sly and the Family Stone songs to her quietly. She falls asleep like she did when she was a kid. Yes, after a good cry, this girl conks out—doesn’t matter where, and there’s no waking her up.

Josh makes his way to Jade’s house with a pizza box.

He loved holding her last night. He hadn’t intended to stay all night; he had intended just to help her to her bed. She sat on the bed, and he sat next to her. He put his arms around her and she cried into his chest, and just like that, fell deeply asleep, sitting up. He swiveled her awkwardly with one arm, while reaching down to pick up her legs with the other, so she could sleep lying down. But once he set down her head, his arm was still under her, and you know, it kind of felt good, so he left it there. He reached over her to grab the part of the quilt hanging off the side of the bed and folded that over her to keep her warm, and then he just held her all night. Holding her felt different from holding other women. He had this sense of connection with her that didn’t really make sense to him.

Josh squats next to Jade fast asleep in Aretha’s hole, moves a braid out of her face and tucks it behind her ear. He picks her up and moves her inside.

Olive on Cob
(July 13)

Grandma Pearl picked this spot for me the morning after I arrived. After she showed me this spot, we took cuttings of a willow tree, a cottonwood tree, and some lilac bushes. They’ve been soaking in a bucket for a couple weeks now and are starting to sprout roots. Grandma Pearl says I’ll want a good wind-break so I can grow a garden. I love this spot.

Grandma Pearl didn’t flinch at the idea of a mud house. Her mother grew up in one in Nebraska, and that house is still in good shape.

I stir another batch of mud and clay, scoop it up in a bucket, and drop it in the form. I’m in the homestretch of my second six-inch layer. My house is only a foot tall at this point, but I’m happy. I’m on my way.

My house is not square, rectangular, or angular in any way. My cubicle days are over. I’m done being boxed in. A house for a woman should be all about curves, don’t you think?

Truthfully, I had given up on the idea of true love when Matt proposed living in a tipi. I mean, if Matt didn’t think I was worth plumbing, why would anyone else? Matt and I were together for four years. He knew me well enough to see my worth, and yet, he didn’t see my worth. It’s hard not to take that personally. It feels very personal. Before Matt, there was a significant string of men who didn’t see my worth either. I don’t think any man ever will. Each disappointment, each failed love, is just one more ballot in the box regarding my worth. It’s not that I think my worth is nonexistent. I just think it must be invisible to men. The lonely South Dakota landscape comforts me. Maybe if I live in this abyss, I’ll forget that I ever dared to wish for more. I’ll forget companionship ever even seemed like an option. The traditional American Dream is not going to happen for me, and at some point, that just has to be okay. At some point, a woman just has to let it go and open her eyes to all the wonderful things in her life, even if they aren’t what her dreams were made of. I am so fortunate to have the opportunity for a good life here.

I turn a bucket upside down and sit on it. Feed-store overalls do not need to be dry-cleaned, and I feel great liberation in being able to sit wherever I darn well please. Plus, they’re roomy enough to allow for my growing baby. I take off my work glove to tuck a piece of hair that escaped from the scarf around my face, then place my hand on my belly to feel my baby. As I take a long drink of lemon water, I wonder if she can taste the sourness of the lemon. I wonder if she likes it. I don’t know for sure that it’s a girl, but one day “she” just came out. Who knows if I’m right, but I decided to go with it. I take a moment to look around me at the blooming sunflowers, the summer sky with the cumulus clouds growing into thunderheads already.

The cumulus clouds first blossom into giant cauliflower shapes, and then begin to grow up, up, like white, segmented caterpillars crawling to the sky. At a certain height they stop and flatten out on top. This is the stage at which they turn black and spread out. In this way, all day, the tension builds. When it finally cuts loose and rains, usually around five, sometimes later, sometimes earlier, it’s such a relief. Some energy in the atmosphere diffuses. Anyone can feel the change. Eventually the storm is over, and all that remains is freshness, drops hanging from the trees and grasses, and blue sky clear of the dust that often clouds it. I love the first few hours following a good storm. It’s a time that feels so ripe with opportunity. It’s a time of infinite possibilities and new beginnings. Life is like that—a series of thunderstorms, a never-ending cycle of tension-relief-renewal.

I have no misconceptions about the storms ahead of me. From what I observe, parenthood is equivalent to the monsoon season. No, I know more storms are coming; I’d just really like to finish my house before the next one if I can. Autumn and my baby will be here before I know it.

I feel at home. For the first time in my life, I really feel at home. I let myself fall back in the grass on my back, watch clouds, and just wait for my mud to dry in the hot July sun.

The Moon on the Wonders of Ultrasound
(July 13)

The moon above sees it all. The moon sees Olive, Pearl, and Beatrice watching Olive’s ultrasound tape over and over. Beatrice watches the baby stretch on the TV screen, and cheers it on. “Yeah, stretch, little one . . . oh . . . good job. You are a good stretcher.” They all chuckle.

Then the baby rolls partway over. “Ah yes, that’s much more comfortable, isn’t it?” Pearl asks the screen.

“Yeah, there’s nothing like a good bladder to press your feet into,” Olive answers for her baby.

The little legs on the screen begin to kick vigorously. Pearl, pleased, exclaims, “Oh! A Thunderella!”

Beatrice sits on one side of Olive, and Pearl sits on the other, their arms all woven around each other, wonder in all their smiles.

“You know,” Olive tells them, “for the first time, I really feel like everything is going to be okay. I mean, I know it’s not going to be perfect, but I know it’s going to be okay.”

“Oh, you bet,” Pearl answers casually. “It’s going to be more than okay.”

“That’s right. We’re here for you,” Beatrice adds.

The older women do their best to put Olive’s mind at ease; inside, they privately feel the intensity of the journey she has begun. They give Olive a little extra squeeze and let her feel their strength.

“She really is quite a dancer, isn’t she?” Olive says.

Beatrice sings a few bars of “Blue Suede Shoes” to the rhythm of the baby’s kicking.

The moon knows that in reality, no phase is any better or any worse than any other phase. The moon knows everything is just one big divine cycle.

Jade on What She Misses and Potato Sack Races
(July 13)

“Hey, Jade, I heard. I’m so sorry.” Olive. The last person I want to hear from right now.

“Yeah, thanks. Was this the knock off my high horse you wished for?”

“God no, Jade. You know I didn’t mean that.”

I do? “Yeah, well, thanks, Olive.”

“Okay, I just wanted to . . . I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. Once you say something, you can never unsay it. I lashed out and you’ll always remember what I said, even if I do wish I could take it back. I’m just so sorry.”

We endure a long pause on the phone. Neither of us knows how to make it okay.

Finally, I say, “Don’t say mean things to me anymore, okay?”

Olive says, “Okay,” but then adds, “Don’t blow sunshine up my ass anymore when I’m scared and freaked, okay?” Good God, she’s turning into Grandma Pearl. That was borderline mean. “Okay, ’bye,” I say, tired of talking to her.

“ ’Bye,” she says with uncertainty. Well, she should. I know this is exactly what she wished for.

Yeah, this is it, Olive. I hope it was everything you waited for. I’m on my knees. I’m sure not above the human experience now. I’m sinking in it like quicksand.

Sure, I miss Aretha’s spirit, but I miss her body, too. And knowing we’ll have other lifetimes together or that maybe she’ll even come back in this one doesn’t change the fact that last month I had the perfect dog to pet and hug, and today I don’t. I have nothing.

I miss her fur. Aretha had the best fur. On her head and ears it was like velvet, and everywhere else she had this hidden fuzzy fur under her silky fur. I loved that fuzzy fur. It was like a cashmere sweater. I miss her bigness, the way she took up my whole arm when I reached around her to rest my hand on her other shoulder. I miss her little dog lips, fuzzy on the outside, and like leather where the two met. I liked to play with her lips when she used to lie on her side and those lips would hang down. Aretha had the most gigantic tongue, and when she drank water, it sounded like music to me. I always thought it was the happiest sound I could think of. Her paws were huge, and I liked to stick my finger between all her pads and tickle her. I liked to tickle the fur there gently when she slept and watch her leg twitch. Everything about Aretha was meat and muscle, and when I gave her doggie massages, there was lots of tissue to work on. In Aretha’s later years, when she finally figured out what I was doing to other people, she learned to beg for massages just like people do. She would sit right in front of me with her back to me, and that meant “massage me, please.” I would give her doggie shiatsu. I also liked that she was so big because I didn’t have to bend down to pet her head when we went for walks, and if we were waiting at a stoplight, I would pick up a velvety ear and play with it. Aretha seemed to like that.

But mostly what I loved was how Aretha felt like my partner.

I think about Aretha’s toys. What am I going to do with her toys? The squeaky squirrels I was so excited to find for her last Christmas . . . what am I going to do with the squeaky squirrels? Aretha had a squeaky squirrel that was her favorite toy. She disemboweled it, like she eventually did to all her toys in her youth, so then I just called it “squeaky squirrel bag.” Then there’s stinky toy. Stinky toy was one of those rope toys with two knots that are supposed to floss her teeth when she plays with it. Aretha had shredded it until it was just the remnants of one knot, but all in all, it lasted so much longer than any toy she ever had. We used to do stinky toy dances where she would tug on one end while I held on to the other. Somehow this all worked into a dance. She liked to spin me around and around. I held on to stinky toy, my other hand extended like Ginger Rogers. We had good times with that toy.

I look at the inside of my truck window and notice Aretha’s dried-up slobber on it. What do you do with dead dog slobber on your windows? I can’t bring myself to clean it off. I don’t want to erase Aretha.

Everywhere I drive, I see the posters I put up. They’re everywhere. Hundreds. Hundreds of Xeroxed Arethas staring at me from every telephone pole, at the grocery store, and at the post office. I need to take them down, but I can’t. What will I do with the posters I take down? Throw them away? I just can’t throw Aretha away.

The fact of the matter is I’m very attached to the physical world and all signs of her in it. Some argue that attachment is a sign that a soul is far from enlightenment. That’s not it. I think for most of us, attachment is part of the human limitations package we sign up for when we decide to come here. Earth life is like one giant field day where we willingly choose the limitation of racing with both feet in a potato sack, or sometimes we join up with another and agree to the limitation of racing as a team where each person has one leg tied to the leg of the other. Yes, whenever I go to a wedding, I picture two kids tying their legs together in preparation for a wicked three-legged race. Agreeing to run a race with limitations or live a life with limitations doesn’t mean you’re slow, clumsy, or unenlightened. It just means you’re showing up on field day, participating, and if you’re really good, you try your best despite the obstacles.