Rendezvous with Hymera (14 page)

Behind her, Colin – awakened by an unknown feeling – had followed the scene beyond the window
in the same reverent, fascinated silence. Clara, who felt him beside her, turned her face to him and, nestling into his chest, whispered:

“I think it’s over…”

But somewhere in the dark, he distinguished a figure crouching close to the lake shore, partially hidden by some shrubs, and pointed it to Clara. They both rushed to the door.

The old man’s sobs tore their hearts bit by bit, with every step they made to the barely human
silhouette who whispered in a lost voice:

“My daughter... My dear daughter!”

Clara and Colin kneeled beside Mr. Garcia, each supporting him with one arm, trying in vain to find
some form of consolation besides banal, useless phrases. Eventually they stopped seeking words, transmitting him instead, through simple touch, a grain of comfort brought by solidarity.

On the horizon, a multicolored ray of twilight started to dissolve the darkness. The sun was rising. At
last, the old man’s teary eyes lifted to the sky and, with that same rusty voice, he whispered:

“Rest in peace, my darling child.”

***

Old Mr. Garcia, ghastly and haggard, looked ready to disintegrate, bent under the weight of old age
and the profound pain which grinded his soul. On each side of him stood Clara and Colin, offering a tacit moral support, casting, from time to time, mutual glances filled with sadness and a sense of worthlessness. Each of them felt incapable to help with something, anything, to diminish the dreadful desolation felt by the man who was sitting nearby. Lost in thought, they both startled when the old man suddenly said:

“I still don’t understand what happened to her. I am a simple man. I’ve always believed in God, in
Heaven and Hell, a simple philosophy for simple people... Eva was sick and I couldn’t help her with anything, we went to doctors, but none of them knew what to tell us, why she had those episodes. Every time a catalepsy episode started, when I would find her lying unconscious, she seemed dead. I was forever terrified she wouldn’t wake up that time.”

The old man’s voice broke in a sob, but his listeners remained silent. After a few moments, he
resumed:

“Eva was always difficult, distant, and this illness made her become more and more introverted. She was
desperately seeking an answer, a cure, a way to normality. Consequently, she tried all sorts of things, like yoga and other practices. She became obsessed with this search of normality, as she saw it. When she disappeared, I tried to find her. That’s why I came here, but I haven’t found any trace.”

He looked the two young people in the eyes with a trace of apology and remorse.

“I recognized your sketch right away, but I didn’t know who you were and what your intentions were, why you were looking for her. Eva had lots of so-called weird friends, sectarians, drug users, you can’t imagine. I was afraid you could be some of them. That’s why I kept quiet and didn’t tell anybody who I was. But I have to thank you, because of you I found... I saw her for the last time.”

Again, bitter tears were leaving traces on the cheeks already streaked with lines that seemed to have
deepened overnight.

“However,” he went on, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, “it’s beyond my understanding capacity
what happened to my little girl.”

The old man felt a strong, firm hand squeezing his shoulder and an inexplicable feeling invaded his
whole being, as if a wave of serenity and inner peace was settling on his pain-darkened soul, like a soothing balm applied over a fresh wound. When he turned around, he encountered the clear, direct gaze of the priest.

“I will try and give you an explanation of a sort. There are, in this Universe, as in the others, forces
and possibilities that are beyond our limits of understanding. Still, certain principles govern over all. Eva had some capacities, a native inclination to... what we will generally call
supernatural
. Through yoga, under a strict guidance of a true master, an individual could educate and accentuate these capacities, to different purposes. Initially, Eva’s purpose was to obtain a perfect health, to be, as you put it,
normal
. However, she soon discovered through lecture other aspects, other exercises, which are reserved only to high-leveled practitioners, who have well-defined roles in this Universe. Despite my repeated warnings, Eva was just experimenting, playing, we could say, with extremely dangerous things, that were way beyond her understanding and capacities. This place has a ... special energetic charge, what yogis call
prana
. I suppose she came here to try some meditation exercises far too advanced for her level.”

Rose, who had also come after seeing the small gathering from her cottage’s balcony, involuntarily
let out a sound in which were concentrated amazement, incredulity and compassion.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Garcia,” she said, turning to him and reaching for his hands, talking gently. “I
couldn’t help overhearing. I believe your daughter’s ambition was too great, maybe she would have been better accepting her fate, the way it was written, no matter how hard it was. Maybe this is the explanation you were looking for, that God punished her for having higher aspirations that she was permitted.”

With a faded trace of a smile, the priest replied:

“Madam, as complicated the mechanisms of this Universe might be, still, I think the principle of action and reaction is applicable almost everywhere. Things actually might be as simple as you put it...”

And it is less painful to leave everything to God's judgment
, he thought with a cynical and somewhat sad smile.

***

EPILOGUE

Colin was walking over and over in the hospital’s waiting room, feeling his nerves and patience stretched tight, like the chords of the guitar his father sometimes played. Restlessness, tension, worry and, most of all, the endless waiting were overwhelming him, closing his mind and soul in an agonizing carousel.

On two of the uncomfortable-looking chairs situated along one wall sat Rose and Mr. Garcia, like
some spectators at a tennis match, following in tandem the movements of the agitated man, who kept walking from left to right and right to left. Both were dressed impeccably, with clothes for special occasions. Mr. Garcia was wearing a bluish-grey suit, a shade similar with that of his kind eyes, and Rose had put on her most elegant suit, consisting of an ivory blouse and skirt, and on her head rested a very chic hat with a small veil.

Now and again, the couple threw each other glances filled with parental amusement.

The waiting room was thirty feet long and twenty feet wide and, instead of windows, on the background provided by sickly yellow paint were aligned a bunch of posters with various illustrations, from a tooth’s constitution to descriptions of intrauterine devices. Colin had memorized them all and was yet again measuring the room with large steps for the n-th time, when the messenger angel appeared in the shape of a plump, smiling nurse.

“Mr. Lambert, you can come in now to see your wife and daughter!” she chirped delighted.

He remained motionless for a moment, then looked around with a dazed smile, while his heart was pounding so hard it made his ears ring.

After the newly appointed father left with the nurse, Rose gave the old man a playful slap on the
knee, exclaiming:

“Ha! You owe me a hundred bucks, Garcia! I told you it was gonna be a girl.”

The old man covered her hand with his, smiling, and the new wedding ring on his finger caught a ray of sunlight filtered through the only minuscule window.

“I can’t believe I lost every single bet I’ve placed with you!” he said good-humoredly. “This way
you’ll get me into bankruptcy,” he joked.

“Don’t worry,” she replied amused, twisting her own ring, “I’ve got some small change for the few
years we have left.”

Colin followed the nurse on the yellow corridors, with yellow tiles and yellow chairs (he had
developed an acute aversion for yellow) to the room where Clara had been moved. But when he touched the door handle, he put a hand to his forehead and, panicked, he turned to the nurse.

“I forgot the flowers in the waiting room!”

Indulgent and slightly amused, the woman replied:

“Don’t you worry, I’ll bring them! Come in,” she
urged.

Colin took a deep breath and entered.

On the bed, Clara, with dark fatigue shadows under her eyes but with a radiant smile and rosy cheeks, was holding a bundle wrapped in cotton, from which peeked a little, fluffy, blond head.

Emotion and happiness, the need to love and protect his family, the miracle of this realization
dampened his eyes and, for the first time in his life, he stood wordless and still, watching the angelic picture in front of him.

After a long moment, he crossed the few steps to the bed and sat next to his wife, taking her hand,
kissing her forehead, then kissed his daughter, marveling at how small and fragile she looked, with swollen, closed eyes, and a button-like little nose.

“Are you alright, baby?” he asked the new mother, stroking her cheek. “You’re both alright?” he
went on, taking with one finger his daughter’s doll hand, studying with fascinated wonder the minuscule fingers and nails.

Clara sighed with satisfaction and an air of relief.

“Yes, we’re fine... Daddy,” she added with playful emphasis, and to Colin this word seemed the sweetest of all.

“I can’t wait to hear her calling me that,” he said, hugging them both. “But I only thought about boys
names,” he continued, uncertain. “Have you thought of a name for her?”

Clara smile
d tenderly to the sleeping baby then raised her gaze to her husband.

“Eva.”

The End

About the Author

Melinda De Ross (real name:
Anca-Melinda Coliolu) is a Romanian writer, journalist and radio co-host. She was a professional target shooter for over ten years, obtaining multiple National Champion titles and being a record-breaker at this sport. She has a Law degree. She lives in a small town in Romania with her husband, Ionut-Augustin Coliolu.