Soul's Road: A Fiction Collection (13 page)

She got her degree. The first in her family. She was so proud, and so were Mommy and Daddy and Sister. Brothers didn’t seem to care. They didn’t even come when she graduated high school or college. Guess they still didn’t like her getting so much attention.

That Girl worked, but none of the jobs worked for her; travel agent, teacher, secretary, paralegal. All traditional things a woman would do, but That Girl was not traditional. She just hadn’t realized it yet. She had a Son who brought her joy. She worked and mothered and wifed and worked, but with each day that passed, darkness crept into her soul. Though she was good at all her jobs, she wondered if there might be something else. Something that would make her soul sing and banish the darkness. Her flute was silent. She no longer danced, That Girl.

Yet stories still played out like movies in her head. When one would end, another began. Now, she read books. Many, many, many books, one after the other, one-a-day books. They all ran together. Her soul began to speak, telling That Girl that the stories in her head were just as good or better. Curious, she sat with pen in hand to see if she could write one, a book, but soon realized she didn’t know how.

She went back to school, That Girl, to learn how to make the movies in her head pages of a book that people would turn one after the other. She wrote that book and the creation stirred her restless soul. Instructors and friends alike, they all said the same; you’ll have no trouble getting this published. But she did. And what’s funny was that even the editors in rejection said the same. You’ll find a publisher for this; it’s just not right for our line.

Years of that followed and years of writing book after book after book. Writers in writers’ groups came into That Girl’s life, too. Write the book of your heart all the published authors That Girl had met said. Easy for them to say. If That Girl wrote the book of her heart, who would publish it? There were things in her heart people wouldn’t want to see or know. And there were so many rules to follow. That was the problem. That Girl had long lived with rules and she wanted no more to follow.

Another problem was the voices. There were so many voices shouting ugly things. Who did she think she was, That Girl, to think she might be a famous author someday? Too big for her britches. Reaching, thinking that she’s better than everybody else the voices said. They tried to push her down, but she got back up every time, even though each time it became harder. Their words hurt. The way they treated her hurt. Memories of the mean Teacher and the isolation pressed in, covering her in a dense dark cloud that wouldn’t go away. How she secretly longed to dance again.

That Girl was tired and so sad. So, searching for a bit of joy, she allowed her heart to tell its story, no hope of ever selling it. This she wrote for her alone and the writing of it lightened her spirit. She created a small town with an intriguing history, filled it with crazy, fun characters, love and everlasting happiness. At first, it was a short story, but her heart had so much to say that it became a novella, and then a novel. She loved it so much, she decided it should be—could be published. So she found a publisher, but the book languished, and the voices said I told you. You’ll never succeed. Give up and focus on your family. The dark cloud covered That Girl, weighing her down. For years, she did not write. The movies in her head stopped.

You’re depressed. You have to start writing again, the counselor said.

No! That Girl said through the tears and the panic closing her throat. She would not relive the disappointment that follows the death of dreams again. She’d given up on writing, That Girl. It hurt too much. Too much. Pain and joy and pain and pain. Too much pain.

You have to write again. It’s the key to your recovery.

That Girl knew. She had to choose. Did she want to be better or would she rather it be over? Was having it over an option? She had That Boy, her Son, a Mommy, a Daddy, brothers and a Sister, a couple of friends she had not yet alienated. Did they matter more than her getting better? Could That Girl survive that heavy disappointment again? Again and Again?

Be Still and Know a Voice in her heart whispered. That Girl didn’t trust the Voice. Hadn’t He seen her hurt? Didn’t He know it? She just wanted it to end, one way or another.

Send the books here, the email from her former editor said. It’s perfect.

What? The same day the counselor had said write, the email read send? The happy stories she’d written? The ones that had authored the end of her dream? Had the editor somehow cosmically heard what her counselor had said?

Be Still and Know the heart Voice Said Again. I Know the Plans that I Have for You. Did you forget?

A Sign, That Girl thought, so send it she did, but without hope. The editor wrote that the first book looked good and could That Girl send the other one? And so she did. Hope flared like a candle being lit in her shadowy heart, and That Girl hated it. The hope that would be doused with the thank you, but . . . that surely would soon come. But by week’s end, a contract to republish and write another to make three? How could this be?

Be Still and Know, the Voice said again. I Know the Plans. I’ve Known All Along.

But what if it happened again? The disappointment, the failure, the disappointment?

Be Still . . . and Write.

So write she did. For That Girl now, no more sickness. That Girl now knows all those hours alone as a sick girl were not a cruelty to be endured. They were preparation for turning in, to living in so that she could put the movies in her head on paper. The darkness and sadness still come, but not so often. Now That Girl dreams, dreams that come true, like a community of writers that are not only true friends, but who also provide encouragement and love and hope like nourishing water to her parched soul. Her stories live on pages of books so that all the encouragement and love and hope she feels flow through her heart to the world.

ANN KEELING

The Singing of the Sun

THE VIOLIN’S SQUAWK SHRILLS to her temples. Rudy is the last pupil of the day. Four-year-old Rudy with round Harry Potter spectacles and a Holland-boy haircut of straight blonde bangs is her youngest student. Judith enjoys the high school students most, some who have been with her since they were Rudy’s age.

“Judith.” The voice at the door makes the raking bow stop moving. It’s Steven and he has a take-out bag in his arms. He catches her eye and winks. “I’ll be in the band room.”

Rudy’s mother has been napping in the corner. Mothers are supposed to take notes during lessons, but Rudy is the youngest of four and she probably needs the rest. The mother gathers her purse, the child, the violin, and the music books. She nods thank you as she retreats out the door.

The silence is golden. Or silver with radiating hums of light pouring down from the heavens. It’s not silent for long as a resonant and pure “A” note vibrates down the hall from the band room. It must be Steven who has struck the tuning fork. Strike it again, Judith thinks, and he does. Like a mating call, she floats to the source, craving more of the purest note that exists. She hums as she gets closer. Steven holds the fork to her ear. This is better than silence.

Judith is still humming the note and unaware that she is as they walk across the grassy field to the man-made pond just outside the grounds of the school. The sky is heavy but the rain has stopped. Steven takes napkins from the bag and wipes the wet seat of the carved stone bench. Together, they sit on the inscribed gold label: Gift of Harvey and Alice Herschbaum. Judith imagines growing old with Steven, but they still don’t talk about that yet.

Henry is at baseball practice so Steven has another hour. He spreads the food out between them—turkey sandwiches, potato salad, fruit cocktail, and two chocolate chip cookies. He hands her an Izze Sparkling Pomegranate Soda and opens his own Snapple Ice Tea. They drink and watch the ducks.

“I like this,” he says.

“This?” This. Judith questions, agrees, she’s not sure which. Placing value on things requires judgment. She likes the consistency of definable truths. Music for her. Engineering for Steven. Logic and order. She and Steven understand one another. When he takes her hand, his are bony and long at the wrists, just like hers. Neither of their bodies fill their clothes to the edges. Warmth is elusive. She imagined they would hug more, but they don’t.

She doesn’t talk about New York or the Juilliard offer. Neither of them could really fathom that for her. For different reasons.

Steven puts his arm around her. She half hugs him back. Their bones touch. He brings up the trip to Reno. In a few days, they will drive 3½ hours from San Francisco. They will stay at the Nugget. It’s supposed to be a nice weekend.

“Good,” she says.

“Good,” he says.

***

Judith has volunteered to take Henry to the dentist. She doesn’t teach on Fridays and this way, Steven doesn’t have to take time off from work.

“Here you go, Jude.” Henry hands her a clipboard of paperwork to fill out. She has never allowed anyone else to call her Jude.

In the waiting room, he says, “My occlusion is off.”

“Oh, really?” Judith isn’t sure he knows exactly what that means. Or maybe he does.

“See? How my teeth come together?”

Occlusion. He may be right. Judith will look it up if she remembers.

Henry takes a National Geographic with Northern Lights on the cover. “Aurora Borealis,” he says. “Did you know the Greenland Eskimos thought it was the spirits of stillborn children playing with their afterbirth?” He nods convincingly.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, yeah. I read it in a book of my Dad’s.” He flips through the magazine. “What’s an afterbirth?”

“Well, uh, it’s a . . .”

“Do you believe in spirits?”

A woman in a paisley cotton shirt comes through the door, which has been painted to look like the door of a castle. “Henry Fishbein?”

***

The floor of the round-domed yurt is cold, but the room itself is warm. Judith stands barefoot, accepting the chill into her bones. Others are dancing to a recorded chant, the singer’s words occasionally proclaiming love for self, love for the universe. Judith has come to the women’s circle twice, each time with her friend Alicia. They are by far the youngest women there. Judith’s premature gray hair blends in quite easily. Alicia is swaying her hips, eyes closed, arms crossed softly in front of her chest. It’s enough for Judith just to stand, to be out of her chair, and part of the group. Dancing is out of the question.

She looks around the room. On a white board, Judith reads: 12/21/2012 at 11:11 p.m. Universal Time. She stares at the black words and when she closes her eyes, she sees them in reverse, white against the rusty red behind her eyelids.

When the music ends, the women all sit. Cheyenne, the leader, whose musical fountain of words and hair and scarves and skirt flow from her, invites them to join her in a meditation. She says she will ground them with rooted words. Judith’s mind wanders to the Reno trip tomorrow. She has to leave extra food out for her cat. It’s only overnight, but he’ll probably scratch the couch. That reminds her she needs to get some travel-sized toothpaste on the way home.

Cheyenne is calling for heightened awareness, bringing Judith back into the room. She asks the women to hum at a higher vibration. Judith hears it as sound, like radio static clearing to a song.

Cheyenne slides into the topic of the evening—the end of the Mayan calendar. Instead of predictions of chaos, she explains how an astronomic event at that time will help bring about balance. “The Mayan people worshiped the sun,” she says, her voice hypnotic. “On the winter solstice of December 21, 2012, the sun will be aligned with the center of the Milky Way for the first time in 26,000 years.” She pauses and the numbers echo within the yurt’s wall. “We can only imagine what changes this will bring.”

She will still be the same, Judith thinks. But the world will change around her. Steven may or may not be in her life. Henry will be with his mother that year. Since Lisa and Steven live on different coasts, their decision to share joint custody a year at a time makes sense. At the end of this one, Henry will spend his first year with his mother. Steven has told Judith he wants to be in Africa, or sailing around the world, something disruptive, for that first year his son is gone.

Cheyenne’s voice changes, this time filled with awe. “So mark the day. And whatever energy typically streams to Earth from the center of the Milky Way will indeed be transformed. This conversion will allow us to open our consciousness and shift our energy.”

Energy? Judith doesn’t imagine it is the kind she pays bills for, like electricity or natural gas. Something more elusive, like life energy perhaps, but she can’t put her finger on it.

The shifting bodies and low murmurs lets Judith know the meditation is over. Big white pieces of paper and markers are passed around the room. The women are instructed to draw the sun or anything it means to them. They are not to stop and analyze, just draw the first thing that comes to mind.

Cheyenne rings a bell when time is up. Judith’s sun has a blue dome at the top and a red dome at the bottom. Two orange lines, side by side, slash the center.

“Look at that. See the eleven?” Alicia is at her side and she fingers the orange lines.

Judith looks at the eleven she has drawn and then at the 11:11 on the board and thinks that that is why.

“Does eleven have significance for you?” Cheyenne asks when she looks over Judith’s shoulder.

“I wore an eleven on my junior high softball uniform. Oh, and it’s the age Henry will be at his party next week.”

Alicia laughs. “Think bigger, girlfriend.”

“You’ve drawn the poles in opposing colors. Did you know the north and south poles of the sun reverse every eleven years?” Cheyenne says. “The reversal signifies new opportunities.”

Judith thinks of Julliard.

“Also, a time of great personal growth.”