The Return (6 page)

When she was sufficiently recovered, Jean strolled up to a woman at the reception area. She did her best to appear of sound body and mind but the huge bandage around her head was not something she could make vanish with witty conversation. To make matters worse, the bandage was even stained with blood. But the elderly woman behind the counter didn't seem to notice. She looked up as Jean approached.

"Can I help you, miss?" she asked.

"Yes," Jean said. "My brother, Lenny Mandez, is staying in this hospital. He broke his back last Friday. Could you please tell me his floor and room number?"

The woman put a hand to her mouth. "The poor dear. Is he going to be all right?"

Jean had to swallow before answering. She wondered what it would be like to see him. She reminded herself that she mustn't break down. "I hope so."

The woman turned to her computer. "How do you spell that last name?"

Jean gave her the name letter by letter. She thought it wiser to act like Lenny's sister rather than his girlfriend because surely he was still in intensive care and there might be restrictions as far as visitors were concerned. Indeed, a moment later the woman confirmed her suspicion that he was not in a normal room.

"He's on the eighth floor, Room Nine," the woman said. "That's a restricted area. You might have to show I.D. to get in."

"No problem," Jean said. "Thanks for your help."

"You look like you've been in an accident yourself." the woman observed.

"Yeah, I fell off a balcony."

"You were lucky you weren't killed."

Jean felt a cold wave, goose bumps all over. Had someone just walked over her grave? Felt like it.

"Yeah," she muttered.

Room Nine turned out to be many small adjoining cubicles hooked up by wires and computers to a central nurses' station. One thing they didn't worry about in intensive care was people's privacy, Jean thought. The area was thick with the smell of alcohol and pain. The moment Jean walked in, she had to sit down. Her head throbbed. A young nurse who looked like a nun came over to check on her. Jean assured the nurse she was fine and explained how she was there to see her brother. The woman recognized Lenny's name. She didn't ask for I.D. Jean was helped into the last cubicle on the left and left alone with her boyfriend.

He was not a pretty sight, and it broke her heart because he had been such a pretty boy. Surprisingly, he was not in a body cast but held rigidly in place by a combination of plastic rods and screws and clamps. His bed, it was clear, was capable of rotating so that his body could be turned. Jean suspected it was necessary to circulate his blood and keep him from getting bed sores. He had no marks on his face, no wounds to any part of the front of his body, although she could see the edge of the large bandage on his back. Still, he looked like death itself. His skin was pasty white, as if a vampire on a binge got hold of him. His eyes were closed; he appeared to be asleep.

"Lenny," she whispered, her voice shaky.

He opened his eyes, but didn't look over at her, staring at the ceiling instead.

"Jean," he said softly.

She moved to his side, went to take his hand, then thought better of it. The simple fear of touching him hurt her as much as anything had so far. It must have hurt him as well; he looked at her with such wounded eyes it was all she could do to not burst out crying. She remembered a dog she had had as a child. He had looked at her the same way right after being struck by a car, right before he died.

'"Ola, "she said.

"Ola, " he said. "How are you?"

"Fine." She touched her bandage. "Just bumped my head is all."

"Yesterday they told me you were in a coma."

"That was yesterday." She paused. "How's your back?"

He smiled bitterly. "I don't know. I can't feel i t"

"What can you feel?"

He closed his eyes. "I can use my hands and arms. I don't know what else works."

She reached over and gently touched his big toe. He had on underwear, nothing else, but there was a vaporizer steaming in the corner and the cubicle was warm and humid.

"Can you feel that?" she asked.

"Feel what?" His eyes remained closed.

She took her hand away, the weight on her chest heavier than the one on her head. "Nothing. Lenny. Look at me, please, I need to talk to you."

He opened his eyes. "What do you want to talk about?"

She fretted with her hands and had to make herself stop. "You're going to get better."

His voice was flat. "No, I'm not. The doctor says my spinal cord's been severed.

It won't heal, they never do. I'm crippled for life. I'm screwed, that's a simple fact. So don't stand there with that little bump on your head and tell me I'm going to get better."

Her throat choked with grief. "I'm sorry."

He turned his head the other way. "I don't want your sympathy."

"What do you want?"

"To be left alone. Get out of here and don't come back."

Finally her tears came; she couldn't stop them.

"You don't mean that."

He turned his head back in her direction. His eyes were red, with anger as well as pain. "But I do, Jean. I can't stand to see you walking around while I'm stuck here in this bed."

"Damn you!" she yelled. "That's not fair! Just because I'm not paralyzed I can't be your girlfriend anymore?"

"My girlfriend?" he said sarcastically. "How can I have a girlfriend? I can't even control when I have to go to the bathroom anymore, never mind have sex. I'm no good to you. I'm no good to anybody."

"I don't care what you can and can't do. All that matters is that you're alive."

She dared to touch his hand. "I mean it, I'm not going to leave you. We can work on you getting better together. And if you're unable to make a full recovery, then we'll work on that as well."

He looked down where she touched him. His eyes seemed to soften. "I can feel that," he whispered.

She nodded eagerly. "Bueno."

Unfortunately, the softness only went so deep. He shut his eyes and turned away again. "I have to sleep, Jean. I'm very tired."

She leaned over and kissed his hand. "I'll be back," she said.

He did not respond. He needed time, she told herself as she left the cubicle.

Time and love. She couldn't remember having ever loved him so much.

CHAPTER V

THE RISHI WALKED WITH ME beside the stream. I still found it hard to understand how I had created the paradise we were enjoying when I had never imagined a scene so beautiful. The flowers that bloomed beside the water were like none found on Earth—or at least the Earth I knew—so many different colors and shapes. The joy of existence, of walking with this great being, was like a constant stream of gladness inside my chest, as clear and sweet as the water at our feet. I questioned him about Wanderers.

"Were there any on Earth that I knew personally?" I asked.

"You met many as Shari Cooper. But you weren't close to any."

"How about in history? Were any famous people Wanderers?"

"That is a perceptive question. The answer is yes, many well-known people were Wanderers. To be a Wanderer is a great honor as well as a great sacrifice.

A soul has to be highly evolved in order to bypass the birth process. Because a Wanderer enters into a developed physical body, he—or she, sex is, of course, not an issue here—carries more of the knowledge of the spiritual plane with him to Earth. Always, he returns to the physical plane with a particular mission, and because he radiates so much soul energy, he often succeeds. By nature, Wanderers are charismatic, intelligent, loving. People are attracted to them. They want to be with them."

"Have you ever been a Wanderer?"

The Rishi smiled. "I wander all over the place."

"Will you ever return to Earth again?"

"I am on Earth now."

"I mean, somewhere in the time frame that I understand to be modern society?"

"Perhaps. It is up to God."

"Does he talk to you? I mean, like I am talking to you now?"

"God is an unbounded ocean of light and consciousness. I float in that ocean on whatever current or wave arises. I go with that, it is my joy to do so. I talk to God when I talk to you. I see God when I see the trees. I feel God when I touch my head. Who is there to talk to but myself?" The Rishi chuckled. "I'm sorry, I don't know how to answer your question."

I smiled. "It doesn't matter. Your answer was beautiful. Tell me some of the famous people on Earth who were Wanderers?"

"They're often hard to spot, but they do have one quality that makes them stand out from others. At one point in their lives they all undergo a huge change of heart and awareness. That, of course, is when the new soul enters the body. Einstein was an example. From a young age he was intelligent, but not the genius he became when the Wanderer who brought the theory of relativity to Earth arrived. That was his mission, to bring that knowledge."

"But wasn't the atomic bomb developed as a result of his theories?"

"Yes. His knowledge was insightful. But it is up to mankind to decide what to do with such knowledge. The theories themselves were neither good nor bad."

"Who was another example of a Wanderer?"

"Martin Luther King. I think his purpose must be obvious to you. But this will surprise you—Malcom X was also a Wanderer."

"Him? But wasn't he a bigot?"

"He was many things while on Earth. Can any man or woman be defined by one word? But the Malcolm X whom history will remember entered while he was in jail. Immediately there was a huge change in his outlook. He became interested in religious matters. Many Wanderers go through this phase because in your society, religion is seen as the main source of spirituality, although, in reality, that is a great misunderstanding. But as I said, religion has its purpose and Malcolm X became deeply religious. He was extremely charismatic. He drew people by the thousands."

"But wasn't he a Black Muslim? Didn't he hate white people?"

"You just came from a predominantly Judeo Christian society. Both Judaism and Christianity are fine religions, as are Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism. One is not better than the other, no matter what the priests and ministers and rabbis would have you believe. Where religion awakens divine love, it is useful.

Where it narrows the mind with dogma, it is harmful. And it is true that Malcolm X spent much of his adult life trying to separate Caucasians from African-Americans. But we must come back to what his mission as a Wanderer was. He came to give pride to people of color. At the time many African Americans, particularly young males, felt a certain helplessness as far as dealing with society. Malcolm X showed them how to be proud and strong."

"But doesn't pride divide people?"

"It can. But it was a necessary step for that segment of population at that time.

You cannot let go of pride until you've first had it. Malcolm X stirred things up—that was his purpose. You cannot judge people such as him. You cannot judge anybody."

"But if he was a Wanderer, why was he assassinated? Why didn't he have divine protection?"

"He had divine protection. But when a Wanderer is finished with his mission, he often leaves suddenly. Either in a blaze of bullets or quietly."

"Was Malcolm X happy when he got over here?"

"He did not accomplish everything he set out to accomplish. He was used by others, and his mission was distorted. But that happens. He had no regrets.

Regret is the most useless of all emotions."

"I'm confused. You speak as if when he entered the body he didn't know he was a Wanderer?"

"That is correct. Few Wanderers realize what they are while in a physical body, at least consciously. But deep inside they know they are on Earth for a reason.

They usually move toward their particular mission spontaneously."

"Will I realize that I'm a Wanderer?"

"It's possible. It's up to you. You have free will."

"What will my mission be?"

"I speak of missions because it gives you some understanding of why you would want to return. But in reality there is only one mission—to realize divine love. To awaken that divine love in others. But different people do that in different ways, and they don't have to be Wanderers to inspire others. Every man and woman born into a physical body on Earth has a mission. Your particular one will be to inspire the often forgotten segment of the poor Hispanic community. Jean Rodrigues is Hispanic and poor. As her, you will write stories that millions of people will read. They will not necessarily be spiritual stories. They can be about space ships or aliens or dragons or ordinary people. The topic does not matter. But the spirituality will be in your stories because it's inside you. It will flow into your words. People will read your stories and without understanding why, yearn for something greater. And because you are a young Hispanic woman, you will also serve as a role model for other young people like Jean Rodrigues."

I smiled. "I always wanted to be a writer. But where will I get my ideas? Will I have a muse?"

The Rishi smiled. "You will be inspired, don't worry. But perhaps you can write a story about where you get your ideas. I imagine it would be very popular."

"This is great. I couldn't ask for a better job. I loved writing that story about what happened to me when I died. Do you think I'll be able to find my brother and get my story published?"

He regarded me fondly. "It's possible."

"What does that look mean? You know something I don't. Will I find Jimmy?"

"Yes."

I clapped my hands together. "Great! Will I recognize him as my brother?"

"That is up to you."

I stopped walking. "But I have to know him. Can't you help me out here?"

The Rishi was amused. "I am always helping you, Shari."

"I know that. I appreciate that. But what can I do after I get in Jean's physical body to make it more likely that I will remember that I'm a Wanderer?"

"You can learn to enjoy silence."

"Come again? Do I have to learn to shut up?"

He laughed. "No. That would not be possible, or natural, for you. You can talk all you want. But sometime during your busy life you will want to sit in meditation."