Sunny has been an amazing mother-in-law, but to her credit, she’s an even better friend. She continues to be the loving, caring, intelligent matriarch of the family, although she’ll forever need some looking after. That job fell full-time on Pedro, when they married fifteen years ago. He adores her and they complement each other well. Pedro, with his unassuming, gentle manner, brings joy to everyone he encounters. And he still makes the most amazing chicken enchiladas.
I received my Associates of Arts degree from the community college the summer semester before he was born, and I returned to college at University of Colorado in Boulder the fall that Phoenix turned one. Attending a big university was intimidating, to say the least, especially as a twenty-three year old, married, working mother. I felt old and out of touch, even though my classmates were only a few years younger. Still, I managed. It took five years, but with Dimitri and Sunnys’ support, I received my Bachelor’s degree with a double major in secondary education and English and a minor in psychology. I think Phoenix and Dimitri cheered louder than anyone else at my graduation (complete with fist pumps and cow bell). It was one of the proudest moments of my life (right behind Phoenix’s birth and marrying Dimitri).
I got a job teaching English Composition and Literature that fall at the same high school Dimitri and I graduated from, just down the street from our house (yes, we still live in my parent’s house. It’s home, and we love it. We could never leave).
Dimitri continued to paint, and the demand for his work never diminished. If anything, his contracts and commissions increased when he returned to work full-time as Phoenix got older. His passion and intensity inspired me as I began my own fledgling career as an educator. He simply loved his work. He taught me that if you make your work your passion, your work is never a job. I carried that very motto over into my teaching career, and it made a world of difference. He continued to play guitar and, as I suspected, grew to be a phenomenal talent.
Sebastian is, well, Sebastian. He has always been independent, charismatic, and confident. He’s never wavered. He got his degree in finance and is currently filthy rich working as a stockbroker. I never realized his gift was working with money until he went away to college. That’s when Sunny told me that he’d been doing her personal accounting and managing Dimitri’s investments since he was in high school. Crazy. He lives in New York City and has a new girlfriend almost every month. He comes home to Colorado for a visit once a month and talks to Dimitri, Sunny, Phoenix and me on the phone almost daily. I love him like a brother.
Our friends are doing well, too. Tate and Monica married after they both graduated from college. They live in Seattle and have two daughters. They’re a happy, picture-perfect family, complete with the dog, SUV, and the white picket fence. It’s nauseatingly cute (and I mean that in the most complimentary, loving way). John has become a surgeon at a prestigious hospital in Boston. He’s still as shy as ever, and to my knowledge he’s still single. Maybe he prefers it that way, but I’ll never know. He sends us a loaf of banana bread every year at Christmas. (And it’s still awesome). Piper has gone through many iterations and evolutions. She is currently a performing artist in Los Angeles. I’m not kidding when I say that she swallows knives and breathes fire—the stuff of traveling circus legends. And she’s established quite the following, with fans that loyally follow her from show to show—still the Pied Piper. I love her for all of her quirky, effing goodness.
And Bob, sweet Bob. He was a friend, a mentor, a father figure, and a grandfather figure. Most of all, Bob was a lovely, honorable man. He died when Phoenix was ten after suffering a stroke. The good thing is that he’s with Alice now. Dimitri, Phoenix, and I visit their graves every month. We always take a white rose and an apple—cut into quarters, of course.
And now, Phoenix, my baby boy, has grown almost into adulthood. He is bright, curious, and confident (taking after Dimitri). He’s kind, and has a wicked, wonderful, sarcastic sense of humor. He’s absolutely beautiful—his face takes after mine, but he got his height, his build, and most importantly his gray eyes from his father. He’s absolutely, stunningly Phoenix. He has many talents and hobbies that have always come naturally, like art (though he prefers drawing to painting), French (he was fluent by age 11), playing the piano, and his love for reading and writing. I would read to him every night at bedtime until he was old enough to read himself. Then, he began reading to me. This continued through elementary school. Even in middle school and high school, he would frequently sit on my bed beside me late at night and we’d read to one another. Those are some of my fondest memories.
It strikes me that my life would be so different had I never met Dimitri. There is no limit to the love, gratitude, and admiration I feel for him. He is still caring, patient, and calm like no one else can be. His confidence is magnetic and his presence is practically larger than life. His hair is graying at his temples now, but he’s still as sexy as ever. Even after all these years, the sight of him still makes my heart race (and he still looks really good in a nice-fitting pair of jeans and Converse).
My life has been so blessed. And to think it could have ended all those years ago before it every really began … and I would have missed all of this. I would have missed lifelong friends and family who love one another with their whole hearts. I would have missed the hundreds of students who passed through my classroom and touched my life. I would have missed the happiness and sadness, the challenges and triumphs. I would have missed my life—all of it—and most importantly, I would have missed my time with Dimitri and Phoenix.
I’ve learned that to love means giving everything, body and soul, and expecting nothing in return. The beautiful thing is that if you’re loved in return, it will all come back to you ten-fold.
I owe Dimitri everything. From the beginning, he has loved me tirelessly. And I have returned the love. I still do, because it’s what I’m destined to do. I will for the rest of my life.
Life is sometimes … looking back.
Chapter 29
Never misconceive that which is real
Of which love is the most important
Living in the present …
Learning the truth
I’m 40 years old, and the rest of my life can now be measured in days. At least, that’s the doctor’s best guess.
Days.
Three months ago, cancer violently crept into my body—into our lives—and I am now faced with my inevitable end, measured in mere days.
Days.
My mind now functions apart from the rest of my body. It’s as if my spirit’s already on its way out. The doctors and nurses say I’m in a comatose state, which I suppose is a pretty accurate description. The pain that wrecked my body unmercifully is gone now. The haze of the painkilling drugs has cleared. The unfortunate aspect of my newly limited timeline seems to be the fact that at the precise moment focus and clarity returned to my mind, my ability to communicate and move just … disappeared. Now that my mind is free, my body is restricted to a hospice bed. Seems like poor timing if you ask me.
I am now faced with living out the remaining hours (let’s face it anything measured in days, can also be measured in hours) in bed, unable to speak. And you know how hard it is for me to keep my mouth shut. I suppose there’s a lesson here, somewhere.
Although I feel flooded with helplessness, I have no regrets. I have already told everyone I care about how much I love them and how much I’ll miss them.
I’ll miss them so much.
The senses that remain have been heightened by this newfound focus and clarity. I maintain my ability to hear and to feel another’s touch. It’s as though I’ve gained greater awareness despite my lost abilities.
Phoenix is home on winter break from his first semester of college. He’s spending the majority of his time at the hospice with me. He’s been here at my bedside all day and has refused breakfast and lunch. He still talks to me as if I’m participating in the conversation (it reminds me of Bob, chatting at me
over lunch, all those years ago). The fact that I don’t answer his questions or offer my end of the exchange doesn’t faze him, and makes me feel warm inside. Today he told me in detail about all of his favorite memories growing up: our vacations to Disney World, Paris, and London; Christmas holidays in Jackson; visiting Grandma Jo and Grandpa Will in Glacier National Park every summer; fishing and skiing with Uncle Sebastian; going to the park with Bob when he was little; eating homemade flan with Nana and Pedro on Sundays; watching Dimitri paint in his studio; and reading in bed with me.
After telling me all about this, my baby boy—now a fully-grown man, even taller than Dimitri—climbs on to the bed and reads to me from my favorite book, The Catcher in the Rye. I can feel the impression of Phoenix’s body on the mattress next to me, and the warmth of his bare arm against mine. The sensations are heavenly. If I were able to outwardly cry, the beauty and sincerity of the moment would have brought tears to my eyes. Instead I feel them, locked in my heart.
I hear Dimitri’s voice soon enough. He’s coaxing Phoenix to take a break and get some dinner in the cafeteria. Phoenix kisses me softly on my cheek, and the words “I love you, Mom” ring sweetly in my ears.
Dimitri refuses Phoenix’s invitation to join him for dinner. Dimitri, like Phoenix, hasn’t been eating. He hasn’t eaten in two days. He rarely leaves my side. I hear the desperation in his voice when he speaks to the doctors and nurses. When speaking to Phoenix, his voice is slightly stronger and more hopeful—almost believable, if I didn’t know him so well. The voice he saves for me when we are alone is both despairing and valiant. It’s pure love.
It’s the voice I hear now.
“Ronnie, baby. They tell me it’s not long now and I know they’re right. I have a sixth sense where you’re concerned,” he says, his voice cracking. He coughs to clear his throat. “I know you can hear me. I have a lot to tell you before you leave me.”
His chair scrapes across the linoleum floor as he stands up, and the mattress yields to his body on the bed next to me. The right side of my body tingles where he lies beside me. His fingers slide between mine and he gives my hand a gentle squeeze, though I cannot return the gesture.
His lips are so near my ear it tickles as he begins to speak. “This may, or may not, come as a surprise to you, but this isn’t our first rodeo. I guess I should start from the beginning.
“I’m an old soul, Ronnie—extremely old, over 600 years old, at least. This isn’t my first go at life. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve been living, dying, and coming back again over and over as long as I remember. My first few lifetimes were rough. I lived in what’s now Russia, virtually alone, afraid to open myself up to anyone; afraid I was insane because I was all too aware of my abnormality—of the process of reincarnation. I was born to a different set of parents each time, but always on November 11th, and always given the same name, Dimitri. I remembered my past lives, everyone I’d known, everywhere I’d been, everything I’d learned … and I was convinced I was mad.
“That was until I met a nice couple in London in December of 1467 and knew instantly there was something unique about them. They were different. I was right. They were just like me. They’d already been through the cycle for over two hundred years, so they understood it. They helped me make sense of it all, as much as possible, and helped me accept it. They are my oldest friends, and I’ve managed to find them in every lifetime since. Just like me, they’re born to different sets of parents each time, but there are always a few details that time has never changed. They are always born within a few days of each other, if not on the very same day. They find each other very young, fall in love, and their love for each other grows—it seems like it grows more with every incarnation. And just as they live together, they die together—always at exactly the same time. His parents always bear the same last name—Smith. They name him William. Her parents always name her Josephine. And every lifetime, for the past 300 years, they give birth to a daughter on October 14th and name her Veronica Josephine Smith.
“I’ll never forget the first time I met you. It was love at first sight. I was fourteen and I had tracked down your parents in the outskirts of Paris. The early 1700s in France were brutal. Will and Jo had a small cottage in the country where they raised pigs. It was a fall day, but unseasonably cold and rainy. I can’t say they were surprised to see me show up on their doorstep, but the moment we meet in every new life is a little jolting. We were just catching up in front of the fire when you walked through the door. It was late evening and you had just come in from feeding the pigs.” There’s a smile in his voice now. “You were soaking wet and muddy from head to toe. When Jo introduced you as their fifteen-year-old daughter, I almost fell off my chair. You were beautiful, even with mud caked in your hair and dirt smeared on your cheeks. But I didn’t see any of that. You looked exactly like you do today and in every lifetime in between—tall and slender with shiny, chestnut-brown hair, hazel eyes, and those gorgeous, full lips.” A small sigh escapes him and he kisses my temple. My skin warms at the touch. “From that moment on, for all of these hundreds of years, I have loved you.
“And in case you’re wondering,” he says, as though he can see my quizzical look, “we’ve been through a lot. We’ve lived many, many lives in many different places: twice in Paris—which, incidentally were your happiest, most contented lives—four times in the United States, and all of the rest in England—mainly around London. I don’t know why, or who chooses, or what affects the locations. Sometimes we’re rich, but more often than not we’re poor. But we always find each other. Of course, I’m already madly in love with you when we meet. The cruel twist in all this is that Will, Jo, and I remember all of our past lives. But you never do. To you, the memories are nothing more than blips of déjà vu. They come to you as flashes of intuition in your dreams. You, of course, don’t realize the significance of those glimpses. How could you? But Ronnie, all of those dreams you had, all those flashes of intuition that you chalked up to your vivid imagination—those were real memories. Those events actually happened in the past, exactly as you dreamt them.
“Your past also visits you in the form of your preferences and predispositions. You’ve always loved reading and playing the piano, especially after you discovered Beethoven. As a young girl, you’re athletic and prefer sports to playing with dolls. Pink lilies have always been your favorite flower and sandalwood your favorite scent. Artwork, especially my paintings, will forever intrigue you. You’ve always learned to speak French during your lifetime, even if you didn’t live in France or particularly have the need to do so. It’s just that your preoccupation with Paris is part of you. You’ve always been a talented writer and a whiz at math. All of these things you thought just came easily to you were in fact the very things you’ve always been good at and enjoyed. They were easy for you because deep down, you already knew them.
“Oh, and you’ve always fallen in love with me,” he chuckles wistfully. “Usually, it happens quickly—like with Will and Jo. Sometimes, though, you really make me work for it.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“And with my extreme luck, not only are you always the same gorgeous, intelligent girl, but you’re also caring, giving, and kind. You take care of everyone else before worrying about yourself. You’re confident and opinionated, which means you’ve never been one to bite your tongue or hold back. You choose your friends carefully and keep them close for life due to your sense of commitment and loyalty. And your wit and sarcasm make being around you so much fun. You have a birthmark that always appears on the left side of your back. It’s always shaped like a paw print. There’s a black speck in your right iris. The habit of licking your lips when you are in deep concentration has followed you for hundreds of years, and I cannot remember a night ever that you haven’t sighed just before you’ve fallen asleep.” He clears his throat and silence settles over me. I feel his warm breath on my ear. “And …” his voice trails off, croaky and broken. He clears his throat aga
in and takes several deep breaths. Suddenly I don’t know if I want him to proceed. His words are filling me up and breaking my heart at the same time. Finally he clears his throat again, and then continues in a whisper, “And I love it … all of it.”
I feel him squeeze me closer to him. I feel him take a deep breath, I feel him swallow, and I feel his chest rise as he continues. “You’re probably wondering,” he says, after a pause, “about now how Sebastian fits into this picture. I know from the start you’ve felt a strong connection to him. Sebastian came to us in your second lifetime. It was the mid-1700s and I found you, Will, and Jo living in England. They had more money than most, since Will was a successful blacksmith. Will and Jo took in an abandoned, orphaned newborn baby two years after you were born, and they named him Sebastian. They raised him as their son and you never knew him to be anything other than your little brother. You two were very close. By the time we met you were thirteen, I was twelve, and Sebastian was eleven. Sebastian and I bonded instantly. He felt like the brother I’d never had. It’s funny—in each lifetime since then, Sebastian has been born as my own brother. He is always born on September 4th the year following my birth. He is always named Sebastian, and looks and acts like only Sebastian can. And like Will, Jo, and me, he remembers every detail of his past lives. He has always considered you his sister; he loves you very much, Ronnie. I’m sure you know that.