“I’ve saved the best for last,” he says warmly. “Our Phoenix. I wish I knew what to say, or how to explain it. Phoenix is still a bit of a mystery to me. The most beautiful, life-changing, wonderful mystery I have come across in 600 years. I honestly don’t know where he came from.” I can almost hear the blush in his voice. “I mean, I know where he came from … but I was never supposed to be able to father a child. In all my childhoods, I contract a severe case of the mumps, even despite modern day vaccines, and in each lifetime I am sterile as a result. So, although you and I have had many experiences, as you once called them—hundreds of years of experiences—we’ve never had children. Not until now. I don’t know what was miraculously different this time, but I only hope that we are blessed with him in every lifetime to come. The thought of leaving him behind is too much to bear.
“I know how smart you are, Ronnie. By now the wheels are turning and you’re putting together all the pieces inside that lovely head of yours. Everything is starting to make sense. The way I always knew everything about you and your past even before you told me. The fact that Sebastian looked familiar to you the first time you saw him. All of your likes and dislikes and all of your dreams. I also know that you must be working through the mathematical details. I’ll lay it out for you. Will and Jo died 22 years ago, which means—taking into account their reincarnation from birth—they must be 21 years old now. No doubt they found each other young, as they always do, and have married. You are always born on October 14th, and given that today is January 7th, your end is drawing near.” He inhales deeply and wipes his nose with a tissue. I feel the wetness from his tears seeping into the pillow we’re sharing. “You always pass in January, but never on the same day. You’ll be born this coming October 14th to Will and Jo, again.” His voice catches again. “It’s times like these I almost hate them for being so anxious to put their family back together. But after having Phoenix in our lives, I can no longer begrudge them. They’ll be so happy to see you again.” A quiet sob escapes him. He’s stroking my hair now with his free hand. The other is still gently clutching mine. “Inevitably, I’ll be born to my new parents the following November 11th, and Sebastian will come along the following September 4th. The flip side to our re-birth is, of course, that this life must come to an end. We know it’s coming which, in the past, has somehow made it easier to prepare for. I know that probably sounds strange, but without you, life is lifeless. During our time apart I think of nothing else, except being with you again. Poor Sebastian is lost when we’re both gone. I feel sorry for him. He always has to finish out the last year alone. I think that’s why he never lets anyone else into his life for long; it’s too painful for him to lose them. And he knows loss better than any of us.
“The one variable this time around is, of course, our son. The thought of Phoenix losing both of us over the next year, the thought of leaving him alone, is almost unspeakable. I promise to make the most of my last year with him. And then, Sebastian will watch over him after I’m gone. We’ve already talked about it at length. And he will make sure that Sunny and Pedro are there for Phoenix when his time comes to an end.” Dimitri sobs silently as the weight of the situation bears down on him. His body shudders next to mine. I wish I could comfort him, hold him, and tell him everything will be okay, because after hearing everything that he’s shared with me I know that it will be okay. Everything makes sense now.
It’s then that I hear footsteps enter the room. It’s Phoenix. I would recognize his relaxed gait anywhere. Dimitri hears him, too, and raises himself off the bed, blowing his nose in the process.
Phoenix talks quietly, as if I can’t hear him for the moment. “Dad, are you okay? Did something happen?”
Dimitri draws him into a hug and his voice is muffled. “Nothing happened. I was just chatting with your mom. We don’t have much time left with her and there was a lot left I needed her to know before she moves on.”
It’s quiet for several minutes, and so still in the room I wonder if I’m alone. Then I hear shuffling and feel weight descend on either side of the bed. My two favorite people grasp my hands, Dimitri is on my right side and Phoenix on my left. I feel their love pulsing through their hands into my own, and I wonder if they feel mine flowing out in return. My focus is beginning to wane and I feel myself nodding off, as if I’m just too tired to stay awake. It doesn’t scare me. It would be almost comforting if I didn’t know what I was leaving behind.
But I will see them again. My Dimitri, my soul mate—he will find me. My hope is that I take everything I’ve just learned into this next life: all of the memories, and the knowledge, and the feelings … and that I remember it. And I know deep in my heart that I will see Phoenix again. He is destined to be our son, again and again, over and over. He is part of us now. He’s part of our recurring story.
As darkness creeps into my subconscious I hear the heart monitor next to the bed stutter and slow.
I hear Phoenix begin to cry. He’s squeezing my hand in both of his now and his head is resting on my chest. His warm tears soak through my thin hospice gown.
Dimitri is brushing his thumb lovingly across the back of my other hand and he’s stroking my hair gently. I hear him sniffle and gulp as he tries to hold back the tears.
The heart monitor is beeping an alarm now and has almost come to a standstill. My time has come.
All at once, I feel their lips on my cheeks at the same time, and their whispers in my ears.
“I love you Mom.”
“Je t’aime Ronnie. Forever.”
Days.
Then hours.
Now seconds.
Seconds left to tell them goodbye.
I squeeze their hands. I know it’s weak and barely perceptible but unbelievably, my fingers grip theirs. They both squeeze back. My eyelids flutter open and they swim into focus. Their beautiful faces are only inches from mine. I look at Phoenix first. His eyes are wide. “I am so proud of you, my beautiful boy,” I say in a voice as clear as day. “I love you more than you’ll ever know. I’ll see you again.” His tears have given way to sobs.
Then, with great effort, I look to Dimitri. Tears are streaming down his cheeks now, but he’s smiling. “Thank you for sharing your life with me … and for loving me … always. I’ll be counting the days until we meet again. I love you forever and ever … and the lifetime after that.”
My eyelids are too heavy now, and as they collapse they take everything with them, plunging into a deep, peaceful nothingness.
Life is sometimes … just life … and death.
Epilogue
Invariably my story ends as it begins
I love coming to the art museum; I always have. We used to rush through it all, moving from gallery to gallery, all the images blurring together, because my mom, Jo, can never seem to slow down. Even a day at the museum is condensed down into an hour-long affair, skimming past most exhibits while lingering (I use the term loosely) on the ones she loves. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the beauty of it all, it’s just that standing still in one place for more than two seconds is challenging for her. My father, Will, used to come along, but I suspect it was only to spend time with the two of us. He travels a lot and we see him only a day or two a week.
Last month, when I turned fifteen, I persuaded my parents to start letting me ride the bus to the art museum alone. I arrive in the morning and leave just before closing time. I make the journey every other Saturday. Sometimes I talk a friend into coming with me, but usually I go alone. My friends are boys, teenage boys, who are more focused on sports (and girls) than art. Which is fine, I don’t mind going alone. I’m independent by nature.
I don’t know what it is about the art museum that I love so much. I’m not artistic myself, not really, but I’ve always been drawn to art, paintings especially. It’s not like I’m an art aficionado or anything. I don’t know that much about art. I just know what I like or what I think is pretty. I don’t draw or paint, that’s not where my ta
lent lies. I prefer to play the piano. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly gifted in that department either, but I have a spot soft for Beethoven and I’ve been playing as long as I can remember.
Sometimes I sit on a bench, like I am right now, in front of one of my favorite paintings, and I allow myself to get lost in it. I get lost in the feeling, the possibility, and the beauty. And sometimes I write, like I am right now. Sometimes I write poetry. Sometimes I write fiction. Today I write a journal entry of sorts. I have a collection of them, that I guess for all intents and purposes is a journal or diary. I call it Memoires (that’s memories in French). Pretentious? Maybe. I just love the language. Sometimes the entries are about feelings, or events, but mostly they are collections of dreams. I have a very vivid imagination. And the most beautiful boy meets me there … in my dreams … almost every night.
The room is filling up with people and I feel the urge to move on to the next space. The inspiration has been sucked dry by the invasion of the masses. I gather my notebooks and put them in my bag, which is overflowing. I’m temporarily distracted by the amount of stuff I’m trying to put in my bag. Why do I have so much stuff?
I sling the bag over my shoulder and delicately snake my way through the crowd. I’m almost to the hallway when I risk a second look in my bag—just a quick inventory to make sure I didn’t leave my favorite pen behind on the bench.
Just as I’m about to look up and get my bearings to find the exit leading to the hallway, it happens. I step forward too quickly, and my foot snags the side of some innocent by-stander’s shoe. It’s too late to avoid the fall, but I try to execute it with as much grace as I can muster. I fall to the right, as the foot I’ve just assaulted is on the left. I land splayed out, face down, in the open hallway. My bag skids across the floor and stops against the wall on the other side. I’m not hurt but the humiliation is absolutely painful. For a moment, I rest my face on the backs of my hands, which have broken the worst of my fall.
It all happens in slow motion. I raise my head and sneak a peek through my hair that is shielding me from the person to whom I owe an apology.
I see black Converse shoes. They’re worn through in places, but they’re clean and neat. God, I love Converse. Guys look really hot in them.
I sweep my hair aside and smile weakly, my eyes running from the shoes, to the dark jeans (they fit well, that’s two points to the assaulted), to the faded T-shirt fit snugly over a thin, lean, muscular build, and then the instant before I see his face, his hand is extended down blocking my view. He’s trying to help me up. With the flames of embarrassment rising in my cheeks, I accept his hand. It’s strong and firm, but gentle at the same time. He pulls me slowly to a standing position, where I can get a better look at him. He’s tall and skinny; just right skinny. I love just right skinny. I look up at him and he smiles. The smile lights up his beautiful gray eyes.
My breath catches in my throat. It’s the boy from my dreams. I would know him anywhere. I exhale slowly and a smile melts through my lips, across my cheeks, and settles deep inside my heart.
His smile turns mischievous.
I love it when he does that.
“Hi, my name’s Veronica.”
“Hi, I’m Dimitri.” His voice is quiet, but confident.
• • •
Life is sometimes … memorable, wet (and beautiful), a racing heart, like a dream, tingly and covered with goose bumps, gentlemanly, sexy, imperfect, consumed with guilt, bruised and broken, over-thought, destined, an epiphany, mind-blowing, dead, whatever your heart tells you, incessant, finding something to live for, just a series of goodbyes, auspicious, enduring, just right, your past and your future, ceremonious, burning, a waiting game, a gift, looking back, just life … and death … never-ending.
Acknowledgments
Achieving dreams is hard work. It requires tireless dedication, luck, and an amazing support system—in equal parts. That being said, I would like to thank, from the bottom of my heart, the following:
My editor, Monica Parpal: who blessed me with her intelligence, talent, honesty, and kindness. She is a rock star! Without her, All of It would not have reached publication.
My first readers: Brandon, Mom, Marg, Barb, Robin, Debbie, Anne, and Liz. Your encouragement and support made all the difference. You helped make my dream a reality.
My parents: who always told me that anything is possible. They’ve cheered me on through every stage of my life. I still enjoy making them proud.
Creativity requires constant inspiration. For me inspiration comes in many forms: people, books, nature, and art. Personally, my writing process requires music. Constantly. Lots and lots of music. So, to anyone out there creating and sharing your music with the world—I thank you. Music provokes thought. Music evokes emotion. Music makes everything better …
And last, but not least, thank you to my husband, Brandon (my Dimitri), and our son, Phoenix: my two favorite people on the entire planet. I love you. (Love isn’t a big enough word).
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
About the author …
Kim Holden lives in Denver, Colorado with her husband, Brandon, and their son, Phoenix.
To find out more visit her at kimholdenbooks.com
Kim Holden, All of It
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