A stretch of tortured quiet hung about them. The 800-pound gorilla was making a slow exit, trailing the fetters and chains of four years behind him. But his departure meant only one beast had been beaten. Another dragon loomed.
“Let’s all try to get some sleep and we’ll go to the hospital in the morning,” Jodi announced.
“But mom, shouldn’t we—“
“He’s not going anywhere, Ally. Trust me.” Alina’s hollow gaze was all too familiar, a woman whose world was, from moment to moment, held together only by heartbeats and breaths. Jodi wanted to pull the stars from the sky, wrap the clouds around her and let the wind steal her sorrow.
But tears would have to do—for now.
THE PERVASIVE WHITENESS, though almost mystically insubstantial, seemed to point its clandestine fingers in secret accusation at Hagren as he trudged behind Lauren. In the short time he'd been in her presence she seemed imperturbable, though not quite sickingly optimistic. Still, he couldn’t shake an impression of nuanced disquiet about her, a decidedly cryptic gloom. In the resolute absence of clarifying information from her he struggled to make sense of things, which resulted in an ever morphing litany of suggestions and potent open-ended questions, a cycle which endlessly fed upon itself—the snake biting its own tail. Every faculty insisted things were not exactly in his favor, whatever that meant. He tried forcing himself to shift focus elsewhere to escape the nagging anxiety that was cozying up to him. Only then did he notice the soft, natural whisper of their steps. It sounded exactly like walking barefoot on grass. More preternaturally, there were never others around when they walked. Hagren nervously looked around, his face sketched with concern.
“Lauren,” he began warily, “don’t you get lonely without others around?”
“Well, Mr. Roose, I suppose you could say that, if by lonely you mean the absence of company” she replied. “But I can assure you I am never at a loss for company.” Hagren motioned emphatically in every direction. “I have yet to see another soul, which strikes me as—well—something more than odd, I guess. It’s . . . unsettling.” Lauren regarded this in her placid matter-of-fact fashion.
“To you, yes. But to us it is sublime.”
“Us? There is no us that I can see.” Hagren protested.
Lauren peered at him over the rim of her glasses, a look he was exceedingly acquainted with. Most every female he’d ever known, from the librarian and various teachers to his mother and wife, had all found reason to use the look on him; most to convey annoyance, but occasionally to wordlessly reveal his utter lapse of thought.
“And therein lies the key, Mr. Roose—that you can see.” Leveling her gaze she continued. “Remember what I told you earlier. You are my sole concern. To have others around would serve as a distraction.” The implication of more surrounding him than he could detect immediately raised more burning questions, inquiries which required far more energy—and time, he suspected—than he had. But he suddenly understood the intense focus she applied on his behalf.
Lauren, he was beginning to realize, was right: whatever this was, wherever he was now, was not a bastion of subjectivity, there were no shades of grey here in assessing ones worth, no ambiguity. This place was something far more pragmatic, a waypoint steeped in the unyielding objectivity of ones rectitude. Something had dropped an invisible seine into the murky shallows of his essence and trawled for the brooding matters of self-servitude, trying to separate the weightier curses from the ill-acknowledged grace of blessings. Even as they advanced toward their destination his perception was clearing, much the way an archeologist’s brush carefully whisks away the layers of accumulated time from a precious artifact. His guilt lay not far below the surface, thrashing and feeding upon every new perceived threat or injury—nevermind that the lion’s share of them were beasts of his own creation, beasts he summoned from his depths to persecute the same people he should have been embracing. Lauren, he surmised, had hoisted the seine and brought all his shame to breathe above the surface, and like a fishing net full of a day’s catch so too was his net, filled with writhing, spasmodic, convulsing abuses—malevolence he nurtured as a way to justify his own moral shortcomings.
Their walk continued, Lauren only a half step ahead. The further they walked the more it seemed to Hagren like they were walking down the center of a cotton swab, and he would be the only one to exit the opposite end, into a dark, cavernous, unforgiving place.
The pair journeyed forward, the surroundings soulless yet with a scant trace of warmth, not unlike an embrace. The disconcerting balance between calm and apprehension that draped itself around everything, and the groaning weight of his surging thoughts all began pricking at him, a white rose with nary a place along its stem with which to hold it. His expectation of a short walk to the Advocate’s office had become an amended hike, leading to an equal elevation in his surly disposition. He was increasingly tired, and though he would not admit to it, was losing his fight with a fear he could not put a name to, much less understand; an eruption very much like two kids poking each other in the back seat of a car was swiftly taking shape. Just as the first atom was about to become fissile the corridor quietly came to life before his eyes.
To his left he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a small sled gliding down a hill—more improbably, it was sliding along the endless stretch of whiteness he had assumed was a nondescript wall. As the sled neared he could clearly make out a child riding atop of it, bursting with laughter; a little girl—Alina. A sense of warmth seemed to waft about him. The little girl brought the sled to a stop in front of his wife, her figure wrapped in her favorite old, grey coat and matching knit cap. Alina’s lips were blue and the tip of her nose a bright, mottled crimson. Her mother leaned over to brush snow off the child. Hagren could see the plumes of their breath when Alina talked excitedly and her mother played along.
Then he passed an opening on his right, and looking in saw his daughter sitting at a small table with her child-sized tea set spread out. Her overstuffed pink teddy bear was crowded into one tiny chair, its own name card stood neatly in front. The third chair was regrettably empty—the name card in front of it read, in large, purple crayon letters scrawled ragged but well-intentioned: Daddy.
Lauren never broke stride, never gave the slightest hint whether she could see the apparitions. Hagren was, conversely, numbed by what he was seeing, each step he took seemed more labored than the last, each passing moment more lamentable. As his hopes narrowed so too did the pallid hallway.
Only a few steps later, on his left, they passed by a set of double doors, propped open. At the distant end of an auditorium he watched Alina stroll upon the stage to accept her college diploma, and silhouetted against the glaring stage lights stand a man and woman, applauding loudly—the only two to do so. Hagren shuffled to a halt. He watched the scene play out in the kind of exquisite detail only his heart could remember. Then he saw the man grab the woman and hug her tightly . . . his wife, Jodi. His spirit felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice. Inertia was pulling his knees away from each other.
Lauren turned to face Hagren. He had no way of knowing—no possibility of conceiving— her unnatural capacity for empathy. “Mr. Roose” she said, her soft voice a hybrid of question and statement. “Mr. Roose, are you —”
Hagren’s hollow gaze revealed a yawning chasm within. Beneath the unruly moustache his lips trembled and attempted a faint response—“I . . .” His pride and arrogance, anger and indignance, the very pillars that supported him for so long suddenly fell away, the corollary vacuum relieving him of his knees as well. Hagren unraveled toward the floor like a spinning ball of yarn.
Lauren knelt in front of a man whose shell showed every indication of fracturing. “Mr. Roose,” she said calmly, “look at me.” Hagren slowly leveled his eyes upon hers. Her spectacles gave her eyes strength. “You must believe, Hagren.”
“In what?” he whimpered. Lauren cocked her head.
“Start with the
most elemental thing, the most necessary—belief in yourself.” Hagren shook his head slowly, as if he were coming out from being under anesthesia. “I don’t know how anymore,” he drawled.
“Of course you do,” Lauren nodded, “everyone does. You’ve just strayed from your connection to it.” Hagren tried hard to focus—and failed utterly. She knew this juncture as inevitable ritual, a faltering presence manifested at precisely the proper—the most critical—moment. Her educement varied from client to client, but they always stepped across their threshold to become complete in their understanding. They had to. Otherwise she had failed, and that was a consequence she had yet to experience, and certainly wouldn’t start now.
“Look at me, Mr. Roose. Don’t you think I have moments of weakness?” If he had thought so he didn’t affirm it out loud. “I am before you now, and will be here after you, because I believe, Hagren.” Troubled eyes returned her gaze then drooped in shame. Lauren tucked her fingers beneath his chin and tenderly raised his eyes to hers.
“You want to know what I believe, don’t you?” she said knowingly. Hagren barely nodded. “I believe that dreams have more potential than the most persistent reality. I believe imagination to be divine, and knowledge to be its muse. I believe a hero can become mythical, but not without being courageous or just.” She paused for the emphasis of silence. Behind them the corridor had narrowed to a dead end, the walls converging upon a nebulous space with no distinct linear construct.
“Look behind me, Mr. Roose,” Lauren directed. She didn’t have to turn, not because she intuitively knew what was transpiring but because his eyes told her so.
In the shifting mist of blank space a doorway materialized. The area around it appeared to breathe, to expand, contract and gently dance like a bed sheet drying on a clothesline in a warm spring breeze. As if lit from behind an image loomed within the space. He could see every detail of it, as if the wall around the doorway was invisible.
The door frame was surrounded by the vision of a lifeless room, its solemn walls exposed where once hung pictures and posters; the dresser and vanity bereft of all the tiny bottles and cases, figurines and knick knacks that little girls love; the closet door left open into a cheerless recess, a single shoe box upon the lone shelf inside. It wasn’t just a room—it was his little girl. And she was gone.
Lauren sat quietly. She watched his eyes dart back and forth at the scene behind them. His gaze would linger then sweep across her, stare unbelievingly at another spot, then dance about as if connecting a hundred tiny dots with the most fragile of invisible lines. She could peer behind those haunted brown eyes and see the tumult of two inner universes colliding, the soundless evidence the he had made the most necessary—and most grave—liminal crossing.
She knew that Hagren was ready.
Again, Lauren brought their gazes together. “Mr. Roose, there is but one last thing I must tell you. Listen well.” As she slowly stood she kept her eyes locked upon his, tugging gently on his elbow to bring him back to his feet. “Are you listening?” she asked for emphasis. Hagren nodded.
“Death is not the greatest misfortune of life—losing hope is.” The counselor had prepared her client as best she could. The chamber of Mr. Petros awaited him on the other side and she needed to save the best armor for last, the best shield to deflect a potent offense. “Hope is the foundation of higher power,” she continued, “and if you believe then you have hope.” Lauren grasped his left hand between hers—it was trembling. “Do you understand, Mr. Roose?”
The once proud and almost irrepressible man, a soul quick to explode and unhurried to forgive or apologize, stood before perhaps the last entity that cared for him, and he fought to keep his knees beneath his frame. He could not mumble, much less speak outright. Amidst all the rending visions and Lauren’s supportive words the best he could manage was yet another meager nod. Lauren smiled, and for the first time he actually felt good about it.
The pair stood quietly for what seemed like passing epochs. The tingling sensation of his hand enclosed by Lauren’s helped to restore his corroded sense of self and surroundings. Hagren was, in a sense, waking up. “How much further to go?” he managed to ask.
Lauren’s grin broadened as she gestured at the doorway leading into the empty room. “We’re here,” she announced. Hagren stared, dumbfounded. “The man I spoke about previously, Mr. Petros, is expecting you.”
“In there?” It was Lauren’s turn to nod. “Remember well what I said about believing, Mr. Roose.” Hagren turned to square up to the doorway.
“Speaking of believing, I left one of mine out,” Lauren stated. Hagren turned his head to regard her. “I believe, Mr. Roose, that love transcends death.” Her words seemed to float upon an ethereal fabric as she motioned for him to step through the doorway.
Hagren trudged through the portal, his spirit decayed by the emotional gauntlet he’d just witnessed. He made an anemic attempt at confidence, no matter how little right he had to it.
ALINA FELT HERSELF falling, for minutes it seemed.
Soon all was quiet. As far as she could see was an expanse of burnished sand, dunes shaped by forces she couldn’t imagine; some loomed majestic while others seemed to lie in wait for their hopeful turn as one of the elder hills. The sky was solemn, a waxy mélange of black, midnight blue and amethyst. Far in the distance she thought she could make out the faintest buzz, not harsh like a swarm of flies, but soft like the beating of hummingbird wings. She tried to move forward, willing her feet to go one in front of the other, but the sand underfoot may as well have been concrete for the seeming inches she crept ahead.
The hum moved closer, its soft vibration an almost pleasant distraction in the bleak domain of nowhere. On the furthest horizon a warm orange glow began to flourish, stretching and rolling in the alien sky like cream poured into coffee. A gossamer veil of brilliant indigo hovered in the distance within the saddle between two great dunes, accompanied by the advancing hum. The pulsing wall of flickering blue light seemed to rise in the barren rift as if a mischievous breeze was blowing upward from underneath the mass; and then it suddenly spilled forward, spreading outward to form a bulwark like an overturned spade. Small waves in the living body were drawn into relief, the rise and fall flowed and pushed forward, looking like a small windswept lake with thousands of tiny blue flames flickering upon the surface. She could barely perceive the effervescent white dot moving just behind the wall of light and sound.
She pushed her feet now, moving with a tempered fluidity, striking toward the nearest small hill. She felt the urgent desire—no, the need to get a better view. The realm she was surrounded by appeared to compose itself as she moved, as if to suit her desires before she understood what they were; the hill seemed to roll toward her, dropping in elevation every so slightly so that she was able to easily mount it. The vision made her breathless.
The creamy orange above gently displaced the darker mass around it, and as she marveled at the scene overhead she felt certain the dark was only too willing to abdicate its lofty perch. Immediately below the persimmonesque ceiling moved the body she had only seen from the front before.
A stunning antecedent of blue fireflies darted and glimmered. The sand in front of them steamed, the rising vapor drifted obediently just above the surface, a dazzling carpet of wan pearlescence. And behind the azure splendor walked a woman adorned in white, her contrasting black hair wafting in a breeze, presumably created by the expanse of fireflies before her.
Affixed to the top of the small dune she could discern the arid desert before her, a vast curvature of utter lifelessness—despair given visual form. She stood motionless, awed by the spectacle she beheld as the woman turned slightly away from her and headed for a much taller dune nearby.
She watched the woman move with affected deliberation. The countless grains of sand behind her started to shake and vibrate, then gave way to the tiniest sliver of green. She scanned further behind and saw the once inert desert giving way to
the most verdant, beautiful vista of green possible. The arid, fallow earth behind the specter slowly blossomed, becoming a veritable carpet of trees and flowers, wide expanses of wheat and corn, grapevines reaching upwards and entire acres of berry-bearing bushes and ground covers swelling outward. Peering further she could see rejuvenation of Olympian scale, a mat of green bursting with renewed vigor and energy.
Alina stood mesmerized by the supernatural tableau. Somewhere within the complex folds of her brain, amid the crackling of perpetual electrical impulses and chemical messengers, her mind was absorbed with the herculean task of attempting to synthesize the otherworldly display before her. She knew such rapid growth was inconceivable, and even if possible would perhaps be so violent as to be cataclysmic. Yet here she bore witness to the fantastic and serene. The wondrous distraction so intently focused her resources that she had not seen the feminine apparition reach the summit of a much taller dune close by. A sudden inequity in the environment fractured her attention—the humming from a myriad of blue fireflies had dissipated, though their haunting glow remained. From atop the stately dune the woman gazed at her then drew Alina toward the perch with a simple but elegant wave of her hand.