Hagren desperately wanted to wave his hands under the bubble, to clear the gloomy obstruction. A sliver of white sliced through the dense haze directly in front of him having the effect of a gust of air blown through the rift, the haze started to lazily dissipate. In its wake shone the image of a door opening—the front door of his house.
Hagren shuddered.
Jodi had opened the door to reveal Alina. The two embraced and upon parting his daughter introduced the woman standing next to her—Catherine Doxie. The numen flowing through his fingers instantly took on a morbid chill; the turmoil within him was working feverishly to stoke the furnaces. Petros did not miss the nuanced movement of Hagren’s lips as he watched the scene. It filled him with glowing satisfaction to read the words “I’m sorry” form upon his lips.
The scene continued, erupting into a display of acrimony fueled by two markedly different defenses: mother defending daughter, and husband defending himself; just and unjust, respectively. Alina and Catherine vanished from the image leaving his wife alone in the house; he had departed through the front door, slamming it closed behind him.
A new parade of images and quick scenes floated across the interior of the bubble, new scenes reliving old themes with ever increasing intensity: more spats with his wife, more late nights, more drink, sporadic returns to the house. More blame. More hardship. More heartbreak. Overwhelming failure no longer seeped but poured through every crack he had created. The tortured images continued to flow in a dismal pageant, a rolling cortege of repeated humiliation and pain, both inflicted and absorbed.
The advocate had witnessed all that was necessary. He leaned forward again and gently passed his hands over the bubble which disappeared with a whisper.
A sound like warm breath instantly freezing in winter air gradually coalesced around Hagren, haunting but not frightful. With it came a firmness, an unbounded urgency. “Mr. Roose, you must come to understand all which has passed before you, for this very moment is the most important of your existence. If you understand then you can forgive, and without pardon for yourself then you shall never know happiness again.” The Advocate stared at him without blinking. “But genuine acceptance will help repair the fabric your actions unraveled.”
Petros tugged at the golden string one final time and carefully pulled the pages atop it aside. From the center sprang a radiant dome of light, a diaphanous film of gases and stardust shimmered iridescent upon the surface as it spun. Hagren watched as the rotation quickened—with each rotation the dome gave slightly under forces he could not sense. It rotated and flattened, growing well past the two of them to extend out toward a horizon he could not see.
Hagren felt a bitter chill erupt around him then just as violently rush back to his core. The maelstrom emanating from the book scarcely ruffled the pages themselves, but blossomed fully into a tempest of sensory immersion as it rose to meet him. Familiar objects were at once born from the leaf, arising on currents of majestic power. Orbs spun and orbited, tiny stars winked amidst the panoply before him; upon the growing fringes danced the pressure differences of wind, tossing droplets of crystalline water and snow at its border, accreting, shifting, and gloriously boundless.
“The sun and moon, wind and rain, fire and ice. Hagren, you must bear witness to these elements. You must strike the proper balance. You can. In this place, in this matter, no machine or magic exists—it is upon you and you alone to choose the elements to your higher advantage . . . or to your sorrowful and decrepit surrender.”
Hagren remained spellbound, ensorcelled by the exquisite power coursing through his fingertips and wending its way, vibrant in its strength of conviction, to his center of self. In this moment there existed no time, no space, no rationale; no comfort or pain, nor anguish or bliss—only the unanimity of truth. The swirling tumult once so active and illustrious before him began its retreat, conflating into a vortex and funneling itself back from whence it came—back to the precise center of the spine of his book. The promise which only a moment before flowed like mystical liquid through his fingertips now evaporated with only the slightest of lingering afterglow, like the wisp of smoke when a candle’s flame is extinguished—but the wick only briefly remains an ember.
Mr. Petros gently grabbed each edge of the book then began to speak slowly and with calm but deliberate authority. His words issued forth in divine synchronization with the smooth arc of the covers as they converged upon each other. “Hagren Roose, you have served witness to the suffering inflicted upon your wife and daughter. Injustices delivered by you alone.” Hagren watched in morbid silence as his book closed and was peacefully laid aside. Mr. Petros continued, “One does evil enough when one does nothing good.”
Hagren sat frozen under Petros’s unblinking gaze. The tragic weight of his words, with their piercing economy, induced a shattering of animus, a hurricane-spurred pebble launched through a pane of glass. A steady progression of tiny fractures began to spread from the point of impact, invisible lines etched from selfish act after selfish act cleaved and ruptured rending dark from light as lightning does when it races from the heavens to split the atmosphere. Hagren crumpled under the resounding epiphany.
Mr. Petros stood up from behind his desk and wasted no effort in aiding Hagren to his feet. Parisa, who had silently entered the chamber shortly after Lauren’s departure, hastened to assist the Advocate when he motioned for her. A shaky, entirely unsteady Hagren Roose teetered between them—behavior they expected more often than not. Petros steadied Hagren with a burly hand against his back.
The Advocate and Parisa began the slow but assured exit from the chamber. “Mr. Roose, the time has come.” Petros gave Parisa a knowing nod. “Parisa will see to your return.” Hagren suddenly found the strength to raise his head to glance at Parisa then to Petros. “Return? Where? I don’t . . .”
Petros encouraged Hagren with each fateful step. “You will understand shortly, Mr. Roose. Your mind shall not recall this place, nor myself, nor Lauren or Parisa—but your heart will.”
Hagren swayed, both dazed and bewildered. He fumbled for some semblance of conscious continuity, his thoughts instead weaving seamlessly with the white surroundings, a sensation of beatific anesthesia. The trio paused long enough for Petros to allow Hagren a last thought or concern. “Mr. Roose, are you prepared—are you ready?”
Hagren tried in vain to focus and concentrate. A contentious battle was raging within and without. The latent vestments of sackcloth and ashes were tipping the odds in his favor, yet he could not manage a direct answer, only the same fervent question he’d had since his arrival. “What is this place?” he managed to slur. Mr. Petros gave a comforting smile.
“Misericordia, Mr. Roose.”
DAWN ARRIVED PENSIVE and hungover from the prior night’s storm. On the horizon a mottled sky began to show the faintest glow of sunrise, a soft pastel of baby blue outlined the hill tops along the outskirts of Nita. The sun appeared in no particular hurry to rise; Alina, Catherine, and Jodi would have been only too happy to let the star begin its party without them. But even as they piled into Alina’s car their internal clocks were in gross discord with nature’s rhythm. Ironically, they still sensed the press of time; circumstance had temporarily pulled rank on nature.
Roughly thirty minutes away a father, husband, and antagonist lay in the ICU ward of Nita’s largest hospital and judging by the nurse’s tone in Jodi’s voice mail he wasn’t likely to make the next sunrise. The Roose matriarch was hosting a bare knuckled brawl in her head, a bruising match between her self-inflicted guilt and the overwhelming exhaustion that threatened to force her eyes shut on an extended basis. Guilt threw body blow after body blow, even a few uppercuts, until she finally came clean with her daughter; having that monkey off her back certainly brought the soundest sleep she’d had for quite some time—and then the missed call. Guilt had come out of the corner swinging hard and Jodi was too tired to lift her hands to block.
Mother flopped heavily,
like a sack of potatoes, into the passenger seat as her daughter eased behind the wheel. Jodi suddenly covered Alina’s hand with her own. “Sweetie, would you rather I drive?”
Alina gave a tired smile. “I’m okay mom. Just, you know,” she started, then yawned, covering her mouth.
“Believe you me, I know.”
“St. Anne’s, right?” Alina asked. Jodi nodded, tapping her daughter’s hand and giving a weak, ill-fitting smile. “But let’s stop somewhere for some coffee and something to nibble on first.” Cath chimed in from the back seat, “Amen to that!” Alina let loose an uncomfortable laugh and turned to look at Cath, who had her key fob pen light trained on a crossword puzzle.
“Crosswords already?”
“Helps me clear the cobwebs,” Cath said flatly. “I would have had a little more sleep if somebody hadn’t woke me up to tell me about her dream.”
Anything external to her own thoughts piqued Jodi’s interest. “Really? A good one, I hope!” Alina turned the key in the ignition and the engine came to life. “It was, well, strange, but wonderful at the same time.” She backed the car onto the quiet street and from long idle memory navigated her way through the neighborhood and toward the sleepy main street through town.
“So, what was your dream about?” her mother prodded. Alina looked just past her mother’s shoulder as she made a right onto Broughton, Nita’s quaint version of small-town Main Street. “It started empty and bleak,” she began, letting the wheel spin in her hands as the vehicle straightened out. “And now that I think about it I had a profound feeling of loneliness at the beginning.” If Alina had looked in her rear-view mirror she would have noticed that Catherine had set aside her puzzle and was listening intently.
They rode for another ten blocks, halted by two stoplights along the way. Alina let the retelling of her dream shunt aside her nagging sleep deprivation. As she spoke many of the details flashed alive again in her head as her neural networks thrust them to the fore.
Catherine was impressed by the clarity and vividness Alina was able to recall from a biochemical haze experienced almost a full hour prior. The canvas was vast, yet she painted upon it with visceral warmth and emotional candor. Now, hearing the dream for a second time Catherine was able to detect traces of symbols and mythological representations, elements she had not perceived when hearing the story through a fog of partial consciousness. Any attempt to explicate the imagery would have been akin to trying to recreate the Mona Lisa with crayons—it could be done, but the end result would be nothing close to the original; her brain and intellect were still struggling to warm up and she wasn’t entirely certain she had the full picture yet anyway.
Jodi suddenly motioned toward the right. “Pull in there,” she directed. Tucked between a real estate office and a nail salon was the only storefront with lights on: Jump Start, Nita’s version of an uneasy marriage between a bakery, postal annex, and coffee boutique. The only vehicle parked in front of the shop at that early hour was a police cruiser. Jodi rolled her eyes as she unbuckled her seat belt. “Fantastic,” she mumbled.
“What?” Alina asked. Catherine was already out the door and stretching. “Oh, I was just hoping we’d be the only ones here,” her mom replied. “I’m not in the mood for gossip.”
Inside, the scent of fresh pastries and recently ground coffee beans wafted and mingled with the muted strains of soft jazz emanating from somewhere behind the pastry cases. Jodi gave a quick, nervous glance in the officer’s direction and gave him a tired smile in lieu of a verbal “good morning” or “hello.” He politely nodded in return and sipped at his coffee. A young woman strolled out from the back room wiping her hands on her apron and offered the trio a warm smile. “Good morning ladies,” she announced in a barely hidden southern drawl. “Y’all want some coffee?” Alina and Catherine had busied themselves with the array of baked goods, too preoccupied to answer for themselves.
“We need more than want, this morning,” Jodi answered on their behalf. Before any conversation could get started Jodi ordered three large coffees and a small Danish; the girls settled on a couple croissants then all three were out the door and once again on their way. For the first few minutes nothing was said as mouths were busy sipping coffee and devouring pastries. Catherine all but inhaled her croissant and then resumed her crossword puzzle, her pen flitting up and down the page before she finally got stuck on a word and called for help.
“Hey—” Mother and daughter visibly jerked, both startled at the sudden break in the silence. “Sorry ‘bout that,” Cath said.
“You stuck?” Alina asked.
“Yeah. I need a seven letter word that starts with ‘a’ and ends with ‘c’.” Catherine fixated on the five empty boxes between, hoping somehow another letter would suddenly appear. Alina pushed the last morsel of croissant past her lips so her mother asked the obvious question, “What’s the clue?”
“Purifies, transforms, or refines.” Jodi repeated it again for Alina. Both looked at each other, stumped. “You said it starts with an ‘a’, right?” Alina asked.
“Right, and ends with a ‘c’. Seven letters total,” Cath confirmed. She watched as both of them counted invisible letters on their fingers then consulted quietly with each other, with no viable result. With the Roose women officially baffled and herself at a loss, all Cath could do was stare at the boxes a few moments longer then set the book aside. The puzzle would wait—St. Anne’s hospital loomed in the distance.
THE MORNING SUN had almost cleared the horizon as they proceeded toward St. Anne’s. The retreating storm had left the surroundings in a state of beautiful renewal: streets and sidewalks were still damp, birds darted up and down, to and fro, and convened around small puddles, and trees glimmered with rain water that clung to their leaves and branches. Outside the car windows was the world as it was meant to be experienced, absorbed and delighted in—not pushed through or dismissed. But the environment inside that car was antipodal to the external world, heavy with intractable disquiet.
Up until now, even with all the talk and emotional clutter, the entire situation had a sense of macabre fantasy to it, a lengthy series of mental visuals created by the mind from past experiences, transmuted to suit the details of hearsay. But now, as she turned the corner and the hospital filled the windshield, Alina was feeling the chill of reality as it nipped away at the images in her head. With each passing second events she could never conceive of were now drawing into nightmarish relief. She fidgeted in the driver’s seat, tugged on her seatbelt, and gripped the steering wheel tighter. She wanted to blame the coffee but knew better—anxiety was settling in for a nice, long visit.
Saint Anne’s Drive was the sole public entrance to the hospital, the service drives at the rear of the building led to loading docks. The road was wide, the curbs on both sides tastefully landscaped with flowering shrubs and young trees. Minimal signage, pointing to emergency and in-patient sections, stood out among the greenery without detracting from it. Jodi motioned for her daughter to keep left as they approached the building. Ahead, the lane forked and curved gracefully around a magnificent elm tree, its trunk so thick three people would strain to join hands around it. From their vantage point its trunk and billowing canopy almost completely obscured the emergency room porte-cochère as the vehicle began its sweep along the left side and headed to the hospital proper.
The parking lot was largely empty as they pulled to the front. General visitors would not arrive for at least a few hours yet; ICU visitors were allowed access at any hour. Alina slowed to a stop in the first row, almost directly in front of the arched entryway. Each woman grabbed her coffee cup and purse and exited the car without saying a word.
Catherine stuffed her puzzle book inside her purse before closing her door. As she followed mother and daughter toward the entrance she regarded the building with a quick visual sweep. It was plain compared to the hospitals she’d seen back home—three stories tall, no elaborate architecture to make any kind of s
tructural statement, no hint of pretentious ornamentation. Its form and function were one: a repair and rehabilitation facility for the soft machine. A motion caught her eye as she stepped on the sidewalk, a robin flying up to and perching upon the small sill of a third story window.
Alina walked immediately next to her mother, their shoulders almost touching. As they entered the large entrance lobby she looked around half expecting to encounter an old acquaintance or schoolmate; the mere thought of such a run-in made her queasy. The quiet novelty of her return to Nita began to dissolve after her mother's revelations from last night. Now, in this small town hospital, it evaporated entirely. The early hour meant the lobby was blissfully vacant so they passed nary a soul before coming to a stop at the elevator.
Jodi suddenly turned to face Catherine. “Ally was born here, you know.”
“Mom, is this really the time?” Cath could feel the caffeine kicking in. “Really? Well, maybe, you know, later, you could show me where,” she suggested.