VERONICA AND I RETURNED to the Victorian in silence, and in silence we parted ways, two confused souls seeking rest, or, perhaps, temporary relief from the outside world. I sought out my room in the turret. Veronica mentioned something about checking out the basement.
The south-east wall of my bedroom suite formed the arch of the turret with six windows welcoming in a gentle light, the kind of light that filters through trees in a dense forest and through clouds after a pouring rain; the kind of light that soothes a bruised ego and nourishes the soul. I opened a window, inhaled the stream of moist air rushing through, and focused on the gazebo below.
Though neglected and in need of a new coat of paint, the octagonal structure appealed to me. Its shingled roof provided shelter while its latticed walls opened to the cool fall breezes and panoramic view. Except for the chirping and cawing of birds and whisper of the wind, the gazebo stood in a shaded world of stillness, a perfect place to hang out for a while, alone with my thoughts.
The crows were loud and obtrusive, their persistent caws slicing the air like the sharp peal of a telephone after midnight. The other birds, though, the brown and gray ones hiding in the trees and bushes, trilled in sweet excitement, their voices as invisible as the wind. I sank into the Queen Anne chair in the windowed nook, noting how the green of the upholstery blended with the pattern of ivy creeping up the papered walls.
My vision blurred.
❂❂❂
I woke with a start. Darn. I’d done it again, fallen asleep in the middle of the day, not the kind of company I’d envisioned for Veronica. By now, the sun had fallen, so I switched on the velvet-shaded lamp on the table next to my chair. The surrounding space filled with a warm rosy glow, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
The wallpaper was almost invisible now, its green leaves and vine branches grayed to obscurity. My attention drifted to objects I’d missed before: a marble-topped washstand tucked into the small alcove next to the door, an oval mirror reflecting the glow of the lamp, an armoire, two nightstands in dark wood, and a four-poster bed.
I rose from the chair and eyed the deep queen mattress, tempted to remove its floral comforter and climb in rather than head downstairs to fix supper.
But choosing the land of nod in favor of the kitchen wasn’t what brought my supper plans to a halt. It was the note from Veronica propped on the kitchen counter next to the keys to my Jeep.
Hi Sis! I’ve moved my stuff to the basement for a while. It’s nice down there and fits my mood. I need a little down time, which means BEING ALONE. Please don’t be offended. This has nothing to do with you. I’m a mess and need to recharge. I’ll make it up to you later. Promise.
In case you’re wondering, Anne, put me up to this. So, if you want to blame someone, blame her. Just before leaving for L.A., she told me to check out the basement. And all I can say is “Wow!” There’s a microwave and refrigerator down there with plenty to eat, so don’t worry, I won’t starve. Love, Veronica
P.S. Have you noticed this house has no clocks or phones? Weird.
“Darn it, Veronica.” I crumbled the note and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans. Her desertion hurt though part of me understood. She was trying to get her act together in preparation for her character evaluation with the DEA. Everyone needed time alone, as I had during my stay in Big Sur, the land of the Esselen, our birth mother’s people. I’d gone there to make sense of Antonia’s strange messages from the grave, but also to explore the second path of the Native American Medicine Wheel, the “Place of the South,” where the process of finding one’s true self begins.
While here in Pacific Grove, I would make it a priority to explore the third direction of the medicine wheel in the “Place of the West,” the “Look Within Place,” to determine what I needed to change to make progress in my life. Although I’d hoped to cram the twenty-nine years Veronica and I had missed being together into a matter of months and days, I would respect the necessity for both of us to stand back and face truths about our inner selves.
Dusk had turned the kitchen windows into dark mirrors, and as I stared at my shadowy reflection, I decided to do the next day what I’d been itching to do since we’d arrived: explore the gazebo and birdbath, maybe even turn some cartwheels.
And this time, Veronica wouldn’t be there to stop me.
❂❂❂
Next morning, before the sun had crested the horizon, I settled onto one of the concrete benches in the gazebo. Insulated in a down jacket, sweats, thick cotton socks, and sneakers, I drew my legs to my chest and curled into a heat-preserving ball.
The caw of a crow pierced the wet veil of air like a gunshot, and a shiver sliced through me in rapid response, a shiver birthed in a part of me over which I had no control. I blew out a puff of air and allowed my mind to wander, an invitation for my subconscious to surface. It knew things my mind ignored.
Along with the sun and bird chatter came emerging texture and detail. The shelter turned out to be in decent shape, despite its neglect. It had plenty of supporting pillars, its security, its integrity, guaranteed, in case one of them failed.
Yesterday, one of my supporting pillars had failed, big time, with the discovery that my father wasn’t the idealized parent I had imagined him to be. I’d expected a replication of the love, care, and admiration I’d received from my adoptive father. I’d expected wrong.
Anyway, my mission in coming to Pacific Grove wasn’t just about me. It included the wants and needs of my birth mother, my sister, and, yes, even my father, the bearer of secrets.
Like the gazebo, I, too, had the support of extra pillars. Every step of my journey since leaving the security—and oppression—of my hometown had unveiled unique insights from which I had learned. I’d encountered teachers and messengers, who, having walked the path before me, pointed out the ruts in the road. So, it took no genius on my part to conclude that a lesson also awaited me here, and that I would find the teachers to guide and support me.
A pulsating buzz invaded my ears as though a hundred crickets had taken up residence there. And despite the wet mist hanging in the air like damp laundry, the back of my neck grew warm. The scent of warm vanilla and melted butter entered the gazebo, faint at first, then growing stronger. Was I sensing a teacher from the other side?
I much preferred the living kind, but in my experience messengers and teachers often came and went at unexpected times and in unexpected ways. My job was to allow them access and the permission to help carry me forward.
“Did you often bake cookies while you were alive?” I asked.
A chuckle. Real? Or imagined?
“Veronica and I smelled vanilla when we arrived,” I said, “as if someone were baking.”
A sigh moved through the air, sounding almost human. I peered into the mist to find the source but saw nothing.
Besides hearing voices, I sometimes saw the dead, but I’d learned not to ask too many questions, just go with the flow.
“Was this once your house?” I asked.
Distant traffic. Bird calls. Rustling branches and trees.
I stood to leave. “Thanks for the company. Guess I’ll go check out the bird bath now.”
The buzz of cricket courtship in my ears ended.
The visit was over.
Spirits, I’d discovered, worked at their own pace, their messages often confusing, even irritating. But I always learned from them.
I found an old garden hose tangled between the bushes like a plate of spaghetti. I pulled out its kinks, connected it to a nearby spigot, and used it to dislodge the debris caked on the birdbath’s pedestal base and detachable basin.
Though it still needed a good scrubbing to bring back its original finish, I filled the stone bowl with water.
Satisfied with a job well done, I stepped back and looked into the restored basin.
“Jeez!” I screeched, dropping the hose as if it had shocked me. “What was that?”
I collapsed onto the straw-colored grass and drew my knees to my chin before chancing another look. Nothing special. Cast stone pitted with age. The bowl still needed additional elbow grease to remove the remaining algae and scum. And water tended to play tricks on the eye, the way it animated and highlighted images captured within. What I’d seen was nothing more than a distortion. Except…
The water’s grey surface had projected my face in sharp color and detail. With a horrific scar.
I touched my right cheek. It felt normal enough. My imagination was playing tricks on me. No problem. I could handle this.
I got up and, with my breath running as fast as my heart, took another look into the birdbath. Nothing. Zilch. Just plain water.
When I’d approached Dr. Mendez about the weird things happening to me lately, he’d assured me that some events not currently understood by scientific knowledge had the potential of someday being explained scientifically with possibly a good natural explanation. He said non-ordinary experiences were no longer being dismissed as nonsense by quantum physicists and transpersonal psychologists.
I hoped to God this was true.
A quick survey of the grounds deemed the place in serious need of weeding. I took the back-porch entry for the rubber boots I’d seen standing next to the door. Perfect fit. Good.
As I passed through the kitchen for Anne’s ring of keys, I noticed my hands were shaking. What would it take to clear my mind of the troubling image I’d seen in the birdbath?
I went out to the toolshed in back, certain I’d find what I needed for the job ahead. Sorting with hands that wouldn’t cooperate, I located the key that fit the padlock on the door. Inside, I found a shovel, trowel, and rake, plus pruning shears and gloves hanging from hooks on the wall. I shook out the gloves before putting them on in case any critters had made a home there, then loaded the tools into a wheelbarrow and headed for the overgrown yard next to the kitchen.
The soil was soft and moist. Most of the weeds slid from the ground with minimum effort. For those refusing to release their grip, the shovel triggered a quick change of mind. Later, while whacking the overgrown bushes with pruning shears, my thoughts strayed to the peaceful hours I’d spent tending my backyard in Menlo Park. I missed my home. I missed Gabriel, the stray cat that often visited me there. But I couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not until I’d finished my job here—a job that started six months ago, when Antonia first spoke to me.
Nothing, and no one, could’ve prepared me for such a thing. Ghosts and spirits, things that go bump in the night, belonged in fairy tales—or minds of the insane.
What would I have done without Dr. Mendez? I’d contacted him in a state of panic, ready to do just about anything to make the voice go away. And instead of pumping me full of pills and using up every free moment of my time and penny in my pocket for counseling, he’d assured me I wasn’t losing my mind, only finding it. “Somehow and for some reason, you’re hearing with the ears that too many ignore,” he said before urging me to take a retreat, away from Menlo Park and away from Cliff and my mother. Thank God, I’d taken his advice. Because during that retreat, I’d discovered whose voice I’d been hearing—my birth mother’s, contacting me from the other side, so desperate to get through that she’d ripped the veil that separated us and forced me to listen. Her nagging caused me to leave an unfulfilling job, a controlling fiancé, and my adoptive mother, who was imprisoning me with her love. And what I received in return still fills me with wonder.
Light comes out of darkness.
The voice again.
Not my mother’s this time, but the one who’d welcomed me when Veronica and I had first entered Anne’s house.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling warmth flow into the hollow of my chest.
Apparently, I had two dead people counseling me now. “What’s your name?”
Silence.
“Okay. It’s your party.” With spirits, patience is the key.
The wheelbarrow was full. I dumped the weeds and pruned branches in a compost bin behind the trellis in a far corner of the yard, then went back for more.
Time flew after that, back and forth, back and forth, disposing of weeds and trimmings until my back and thighs ached.
Just as I’d decided to quit or pay the price later, my shovel hit something hard, sending a jolt up my leg.
What was that?
Aching back and thighs be darned, I couldn’t stop now.
I dropped to my knees and scraped away spidery fingers of Bermuda grass, twigs, and leaves until I’d uncovered part of what appeared to be a large concrete circle with strange markings. “Anne, my friend. What have you got hidden here?”