JOE AND I HADN’T EVEN stayed out late the night before, but I called in sick the next day anyway. I just didn’t feel like going to work in that place anymore. At least not today.
I’d made plans for a picnic lunch with Joe for the afternoon, and when he asked what time I’d have to be back to get to work, I told him that I wasn’t going in today. He didn’t ask why, or how I thought I was going to pay the bills; he simply smiled that charming grin of his and said, “Pick you up at noon.”
Not surprisingly, at twelve on the dot, Joe was outside my door on his Harley. He handed me a helmet, then took the picnic basket from my hands and secured it to the back of the bike. We took off with a thunderous roar, and I was certain for a moment that I had died and gone to heaven. Being with Joe just seemed to have that effect on me.
We rode up the coast to a little woodsy canyon buried between the Santa Monica Mountains. I’m not sure if the day was really as perfect as it seemed, or if everything just always had a certain ambience every time I was with Joe. All I know is that the sun shed a gentle warmth on us and the sky looked so clear and so vast, I almost wanted to get swallowed up in it.
We found a small clearing in the woods and spread a blanket on the soft grass, chatting and laughing easily as we opened the picnic basket and dug into the goodies I had packed. We talked about all kinds of things, things I rarely ever thought about, but when the subject came around to the purpose of Joe’s presence in my life right now, I got a little nervous.
“No need to be nervous,” he said. “I’m only here to help. You know, to teach you the principles you have to master to make yourself happy and fulfilled.”
“That’s not what scares me,” I said through a mouth full of coleslaw.
“Oh?” he said. “What’s making you nervous, then?”
“The thought of you leaving me and moving on to the next person, like you told me you would.” I heard the tremor in my voice, and I didn’t want to cry. I couldn’t believe that the thought of a man leaving me could still make me cry. You’d think I’d be used to that by this stage in life.
“Oh, that,” Joe said, munching on a potato chip. “Well, there are a lot of people on the planet who need my help. Besides, I never leave any of you. I just kind of fade into the background and guide you from another dimension is all. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
I understood what he was saying, but I live in this dimension, and I wasn’t sure I could handle not having Joe around in it to keep me company. He was so good for me. Life is very hard and I needed Joe to keep pointing out the lessons and to keep me on track.
“By the time I’m done with you,” he said, grinning, “you’ll be able to do a fine job on your own with all that stuff.”
“But I can’t seem to put certain things behind me, Joe,” I said, and a deep anguish surfaced in my voice. It both surprised and embarrassed me.
“Like what?” he asked patiently, the way a compassionate teacher might speak to a frightened child.
“The past, my childhood,” I answered, my eyes suddenly downcast, in an unusual moment of self-consciousness. “I mean, I know all that craziness was a long time ago and no matter how awful it was, it’s in the past. I know I should be able to move beyond it, but sometimes I just can’t.”
“It’s not always easy to forget, Heather.” His words were kind and understanding, and my heart devoured them like warm French pastries wrapped around a sweet and creamy filling. I had expected him to tell me to get tough and to move beyond the pain, and instead, he was sympathizing and supporting me.
I was astonished to feel a big, salty tear slide off my face and splatter onto the ground. How could I be crying? I never cried. The only emotion I’d ever had trouble controlling was laughter. But tears? They’d never been a problem for me.
“They’ve been a bigger problem than you know, perhaps,” Joe was saying from somewhere close to my ear. “Tears are as legitimate as laughter, Heather. You must acknowledge them or you lose a part of yourself.” He was silent for a moment; then, looking down at his left leg, he added, “And I know what it’s like to lose a part of yourself.”
I looked over at his artificial left leg, completely camouflaged by jeans and the ever-present high-top sneaker. “What?” I asked, suddenly intrigued by what it was like to be missing a big chunk of yourself. “What’s it like to not have your leg? Do you still miss it sometimes or do you somehow get used to it not being there?”
“You get used to everything,” he said with a sigh and a knowing grin, “even a traumatic childhood.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said, putting my chin in my hand.
“Of course, the pain of an amputation doesn’t necessarily go away,” he added. “You just get better at dealing with it.”
“You mean you still have physical pain from the amputation?” I asked, incredulous that anyone had to endure pain for so many years after the initial trauma.
He put his long fingers beneath my chin and tilted my face like a TV antenna to receive the wisdom that emanated from his eyes. “Didn’t you just tell me you still have pain from your childhood,” he asked, “even though it isn’t there anymore?”
Okay. So there it was. Joe was obviously teaching me another lesson and I hadn’t seen it coming.
“Yeah, but that’s not the same as physical pain, the kind you feel when they cut your leg off,” I insisted. “Is it?” I asked, considering that he just might have a point.
He didn’t answer right away, and it seemed to me that an eerie silence fell over the woods. I didn’t hear any birds chirping or squirrels jumping from tree branches or even the annoying buzz of flies. Someone once told me that the first sign of an impending earthquake is when all the little forest animals and birds get still like that. Animals are supposedly the first to sense the rumblings of the earth, and suddenly I found myself scanning the area, looking for a place to hide from falling trees.
“The medical profession calls it ‘phantom pain,’” Joe continued softly, unconcerned with minor annoyances like earthquakes and completely ignoring the panic in my face. “They have a hard time understanding how something that isn’t there anymore can still hurt, but you and me, well, we know. Anything that suddenly gets cut off, whether it’s your arm or your leg … or your childhood, always leaves a memory of pain.”
Phantom pain. What an interesting phenomenon. I’d heard of it before, but I’d never thought about it in terms of my past.
“You see, Heather,” he went on, “it’s okay for you to cry those tears you’ve been holding in all these years. Your pain is real, just like the pain in my amputated leg. It’s so real, in fact, that sometimes I feel like my left leg is twisted under me and the only thing that helps is for someone to try to position it for me. I know the leg’s not really there anymore, but don’t try telling that to certain parts of my brain, because that leg will always be a part of me, no matter what.”
I was fascinated by what he had said and the way he applied it to me. I felt an incredible sense of relief to know that I wasn’t crazy or morbid simply because I couldn’t completely forget those old childhood wounds. But what now? Did this mean that none of us can ever rise above the traumas of our lives? I certainly didn’t relish the idea of being an eternal victim of my childhood.
Joe’s soft touch on my shoulder brought me out of my thoughts, and when I met his gaze, it was as though he were shooting darts of love into my very soul. And he hit a bull’s-eye every time.
“Love yourself, Heather,” he said, smiling. “Love everything that is you. You’re not damaged by anything if you learn the lesson that’s wrapped inside. Remember that.”
“The lesson,” I repeated slowly as I tried to process the information. I desperately wanted to make sure I understood everything he was teaching me. “So how do you deal with the loss of your leg?” I urged him. “Can any lesson really be worth that price?”
“This one was.” He grinned, tapping the hollow plastic that was now his leg. “The lesson was that we are not our bodies. Our bodies are simply a container for who we really are.”
I was impressed. And embarrassed. Once again I was reminded of how shallow my constant quest to perfect my own body was and how silly I’d been demanding nothing less from the men in my life. No wonder I never seemed to find meaningful relationships.
“What about me, Joe?” I asked earnestly. “What was the point of growing up in an alcoholic, dysfunctional home? Where’s the lesson in that?”
“You mean you haven’t figured that out yet?” he asked with a teasing glint in the soft brown eyes. “Are you going to make me spoon-feed you everything?”
I didn’t laugh. This was too important and I wanted to get it right. “C’mon,” I said, pouting, “tell me.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “You’ve worked pretty hard so far. I suppose you’ve earned a freebie.” Then he looked around at the leaves rustling in the late-summer breeze and the colony of ants that were climbing the trunk of the tree we leaned on. “Don’t panic on me again and go thinking we’re going to have an earthquake,” he said as every living thing he rested his eyes upon stopped in its tracks, including the breeze and the ripples in the nearby pond. I stared at the silent scene speechlessly for a moment, then looked up at Joe, who shrugged his broad shoulders and grinned. “It helps with your concentration,” he explained. “This is a really important lesson for you, Heather, and I don’t want any distractions, okay? Ready?”
I was more than ready, so I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on being receptive to what he was about to teach me. I wanted to know what all that childhood pain and the struggles with my self-esteem had really been about. What purpose could it possibly have served?
“Open your eyes,” he prodded gently. “I want to look in there and speak directly to your heart.”
I obeyed, and suddenly he concentrated all of his energy into his eyes, then poured it out gently, knowingly into mine, like a mother bird skillfully placing a freshly caught worm into the open and hungry mouth of her young.
“History is not irreversible,” he said, as his eyes held me captive. “It never matters what you come from,” he went on. “You can always change paths and find the light in your own life.”
I swallowed hard, past the lump of tears in my throat that threatened to burst into a never-ending river, spilling the relief I felt all over the forest floor. “You mean I don’t have to end up doing this stripping gig forever?” I asked tearfully, shocked that I could finally admit to myself … and to Joe, how much I detested it.
Joe’s eyes took on an almost glazed look as he held me spellbound with a magnetic-like power. I suddenly realized that there was no ceiling or floor to the depth in those engulfing brown eyes; there was only an endlessness to everything he said and thought.
Carefully, he lifted his hand and placed two fingers lovingly over my lips, simultaneously quieting my mouth and my mind. “Shhhhh. Do you hear something?” he asked.
I didn’t hear a thing and was quick to say so. In fact, I didn’t want anything to interrupt this very personal and maybe even life-changing insight I was having with Joe.
Then I heard it too. The sound was riveting and unmistakable. Somewhere, close enough to be heard, was a wailing infant.
But wait a minute, what was a crying baby doing out here in the middle of nowhere? In the middle of the woods? Where were its parents and what kind of a parent would bring such a young child into the middle of this insect-infested environment?
Wherever the child was, the wails of the infant grew louder, and I looked at Joe with a question in my eyes instead of in my mouth for once.
“We have to find it,” Joe said calmly. “It sounds like the cries are coming from over there,” he added, pointing behind me.
We rose in unison, and suddenly I didn’t feel resentful anymore. After all, it was only an innocent baby that was interrupting us. How could I possibly resent the needs of a helpless infant intruding on my time with Joe?
Some kind of uncanny radar welled up in me and I knew exactly where to find the child. I knew even before Joe did, and I led the way, knowing that I would eventually need to figure out how I could possibly know something before Joe did, but that wasn’t important at the moment. The child’s cry was clearly one of distress, and finding that poor helpless little thing in this unforgiving environment was the priority. There would be plenty of time later to discuss this inner knowing with Joe.
I followed the cries and brushed away a large branch of something thorny and green in order to find the child. It scratched my skin, leaving a long, red streak along the inside of my arm, and for once in my life I didn’t care what I looked like or what kind of damage was being done to my well-cared-for alabaster skin.
Like a mad woman, I moved another thorny branch out of my way and then another until, finally, I stood before the sight of a newborn baby wrapped in a pink blanket, nestled in a bed of dried twigs and soft green leaves. I didn’t need the soft pink cloth to tell me that she was a girl. I instinctively knew that. There was a gentleness and an unmistakable femininity about her that could not be denied.
Instantly, I felt an overpowering affection for this tiny bundle of life, and I plucked her from the ground, clutching her to my heart as though I’d been searching for her for a very long time. Somehow I just knew that more than anything else in the world, she needed me. Not just anyone, she needed we. Part of me was surprised at the instant connection and devotion I felt for her, and part of me wasn’t surprised at all.
She stopped crying the moment I picked her up, as though she recognized that now she was exactly where she belonged. I rocked her gently, and my arms felt as though they had suddenly discovered the only reason for their existence. I closed my eyes and breathed in the sweet, innocent smell of her, and I would have to say that nothing else in the universe mattered at that moment.
Even the fine mist of sweat that glistened on her smooth forehead smelted sweet and perfect. I thought about all the artificial scents I had been drawn to over a lifetime, the aroma of candles, perfume, and potpourri, and now I realized that, finally, here was a fragrance that could never be imitated. This was something real; something lovely and unique. Thankfully, authenticity is impossible to duplicate.
“Hold her close,” I heard Joe say from somewhere near me. “Hold her close, Heather, and never let her go.”
I closed my eyes and did exactly as he said. I kissed the soft, innocent skin of her fuzzy little head, and I knew an ecstasy that I was certain no one before me had ever known. “Who are you?” I whispered into her perfect little ear. “Who left you alone out here like this?”
“Don’t you know?” Joe asked softly from behind me.
I turned to him, my eyes wide with unanswered questions. “Who?” I begged. “Who would do this to such a helpless little thing?”
He said nothing as he reached out to smooth the blond peach fuzz on her enticingly soft head, and she gurgled with contentment.
“Joe, tell me,” I urged. “You’re supposed to know these things. Who is she?”
Again my question was answered with nothing but knowing silence. I looked down at the tiny, warm bundle cradled in my arms, and now I was overcome with a feeling of familiarity, of some long-ago link between us.
“Oh, my God,” was all I could manage to say.
“That’s right, Heather,” Joe said reassuringly. “She’s you.”
I knew it. Even before he’d said it, somehow I had known it. I recognized her. She was sweet and vulnerable, and for whatever reason, things had gone terribly wrong in her life already. No one had protected her. No one had nurtured her or kept her safe. She hadn’t had a chance to be the dependent little being she was meant to be for now.
I was aware of Joe’s presence, yet, in some sense, there was no one else in the world at that moment except this helpless baby and me. And we were one.
I studied every detail of her being and swallowed her with my eyes. I marveled at the unlined skin, the flawless, miniature body, and the clean slate of a mind that knew no self-consciousness. I thought about how babies don’t look funny without teeth or hair. Instead, they just look perfect. They demand your attention by being purely what they are. Unlike most adults, they have no pretenses and they make no effort to impress, to compete, or to stand out.
Tiny, uncoordinated fingers tangled in a loose strand of my hair, and her little pink mouth opened simultaneously. In a moment that passed far too quickly, she smiled the quivering, spellbinding grin of an infant, and I have never known a more pure Joy than what I felt at that moment.
As if from a far-off cave, I heard the echo of Joe’s voice. “That’s right, Heather. Love her. It’s about time. She’s … You’ve … needed this for a very long time. You’ve both been hurt. Embrace her. Love her. She is a little being who didn’t get what she needed all those years ago. Give it to her now. Heal her.”
It was at that precise moment I was truly convinced this innocent baby and I were the same person. I loved her and I had an overwhelming urge to protect her … to be all things to her.
I looked into the endless depths of the slate blue eyes of a newborn, and in them I glimpsed the edge of a completely different world from the one in which I live. It was a world that held me captive with its sheer openness, boundless love, and untapped potential. I saw the seeds of a whole lifetime in those eyes, and I wanted desperately to protect, support, and nurture that fragile little bud of humanity.
Tears of rapture streamed down my face and fell onto her delicate, pink cheek, and I knew that something in me was finished now. Completed. Healed. I wondered how this tiny, helpless bundle could have such power over me, but I was glad that she did.
“You see, Heather,” I heard Joe murmur in my ear, “you’ve healed both your wounds, and you’ve brought each other back to life.”
“Now what?” I whispered, closing my eyes.
“Hold her close,” he instructed. “Hold her as close to your heart as you possibly can.”
I kissed the top of her head and lifted her to my heart. She nestled her head against my chest, molding her perfect little body to the contours of my own. I felt butterfly puffs of breath against my skin, puffs of angel breath, and you could never have convinced me that there wasn’t the essence of an angel within her tiny form. She was everything that was beautiful, hopeful, and real in the world, and I knew that no matter where life led her, there would always be this perfect presence within her, no matter how deeply it got buried. I felt her melting into me as we became one, and it was the most hypnotic, most fulfilling experience of my life.
“Good. That’s very good,” I heard Joe say lovingly. “Hold her, Heather, and love her. Just like that. Oh, yes, that’s very good.”
There was silence for a long time as I reached back over twenty-nine years of measured time and loved this little life force that once was me. I nuzzled her, breathed in her fading essence, engulfed her with my heart, and when I eventually opened my eyes, my arms were empty and I searched Joe’s waiting gaze for an explanation.
“What happened?” I asked, somewhat dumbfounded. “Where did she go?”
“She’s inside of you now,” Joe answered quietly. “Right where she belongs. Love her and always take care of her because she will never stop needing you.”
Tears spilled from some old, wounded part of me and trickled off my chin. “I know what I have to do now,” I sobbed. “It’s time to start taking very good care of myself. Time to cherish the real Heather Hurley … whoever that is,” I sniffled.
Joe handed me a spotless white handkerchief. “I assure you,” he whispered earnestly, “Heather Hurley is a wonderful human being.”
With that, he reached for my hand and led me silently out of the forest.