“Can you pin-point when you first heard the voice?” he asked.
“Yes. Three weeks ago, yesterday.”
“Where were you?”
“We were on the 17-Mile Drive near Pebble Beach.”
“We?”
“Cliff and I.”
“What part of the 17-Mile Drive?”
“Excuse me?”
“Huckleberry Hill?” he prompted. “Spanish Bay? Point Joe?”
“We stopped near the Lone Cypress.”
“And . . .”
“I remember thinking the tree was disappointing.”
“How so?”
“The way it was cabled and fenced in.”
“To protect its roots,” the doctor said, “and to keep it from falling.”
“I know, but what’s the use? I mean, one little tree among so many, beaten day after day by the elements. Why not leave it alone, let it out of its misery?”
“It’s a symbol of strength, endurance, and stability to many,” the doctor said, “a tough little tree, resisting near insurmountable forces.”
“True,” I said. “For a few seconds there, I actually felt as if the tree and I were united in some way and that we were surrounded by unconditional love. But then . . .”
I met the doctor’s gaze and sent out a silent plea. This is where I cross the line, where you’ll decide if I’m crazy or not. Please listen. Please understand.
“Then I heard someone say Sunwalker in what sounded like a normal voice talking to me in a normal way. But no one was there. At first, I thought that maybe I’d misheard, with the pounding of the surf and the gulls kee-yahing, or that maybe Cliff was playing a trick on me. But then I heard it again. Sunwalker. And again. You have come at last. And again. You must listen. Time is running out. Doctor, I’m scared. This kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen. I believe in the invisible world of the spirit, when it comes to God and the angels and saints, but I can’t handle this. It’s like hearing someone else’s thoughts.”
“Male or female?”
“Female.”
“So, you’re hearing only one voice?”
“Yes.”
“Does she tell you what to do?”
“Actually, she sounds like a preachy poet, spouting off warnings that can be interpreted in different ways, especially if you’re scared half out of your wits.”
After a short silence, Dr. Mendez said, “‘By whom, and by what means, was this designed? The whispered incantation which allows free passage to the phantoms of the mind?’”
I recognized the lines from T.S. Eliot’s tribute to Walter De La Mare, which reset a tripped breaker in my head and opened what felt like a new channel between the doctor and me. Maybe he could help after all.
“Did you tell Cliff?” he asked.
“Yes, but he didn’t understand.”
“What happened next?”
“We drove on to Carmel.”
“Did you hear the voice again that day?”
“Yes. At the Carmel Mission.”
“Can you recount what happened?”
“I felt a familiar presence, and then, I heard it again. Sunwalker, there’s something you must know. Oh God, who is she? What does she want? How can I make her stop?”
“Let’s leave the voice for now,” Dr. Mendez said. “What do you know about the fire opal you’re wearing?”
I glanced at my hands, now gripping the magazine on my lap. “I know Cliff hated it.”
The abruptness of my outburst caught me off guard—again. “I’m sorry.”
“No apology necessary.”
“I fell in love with the ring the moment I spotted it at an estate sale, and when I put it on, something charged through me, like the spark you feel when you touch a doorknob during dry weather.”
“How do you account for Cliff’s reaction?”
“He wanted me to wear the sapphire ring he’d given me. But the stone left me cold.” Guilt seeped into me like water filling the hollows of silica-rich lava, which, under heat and pressure, traps the water inside. “In ways like this, I was always hurting him.”
“You did well.”
Well? How could hurting someone add up to anything but selfish and mean?
“The fire opal has great harmonizing powers and may be your spirit helper,” he said. “Native Americans would call it your gemstone totem. There are animal and plant totems as well.”
I liked the sound of this and appraised the doctor with renewed interest.
“Can you get two or three weeks off work?” he asked.
“Three weeks? Yes, I think so. I’ve accumulated a lot of leave.”
He touched the tips of his fingers together and looked over them at me, reminding me of the finger game I’d played as a child: Here’s the church; here’s the steeple . . .
“Miss Veil, my job is to assess danger. The rest is almost as scientific as using a crystal ball. The fact that you came here on your own is a good sign. It proves that you are still in charge of your life and want to keep it that way. Your answers to our registration questionnaire indicate that you have no past history with medical health professionals, no known medical conditions, and are not taking any drugs.”
“How do you know my experience isn’t” —schizophrenia came to mind, but I wasn’t about to say it— “pathological?”
The doctor’s eyes formed into slits. Not, it seemed, at the ridiculousness of my question, but of concentration. “I have worked with hundreds of patients with psychotic illnesses in my career and none have reported their experiences as being unitive or filled with unconditional love. True, they have reported auditory hallucinations, but the voices they hear generally tell them what to do. You show no signs of bizarre delusions or disorganized thinking, so my tentative diagnosis is that you do not have schizophrenia or paranoia. I am also eliminating manic depression.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath.
“I believe you are experiencing a spiritual crisis, a reasonable and very human reaction to an encounter with a nonhuman entity, which puts you outside the scope of mainstream health care. People like you, at least the ones brave enough to talk about their ordeal, are not usually allowed to experience such mystical states. Instead they are put on massive doses of anti-psychotic medications to bring them back to normal.”
To hell with experiencing mystical states. I wanted normal. I wanted my life back.
“I understand that you are upset and confused,” the doctor said. “I would be, too, in your position. Rest assured. If I thought you required help from mainstream professionals, I would refer you immediately. I am sensitive to the spiritual dimensions of reality, one reason why I specialize in psychology that supports the transformative potential of spiritual emergencies, rather than treats them as mental diseases. In my opinion, all you need for now is nurturing and assistance in integrating your experience.”
The doctor paused. And I waited, figuring the bad news was yet to come. The kind that usually starts with However.
“You expressed a need for peace, freedom, and something else that eludes you,” he said. “I also noticed your restlessness and agitation, and I assume you are having headaches.”
Yes, to all of the above. How did he know?
“In my opinion, you have not lost control of your mind. Nor do I think you are in danger of losing it anytime soon.”
At my look of surprise, he raised his hand. “However—”
There it was, the word I’d been dreading.
“I believe your body is trying to tell you something, and ignoring the signs could lead to serious problems.”
“What about the Voice?”
“The voice may be part of your wake-up call, otherwise known as ‘The Dark Night of the Soul.’ You would be surprised at how many people go through such a thing. They often end up using tranquilizers to cover it up.”
“Will I need tranquilizers?”
“No. At least, I hope not. There is another route I would like you to try first. I would like you to take a retreat . . . away from this town, away from your home, and away from anything else that distracts you, including work, phones, and your mother. Somehow and for some reason, you are hearing with the ears that too many of us ignore.”
At my look of confusion, he added. “Most of the time, we use only a small portion of our sensory equipment, and, in your case, your ordinary sense of hearing may have become fine-tuned. You may be more consciously aware than usual and may be experiencing a special insight into other realms of your existence.”
I didn’t want insight into other realms of my existence. I was having enough trouble with the realm I was in.
“Let me put it this way,” Dr. Mendez said. “Do not be afraid of the voice just because you do not understand it. There is a lot in life we do not, and may never, understand. Just listen. I do not mean tolerate. I mean listen. Weigh the words and try to understand.”
I’d never considered listening to the Voice before. I’d been too scared.
“You need to clear your mind and quiet your thoughts, enter the mystery and live the questions, rather than seek the answers.”
“How do I know where to start?” I asked.
“How did you find me?” he countered.
“Let me get this straight. You want me to leave town and find my personal Walden Pond to clear my mind and quiet my thoughts.”
A smile on the doctor’s face at last. “And listen to the voice.”
“But where will I go?”
“Let your heart lead you.”
“I don’t get it. Why leave what’s familiar? Isn’t that the last thing I should do?”
“You need to push past your perimeter of comfort and safety, slow down, follow some blind alleys, let the truth catch up to you.”
“I’m afraid.”
“Freedom comes at a price. Is your mother your protector or your keeper? Is your home your castle or your prison? How will you know unless you break the bonds for a while? Your heart has been silenced for too long. Let it be the expert.”
“But the Voice.”
“Can you truly listen to the voice while you are hiding it from your mother?”
Judging by the topaz light of intelligence streaming from his eyes, the doctor had caught my look of guilty surprise. “You must be free to listen,” he said.
Currently, freedom seemed as elusive as the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, though, according to physics, there’s no end to a rainbow, thus no pot of gold. “This can’t be all.”
“I would also like you to keep a journal, starting today.” He opened a desk drawer and retrieved a black notebook with an elastic band closure and satin marker. “Personal revelations can come as a whisper in the night, a fleeting thought, or, as in your case, a voice in your head. Record what you hear and see. Put the voice to the test. Ask her what she wants. Let her surprise you.”
I didn’t want another person telling me what to do. Even if she was dead.
“Share what you have been taught to keep to yourself. Later, we will try to decipher and understand.”
In the past, when I’d heard the Voice, I’d been deaf with fear, but now I realized this wasn’t the answer. Curiosity overtook me, and a new kind of excitement began to build inside. I put the journal into my purse and stood. “May I take this?” I asked, holding up the magazine I’d been cradling on my lap.
“Consider it yours,” he said. “And when you get back, make an appointment to see me.”
I slid the magazine next to the journal inside my purse.
Dr. Mendez opened the door and motioned for me to proceed, but Jane, the receptionist, blocked the exit.
“Doctor. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt. It’s about Joshua Alameda.”