A woman, who identified herself as Heather, assured me there would be no problem in reserving a room. “Since you’ll be staying for, like, three weeks and all, you bet we’ll have a room available. A nice one, too. Your first week’ll be kinda quiet, it not yet being Easter break and all.”
“Just what I need,” I said. “Peace and quiet.”
“Then you’ve picked the right place,” Heather said.
I hung up, relieved. Speaking to such a bubbly person made the trip seem less forbidding somehow.
I’d already alerted the bank of my travel plans, instructed the post office to hold my mail, changed my cell number, cleaned my house, and packed my bags. But instead of enjoying the temporary reprieve from pre-travel arrangements, panic threatened to turn my last hours at home into a nightmare of what ifs and how comes.
Why?
The answer that came to mind was not flattering. I saw myself wired into an unnatural world of constant stimulation, every minute filled with constructive things to do, leaving no room for contemplation, questions, or dreams. Heck, I’d quit dreaming a long time ago.
Then it hit me. I was obsessed with the same goals that drove the Silicon Valley company I worked for: speed, productivity, and the constant need to upgrade. And whenever I received a compliment from a co-worker or my boss, it only whetted my appetite for more. I was no more than a hollow-headed puppet, jumping to the tune of a crazy world.
And Cliff had been the same.
Almost from the start, after meeting through a mutual friend, we’d subsidized each other. Before too long, we began putting off romantic dinners and Sunday drives. We found ingenious ways to slip in a “Hello” and “See you soon,” but work had always come first. Now, I saw this life as pathetic and oppressive, and I shuddered at the thought of returning to more of the same after my retreat.
I searched for something constructive to do, until my attention settled on the stone-veneer fireplace that my father had built for me following a how-to video on a home-improvement channel: “Add rustic charm to any hearth for a fraction of the cost. Looks like the real thing. Just takes a few days to build.” Usually, I only light fires on holidays or when the power goes out, but this was a holiday of sorts, and the power was out. Mine.
Once I got a blaze going, I settled on the couch, content to watch the flames flicker and leap within the frame of taupe, caramel, and sage stone. Gradually, my gaze lifted to the empty space above the fireplace mantle. I hadn’t yet found the perfect mirror to fill the spot, aware of how the shape and quality of the mirror’s surface would affect the image reflected back to me. “Don’t look into the mirror blind,” my dad used to say. “Let your mirror be the gateway to your truth.”
I refocused on the fire. Moving images began to form in the flames, like the ones electronically displayed on my flat-screen TV. I saw burning brush, burning trees, and smoke spewing in all directions. And out of the thick gray mire stepped Joshua, his eyes wild, his mouth moving without making a sound.
I stood and leaned against the coffee table for support. This wasn’t normal. This was crazy. Yet dared I ignore what I’d seen? What if Joshua was in trouble? What if he needed me?
All I had was Dr. Mendez’s office number, but I tried it anyway, hoping to reach an on-call service for urgent care needs. What I hadn’t expected was for the doctor himself to answer.
“Hello,” he said, in a voice of deep calm.
“Oh, thank God.”
“Marjorie?”
“This is going to sound crazy, but, oh my God, oh my God . . . I saw Joshua in a fire, is he okay?”
No response from the doctor.
“What I saw . . . it all seemed so real. He was dirty, and it looked like he’d been crying.”
“Can you stop by my office Monday morning?” was his level reply.
Didn’t anything rattle this man? I took a deep breath to calm myself. “I’m headed for Carmel Valley on Monday, but I can swing by before I leave.”
“Carmel Valley? Why there?”
Who cares? I wanted to say. Tell me about Joshua. Instead, I said, “Remember the magazine I took from your office? It had a feature on Carmel Valley, and I figured it was as good a place as any for the retreat you advised.”
Silence.
“Doctor?”
“See you on Monday,” he said before ending the call.
It took several seconds for me to realize that he’d hung up on me.
I blinked at the phone.
It rang.
“Hello.” My voice wobbled, as if I’d just stepped off a physical roller coaster rather than a mental one.
“Don’t say anything until I’m done, okay?”
Jeez. What in blazes did my mother want now?
“I want you to go to Mass with me tomorrow.”
Oh God. This can’t be happening.
“You used to love to attend Mass, remember? The organ music, the hymns, the chanting . . .”
I’d give her that. The music, the ornate vestments, the gold vessels, the holy water, and the mysterious host had all fascinated me once. “You know I don’t go to church anymore.”
“Just one more time before you go.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“Do this and I promise to leave you alone.”
“Okay,” I said, though from experience I had good reason not to believe her.
“I’ll be at your place at 11:30 sharp. We’ll walk from there. Just like old times.”
“Fine.”
“God will help you, Marjorie, I’m sure of it.”
“I hope so, Mom. I honestly hope so.”