Chapter 23 - The Life That Mattered

Ronin – Age 27

After six hospitalizations in five years, zero diagnoses, and weekly visits to a psychiatrist—that bore no fruit—my father sat idle with his tongue planted in his teeth while my mom showed me a website.

“Don’t judge the content by the design.” She smiled at me before pinning Dad with a scowl.

I grimaced. “That’s hard not to do. What content? It’s … a black page with a tiny light, like a pinpoint in the middle of the screen, and an email in the upper right corner. No navigation bar. A light? Have I mentioned at least a million times that I didn’t see a light?”

“Athelinda is in California … Berkeley. I think you should go talk to her.” Mom rested her hand on my back.

“Athelinda, huh? Well, I’m in France … Chamonix. I don’t think I need to fly to California just to visit another psychiatrist.” I plopped down into the desk chair.

“Her name means one who guards and is immortal. She’s a parapsychologist.”

My dad coughed, earning himself another scowl from my mom.

Dad was a smart man, which made him cautiously skeptical. He was also a loving husband and father, which made him supportive and loyal. I couldn’t blame him for his skepticism, but god, I loved him for being there.

Mom demanded more, seeing his skepticism as judgment. I never saw it like that. When I focused on his eyes, I saw the pain—his pain for me and my pain, the pain of not understanding it or being able to solve it. He could have voiced his judgment, but he didn’t. My mom advocated for me with a loud voice. Dad supported me with a silent presence.

Sometimes being there was everything.

“How did you come across this website?” I distracted her from Dad’s untimely coughing that she misread as more judgment.

“Dell.”

I tapped my index finger on the mouse. “Dell the florist?”

“Yes.”

“She’s deaf.” I narrowed my eyes. At least it had always been my understanding that Dell was deaf.

“Yes. But she hasn’t always been deaf. Eight years ago, she drowned. They pronounced her dead. An hour later, she expelled a bunch of water from her lungs—in the morgue. Had it been summer, she wouldn’t have survived—the cold temperatures preserved her or something like that. Anyway, she had a near-death experience that left her deaf.”

“How would a near-death experience leave one deaf?” Dad asked. Some things piqued his curiosity enough to ask questions.

Mom smiled. “Funny you should ask. No one can prove that she had a near-death experience, as we know all too well. But doctors can’t figure out why she can’t hear. Drowning doesn’t cause one to go deaf. There were no signs of trauma. Her eardrums were intact. All tests and scans came back normal. Still, she can’t hear. The last thing she remembers hearing was a voice. A voice!”

Swiveling in the desk chair, I laced my hands behind my head. “You have my attention.”

Her wide eyes shifted to my dad. Yeah, she had his attention too. “I can’t remember the exact words she heard, but the gist of it was that she had a choice. Cross over or go back and never hear the whisper of man again. Which … not a deal breaker to a florist, right? But she wasn’t a florist at the time. Dell was an opera singer. She knew a lot of famous musicians and people in the industry. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, but I can tell you a very famous pianist, who also had a near-death experience, told Dell about Athelinda. Only the most connected, highly prestigious individuals seek her wisdom and advice on near-death experiences.”

“Then why the website lacking any sort of prestige?” I asked.

Mom shrugged. “Only those who seek feel the need for validation. I don’t think Athelinda is seeking anyone or looking for validation. I think she’s just allowed those who do seek her to find her.”

* * *

Two weeks later, I stood at the entrance to the address Athelinda sent me. The door read, “Psychic. Walk-ins welcome. Estimated wait time is eternity.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I mumbled. Had I not taken three flights to get there, I would have turned around and headed right back to the airport.

“Come in.” I glanced up at the camera mounted above the corner of the door.

A click followed a buzz. I pushed open the door, cringing as my head whipped backward from the pungent odor of incense. I coughed a few times and waved my hand in front of my face.

“Welcome, Ronin.” A woman with straight silver hair to her waist bowed, hands folded at her chest. Tiny brown-stained teeth peeked out from behind thin dry lips on her gaunt face.

I coughed again.

Her croaky voice fit her brittle body. She probably did know the meaning to life after a hundred years on Earth—my best guess of her age.

“No need to worry. I haven’t burned anything hallucinogenic since this morning. It’s mostly sage and Frankincense you’re detecting at the moment.”

Under a black ceiling and a million stars and moons hanging via fishing line from said ceiling, I surveyed the situation. And by situation, I mean the whole room.

Creaky wood planks covered the floor with no furniture except two round velvet pillows the size of a car tire and the color of a cat’s vomit after eating too much grass. Hand-painted white clouds covered the light blue walls.

“It’s 10:00 a.m.” I coughed again. “What do you consider morning?”

“Nine. Unless you book the early bird slot, but that’s an extra hundred dollars.” Athelinda lifted the floor-length skirt to her white cotton dress that may have been an actual sheet sewn into a frock. “Shoes and socks off, please.” She wiggled her crooked toes, some smooth like they never had a toenail and others with thick yellow nails. “We need to access all of your energy. In fact, I encourage you, if it’s in your zone of comfort, to remove all of your clothes and slip on a loose gown like mine.” She tugged on the wide sleeves.

“You know … I think removing my socks and shoes is where my comfort zone is today.”

“As you wish.” She folded her hands and bowed again.

I removed my socks and shoes and took a seat on the pillow facing her lotus-posed body. Pulling my long limbs toward me, I crisscrossed my legs, certain if I sat in that position too long, I’d never get them uncrossed.

“Let’s close our eyes, take a few deep breaths, and go through some questions.”

The tacky room.

The terrible odor.

The witchy woman.

Why was I there? It took me a full second to answer that question as I followed her lead, taking several deep breaths.

I died.

Heard a voice.

Made a deal.

Lived to tell about it.

I was in no position to judge anyone or anything.

“Tell me about the voice. Was it a familiar voice?”

My eyes shot open. Hers did not.

I emailed Athelinda, asking to discuss a near-death experience. That was it. No details. She sent me a basic medical form. I listed the date of the accident and the six other visits to the hospital since that time. Medications … allergies. All very basic.

“What makes you think I heard a voice?”

“Your date of birth. You were born on a Tuesday in September. A child born on a Tuesday in autumn will never see the light, only hear the voice.”

O … kay …

Closing my eyes, I focused on memories of the voice. “It’s indistinguishable. Unisex. Like a computer speaking, only softer. The words flow with perfect timing. They are neither angry nor compassionate. Factual. Consistent.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was an accident,” I whispered.

“But you feel punished.”

I peeked open one eye. “Yes.”

“Then it was partially your fault. Shared blame. Who do you blame?”

“I don’t. I mean … I was young. My parents were focused on my younger brother. It was my uncle’s house. Maybe he should have warned my parents of the hazards. And I should have known to not snoop around when they told me not to touch anything. But they always told me that. Isn’t that a pretty standard parental warning?”

“So it’s a trade.” She opened her eyes, tawny and owlish in their inspection of me. “What did you agree to do in exchange for continuing in this life as Ronin Alexander?”

How did she do that? Know that? Why did I find her knowledge so unbelievable?

Again …

I died.

Heard a voice.

Made a deal.

Lived to tell about it.

How insane and ironic that I maintained such a critical mind when it came to anyone who could help me understand my situation. Was the possibility of them knowing the meaning of the voice any more unbelievable than me hearing the voice in the first place?

“I’m not sure what I agreed to, but I think it involved not becoming a paramedic. I did it anyway.”

“Oh ….” Athelinda held up her shaky twig of a finger, leaned to the side, and retrieved a book from under her pillow. It had the same hundred-year weathered appearance as the hands that held it. The brown-stained cover read “I AM” followed by an ellipsis. The binding creaked as she opened the hardcover. “I think we can narrow this down.”

“I’m not looking to narrow anything down per se but rather completely remove its power over my life.”

She glanced up, eyes narrowed into catlike slits. “Young man, your life is contingent on its power. I fear you don’t have a true respect for it.”

“I don’t understand it. That makes it hard to respect it.”

“Is that not why you’re here? To shed the light of wisdom on this beautiful gift?”

“Curse.” I shook my head. “Not a gift.”

“You lived. That’s a gift.” She thumbed through the worn pages with curled corners and smudged ink spots and spewed off a string of questions. Some I knew the answers to, others I didn’t want to know the answers.

What was my first solid food?

How many permanent teeth did I have when I died the first time?

How do I picture God? Man, woman, beast? Vengeful, kind, both?

Recurring dreams?

Biggest fear?

After a series of nods and “I see’s,” Athelinda stopped on a page toward the back of the book. Stroking her palm over the wrinkled page several times, she smiled. “Hinder not the soul’s intended path unto the light, lest shards of darkness shed upon thee.”

“H-how did you know that?”

“I wrote the book.”

That didn’t answer my question. Writing a book and reading my mind were two different abilities.

“Was it you? Was it your voice I heard?”

Her chest vibrated with a tiny chuckle. “That’s a first. I’ve never had anyone ask me that before. I was twenty-one at the time of your accident. Believe me, I had better things to do than counsel the in-betweeners. Third year of college.” She shook her head. “My poor liver. I spent a full decade drinking myself into a coma. The twenties were brutal.”

I did the math in my head, and it didn’t add up. I was twelve at the time of my accident. If she was twenty-one at the same time, that meant she was only nine years older than me.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

The fragile woman before me could not possibly be thirty-six years old.

“I know what you’re thinking.” She winked with a wry grin on her face.

I no longer had any doubt that she knew all of my thoughts.

“I’ve had thirteen near-death experiences. That shit ages a person. I’ve seen many lights, heard many voices. The Keeper hasn’t been as generous to me. Not all of my deaths have been accidental.” She shrugged, scrunching her already wrinkled nose.

“The Keeper? You mean God?”

“The Keeper is definitely not God. If you ruled the world, would you seriously spend your days filtering through the dead? Hell no, you wouldn’t. You’d assign that shit to someone else. Delegate. Delegate. Delegate.”

“I’m …” I inched my head side to side.

“It’s confusing. I know.” She gathered her hair over one shoulder and began braiding it. “NDEs, OBEs, reincarnation, Heaven, Hell, eternal enlightenment … the possibilities seem endless. It’s easier to believe in the Big Bang Theory and resign yourself to the idea that the earth’s creatures will devour your remains when you die. The circle of life makes the most sense. Yet … here we are, knowing there’s some other factor, some other force. Such a small percentage of people come back. I mean … when the heart stops … that’s it. But humanity has messed with that. We like to swoop in and save lives—Hinder not the soul’s intended path unto the light.”

My brain hurt. It made no sense. Why would it be wrong to save a life? It was what I’d suspected the proverb or curse meant, but I didn’t want to believe it.

“I’m not supposed to save people?” I laughed.

She replied with a sharp nod. “Think of those words as the original DNR (do not resuscitate). Once you get past the mass of flesh that is the human body, you’ll have a greater respect for the eternal soul and the importance of not disrupting its journey.”

“Shards of darkness … I feel their pain until they die.”

Her head bobbed side to side. “It’s a little more complicated than that, but if that deters you from interrupting the soul’s path, then sure … you share their pain until they die, and all is released.”

“But that’s my job.”

She closed the book. “Find a new one.”

“I don’t want a new job.” I refrained from telling her my superhero dreams.

“Then accept the darkness. Listen … you’re looking at the queen of darkness, the ruler of rebellion, the obstinate soul who just can’t get enough of this one life. You still have free choice, but with a new set of consequences.”

“So this is what happens to everyone who saves a life?”

“Everyone? No. Most people in your position don’t see anything wrong with saving a life. They’re heralded as heroes. But knowledge imparts accountability. Those who know better must act better. Now, you know better.”