...I didn't understand why, but the nebulous threat the men presented drew me toward them. It was a senseless impulse, but I hadn't felt any kind of impulse in so long...I followed it.
Something unfamiliar beat through my veins. Adrenaline, I realized, long absent from my system, drumming my pulse faster and fighting against the lack of sensation. It was strange- why the adrenaline when there was no fear? It was almost as if it were an echo of the last time I'd stood like this, on a dark street in Port Angeles with strangers.
I saw no reason for fear. I couldn't imagine anything in the world that there was left to be afraid of, not physically at least. One of the few advantages of losing everything.
I was half-way across the street when Jess caught up to me and grabbed my arm.
"Bella! You can't go in a bar!" she hissed.
"I'm not going in," I said absently, shaking her hand off. "I just want to see something..."
"Are you crazy?" she whispered. "Are you suicidal?"
That question caught my attention, and my eyes focused on her.
"No, I'm not," my voice sounded defensive, but it was true. I wasn't suicidal. Even in the beginning, when death unquestionably would have been a relief, I didn't consider it. I owed too much to Charlie. I felt too responsible for Renee. I had to think of them.
And I'd made a promise not to do anything stupid or reckless. For all those reasons, I was still breathing.
Remembering that promise, I felt a twinge of guilt, but what I was doing right now didn't really count. It wasn't like I was taking a blade to my wrists.
Jess's eyes were round, her mouth hung open. Her question about suicide had been rhetorical, I realized too late.
"Go eat," I encouraged her, waving toward the fast food. I didn't like the way she looked at me. "I'll catch up in a minute."
I turned away from her, back to the men who were watching us with amused, curious eyes.
"Bella, stop this right now!"
My muscles locked into place, froze me where I stood. Because it wasn't Jessica's voice that rebuked me now. It was a furious voice, a beautiful voice- soft like velvet even though it was irate.
It was his voice- I was exceptionally careful not to think his name-
and I was surprised that the sound of it did not knock me to my
knees, did not curl me into the pavement in a torture of loss. But
there was no pain, none at all. In the instant that I heard his voice,
everything was very clear. Like my head had suddenly surfaced
out of some dark pool. I was more aware of everything- sight,
sound, the feel of the cold air blowing sharply against my face,
the smells coming from the open bar door.
I looked around myself in shock.
"Go back to Jessica," the lovely voice ordered, still angry. "You
promised- nothing stupid."
I was alone. Jessica stood a few feet from me, staring at me
with frightened eyes. Against the wall, the strangers watched,
confused, wondering what I was doing, standing there motionless
in the middle of the street.
I shook my head, trying to understand. I knew he wasn't there,
and yet, he felt improbably close, close for the first time since...
since the end. The anger in his voice was concern, the same
anger that was once very familiar- something I hadn't heard in
what felt like a lifetime.
"Keep your promise," the voice was slipping away, as if the
volume was being turned down on a radio.
I began to suspect that I was having some kind of hallucination.
Triggered, no doubt, by the memory- the deja vu, the strange
familiarity of the situation.
I ran through the possibilities quickly in my head.
Option one: I was crazy. That was the layman's term for people
who heard voices in their heads.
Possible.
Option two: My subconscious mind was giving me what it thought
I wanted. This was wish fulfillment- a momentary relief from pain
by embracing the incorrect idea that he cared whether I lived or
died. Projecting what he would have said if A) he were here, and
B) he would be in any way bothered by something bad happening
to me.
Probable.
I could see no option three, so I hoped it was the second option
and this was just my sub-conscious running amuck, rather than
something I would need to be hospitalized for.
My reaction was hardly sane though- I was grateful. The sound
of his voice was something that I'd feared I was losing, and so,
more than anything else, I felt overwhelming gratitude that my
subconscious had held onto that sound better than my conscious
one had.
-Stephanie Meyer's (2006) New Moon, pp. 109-113.
"Concentrating hard on your happy memory?"
"Oh- yeah-" said Harry, quickly forcing his thoughts back to that
first broom ride. "Expecto patrono- no patronum, -sorry- expecto
patronum, expecto patronum-" Something whooshed suddenly
out of the end of his wand; it looked like a wisp of silvery gas.
"Did you see that?" said Harry excitedly. "Something happened!"
"Very good," said Lupin, smiling, "Right then- ready to try it on a
Dementor?"
"Yes," said Harry, gripping his wand very tightly, and moving into
the middle of the deserted classroom. He tried to keep his mind
on flying, but something else kept intruding...any second now, he
might hear his mother again...but he shouldn't think that, or he
would hear her again, and he didn't want to...did he?
-J. K. Rowling's (1999) Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban,
pp. 176-177.
I wish I could say that I loved God with the kind of passion Bella
had for Edward. One so deep, so entwined in my nature that
when God is distanced I feel like I have a hole ripped in my chest
and I'm compelled to try to hold myself together, even though I
know I'm fine physically. God is a much more worthy object of
obsession than any man, no matter how good-looking and
velvety-voice endowed. Maybe my grief is not so great because
my rift was not as sudden. Mine was a slow disappearance, like
a tiny leak in my car's engine coolant compartment that adds up
to a collective loss over time, catching me by surprise one day
with an unfamiliar lighted symbol on my dash.
Nevertheless, like both Bella and Harry's characters, I understand
the craving to hear the missing Voice, even if it comes packaged
in anger or pain. The anger and pain indicate, at least, that He
still cares about what I do, about what happens to me. Because
even pissed off, it's still the most beautiful Voice in the world.
And it feels like it's been such a long time since I've heard it in
any tone at all.
My Voice yelled at me about a parking fine I had decided to
allow to go unpaid because a co-worker had advised me it
could be done with no lasting repercussions beyond angry
letters from the company I had offended. It started off with, "Pay
the fine." I was so surprised to hear that Voice tell me anything
clear, that I momentarily sat stunned in my car where I was
waiting for the light to turn green so I could start speeding past
all the slow people to get to wherever it was that I wanted to get
to that day. And then, out of habit, and anger, and longing, and
curiosity, I started arguing. "I don't want to. I don't need to. I
don't have money for that- I need to pay for medical bills,
groceries, rent, and donate to starving children in Africa and
Haiti. They don't deserve my money even if I had it- they charge
way more than what those gravel pits of space are worth."
The Voice argued back with things like, "Render unto Ceasar
what is Ceasar's," "Thou shalt not steal," "Let your conscience
be clear," "Only the wicked fear punishment," "You don't know
the future- maybe they can track your accounts," "You're using
the Justification defense mechanism because you know you
should have paid for the parking in the first place before you
ended up with the tickets and all their late fees," and finally,
"Faye, if you were to die in a car crash today because of your
terrible driving, could you really look me in the face and claim
that not paying this ticket was the right, blameless, just thing to
do?" Then I was reminded of a U B David and I'll B Jonathan
diagram that illustrates how sin creates a chasm between
ourselves and God. I ground my teeth, swearing. Because
He had me caught. "Don't do that- you're wrecking your
teeth," the Voice added. Suddenly I knew how to get coverage
for the teeth guard I'd been agonizing over since my dentist
told me it was crucial in November. Weird.
I paid the [swear-word] ticket. It actually took me a few days,
because I discovered I had run out of cheques, so I had to use
a free sample one my bank had sent me for my VISA. I put it in
a nice Christmas card that said something about peace to the
world. I couldn't bring myself to write them any personal words
of graciousness or repentance, and my mother's Voice helpfully
kicked in and reminded me that If you can't say anything nice,
don't say anything at all. Besides, like the deuce there's
anything kind you can say to a collections department that won't
be taken as either sarcasm or a bribe by the workers there. That's
like sending a Thank-you card to Revenue Canada. It's a sure
way to get yourself audited. In any case, I sent my cheque in the
conveniently labelled and pre-postage paid envelope the Parking
Company had sent me along with the last threatening letter. The
envelope had gotten a little stained from laying on the floor of my
rather dirty car for so many weeks, and I confess I felt some
satisfaction imagining them grimacing as they touched it to
retrieve their payment. That was the most passive-aggressive
method I could think of for conveying a barb along with my olive
branch. I felt God frown. I hoped it was the sort of frown parents
make at their children to discourage inappropriate behaviour,
while the parent is secretly laughing. I suppose in the parable
of the Vineyard Owner's two sons, I'm the grouchy son who
initially refuses to go work when told, but eventually gets up to go
do as asked, probably kicking rocks irritably as he walks but
compelled forward by a greater desire to make his good, loving
father happy. I think I should be concerned about how much
pride I feel in that image of myself. Would I delight in a teen who
consistently whines every time I ask her to do something useful?
I doubt it. I would probably yell at her to "Grow up," then pass out
that eternally grating piece of sage wisdom, "Sometimes we have
to do things we don't want to do. That's life." By which we mean,
of course, Grown-up life. Ohhhhhh.
[Swear-word again]. Seriously, God? That's the whole point of
the riding my bike in the miserable rain for 10 days, paying the
parking ticket, taking that stupid last course at Ambrose that I
hated and nearly failed, and going roller-blading with Dan as I
promised? Because I have to be a Grown-up now? No! I
refuse. I'm going to remain a little boy who never does anything
but play games and have fun and never grows up! Where's
Wendy? I need her to tell me and the other lost boys a story about
how I defeated Hook with Tinkerbell's fairy dust so I can go to
sleep and be rested up for my pretend fight with the Natives
tomorrow.
"That's a lie. You're perfectly capable of making a decision. Stop
holding onto lies, Faye!" The Voice of my friend Lisa, interrupting
my tirade about not knowing what to do about counselling with
Jackie Stinton, Christian Registered Psychotherapist. She says it
again, to make sure I'm listening, "Faye, stop holding onto lies!"
Yes! I know this game. When a teacher repeats some thing, it
means it's going to be on the test and you have to know it. Okay,
paying attention. Shit, she said "lies". Plural. What other
delusions am I holding on to?
1 comment:
:) praying for you
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