Forgotten But Not Gone

Twelve years ago, I submitted an essay to a woman enthusiastically engaged in compiling an anthology of women’s invincible spirit as they move through the challenges and obstacles of life’s journey. It was a daunting task. Many agents and publishers were approached only to find the book “wasn’t a good fit” for their needs (a recurring theme for all writers at some point in their career).

Eventually, I let go of anticipation and figured it was another good idea that bit the dust. Years passed. This weekend I retrieved a package from my mailbox. The return address sounded oddly familiar, but I couldn’t place it immediately. I opened the package to find a paperback book, Potpourri For And About Women. Nice, I thought. I wonder who sent it to me.

Under the front cover was a lovely note from the author, thanking me for my contribution to her book. This was a copy in thanks and recognition. What contribution, I wondered. I read on. She pointed out the story name and page number of my submission. Oh my gosh; I’d forgotten all about that piece. I scanned the list of contributors, and there was my friend Marsh’s name too.

I e-mailed Marsh about my literary faux pas at having forgotten I’d even submitted a story. She wrote back, the chuckle obvious in her words. She, too, had forgotten she’d submitted a piece twelve years prior, as had her friend, Susan, whose piece was also in the anthology.

In the author’s preface, she states, “Sharing our secrets and personal life details with others is also one of the primary means by which we humans “connect” with one another.” With that in mind, I offer you my (rediscovered) piece, “She.”


She is an observer—that is the way she participates. She witnesses; she records. She walks along the beach close to the water’s edge.

A sea otter, bobbing in and out of foamy surf, tracks her. A gray pelican dips its wings as it skims the water. The waves lap at the edges of her shoes. Fat seagulls eye her in search of food. She carries only feathers and sand speckled stones gathered from the beach.

A couple meanders by holding hands, enveloped in that aura that separates them from others. She is not part of a couple. She is a woman alone. She tells others she’s become too set in her ways, values her solitude too much to relearn the art of partnering. She tells herself she is withered from aloneness and no longer believes she has what is needed to share. She is left with a quiet longing and the ability to observe.

She parks her chaise lawn chair on the very edge of the water. The surf at high tide comes rushing, swirling beneath her, surrounding her in gray foam and motion. She lets her fingers dangle in the Pacific. She is on an island, a tiny oasis of dull green and weathered white woven strands of porous nylon that holds her inches above being swept away by the pull of the receding water. She smiles as her mind drifts out to sea.

Sitting at the water’s edge, she shares the crusts of her sandwich and a few stray grapes with a seagull. Gulls, feathers puffed in anticipation, beaks agape in expectation, besiege her. She throws her whole sandwich onto the beach and covers her ears at the cacophony that follows.

A walnut colored sea otter floats by just off shore. With whiskers twitching, it arches its sleek back, dives serpent like into the waves, and disappears.

A gray pelican, head, neck, and body forming a flying “Z” skims the surface of the water. He retreats to the peak of a barnacle encrusted volcanic rock and preens himself in the sun.

She rises and plays a game of chase with her bare feet inching her toes ever closer to the receding foam and skip-jumping backward, just in time as the surf breaks and rushes forth to capture lost ground. She loses. Icy water swirls about her and she sinks ever so slightly, as the sand shifts beneath her weight.

She hadn’t noticed a family walking toward her inland along the beach. They’ve come for the day, or perhaps forever—it’s hard to tell. They are laden with beach paraphernalia. A small girl child trails slightly behind wearing a quality of God about her tiny frame. Shiny dark hair hangs straight to her thin shoulders; her skin is the same walnut color as the sea otter. Her sun-browned feet leave miniature prints in the sand. She appears like a tiny packhorse carrying a bulky burlap sack in each arm. A brightly colored serape is thrown over her shoulders, its tattered corner trails behind her in the sand.

The family passes, taking no notice of the woman at the water’s edge. Their voices speak a language unfamiliar to her ears. The girl child pauses to consider the woman. Her almond shaped brown eyes sparkle—or maybe it’s the sun glinting off the cornea of her eyes. A shy smile reveals three dark spaces where teeth were perhaps weeks ago. The woman feels vulnerable and exposed in the girl child’s steady gaze; a chill passes through her, and then her heart warms and softens. She looks away from the child and then back again. The girl says something in that foreign tongue that sounds like, “it’s okay, lady.” A tear slips form the woman’s eye. The girl child walks on.

Art by Babies

Long week, short entry. Something I find immensely creative is refrigerator art. Have you noticed how your eyes are drawn to your friend’s or relative’s refrigerator door when you’re standing around in the kitchen? What does it say about us as a culture that we cover our refrigerator doors with snapshots, art work, cartoons, magnets with social/political/spiritual messages, theater tickets, etc.?

If I could figure out how to post more than two pictures on a blog, I’d do a study of all the refrigerator doors in my world that I spend long moments gazing at, looking for faces I recognize or memories I share. “Oh, I remember that party.” “I can’t believe your dog was ever that little.” “Aging hippies against the bomb? Right On.”

I digress. What I wanted to write about today was the one piece of art on my refrigerator door that stakes my claim in the Grandma Club. The grand twins, Linc and Ev, now go to a daycare center that keeps their little hands and minds busy all day with movement, music, games, and art (they also catch lots of colds, but that’s just the trade off). The butterflies at the top were their first art project—finger painting. They were eight months old at the time. I mean, I didn’t finger paint until kindergarten!

Some very brave teachers put out sheets of paper and let the little critters smear colors and goo all over (including themselves). Then the teachers cut shapes of butterflies out of the finger painted areas, mounted them on paper and sent them home to the proud parents.

I love having a picture of the outcome to add to my refrigerator door. Even more, what I would love to have had is a picture of the process!

Now for a SPECIAL TREAT (thanks sister Sus for forwarding this), please check out this video by Ilana Yahav who does fantastic sand art. Truly mesmerizing. http://www.dailygood.org/more.php?n=3749
, sa

Music as Creativity

In my Sept. 4, 2009 blog, I wrote about my journey as a song-catcher—how words, images, tunes come to me in a way that I just have to stop whatever I’m doing and write them down. I’m convinced an ancestor has found me and decided I would be the vehicle for her/his thwarted musical expression.

The song, Sundowner (if you click on the picture above, it will enlarge), came first as a title. When I lived in Berkeley several decades ago, I read a lot of Doris Lessing. It was a phase. They were always having sundowner parties with cocktails and friends chatting. I loved the word, sundowner. One afternoon last year, it just popped into my mind as a song title. So where’s the rest of it? I asked of the muses (ancestor?) that occasionally mess with my head. Silence. No fair! I complain. I sense a smirk from somewhere in the ethers.

Months pass and I’m on my computer checking e-mail. A tune drifts into my mind. Hmm. Where have I heard that before? I search my memory for bits and pieces of music from my personal history, tunes from childhood, etc. We were a musical family prone to singing obscure songs none of my other friends knew, like K-K-K Katie, and Doodley Do. But, I can’t place this tune.

The tune repeats itself. Oh—right; this is one of those run to the piano moments and write down the notes. I transfer my pencil scribbles onto music notation paper and grapple with the math of getting four beats per measure including rests. Why does music often come to me in a key with four flats? I change keys and try again. One sharp—that’s do-able. The music takes one and a half stanzas. Well, it’s a start. I wait. I wait some more. I give up and go back to my e-mail.

Weeks pass and I’m vacuuming the living room. Just another sundowner light inspired song… I turn off the vacuum and listen. Do these words go with the tune I wrote down last month? I go to the file I keep on my piano and search through the bits and pieces of paper. There it is, Sundowner. The lyrics fill exactly two measures and one note of the music, leaving over four measures of music wordless. Looks like I’m going to have to effort to fill in the lyrics for the remaining notes. Then of course I’ll need more notes—lots more notes, and more words. Oh, my. The photo on the right shows a few incarnations the song went through on its journey.

It was a long journey stretched over the better part of a year of adding music and lyrics, a little here, a little there. Some of it was provided (thank you honored ancestor), some of it was just plain elbow grease. I took my finished song to my very skillful mentor, Melissa Phillippe, for a tune-up when I’d done as much as I could. “It needs structure,” she said. “Songs have a structure.” She proceeded to draw a chart illustrating verse, chorus, bridge, refrain and how they all fit together to create a song. Sheesh, who knew? Back to the drawing board.

What I wound up with is a short song that I actually like enough to share with you. It says a lot about my spiritual philosophy without being overly wordy. Is it structurally perfect? No, (although it’s less embarrassing than when I first showed it to Melissa) but that wasn’t my goal. Did I feel completely immersed in creative flow while I worked on it? Absolutely. That’s what lights me up. That’s what’s important: Do what lights you up.

Post Script: There is a good chance this song will actually be performed in October in a Talent Showcase format, sung and played by jazz musician/singer extraordinaire Randal Collen. I ask you, does life get any better than this?

PSS: check out Melissa's website at www.MelissaPhillippe.com

Past Life Regression

Whether you’ve had this experience or not, whether you believe it’s a form of creative imagination or brain chemistry in action, or just a lot of "hooey" (a term that lives in the cobwebs of my Iowa childhood), I have what I choose to think of as past lives recall. My friend Nancy is a hypnotherapist, and offered to lead a small group of friends in a journey backwards to connect with other lifetimes we may have experienced. Her protocol was gentle, and nothing was suggested in the way of information or material; the format was more about posing questions for our subconscious to ponder while in a light hypnotic trance. For example: Are you male or female? What is the year? How old are you? etc., getting more specific as we move deeper into recall, and adding any noticed sensory experience.

I’ve had other spontaneous recall experiences in my life—one while sitting at a stop light downtown during the Christmas rush. I “saw” myself as a forty-ish matron in a dark coat, a pillbox sort of hat, and black sensible shoes like the ones my grandmother used to wear, standing on a flight of steps under a clock tower. The afternoon sky was chalky gray, the weather was cool and slightly drizzly, and a flock of pigeons were flying overhead. The clock bonged and I said to myself, “I guess it’s time to go pick up the children.” I sense my position was as a nanny, somewhere in Europe—England, most likely. All of this happened between the change-over from red light to green.

In another recall, I was a woman in my early twenties, wearing a long plain dress, barefoot, and being dragged by men at either side of me down a path toward scaffolding where I was to be burned as a witch. As I was bound to a post, a looked out over the gathered crowd and saw their looks of pity, excitement, fear, lust, sadness. I remember the smell of smoke, the early lick of flames, and then nothing. I’ve often thought this may be the reason I’m not called to do fire walking at the various spiritual retreats I’ve attended over the years.

Here is what I recall from the experience with Nancy:

I am a woman either in my late twenties or early thirties—hard to tell, certainly of the age to be considered a spinster by current standards. Years don’t seem too important, they just pass. My name is Jesa—something—Jesamine, maybe? I don’t hear my name spoken often. The date is early 1800s, maybe 1802.

I seem resigned to life. I am standing in a meadow of fairly high golden, tawny field grasses. It’s hot, but the breeze is blowing making the grasses sway. My complexion is ruddy from too much sun. I can feel the swollen patches on my cheeks, my forehead and chin. We’re on the plains, somewhere west of where I came from, which is slightly east of the center of the country (which would later be called the Ohio valley area).

We’ve gotten this far by covered wagon, which is sitting off a short distance from where I stand. It wasn’t my idea to travel this way, or to even travel at all. This trip has been hard, hot, and dirty. I’m standing next to my horse which has a riding blanket thrown over her back. I lean my cheek against her flank. She’s hot and sweaty. She smells of dusty horse and dry weeds. There’s something very comforting about her physical presence.

Somewhere not too far away in the field is the carcass of a buffalo. The cooking meat has been removed, but the smell of blood and the sound of flies buzzing around the remains makes my skin crawl.

There is a man I am traveling with. I don’t feel love towards him; I’m not sure I’m married to him, but he is the person moving me across the country. Perhaps I’m to be a mail order bride? To be delivered into a fated future somewhere west of here? I sense there are others traveling with us, but they’re not present at the moment. I prefer being here by myself. What I learned is that I can survive; I can make it through adversity; I am strong.

What I need to do before I leave this place is move ahead in time and see what lies before me.

I am not yet at my destination. I am on the porch of a wooden shanty. There’s a wood railing around the porch against which I lean. I look out on the dusty dirt streets. It’s a small community of settlers. I am still on my own, but I have this little house. I’m still not sure why I am here, why I left my home. I need to do something with my days, so I create a library of sorts in an abandoned shack, where people can bring any books they’ve brought with them to exchange with others. Perhaps I’ll meet people that way.

About an hour has passed when we are called back by Nancy’s voice, back to the present, back to the room, back to the circle of friends to reflect silently for a moment on our journeys. Later, we will share our stories along with food we’ve brought. “Traveling” seems to have left us ravenous.

To reach Nancy please see her blog at:
http://open.salon.com/blog/reluctant_earthling

It’s Always the Last Place You Look

Well, how stupid is that, anyway? Of course it is; why keep looking after you’ve found something that was lost? I’ve never taken any comfort from that saying—until this morning. Perhaps you can relate.

My friend Joan and I are taking our friend Trudy to San Francisco for a day in Golden Gate Park as a belated birthday celebration. I haven’t “done” the touristy thing in the City for close to thirty years, and was happily bustling around the kitchen packing my half of our picnic lunch, cheese, fruit, and an assortment of olives. Oh, yeah—the blanket; I was supposed to bring a blanket. I grabbed my keys from my bag, went out to the car and popped the trunk. I struggled my blue stadium blanket loose from its position as cover for the disintegrating upholstery of the back seat of my ancient Honda. I closed the trunk with a resounding thud, and turned my face to the early morning sunshine—a real treat after a couple days of rain and wind.

Back in the house I finished getting ready for our day, made my bed, and cleared the breakfast dishes. Rather than lug my usual Timbuk2 bag which carries everything I might conceivably need to get through a day (it’s a Virgo thing), I pared down the contents to a light travel size purse. Keys—where are my keys? They should be right here on the table where I put them after coming in from the car. They’re not. I glance at the clock. I have an hour.

My hearts start to pound; I can feel a line of sweat form on my forehead just below my hairline. These aren’t just my keys, these are MY KEYS—keys to my house, my car, my private practice, my agency office, my daughter’s house, my bicycle, even the deadbolt key to my deceased parents’ home in CO. Breathe, I instruct myself. In: one, two, three, four; out: one, two, three. Repeat. I’ve never actually had a panic attack, and from the reports of people who have, I don’t want to start now.

Okay. I’ll retrace my steps, starting with the car, for which I had to have my keys to open the trunk, right? I don’t have a minor in Critical Thinking for nothing. Nope, not in the trunk. I am a creature of habit; I would have laid the keys on the kitchen table when I came back in the house. Nope, not on the table—or under it, or on any of the chairs around it. Well, this is just nuts.

When my daughter Sara was little, we used to read a series of childrens books by Patricia Coombs. One of her favorites was Dorrie and the Blue Witch, in which Dorrie, a little girl witch, and her mother, known as The Big Witch, capture the mean Blue Witch in a jar. The Blue Witch is so upset she starts jumping around, throwing off sparks, and making noise like the buzzing of bees. I felt a lot like that as I rampaged though the house, opening closet doors, looking under furniture; checking and re-checking my pockets. I even looked in the refrigerator and freezer, just in case.

The phone rang. It was Joan, checking on a last minute detail of our day. “My keys! They’re gone!” My voice edged on hysteria. How could I leave for a day with something this huge hanging over my head? “Duplicates?” she wondered. Of course. I have an extra house key, so I can get in and out of my house. I have a car door key, but it doesn’t work in the ignition. I have an extra bike key. There you go; that’s it. “Have you looked…” and we went through the list of places I’d already looked.

When I hung up, I decided to take a moment to quiet my mind, slow my pulse, and calm my psyche. I turned to the same place I ask for protection and guidance (and sometimes a parking spot)—my honored ancestors, who I trust “have my back” and intercede when I’m completely in my own way. “Okay you guys,” (our relationship is as relaxed as when those relatives were still walking around in their earth bodies) “I need your help here.” Even I know that when you do the same thing over and over, you’re not going to get a different outcome. I’d been going over and over my steps since getting the blanket from the car. “Start back farther,” was the guidance that came from my slowly quieting mind.

Okay, I got up, put on my robe, had breakfast, found the cooler, assembled the things from the refrigerator, went out to the car… Whoa! I was in my robe; I hadn’t showered and dressed yet. Like a crazed woman, I jumped up off the couch and ran into the bathroom. I jammed my hand into the pocket of my robe hanging on the back of the door (the last place I would look), and felt the satisfying scrape of knuckle on metal.

I let out a whoosh of breath that I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Thanks guys,” I sent an appreciative prayer into the universe. The rest of the day I spent taking in the splendor of nature in the park instead of obsessing about how my life was going to be inconvenienced by a missing ring of keys. And, yes, I’m getting duplicates.

AS A SPECIAL TREAT: I never know how long these things are available, so I wanted to share it with you this week. Sister Sus sent this link for those who like to doodle; it was so enthralling, I almost forgot to leave for work: http://eigelb.at/HP/Links/SpecialEffects/Grappa/BlueRandom/index.html

In My Dream

In memory of Jean M. Bidwell 10/2/24 - 8/9/08

Sometimes there’s a cross-over between dream and waking states. Where one ends and the other begins is hazy:

The oncologist wiped sweat from his forehead onto the back of his hand. Self-consciously he slipped his hand into the pocket of his white smock. He placed his other hand on my arm. I felt the warmth penetrate through the layers of my blouse and sweater. His eyes, the color of ocean fog, reflected blue-gray, and focused slightly to the left of my nose. His voice was grave and resonate as he said, “Your mother is dying. The cancer is back. There’s nothing more we can do.” He shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry.”

A cold stillness passed through my body. I knew my heart must still be beating, but I couldn’t hear it, couldn’t feel it. For fifteen years, she had beaten the odds. Year after year, the cancer checks had come back clean. After the twelfth year she said, “Now I believe it’s really gone.” I had believed it too. Cancer had not claimed my mother. She had beaten it into submission with her will.

I woke in a cold sweat, the blankets tangled about me as I struggled to sit upright. My heart pounded--that was good. I could feel it; I could hear it. It was only a dream.

Over a lifetime, I’ve earned the rep as the family nut who calls early in the morning to suggest, for example, my sister take her cat Sasha to the vet because I dreamed of an obstruction in her feline’s stomach that had been overlooked. I later offered to pay the bill for the x-rays that showed a perfectly healthy and functional intestinal tract.

Then there was the time I instructed my brother to look under the loose brick in the neighbor’s back yard where I had dreamed his wallet, missing for a month, had been hidden. There was a loose brick, under which a scorpion was hidden that nearly stung him. Therefore, I was now in the habit of discounting my own dreams, and would only call to share a self-deprecating chuckle over the absurdity of yet another crazy story from my subconscious.

I lingered over a cup of French Roast. Oh, what the heck, I thought. As I reached for the phone to call Mom, it rang. I jumped. Hot coffee splashed onto the sleeve of my robe and dripped off my wrist as I hurled an expletive into the light of day. I set my cup down, dabbed at my cuff with a Kleenex, reached again for the phone, and picked it up on the third ring.

“It’s your mother,” she said. Mom had a way of cutting to the chase that made me smile when it wasn’t exasperating me.

“Mom, I was just about to call you. I had this…”

“The cancer is back,” she interrupted. “It’s on my liver this time. I’m dying,” she stated.

“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

Gone

“Excuse me, do you work here?” the young woman with a toddler slung on one hip inquired as Jane opened the door to the waiting room to check for her Thursday, three o’clock client. It was 3:20.

“I do. Can I help you with something?” She sized up the woman—practically a child herself, undernourished physically (and no doubt emotionally) she surmised. Her limp, sand-blond hair was pulled back in a frayed-out cloth scrunchie. She wore faded jeans and a tee shirt that showed a pale stretch of belly. No make-up, no jewelry. Attractive in a ghostly sort of way.

“My therapist seems to have forgotten me...”

My client seems to have forgotten me. It’s a perfect match; come on in, Jane thought with an internal smile. “Who are you here to see?” she asked instead.

“Wendy. I mean, I could be wrong about the day, or the time, or something,” she apologized hastily, as if she were used to things being her fault.

The large-eyed toddler clung to her mother like a Rhesus monkey as she considered Jane suspiciously under eyelashes that were to die for.

“That just isn’t like Wendy. She’s as predictable as the geysers,” Jane said, glancing at her watch.

The young woman tried for a smile and failed. She looked at Wendy’s closed office door, then back at Jane.

“Would you like to leave her a note? I’ll put it in her mailbox for you,” Jane offered. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

The woman sat the child on the floor near her feet, searched through her bag to find paper and a pen. She scrawled a quick note, added her phone number and handed it to Jane.

“Thanks. I hope she’s okay,” she said as she gathered up the toddler, tossed her bag over her shoulder, and left through the front door.

Odd, Jane pondered, before turning to the back office where she left the note in Wendy’s mailbox. The young woman and toddler were quickly forgotten in her attempt to track down her own client who was a “no show” for the second time in a row.

“This is getting old,” she muttered to herself as the phone on the other end rang repeatedly.

At seven o’clock, Jane clicked off the Tiffany lamp, locked the door to her office and made a mental note to call Wendy. As she locked the deadbolt to the back door of the office suite, she noted the empty parking lot at the rear of the building where Wendy usually parked her Wrangler. Maybe it’s the flu, she reasoned. There’s a lot of that going around.

Jane ambled down the driveway to the front of the building and keyed the bike lock freeing her ancient Schwinn that was chained to the sign post. She secured her bag in the metal basket with a bungee cord she found in the middle of the street at the beginning of summer.

Natalie had just turned the Closed sign on the chiropractic office next door, and stepped out onto the stoop.

“Where’s you helmet?” she admonished.

“Haven’t found one yet,” Jane answered.

“Got a wing in the hospital with your name on it, girl,” Natalie called. It was a conversation they had several times a week.

“You didn’t happen to see Wendy pull in today by any chance?” Jane asked.

“Do I look like a parking monitor?” Natalie chuckled. “Why?”

“Oh, probably nothing,” Jane said. She waved as she pedaled off down the street, faster than a speeding turtle, Natalie’s favorite description.

The sun was low, but the warmth lingered. The scent of Jasmine hung thickly and mixed with dinner smells drifting from neighborhood houses. Her stomach rumbled as the scent of fried chicken wafted on the air, followed by pizza two houses later. The breeze played with her hair and she grinned with pleasure.

At home in her tiny California bungalow, Jane made wonderful dinner smells of her own. As the broccoli steamed, she sliced and heated some chicken, and forked a mound of pickled beets from a jar. She booted up her computer and opened a chilled bottle of Chardonnay. While the messages tumbled into her In Box, she typed a quick e-mail to her office mate.

Hey, Wendy, where were you today? Cute little thing was looking for you. Okay, so she was a client. You all right? Send.

Twenty messages—good God, she thought, as she closed down her computer. Jane poured herself a glass of wine, arranged the colorful food on her favorite hand-thrown pottery plate, grabbed a napkin and settled herself in front of the television. With the remote, she clicked on the Independent Film Channel. “Now this is life,” she grinned at Harley, her Tetra, who signaled his love and devotion by circling his bowl and blowing little fish bubbles at her.

Half way through Fargo the phone rang. Okay, so she’d seen the movie three times before, but still... She opted to let the machine pick up, but turned the TV volume down a notch to screen the call. Connie, who worked alternate days from Jane’s schedule, was on the line.

“Jane, if you’re there pick up. Put down your wine glass, turn off the television and answer your phone...” She was obviously going to wait her out.

“Damn,” Jane muttered, blotting chicken grease from the corner of her mouth. She wadded up the napkin and tossed it on her plate.

“Why don’t I get an evening of peace and quiet like a normal person?” she grumbled into the receiver.

“You’ve never been a normal person,” Connie bantered. “Where’s Wendy?” she cut to the chase.

“I am not my sister’s keeper,” Jane quipped, “but, funny you should ask. She missed a client hour today. Have you seen her?”

“Nope. She wasn’t around yesterday and didn’t return my phone call or my e-mail. That’s just not like her. Did she say anything about going out of town?”

“No. I usually cover for her. Maybe I’ll drop by her house on my way to the office in the morning,” Jane said.

“Tell her rent’s due at the office when you find her, okay?”

“Gee, how compassionate. Aren’t you a little worried about her?”

“I’m worried about the rent at the moment,” Connie said.

They hung up and Jane returned to the movie but couldn’t keep her mind on it. It was as if mental mice were skittering around in her brain. She had an unsettling feeling she couldn’t quite name.

“Mice do that to me,” she said to Harley. He smacked his little fish lips at her in understanding.

Wendy’s condo was ten blocks out of Jane’s way, farther by bike than by car, she figured as she puffed and panted her way up to the carport. It was empty. She chained her Schwinn to a metal post and walked up the front steps, glancing over her shoulder for neighbors who might be up and out at this hour of morning.

Five plastic-wrapped Tribunes lay at odd angles on the small porch, surrounding a potted Begonia that seemed to be suffering heat stroke. The Venetian blinds were down but not drawn shut, and Jane peered through the slats into the dark living room. On an end table near the door, a green light blinked spasmodically on the answering machine.

Without much hope, Jane pounded on the metal door frame. She lifted the lid of the mailbox next to the door and peeked in. Scrawled in spidery writing was a note on a recipe card: Wendy, I’ve got your mail. Call me when you get back. Bertha

Apparently this was the kind of neighborhood where people watched out for each other. Now, which condo belongs to Bertha, Jane wondered. She guessed Bertha didn’t know much about Begonias, and spotting the hose coiled like a dead snake under the window next to the house, Jane took the bedraggled plant back down the steps for a good soak.

Preoccupied with the plant, she didn’t notice the man approach her until his shadow fell over her like an eclipse of the sun. She turned with a start and flinched as if she’d been struck. He was huge. Eight feet at least, Jane figured, before she realized she was squatting on the ground.

“Who are you?” he boomed. The man was dressed in overalls with no shirt, and was barefooted. Copper red hair clung to his large skull in dreadlocks.

She got to her feet, the Begonia in her arms; bogish water sloshed down the front of her blouse and seeped down one pants leg.

Gathering her wits, she looked up at the giant, and said, “My name is Jane. I work with Wendy, the woman who lives here. And you would be?” The quiver in her voice belied her bravado.

“I would be wanting to change my clothes, if I were you,” he grinned, his face changing from predatory giant to overgrown imp.

Jane blushed, set the plant down and brushed at the debris that clung to the white cotton.

“Call me Bertha,” he said, extending a beefy hand. Jane’s eyes widened. They pumped hands for a moment, then he said, “She’s been gone since Saturday. Not like her.”

“No, it isn’t,” Jane agreed. “She’s been missing at the office. I thought maybe she was home with the flu or something.”

They exchanged phone numbers and promises to call if either of them heard from Wendy.

“Nice to meet you,” Jane called as she hopped on her bike. Bertha flashed a peace sign. “Live well, die with honor,” he shouted after her.

Strange, Wendy had never mentioned this neighbor to her, Jane thought. She wondered what else she might not know about Wendy’s life.

Being a Virgo had its advantages. There was a change of clothes in the closet at her office, a back-up for the unpredictable weather in the North Bay area. Jane ran a comb through her hair and sat down at her desk to check for messages. She pushed the Play button.

This is Deputy Sheriff Costa calling regarding a Wendy Philson. We have her listed as a missing person. I understand you have a business relationship with her. Please call at your earliest convenience.

Jane jotted down his number and collected the rest of her calls.
Missing person? She’d never known a missing person before. People in her life didn’t do that--didn’t just go missing. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She expected a voice-over to say, “You are now entering the Twilight Zone.”

She gave a little shiver and checked the clock. Four clients in a row. She’d have to return the call to Deputy Costa later.

“Have a good weekend,” she called to her last client as he walked down the hall. The young man stopped dead in his tracks, his head swiveled slowly to regard Jane. A look of agitation twisted his face.

“Oh, no, Adam, that wasn’t an order—just a wish. You know, like I hope you have a good weekend.”

A slight smile smoothed the wrinkles between his eyebrows before he turned to step through the door.

Jane let out a slow sigh and shook her head. Back at her desk she dialed Deputy Costa.

“Is there anything you can tell us about your office mate that will help us locate her?” he inquired. “Like a phone number for the family?”

“Uh—well, no, actually. I’m not sure where her family lives. I’m not even sure she has a family,” Jane stuttered.

“Any pets that might be boarded with a vet or anything?” he tried again.

“Gosh, I really don’t know if she has pets. I’ve never been in her house. I’ve only looked in her window.” Oh, brilliant, Jane thought.

“Friends she may have checked in with?” he asked.

“I’m not sure who her friends are, come to think of it.” She was feeling increasingly uneasy.

“You really don’t know much about your office mate, do you?” Deputy Costa said matter-of-factly.

“Sorry,” Jane said. “Will you let us know if you find her?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jane hung up the phone, sat back in her chair, and thought about how their group had formed. Connie, Megan, Patrice, and Jane had known each other in graduate school. They’d all gotten licensed within a year of one another and banned together to face the competitive world of private practice. Wendy was the last to join their group a year ago. She came highly recommended by someone, although at the moment, Jane couldn’t remember who. They said hello when they passed in the hallway, and they’d sat in business meetings together, twice. “Hmmm, I guess I really don’t know her,” Jane said aloud.

E-mails flew back and forth through cyberspace that night as the four therapists processed this turn of events. What was their duty to Wendy’s clients, if any? If she doesn’t return, what happens to her client files? Her furniture? When do we re-lease the office? What about the mail and the bills piling up? Should we change her out-going message?

Strangely unsettled by the recent events, Jane stayed close to home over the weekend, puttered in the garden, cleaned out a closet, baked a quiche—did all those grounding activities that helped her feel in control of her own small reality.

The following Monday, she hitched her bike to the sign post in front of the office, walked through the front door into the waiting room, and noticed Wendy’s office door ajar at the end of the hall.

Jane froze. “Burglar,” she whispered to the empty waiting room. In a panic, she backed out of the office, and inched her way down the front steps. She crept down the driveway, keeping a low profile under the windows on the East side of the building, and peered around the corner into the lot where Wendy’s silver Wrangler was parked in the shade.

“Oh, my god, she’s back!” Jane hollered. She jammed her key into the back door deadbolt and bounded through the mail room into the main hallway. The light shone through Wendy’s open door.

Jane, giddy with relief, rushed into the office. Grinning like a kid at Christmas, she said, “Wendy, you’re alive! You’re here! I’m so glad.”

“Wow,” Wendy said with a smile. “What did I do to deserve a welcome like this?” She looked up from her chair and studied Jane a moment. Something’s off, she thought to herself. Jane seems a little manic, possibly high on something, not like her usual sedate self.

“You’re kidding, right?” Jane bubbled. “Where on earth have you been? We’ve all been sick with worry. Your clients didn’t know what had happened to you. We didn’t know if you were coming back or...” she bubbled on until she noticed confusion plastered all over Wendy’s face.

“Uh, Jane—what are you talking about?” Wendy kept her voice even as she rose from her chair. She approached Jane cautiously, tried to maintain soothing eye contact like you might an injured animal. She’d never seen her like this.

“Oh, come on, Wendy,” Jane stared at her. “Where the hell have you been for the last week? Bertha didn’t even know where you were.”

“Who on earth is Bertha?” Wendy asked, trying to get a read on what was happening.

“Bertha—your giant neighbor,” Jane said, exasperated. “Your clients were calling and we didn’t know what to tell them. The Sheriff showed up looking for you...”

There was a tap on the door just then. Jane spun around to see Connie step through the doorway.

“Connie, thank god,” Jane said, her voice thick with desperation. “Look—she’s back,” she pointed wildly at Wendy.

“Were you gone?” Connie smiled at Wendy.

“Jane seems to think so,” Wendy answered.

Jane turned from one woman to the next and back again. “The rent, Connie. You said you were worried about the rent since Wendy was no where to be found. You remember that, right?” she pleaded. Jane’s eyes had taken on a wild, unfocused look. Her hands trembled.

“I banked Wendy’s check along with all of ours on Monday and mailed the rent Tuesday. What’s going on, Jane?” Connie glanced at Wendy who shrugged.

Jane’s knees buckled. The room swam and from somewhere far off, she heard a voice-over saying, “You have just visited the Twilight Zone.”


* Speaking of Gone, I'll be away from my computer next week, but I invite you to browse through my friend Nancy's blog. She just posted a wonderful piece on past lives. http://open.salon.com/blog/reluctant_earthling I think you'll enjoy it.