Reflections, part two

Once he got home, and the normal routine was filtered through, he lay down in bed, and started reading. And reading. Thoughts seemed to fly from every corner of his mind, and he started to go to those places in his soul marked by signs that said "Proceed at your own risk" or "Abandon all hope ye who enter here" or "Here there be monsters". He made it halfway through before fatigue simply cried out too loud to be ignored, and he had to shut out the light. The empty place on the other side of the bed did not go unnoticed, and he quickly drifted off to sleep with a dull ache throbbing in his heart, and tears seeping out through the corners of his now shut eyes.

The next evening, after the kids had been put to bed, and the icy silence between he and his wife resumed, he returned to the bedroom and opened the book again, reading it to completion. Closing the book, he mulled over the thoughts the text had left him with, and he prayed quietly, asking if the epiphany was real, and if it really all came down to something so simple, knowing as he did so that it was. He fell asleep alone, considering the revelation, and wondering what he might do about it.

The next morning, after dropping the children off, he began the winding drive to work that was his route every Thursday and Friday morning. Even though it was longer than the highway, it had the virtue of less traffic, and the ability to keep moving, rather than sitting for long periods and inhaling the exhaust of the cars in front of him. It didn't disappoint today. As he came down from the foothills, the winding road took him through the trees, where clouds hung low and uneven, like cotton dragged across Velcro. As he left behind the second valley town that he travelled through on his way to work, he found himself smiling for no reason at all. He couldn't remember the last time he had done so, or even if he had ever done so before. He considered this riddle for a few minutes, then he started to speak. "I get it, God. I need to put it down. The fear I have had for so long. The fear that applied to everything. That it isn't enough. That I'm not good enough. That I'll have the relationship with my kids that my Dad had with me."
He could swear that he heard a reassuring voice, with calm quiet tones resonate in his head. "I'm glad you finally get it, Son. Put it down. Walk away. Do not look back. It isn't for you. I have called you to other things. But you also have to take away all the barriers you hide behind."

This came as a slap in the face to him. The barriers were there for so many things. Their efficacy had been dubious of late, as emotions continued to spill over and around them, even as he still sometimes tried to hide from them. The sarcasm, which was an automatic defense for so many years had lost its edge, and it seemed a chore these days to wield it. Still, it was like being asked to give up a limb. The bargaining began. "OK. How about this one?"
"No. Put them all down."
"OK, not that one, but you really don't mean this one? Or this one?"
Sigh. "I want you to put all of them down. Every last one. You need to live without them for awhile. Someday, I might let you have a few back, once you learn a few lessons that are going to take some time. What you will get back in turn will be as liberating as it is instructive. It won't be easy, but it wasn't easy for you to get here, either. Remember that in the days that will come."
"OK. I get it. Thank you for letting me see this."
"Thank you for listening. By the way, this doesn't come without a price. You know what you are doing Sunday now, right?"
Feeling like a chastised child, but still smiling, he said "Yes." as he came around the blind corner by the old power plant.

So many things had happened since then. The strained trip to California, where he wanted to have fun and really connect with her again, but there seemed to be a wall between them that he could not breach, no matter how hard he tried. Alone, on the flight back, he wondered if that was the face he had presented to her for so long while he battled his own demons.

Then came the chest pains, that seemed so real, but were simply anxiety. The diagnosis of his eyes. The growing distance and the increasing absences. The nights alone in the house after the kids went to bed. The bizarre encounters two weekends in a row that left him feeling bewildered and valueless. The announcement, and the open contempt and hostility that came with it. The continuing emotional blows, that brought the disappointing discovery that yes, he really could hurt more, even when he didn't believe it was possible. And through it all, the faith that God would carry him through when he didn't think he could walk any further. Then came the pain.

As he lay in bed alone one evening watching TV, he wondered why he felt the very real physical pain he felt. He mentally reviewed the last few days. There was no reason why he should feel this way. He considered it for a few minutes, and realized that he had been feeling this way for a few days. Alerted, he turned on his laptop, and after a few keystrokes, his eyes poured over a list of symptoms on the screen that sounded alarmingly familiar. He performed a physical exam and realized that they matched his own very closely. Regret hit him like a ton of bricks. He did not want to leave the relationship like this. He had come too far, learned too much, and was still too in love to let it end in failure. He couldn't accept the concept. Then the thought of his children filled his mind. Now that he was certain he had something worthwhile with them, and had forged a relationship that they would cherish far more than the one his father had built with him. The thought of their last memories of him being of him wasting away in a hospital was too much to bear. He fell to his knees, sobbing silently as he leaned against the bed, and eventually fell asleep there on the floor. The next morning brought the confrontation with her about it, and the departure before she could see the tears welling up in his eyes as he headed out the door on his way to the Doctor's office. He had already shed too many before her in the previous weeks. He selfishly harbored the belief that these were his, and his alone. The confrontation itself was borne of the simmering stew of emotions that had been prepared over the previous weeks. It wasn't fair to her, and he knew it the minute he started saying the words to her. The words came from a place of deep pain, a wound that was resisting all attempts to heal. The doctor's lousy poker face and marked change in attitude as he wrote the referral for more testing did nothing to alleviate his dread.

The testing was likewise terrifying. After a 45 minute exam that left him in more pain than ever, the focus on two areas in particular, and the technician's repeated question "Are you here for any other tests today?", he had no words. After cleaning up and dressing, he walked to his car, got in, and mechanically drove up the hill to deposit his paycheck, then, got back in, and drove to an empty area of the parking lot, and in the rain and gathering darkness, he shut off the engine. A text message from a friend in another state flashed on his cell phone. The joke didn't make him laugh. He shut his eyes for a minute, then started crying. He wanted only three things at this moment. A drink, a steak, and three to five hours of uninterrupted, passionate, messy sex. As he slowly came back into control, he looked at the message again, and laughed. He called the friend back, and let him know that what he was suggesting didn't happen, and that under the circumstances, it probably was a good thing. They both laughed as he told his friend what he wanted most right now. His friend was reassured by the list that nothing at all was wrong with him. He looked at the clock, saw the time, and ended the call. Instead of proceeding to obtain the items on his list, he met up with his father in law, and took the kids to the elder child's psychologist for his scheduled appointment. Afterward, he took them to McDonald's to buy both children dinner before heading home. As they headed to the restaurant, a text message flashed on his phone.

Reflections, part one

As he drove the winding road, his eyes were following the twists, but his mind was a million miles away. The snow was falling in huge flakes, the song of praise turned up loud enough to drown out any road noise that might make him more than slightly present in the cabin of the car.

It had been such an emotional year. The very sound of the word 'emotional' resonated in his head in a way that he simply did not expect, and was still getting used to as the word continued to take on a new meaning in his life. And there was still so much that he was processing now, days, months, and even years distant from so many events. The insights had come fast and furious, starting with a slow roll from a stint in therapy at the beginning of the last fall, when it had been suggested that he had been "stuffing" his emotions, and from the sound of things, had been doing so all of his life. This was the reason for the explosive eruptions of temper, that while not really physical, were still powerful enough that he himself had been disturbed by their intensity. While the therapy had been brief, as the busy lifestyle had intruded to the point that continuation at that time was impossible, the consideration of the conclusions continued. He didn't mind. The part of his brain that usually occupied itself with more trivial matters like the name of the actor in the old movie he had watched the other night actually had something of consequence to do. The fact that he no longer was waking up in the middle of the night with the sudden remembrance of such pointless things proved to be a serious comfort as well. The net result was that he was constantly examining his actions, and those of the people around him and pondering the question that he had started out hating: "How does this make me feel?" Consequently, he had started to react differently toward his children. Persuasion and understanding soon ruled where only hegemony by force had reigned before. He wasn't a pushover, and had come to master "the look", which spoke volumes the right way without saying a word. The understanding meant coming to grips with his oldest child's condition, and realizing that he too, had certain characteristics of it, and that perhaps his own father had a very serious case of it. This understanding allowed him to draw on his own childhood experiences in a way that helped him to help his own son with his day to day struggles with social interaction. Along the way, he noticed that he started to feel more than two or three emotions. He also reflected on how unusual his own childhood was.

Of course, there were other troubles. A long abdication of any real responsibility in his marriage had created strains that would not stay hidden any longer. More work and exploration was necessary. He fell back on the one method that had always worked for him. He read. Relationship books filled his days and nights. The fiction that he had escaped into for so many years simply faded into the background. He made more discoveries as he worked through the books piling up next to his side of the bed. Some were very startling to him. One such revelation had to do with what communicated with him most effectively. Apparently, physical touch spoke directly to him in ways he never anticipated. In retrospect, it seemed like a big "Duh!" might have been appropriate. It explained the appetite for sex, and the feelings of dissatisfaction after. It wasn't that he didn't like sex. That really wasn't possible, but he'd spent so many years centering on it, when it wasn't what he really needed. After a childhood in a home where such expression "just did not happen", he was startled to find out that such a basic thing was so primary to his everyday needs.

Things were starting to come together. He was constantly surprised by the emotions he experienced daily. He felt like a man who had only been able to see in black and white; each emotion was a color, and his days were crowded with vibrant hues. The only thing he wasn't ready for was his own reactions. Feeling was a two way street, and he found it harder to shut out the emotions he didn't want to have. This made day to day living far more interesting than he would have liked at times. What he didn't see was the last piece to understanding lying in wait, like a predator, ready to strike him down.

Things were not good at home. One night, he stayed late at work, but found himself unable to concentrate. He left and went to the local outlet mall, hoping that the walk would sooth his troubled mind, the same way it always eased his anxieties. After rounding the building, he found himself standing outside the Christian bookstore. In the last few months, he had found himself getting more serious about religion, making church attendance a priority, and returning to daily reading the Bible. God had been a nebulous concept in his life for a very long time. Having grown up in the irreligious part of a very religious family, he knew about religion, but it was really more of an intellectual exercise rather than a grounded belief that affected his behavior or outlook. This continued until a conversation one night in bed with his then girlfriend, now wife, in which she had managed to convince him that it really didn't matter what man planned or did for himself, because it simply would not prevail against God's plans. After they were married, they attended a strongly Bible based church. A spiritual awakening of sorts had taken root in him there, and his study of the Bible and application of it to his daily life made him feel very spiritually empowered. Yet a shadow fell, and he started chasing things that he thought he needed, rather than being the spiritual leader of his household. He fell out of the habits, and they lived a life less fulfilled, without ever really understanding why. The power that was so real to him, that seemed to come from every pore, faded quickly and except for the guilt that this created, it became as a dream, fading in the rays of the morning sun. This previous intimacy that had been absent for so long was now slowly returning, and he pondered this as he stood outside the store, looking in at the patrons perusing the shelves. He finally went in. He started leafing through a book he had recently read about, and was surprised at how much it was speaking directly to his feelings, and the places in his life he was still reluctant to approach. He purchased it and left the store.

A Window to Chapter XX

Despite the tension, he felt oddly relaxed as they drove through the darkness on the way home. The heat was turned up, the temperature was warm as the rain fell on the windshield. The conversation had taken its inevitable turn when the distractions were no longer available. The show had been pleasant enough, though there was no question that it was definitely NOT Broadway bound. He had enjoyed the opportunity to get dressed up, and simply enjoy her company for a night out, even though she had been less than affectionate. He let his eyes wander over and settled on her empty ring finger. The question had been pointed; the response less than satisfactory. The rest of the ride home had been words. Soft ones. Loud ones. Words hurled with accusation, and anger, and words tinged with sorrow, and regret. It all seemed like meaningless details, as the statement intended by the bare finger seared into his brain like a brand on his soul, as he dangled from the most lasting effect love can inflict, the most exquisite pain that love can create: a thread of hope.

The Darkness Unleashed

Owen slowly opened one eye. Deciding that he wasn't dead, he tried to sit up. Pulverized concrete and dust left his mouth dry. Slowly, he surveyed his surroundings. Apparently when the Convention Center caved in, he was thrown clear. He couldn't explain why being thrown to the concrete three stories below hadn't killed him. He didn't even appear to be seriously injured. He then remembered what he had been doing when the floor dropped out from beneath him, and looked for his phone. The slim Motorola didn't appear to have fared as well as he had. I lay in two pieces, 10 feet from where he came to. The display was shattered. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, a breeze cloaking him in the smell of smoke, and death. The phone seemed to be a symbol of everything that had happened that day. Nothing would be the same. He looked toward what remained of the Convention Center. How many people had been in the building? How many now lay entombed in the rubble surrounding him?

He snapped back into the moment, his reverie cut short by the falling temperature. The sun was settling over the Puget Sound, shimmering behind the smoke and dust. Above, a few helicopters buzzed about, lights flickering, as they flew back and forth over the city. As he started to walk, he heard no shouts, no cries for help, no screams of pain. The bodies, and parts of bodies that he saw appeared to be lifeless. It took him nearly an hour to travel two blocks, climbing over the pieces of concrete that used to be fill the skies of the city. In the back of his mind, it seemed that a helicopter was following him, but it was a million miles away from his mental state of mind. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and something very primitive had been let loose from a cage. Thoughts now filled his head that didn't prompt any mental response at all. Bloody images, murderous acts performed with an emotionless, mechanical precision. The kinds of things that would strike terror into the heart of the most committed jihadi, executed with no more feeling than mowing the lawn, or taking out the trash.

After what seemed like hours, he walked onto an undamaged roadway. National Guard vehicles blocked passage through, and a nervous looking sentry, who couldn't have been older than 19 drew his weapon and trained it on the dirt and blood streaked man, who now loped toward him with a look of pure hatred on his face. Owen was so consumed with rage that he did not even notice the spotlight from the helicopter overhead. The soldier, who had enlisted six months before had never seen devastation like what lay before him, and could not fathom how anyone had survived. "Halt!" he shouted. Owen advanced until the rifle poked him in the chest. He looked down, looked up, and batted the rifle away, still oblivious to the spotlight focused on him. His expression softened slightly, as if the feral instinct recently unleashed recognized that the soldier was nothing more than a kid who was out of his depth. Through clenched teeth, Owen growled "Next time you point a weapon at me, you better be ready to use it." He continued walking past the sentry, as another soldier ran up and grabbed him by the arm. "Where did you come from?" he asked. Owen stopped and looked at him for a moment. "I was in the Convention Center. I was thrown clear. Do you have the keys?" as he nodded toward the Humvee. The second soldier was not so easily dismissed. "Is anyone else alive? Did you see any policemen, or firefighters?" Owen sighed. "I didn't see anyone else who appeared to be alive." "What happened?" Owen turned and looked the second soldier in the eyes. "There were buildings exploding, shouts to Allah, more buildings exploding, and then more buildings exploding. Give me the damn keys."
"What? No. You'll have to come talk to the Major, and tell him what you saw and heard." What happened next surprised even Owen. The combination of rage, adrenalin, and irritation coalesced, and in a lightning quick move, Owen grabbed the soldier by the neck, slammed him against the Humvee, and lifted him of the ground. His lips twisting into a sneer, he said "Keys! Now! I'll give you my damn driver's licence, and your Major can send someone to debrief me tomorrow morning. If you send anyone before then, I cannot guarantee their safety." The soldier handed the keys to the man who held him suspended in the air. Owen tossed him to the side, got in, and drove South on a deserted I-5.
**********
Rebecca sat motionless in the chair, where her coworkers had placed her after picking her up off of the sidewalk, where she lay sobbing. Even though the sun was going down, the authorities had order everyone to stay where they were, since no one knew if the attacks were over, if they were attacks. Her coworkers all sat in clusters around the office, watching the video coverage on CNN on their computers. The reporter stated that a group calling itself the Islamic Army of Jihad was taking credit for the destruction in Seattle and threatened to do the same to another city or town in the United States for each day the United States maintained a military presence in the Middle East. Then the image changed, and a man, covered in dirt, debris, and blood was making his way from the Convention Center area to the the south. The officeworkers spoke to each in hushed tones "Who is this guy? Where is he going?" More and more people watched as time passed. The ambient noise in the room faded, until the eerie sounds of the same newscaster's voice echoed from different locations around the room. When the man batted away the first soldier's rifle and headed for the Humvee, the reaction was mixed, but all were amazed. When the man picked the second soldier up and slammed him against the Humveee, a few people uttered "My God, who is this guy?" As the man climbed in the camera zoomed in on his face. Which still was not clear on the computer monitors around the room.

A few minutes passed and the newscaster announced that they had enhanced the zoom shot of the man's face. The picture cut away from the newscaster and a grainy, blurry image of Owen filled the screen. Gasps immediately fell to the floor. Rebecca's friend Amy shouted "Becky! Its Owen! He's alive!"

Rebecca still stared ahead, but said, almost inaudibly "Alive?"
"Yes, Becky! Look!"
The light of hope filled her face, bringing her back from the place between life and death where she had spent the last few hours. She swiveled toward the nearest monitor, where she was greeted with the sight of her husband. Dirty, bloody, disfigured by a look she did not recognize, but it was him. "Alive!!! Alive she said as the tears streamed anew down her smiling face.

The Closed Circle

He turned from the windows as the debris that used to be the restaurant across the street shattered the titanic panes of glass and turned them in to glittering projectiles. He lay still on the floor, with chunks of stone and glass falling on him, the rumble from the explosion fading, only to be replaced by the screams of the dead and injured. Silently, he took inventory, and concluded that aside from the impact itself, he was uninjured. As he slowly lifted himself off the floor, he muttered under his breath about waiting till the last minute to take his CLE courses for this reporting period. As he dusted himself off, he looked at the shattered remnants of his favorite coffee mug, the contents spreading a dark stain on the carpet. "DAMMIT, I HATE COMING TO SEATTLE!" he said to no one in particular.

He looked to his left, to see the well-dressed brunette who had made such a spectacle of herself coming in late to the session. He only had to linger a moment on the sight of the huge shard of glass sticking out from the crimson stain on her chest, and her sightless eyes, frozen in a look of surprise, to know that she was dead. He looked around the third floor lobby of the Washington Convention Center, and saw several people around the space, in varying degrees of health. Another explosion two blocks away added to the cacophony outside. Then another, then another.

He knew that he had to try to help some of the injured to safety, if any could be found. He also knew that it must be on the news by now. He pulled out his cell phone, and by some miracle, it still had a signal. Another explosion rocked the building, causing pieces of glass still in the window frames to fall to the street below. He held own the "2" button until it dialed, and he raised it to his ear. "Hello, you have reached the voicemail box of..." This time he could not contain his rage. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" He paused for a minute, and considered calling her cell phone, despite the fact that she rarely heard it ring in her desk drawer at work.

Another explosion rumbled beneath his feet, sounding as it it came from the parking garage. From outside, he heard a fevered cry, the only intelligible word being "Allah". Another explosion rang out from the other side of the street. Realizing that if he was going to say anything, he should act quickly, he rifled through the menu to "Text message", and started to plunk away with both thumbs.

*****

For an hour now, she had been trying to call his cell phone, ever since the head of the department came by and announced that a series of explosions had ripped downtown Seattle apart, and appeared to be timed in a fashion to kill or injure as many of the first responders as possible. After the first call went straight to his voicemail, she logged onto the internet and looked at the pictures posted on the CNN website. Downtown was unrecognizable from the air. The Convention Center had completely crumbled, completely blocking I-5 from both the North and the South. She picked up her phone, dialed again, and again heard his voice telling her she'd reached his cell phone. Angrily, she slammed the phone down, and watched the plumes of smoke curl up from what had been a typical urban center a few ours before. The phone rang. Her heart lept as she practically pounced on the handset and frantically said "Hello???" The voice on the other end was his assistant. "Has he called you?" the assistant asked. Brokenheartedly, she replied "No." "Well, if you do, call us. Please." Slowly, she hung up the phone when the thought came to her.

Torn between the desire to know, and not to know, she opened her desk drawer, and pulled out her cell phone. She took it, walked downstairs, past her coworkers,who were milling about, and talking in hushed tones. Thirty seconds after she walked outside, the lights on the phone flashed, and it beeped, indicating a text message.

Her heart was in her throat as she flipped the phone open with a quivering hand. The message was brief: "I'm OK. I lov"

Closing minutes of a long week

He sat next to the open patio door, listening to the gentle rain fall from the grey skies. He missed the thunderstorms in the midwest. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't accurately describe the experience to people who had lived in this state their entire lives. He remained convinced that nothing demonstrated the sheer power of nature more effectively than a good, house-shaking, window-rattling thunderstorm. From the black and threatening clouds, the wind that forced decades-old trees to bow before it, to the occaissional, unatural stillness and errie green skies that preceeded the tornados that such storms sometimes spawned, Washington simply had nothing to compare to it. When the infrequent thunderstorm did come through, its tame nature and distant thunder seemed to be a pale immitation of the real thing, an ersatz show of power, yet it was more than enough to frighten the natives.

Nevertheless, he enjoyed the tranquilizing effect that the soft, light rain was having on him. In the neighboring trees, he heard a night bird trilling, and he sat silently as the wind blew up around him, cloaking him in the scent of the wet earth.

He considered how much had happened in the last month and a half. It still seemed strange to him that he could feel something other than anger and irritation. It was stranger still that he frequently did. Of course, it had been so long, that even though he was feeling things again, it did mean that he knew exactly what he was feeling. The hardest thing for him was the clarity. He really wasn't prepared for the abilty to understand some much of what was going on around him, or how much he was actually responsible for it. Even though he had faith that it would, with time and work, all turn out better in the long run, that didn't stop the niggling little doubts from popping up like daisies in the field of his days as they streched out before him. But like any nuisance, they faded. He smiled. A miracle in itself.

He took another pull on the beer. The craft brews of the Northwest were pretty good, but there were times, he would surrender a testicle for an icy Molson.
He thought about how nice it would be to just go to the ocean. The roar of the waves crashing into the shore were a sound he never tired of. He shivered a little as the sun sank lower into the horizon, somewhere behind the clouds. Soon he'd have to go into the empty house. He knew it was temporary. She and the kids would return in just a few days, and he knew that she actually wanted to come home. That didn't make the evenings any easier. They never were when she was gone. Maybe he'd listen to the stereo for a while. The music kept awakening things in him that he thought long dead. He sighed, got up, and went back inside to meet with himself for a while.

A window into chapter X

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as the pastor wound up his sermon. It had been a long day already. He and children left the house ten minutes before the start of church. He had waited, knowing that she wasn't going to arrive before they left. Not after the argument they had the prior evening, and the distant looks betraying an unmistakable anger that he could no longer identify with. When she left the house to go to her friend's, it had a feeling of permanence that felt like a spear through his spirit.

Nevertheless, he awoke, fed and dressed the children, and came to church. He knew the name of the demon plaguing him for the last decade, finally. He wasn't afraid to say it out loud and call him out. He had done that earlier in the service, and now felt as if a great weight was released from his soul. It didn't make it any easier to listen to the sermon, which seemed to be an encyclopedic litany of the many ways he had failed, as husband, father, and man, but at the same time, he realized that knowing was half the battle, and he could do things correctly moving forward.

He heard the buzzing of his phone in the bag before him, which had been set to vibrate. He leaned forward and seruptiously opened the new text message. It was from her. Three simple words. "I am home."

He quietly shut the phone, and put it back into his bag. He couldn't help wondering who would be greeting them when they came home. The wife and mother, or the woman who acted like an angry stranger. He pondered this as he rose, and bowed his head for the closing prayer.

His phone buzzed against his side as they pulled into the driveway. The kids, seeing the other car in the driveway, couldn't wait to get out of the car, run through the garage, and bound up the steps and into the house. When he was half way up the first flight of stairs, he could feel that something was different. He could hear her, hugging the children, and talking to them about their morning. As he turned on the landing, he looked up, to find her looking down at him. He was surprised to find that it was a soft look, as if colored by affection not displayed in some time. When he reached the top of the stairs, she stepped forward, into his arms, and hugged him tightly. He looked down, she reached up, and before he could say anything, her lips pressed hard against his, as she cradled the back of his head in her hand, her fingers running through his short, bristle-like hair. When it was done, they both drew back, and regarded each other. She said, in a quiet voice, "I want to come home."