“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength while loving someone deeply gives you courage.” ― Lao Tzu
ONE MORE DAY IN THE PARK WITH INGRID
Mick:
“Ingrid, come sit next to me. I brought that blue jacket you gave me to sit on. Not that you need physical comfort. I want something you’ve touched, even if a breeze is more solid.”
My wife died five years ago.
I pat the plush lining and wait. My wife won’t take long to arrive. The veil between this world and the other side has been thin lately.
About a week ago she appeared in an early morning lucid dream as the young Ingrid. Even asleep I remained wobbly and weak. We walked hand-in-hand through this same park. I knew that everything I saw and touched would disappear when I opened my eyes. Even so, all the subtleties of nature emerged as we traveled familiar passageways. I saw details in each rock, blade of grass, hill, and squirrel.
Ingrid told me that direct contact with the deceased happens only under special circumstances. I asked her how we qualified, but she told me I would find out later. “Just relax and enjoy.”
When I woke up, she was sitting on the edge of my bed. She comes and goes now. All I need to do is call her—no phone is necessary. I have enough sense not to blab about Ingrid’s visits. Recovering from toxic chemotherapy drugs is bad enough. I don’t need my daughter to worry that I need psych meds, too.
Within about thirty seconds my wife emerges next to me. Slowly. Similar to the way fog comes up from the horizon. But with a lot more warmth. At first, she seems as transparent as air. Her features surface. Young. Beautiful. The way she looked when we first met.
She places her hand on my arm. “Okay, dear, what’s on your mind?”
“Jan told me I could use some Vitamin D from the sun. That’s why I’m out here today while she and the kids hike down to the lake. As if I’d miss the chance. She doesn’t know I heard her talk to Les on the phone last night. He can’t babysit me today. Got a new client coming in. True, I have the hearing of the old dog I am. But Jan’s voice doesn’t need a loudspeaker when she gets excited. Seems lately our daughter has the disposition of a ticking time bomb.”
“I’d say she is upset, and her attitude is more about her than about you.”
“I’d say it’s not easy taking care of your father when he’s recovering from chemo. Not easy at all. Sure glad that the final session’s over! Last treatment forever.”
Her hands have lost all their thick arthritic lumps now that she’s in a spiritual state. Her hands are small, delicate, and gentle again. She runs them over my head, mostly bald, with a few sparse patches of dull, almost colorless hair.
“Ah, Mick! Jan’s not ready for a halo, but I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Yet anyway. Tell you what. I’ll follow her for a while. Find out what’s going on and let you know. Then I’ll get back to you. The grandkids have been knocked down by your illness. They don’t understand what happened, or why Grandpa doesn’t have the energy to joke with them anymore. But you know you can count on me. We’ll talk tonight. In your dreams.”
Ingrid’s kiss on my forehead could be a warm, gentle breeze.
I sigh as I hear the kids run ahead of their mom up the trail. Much faster than they would have if I were with them. They don’t know I’d feel just as sick at home. At least in the park, the sun casts incredible shadows through the tree branches. The birds sing an avian kind of harmony. The sky is never the same color longer than a few hours. It darkens or lightens, blends in with the clouds or not. A hint of silver has lined a cluster toward the west. Like the gray in the few clumps of my hair that refused to fall out. Maybe I have a stubborn streak. I have always worn my hair short as a hyphen, so I didn’t need to shave my head.
Change arrives slowly. Although Ingrid says the word that I’m searching for is transformation. Sure, I’m glad my wife broke through the impenetrable barrier from the other side. But I’d take the wrinkled-but-solid Ingrid to the see-through-yet-perfect version any day.
Ingrid:
I watch and listen to Mick’s family as they pretend to be aware of what they are doing. Les has brought work home. He shuffles papers like a deck of cards and stares at his computer. “What do we do about your dad? Should we just, I don’t know…” He spit-whispers into the computer screen.
Jan leans her behind into the refrigerator and turns her body into an awkward V. From the look on her face, I’m guessing she wants the stretch to pull out all her anxiety.
“I could scream,” she says. “I won’t. Even though Dad isn’t listening in. He’s heavily medicated and sound asleep for the night. The kids are out for the count, too. It is a school night.
I hover over the kitchen table, one of the benefits of the afterlife.
“I talked to Dad’s doctor,” Jan continues. “No doubt about it. He hasn’t got much chance. A heavier course of chemo could give him a few more months. Tops.”
“So why hasn’t the oncologist told your dad?”
“That doctor has professional knowledge. Yes. But he has the bedside manner of a debt collector. I told him I would give Dad the options.” Jan straightens up again. She groans, her hand on her forehead. “Actually, I insisted. Said he could answer Dad’s questions on his next visit.”
“Then?”
“Okay. Then I sort of chickened out.”
“You mean you chickened out. No sort-of about it.”
“Thanks for your support.”
“So, what do you want me to do? I’m a lawyer, not a social worker.”
“You are also my life mate. Come on. Give me an idea.”
“Okay. I’ll stop by after I see my last client tomorrow. We’ll tell him together. Calmly. Let him decide. In the meantime, let your dad know how much you love him. It’s all you can do. Yeah, you’re nervous about the situation. But all he sees is nervousness. He doesn’t know why.”
Jan drops her head almost to her knees. “Hey for a lawyer that’s not bad advice.”
“Uh, thanks for the backhanded compliment.”
I stop hovering and put one arm around my daughter’s shoulders. She doesn’t know I’m the one comforting her, but after a few sighs she finally says, “Maybe I’m underestimating Dad.”
“More than maybe, sweetheart.”
In a few hours, I will slip into Mick’s dreams. I will break the news about what his children are going to tell him tomorrow. I know my guy. He will allay his family’s fears. Because Mick isn’t afraid. He’s seen me. He knows he will be okay. I will tell him why I broke the bridge between our worlds—because he and I are closer than he knew we were. I slipped through a hairline break between this world and the next one, the designated place where we were meant to meet. When the time came.
When he accepts my invitation, we will be together again. In a few days if he wishes. If he is ready all he will need to do is concentrate on the separation, nothing artificial or traumatic about the transition. In the meantime, perhaps I should set up the scene for his final dream: a sunny day…a park bench…a place where we both can run, laugh, and sing out of tune if we want. It doesn’t matter. Some details look different after passing through the light. But the beauty Mick and I savored will remain the same.
Always. Always.
illustration created from two personal photos scanned together
story previously published in Piker Press
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terrypetersen 