When last we met, I’d just signed off with my mother from the Other Side. It was one holy shit, shamma-mamma bookend. But it wasn’t . . . over.
As soon as Natalie finished channeling the soul I’d known as “Mom,” I could still see those prisms of gold-silver light jutting out of Nat’s head. And then bam! I got hit with the worst hot flashes of my life. Flesh on fire. Nat raced to put an icepack on my neck, and moved me to the couch.
That’s when the visions came, like scenes from a movie in my head. No, not imaginings. I’m talking full-on visions, the kind you hear about when people have near death experiences, or that rare, real-deal clairvoyant freak (damn, I envy them!). Can’t explain it. But, somehow, ’As I lay there, sweat streaming out of every pore, scene after scene passed before me. Here we go . . .
. . . My mother as a little girl, giant blue bow in her auburn, long wavy hair. Crisp-smooth sailor dress, white bobby socks. Black shiny shoes. I’m there, too, a little girl, same age. Wearing cornflower-blue corduroys and matching sleeveless gingham shirt, my thin blonde wisps blowing in the breeze. I take her tiny hand in mine. Together, we start running through fields of lavender, giggling.
Suddenly, Mom trips and falls face-first into a pile of fresh mud. Fear clenches my heart. I remember how Mom was neurotic when it came to cleanliness (think Joan Crawford / Mommie Dearest kind of crazy). Run! I warn myself. Time freezes. My eyes on hers, I’m terrified that nasty demon inside her, the one I knew too well, will rise up and writhe itself toward me—hands reaching for my neck.
Her mouth curls up, a mischievous smile. She reaches for a fistful of mud, takes aim, and ploooockkk!—nails my clean, pretty shirt. And then I realize: She’s just a little girl, like me. And we’re having a freakin’ mud fight! I grab a handful and throw it right back. Splaaattttt! Soon, mud soaks our hair, our faces, our clothes.
I telepath to her: I never thought of you as a little girl before, Mommy. Oh my God, Mommy, what happened to you? And then, she disappears.
. . . Mom’s a sixteen-year-old redhead in a womanly body. I feel her yearning to leave her Nebraska farm life and family far behind. “I’m suffocating here, baby” she brainwaves. I see her in the city, serving coffee, ice cream, and grilled cheeses at a Walgreen’s soda counter. Thick deep-red lipstick pops against her pale skin. She plucks a corner hem of her mint-green uniform to wipe up a blob of spilled coffee. She imagines herself an actress or movie star. “Someday I’ll get discovered,” she thinks. “Maybe like Lana Turner.”
And then, Vision 3:
. . . An ethereal, ghostly form with long, wavy hair the color of dark strawberries glides toward me in a swirling gown of crystal soft blue. It’s her, I realize. Somehow, I “know” it’s her. But she looks so different. Then she tells me, “I’m so happy here, honey. I don’t want to go back. Not yet.” Shakes her head. “I’m really not ready to relive my lessons.” She shudders. Her eyes dim.
“Are you OK?” It’s Nat. I think she’s been holding my hand the whole time. I nod my head and smile. Then I tell her all of it.
I’ve got no clue how much time has passed. But the hot flashes have stopped. And so have the visions. I think about my mother as a young girl, pretending to be a grownup with big dreams, who lost herself along the way.
Like all of us, she’d set out on her own hero’s journey.
Into the vast unknown of life. So much at stake.
Where’s that damn crystal ball when you need it?
On the five-plus-mile ride home, I noticed: every stoplight was green. And then . . .
Sit with me next week for part three of this inexplicable trinity—the final piece that began with three words I’d written just a few days before, “Pierce the veil.”
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