Something To Dream On (36 page)

Jensen spends nearly half an hour flopping back and forth in bed. Finally he smiles and tells himself, “I’m free. There is no way I can turn back now. That part of my life is truly over but …”

Jensen rolls over, as if looking at me. “Forgive me, Lizetta. There is one last thing I need to do before I can fulfill that promise. I’ll do it this one time, and you can hear every word of it.”

He faces upward. “Dear God, please bless Laura with whatever it is she needs to recover, but I am sorry, it can’t come from me. Then, please let me know that she has made it. As much as I will hold true to my promise, I can’t see myself ever escaping the guilt of hurting her.” He releases a gratifying sigh. “Now I can let go of the urge to help. She’s stronger now.”

He rolls into his usual position and drifts off to sleep. I believe he will follow through on his promise, but guilt tore at him before. How will it be now that he knows how much worse Laura has become?
Lord, it’s been such a fiery trail for Jensen and his faith. Please let him come to peace with this situation.

A throat clears, and I find Harold standing in the corner. “Jensen will be fine,” he assures. “Come with me.” Since there are no signs of his normal, goofball self, I’m apprehensive over his invitation. Was that it? Jensen is done with Laura and now I move on? “Oh no! You are not taking me away!”

With gentle movements that imply peace, Harold closes his eyes. The smile of someone who understands the ways of the universe crosses his face. “It’s not time for that yet. You can return to Jensen whenever you like. Let me show you what prayers do.” His hand extends in a gesture of trust. Then he twists his hand so his pinky is extended. “You’ll be back soon. I pinky swear.”

Seriously? I can’t say that I trust him, but in light of my revelations that he is an ally, and feeling deep in my soul that things are happening for the greater good, I sucker into it. Our pinkies lock, and my heart soars as the power of love flows through the touch. I swallow back the emotions of accepting that I am in the presence of a true angel. The peace he fills me with must be a taste of Heaven. Why hasn’t he always shown me this? “Close your eyes,” he says. “Now, focus on that text Laura sent.”

The
whoosh
of wings breezes against my back, sending my hair twisting in its wind. My stomach turns woozy, and the dank smell of pot, alcohol, and rotting food hits my nose. Harold is nowhere in sight when I find myself standing in the threshold between a kitchen and a living room. Empty take-out boxes overflow in the garbage can, and crusty utensils are piled in the sink. The recycling can overflows with what must be as many hard liquor bottles as a bar would discard in a week. Some guy is passed out on the sofa.

White powder, a credit card, and a rolled up twenty-dollar bill are on the coffee table. I’ve never seen that stuff in person, but I don't need to be a genius to know it’s not baking soda. Why would Harold send me here?

In the corner, Laura sits while staring at her phone. Black mascara and eyeliner run down her cheeks and are smeared across her face. Her finger is still on the send button from her last text to Jensen,
“Please help. It's ugly here.”

She sent it at least half an hour ago. How she still waits in hope of a reply tugs at my soul. This poor woman. Her heartbreak isn’t from being jilted by an ex-boyfriend; it’s from being spat on by life.

The crash of symbols comes from another room. It’s accompanied by thumps and laughter. Was someone pushed into a drum kit?

The crack of a fist against a jaw follows, and applause erupts. “Cheers!” is yelled, and bottles clank.

With tender care, Laura touches a finger to her lips and kisses it, then places the kiss on the screen. “Goodbye,” she whispers, before walking away and leaving the phone behind. Now, the lines of coke on the coffee table hold her attention. Softly she concedes, "If he won’t help me, no one will." She drops to her knees, grabs a rolled up bill and snorts up a line before switching to the other nostril and taking up a second one. Her hollow eyes that reflect a heart of broken dreams stare at the remaining five. I don't know anything about coke, or how much it takes for someone to OD, but she has got to stop.

Laura rubs her nose, and a trail of blood coats her hand. Her laugh is a nervous one.
 

From the room filled with drunken laughter, a man says, "Yeah, she’s totally worthless. You’d think she could at least get a horn dog to drop his pants. Guess she only wants Daddy now."

Her eyes stay on the lines of death as she states, “The beginning is the end. Or is the end just the beginning?” Then she whispers, “Somebody please stop me.” Her head drops and she brings the bill back to her nose.

My chest turns heavy for this horrible person who introduced me to a life-long battle with my body image and who nearly crossed Jensen over to the point of no return. How many others has she hurt? When I was a kid, every day I fantasized that she would move far away. Guilt plagued me for weeks after I dreamt of attending her funeral. Now she is about to leave this world in an act of weakness. Part of me wants to scream at her—to ask how she likes the desperation of knowing she needs to end the pain brought on by someone else’s actions. She has to make the voices that tell her that she is worthless shut up. I had to do it. Jensen did, too. For both of us it was her voice—a voice that we will struggle to silence all of our lives because we let it get to us. But we are, and will stay, stronger than it.

She can be stronger too. Everyone has the strength to conquer the useless words of the hateful. I touch her shoulders, hoping she can feel love, and that it will be enough to guide her. “Please, Laura. Please stop. Don’t let others control you. You are stronger than this.”

Her motions slow, yet she continues on.

“Laura, think of Jensen. He will always blame himself, and this is not his fault.”

With the bill in her nose, she plugs the other nostril.

“Laura! Stop!” I try to shake her, but all I can do is vibrate my hands and scream in her ear, “Laura, stop! Stop!” She rattles her head and shoulders and then freezes cold. Her eyes stay on the coke while growing bold. Like a flash, she heads for her bedroom and locks herself inside. She falls onto the bed and buries her head under a pillow. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m safe. I just won’t open the door.” I reach out again and offer her words of hope, but instead of her finding the comfort I hope to give, she screams, “Go away! Everyone, go away and leave me alone!”

Harold appears at the head of her bed. He brushes her hair aside and gives Laura’s forehead a kiss. Her body takes on a hint of Heaven’s glow, and her breathing calms. “She needs more than this, but this experience will stay with her. See what Jensen’s prayer has done? Each of us has the power to bring love to the world. Love transcends all, even death. So by extension, Laura will always carry this love.”

I used to think prayers were merely messages to God. This experience has brought me a new level of enlightenment. Prayers do not reflect a one-to-one relationship. Jensen prayed for Laura, and that persuaded Harold to take me to her. For that, she will live to see another day. Messages to God are love letters to the universe that transcend all boundaries.

Please, God, give Laura strength and show her mercy. Help her find what she needs to escape her world and find your glory on earth.

I used to envy her. I wanted to have her looks, her popularity, and her self-esteem. Now I'd rather be dead than even step into her shoes.

This time, we have all accepted that the doctors are right.

I felt Lizetta next to me when I woke and wished her good morning. It almost seemed normal. Then my arm flinched. Often when I sense Lizetta near, I have moments where my body experiences a hum of energy. This morning, the energy was a fizz that faded into nothing. Before I could reach for the phone, Jimmy’s call came. Even now, here beside Lizetta’s body, I can barely sense her.

How do you bargain with God? What can you possibly promise that He doesn't already have? That you'll do better? That you will bring more joy into the world? That you'll spread His word? If you believe in God, these are all things that you should be doing anyway, so to make that kind of promise now means you either haven't been doing your job or were never a believer in the first place.

It’s too late for prayers. Soon it will even be too late for goodbyes.

Where the hell is Mom? We don’t have much longer.

Griffin paces with Judy as she shakes the stress off of her hands. Jimmy sits in a corner with his guitar case leaning against his leg. He taps it frantically. We need to rewind the clock a bit—back to before two big blood pressure drops happened—when Jimmy was here playing for Lizetta, before the machines went crazy—back to when I still felt miracles were possible.

Paul enters with his cell phone still in his hand. His eyes are evasive, meaning the news is bad. It’s all the more reason not to let go of Lizetta’s hand.

Everyone makes a beeline over. Paul’s hand on my shoulder offers no comfort. “The attorney said, in California marriages are considered too personal in nature to fall under the rights of someone with Power Of Attorney. I’m sorry, son. For what it is worth, I know I speak for everyone when I say that in our eyes, you upheld your promise to marry her long ago.”

The air leaves my lungs, and the last of my hope flees with it. One of the biggest promises of my life is now broken and shattered.

Mom finally arrives. Paul looks to her and shakes his head, conveying the bad news. She sets her purse on a chair and heads over with that look of sympathy that only a mom can have.

I won’t stand for this. There is no room left on any of our plates of tragedy for a serving of broken promises that are topped with remorse. Having a piece of paper that says you are married may have its perks, but some get those through marrying in vain, like for money, convenience, or to keep people in the country. The lucky ones are those who get that piece of paper when they marry for the right reason. But the ones who get what marriage is really about are those who exchange vows even though it’s not legal. Paperwork is for the now; vows are eternal.

He was going to marry me anyway. Mom was going to sign the documents on my behalf. It was a dream too good to be true. I’m heartbroken. Why does a law-making stranger have more of a say in my right to marry Jensen than the person I trust with the power to end my life and handle my final affairs does?