The Transcending Savant
By Brandon S Christopher
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Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Brandon S Christopher
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This work is a fiction. Real people who are mentioned are only done so out of respect for being positively influential.
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This novel is dedicated to my sister
CHELSEA
It is through her voice that this story is narrated
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CHAPTER 1NE
It’s more than a dream, but a dream is the closest thing that you can relate to, so let me give you a short example. Imagine falling asleep and dreaming in alluring watercolors. You’re with your family on a family outing. You and the family jump out of the Suburban and start heading across the parking lot to the carnival gate. The parking lot gravel feels like unsteady terrain under your Nikes, but the pebbles are too small to really affect your untroubled swagger. The ground seems hot. Even as early as it is, the ground seems to be absorbing the sun’s heat. Car engines and heavy ride machinery intertwined with inconsequential chatter, yells and music virtually yell. Even the heat seems to add to the noise. Almost to the front gate, you notice license plates. Ironically a lot of Texas plates near the front. Man it’s going to be hot though. How good a snow cone sounds.
You are hungry and thirsty all in one needy feeling so first thing inside the park you tell your family you will be right back and that you’ll catch up to them. Your march doesn’t take long before food venders are in sight. A strawberry and lime snow cone is on top of your mental list of things deserving focus. After the purchase, you devour and sensational realism sets in. The ice cold tang is so refreshing, so filling that even your breathing, sleeping body feels absolute. Back in your dream though, there’s this ride close to the food venders.
The sign is glaring and gaudy. It’s called the Human Catapult and the line is short. Quickly, on the spot, the decision is made. The ride operator speaks with a Texan’s accent. He asks for you to print your consent on a waiver. Willing and ready, you sign, and then buckle on one of the ride’s two helmets, which feels like an oversized, mushroom shaped, mountain climbing helmet on your head. Next you climb into the passenger seat. You’re strapped in and so very ready for takeoff when the Texan pushes the release button, but you weren’t expecting the instant velocity.
You immediately soar. Not only did you just fly past the tarp you thought you would land in, but your speed is undying. It’s uncontrollable! The theme park is now in the background. You’re rocketing up into the bright, blue sky, headed directly for one of the few banks of clouds overhead. What about your family? Is this real? You zoom through the moist clouds so fast that now, they are just below you. An instant ago the skies were mostly clear, but now clouds are all you can see - Everywhere. The earth vanished like a king size down comforter engulfing a twin bed. Fixated on the cloud covering you realize you are not lifting too far away from the clouds anymore. What seemed like the force of reverse gravity pulling you into outer space has reversed again into the actual force of gravity pulling you back to earth. You slow down, come to a peak, and then skydive.
Your stomach is all too aware of the strong pull. You pray the blanket of clouds will catch you until you can at least figure out this crazy situation, but no. You fall back through the clouds and suddenly the world is below, but it’s not the same scene you just left. No more carnival. No more family. In fact no more civilization at all, just ocean water and horizon around, and straight below is a lonely island the size of a football stadium. Eighty percent of the island is topped by an active volcano. It’s active, ash smoking and lava spewing. It’s fizzing around the mouth and approaching like a ferocious, rabid beast. Feeling as helpless as an infant you want to be somewhere else, anywhere. Gravity’s pull is strengthening as you go faster and faster, hitting terminal velocity. The volcano is so close now. “Ahhh!” Your scream is pure anticipation. It’s the definite thought “I’m going to die” moment.
The next thing you know, you are awake. So wonderfully happy to be awake, you are excited to find your family lovingly waiting for you like Dorothy’s family in the Wizard of Oz. You want to express your appreciation for them and do it in all sincerity. You want to scream out in joy. Instead though, you are being gently rocked by a tribal woman in Nigeria. You are an infant, just as vulnerable as you felt when you were falling into that volcano. What is going on? Now you want to yell out due to confusion, but all you do is ball like an infant who needs a nap. Your wisdom is present, but your communication has evaporated. A numb feeling comes across you. Before the fight in you grows strong enough to act, your energy fades. The tribal woman, your current mom, gently rocks you back to sleep. You are a sleeping baby in Africa.
Now wake up from your dream because that was just an example, but I hope the imagery helps you as the reader because I experienced countless moments just like that. Chronological visions hit me without stop. At first, I didn’t understand them. And oddly enough, the visions were more than just dreams; they were more than just déjà vu moments. They were real. Here’s what happened:
2050 April 9th, pronounced DOA, - At age 63 I, Chelsea, was dead, done…
…but I wasn’t gone. As if I was floating above the entire scene, I had an out of body experience as if to realize this bodied life has come to an end - my body sprinkled in glass and practically smeared across the warm concrete highway lines just twenty feet ahead of the limo. Blood dampened my blond hair. The disfigured cadaver that apprehended my awed attention was apparently only a temporary part of my existence.
Brandon, my 65 year old brother, and David, our escort, were inside of the limo, which was freshly squashed and had a gaping hole where my body cannoned through the windshield. Dizzy from the crash, David stumbled around to open Brandon’s door. Stunned, not a word was spoken. Brandon stepped out of the limo and looked down the desert road in the direction of my body. My neck was twisted, head cocked to the side. Large glass bits pierced my back and triceps. One of my legs was bent backwards with bone shard sticking through 63-year-old, Arizona sun tanned, weathered skin.
Brandon staggered to my body like he was drunk and collapsed to his knees when he got there. “Swollen, she’s…” Brandon started breathing heavily. My leg was swelling from the rush of blood as it escaped my body. My eyes were closed. “No,” he yelled out in heartache as he dropped his head. He shivered and stared aimlessly. David clasped his hands behind his head and looked around in bafflement. Then he approached Brandon and put a hand on his shoulder. Several minutes passed before Brandon spoke in a calm voice, “Did she leave?”
David was surprised by the clarity in Brandon’s tone. “I’m afraid so,” David said trying to be supportive. “She’s gone”.
Then Brandon responded like he was talking to himself. “No,” he murmured. “No, you don’t know”. “You don’t know,” he repeated and started breathing heavily again. “She’s dead alright!” Brandon yelled at David. “She’s dead, I know…” Teary eyed, he looked at David, “…but did she leave?”
David opened his mouth to speak, but looked like he didn’t know how to answer.
Brandon’s questioning, his distraught behavior, was actually the most emotion, not to mention the most communication I’d seen out of him in a very, very long time. Brandon communicated at a minimum level, barely enough to get by and certainly not enough to ever leave the nest and venture into the world on his own.
It came as a relief that Brandon was sad and curious about my death because I always wanted to know his thoughts. For the most part, whatever his thoughts were, they seemed distracting enough that they imprisoned his attention. Normally to question Brandon is to expect a delayed response or no response at all.
His condition, abnormal as it was, requires a description to fully understand, like a mental disorder. The only problem was no one could ever define it. Not until now do I understand he was living in three different worlds at the same time.
We, the family, had him checked out on several occasions. In fact, that’s where David was escorting us before the crash - to a final attempt examination. Physicians always had their theories, but none could prove that he was anything other than distracted, an extreme case of Attention Deficit Disorder. This particular doctor, Dr. Daniel Durig, I had met during a convention in Palm Springs. According to medical journals he was performing more miracles than Jesus. I didn’t appreciate the vanity, but I wasn’t objectionable to a miracle. After speaking with him, he said he wanted to do some hypnosis work with Brandon. I was willing to try almost anything. If Dr. Durig’s therapy didn’t work, the only other option seemed to be a psychiatric ward.
Looking at Brandon, at the crash scene, I wondered what was going to happen next. Was David still going to bring him to Dr. Durig? What would the police do once they arrived? I didn’t even care about my own well being. I wanted to reach out to Brandon. I wanted to let him know I was still around, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know where I was. I wondered if I could transport myself back into my body lying on the highway. Not that I had a plan of action to make this happen, but as soon as I was about to try, the scene started to dissolve. A feeling of content came over me and I noticed something pulling me.
It wasn’t like a hand grabbed me, but rather a stream gracefully pulling me along. The stream seemed somewhat electric as I felt immersed in a tingling shiver. It was rejuvenating and somehow soothing. I didn’t know to where I was being pulled, nor did I care. I didn’t seem to have a body, but I didn’t care about that either. I was bodiless buzzing energy, what a sensation. What a massage. The overtaking satisfaction from this feeling truly was contentment indeed, but regardless of my level of comfort, I wasn’t nearly prepared for what happened next.
A storm came upon me, an intense déjà vu moment, dreamy yet enlightening. A vision superseded my already altered reality and it was taking me for a looping roller coaster ride…
VISION - - - - Zosimos AGED 19 - - - - 330 B.C.E.
Timing is everything I think to myself, trying to get an early start on the day. “Zosimos wait,” my father yells catching me steering my horse on top of our verdant hill already embarking on my trip. “You’re always fast” he optimistically says, catching his breath. Many times he’s seen me in the fields chasing after our horses, just like that messenger who scouted me. Is he trying to lure me into one of his lecturing conversations, now? I must go. “These games, they are political,” my father warns. It seems like he is about to say more, but instead he hesitates. “Have a good time”, he says dispatching me on my way to Athens.
Although the journey is lengthy, potent anticipation overwhelms my senses and carries me all the way to the outskirts of Athens’ city limits. I was lost in my thoughts until the roads became paved and I noticed the trotting hoofs clucking against the ground. The man made path certainly smoothes the ride. I have no one except my horse to share the cityscape sight I’m currently absorbing, but I would not trade the experience for a first place ribbon in my upcoming race.
Athens is astonishing. The city is chiseled out of stone; white bricked bridges married to high walls. The clustered, stone houses are as disorderly and random as the lush trees in-between. All of the structures grow upward into the hillside surrendering to the overshadowing temples such as the legendary Parthenon. My horse and I trot into the city and pass many local Athenian people carrying jugs of water, baskets and bundles of linens. There are many people. Some of the Athenians ingrained in doorway poses of their own homes gesture at me with playful comments. “He’s a big one,” I hear as my horse and I start hiking the hill.
When I arrive at the Acropolis, the Parthenon’s mesa, an old counselor also must have assumed my size meant athlete. He approaches me and escorts me to his assistant. “You are just in time,” the counselor says. Hundreds of people roam the Olympic vicinity, giving mind to artists and musicians here and there.
The assistant walks me through the crowds to one area where official priests are hosting public trial for the competing athletes. Each athlete is required to give oath to Zeus, professing dedication to the gods, training for our event for an entire year. I lied because I hadn't prepared at all and I didn't want to be disqualified. I'm not so much into religion, but most Greeks are so hopefully no one finds out about my secret. To this day, all I can think is a passing messenger saw me lifting broken plows in my family's field and must have thought I was training for sport. On occasion messengers do pass our home crossing over the stream on the way to another town. Twice, in back-to-back weeks, while I worked in the field I saw messengers scoping out my activities. They must have been gathering information about our real-estate for tax purposes. A few weeks later though, I was greeted with a messenger of my own and he delivered a beautiful opportunity - an invitation to the Olympic Games. Being a once in a lifetime experience, I jumped at the opportunity, but if I had time enough to train I would feel as privileged as royalty. My work load is never-ending, not to mention tiresome. I'm a simple farmer, son of a farmer and the grandson of a farmer. If Alala, my beautiful wife, bless her, bears me a son, he too will farm our land. I'm excited to return to her. I hope the baby sits tight until I'm back. I shouldn't worry. This vacation is once in a lifetime.
A young boy bumps into me crashing into my train of thought. I've lost track of my fellow competitors. Curls formed around the boy's face, highlighting his cheekbones just as mine once did. I remember being that age, back when my waist was the size my forearms are now. "Sorry," the boy says, tilting his head back to peer up at me. "Are you an athlete?" "I'm a warrior," I jokingly answer in a fake baritone voice. Startled yet persistent, he says, "I'll take your horse". I don't like leaving my favorite horse, and what a small boy for such a large responsibility. Then again, I remember working from a young age. "I'm good with animals," he insists. I look the boy in the eyes. "I'd be honored to bestow this responsibility on you," I say. He takes my horse by the rope and leads her away through the crowds. I'd better hustle off too.
I hustle through the grounds and find what must be the athletes' quarters under the stands, harboring busy bodies such as athletes and trainers and referees. The quarters are sectioned off in parts, separating areas for eating, and stretching and resting. The men from my event are feasting, loading up on fuel before we race. I'm too nervous to eat. However, my mouth is as dry as twine. Looking around the expansive warren, I soak up the environment like a sponge. At the same time, I reach into my shoulder pack for a stick of cane. For me, the sweet taste has always been addicting. Alala doesn't understand why I don't tire of it, especially after harvesting it all day, but again, it's addicting and sweet. I chew incessantly and think about my new surroundings.
I must be the only newcomer here because the other athletes seem like they are in casual routine. A group of five athletes spar in the corner practicing wrestling maneuvers. I know many of the athletes are signed up for multiple events, but not me. I'm just doing one race. Then I will enjoy other games and amenities as a happy fan and then head home after a few days. My mouth salivates from the cane and I drool onto my foot. I hope no one saw that. Oh Zos, enjoy this time. I slide my gear on, trying to distract myself from my nerves. Pretty soon we'll be out there in the field of competition so I need to focus.
“The Warrior 400,” the referee announces as six of us, wearing body armor and carrying shields, march onto the track in front of more people than I have ever seen gathered together in my whole life. The marching men around me, whom I wish I could call equals, but am far too inferior an athlete to do so, confidently wave at the cheering crowds. This is kind of a late thought, but I’m wondering if these other athletes have a special technique to run this race. I just know I’m supposed to wear my gear, carry my shield and run as fast as I can. Hopefully I don’t embarrass myself. Oh well, no expectations. Just run. Moments of the day are speeding by as it is. If I don’t pay attention, I’ll miss the race. I look to the fans again which have somehow doubled in size. Where did they come from? I never imagined so many people would be here.
The referee informs the crowd of our names, cities and that the winner of this race proves to be the fiercest warrior prepared to fight for Greece. I know it’s for show, but what a humbling statement. I’m excited enough, almost breathless, my emotions taut, my muscles twitching like those of an anxious race horse at the starting gate. We line up. It will be a short, yet grueling 400 strides in length.
At the sounding crack of a whip, the race begins. We explode off the line. Shields and armor clang together. Our powerful legs propel our bodies, while our arms pump back and forth edging our bodies even further on trying to gain extra crawls on our opponents. After ten or twelve running motions like this, I unexpectedly find myself alone, moving with the grace and speed of a cheetah chasing his prey. No more competitors. No more fans. The shield I’m carrying is buoyantly light. My energy intensifies. All I can see is the dirt immediately in front of me. Sprint. Sprint. Sprint. Reality comes back and I cross the finish line strides ahead of my competitors. The crowd hails after my victory and after a momentary delay I realize I won the race. I must have set a record, unreal. The unbridled euphoria of the moment raises my spirits more than ever before.
“That was some race for an untrained athlete, farmer,” I hear a devious voice say whilst I rest back in the athletes’ quarters.
"Oh no," I think to myself.
“I am General Phillip,” he proclaims before I can respond. I can tell he is obviously some sort of commanding officer because he is accompanied by half a dozen guards. I start to stand from my chair, but he motions for me to stay seated. “I didn’t…” before I can come up with anything good, the general interrupts me.
“Don’t worry. You are here because of my good graces,” General Philip says trying to transform a seemingly engraved scowl into a little more pleasant expression. “One of my messengers said you would be good and he was right. You really inspired our people with that performance you know.”
It must have been the sugar, I thought to myself, waiting to see what he wanted. I notice how small he is, not just compared to me, but even compared to his guards. Apart from the fact that I missed his entrance and even though the athletic quarters have filled up with scribes and who knows who since my race, it is now easy to recognize the general’s intimidating presence. He’s still trying to smile. Uncertain, I manage to stammer, “I’m not an athlete".
“Don’t be foolish,” General Phillip says. “You are a true athlete - a warrior.”
“Thanks,” I reply bashfully.
“Plus our people now want to praise you as a servant to Greece and as a servant to the gods,” he says. I look down reminding myself that I'm not a strong man of faith. “More public displays like that and you might consider yourself one of the gods,” he says. “You are already the size of a god”. I find myself trying not to laugh at how small he is. “We could use a performance like that on the battle field.”
Ok I see. It was just a race, I think to myself. He came on strong with more pressure saying, “You are a Greek citizen no doubt”.
“Yes,” I answer, “but I have a family waiting”. “Most of my men have families waiting,” the general says. “An athlete, a warrior like you is sure to return home safely, and with glory. General Philip says so”. Insisting he says, “It’s settled”. “I declare it your obligatory duty for Greece,” he says and storms off escorted by his guards. Feeling used, I wonder if I'm aloud an opinion here.
My stomach rises to my throat; I cannot bear to swallow the reality of what has just happened. What a mistake. Why did I need to compete in the games of Olympiad? It hasn’t been for the art, not the poetry. Before I commiserate more with myself a truly enchanting voice spoke up loudly, intriguing everyone in the room and catching the general before he exits. “General Phillip,” Aristotle says. “May I have a word”? Aristotle himself is here. Wow. He’s the all-knowing man. Obviously he’d be at the games, but he’s right over there.
Like the rest of the room I pretend to mind my own business. Many of the other athletes seem arrogant enough to indeed start minding their own business, again. I can’t, though. I’ve got nothing else to do except worry about my fate and my family. Is he talking on my behalf, I ask myself doubtfully?
After Aristotle and the general finish talking, the general leaves with his guards and Aristotle approaches me. “Zosimos, right?” Aristotle says. I stand out of my chair. He is almost a pous or two taller than the general - almost my height. “Please have a seat,” he says. “In fact, I shall sit too”. As he turns and reaches for a chair I notice his grey beard, which is just as thick, but much better groomed than father’s beard. No, that’s not it. There is something about his serene presence that makes him seem stoic. Maybe it’s just his reputation.
He slides his chair close to mine. “You know me,” I say.
“Well of course,” he says. “I’m recording all of the athletes so they can be honored in the future”. He looks around acting aloof.
“Your family harvests sugar cane, am I right?” Aristotle accurately states.
“Yes,” I say, wondering how he can tune into all of his surroundings and continue to be conscientious with me.
“What stream provides irrigation for your family’s farm?” Aristotle asks.
“Olynthiakos,” I answer, picturing the stream’s width. Now that I’ve been away from the water source that I’ve spent my entire life near, it’s bizarre to have to imagine it, but I can do so as if I’m looking through my kitchen window. It’s far off, past our stables and past our field to the shoreline, but I can see the rippling stream clearly.
“And does the Olynthiakos stream have any supernatural mineral that helps you grow sugar cane that I would not be able to reproduce in my own gardens?” Aristotle asks interrupting my imagination.
“No,” I say, caught by surprise. “There is no supernatural mineral”.
“Do you have some I can try,” he asks.
Unintentionally, I pause for a second. “Yes, absolutely,” I say as I look for my pack to get a couple sticks of cane. We both indulge in the cane’s sweetness.
“Wonderful timing,” he says. “Right away one can judge the sharp, sweet taste and then an amusing texture for the tongue followed by a second burst of sweetness,” Aristotle says. “It’s very good”. We both stare off into the abyss of our minds, enjoying the sugar. A droplet of drool dribbles into his beard. He seems to be enjoying the sugar cane so much that I don’t think he will notice, nor cares.
He stirs our silence with a familiar statement similar to the general’s. “It’s settled then,” he pronounces. “You work for me at The Academy, in my garden. If you design for me a sugar cane patch, you will not have any military duty. And you can return home as soon as you are done. You have a family waiting your return I presume. I will even allow you time to study, if you’re interested. You will be home before the new harvesting season.” Astonished, I answer as fast as possible, “Yea,” I blurt out. The sugar must have got to me again, I think as I see him chuckling. “Perfect,” he declares. “I’ll send message to your family”.
I spend approximately two full moons learning tenfold from Aristotle what I share with him of my knowledge about the sugar cane crop.
We succeed in starting a patch so he will have an infinite supply. We spend moments sitting under the stars, chewing on sugar cane and discussing the meaning of life. We make time for everything. He welcomes me to join his students in his lessons about science and philosophy and ethics. I never knew how much I didn’t know. I even find time to practice running. Strangely, I never seem to be as fast as I was during my gold medal race, not even after loads of sugar.
On my trek back home, back to my family, I’m feeling like a new man. The experience at the academy, being surrounded by scholars, has surely changed my approach to how I will raise my son. Aristotle said our boy is welcome to attend the academy as a fulltime student. It feels like a blessing to have a friend like Aristotle. Maybe the gods are indeed watching after me.
Passing the Athens city limits I hear a commotion behind me. I turn my head to see an uncomfortable sight, General Phillip and a following of soldiers also on horseback. I can tell he hasn’t earned the respect of his soldiers. He must demand it only by the authority of his rank. He steps off his chariot and walks up to me so I dismount from my horse.
“Are you blocking my path because you want to be a warrior,” he impatiently snarls indenting his engraved scowl even more than seems possible. I don’t think I was blocking his path. He obviously has no interest in politicking me anymore.
“I’m returning home”.
“As expected, farmer,” he says with a sinister voice. “That’s really too bad. Men, seize him.” The increasing hostility has me wondering if I will ever make it home to my family. What now? This isn’t justified. The soldiers dismount their horses and approach me and more doubts seep into my head. Should I fight? No. I don’t know how to fight. I could be arrested. I think I am being arrested. There are too many of them and they have swords. I take a step back towards my horse as they draw their swords and start to surround me. This is worse than an arrest. I think, gulping. How can I get them to stop? Then I remember one of the many things Aristotle said to me at the academy - that character is the strongest form of persuasion.
The swing of a sword comes at me and I see things like it’s my last moment on earth. No more thoughts enter my head. I instinctively put my hand out and grab the soldier’s wrist preventing the first sword from striking me. I see other swords on their way, but I’m seeing things so well that the soldiers and their swords seem to be moving at an incredibly slow pace. Again, without thought, I quickly put my other hand on the same soldier’s wrist. Now that I have both hands on his wrist, I use my size to my advantage by putting leverage into my legs and twirling the soldier off the ground and into the other soldiers. He suffers numerous cuts from their swords and knocks them down by centrifugal force.
Wow, I feel like I just won the gold medal again. Triumph, I think to myself and head for my horse to make an escape. I didn’t know I could do that. Thinking how impressive that was, I must have missed sneaky General Philip charging me from behind because I suddenly hear him screaming and he kicks my legs out from under me. Down I go! My horse spooks and rears onto his hind legs, aggressively pawing the front legs. Hearing the horse’s commotion, face first on the ground, I roll over to see the horse’s right hoof about to stomp down on my head. A sudden terror thumps me. No! Instant darkness occurs. It’s over.
The next thing I know, when I try to look at my hands, I see the spindly claws of a lizard clinging to the topside of a broad tree branch. Then I realize the spindly claws are mine. I feel this tail hanging out at the end my elongated body and a tongue nearly the same size on the opposite end, which happens to be firing out of my mouth impulsively. At what - tiny, little fruit fly looking bugs that I don’t want! My whole body feels scaly and I’m scraping against a pack of similarly sized, lizard-like critters that mirror each other in image and in mannerisms. We are practically crawling on each other. They are lizards, I epiphanize. I crawl away from the pack to get my own piece of bark. To check my surroundings I look up, but looming above me is a lizard larger than all of the lizards in my pack combined. Before I can even think, the monster lunges at me, jaws open. He swallows me into a cave of darkness. Then after what seems like a lengthy blink, I wake up crying in tropical humidity. A woman comes to my aid, lifting me out of my bedding. She rocks me and sings, soothing me. “Shhh Arian,” she says. “Shh”.
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER 2WO
Zosimos to lizard to baby! What a hallucination! Way more intense than my out of body experience at the limo crash scene. It wasn't just that I saw these characters, but I became them. For the duration of the vision, I was Zosimos and then a lizard and then a baby. Obscure and enigmatic, I wondered about reincarnation. In fact, I wondered about the whole point of the vision. As romantic as it was to become different, mysterious characters, my confusion was blatantly overwhelming. I had no concept of time, no physical body and I was still questioning my own existence.
As a means to solve the riddle, I worked with what little information I had. Allowing my thoughts to stretch further, I tried to grasp the reincarnation concept and I imagined myself starting out life in 330 B.C. swapping bodies over time until I wound up as Chelsea and then expiring in 2050 A.D. Now, where am I?
No clarity came and reincarnation was not a subject which I had much knowledge. One of the only reasons I considered the possibility is because it’s what Dr. Durig had in mind for his hypnosis work with Brandon - that maybe Brandon was somehow permanently hypnotized, seeing past lives, and needed to be un-hypnotized. I was confused as ever and I was starting to feel as though it was me who needed to be un-hypnotized.
At that moment I wished I could sit on Dr. Durig’s couch, but instead, with nowhere to go and nothing else to do, I thought about Brandon. By his teenage years, his level of coherency had nearly vanished. I thought about how different physicians always had varied theories about his condition; bipolar, schizophrenia, internal genius, reincarnation, dream catching. The list went on and some of the theories were absolutely preposterous. Brandon would mutter things though, odd things, sometimes places he’d never been, or people with whom he had no connection. During my life as Chelsea, I was gravely concerned about Brandon, about what he thought, and about what he muttered. I thought about him more than I thought about anything. It was emotional and intense.
At that point, I felt those same emotions stirring. They were rising. The buzzing intensified, manifesting itself as vigorous activity all around me. The power, the energy, drawing into me, I could feel another vision coming. Then illuminating colors, vision, I was bodied again…
VISION - - - - Laurie AGED 29 - - - - 1985
Having a sign pester you day after day is unsettling at best. This tiny, obscure board posted by the side of the road is growing as big as my pregnant tummy and it will not leave me alone. I first noticed it when I learned that I was going to have a baby. Unavoidable, I pass it during drives to the grocery store. When the sign is out of sight, the words stay with me: ATONEMENT LUTHERAN CHURCH. Wouldn’t you know it; it’s a double sided sign so I see it on my way back home from the grocery store too. The sign also advertises the single 9:30 a.m. Sunday service. I see it everywhere I go. It started out no bigger than three by five feet, but now, I promise you, as I’m nearing the end of my pregnancy the sign is as large as the city of Cleveland - and not only that, it’s letters are beginning to flash as though made of neon. I kid you not.
It has been awhile since I’ve seen the inside of any church. Awhile? Who am I kidding? I had given up attending church since I married Dan. That was five years ago. Even during excursions to the bank, I feel the sign forcing my pupils to dilate, attracting my attention like positively-charged magnets. The hunger gnawing away at my insides isn’t just indigestion that frequently comes with pregnancy. This is something that can’t be assuaged by downing a couple of Pepcid AC tablets. The sign pops up at me like a baby’s pop-up book when I drive to the Y for my swimming classes. I’ll be just fine once the baby arrives.
But where does the time go? 1985 - The swell of my belly is gone, replaced by this breathtaking infant. Despite the absolute rush that accompanies the first moment when I lay eyes on my new baby; despite the full knowledge that nobody else in the world since the dawning of time has ever delivered a child as gorgeous as mine, I can’t settle my spirit.
The words on that roadside sign haunt me for months, but I don’t give in. I bury myself in the joys of motherhood - the 3 a.m. feedings; the 5 a.m. feedings; the 7 a.m. feedings - my, but he’s hungry! Changing diapers, washing clothes, folding clothes, and not even bothering to put them in the drawer anymore become routine. Wholeheartedly, I throw myself into this new life, but I am not just fine. The hunger still gnaws at me. Finally, when Brandon is three months old, I am powerless against the unnamed, untamable force badgering my spirit.
I surrender on the next Sunday, as I mercilessly squeeze my postpartum belly into control-topped panty hose and struggle into my pre-pregnancy white linen pencil skirt with a complimenting green silk blouse. Brandon and I get ready for church. To perfectly accessorize this ensemble, I add the quilted diaper bag patterned with bright yellow ducks, scoop up downy headed Brandon and breathlessly totter to the car in heels. These heels easily navigated stairs before my pregnant belly arrived and left, leaving Brandon to stay. Now I totter to the car successfully albeit unsteadily. I stuff him into the new car seat as he spits up formula onto my blouse. “Uh”, I say. Already late and not taking additional time to see if the mess will be noticeable I briefly swab it with a cloth diaper and finish buckling Brandon into his seat, shut the BMW door and get myself behind the wheel to cautiously venture out of our gated condo parking lot and off to the small, brown building east of that annoying road sign. Contemporary, the wooden building is a style typical of Scandinavian Lutherans. An empty, wooden cross planted a few paces in front of the door quickly reveals the church’s identity.
If I look devout as I warily enter the intimate sanctuary, it is because I am praying. I am praying the formula Brandon spat up on my blouse won’t be obvious. The pews are positioned so that I can easily head for a seat in one of the rows just by continuing my current direction. The layout requires curious attendees to turn his or her head completely to the left to witness, maybe judge, my tardiness. There are a few who do so. Bravely, I hoist up my infant for a more secure hold, the diaper bag, and what is left of my courage. Then I look around for a safe place to sit - preferably an open spot here, toward the back, so I can make a quick escape during the last hymn.
God must have a great sense of humor. No sooner do I firmly plant that sensible plan in my mind, sitting in the front pew, an older yet elegant, well groomed lady also turns around to look at me. Glow from the stained glass behind the pulpit highlights her full-bodied, blond hair. Bangs dangle in front of her forehead, but the rest is pulled up, swept away from her rosy face. She smiles and beckons me to sit beside her and her husband - Sharon and Julius. I’ll politely say goodbye and make a fast escape after the last hymn. God’s humor prevails. When the service is finished, Sharon not only knows every member of that church, but insists on introducing me to every last one of them. None of the members was judging me earlier. Sharon’s friends went out of their way to welcome me.
When Brandon and I get out of there and drive out of Atonement’s parking lot headed back home, I glance at the everlasting sign through my rear view mirror. Barely noticeable now, I smile feeling like I have done my duty and triumphed. I found freedom. The temptation immediately overtakes me to go back to my old ways of lazily enjoying the Sunday paper over a fresh cup of coffee. Next Sunday will be relaxing.
No sooner do I walk through the front door of our condominium than the phone rings. It’s Sharon. She invites Brandon and me to return the following week. At that very moment, I know in my heart if I don’t return, the sign will grow back into a monstrous torment. I acquiesce and fully commit, attending church regularly from that point on. “We shall see you then,” I tell Sharon before putting the receiver back on its dock. Suddenly, I picture God smiling and telling me gently, “You cannot escape me”. “Jonah couldn’t and you won’t either”. What a sense of humor.
Although that nice lady, Sharon, made me stand through all those introductions during my first visit, I’ve begun to get better acquainted and more comfortable with her and Julius and her many friends. Every week I show up and just as she had during our first visit there, Sharon takes Brandon into her lap and holds him the entire service. We began a new tradition of following the worship services, with fellowship with other members and casual conversation with each other.
After service on the third consecutive Sunday Sharon and Julius ask me when Brandon was born. “He arrived at Emanuel hospital on April 9th,” I tell them. Sharon and Julius draw in their breath sharply and exchange meaningful gazes at each other over my head. I don’t ask.
Not until several more Sundays later, when I nearly forgot Sharon and Julius had been taken aback, they explain their odd, slightly spooky behavior. Their own grandson had been born with many health complications; in and out of the hospital for most of his very short life. He died on the same day, April 9th that Brandon was born.
VISION - - - - Chelsea Aged 7 - - - - 1994
“When puppies get up in the morning they always say ‘Good day arf, arf’,” Mom cheerily sings to Humphrey, our fluffy puppy. It is another morning, so I climb out of bed to race to mom’s room. Brandon is already awake and he is there singing along too. Humphrey sees me and wiggles and dances, and I feel just as excited. I jump onto the king-size bed adding to the pajama party. I nudge Brandon over and nestle into a comfy spot so we can all watch Dad on TV. It’s the only TV we watch - Dad on the news or Trailblazers basketball games. Otherwise we have other things to do. That’s what Mom says.
“Very true Cathy,” Dad says. “Do we see an end in sight to the damage?” Dad asks a lot of questions - that way he has the best information. The news is all about information. People need to know current events and the weather and the traffic. It helps with daily life. I focus on the screen again when the news goes to a commercial. Just then I feel the bed shaking.
It’s actually Brandon shaking with his mouth halfway open, looking up to the ceiling. Mom looks panicked. Humphrey scurries into my lap. “Brandon,” Mom says. “Brandon!” He is still trembling. She grips his shoulders to hold him still. “Aristotle,” Brandon whispers as spit-bubbles form around his lips. What’s ‘Air Toddle’? A second later he stops shaking as he looks at his legs and then at Mom.
Mom relieved, leans over and hugs him really tight. Humphrey leaves my lap to go give Brandon puppy kisses, but Brandon still seems dazed.
“Um are you OK Brandon?” I ask. Mom’s next move - she grabs the phone and calls the station leaving a message for Dad. “I think Brandon just had a seizure,” she says in a scared voice. Then she hangs up and calls the hospital. Dad came back on the news, but I still stared wide-eyed at Brandon. “I’m fine,” Brandon says. “What’s a seizure? Is that a daydream?”
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER 3HREE
Whoa, two in a row, I thought, first Mom and then me as a little girl. It’s as though I had a visit with the ghost of Christmas past. The visions were, again, stronger than déjà vu, and only added confusion. I’d taken on multiple perspectives. Laurie was my Mom. Little Chelsea was me. And Brandon’s seizure, I should have known.
And then it hit me! I suddenly realized that I wasn’t Zosimos! It felt as though I was during the vision, but it couldn’t be so. Zosimos must have been who Brandon saw or was. I should have known because Aristotle was one of Brandon’s first mutterings. I didn’t think I could ever forget that moment - the seizure was just as traumatic for me as it was for him. It sent me on a lifelong mission, chasing after all those theories about his condition. The seizures were his first symptoms, related or unrelated we didn’t know.
Doctors said he had childhood epilepsy. A few years after the first seizure, he was deemed cured, but that's really when his condition worsened to the most elevated stage. That’s also when doctors hypothesized the seizures turned into mental seizures. It was the first theory, never proven and never cured.
Thinking about Brandon, my emotions growing again, I felt the buzzing intensify. Another vision…
VISION - - - - Dan aged 48 - - - - 1994
With dinner over I head to the bedroom, then the vanity to perform my nightly ritual - getting ready for the next day’s work, picking out a suit and tie and knowing the infernal phone might ring in the middle of the night calling me away on some breaking news story. I need socks too. There’s no telling what color socks I’ll grab if I wait to pick them out when I’m still in a sleepy stupor. I scan the suits in my closet. Ah, this one is perfect because I haven’t worn it in a while. I pluck it out and hang it on a separate hook. OK, which tie works with that suit and the shirt I plan to wear? The blue one will do. Just to double check, I step in line with the vanity mirror above the sink and hold the tie up in front of my neck, thinking about the double Windsor I’ll be swooping in the morning. “I’m tired of neckties,” I say out loud, slightly exhaling. It’s been a long day. This outfit is good enough. The blue tie reminds me of the blue in Brandon and Chelsea’s eyes, beautiful blue, sincere blue, gentle blue. Tonight is bound to be an uneasy rest because I haven’t stopped worrying about Brandon since Laurie’s phone call. He’s so young, strong, but vulnerable. The fact is Brandon’s problem makes me feel more vulnerable than ever. If only I could wave my hand and make this trauma go away, but a dad can only do so much.
Laurie said the pediatrician thinks my precious son suffers from childhood epilepsy. We are taking him in for an EEG test in a couple of days to find out. He will have to stay up the night before so he will fall asleep in the hospital. That way they can monitor his brain waves during his slumber. All this means another sleepless night ahead. But that is not important. I just need Brandon healthy. I feel such worry, such strain, and such fear. No father can ever be prepared for something like this.
In the midst of my worrying and hustling around, getting ready for the sack, I catch a glimpse of myself, and realize I'm a little rumpled. Not much to look at. Normally I’m comfortable at the sight of my rumpled reflection, because for another day, I had been the person who learned, helped and worked. I normally had reason to be proud of the person in the mirror. How unsettling it would be to see someone in that mirror who didn’t deserve respect. I normally work hard just to make sure that would never happen, but sometimes that’s not enough. What about the uncontrollable factors, like Brandon’s condition? “Just do all you can,” I say out loud almost giving up - damn it - enough speculation.
On my pillow that night, as I’m drifting into the netherworld, I find slumber, but a strange, almost giddy feeling sets in. “I’m finally in charge of my own destiny,” I say as I dream about the time I lived in Chicago. I was 25,and it was the first time no one was there telling me what to do. Grade school through college was structured and someone was always there, directing my next move... The Army also dictated where I had to be, what I needed to do, and even what I was to eat. Now I have the job of charting my own course, doing what I want, living where I want. Sure I have responsibilities, but I could always quit, if I choose.
I start to dream about my responsibilities while working for WGN Television Radio, a Chicago news syndicate. I’m outside the building, but it’s locked. An editor, who looks like the Marlboro man, suddenly appears and says “Don’t worry man”. I can see his breathe in the cold air. “I’ve got the key,” he says as he unlocks the door, lets me in and then disappears as quickly as he appeared. "Thanks buddy," I think to myself.
As I enter the lobby, the annoying, pig-tailed receptionist is behind the reception desk. She’s smacking her lips, chewing on too much bubble gum and she gives me a funny look. She’s too young and too inexperienced to be the first representative of this company that a visitor sees. She smack of unprofessionalism as loudly as her gum does. “Why are you so awkward?” I shout like a mad surgeon trying to remove her inner thoughts. She gives an idiotic reply, a blank stare and more bubble gum smacking. Then the shine on my shoes catches my eye as I realize my shoes are lifting off the lobby floor. I’m floating! I’m levitating! That’s why she... “You’re excused,” I say to her. She ignores my dismissal as she puts on green sunglasses and starts to blow an enormous bubble gum bubble. It’s growing like a balloon. It’s going to be the size of her face in a second. Instead of waiting to see her bubble pop, my feet swing back behind me and now my stomach is hovering a yard off of the lobby floor. My blue tie is hanging out. “Forget this,” I say.
I will myself to float head first into the elevator which will lift me twenty floors to the newsroom. As the doors close, the elevator becomes my zero gravity room. Like an astronaut I pull 360’s, flip backwards, and push off of the walls, floating back and forth. Work isn’t so bad, I think to myself. Just then gravity arrives and I make the quick fall towards the russet marble floor. But just before I do end up splatting like putty on the elevator floor, I find myself in my Chicago studio-apartment with an itching, anxious feeling. I’m disoriented. I hate this feeling. Am I late for something? In a business with ever looming deadlines, I can’t ever be late for work.
I guessed that I’d been sleeping. Oh God, what time is it? I stumble from bed to see the clock hanging on the wall of my kitchenette. It’s the efficiency kitchen. I look at the clock. The long hand is pointing directly at the twelve. The shorter hand is on the four. It’s four! My shift is 3:30 to noon. I’m late, deadline! In the chill of Chicago winters, 4 a.m. and 4 p.m. have a way of looking the same - dusky, undefined. So which is it, 4 a.m. or 4 p.m.? It’s still dark in the apartment. I just stand there, anxious, feeling like I might have let someone down. We’ve got deadlines! If I’m not there with a script for the news anchors, there will be hell to pay. With only a soft light coming from the street lamp outside my window, I look outside to orient myself. Tall apartment buildings prevent me from seeing Lake Michigan which is just a block away. There are a few people on the street and cars going by, as usual. Giving my head a shake, I still feel a sense of panic. But that feeling is suddenly cut short.
Returning to my 48 year old body, I wake from my stressful dream. I feel Laurie’s warmth on the right and Humphrey’s warmth near my right foot. I roll to the left, getting blinded by the large, glaring red, digits on the alarm clock. Adjusting my eyes, it is 1:12 AM. “I’m the one who needs an EEG test,” I say to myself quietly. With an accelerated pounding in my heart, I toss the sheet and blanket aside and motion to the dog that I’m going to the kitchen in case he wants to go out. Not a chance, as it turns out. As I stand next to my bed, Humphrey lowers his head and rolls his eyes as if to say “I’d join you, dad, if I wasn’t so comfortable.” Laurie looks cozy, curled into her pillow. I wonder if she’s dreaming up any crazy nonsense as I did. Still disoriented, I think to myself how much easier life was when there was always someone else around to tell me what to do.
VISION - - - - Laurie AGED 38 - - - - 1994
The script that I’m running through the teleprompter is crinkling on the right edge. I’m going to adjust it. It’s a little bit forward. I’ll just reverse it. All I have to do is press this button. Holy crap, that’s the wrong one. The script goes fast forward instead of reversing. It’s caught on a sprocket. What should I do? Oh no, it’s tearing in half. It’s destroyed and they are still trying to read it. I desperately grasp at each shred of the paper with my fingernails. It does no good. This is my fault. These poor anchors - they watch in bemused horror trying to read and maintain professional composure. How will I survive this news cast? I sheepishly watch as they pick up notes off the anchor desk and finish the show.
Afterwards I go to the newsroom hoping to make a quick escape out the door to my car and never return. This internship was obviously a bad idea. To my chagrin, Dan Christopher, the main anchor, walks into the news room right behind me. I look around anxiously because I feel I need a place to hide. He is so serious. He’s handsome though. Expecting that he will be fuming, I do a double-take because he’s smiling.
He laughs. “Who taught you how to put the script together for the teleprompter?” I tell him and he shrugs responding, “Oh I should have known." He rolls his eyes and then grins widely.
Quite relieved, I smile - my classic great grandmother’s half upturned smile. "That’ll get him," I think.
He grabs a discarded script to show me how to prepare it properly for the teleprompter. “If you ever do that again, I will unscrew the nose from your face,” he says joking, like he’s mocking Adolf Hitler. It’s delightful to see his humor.
~ ~ ~
CHAPTER 4OUR
Back and forth, visions to wherever I was, and whatever I was - a new Chelsea? I felt a bit ridiculous like a drug addled, touring rock star whose home is wherever the road leads. And when this rock star is in need of a manager to simply remind me what city I was in, my out of body (can I be sure I'm not on drugs?) self, instead, got a cold bucket of water in the face - no sympathy. I wondered about the dreams within the recent visions, but they only came across as insulting.