our hands hold memories of meeting
in a thousand other lives
― John Mark Green
Our Lives
Staring at Sarah in candlelight softens the harshness and actuality of this moment.
The room is quiet and peaceful as a dream.
We're sitting in the sparsely furnished safe house but the candle's glow transforms the tawdry surroundings into a gossamer world, fragile and tenuous.
And I'm thinking, there's something between us that's eternal.
I know we made promises in other lifetimes and that's what the candle on the table evokes―it both relaxes and comforts, but also conjures memories of our ghosts.
"You feel it don't you?" she murmurs, curling up beside me on the couch.
The candle is casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Yes, I feel it, the weight of those past lives―but no need for me to say it, she knows everything in my mind.
She stretches out luxuriantly and then sits up. "Much as I'm enjoying this, we have to talk about what happened today, Scott―it will help you process through the shock."
I nod. "I know, I haven't come to terms with it yet."
"You will," she sighs, "you just have to give it time."
I'm musing inside, still trying to wrap my mind around why Flora wanted to kill me. I can't get over the personal assault―it was that, more than the gun, that shocked me.
Sarah's been watching my abstracted gaze and instinctively senses what I'm thinking.
"You knew Flora was attracted to you," she whispers, "so that's why you find this so difficult."
I shrug and stare off through the window at the rain.
I'm embarrassed. Can I be so narcissistic that a woman's betrayal wounds me so deeply?
"You don't get it do you―and after so many lifetimes? You've always been this way, Scott, deferring to strong women in your life."
I stare in surprise as if she suddenly grew ten heads, though I know in my gut she's right.
Realization dawns. I recall times struggling with dad, resisting his advice but doing what my mom suggested because it seemed more right.
"It's your only real flaw, and some might not even call it that, but it's always the same―you're the victim, saved by strong women in your life."
My hand instinctively goes to my cheek, still bruised by her and now my heart feels that way too.
She might as well have slammed me up against the wall again and knocked more sense into me. I couldn't believe how vulnerable her words have made me.
"I feel so stupid―you're right. Everything you said―it's the story of my life."
I picture it all in my head―dad pleading with me to not go to war and I defying him instead.
It's hard to face the facts. I didn't come to Willow Grove to get back to the land.
What I really wanted was to live the dream dad couldn't have.
Sarah's gazing at me sadly. I know what she must be thinking―I'm pitiful.
She's my rescuer, like Maggie in A Hot Tin Roof when she takes Brick by the hand and leads him off to bed...
Oh, you weak people, you weak, beautiful people who give up. What you want is someone to take hold of you. Gently, gently, with love!
Is that what I am―a weak failure of a man―foolishly grieving the very woman who wanted to put a bullet through my head?
A parade of past lives passes before me until they end with Flora, a red bloom blossoming on her chest...
I try to look away but she topples toward me and who's there to catch me? Sarah, of course. Behind her stretches a line of dark figures, of future women waiting to rescue me.
And the line stretches on forever.
”You need to walk away from me, Scott.”
“What do you mean?” I blurt out, panic seizing my brain.
“I’m a married woman and Ella needs you. Besides, you love her and in Neil you’ll find the father figure, the mentor, who can help you heal.”
“But I love you too,” I pleaded.
“This is your time, my Love, your time to break out. I’m too weak and won’t let you go. If you stay this will be your fate. You have to be strong.”
I stare into her eyes and see all my past selves. This is why we're here now—to find a way out.
“I can’t let you go,” I moan.
“You can, my Love. I wish I could stand up and walk out that door and not look back, but only you can break the spell—only you can do that. Go home, Scott.”
She hands me the keys to my truck.
“Go home, Scott," she repeats sternly, "and don’t look back.”
I feel levitated from the couch. Somehow I'm on my feet and headed to the door.
I walk out into the pouring night, get into the truck, turn the key and don’t look back as I drive.
My cheeks are wet—from rain, I tell myself, although in a storm you never know.
And I go home to an empty house, feeling lost as whenever we've been apart...
It's over, I tell myself, but that's only true in part...
She still occupies the high ground in me and always will in my heart.