Remember The Moon (18 page)

“That’s a real accomplishment. What changed things for you?” Tom asked.

“I lost the woman I loved and then got mixed up in a bad crowd. I performed in a band for a while in the eighties when everyone did coke. I blew away a small fortune.” Tom nodded knowingly as Marcus continued.

“When I took a job at a bar, the really heavy drinking started. I went to work out of my mind half the time. One day, after a night of boozing, I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten home. My car keys were flung on the floor with my jacket. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw an overweight, pasty-faced old man looking back at me and something snapped. It scared me not remembering how I’d gotten home and then realizing I had driven home during a black-out. I went to an AA meeting that afternoon. I got straightened out and wound up buying the bar. Funny business for a recovering alcoholic, right?” Tom smiled.

“A little,” Tom agreed.

“Turns out I’m a pretty good businessman. And a foodie. I guess I just swapped addictions. Not that I’m addicted to food or anything, I just enjoy really good food.”

Tom laughed. “No, I get it. Recovering addicts often find other passions. Some even border on obsessions. Yours sounds like a great one to have!”

Marcus smiled, but a crease appeared between his eyes making him look sad. “I should get going, Tom. I have another date tonight.”

“A date? What happened to Stephanie?”

“Things didn’t work out. I don’t seem to have a whole lot of luck in the relationship department.”

“The right one will come along,” Tom said.

“Yeah. Maybe,” Marc said, that same crease appearing between his eyes once more. I felt someone pat the top of my head.

“C’mon, Jericho,” Marcus said and he reached toward me and hooked a leash to something around my neck. Momentarily confused, I realized I was embodied inside Marc’s dog, Jericho. I shuddered and jumped free. The dog continued to shake as I hovered above them both. Marcus waited as the dog finished his all over body shake, as if he had just jumped out of a lake.

“C’mon, boy. What’s all the shaking for?” The dog stopped and looked at me, cocking his head.

“Jericho, let’s go. What are you looking at, boy?” Jericho seemed to wink at me before turning and heading purposefully toward the door. I hovered for a while longer. I felt Alice nearby.

“Nice work, Jay. I think that’s your largest animal embodiment so far.”

“That was weird. I didn’t even realize I was the dog.”

“Yes, that sometimes happens when you choose to enter the earth realm. You embody the closest animal in proximity to the scene you want to participate in.”

“I didn’t really want to participate. I was just there.”

“Then there was a reason. You needed to experience that moment so you could understand a little more about Marcus.”

“I guess. He seems sadder than I remember him. He used to be so cocky. I always thought he was a bit of a–”

“Marc’s come a long way. It’s been a difficult road for him.” Alice cut off my thought.

“I find that surprising. He had it all.”

“By all, what do you mean?” Alice asked.

“Good looks, intelligence, success. He seemed to make a good living, from what I heard.”

Alice looked at me, waiting, saying nothing.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me I should know better. That those are not necessarily the qualities of a contented human,” I said.

Alice smiled, looking like she wanted to pat my head the way Marcus had patted mine, as Jericho. “You’re right. That is what I was going to say. That and Marcus has endured his own form of human adversity.”

“And now I’m meant to help him?”

“That’s up to you, Jay. Everything you do in this realm must be done by your own volition.”

“Yes, so I keep hearing.”

M
aya's new paintings took on a new, ethereal quality, with Mylar-colored clouds scuttling across wind-swept landscapes spun like candy floss, offset by swirls of wheaten fields. Often they contained a lone black bird, flying away in the distance. She painted Monet-style – tiny brush strokes which made up a pointillistic whole when seen from a distance. She infused each piece with meaning and gave each a name that mirrored her subconscious: Serenity, Patience, Vale of Misery, Detachment Bay. Her canvases blended sky and Earth, representations of the landscapes of Maya's mind. Her past work, mixtures of earthy browns and yellows and oranges, had a grounded feel, but lately her colors had become more deeply saturated, more vibrant, as if grief had unblocked her line of sight into the world in which I now existed and she unconsciously painted her impressions of it. She painted the dreamscapes of the dreams we shared, seeing and interpreting an afterlife’s spectrum of colors at their higher vibrational frequency. The resulting paintings conveyed soothing, nourishing worlds in which to rest one’s mind. The act of painting seemed to calm her, as much as it pained her. She painted with tears blurring her vision or, at times, while grinning with excitement.

Since Liz’s reading, Maya began painting a series of crows, their bodies smudged into slate gray skyscapes, as if emotion had melted their wings. In some, their eyes were a piercing yellow, like tiny harvest moons against an ebony backdrop. Maya's paintings were infused with her rage, which seemed to hurl itself off the canvasses, her guilt evidenced in the lone bird portraits. But the paintings possessed an energy I had never seen before in her work. I could see the paintings’ auras, the energy they exuded, and knew how much catharsis each one contained within the thick layers of paint.

While Calder was at school each day, Maya painted, trying to amass enough work for her upcoming show in Vancouver. As she worked, I occasionally stood beside her, watching, even participating as her tiny brush hovered over a color on her palette. I found I could guide her hand with my thoughts. As her brain waves relaxed into their hypnotic Theta state, I learned to merge my frequency to be more in tune with hers. I could visualize a particularly beautiful sector of my world and transfer its color and quality of light to her mind. Her interpretations of these images were stunning. I heard her tell friends that it felt as if I held her brush for her and directed her hand. “It’s like I’m not even creating these paintings by myself,” she explained. “I feel as if Jay is with me, guiding me. I can’t believe the work I’ve been producing!” She knew innately that she spoke the truth. I did, in a sense, guide her hand. And her paintings were magnificent.

It was no wonder that Amalie from Crescent Knoll Gallery in Vancouver was excited to show Maya's new work. Maya and Amalie had worked together for several years, ever since Maya and I moved to the West Coast, just before Calder's birth. Amalie was a work of art in her own right with her trademark sheet of art-gallery white corkscrew hair and silken Sari-type skirts covered in tiny mirrors and jewels. If asked about her nationality, Amalie would purr the word “Persian”, though no one quite knew what that meant. Maya and I laughed the first time we met her as she floated toward us and gathered Maya in an embrace with a “Daaaarlink! Finally, we meet!”

Maya was thrilled to be represented by Amalie’s gallery, a coup since Amalie knew all the big players in the Canadian art world, not to mention the global one. I’d been ecstatic when one of the first of Maya's paintings to sell carried a price tag of $2,500. Since then, she commanded ever higher prices, though selling a painting did not occur every day. I knew she would do very well selling her latest paintings and that they would put her on the map artistically.

I followed Maya and Amalie around the whitewashed gallery where Maya's paintings leaned against the wall in the positions they were meant to be hung. They stood together in the middle of the room assessing one wall.

“I don’t like ‘Destruction’ so close to ‘Rusty Blackbird’. I think we should swap it out with ‘Mescaline Solipsism’,” Maya said, pointing and biting her lip.

“But Darlink, ‘Mescaline’ is so powerful! It will be lost next to the crow! You must give it the white space it deserves!”

Maya continued to bite her lip. “Maybe you’re right, Amalie. I just don’t know anymore. I’ve been looking at them all for so long. Maybe I shouldn’t even be hanging the crow painting since it’s not for sale.”

“Trust me, Darlink, it will all be fine. I have a perfect place for your special crow.” Amalie patted Maya's hand.

Later that afternoon, Maya stood in front of a mirror holding up outfits. Black. Violet. Red. Dresses I hadn’t seen before.

Tonight’s the night the psychic said I would meet Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome.

Of course. That explained the new dresses. Maya expected to meet Sean Connery. My stupid mistake of misguided thought. She was bound to be disappointed when her mystery man failed to appear. Old human emotion caused a momentary degradation of my resonance, like tiny electrical shocks of regret, guilt, jealousy. Alice popped in and took a place on the end of the bed beside me where we watched Maya hold each dress up in front of her body, and then, one by one, slip them over her head.

“I’m sure you can sense her trepidation and guilt at the prospect of meeting someone new, Jay.” Maya twirled in the red dress. She looked ravishing.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch.”

“No. But remember, you must detach from your human emotions.”

“I’m trying. I feel a low-level vibration pulling at me. Is that my emotion or hers?” Maya stood now, biting her lip, wearing the wine-colored shiny dress. Cute, but not as beautiful as the red one.

“Mostly it’s a vibration emanating from her, but one that you’re sensitive to. You must’ve felt this vibration from her at other times during her grieving.”

“Yeah, but this feels different. It’s not quite as low. Sure those sad, flat, grief vibrations caused Maya's aura to be a very dark navy blue, whereas this vibration carries with it something urgent, expectant. Look, her aura is pulsing with red.”

“That’s her sexual energy you’re seeing.”

“What? Really? So she pulses red when she’s a horn toad? Damn, I wish I’d been able to see
that
when I was alive!” Alice smiled. Maya now wore the black dress, but tried to smooth it down against her legs, apparently unhappy with how it fell over her hips and thighs.

Dumb dress. I’m returning this one. But which dress should I wear? Red or purple?

Definitely red.

Maya put the red dress back on.
I bet you’d choose the red one.

Thank you, Lenie. You really do look ravishing.

I look pretty good, don’t I?

Absolutely!

“The new emotions Maya's experiencing will become more frequent,” Alice continued.

“You mean she’s going to be horny more now?”

“Yes, that’s one reason for it. Her sexual energy is also healing energy. Her body is finding ways to produce more dopamine. It’s beginning to rewire itself from being in a state of grief to being in more of a state of alive-ness. As a part of this process, she’s also learning to resonate at higher levels spiritually as well. Grief is a transformative experience for humans. Many people who’ve experienced human trauma often have a spiritual awakening. Such awakenings give humans a greater ability to access our world since their brain waves resonate at levels that are more in tune with our world. The brighter hues of their auras reflect these changes.”

Maya's aura throbbed. She held several hairpins between her lips as she began to pile her hair into a knot on the top of her head. I’d never seen her look more beautiful. Her curls were pulled off her face, and the dress set off the color of her eyes. She turned a little in the mirror, trying to see the V of the dress in back, apparently pleased with the result because she smiled. She slipped on a pair of gold strappy sandals and pulled a black shawl around her shoulders. Every man at the opening would have his eyes on her. It felt strange not to be jealous. As human Jay, I would’ve been suspicious of her new dress. I might’ve even teased her for looking too sexy, which would have prompted her to change or let down her hair. What a fool I’d been.

“Like jealousy, regret has no place here, Jay.” Alice smiled. “But you know that.” She disappeared like the Cheshire Cat, leaving just her lingering, sideways smile.

At the gallery, Amalie spotted Maya walk in and rushed to greet her.

“Daaarlink!”

Maya smiled and moved through the crowd, not noticing the looks she received from some of the other attendees, men and women alike.

“You look fabulous! Please, you must meet my friends! They
love
your work! They want to buy, Maya! It’s wonderful!”

Maya shook hands and smiled as she was introduced around the gallery. Someone handed her a glass of wine and soon her pale complexion was flushed, adding to her allure. As she spoke with a small woman wearing a black dress and tall black boots, I noticed Maya's attention waned. She scoped the room for her Sean Connery. Her gaze fell upon a tall figure almost facing her, studying one of her paintings intently. He bent close and lifted his glasses to look at the brush strokes and then moved a few steps backward and tilted his head to see the painting from a distance. He wore a black suit, expensive-looking, but lassoed with a grey scarf that blended with his salt and pepper hair. His face bore deep vertical grooves, crossed by almost invisible rectangular glasses. I couldn’t help noticing his perfectly manicured hands. Slowly, chatting with people along the way, Maya made her way toward him. He stayed by her painting, clearly aware of the dance.

“Do you like it?” Maya didn’t often make the first move.

“Yes. Very much. I find it very relaxing to look at. You’re the artist?” Maya nodded, her cheeks becoming even more pink than the wine had made them. “This is a big night for you.”

“Yes. Nerve-wracking as hell.”

“But why? You’re very talented, Ms. Cavor.”

“Thank you...”

“Dominic, but friends call me Dom.”

“Dominic. Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Maya smiled and he held her eyes before turning back to the painting. The man pointed, circling his finger. “I love this part here. The crimson against the stormy gray sky. So much tension. It leaves you wondering.”

“Wondering?”

“Wondering what might happen next.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me, but I think I see what you mean. Sort of an expectation.”

“Precisely. Expectation.” He looked at the painting in silence for a few moments, as if mining it for the secrets to Maya's soul before turning back to her. “Can I get you another glass of bad art-gallery wine?”

Maya laughed and held out her empty glass. “That would be lovely, thank you.” She followed Dom towards the bar. As she drew close, another man turned around and caught sight of her.

“Maya?”

“Marcus!” Maya paled.
What’s
he
doing here?

Marc looked tired, his broad forehead creased with worry lines.

“Hello, Maya.” He combed his dark hair off his face with his hand, nervously.

“What are you doing here?” Maya whispered as she looked over at Dom, who poured red wine from a huge liter bottle.

“I wouldn’t have missed your opening, Maya.”

“Why? You’ve never come to one of my openings before. This isn’t my first.”

“No, but I should have.” Dom now stood behind Marcus, his chin up, trying to peer over Marcus’s shoulder as he held up Maya's glass of red wine.

“Here you go.” Dominic handed one of the glasses to Maya, who took it and smiled at him.

“Thank you. Dominic, I’d like you to meet Marcus, an old childhood friend. Marcus, this is Dominic.” The men shook hands.

This should be interesting. Another wrinkle in human communion I’d failed to foresee.

“Pleased to meet you, Marcus. You’ve known each other a long time. That’s a special kind of friendship. Not enough of those in the world.”

“Yes, but we haven’t seen each other for a long time,” Maya said quickly.

“Not since the funeral. Has it really been over a year now? How’re you doing Maya? Have you been OK?”

“I’m hanging in there.” Maya looked at Dom, who quickly put the puzzle pieces of her life together with these tidbits of information.

“Maya, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Do you have a moment?”

“No, Marcus. Can’t we do this another time?”

“It’s fine,” Dominic said. “Go talk to your friend.”

“No. It’s fine, Dominic, really. Marcus and I can talk another time. Right?” She looked pointedly at Marc.

“Will you be in Vancouver for long?” Marcus asked.

“Just overnight. I’m staying at Amalie’s. I have to get back first thing in the morning. A friend is taking care of Calder tonight in Seattle.”

“OK. Well, I see you’re busy. Another time then. Nice to meet you...”