I have a confession to make. When I wrote about my journey to Italy and meeting the beautiful Italian girl with the bicycle, I was actually searching for something I had lost. I thought I was moving on, putting the past behind me, letting go of the tethers that held me fast to the ground, like a hot-air balloon, wanting freedom, straining upward, filled with buoyancy. I wanted to believe that; I wanted so desperately to move forward, upward, out of the rut of my past choices. You see, I have done some crazy things in my life, and it was filled with more drama than a lifetime on Broadway. Yet, in my subconscious mind, beneath the layers of protection that we wrap our deepest traumas, I was in search of . . .
My cell phone rang its cheery jingle. I kept it near my pillow as I slept, never again to be without it.
A year before, I awoke with a start. Wide-awake, I knew something was wrong. I swung my legs off the bed and jolted to my feet, much too quickly for my aging equilibrium, or was it the wine that was still coursing through my veins, my antidote for sleepless nights. I glanced at the night table clock: 4:44 its red numbers glared. Stumbling into the cabin room, I searched in the dark for my phone . . . a flash of light, its screen illuminated in the dark room. Ding. That’s what woke me, dings in the night. I have the ears of a bat, perceiving sounds outside of the normal human hearing, even in my sleep. Bleary-eyed, I squinted at the text. Old age, sleepy, or was it the wine? My brother was texting me. Why would my brother text me at four in the morning? We hadn’t talked in several years, not since he kicked me out of his house. Another story, another time. My youngest brother was having chest pains and was in the ER, the text read. Tests were being conducted. An ultrasound revealed a bulging aorta. Surgery was needed. Get here NOW!
That’s how we met. I mean that’s why I was sleeping with the girl that was with me when my cell phone rang its cheery jingle. It all started with my brother and his open-heart surgery. A friend of his had seen my Facebook posts asking for prayers for his successful surgery and recovery. We started chatting, and in my Indian Jones style, I walked in her bakery to meet her. I know, I’m leaving out the details, but that is another story. I want to tell you about the phone call . . . and my confession.
I glanced at the phone number . . . no one in my directory, but from the city.
“Hello.”
“Jeremiah?”
“Yeah, who’s this?” My skin tingled. I didn’t recognize the voice. Who is this?
“Oh, thank God you answered!” Her voice was desperate. “I found your number on Facebook. I’m looking for my sister.”
“Who is this?” I demanded.
“Julie. I’m Monica’s sister. Is she with you? Something terrible has happened.”
Shit! Monica had told me about her mom’s failing health. Oh, God!
“Who is it?” Monica sat up, holding the covers over her.
“Your sister.” I handed her the phone.
I got out of bed and hurriedly put on some clothes. The intimacy of the night was long gone, and suddenly, I felt foolish lying in bed naked with her. I flicked on the nightstand light. Monica’s face was drained of life. She blankly stared with eyes of disbelief. Oh, God, her mom has passed.
“No. No. No. No . . . Agghhhh!” She wailed and wailed, then handed me the phone. She sat with her back to me, legs over the side of the bed, covers wrapped around her. Nakedness has no beauty when the floodlights of reality expose every crevice of your existence . . . like the morgue during an autopsy.
“This is Jeremiah. What’s going on?” My mind said this was not about her mom. Too much anguish. Hysterical surprise.
“Monica’s son was shot dead by the police.” My head did not register. What? Son? The son that wanted a plane ticket to come home, but didn’t have the money. I was silent. My thoughts colliding like billiard balls during the break.
“Joshua was killed by the police. That’s all we know. His dad called me. We need to leave for Texas as soon as we can meet. Texas . . . land of law and order.
“Okay,” I said automatically.
“I’ll call you back shortly. You need to take care of my sister. I have to call our mom.”
Mom. Mom was okay. This was not okay, way outside of anything I had ever done.
Stay tuned to the continuing saga of Jeremiah’s Journey at . . .
Revelation7Strong
To begin the series, start with Jeremiah’s Journey – 1: “Roses Are For Lovers”
