Friday Fiction: Into the Here

 

INTO THE HERE

 

 

     "Well, that must have been nasty," she said. "Thank goodness you're out of that. Would you like some tea?"

     I looked up. "Uh...yes. Yes I would. Thank you."

     "Iced or a hot cup?"

     I looked around the room, trying to decide how I felt. The room looked vaguely familiar, and so did she.

     "Iced, I guess."

     She poured me a glass from a pitcher clinking with cubes.

     "How does your eye feel now? Any pain?"

     "No," I said, suddenly remembering the stabbing pain to the socket. I put my hand up and rubbed it. "It feels fine."

     "Legs? Chest? All good? Good. That means it was a nice clean switch."

     She poured herself a cup of hot tea, added sugar and lemon, and started stirring. I watched her, trying to remember where I'd seen her.

     I placed the room, all right. It resembled my grandmother's kitchen, a place I hadn't seen for thirty years or more. The sink, the planters, the ivy, the fridge, the stove. We sat at the little table in the corner of the room, two windows in a right angle. It was all the same, but more so. Cleaner, brighter...I wouldn't say newer, but more of a muchness, more itself. The scent of jasmine and chinaberry blossom breezed through the windows.

     She put her cup to her lips, and I raised my glass as well. She was dressed in white and ivory, and the sunlight streaming in the window (morning or afternoon? I couldn't tell) made a halo around her straight blonde hair. I put the glass down.

     "I know you, don't I?"

     "Oh, splendid, you do remember me!" She smiled, pleased with this. "You were still awake! So many have fallen asleep, and often when they're so young, too. Yes, you saw me peeking in on you quite a few times through the years. Do you know where we are?"

     "It looks like my grandmother's kitchen," I answered cautiously.

     "Quite right, quite right," she said. She took another sip. "Well, not your grandmother's kitchen, but your grandmother's kitchen, if you grasp the distinction." She reached for a red and yellow box on the table. "Would you like a sugar cookie?"

     I looked at the box in disbelief. They hadn't made these old Starlite cookies since...

     "Please," I said, then swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

     "Oh, yes, you need a name for me. I sometimes forget how important that is. Let's see...the last thing you called me was Helen Belle Bethel, so why don't we go with that?"

     "But that's just a name I made up for a story!"

     "And that's the last time you glimpsed me. You gave me glasses," she added, with a hint of disapproval. "When you saw me most clearly, I had daisies in my hair."

     "I..." I began, then stared at her, dumbfounded. She looked down, then up slowly, a challenge in her eyes, daring me to admit it.

     "That was just a dream," I managed.

     "Just a dream? Here, you'll have to give up that word." She laughed, challenge gone. "Have a cookie. They're most delightfully chewy."

     Automatically, I accepted one, took a bite, sipped my tea. The cookie was exactly as the palate of my mind insisted it had been. I swallowed.

     "A curious kind of childhood communion," I commented.

     "Things should start off with something nice and familiar. Or familiarly nice. To clear away any lingering bad feelings. To remind you of things that may have been...obscured by time."

     She brightened.

     "Now that I think about it, it's rather like Proust, isn't it? Cookies and tea! And you've worked up to it without consciously thinking of that. Yes, perhaps it is best you relate to things that way at first. As you start to grasp them."

     "So how do I relate to you?" I asked. "Do I call you anima? Guardian angel? Elf queen? That not impossible she?"

     "Well, those are all very flattering." She blushed, just a little, then went on in business-like tones. "But for now, just call me Helen. Please, finish your tea. We should be moving along quite soon. As soon as our third party joins us."

     "Third party? Is this the time for joyous family reunions?"

     "Oh, not for some while, I'm afraid. It might be quite a bit before you're ready for that. But it is a re-union of a sort."

     She set her cup down with finality, and rose from the table. I got up, following her lead. She went to the back door, took her white bonnet from the peg, and began briskly tying it on. There were daisies on the trim.

     "This has been nice," she said. "You'll have to remember to tell your grandmother about it when you see her." She glanced out the screen door. "And here, I believe, is our third party."

     She pushed the door open, and in a flurry of paws a young doberman pinscher clattered into the room, tongue lolling from her smiling mouth. Before I knew what to do she was on me, paws to my chest, straining to kiss my face.

     I took her head in my hands.

     "Sheba?" I said. "Sheba, is that you?"

     She went wild at the sound of her name, jumping up and down, and then I was on my knees, hugging her and returning her kisses. I felt something that had been closed in my heart for a long time suddenly open. I started to cry. And then I started to laugh.

     "Sit, girl!" ordered Miss Bethel, and Sheba immediately went down on her haunches. But she was still looking at me, tail wagging wildly. I stood up, clearing my eyes.

     "I believe that has relieved several burdens." The lady pulled out a tiny silver watch and consulted it. "And now, it is time to begin. Is there anything you want to take from this place?"

     I looked around. There was something, behind the kitchen door.

     "I'd like to take that cane, please."

     She looked over, took it up, and handed it to me.

     "There you are. But...let's call it a walking-stick, shall we? You won't need it as a cane."

     I accepted it, thumped it on the floor.

     "You're right, of course," I said. "Come on, Sheba!"

     She leapt up, Helen Belle Bethel slipped her hand into the crook of my arm, and we three went out into the slanting light.

 

--September 17, 2016

Notes

Every now and then I entertain myself with what might be called 'post-mortem narratives,' where I indulge myself with imaginative stories about what might happen when I die. I've already posted one on this blog, What Happened, where a group of my fictional characters are gathered together to try to figure out what happens to them after my passing. This story sees me entering what you might call the lower fields of Heaven, working through earthly experiences and redeeming them in a therapeutic way, led by my anima, as it were, an ethereal and enigmatic figure that has occasionally haunted my dreams over the years. I don't imagine the story has any real use or interest other than personal. 2016. That's been a while, and a lot has happened.