Perception

By D. Jean Quarles

After losing his wife in a terrible accident, Greg finds it difficult to move on with this life. Choosing to hide at home and avoid his loved ones is his method for coping, still anger consumes him. Trying to get out and make an effort, Greg is stunned when his wife’s ghost appears.

Rachel is fighting against her pain. She is drawn to the local elementary school playground, searching for answers after the death of her young son. Rachel is confused and on the verge of a breakdown. What is it that she feels? Could it really be her son’s hand in hers?

Both Greg and Rachel start on a journey that tests their spirituality. Could a psychic medium give them the answers they seek? Is death the end, or merely a new beginning? And is their chance encounter a coincidence, or a chance at a new life? Perhaps it depends upon your perception.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Jean Quarles
• Release date: Jun 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781933868301

D. Jean Quarles

D. Jean Quarles currently lives in Alexandria, MN with her husband. Having lived in Arizona, Washington, and Wyoming, she brings her various settings to her writing. Writing Women's fiction she takes on difficult topics weaving spirituality into her stories. Her adventure fiction, & young adult science fiction are also available.

Book preview

Chapter 1

April 25, 2010

Chanhassan, Minnesota

Thirty-five mourners stood on the grassy knoll beneath a somber sky. Many were red-eyed and tearful. Someone sobbed softly in the back.

Let us pray… the pastor called to them over the driving wind, but Greg knew if there was a God, he didn’t listen to prayers.

The funeral was attended by a legion of crows–people in black who sat and stared at the middle distance, sneaking covert looks into the casket and whispering. Greg assumed they were all wondering about Sarah’s jeans and Hard Rock Café t-shirt, but the word was out that Greg was crazy with grief, so no one dared bring it up.

After the final words were spoken, the back row of mourners wandered off to their cars, parked so tightly behind the hearse that no one could leave until they all did. The wind did not stop its brutal beating. Instead it took apparent pleasure in whipping and tearing at the women’s skirts and the men’s coats. The elms and oaks, fought to keep their limbs pointed at the heavens. Leaves and debris raged against the grief-stricken who stood near the casket. The sun slid down the sky, another light soon to be extinguished.

I can’t, I can’t, Sarah’s mother, Francine, blubbered, battling to stay beside the grave. She shouldn’t be left alone.

Behind them, the hearse eased out onto the road and hurried off. Now the others could scurry away, too. Death was in this place and, no matter how hard the wind blew, the cold reality remained. Greg wanted to leave, or wanted the others to leave. He needed space. As if sensing this internal battle, Greg’s father reached over and squeezed his arm. His mother moved to his side and together they stood sentinel.

The remaining friends and family lagged. Each moved through the late afternoon as if in slow motion, shaking hands and offering hugs. Greg allowed them to express their condolences without showing his emotion, which lay hidden just below the surface. This process was unnecessary, as most would join the family again in minutes back at the home of Sarah’s family. Greg’s glance returned to his mother-in-law, whose black dress and coat had flown up to reveal her panty hose. Her daughter, Lindsey, batted the skirt down while trying to hold her mother erect, both their pale faces smeared with tears. Lindsey’s eyes met Greg’s. Anguish rooted into his bones at seeing Sarah’s eyes in another’s face. Grief seized him and he lost the semblance of control he’d so carefully nurtured for the past four days. He turned and strode away, slumping against a nearby tree, his back to the grave-site. He waited for the others to go.

It was only the year before that Greg and Sarah had married. The same pastor officiated as they placed rings on each other’s fingers. How in that space of time had he lost so much: a wife, a life, and–a surprise revealed by the coroner–a son?

The gravediggers waited at the edge of the property. They couldn’t lower her body as long as the family remained. They hovered, their expressions impassive. One lit a cigarette and turned from the group. Across the coffin from Greg, Lindsey and her brothers led their mother away. Harold, Sarah’s father, stumbled along behind them, his eyes glassy and unseeing.

Greg gained control of himself. He lurched forward, out of the reach of his parents. His hand stretched to touch the casket, the palm caressing the smooth veneer from top to bottom, as if he were touching Sarah’s body for the last time.

She had been his life, but no more. Her cruel death left nothing behind, but a deep, abiding sadness.

The wind died. Calm descended. Greg searched the world around him in confusion.

Something was missing. Everything had changed. Instantly torrents of rain assaulted the earth, driving him and his parents away from the grave and to the car. They drove toward Sarah’s parents’ home. Not the home Sarah and Greg shared: the place where Greg had spent hours pleading, crying, praying, bargaining and cursing each night in the king-sized bed. The only thing worse than the long lonely nights, was the day they’d planned the funeral with Sarah’s parents.

It hadn’t been real until they discussed caskets and clothing, flowers, organists and pall bearers. Greg had given in to Sarah’s parents’ every wish concerning the funeral except one. He insisted she be dressed in her favorite jeans and t-shirt. He could've enforced her other wishes–cremation, memorial service, close family only and then a tossing of ashes into Lake Minnetonka–but her parents were a force to be reckoned with. What did it matter? Sarah was gone. And neither he nor Sarah had believed in heaven anyway.

His in-laws cited their religious beliefs as a reason for traditional embalming and burial. It was a faith Sarah had left behind long before she married Greg. Instead of focusing on the hereafter, they both chose to live life, believing death would come much later and that thoughts of heaven or hell were for those who also believed in Hansel and Gretel and the Easter Bunny.

Greg’s father stopped the car abruptly at a red light. Greg heard his mother’s exasperated sigh.

They were all having trouble concentrating on the present, especially now that the future looked so bleak.

Greg, while appreciating the extra space in the back seat, wished his brother hadn’t gone ahead to help with the food. He would've much preferred hearing Jerome’s steady voice describing the day’s events, with a touch of sarcasm thrown in to lighten the mood.

The funeral was very nice, his mother commented to the window.

Lindsey has a beautiful voice, his father said, as he looked into the rear-view mirror and met Greg’s glance. It wasn’t so bad. Their pastor kept it going. A nice service.

Greg closed his eyes and retreated into the past, a collage of Sarah’s life with him: the first date at the coffee shop near the university, their first kiss outside a movie theater where they never saw the Harrison Ford film they’d planned to view, their first apartment–a dismal one-bedroom they soon left for their first new home. When his eyes opened again, his father’s glance was still beseeching him to accept the blow life had dealt him, to handle it honorably like a man.

But the memories would not be dismissed easily. No, he was positive they would determine the rest of his life.

It was nice of you to allow the service to take place, Greg’s mother spoke again, aware not a word of thanks had passed his mother-in-law’s lips. Only venom had spewed from her mouth, as if he was, in some way, responsible for the accident – responsible for Sarah working, for Sarah dying. I’m sure her parents appreciated it.

Greg turned away, unable to respond to such a false statement.

His mother patted his father’s knee. I hope all is going well at the house, she whispered, her doubt evident.

I’m sure it’s fine, his father said.

Greg hated to imagine the reception Jerome and Andrew, his partner, would receive at the Christian home of his in-laws. Without the tolerant voice of Sarah to calm her family’s homophobia, Greg could only imagine a disaster. Even Lindsey and her brothers were petrified to have a conversation with either of them, as if sexual preference might rub off and condemn them to hell.

Funerals heal rifts, his father pronounced, his face searching Greg’s for confirmation.

Greg looked away. He needed to be alone.

The moment passed. They turned onto State Street and became absorbed in finding a place to park. The available spaces on both sides of the road had already been claimed. They saw Harold who waved them into the driveway. His father slowed.

Promise me you’ll …

Greg reached for the door handle. His first inclination was to ignore the comment, but then he changed his mind. I’ll try, he said knowing his father’s abhorrence of the word try. According to his dad there was no trying. You either did something or you didn’t.

Greg, his mother pleaded, her hand reaching from the front seat for him.

He ignored the entreaty and tumbled outside into the rain. Harold appeared beside his mother’s door with an umbrella. He escorted her up the steps and inside. Greg followed, keeping pace with his father. Only a few hours, his father said.

I’m not sure I have it in me, Greg answered. His father patted him on the back. At the door Greg grabbed one of the sodden umbrellas. I’ll be back in a minute, he said.

His father opened his mouth, but then closed it and nodded. Don’t be long.

Greg strode around the house. A narrow path led to the backyard and the gardens. Nervous laughter and shrill voices could be heard through the open windows of the dining room and den. He followed the stones to the roses where their scent filled the rain-cleansed air. As he climbed the steps to the redwood gazebo he closed the umbrella and shook it off into the bushes that surrounded the structure–his mother-in-law’s passion. He stood at the railing and stared at the blooms, their heads heavy with moisture. He was furious at the dark cloud that passed over and caused rain to pelt the earth, furious at the world. The main house disappeared.

He let time slip away, focusing on the sound around him, the rhythm of the drops as they hit the roof and then landed on the steps. Splat, splat, pop. Splat, splat, pop. Sarah loved spring showers. She loved hearing the robin’s song, delighted in watching hummingbirds and neon-blue dragonflies. A bulletin board beside their back door contained the hand-written notes detailing the appearance of the first snow, the first daffodil.

Oh, how he’d loved her.

As suddenly as the deluge began, it ended. Greg shivered. He snatched up the umbrella and loped across the wet grass to the terrace doors, wiggling the knob until a cousin turned the key and let him in. The dining room, living room, and kitchen were packed with bodies. They fought politely over pâté and foie gras, their hands groped and grabbed for thin wheat and vegetable crackers. The faces of the women were pinched, while the men’s were slack–evidence of alcohol consumption in the den. He scanned the rooms for friendlies and spotted the balding head of his brother across the room. Jerome sat on the leather couch beside a second cousin of Sarah’s.

He wondered if his brother was receiving a sermon about sexual sin. It was a favorite of Sarah’s family.

There you are, his father said as he approached. I was concerned you’d gone AWOL. Then we’d have to walk home or stay out here all night. His jocularity was forced.

Andrew and Jerome doing all right? Greg asked. He felt uncomfortable in a room full of right-wing fundamentalists.

His father answered with a shrug. What can you expect?

I would expect them to put the bibles away.

They’ve lost a child… Then his father remembered Greg’s own loss.

Greg felt little empathy for his in-laws. The battle scars from making the funeral arrangements were still fresh. They’d had Sarah for twenty-seven years while he’d had one short year and had never even held his son. Immediately Greg hated himself for the thought.

His father repeated lamely, They’re trying.

Greg snorted. They were trying indeed. He wondered if in the next year he’d even have any contact with them, heathen liberal son-in-law that he was. No matter.

Greg studied his shoes, grimy and soaked from the day’s activities. They seemed to speak of his inner conflict. Sling mud or shine. He decided in that moment to throw them away. His shoes had seen too much love and despair. He wanted no reminders.

That wasn’t quite true.

He wanted nothing that reminded him of the death of his wife, but everything that reminded him of their life together. Already that had caused a rift between him and Sarah’s sister. Lindsey had wanted some of Sarah’s photographs, some of her clothes, her purses, her jewelry, and her books. He couldn’t part with any of it. To him, Sarah’s family had become scavengers. They were no better than coyotes. They looked for weakness, and then pounced. And he knew he hadn’t heard the end of it. Not by a long shot.

He waited for the comments about the money. There was the life insurance–hers through the school and some he’d purchased when they’d married. There was her retirement fund. He would be receiving a settlement, both from the school district and the refrigeration company that installed the defective machine that killed her. There would soon be millions of dollars sitting in a bank account. He knew her family would gladly help him spend it.

Forgive them, Greg’s father pronounced as if reading his mind. They don’t know what they’re doing.

Greg held his breath, held in his anger and the curses that rose to his lips. He held in the anguish, too–kept it all from spewing out of his mouth and striking his father. Marbles, he thought as he remembered a story Sarah told him. Each time there was something hard to handle, hard to take, hard to digest, you swallowed a marble. And you kept swallowing and swallowing and swallowing until no more marbles could be forced down. Then when there’s too much inside, a word, a deed, an act, would cause the marbles to erupt from you and rip apart someone you cared about, turning them into Swiss cheese. No one wants to be Swiss cheese, she’d said. No one should be.

Greg’s father squeezed his shoulder. I’ll get your mother, he said. Let’s go. You’ve been through enough.

It was the kindest thing his dad had ever said to him. Thank you, Greg whispered, gratefully.

Greg shook hands and allowed well-wishers to approach as he made his way to the front door. He didn’t yell and scream when they told him they understood or that she was in a better place. How could they understand? Had any of them lost a wife and child? They sounded pathetic. Didn’t they get it? Words were useless, all of them utterly useless.

Outside, the clouds had retreated and the midnight-blue sky awaited the moon. Crickets chirped and the leaves rustled. He could hear water dripping from the leaves. Greg stepped to the garage, stood beneath the light and closed his eyes.

A moth, paper-thin and dusty, landed on his jacket pocket, right over his heart.

He didn’t notice. His focus was on tomorrow and on all the future tomorrows without Sarah. What would he do? How the hell could he go on?

Chapter 2

May 23, 1995

Blaine, Washington

Use the card with the tulips on the front, Georgette Peters instructed from her wheelchair. It’s lavender and sage. It should be the second one from the top.

Eileen Mackenzie smiled as she pulled out the wooden box and reached for the card. Mrs. Peters’ body was beyond repair, but her mind and memory were sharper than Eileen’s. Not for the first time did Eileen wonder how a woman who could not move an arm or a leg, who was relegated to a bed for most of every day, could know the exact contents of every drawer, cupboard, box and shelf. Eileen reached in her pocketbook for the black pen she favored, placed her favorite pink reading glasses on her nose, and sat in the wooden chair.

This was her time to relax–late afternoons on Mondays and Wednesdays–when she could sit and forget her own ailments and aches and instead concentrate on how fortunate she was for her good health. She loved to volunteer at the nursing home. Everyone appreciated her here.

Let’s send that one to Roxanne, Georgette suggested while staring at the ceiling. Her fingers and hands lay crumpled and resting on her lap blanket, while her taut toes and feet peeked out from below.

Eileen dutifully wrote in sweeping cursive, Dear Roxanne, and then waited. Sometimes the words came quickly, but more often there were long pauses. She’d become accustomed to them.

Georgette coughed.

Would you like some water? Eileen slipped from her chair to hold a cup of water to Mrs. Peters’ lips.

Georgette gulped, not because of the amount, but because she was beginning to have some difficulty swallowing. Eileen didn’t want to think about what would happen when her airway would no longer open.

Thank you. That’s enough.

Eileen returned to her chair. Roxanne, Georgette’s daughter, lived in New York and hadn’t been to visit in a long time. Dutifully each week, Georgette wrote a card asking for news about the family: three grandchildren and a dog. Photos of them graced the wall beside Georgette’s wheelchair. They arrived sporadically over the years. Eileen said a prayer the multiple sclerosis would not worsen.

I’m ready. Eileen raised the pen to the paper.

Georgette sighed and closed her eyes. Dear Roxanne, she began. A guy, a pig, and a dog were the survivors of a terrible shipwreck, and they found themselves stranded on a desert island. After being there a while, they got into the habit of going to the beach every evening to watch the sun go down. One particular evening, the sky was red with beautiful cirrus clouds, the breeze was warm and gentle, a perfect night for romance. As they sat there, the pig started looking better and better to the guy. Soon, he leaned over to the pig and put his arm around it. But the dog became jealous, growling fiercely until the guy removed his arm from around the pig. After that, the three of them continued to enjoy the sunsets together, but there was no more cuddling. A few weeks passed by, and low and behold, there was another shipwreck. The only survivor was a beautiful young woman, the most beautiful woman the guy had ever seen. She was in a pretty bad way when they rescued her, and they slowly nursed her back to good health. When the young maiden was well enough, they introduced her to their evening beach ritual. It was another beautiful evening: red sky, cirrus clouds, a warm and gentle breeze, perfect for a night of romance. Pretty soon, the guy started to get ‘those feelings’ again. He fought them as long as he could, but he finally leaned over to the young woman and whispered in her ear, ‘Would you mind taking the dog for a walk?’ Ha! Ha!

Eileen wrote quickly so as not to interrupt the flow. She had learned it was difficult to get Georgette’s thoughts back on track once they were diverted. They finished the card to Roxanne. Next she wrote to Georgette’s son in Atlanta, a divorcé who was planning a trip to visit his mother later that summer. Eileen hoped the visit would go well. He seemed to be an angry young man.

Eileen had swiftly bonded with Georgette; they had much in common, both women having grown up in small towns on the Olympic Peninsula, with fathers who’d fished the waters off Alaska for salmon each fall. Both had grown children with lives and children of their own.

Having completed the two letters, Eileen checked her watch. She was late for a card game with Mr. Campman in the adjacent wing. She rose and put away the card-filled wooden box. I’ll get these out for you today.

Georgette cleared her throat. Don’t I need stamps? she croaked. I thought I was out. She endeavored to keep Eileen for a few more minutes, the time it would take to search out and then write down stamps on the list of supplies her husband would purchase each week.

Eileen nodded absently, hurrying now to get things put away just so. No need to worry. I’ll take care of these. I’ve plenty stamps. Eileen scanned the room to make sure she’d not left anything out. All evidence of their time together was erased. It was a habit, this idea of making herself disappear from a room.

She held Georgette’s cool hand and gave it a squeeze, knowing the pressure would not be returned. I’ll see you next week. Behave, she said, even though Georgette Peters had no choice.

You, too, Georgette whispered.

Twelve years ago, Georgette had been a bank teller, working her way up to management at the local branch. Her two children were grown and it was her time to shine. Then, with no warning, her hands stopped working. Later she lost her vision for a week. These episodes were followed by more mysterious symptoms until the final diagnosis of MS. Still she fought by changing her diet, exercising, and using the drugs recommended. Everything. But nothing stopped the disease’s course. It was a train that could not be derailed–or even slowed.

Eileen stopped by the nurse’s station, placed stamps on each card’s appropriate corner, and dropped them into the mail box. She waved hello to the young aides in their scrubs.

Her cell phone chimed as she made her way down the hall. The only one who called her was Linda. With a sinking feeling she dug it out of her purse and answered, What’s up, honey?

Her own relationship with her daughter was no better than that of Georgette’s and Roxanne’s. If her daughter was calling in the middle of the day, there was something she needed. Eileen hated knowing that.

I need a favor, Mom, Linda said.

Eileen resisted the urge to be angry before she heard more. Linda launched into the story of how she had been offered an excellent opportunity. Only there was little notice. It was to travel to Spain for three months. One of her coworkers was supposed to go, but at the last minute he broke a leg. Now they wanted Linda to go in his place. It would give her a step up in the company, a raise when she returned, a better future. Only she couldn’t take Paige. It wouldn’t be fair to take her daughter to a foreign country where Linda would be expected to work long hours. Oh, and she needed to leave next week.

Paige’s father was nowhere to be found, had never even met his daughter, if Linda was telling the truth. What a mess. A pounding began above Eileen’s right brow.

Eileen frowned and considered the proposal. Paige was eight now. The last time Eileen had seen her, she was five. Three years had passed and now Linda expected her to watch her granddaughter for three months? A long visit, but what could she do except volunteer? In her mind she was already planning how to do it. Sure I can do it. I can get Mrs. Cooper to watch my house.

Actually, I thought it might be nice if Paige stayed with you in Washington.

Even better. Of course! I would love to have Paige come here. Eileen turned the corner and walked into one of the many common areas, the solarium. She found an empty table and sat, all thoughts of Mr. Campman gone. But isn’t she still in school?

Just for another week. And it’s no problem. I’ve already spoken to the principal at her school. He agreed it might be nice if Paige had a break.

Eileen wondered who else had been informed she would babysit. It was just like Linda to assume she’d drop everything to help. Because, of course, everyone knew Eileen had no life.

Suddenly Linda sounded upset, close to tears even. Something was definitely wrong. Mom, I don’t want to discuss it now, but there’s…some other things going on. It would really be best if Paige took a break from here.

Eileen crossed her legs and took a deep breath. She waited for Linda to add more, but it became apparent Linda wasn’t going to without prodding.

What other things? Is she okay? Is she having problems in school?

Problems, yes, but not with school work. I can’t go into it now. I just need to know you’re up to helping me.

Mr. Campman had found Eileen and was moving through the common room, in her direction. He had a deck of cards and the cribbage board. He waved to get her attention. She put up her index finger, and mouthed, One minute. He nodded–clearly unhappy–found a nearby table, and started to set up for their afternoon game.

I said I would, Eileen snapped. She heard the sigh over the phone and then, a hesitation.

The silence stretched