The Gemini Bridge: The York Street Series, #1

By Shea Meadows

Who believes in ghosts?

Certainly not Ricky Banner. Her sister Tilda, now known as Moon Angel, however, has quite the reputation as a spirit communicator, energy healer, and ghost buster.  Separated by geography and their clash of beliefs for many years, Ricky has no idea how deep Moon’s involvement in the other-worldly has become.  Then a single phone call changes everything.

As her world falls to pieces around her, Ricky is summoned to Minneapolis to say goodbye to Moon who has been critically injured in a car accident. When a ghostly voice tells Ricky that the accident was caused by someone who wanted Moon out of the way, Ricky comes face-to-face with the world she never thought existed. Ricky must decide if she should return to Chicago to patch together the pieces of her life or stay to help her father, as well as a handsome police detective, and Moon’s friends, track down a mysterious being that is doing insane and ghostly things.

The Gemini Bridge has many faces. It is a mystery, romance, fantasy, and study of the paranormal. It is an exercise in philosophy and imagination, and it may make you think twice about what happens after death. You will love the characters who come from many points of view that are all brought together by Ricky, who doesn’t realize what power she has been hiding for all those years. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shea Meadows
• Release date: Dec 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540193384

Shea Meadows

Shea Meadows has always been a writer, starting when she was ten in the backseat of the car during family vacations. She forced her captive audience to listen to her creations, which were usually science fiction or fantasy and often came complete with bizarre illustrations which she shared with her brother. In eighth grade, she received city-wide recognition in Detroit, but was told by many adults that being a writer was a difficult goal with little reward. She let go of that dream and focused on nursing as a career instead. She joined writers groups and returned to her first literary loves: fantasy and science fiction. With the help of many helpful critics and countless hours of writing and rewriting, she won acceptance for some of her short stories in online anthologies. The old adage that goes something like “you have to do interesting things to have something to write about” gave her reason to explore the metaphysical aspects of life. Echoes of those many trainings and the reading of countless books can be seen in the plot lines of her stories, enlivened further through the power of imagination. Shea lives north of Minneapolis near a pond that is a mass of frozen weeds in the winter and a delightful home to frogs, ducks, cranes, song birds, turtles and millions of bugs in the summer. She still enjoys adventures with her family and friends, and taking walks along their country road with her rather eccentric dog. She looks forward to sharing a long line of future books with people whose imaginations are just as vivid as hers.

Book preview

The Gemini Bridge

By

Shea Meadows

This book is dedicated to my husband Don who has allowed me to go absolutely crazy while writing this book and continued to love me anyway.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Prologue

Ricky gazed at her unconscious sister, remembering how strong their bond had always been. They had been only four years old in 1970, but a scene vividly played out before her.

Queen Tilda and Princess Ricky sat in a tight circular hug. The pitch-black cave filled with scary noises closed in around them.

What’s that? Queen Tilda whispered in their secret language.

It’s the bear! A quiver of fear traveled through Princess Ricky’s body.

There’s a different roar. Maybe a mean ghost! Queen Tilda’s wide eyes seemed to shine in the dark.

Queen, there’s no ghosts. Princess Ricky’s rosebud mouth curved down at the mere idea.

Is too! The queen extracted an arm from their hug and pounded her royal fist on the cave’s floor.

Is not! The princess extracted herself from the queen’s other arm.

But I’m queen and I said so. Don’t argue.

I don’t care if you’re queen; there are no ghosts.

The queen crossed her arms and scowled. My best friend is a good ghost, so I know better.

Princess Ricky’s chin trembled and tears splashed from her green eyes down her round face, a hollow feeling filled her heart. I thought I was your best friend, not some ‘maginary ghost.

I can have two best friends, one with a body and one without. Anyhow, you’re my sister, so you have to love me even if I like ghosts.

Before Princess Ricky could answer, the wall of the cave quaked, and a dark, slavering beast jumped on them, depositing copious amounts of dirt, twigs and hair.

It’s the bear! the queen declared as the unruly animal licked the remains of lunch from their sticky hands.

I don’t want to play this game anymore. Ricky pushed Stanley, the cocker spaniel, off and crawled from under the blanket-draped card table. She looked up at their beautiful dark-haired, green eyed mother standing over them.

Ricky and Tilda, take your tent down. I’ve got to vacuum. I saved this room for last to let you play.

Ricky turned to Tilda who had followed Stanley out from under their shelter. See, Tilda, it’s a tent, not a cave, and the noise was the vacuum not a ghost, and you’re not queen.

Marie Banner shook her head. I didn’t understand any of that, Ricky. You girls are too old for a secret language. You’ll be in school soon. People have to be able to understand you.

Tilda looked up and smiled sweetly. I tell her and tell her not to baby-talk, but she does anyway.

Ricky whirled around to face her mother. It’s her baby-talking, not me.

Marie scooped up her identical twin daughters and tickled them until they giggled. They looked so much alike, the only way to tell one from the other was their behavior. Ricky was self-assured and defiant. Tilda was calm and almost regal in her behavior; no surprise that she was always the queen when they played and Ricky the unwilling subject.

Stop arguing. Please take Stanley out to the yard. Tilda, fill in the hole he dug in the garden, and Ricky, brush the dirt from his fur. Okay?

The five-year-olds protested but obeyed, their sturdy bodies with the long black braids marched to the backyard.

As she brushed the dog, Ricky called to her sister. Tilda, I’m sorry. You believe in ghosts. But I can’t.

Tilda turned toward her twin. That’s okay. Tilda cleaned the last of the dirt from her hands and went to hold Stanley’s head as Ricky brushed him. You know what, Ricky? We’ll always be best friends, ghosts or not, with or without bodies.

Ricky smiled, put the brush down, and hugged her sister. Betta fredo alda. Best friends always.

Chapter 1

June 2002

Ricky Banner, dressed in her stained nurse’s uniform and scruffy white work shoes, stood in the ill-lit hallway. A suitcase and an array of plastic bags littered the dingy carpet around her feet. Tears streamed down her face as she pounded on her friend’s door. After the third round of pounding, the door opened, revealing the disheveled red hair and sleep-deprived face of her best friend in Chicago.

Em, I’m sorry. But, you said anytime, and Roy… Ricky’s voice trailed off to a sob.

Come in, Sweetie; I tried to warn you about good old Dr. Roy. Emily, dressed in an oversized men’s T-shirt, her countless freckles standing out like beacons on her pale skin, wearily helped Ricky collect her belongings. I don’t know what made you go on the lease for that huge apartment with him.

A combination of blindness and stupidity, with just a dash of self-delusion and hero worship, now that I have twenty-twenty hindsight. Ricky dragged her suitcase into the living room and leaned it against the coffee table. Are you on day shift tomorrow?

Yeah, and I was at a party until an hour ago. We’re going to have ten surgicals and two discharges in the morning. Emily brushed her unruly hair out of her pale hazel eyes. But friends have priority over sleep.

Ricky leaned back in a leather lounger. Here’s the Cliff Notes version. I came home early with a monster headache. Went into the bedroom, threw my stuff on the bed, and heard a yelp. I’d just beaned Julie Richards with my purse. She and Roy were getting it on.

Em snorted. Did you bean her on purpose?

Nope, it was dark, and I thought I was alone. Roy said he was pulling an extra shift tonight. But I think his idea of overtime was round one at our place, then round two at hers.

Rick, you knew didn’t you? You’ve been making excuses for him for months. What are you going to do?

Nothing tonight. I’m past exhausted. If I can camp here, I’ll face the mess in the morning.

You’re not staying with him, are you?

No, he wants to pay me for my half of the security deposit and take me off the lease. Julie is moving in. I’ll put my stuff in storage and then look for something else when he pays up.

Emily shivered and wrapped her thin body in the blanket on the couch. Want to move in here? I wouldn’t mind a roommate, and it would help with rent.

I appreciate the offer, but you and Phil are pretty serious. How many nights a week is he over?

Emily crumpled the blanket’s edge between her fingers. Two or three, but it’s still at the fun and games stage. I’m not sure if it’ll last. He’s got habits that drive me crazy.

I don’t think it would work with me around, Em. I’d feel like a voyeur. But I’d appreciate a room for a week to get squared away. I’ve got personal time coming and Stella wants hours, so I’ll take time off from work. Ricky looked at her friend who was dozing off on the couch. Go to bed, why don’t you? Are there clean sheets in your spare room?

Em nodded and stood up with a sleepy groan. I’ll see you about four, after my shift tomorrow. We’ll talk. Hope you sleep.

I will. It’s my usual coping mechanism.

Ricky followed her friend to the bedroom hallway and went into the room opposite Emily’s. Mounds of unfolded clothes were scattered over the bed. Assorted boxes and shoes littered the closet. Ricky found two empty laundry baskets in the kitchen, near the apartment-sized washer and dryer, and cleared the bed of clothes.

She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and pulled an oversized T-shirt from one of her bags. As she settled into the cold, empty bed, she grieved the end of her relationship with Roy Fields.

Scenes of their affair drifted through her mind. He’d looked like a boyish hunk when he first came on her geriatric unit to oversee the surgical patients. Wavy brown hair, and a piercing gaze, slender but muscular, an engaging smile, Ricky was drawn to him.

The first dates were delicious, with sweet gestures like singing to her and bringing her favorite foods to her apartment. They moved in together and within months they’d pooled resources for the deposit on a bigger apartment and were talking marriage. It seemed like it would work. Ricky was sure she’d found the one, not like her first serious relationship ten years before.

Then she saw the same flirting he’d directed toward her continuing with other women at work. Em told her the rumor was he’d slept with a whole list of people. But Ricky thought that was past, until the day she saw Roy groping Julie in the med room. Stupid with love, she forgave him, but it hadn’t stopped. He had admitted tonight he and Julie had been involved for a month.

Ricky rolled over on her side, trying to get comfortable, but her mind wouldn’t turn off. The only way to quiet it was to create an action plan. Tomorrow she’d offer Stella and Barb her hours for this week. That would give her time to remove her things from the shared space, store them, get her part of the security from Roy, then after that, she’d keep as far away from Roy as possible.

Then another thought intruded: Do I want to keep running into Roy and Julie?

It was a well paying, interesting job, but it made more sense to give notice and look elsewhere. With her education and experience, she could make a clean break and come out ahead.

An important lesson for me: don’t date people at work.

With that decision made, Ricky felt drowsiness closing in and her focus shifted from her unhappy reality to her dreams. At first, she dreamt of what happened that night, with the exception that her dream-self pummeled both Julie and Roy with her purse and vented her anger in eloquent terms. As she hefted her abnormally heavy purse upward to bash Roy again, she felt a hand restraining her arm. In the dream, she turned to see her sister, Tilda, standing behind her.

Then the dream shifted, and Ricky viewed the sisters from a point in the corner of the room. The woman behind her looked exactly like Ricky, except the dream Tilda showed signs of her radically different mindset. Instead of short black hair, Tilda’s hair was long and flowing with white streaks. Instead of Ricky’s dream uniform, Tilda wore a gold, gossamer-thin dress that reached her ankles. The dream sister was about ten pounds thinner than Ricky, and her face was radiant, compared to the rage evident on Ricky’s face. Love seemed to flow from her green eyes.

Dream-Ricky turned toward dream-Tilda. What are you doing here? Can’t I have any fun without you interfering? I’m venting, and it’s not hurting anyone.

Tilda shook her head and smiled. I told you he was not to be trusted, Ricky, and deep in your heart, you knew it. If you keep on beating him up in your mind, it’ll make you sick. Frankly, there’s something more important happening.

And this isn’t important? I lost my lover, my dream home, and I’m quitting my job. What’s worse than that?

Tilda wrapped her arms around Ricky. Remember when we were kids? Remember twin language? Remember betta fredo alda, best friends forever? Well, I need you Ricky; everything else takes a back seat. Will you come?

Ricky shook her head in confusion. What are you talking about, Tilda? What do you want me to do? You’ve got a whole truckload of weird friends who understand your needs. I haven’t been able to figure you out for years.

Tears streamed down Tilda’s face, as Ricky turned back to Julie and Roy who were watching the sisters from the bed. Ricky could hear Tilda repeating: Betta fredo alda. The words echoed in her ears as she woke up.

It took Ricky a few minutes to remember where she was and why. Then longer still to review the revenge dream that had suddenly become a reunion with her opinionated sister.

It’s just like Saint Tilda and her New Age crap. Forget and forgive my ass! If I called her and poured out my heart that’s what she’d tell me. But that Betta fredo alda stuff. I haven’t thought about that in years. Why now? Maybe my subconscious is telling me Tilda can help. I’ll call her later.

Ricky checked the clock, eight-thirty. Em was on duty as unit secretary on orthopedic surgery. She’d be up to her ears in paperwork, so Ricky was on her own. Roy had the day off but was probably with Julie, so Ricky could go to their place without seeing him. The first step was to get back the security deposit. She didn’t want to mooch off Emily for long.

After a quick breakfast of toast and tea, she called the director of nursing at University Hospital and gave her two weeks’ notice.

Then she cleaned up, put on a jogging suit, grabbed her purse and headed for the door. There was a moving and storage company she’d used before, just blocks from the hospital.

Ricky took her cell-phone from her purse to check for voice mail. She’d turned it off after the blowup with Roy. It rang as soon as she turned it on. The caller ID came up with her dad’s number in Eden Prairie, Minnesota.

Hi, Dad. Hope you weren’t trying to get me for long; my cell was off.

Here father’s voice sounded shaky. I’ve left twenty messages. Your sister’s been in a horrible accident. She needs you. She may need a kidney. Can you come?

Ricky slid to the floor and sat in the open doorway of Emily’s apartment with her head cradled in her hand. That’s why the headache. That’s why the dream.

Okay, give me details. I have to know how long I’ll be staying. I gave two weeks’ notice for my job today. I’ll leave immediately instead.

George Banner cleared his throat. She turned over on I-94 last night. She hit the median and had to be pried from the car. Thank heavens she was alone and didn’t hit anyone. They’re not sure what happened. They’re trying to figure it out, but she’s so banged up it’s hard to determine. She hasn’t woken up. Right now, she’s on dialysis and a respirator.

Ricky’s hand shook so hard she could barely hold the phone. Dad and Tilda were her only close family. Roy and I split, so there’s nothing holding me here. I’ll pack what I need and have someone send the rest. I’ll move in with Tilda for as long as it takes. I still have my Minnesota nursing license.

George let out a sigh of relief. When will you get here?

Ricky rubbed her hand over her eyes. I have a few calls to make. It shouldn’t take long. I’ll fly instead of driving. Is there some way for me to get around when I get there?

One of Tilda’s friends can pick you up at the airport, and then I’ll rent a car for you.

Maybe Emily can drive my car to Minnesota next weekend, and I’ll arrange for a flight back for her. I won’t need a rental for long. I’ll get working on this and call you back. Hang in there, Dad. We’ll all make it through the tunnel. Ricky’s hands were still shaking. Are you going to the hospital? Do I need a number there?

She’s in intensive care at Minneapolis General. Call my cell.

Ricky went back into the apartment, called the nursing director, and told her the newest developments. Next, she calmed her breathing and called Roy’s cell phone.

I have something important to tell you. Ricky’s hands were shaking and her voice weak.

This isn’t a good time. Roy’s voice had that angry, clipped tone Ricky recognized from previous arguments.

It’s not about us. You and Julie can stop worrying; I’m going to Minneapolis. Tilda was in a car accident last night. She’s on a respirator and dialysis and hasn’t regained consciousness. I’m quitting my job and moving back to help her, or at least be with her at the end.

Ricky heard a sharp intake of breath on Roy’s end, and his voice softened.How can I help you? Do you need money?

"No, I’m okay with cash for now. What I need is your cooperation with sending me my half of the security deposit, should be about $2000.

I’ll handle it, Rick. I won’t cheat you. What about your stuff?

That’s the second thing. I want the rest of my personal things, my books, albums and what I brought from my apartment. Anything we bought together, you keep. I’ll probably stay at Tilda’s house for now or with dad. I’m not sure. Dad’s address is on a magnet note on the fridge. Hire a mover and send me the bill.

Consider it done. What about your car? Do you want me to get someone to drive it to Minneapolis?

I’m hoping Em can do it, but I’ll let you know. Roy, I appreciate your help, considering the circumstances.

There was no response for a moment. Then Roy almost whispered. I’m sorry about all this. I should have been honest. Now you’re going through this thing with us while facing Tilda’s crisis. I feel like pond scum.

Ricky sobbed and laughed at the same time. You are pond scum, but empathetic pond scum. Thanks for admitting you were wrong.

Do you want me fly to Minneapolis with you? It might be nice to have a doctor there to help with decisions.

Thanks, but it would be too painful. I can only handle so much at one time. Besides that, Tilda thinks you’re pond scum too. She wouldn’t want to wake up and see your face.

Yeah, we didn’t hit it off when she visited. It’ll cheer her up to hear we’ve split. But, please, call me if you need anything.

I have to call Em and the airline now. Reach me on my cell if there’s a problem with moving my stuff or getting back my security.

Don’t worry. Tell your dad I’ll be thinking about all of you.

Goodbye, Roy. Do better for Julie than you did for me. She hung up before he could reply.

Ricky reached Emily, who agreed to drive the car to Minneapolis the following weekend.

She purchased a ticket on a flight leaving in three hours for an outrageous amount of money, then drove to the bank, withdrew her savings, and closed her accounts. The one thing she’d done right with Roy was keeping her money separate.

Ricky left her car in guest parking at Emily’s building, put the things from the paper bags into a duffel she found in Em’s spare room, and took a cab to the airport. On the way, she called her dad and told him when she’d get in.

As the plane took off, she looked down at Chicago. It had been her home for the last ten years. She never thought she’d go back to Minneapolis, especially under these circumstances. But it was time to face her dragons and fight her sister’s dragons as well.

Best friends always. Betta fredo alda. If only it was true. If only they’d stayed best friends.

Chapter 2

Ricky lugged one carry-on through the crowd at chaotic Minneapolis International Airport, bumping into people and being bumped in return. She’d checked the suitcase and duffel, so she made her way to the baggage carrousel. The sound in the airport made it almost impossible to hear on her cell phone.

Hi, Dad, I just got in. Who’s picking me up and where?

Do you remember Beth Ann? She’ll be waiting by baggage pickup. She’ll bring you to the hospital, then to Tilda’s house. Tilda’s friends think someone should be living there. Chester’s there now, but he’ll move out when you arrive.

Ricky’s heart skipped a beat. Beth Ann and Chester, two people who will always remind me of one of the worst days of my life.

Yeah, I remember Beth Ann. I’m sure we’ll find each other.

Her dad cleared his throat. She looks a little different since the last time you saw her. She put on weight. She’s wearing a red cape thingy and a hat with a flower so you’ll spot her in the crowd.

Okay, I’m sure I’ll find her. We’ll get there as soon as possible.

Don’t waste time. Tilda’s doctor will be back in an hour. You’ve gotta interpret the medical jargon. He says he’s gotta tell us something.

That’s why I’m here. See you in a bit. Love you, Dad.

She stepped on the down escalator that led to the carrousels and scanned the crowd. Finally, she spotted a rotund figure, tan skin with black curly hair, a red cape and a cloche hat with feathers on it. Flowers, feathers, they’re all the same to Dad.

Ricky jostled through the crowd to where the luggage from her flight was coming down the chute. Ricky could smell Beth Ann’s mingled scents of lavender and patchouli from three feet away. Beth Ann’s flat, button nose twitched like a surprised rabbit when Ricky came up beside her.

Ricky, it freaks me out that you look so much like Moon.

Hi, Beth Ann. Thanks for picking me up. We’re in luck. I think that’s my suitcase, and my duffel’s next to it. Ricky grabbed the suitcase, and Beth Ann retrieved the duffel. The women worked their way through the milling crowd with Beth Ann jabbering a hundred miles an hour and Ricky answering with nods and murmurs. They were soon in a ’98 Taurus, pulling out through slowly-moving freeway traffic to Minneapolis General.

Ricky turned toward Beth Ann, who had finally run out of things to say. You said I look like Moon. What does that mean?

Beth Ann’s eyebrows raised in surprise. That’s what Matilda calls herself. Didn’t you know that?

Moon Banner? Since when?

Not Moon Banner. Her spiritual name is Moon Angel. She does her work, teaches classes, writes books and sees clients using that name. Has been for years.

Ricky shook her head and almost laughed. Tilda had been in Chicago three months ago and never said anything about this. Her sister was weirder than she’d imagined. Then the thought struck her: Tilda never told me because she knew I’d make fun of her. That’s what I’ve been doing for twelve years. She was probably grateful I moved to Chicago so she didn’t have put up with my ridicule.

I have to be honest, Beth Ann. Tilda and I don’t have much in common anymore. I suppose it’s my fault. I’m going to have to stop trying to convince her I’m right and she’s wrong. I think she’s tired of hearing my opinions about her life, and I got tired of having her tell me I’m making all the wrong choices.

Beth Ann turned toward Ricky with a wide-eyed look. She turned back to the road just in time to avoid rear-ending a truck. Ricky, I’ve never known Moon to be judgmental about anyone. She never gives her opinion unless you ask for it, but if you ask, you better be ready to hear the truth. She doesn’t pretend to be perfect, but she won’t change her opinion to make a person feel comfortable. Some people have a hard time with that.

Ricky’s eyes were on the freeway, but her mind was traveling back to the infrequent conversations she’d had with her sister since they’d gone their separate ways. Beth Ann is telling the truth. Tilda never harped at me. She only gave me her opinion if I pressured her into it. Then when she thought differently than me, I’d ridicule her viewpoint and let anger take over. Now I’m stuck with the guilt.

Beth Ann, what do you think, honestly—is Tilda going to make it? How bad does it look?

Beth Ann’s double chin trembled. I wish I could tell you she’s going to come out of it, but I think it would take a miracle. Not that I haven’t seen Moon Angel do some pretty amazing things, but this accident might mean she’s ready to leave her body and work from the other side.

I hope you’re wrong. I’d like an opportunity to get to know her again, this time without trying to prove her wrong. Maybe I can be more understanding. Ricky covered her face with her hands and cried soundlessly.

Beth Ann reached over and patted Ricky on the knee and gave her a nervous smile. You’ll get your chance to repair your relationship with Moon. I feel it in my bones.

I hope your bones are right. Ricky blew her nose and then looked over at Beth Ann. Since we’re being honest, I was a little upset when I heard you were picking me up, but seeing you isn’t as painful as I thought.

Beth Ann’s face scrunched up in bewilderment, her nose twitching again. Why would it be painful to see me? It’s been ten years. What’d I do to you?

Don’t you remember the last time we were together?

Beth Ann still looked perplexed and then her expression changed. It was at your bridal shower. Chester did readings for people who wanted them, and I insisted he do one for you.

Yeah, you two really made my evening. There, in a room filled with people, Chester told me I wouldn’t marry Fred. As if that wasn’t enough, you insisted he tell everyone the details. Ricky’s could feel her face growing hot from the memory.

Poor judgment on my part, Beth Ann shook her head. The horrible thing was he was right. Everyone laughed when he said it; we thought he was fooling around. You and Fred seemed crazy in love, but apparently Fred was just plain crazy.

Try addicted, smashed on drugs. He and Todd thought that made an excellent bachelor party. After his binge, the wedding slipped his mind.

The scene flashed through Ricky’s mind. Waiting in the bride’s room for Fred to arrive— a man late for his own wedding. Finally, his dad telling me Fred was too strung out to come. Chester’s prediction at the bridal shower came true. Fred promised he’d go straight, but after that, not trusting him.

Before Ricky’s mind could take her any further down that path, Beth Ann pulled into the parking lot of Minneapolis General. Even after ten years away from her job there, Ricky remembered the confusing layout. Like any of the older, inner city hospitals in any major American urban area, it was a cobbled collection of addition joined to addition. Hallways that didn’t quite match up, stairways that ended in corridors, that crossed over to half-floors as the walkways transitioned from the old building to the new building. It consisted of a confusing tangle of units that seemed to be in the wrong places and inconveniently located services.

The lab occupied a space three floors away from the emergency department. Specimen delivery took a long trip involving two separate elevators. The radiology department, with its lethal rays, sat next to the OB/GYN labor rooms. The morgue was down the hall from the geriatric ward. Ricky had never understood the lack of logic in the building’s design, and it was probably much the same in 2002 as it had been in 1992.

She shivered as she walked in the visitor’s entrance and had to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and aiming towards the elevators to the fourth floor. Because of the strange configuration of the building, they took the elevator to fourth floor, then got off and followed a walkway to another elevator to continue to sixth floor, which couldn’t be reached in any other way.

As Ricky and Beth Ann came into the intensive care unit, they passed the nurses’ station located at the center of a hub. Their destination was room 604, but a no admittance sign stopped them. Ricky glimpsed movement around the bed through an opening in the curtains of the glass-walled room.

There’s a visitors lounge down this hall. Your dad is probably there. Beth Ann led the way. The lounge was about eight-by-twelve, with ratty looking chairs and a battered couch. A soft drink and snack machine took up one wall and radiated heat out into the cramped space.

George Banner sat near a plastic table, talking on his cell. His light brown hair had a tinge of gray, something Ricky didn’t remember seeing when he visited in Chicago. His usually healthy-looking face, with bright blue eyes, crooked nose and jutting chin, was pale and drawn, wrinkles starting around puffy eyes. His powerful body, which had been muscular the last time she saw him, seemed more hunched than before, decreasing his six foot height by at least two inches. Had it been six months? He turned sixty-two this year. He looked up and smiled when Ricky and Beth Ann walked into the room.

Got to go, Mildred. Tilda’s sister just got here. He switched off the phone and made it over to Ricky in two long steps. Heavens, I’m happy you’re here. His face quickly turned from a smile to a frown and then crumpled into tears. This was unusual for George, a stoic man who had been an amateur prize fighter in his youth and rarely showed emotions.

Sorry, Ricky. I didn’t mean to do that. You’re so much like your sister. Only the hair is different. Right now … George breathed deeply to help control his emotions. Right now, Tilda doesn’t have any hair. They shaved it off to treat the head injuries. Her hair was long, Ricky, really long. It’ll take forever for it to grow back.

Ricky patted her father on the back. It felt strange comforting this self-reliant man. Even when her mother died twenty years before, George Banner pretended to be strong.

Just then a tall, Scandinavian-looking man with a ruddy complexion and spiky blond hair came in wearing scrubs and holding a folder. He paused at the door and hung a no admittance sign before closing it. Mr. Banner? he said. Could I speak with you please?

Dr. Jenson, perfect timing; this is my daughter Rachelle, who just arrived from Chicago. She’s Tilda’s twin. She’s got a master’s in nursing, so she’ll understand what you’re talking about.

The doctor reached out to shake Ricky’s hand and then motioned them to the couch. He glanced toward Beth Ann. This is private. I wonder if you could go down to the cafeteria for a while.

She’s one of Tilda’s best friends. I’m sure Tilda would want her here, George said.

The doctor shrugged. It’s up to you, but this will be difficult. He took a deep breath, and Ricky noticed a slight tremor in his hands.

"I have two things to show you. The first is rather unusual. It helps us understand what Matilda’s feelings might be about her present condition. It brings up questions that might have to be examined further by the police.

Matilda’s friend, Chester Townsend, brought in a copy of a notarized living will that he says Matilda told him was stored in a safety box in her home. I don’t know when she told him about the document. He claims it was this morning, but she’s been unconscious since the accident last night, so I find that unlikely. Would you read it please? The doctor pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and laid it on the table in front of the couch.

George, Ricky and Beth Ann leaned forward to review it. It was dated June 20, 2001, Tilda and Ricky’s birthday a year before. Ricky read aloud.

"I, Matilda Marie Banner, also known as Moon Angel, record the following to be reviewed when this occurrence comes to pass. Approximately one year from this date, I will be involved in a serious accident of some kind. My body will be too injured to survive.

There will be a time of decision for my family when it is evident that I am being kept alive by medical intervention. Be it known, that when it is obvious that there is no brain function remaining, I do not wish to be kept alive by artificial means, such as devices that maintain breathing, nutrition or other bodily functions.

My sister, Rachelle Therese Banner, who is a nursing professional, should review my medical record to ascertain that hope for my returning to consciousness is unrealistic. Her assurance to my father, George Theodore Banner, that no further intervention will be helpful should support him in his decision to discontinue medical intervention.

Please know that I will not intentionally cause my own death. I feel suicide creates an overwhelming karmic debt. The occurrences of June 2002 will be inevitable and have been revealed to me through circumstances that most people won’t understand. I know my family will doubt this document. To them I say, please try to come to terms with it and my death.

Please donate my organs in whatever way they can do the most good. I wish the rest of my remains to be cremated and the family to remain in possession of my ashes.

My last will and testament is stored where this living will was stored. Information about a memorial service is recorded there, as well as instructions as to the disposition of my belongings and other important directions.

I remain always one with my family and friends. You are not losing me. I am only changing forms.

Blessings,

Matilda Marie Banner, also known as Moon Angel."

Beneath the letter was a scrawled signature which her family and friend knew to be Tilda’s. The letter was witnessed by two employees of First Federal Bank, one of whom was a notary. The notary’s timestamp verified that the document was signed a year before.

Ricky sat stunned, looking to the paper for an answer that wasn’t written there. Chester brought this here. What’s going on? How could she know about this a year ago? Did someone threaten her or did she kill herself?

Ricky turned to Beth Ann. Did you know about this? Did she tell you she thought she was going to die? Did Chester predict something?

She never said anything about this. You’d think if she knew something this important, she’d have told me. I’m her friend as well as her personal assistant. I don’t know what to think. Tears were streaming down Beth Ann’s face.

Dr. Jenson cleared his throat. "I’ve mentioned this to Detective Clark, who’s investigating the accident. He hasn’t seen it yet. I have a feeling he’ll want to talk to all of you, as well as Mr. Townsend. The whole thing is very unusual, but that’s not the only reason I’m showing it to you.

We’ve got to make some decisions. Dr. Jenson shifted uncomfortably in the creaky plastic chair. Matilda’s condition is critical. She doesn’t have brain function. We relieved pressure on the brain stem during surgery, but the damage is extensive. At the present time, her life is being maintained by the respirator. It’s impossible for her to regain consciousness. She can be kept alive, but I don’t know how long. She’s had six units of blood, and there appears to be continued internal bleeding. We can take her back to surgery to determine the source of the hemorrhage, but she probably wouldn’t survive the procedure. That’s why I brought this letter to you before showing it to the police. It appears Ms. Banner has very definite opinions about what she wants in these circumstances.

Ricky stared at the soft drink machine. It made loud, intrusive glugs now and then. What a strange place to be hearing news like this. Doesn’t Minneapolis General have conference rooms? How can I believe this isn’t a nightmare?

Dr. Jenson was taking another piece of paper out of the folder. We have a protocol to follow in situations like this. Dr. Webster from our medical ethics committee and Dr. Marks, who heads the neurology department, examined Matilda and her records to determine the accuracy of my prognosis. Here are their opinions.

This letter was much shorter. George read it and handed it to Ricky. Certain words seemed to stand out on the page: blunt force trauma, persistent vegetative state, renal failure, inability to endure the trauma needed in exploratory surgery to identify and correct remaining hemorrhage sites. It was obvious that the two consultants agreed with Dr. Jenson. She handed the report to Beth Ann and turned to the doctor. What’s your opinion of the best course of action? Would it benefit Tilda to go through additional surgery?

Dr. Jenson shook his head slowly. Not that I can see in the present circumstances, but that’s up to you and your father. If you want surgery, we’ll get an OR lined up immediately.

Ricky looked at her father. George was holding Tilda’s living will in a shaking hand. His voice was weak and strained. Putting aside the issue of how she knew about this accident a year ago, this letter makes it clear what Tilda wants.

Ricky turned to Beth Ann, who’d been closer to Tilda the last few years than her family.

Beth Ann smiled through her tears. Please, Ricky. Review the chart. Moon wanted you to.

Dr. Jenson asked, Where would you like to look at it?

In her room. I haven’t seen her yet. A shudder ran through Ricky’s body as she spoke.

Mr. Townsend is with her. I’ll have him leave.

Beth Ann stayed in the waiting room, head resting in her hands, as George and Ricky followed the doctor to 604.

As the door opened, Ricky avoided looking at the figure in the bed. She looked at the sunset visible through the window. She admired the small shelf filled with flowers. She could smell a faint aroma of roses, which was overwhelmed by the medicinal odor coming from the utility table, stacked with dressing packets, catheters, IV tubing, and assorted supplies.

And finally, she allowed her eyes to travel to the black-bearded man with a receding hairline sitting by her sister’s bedside, holding Tilda’s limp hand. She barely remembered him. He was tall and lean, well-muscled, with a hawk-like nose and wide-set dark eyes under thin eyebrows. The beard varied in length, inexpertly trimmed. His forehead was wrinkled into deep furrows as he peered down at her sister. He appeared consumed by grief.

When Chester became aware of their presence, he stood up and attempted a smile, but all he managed was a grimace. Hello, Ricky. Glad you came so soon.

Ricky didn’t return the greeting. The shock of her sister’s mangled body held her attention. Tilda’s head was swathed in dressings, and EEG leads trailed out from under them. Her eyes appeared swollen shut, and bruises and lacerations transformed her face into a grotesque parody of the face Ricky saw in the mirror every morning. A breathing tube, attached to a tracheotomy and then to the respirator, was the principal device keeping her alive.

The whish of the respirator was the only sound. The staff had turned off the audio on the monitors, but their displays indicated a crisis situation. Two IVs were in place: Ringer’s Lactate running into a central line at her chest, whole blood going into her right arm. An empty urinary catheter trailed from under a leg-cradle to an equally empty collection bag.

I can’t feel Tilda. I always feel her when we’re in a room together. It’s like a tingle, a twin thing. Will I ever feel complete again if I lose her?

Dr. Jenson handed Ricky the chart. He whispered in Chester’s ear, directing him firmly from the room.

George took the chair which Chester had vacated and held Tilda’s hand, tears streaming down his face. Ricky put her hand gently on Tilda’s stomach and at various points on her body, feeling for some sign of animation. Nothing at all was there, only a pulse, thready, weak and indistinct, reflected by the fifty beats-per-minute reported on the monitor. The blood pressure was sixty over forty. The machines barely sustained her life. Tilda’s body was just as bruised as her face. Blood pooled in her legs, which had become blue-tinged from toes to thighs. Dr. Jenson and the others weren’t exaggerating the gravity of the situation.

Ricky sat down with the chart and paged through it. Reading the description of Tilda in the emergency room made Ricky tremble. Try as she might, she couldn’t be clinically detached. She forced her way onward and reviewed the surgical description which was incomplete because so little time had elapsed since admission. She scanned the lab work, scribbled notes waiting for the official forms to be completed. Lastly, she looked at the all-important EEG graphs and CAT scans which were tucked inside the chart cover.

As best she could, Ricky compared the EEGs and CAT scans taken in the emergency room with those taken within the last hour. Nothing had changed. Brain function was apparently gone on impact at the accident scene and never regained. Tilda’s ability to think had ended about ten p.m. the previous night, about the time Ricky experienced a terrible headache.

She came in the dream last night. She already knew it was over. She was dressed in gossamer gold, telling me to stop my revenge. Telling me she needed me. I was so self-absorbed, I could only think about my soap-opera drama. I’ll never be able to laugh and talk with her again.

Ricky had a million unanswered questions, but none of them for the doctor. What caused the accident? Where was Tilda going when it happened? Did Beth Ann know something she wasn’t telling? How did Chester get the living will? Had he predicted Tilda’s accident? She wanted answers, but there was no time. Tilda was fading fast. Her father waited for input, and Ricky needed time alone with Tilda.

She put her hands on her father’s shoulders and kneaded his tense muscles. Dad, I agree with Dr. Jenson. I don’t think surgery would help. We have to honor her wishes. Do you want to be alone with her for a few minutes while I talk to Beth Ann and Chester?

George took in a shaky breath and looked up at Ricky. Do we have to let them pull the plug tonight?

Why wait? Tilda wouldn’t want this dragging on. We could wait until she silently bleeds to death, but it doesn’t make sense. Either way, I don’t think she’ll last much longer. I’m amazed that they waited until I arrived. Let me see if there are others who’d like to say goodbye. Ricky stumbled out of the room, using the furniture and doorframe as support.

Dr. Jenson was standing by the nurses’ station talking to an attractive man in a well-worn business suit. They were glancing back toward Chester, who sat on a plastic chair next to the door.

Chester jumped up when she came out of the room. His six-foot-four frame, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, towered over Ricky who was five foot six.

Chester, I need to talk to you about the living will, but not now. Now we have to say goodbye to Tilda. Who were the people closest to her? If they get here quickly, maybe they’ll see her one last time.

Chester shook his head. She’ll never really be gone, see? She promised to work from the other side. It’ll be a lot easier for her without a body.

Ricky could feel anger building. Believe whatever you wish, but you’re not answering my question. Who’ll want to say goodbye?

Chester looked into Ricky’s eyes, and a small smile played over his lips. You’ll figure it out soon, Ricky. You’ve lost the connection, but it’ll come back.

If you won’t answer, I’ll ask Beth Ann. She turned her back to him and walked to the waiting room. Beth Ann was curled up like a small child at the end of the couch, her legs tucked under her as she fiddled with the ends of her black curls. She sat upright and leaned toward Ricky when she came in.

What do you think? Is it time?

Ricky sat down beside Beth Ann. I agree with the doctor. There doesn’t appear to be any brain function left. She won’t last much longer with or without the respirator. Are there people who’d like to say goodbye before we give the doctor permission to turn off the machine?

Beth Ann shuddered. Moon Angel has hundreds who love her. But there are only four of us who are really close to her. Only four who can look at her battered body and remember it isn’t really her. I’ll call Dylan and Jessica. They live in Uptown and can make it here quickly.

Beth Ann paused for a moment, her brows knotting in confusion, her nose twitching. I don’t know what to do about Jeremy. They broke up a week ago, but he still cares for her. I’m not sure if she’d want him to see her like this. Then there’s Jeremy’s mother, Fran. Moon loved her more than she loved Jeremy. What should I do?

Ricky looked down at her hands, which she held so tightly together they’d become red from lack of circulation. Call them, if they can get here quickly. It will help them face reality if they see her.

Beth Ann shook her head. Death isn’t reality. If you’d been around Moon Angel for the last few years, you’d know that’s true.

Ricky sighed. "Now you sound like Chester. I have to go tell the doctor what we decided. Call those people. I don’t know how long she’ll last.