The Ascension: An In-Between Novel

By T L Shockley

Seventeen-year-old Randy is a witch, a natural born witch. Only, she doesnt know it, until she and her mother are killed in a car crash. But when Randy comes back from the dead, she has recollections of an experience in the in-between where she is told about the witchcraft that runs in her family.

Desperate to find out more she visits her mothers sister, who may be the only key to unlocking this hidden door into another world. This is just the start of Randys journey into some of the amazing powers she possesses and those around her, including her friend Daniel to whom she is hopelessly attracted. However she is also confused about her feelings for the mysterious Ethan who has traveled back with her from the in-between seeking her help.

While the love trio alone is plenty to deal with, Randys powers also make her susceptible to evil forces, some of which are a lot closer to her than she realizes. As Randy, her aunt, Daniel and friends battle these forces, lives, love and friendships are ultimately tested. And sadly, it may not be until she loses everything that Randy finally works out with whom her heart truly lies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481708876

T L Shockley

As a child, Tanya was an avid reader. At the age of eight years-old, she was in a horrific accident, in which she flat-lined three times. After coming back to this world, over the years, she began to realize that she had certain unexplainable gifts. When she finally accepted these gift as part of who she is, she began to research them, and write short stories about her experiences. During her college years, she developed a love for creating stories and characters that had similar experiences to her own. In her spare time she enjoys running, singing, spending time with family; which includes her dogs, Rogue and Tank.

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Chapter 1

Lessons

Sitting in suburban hell waiting to go to Utopia is the only way I can describe my feelings as I sit in the car waiting for my mom to get over her extended goodbye session with my father—or Doctor as he likes to be referred to. Since graduation, the annual trip to my Aunt Chelsea’s house is the only thing I have looked forward to.

As I stare out the car window at them, I wonder how my mom, the woman who loves everyone, and is so supportive regardless of how outlandish your ideas may be, could have possibly fallen in love with such a narrow-minded, judgmental stick in the mud. He’s so cold and has an ego the size of Texas . . . ugh . . . no way.

If and when I ever meet my soul mate, if there is such a thing, he will be kind, sensitive, poetic, and romantic. Oh, who am I kidding? My idea of romance stems from watching chick flicks and not from personal experience. However, my dad is none of those things, although according to my mom, he was, once upon a time.

Life according to me, Miranda Hartley, or Randy as most people call me, is that soul mates only really exist in Disney movies and the aforementioned chick flicks. The latter are filled with turbulent times, but the girl always ends up getting exactly what she wants. I can’t remember a time when I got exactly what I wanted, so I am a bit skeptical when it comes to happily ever afters.

When my mom finally gets into the car, I just give her the look, and she instantly knows what I’m thinking.

Let me explain my issue with my dad. He is a workaholic who only derives pleasure from the work he does, not from the really important things in life, like say . . . family. He is a neurosurgeon, and according to him and the hospital he works for, who pay him an obscene amount of money, he is also the best in the country. Although he does save lives, and gets paid less than someone who catches a ball and runs to the end-zone, I guess I should be more, oh I don’t know, proud, sympathetic; but seriously tone it down with the ego. I guess that’s where we differ. I am much more spiritual and recognize that if you are truly doing what you love, money shouldn’t be the reason you do what you do.

For the first half hour of the trip, I stare out the window at the scenery passing me by. I start to think about every tree as part of my past, and then look forward at the oncoming trees, and think they are my future that will soon be part of my past. It’s weird the things that you think of when you don’t really want to think of anything at all.

So what’s going on with you?

Oh, Goddess, here she goes with the psycho-analysis questions. One would think she was a psychiatrist instead of a physical therapist.

Not much, just thinking. It’s my typical response to my mom’s light hearted but very deep and probing question. I so do not want to have this conversation with my mom, but unfortunately, I know what is coming next. The what’s going on with you is only a pre-curser to her delving into my psyche as though she thinks there is something inherently wrong with me, but I try to keep things cool with her by answering, Not much in the vain hope that she doesn’t ask any more complicated questions.

Have you thought anymore about what college you want to go to? she asks with that I-know-your-being-vague look in her eyes.

I swear she can read me like a book. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a good student. In fact, I graduated a year early, but somehow my parents, especially my mom, think I am defective somehow. If they could exchange me for a better version of myself, I’m sure they would. Thank the Goddess graduation from high school is in my rearview mirror.

Not really, although I was thinking we could go over some of the brochures when we get back from Aunt Chelsea’s. I tell her so as to avoid any more of her agonizingly lame questions. It seems as though we can’t just keep things real. What I really want to tell her is that I grew up in daycare, never really knew her or my dad, and trying to figure out who I was during that time, was difficult! The challenges I faced as a child I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but I never tell her the truth because it would hurt her too much. It seems as though ever since my mom started working part time almost two years ago so she could spend more time with me, I have become her project, and she is constantly trying to figure out if there is something wrong—which there isn’t. Despite my bizarre, and somewhat deranged childhood, I feel as though I have come through it all better than expected.

I love my mom dearly, and the last two years have been a dream come true for me. She and I have so much in common. Things I never noticed about my mom, her patience, kindness, and the fact that she doesn’t judge anyone are now manifesting in my own life, and I’ve never felt closer to anyone. And given the fact that I don’t really have a relationship with my dad, because his priority has always been work, not family, she is the only real parent I have now. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad—well really it’s a love/hate thing—we’ve just never had a really good relationship.

How is Taylor? she asks, with that gleam in her eye that always makes me giggle.

Taylor was my first friend here in Baltimore, and my mom has always thought of us as the it couple, however we have never been more than friends, so this particular topic always makes me giggle. It’s been a running joke between my friends and I.

To keep my mom happy I tell her all is good. She looks over at me as though she knows I’m being dishonest, but I paste my typical I’m-so-happy look on my face and she relents, although she stares me down for a good 20 seconds.

I look at her and, say, Mom, driving 101; keep your eyes on the road.

She continues to look at me as though she can read my mind, and then eventually turns her head forward. Well, at least now I can assume that she is a safe driver.

I can’t wait to get to Aunt Chelsea’s house. By the way, why doesn’t Dad like her? I ask her, knowing full well what the answer is going to be, but it is definitely time to shift the focus off of my life.

Well you know your dad, Miranda. And your aunt is just too ‘out there’ for him, she says with what sounds like annoyance in her voice.

Why is that?

She looks at me with a gleam in her eyes, It’s the witchcraft, Miranda. She does this funny thing with her hands like it’s supposed to be scary but only reminds me of jazz fingers.

A brief synopsis about my aunt; she has been a yoga instructor for over 20 years, in fact, she owns several studios, but my dad thinks that because she is in tune with the earth, and a very spiritual person, she must be a witch.

Yea . . . Dad is kind of like that. He doesn’t believe in anything he hasn’t read in a textbook. I know my words are dripping with sarcasm, but my dad is so judgmental about things he doesn’t understand.

She looks sad suddenly, like there is something she wants to tell me but doesn’t have the courage to. He is still your dad, Miranda.

I sigh. I know, Mom. I just don’t get how different we are. It’s hard to take in sometimes.

By the way, how are things going with your friends? she asks me, trying once again to divert the conversation back to me. Thankfully I have learned her tricks over the past couple of years and know when she is trying to sway the conversation back to me.

My friends are great, but you already know that, so why are you asking? I ask deadpan.

I’m just curious, honey. I just want to know if you are having any issues with your friends.

Why would I be having ‘issues’ with my friends? If I were having issues with them, we would work them out, and that would be that. You were a teenager once, you know how it works.

I do know, and that’s why I ask.

Again she is being vague, and I can tell. I decide, once again, it is time for a change of subject. Out of left field I say, I can’t wait to get to Aunt Chelsea’s house; I always feel at peace there. She’s an amazing woman.

She has that gift, honey. Learn from her.

I have a feeling my mom knows more than she is letting on but I let it go.

Enough talking, I say as I lean over to turn on some music. Thankfully my mom not only tolerates but loves my choice of music, and as we’re singing along to I Stand Alone, I look over at her for a change, and realize she is the beautiful woman I hope I will someday become, without the egocentric husband. It’s then I suddenly see a bright light out of the corner of my eye and then everything goes black.

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Chapter 2

James

Paging Dr. James Hartley to OR 2.

I respond as usual; I am the foremost neurosurgeon in the country, after all. I have seen it all and fixed it all. Most people in the hospital hold me in high regard as far as my skills, but I’m not well liked in this particular hospital. Most people say I am egotistical and have some kind of grandiose complex. However, I came here for a reason. I sacrificed my relationship with my wife and daughter to achieve what I have, some would call me selfish but this is the most recognized hospital in neurosurgery in the country, so why shouldn’t I be here?

As I enter OR 2, I am confronted with a massive head trauma, a face that is unrecognizable, and a patient who has flat lined. Get the crash cart, push 1 of Epi, and start CPR.

We’ve been doing CPR for 10 minutes and she’s not responding, says the nurse beside me. Charging to 100 . . . clear . . . no response Doctor . . . charge to 200 . . . clear . . . still no response Doctor.

I don’t lose patients so keep working on her, I tell the nurse. For some reason it seems as though something about this patient is familiar, but I’ve had so many patients that I can’t recall each one . . .

Paging Dr Hartley to OR 3, Paging Dr, Hartley to OR 3."

Keep working on her and keep me updated, I demand, as I rush to OR 3.

As I walk into OR 3, it seems as though all the air is sucked out of the room, and for all the skills and sometimes arrogant attitude I have, all life stops for me . . . . I know this person, she is the light of my life, but did she ever know it? The young woman on the table is my daughter, my beautiful Randy . . . I fall to my knees and scream, THAT IS MY DAUGHTER, PLEASE SAVE HER!

In that moment I realize that the woman that I had been trying to save in OR 2 had to have been my wife. I rush back to OR 2 and as I approach the table where the staff is working on this woman, my suspicions are confirmed when I see the wedding ring on her finger, the one I had designed for her; a princess cut diamond surrounded by emeralds, her favorite gemstone. This is my Jenna.

I walk over to my fellow attendant and tell him that he had better do everything in his power to save her, because she is my wife. He stops, and looks at me with fear and trepidation in his eyes, and starts shouting orders. He then looks over at me, and says, You should probably leave, Jim. As I walk out of the OR I am confronted with the grim truth that this woman; the woman I loved and adored for the last half of my life, may not live.

This can’t be happening, the two most important people in my life are now in jeopardy, and I never had the opportunity to tell them how I feel about them . . . Do they know how much they mean to me, how much I love them, how my world would cease to exist if either of them were gone? God, please help me . . . I can’t stand this reality right now, so I rush back to OR 3, only to be told that they are doing their best and that I should stay out of the OR. I protest, but in the end, it is policy.

I go to the chapel and pray, which is something I don’t regularly do, but this is my family. I pray to someone I don’t know, because my only belief is in science, that is what I know after years of medical school and eventually becoming what I am today, someone I despise, someone who took the most important things in my life for granted . . . I only ever believed in the science, and not so much in what is beyond, but yet I pray, I pray for my wife and daughter’s lives, for our life together, for my own salvation.

Time passed me by, of how much I don’t know, but as I wait, I recall the day I met my wife, I was just entering med school and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Her presence struck me first; she seemed so vibrant, always had a smile on her face and a kind word for everyone, she was . . . different. So unlike the rest of the girls at school who thought they were better than everyone and had the attitudes to go with it. Something about her held me spellbound.

The fact that she was beautiful on the outside as well, with dark brown, almost black hair and eyes the deepest color of blue I had ever seen only helped the process. She was also tall and naturally lean, the type I am naturally attracted to, and I fell instantly. She approached me and asked what my name was. James, I replied. Later I would find out that she knew me as her soul mate the instant she saw me. I didn’t buy into the whole soul mate thing so I dismissed it at the time. However, now I’m not so sure, as I feel as part of my soul is dying. That was almost 20 years ago, but to me, it was yesterday.

Two years later, she gave birth to the mirror image of herself, Miranda. We named her that, because we admired and loved her so much, and the name itself, means one who is admired. What happened to that person that I thought I was, that loved his family above all else and put his career second? As I sat and thought and prayed, I began to wonder, Who am I now? As I was pondering this existential question, the doctor who had been working on my wife walked in.

I’m sorry James, we did all that we could.

What are you saying? Having been on the giving end of this particular speech, I knew exactly what he was saying, but my brain could not comprehend it. Now I knew what all those families felt, the utter annihilation of life as they knew it. My Jenna was gone . . . Randy’s mom was gone. How could I possibly go on without my Jenna, how was I going to explain to my daughter that her mom was no longer here? More importantly, how was I going to raise my daughter, a girl I barely knew, on my own?

But wait, what happens if Randy doesn’t make it either? My life is falling to pieces and I can do nothing but sit and wait. This thought propels me into action. I rush back to OR 3, and as I’m putting on my mask, I have a clear view of the monitors; she has flat-lined, and while they are performing CPR, and doing everything I would typically do in the same situation, I can’t help but think there has to be more that we can do. As I begin to think of something that I can do to help, I notice that they have obtained normal sinus rhythm; her heart is working again. I think to myself, she is strong, she is young, she will make it; she has to make it. All the thoughts in my head overwhelm me to the point that I see darkness . . . My last thought is . . . Miranda . . .

I wake up in the on-call room to people talking to me, but I can’t understand what they are saying at first. I take a deep breath, expecting the worst, when they tell me that Miranda is in ICU, she’s critical but stable, for now.

What do you mean, for now? I ask with the unease of a parent that is terrified that their child may, in fact, not make it. I see the sympathy in the doctor’s eyes as he tells me, She’s in a coma, Jim. She’s hanging on but we don’t know if she will ever come out of it. Her injuries were substantial, and I’m telling you this as your colleague and someone who respects you immensely, I really don’t see her pulling out of this. I’m sorry for my candor, but I would expect the same from you if I were in your position. My head drops to my chest as I fight back the tears.

Of course, I thank you for your honesty, Paul. I expect nothing less.

He lays a hand on my shoulder and asks, Is there anyone we can call for you?

My only response is, There is no one else.

He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze and says, She’s in room 511, go see her, talk to her, as you well know, patients have a tendency to respond better when they have the support of a loving family.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, and stand. I shake his hand and tell him thank you, then rush out of the room to go talk to my daughter, all the time praying that she will hear me, and come back to me.

When I enter room 511, I am confronted by a visual assault that no parent should ever have to go through. This can’t be my Randy. I go to the nurses’ station and they inform that this is, indeed, the room of Miranda Hartley. I walk back in and take in all the external injuries she has sustained. She literally looks like she was beaten within an inch of