Portals of Hope

By Cate Hallahan

Twenty-six-year-old Hope Wells is introduced to quantum theory as she finds herself hurtled into an alternate dimension at the hands of her bungling spirit guide in an attempt to save Hope from an accident that would have resulted in her certain death.

Emma Lowen, an ageless spirit guide, has been responsible for guiding Hope's maternal lineage for generations and unveils herself now in order to help guide Hope through a dimension that is rated far lower on the civil liberties scale than the world she has left behind.

As two versions of the same person do not exist simultaneously in the same dimension, Hope's alternate self has taken her place in a highly evolved dimension where war and poverty are unheard of. The alternate Hope is introduced to a reality that is not ruled by capitalist gain—a world that has benefited from the leadership of true visionaries who remained in public service. Alternate Hope soon discovers that she has won the dimension jackpot when she learns that John Lennon, a leading human rights activist, represents the UK for the United Nations General Assembly, while taking the occasional break to tour the globe with the band.

Both women struggle with this strange twist of fate as they work their way through each other's lives while waiting for their spirit guide to figure out how to restore the continuum and return each to her own dimension.

As Alternate Hope does her best to preserve a completely foreign romantic relationship, the other Hope must learn to navigate the unknown waters of homophobia, racial bigotry, the state of a mental health industry self-governed by giant pharma, a severely degraded environment, the inequality of opportunity, and last but not least, the murderous intentions of a sociopath with delusions of grandeur.

It's a race against time as all concerned struggle to make it to the portal in the right place at the right time to safely return both Hopes to the dimensions they call home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9780228824237

Cate Hallahan

CATHERINE (CATE) HALLAHAN lives in the Toronto community of Long Branch on the shore of Lake Ontario with her husband, Michael. Her aspiration to become an author originated with the thought, what an awesome world this could be if everyone were kind to one another.

Book preview

Losing Wonderland

Chapter 1

Friday, April 26, 2002, 6:01 p.m.

Hope stirred, her ears filled with the buzzing of a thousand bees, her eyelids squeezed tight against the blinding light. A shadow crossed her face as the noise morphed into language, and she opened her eyes hesitantly to discover that she was lying flat on her back.

She inhaled the flinty fumes of the warm asphalt and saw the outline of the clouds as they drifted lazily in a faded blue sky. Her head jerked in reflex when a pair of extremely worried and vaguely familiar ice-blue eyes came into sharp focus less than two inches from her own.

Lie still dear; you’ve been hit by a truck. There’s an ambulance on the way.

Hope thought being run over by a truck should hurt more, and although she felt no serious pain, the depth of concern in the stranger’s voice caused her a flicker of panic. Shifting her full attention to her body and feeling no discomfort greater than the usual sensations associated with a fall from a bike, her calm returned.

A crowd had gathered off to the right, and a little further along she could see her Schwinn, lying on its side with its pedal bent at an impossible angle. Now, that hurts! When she attempted to sit upright, a sharp ache shot through her left arm. She lay back down, not wanting to take the chance again. Looking to the woman who hovered above her, Hope smiled faintly and said, Thanks for stopping to help.

The Good Samaritan appeared to be well into her seventies, with a bun of steel-grey hair perched high on top of her head. The old woman’s strength surprised Hope when she took her by the hand and helped her into a sitting position as if she were no more substantial than a rag doll. Sit still, the old woman said. Wait until the paramedics arrive before you try to move.

I’m fine, Hope assured her, I have a bit of a headache, and I’m a little scraped, but I don’t think anything’s broken.

Looking down, Hope could see that her heavily padded jacket and gloves had borne the brunt of the accident. She removed her helmet and stared at the large dent creasing its entire length. Both knees of her pants were torn, and she could see chunks of gravel embedded in them. Peeling off her jacket, she found a couple of bumps on her arms that were already blooming flowery bruises, but nothing appeared to require hospital attention.

An ambulance won’t be necessary. Hope stifled another wince as she rose to her feet. Motioning vaguely off to the east, she said, I live nearby.

All right then, if you’re sure you don’t need my help. The woman seemed suddenly pressed for time. She scribbled something on the back of a business card and handed it to Hope. My name is Emma Lowen, and this is my telephone number in case you need a witness to the accident.

Pocketing the card, Hope turned to face the small crowd gathered around. She took a tentative step toward her bike and heard the clack of a flip phone opening. She waggled her fingers and stepped from side to side to demonstrate that she had no serious injuries. The cell phone clacked shut, and the crowd began to disperse.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out who was the driver of the truck as only a shaggy-haired young man appeared to be in any degree of distress. She smiled reassuringly to put the traumatized young man out of his misery and said, I don’t think there’s any permanent damage, just a few scrapes and bruises.

Can I take you to the hospital or anything? At least let me take you and your bike home. I can clear out my van, the young man spoke in earnest.

Really, I’m fine. My apartment’s only a couple of blocks away. She wanted the spectacle she was causing to end and accepted his business card, assuring him she would send along the repair bill for her beloved Schwinn. She turned back to say goodbye to Emma Lowen, only to find that she was nowhere in sight. Pretty spry for a senior citizen, she mused. An emergency vehicle wailed in the distance as she lifted her bike up onto its wheels and turned for home.

Chapter 2

Friday, April 26, 2002 – Twelve hours earlier

Hope woke to the plaintive strains of John Lennon’s latest lament for his long dead love Yoko. She slid her hand out from beneath the covers and silenced John mid-wail, letting a moment pass before easing her legs out of the bed.

Stretching to scoop up the pile of clothes from the bedside chair, she clutched the bundle to her chest and shifted her weight, freezing in mid-step as the hardwood floor cracked loudly beneath her feet. The towheaded man who slept, tangled in the bed sheets, continued to snore softly as she hurried from the room.

On any other morning, she would have stayed in bed waiting for the day’s details to come to her gradually, but not today. On this date for the past seven years, a memory she wished would cease to be her waking thought was, once again, her waking thought. Colin, the man in the bed, was not a part of this past, and his well-intended words of consolation would feel intrusive and unwelcome.

She showered quickly and dressed in the tiny bathroom, taking special care not to graze her knees or elbows against the iron bars of the radiator. No makeup today; it was not a makeup day. Entering the kitchen, she scribbled a somewhat vague note explaining her stealthy departure and propped it among the pots of emerald shamrocks that sat arranged in a horseshoe pattern in the centre of a battered oak table.

At the hallway closet, she shrugged on a black leather jacket and wound a heavy woolen scarf around her neck. With an economy of motion, she shoved her feet into well-worn boots while tucking her auburn bob up into a silver bike helmet. Moving quickly, she draped her messenger bag across her shoulders and stole from the apartment.

The staircase emitted muffled shrieks of protest under each footfall, and she worried that the sound would wake Colin. Stepping through the side entrance and out into the bright morning sunlight, she almost collided with the building’s landlady who bustled about the stoop, sweeping away the remnants of an urban evening in this trendy part of Toronto.

Executing a quick sidestep that belied the woman’s considerable bulk, she called out, Good morning, Hope. The landlady continued to sweep in time to the music in her head, presumably Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, judging from the brusque downward strokes of the broom.

Smiling, Hope considered her long-held theory that each and every individual on the planet resonated on a unique frequency created by the music, or lack thereof, that emanated from within their souls. Over the short journey of her twenty-six years, she had already encountered such diverse souls as Moon River, the eternally elegant, seventy-nine-year-old Southern Belle who was haunted by the relentless advance of old age, and the perverse nineteen-year-old twisted sister who fairly reeked of Highway to Hell.

Bent on her quest for solitude, Hope offered a brief smile to the landlady in return and said, Good morning, Grace. Her words hung in the crisp morning air like tiny ghosts. An involuntary shiver ran through her as she freed her Schwinn from the bike rack and set off in the direction of her emotional safe house—a place where it was possible to keep her melancholy at bay with the instant gratification of a flaky croissant, still warm from the oven, and a double-shot cappuccino.

It was late April in Toronto, and finally, the long, slow thaw to summer had begun. It felt wonderful to liberate the Schwinn from the storage locker earlier in the week, and she rode hard now, inhaling the crisp breeze that carried hints of rain that would soon bring green grass and daffodils. She swore she could almost smell the hot dog vendors as she pulled to the curb and secured her bike to the rack.

The aroma of fresh baked pastry and pulverized coffee beans that met her at the door of Ilsa’s Café was her Zen. Feeling at one with the Pillsbury Doughboy, she lingered as she walked slowly past the marble countertop crowded with metal pans of every buttery, rich French pastry imaginable. Inhaling deeply, she seated herself at her favourite table facing out onto the street.

Living in Toronto was like travelling to foreign destinations without ever having to leave home. Its mosaic of nationalities blended seamlessly, enriching each other’s life through the myriad new experiences they continually exchanged. Hope could have dim sum for breakfast, Italian for lunch, Indian curry for dinner, and snack on sushi, all within walking distance of her apartment.

She enjoyed the old world charm of the café with its absence of Wi-Fi. Hope believed that electronically enhanced cafés promoted isolation and wondered why anyone would venture outside of their house if they only wanted to reach out and touch someone electronically.

The phrase curiouser and curiouser drifted into her thoughts. It was odd. Although curiouser and curiouser was an expression she was likely to use when considering the human condition, Hope definitely felt that in this instance it was not her thought, but someone else’s. She wondered if this was déjà vu.

One evening, while under the influence of a particularly enjoyable bottle of ruby-red Cabernet, she confided to Colin that déjà vu moments such as these occurred to her all too often and tipsily postulated that she might be only a few genes removed from the girl who uttered that same observation from the other side of the looking glass. Then she cast a suspicious, slightly out of focus eye in Colin’s general direction and declared, When it comes right down to it, we could all trace our lineage back to the same two people. Propped up by the wine, she carried on, concluding that he was the worst kind of pervert for hitting on his own kin this way, managing to sound more and more like Daisy Duke as she warmed to the subject. Eventually the ridiculous diatribe served its purpose, cracking Colin up and avoiding a deeper discussion of the voices within.

Now, her heightened senses picked up the clatter of a cup on a saucer, followed by the throaty swoosh of the cappuccino machine. She glanced down at the headline of a newspaper left behind by another of the early morning caffeine junkies.

JFK TO OFFICIATE AT NASA CEREMONY HERALDING FIRST MOON - BOUND COMMUTER FLIGHT

The photo accompanying the article was of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, flashing his handsome, toothy smile. His receding hairline and wealth of laugh lines served only to enhance his infamous charisma.

Hope liked the aging humanitarian, and so did most of the female population. Unable to ignore his many marital infidelities, Jackie and JFK divorced shortly into his second term as President of the United States, and Jackie reverted to her maiden name, Bouvier.

After it was discovered that the medication JFK was prescribed to relieve his chronic back pain contained high levels of testosterone, something the man was in no short supply of to begin with, Jackie Bouvier re-entered his life, reasoning that he was not entirely to blame for his marital infidelities that were legend. How could you help but sympathize with the guy when his constant back pain was the result of towing a crewmate through the dark waters to safety by gripping the rope between his teeth when their PT boat was torpedoed by a Japanese sub?

But Jackie was no fool, and although this disclosure elevated his public approval rating dramatically, it did little to increase his approval rating with his ex-wife. In her new role of friend and confidant, rather than jilted First Lady, they were still seen together here and there, looking far too comfortable for an old divorced couple.

Hope looked up from the headlines to find Ilsa, the owner of the café, standing over her with a steaming cup of cappuccino in one hand and in the other, a bone china plate bearing a croissant dusted with icing sugar and heaped with fresh berries. Hope smiled gratefully as she pushed the newspaper aside to make room and said, It’s like you can read my mind.

It’s all part of the friendly service. Ilsa was one of the few people who knew the sad significance today held for her friend and started Hope’s usual order the minute she saw her come through the door. Placing the coffee and croissant in front of Hope, she smiled affectionately, then retreated, telling her to call out if she could bring her anything else.

Hope fought melancholy as she munched on the warm croissant and sipped the scalding cappuccino. Out the window she watched the city slowly wake and come to life. First came the delivery trucks bulging with fresh produce and baked goods on their way to market, next came the office workers clutching five-dollar coffees in well-manicured hands, followed by the tourists, venturing out in search of breakfast then heading off to see the sights.

She pictured herself and Colin as tourists on a tropical island, lying on yellow and blue striped lounge chairs facing an azure ocean. They drink crimson cocktails from hurricane glasses, laughing gaily as Colin pokes himself in the eye with the little paper umbrella. She almost laughed out loud at the image.

A decade or so ago, she would never have considered tropical islands as a vacation destination; however, these days it was much easier on the social conscience to vacation on the beautiful white sand beaches of third-world countries now that the first-world countries finally got their collective shit together and ended the insane poverty that plagued so many of those beautiful, but suffering, countries for so long.

Maybe she could talk him into taking a mini-sabbatical to travel now, rather than later, when supposedly, they would be better able to afford it. Who knew what the future held, no time like the present, yada yada yada. She started to build a case for the trip as she swallowed the dregs of the cappuccino. Lowering her cup, Hope saw a street artist arrive to set his work space up outside the window. She realized with a start that she had dawdled too long and would be late for work.

She paid the bill, leaving a generous tip, and called goodbye to Ilsa over her shoulder. Sprinting for the door, she barely avoided a head-on collision with an elderly woman. Looking up, Hope found herself staring into the startling depths of the woman’s ice-blue eyes. Apologizing profusely, she continued out the door, holding it open for the elderly woman as she went.

Glancing behind her, Hope saw the look of concern that clouded the woman’s features, the blue eyes a full shade darker than a moment ago. As the look seemed out of proportion to the incident, she ignored it.

Throwing herself headlong into the fray, she arrived in front of the Queen Street Mental Health Centre with one minute to spare.

* * * * *

Entering through the clinic doors on the west side of the hospital, she found the youngest of her charges in the main foyer, dancing wildly with the air and arguing incoherently with an invisible opponent.

At the age of five, Danny Adams was abandoned by his single, teenaged mother who was just a child herself and unable to deal with the challenge of raising a child. Danny was old enough to know that his mother’s leaving had something to do with him, although not old enough to understand that it was not his fault. The sensitive youth was shuffled from one foster home to another, and the day after his sixteenth birthday, he moved out onto the streets, and largely due to the city’s progressive outreach programs, he received food and shelter. By the time he reached the age of nineteen, he began to exhibit signs of schizophrenia and was given access to first-rate medical attention, such as the Queen Street Centre provided. Now, at the age of twenty-five, Danny was extremely intelligent and possessed an impressive sixth sense that served him well and kept him relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, there were times such as these when unseen demons emerged to throw him into a tailspin that could last for minutes, hours, or even days.

Throughout her studies as a social worker, Hope’s educators stressed that she should attempt to avoid becoming emotionally invested in the lives of her charges. As it turned out, she rarely managed to keep them at arm’s length. It was exhausting at times, eating up large pieces of her life. It seemed to bother Colin who often remarked, only half-teasing, that he was too well adjusted to retain her attention for any length of time. The last time he said this, she replied that he was not all that well adjusted, which effectively aborted the argument before it launched.

She took in the scene that was playing out in front of her. Debra, the clinic’s personable receptionist, usually quite adept at handling situations such as these, seemed to be at a loss. She glanced up at Hope with a concerned expression, and then quietly backed away, indicating that she was going in search of a doctor.

As Debra hurried away, Hope called softly to the lanky, young man. Hi, Danny, would you like to come for a walk with me?

At the sound of her voice, his actions became less frantic, and avoiding her eyes, he spoke in a hoarse whisper, It’s all wrong. Lank tendrils of hair, the colour of bittersweet chocolate, fell across his face, effectively obscuring his vision.

Taking him gently by the arm, Hope led him in the direction of the Centre’s immaculately tended greenhouse. This was a sanctuary that Hope sought out herself on those days when the universe seemed intent on lobbing curve balls in her direction. Serenity reigned here, encouraged by the mingling scents of exotic blooms, artfully tucked in among a variety of enormous trees that sheltered the dancing red, yellow and orange flames of the giant bromeliads.

Hope inhaled deeply, filling her lungs to capacity with the rich scents of black loam and flowering blooms. Gardening was extremely therapeutic, and many of the patients spent long hours nurturing the plants, both in the greenhouse and on the spacious grounds where numerous gardens exploded into life over the summer months. They wandered silently along the flagstone path until they came to an ornately carved bench nestled under an enormous fig tree. Hope sat down and pulled Danny down beside her. After a moment, she leaned in a little closer and said softly, What’s wrong, Danny?

Continuing to avoid her eyes, he waved a listless hand and emitted a sigh. Her heart ached as she realized that he had withdrawn, and if this followed its usual course, he would not emerge until he worked things out for himself. They sat that way, in a companionable silence, until Danny’s breathing settled to a normal pace. She took him by the arm, stood, and walked him back to the annex that housed the tiny room that served as his own whenever he needed somewhere to pull himself together. Settling him on the edge of the single bed, she looked up as Debra approached with Danny’s primary therapist, Dr. Joy, in tow.

We’ve been looking for you everywhere! When Debra told me that Danny’s paranoia was full-blown, I was worried that you might have taken on more than you could handle, said Dr. Joy. Moving proprietarily to Danny’s side, she asked Hope and the receptionist for a minute alone to properly assess her patient’s condition.

Outside the room Debra said, That was bad. I’ve never seen Danny melt down so completely. There was a faint tremor in her voice. One minute he was standing there with that look of bemused tolerance he gets whenever Dr. Orr passes by, and you saw what happened next.

Dr. Joy slipped from the room, closing the door behind her before speaking. He’s fallen asleep, which is a good thing. I think that it would be best if he stays at the Centre over the week-end in case he should experience a relapse.

The therapist directed her next comment to Hope. If it’s ok with you, I’ll leave contact information for the both of us, in case he’s agitated when he wakes up. She smiled as she admitted, somewhat grudgingly, He seems to have a bond with you that will permit a connection even once he has withdrawn from the rest of us.

No problem, Hope said. You can call anytime. She nodded and smiled reassuringly, then retrieved her files and set off on her rounds.

Mrs. Margaret Mae, Maggie to her friends, was an 80-year-old family matriarch and one of Hope’s favourites, so she made this her first stop. Maggie Mae was diagnosed as having an attention deficit hyperactive disorder along with a healthy dose of obsessive-compulsive behaviour. She responded to every question posed with a curt, No thank you, before realizing that what she was being offered was exactly what she wanted. As this dawned on her, she would smile sweetly and say, Yes, that would be nice, and so it would go, day after day.

Hope knocked and entered the room to find Maggie smoothing out the wrinkles on her bedspread, probably not for the first time that day. This ritual would have to be repeated each time she stood up from the side of the bed to adjust one specific picture frame among the many that crowded the surface of her dresser.

William looks especially dapper today, Hope said as Maggie turned to face her. William was the man in the grandest frame.

No, came Maggie’s automatic reply, followed by a sigh and then, Yes, he really does have what the youngsters call ‘it,’ doesn’t he? We were married 55 years, and there was not a bad day in the lot. I miss him so.

Next to William, stood their wedding photo, framing a handsome couple in the garb of the day—Maggie draped in layers of gently flowing lace, embedded with hundreds of opalescent pearls with William next to her looking dashing in his top hat and tails. The remainder of the dresser’s surface was covered with photographs of sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, forming an interesting collage that reflected the mixing and matching of genes throughout the generations.

As they talked, Hope caught up on the news of Maggie’s extended family who had migrated to exotic locations around the world. The children offered their homes to Maggie, but she preferred to remain as independent as possible. She felt that the Centre was her home, where they understood her particular needs. Her family came to visit whenever possible and when unable to see her on special occasions, they sent massive floral arrangements, heavy with exotic blooms, along with large gold boxes of decadent Belgian chocolates. Over the course of their relationship, it became obvious to Hope that William had been Maggie’s glue, and when he died, she became a little unstuck.

Looking at her watch, Hope saw that an hour had already passed, so she said a quick goodbye, promising to return for a visit on Monday. She continued her rounds, appearing to drop by for a casual visit with her charges, all the while astutely assessing their needs. Some were so fragile that the change from good to bad took only a split-second, shifting them from one reality to another in the blink of an eye.

From out of nowhere, the ominous musical signature that accompanied the arrival of the Dark Lord, Darth Vadar, popped into her head and grew louder. Steadying herself, she turned the corner and looked straight ahead, before adjusting her sightline down half a foot to meet the stony gaze of Dr. Jonas Orr III, a surprisingly diminutive man for someone who carried such an ominous musical signature.

Dr. Orr bothered her on many levels, in fact, probably on all of them. He honestly believed that mental illness should