UpSpark: A Love Story: The Five Elements, #1

By Nicole Wells

Can they find themselves and each other before time runs out?

Enya's dreams of making a difference in the world are devastated the summer after high school when she finds out she has a fatal disease.

A cross country road trip to Native American reservations helps her find meaning. But Jacob, her best friend and traveling companion, has longed for them to become something more.

Their expedition is just the start of an amazing love and spiritual journey, but a one-in-a-million phenomenon changes everything.

"I get the feeling like I'm reading Fault In Our Stars Part 2."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicole Wells
• Release date: Jul 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9798201193782

Book preview

Prologue

The Elders of the tribe are all looking throughout North America, but generations of Seers cannot compare to her. The Seer called First watches, a goddess in her own right.

Sweet woodsy smoke from the ceremonial incense fills her nose and lungs. She lets it waft over her, calming the hunger from her three day fast. Sparks flood her sight, and the welcome but disorienting sensation of a vision overtakes her.

The one called First does not See a medicine man as expected. No, their future lies in the hands of a girl.

The Seer watches behind closed eyelids as the girl sits at a school lunch table laughing quietly with two friends, a girl wearing a hijab and a tall boy, three heads bent together like conspirators. She is young, but pure of heart; naive but learning. These qualities will make her stronger than anyone expects.

This one she Sees will curse her DNA, but it is her very DNA that will bless her.

It is a good omen, this vision, with the symbol of a tightly bonded group. The image of a tent, with supports meeting together to create a sharp point, flashes through her mind in this transcendent state. That portends well for the future—all will be lost if the Flames cannot work well together.

The Seer pulls away—she has Seen enough. She doesn't need to alert anyone; she has been preparing for years beyond modern day awareness and things are progressing as they should. The time has finally come.

The Seer’s man may call her First, but it is Enya who is the beginning.

For when there is nothing real in the world except love, it all starts and ends with the heart.

PART ONE

When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be…

Lao Tzu

Chapter One

Private Medical Practice

Silver Spring, Maryland

June 2017

---

I'M WAITING IN THE EXAMINATION ROOM. I've moved from the exam table to the plastic chair at its side. I feel like I have more fortitude here; it's more familiar and less lonely than being elevated and exposed on the exam table. My mom is still in the waiting room. I didn’t push for her to be here. I mean, Jesus, dad only died a year and a half ago. But I’m grateful. What if it's positive? I wouldn't be able to drive myself home after that, and I couldn't ask a friend. It's just...too much. Too personal.

I also moved to the chair because every move on the table—every fidget, every deep breath—caused that damn paper to crinkle, like a mocking echo of my nervousness or a refrain to my thoughts.

Those thoughts circle around and around, only pausing when I wonder how much time has passed. I refuse the temptation to check my phone, but lose the fight to keep my eyes off the clock on the wall. It's been three minutes. Goddamn, but the brain can think a helluva lot in three minutes.

Happy birthday to me.

My name is Enya. I'm eighteen. Newly minted. Just a couple weeks ago, actually. To most kids, that means another degree of freedom—moving out of the house, entering official adulthood, starting the rest of their lives, maybe beginning college. To me, it means I get to take a genetic test—a test I can only get once I’m legally adult enough to handle it.

I've been waiting my entire life for this test.

No, I've been waiting my entire life for the results of this test. I can wait a little longer. Another minute passes.

Are these my last minutes of freedom or the beginning of freedom? The shadow of a death sentence will either become real or dissipate.

My eyes drift to the clock again. Thirty-two seconds have ticked by.

I focus on benign facts. About 300 million cells die every minute in our bodies.

We replace about forty-eight million cells a minute.

Every few years most of our body has recreated itself.

Most of our body is made up of stardust. Everything in our bodies originates from stardust, which is still falling and still recreating us. There’s something beautiful in the impermanent nature of the stardust inside us, knowing it comes from stars that seem to shine for an eternity. I wish that thought could bring me the reassurance it usually does.

I like to think of my Dad as returning to the stars, shining down on me. I think he’d be proud of me. His struggle is part of the reason I want to become a doctor. I know exactly the kind, too. I want to do Integrative Medicine. Yeah, all that kooky stuff. I love it. I really believe I've got my head screwed on a little tighter than my mom does since my dad died last year. I credit that to my getting acupuncture and homeopathy. People know it works, too. That's why it's so popular. I'm gonna be part of the movement that brings it to the forefront.

Despite waiting for it, the double rap on the door startles me, and Dr. Yee strides in. I could have chosen a different doctor to tell me my fate, perhaps a genetic expert in a comfy conference room, but Dr. Yee is my family doctor. She’s a special combination of straightforward and kind, and I trust her. She grabs the black, wheeled stool and sits facing me, leaning onto the examination table. There is a computer screen hiding my medical records beside us, but she doesn't log in. I want her to. I've prepared for this appointment by imagining how it would play out, and I used our prior visits as fodder for my fantasy. In my mind, she logs in and shows me what my record says. Sometimes it's printed out, which usually doesn't bode well.

She stares at me now, and I desperately, unreasonably, want her to show me the computer screen. I don't want her to tell me directly. Give me a buffer, let the windows to my soul have some privacy. But the only shutters to my eyes are my eyelids, and in my frozen face, my eyes stay wide open.

She leans closer and paper crinkles. Enya, I know you are prepared for any answer. You've had extensive counseling.

I have, but I'm not. My dad had Huntington’s disease. It’s a fatal, inheritable disease. His mother had it and he had a fifty percent chance of having it, just like I have a fifty percent chance. My dad decided not to get tested, but I want to know. I had to go through a lot of counseling to get the test since there’s no cure. Huntington’s is not a pretty way to go, but I’d like to fortify myself if I have to.

I’m not braced for this like I thought I would be.

It's like when my mom gets her mammogram and freaks out until the test results come back. If there's cancer, it's been there. It wouldn't magically appear on the day of the mammogram. The test just reveals the truth. There's something in the knowing that makes fear manifest. Ignorance is bliss.

So I’m here, willingly giving up my bliss, and freaking out...

I don’t want possible symptoms to surprise me because my dad’s symptoms caught him off guard on top of his midlife crisis. His suicide caught me off guard and spiraled me into an anguish and depression that I’m still crawling out of.

Knowledge catches up to you; it’s better to be ready.

You are prepared for this, Dr. Yee repeats. The table paper crinkling sounds like a cheer-leading section, except I don't need an audience. She's staring, and I think she expects me to nod. I'm still frozen.

Enya, it's positive.

Chapter Two

THE BOTTOM OF MY STOMACH DROPS OUT, and there's a roaring in my ears. I think I'm going to throw up, and I don't care. I couldn't move if my life depended on it. What life? Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

She reaches out and grasps my hand, a tether keeping me from falling further into the abyss. She's modeling deep breaths and gently squeezing my hand, and her eyes are trying to catch mine.

This isn't the death sentence it used to be. We have great treatments for the symptoms.

OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod. She's got to be wrong. Every test has false positives, right? OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!

Enya, look at me.

My body registers her words and follows her command. Her kind brown eyes hold me steady.

Enya, take a deep breath in, then let it out.

I siphon air through stiff lips. I feel like a scarecrow, a mishmash of ill-fitting parts about to topple down. I'm shaking. My eyes are leaking. Deep breath, she is saying. My breaths are ragged and staccato in and out, like I'm learning how to breathe for the first time. If I stop this breathing, I will fall apart. Tears fall on my hand and I realize I must be squeezing her hand uncomfortably hard. Deep breath. The echo of her words is resonating in my mind, like sounds heard under the ocean, received but not registering.

Eventually, in the quiet of this rhythmic space, I see Dr. Yee again. My tears blur her image. She squeezes my hand once more.

Enya, you are the same person you were when you walked in that door.

We've talked about this. She's repeating things we've talked about. Like my wooden body, a wooden automaton mind numbly clasps onto the concept and holds it close. I nod. The ocean spills from my eyes, a river that flows down my face. But I'm granite now, my face and my limbs heavy, frozen, immobile. Cold and detached. Only a small section of my mind is whirring, just enough to grasp onto each lifeline she feeds me.

There is no ‘one hundred percent’ in medicine. We have best guesses. And our best guess is that you will be able to have a full and complete life. You can have a career and a family if you want.

Yes, we have talked about this. I thought I was prepared. I thought I had taken it all to heart. But somewhere, some dark unconscious passage along the way, I skirted away from letting the possibility fully sink in, like thinking about it would tempt fate. I thought I was prepared, but this... this is riding out a hurricane on the makeshift raft of a door that is all that's left of the house you knew.

She goes on, and trivial thoughts of my college applications come to mind. What a waste of application fees. What a waste of time editing all the application essays. What a waste...

My brain sounds an alarm as it hears the word anticipation. This is medicalese for it could get worse with each generation. Such an ill-fitting, stupid word to take the place of poor prognosis. I remember talking about this too. It's because it was my father that had it, not my mother, that I might have it worse and symptoms might start earlier.

Wow, the measure of good now is some fractured thing mocking what I used to know and how things used to be.

Dr. Yee mentions my mother and I surface from the abyss of my thoughts. Do I want my mother to come in the room with me now? There is an appointment with the counselor. We earmarked the time, but I'd hoped we wouldn't use it. It's strongly recommended I have a loved one with me. I fought having mom here, with all the hallmark independence of youth, but I see the sense now. I force my wooden head to nod.

Dr. Yee cracks the door open and talks to someone in the hall. She doesn't leave me, doesn't let go of my hand. I feel like an invalid with her concerned vigilance. I will never know what it's like to be old, but maybe I am getting a glimpse now. What weird thoughts. I think I am losing my mind. Maybe this is like being old too.

IT'S A QUIET DRIVE HOME, two hours and a lifetime later. A storm has rolled in, and I want to curl into an exhausted ball, retreat into a timeless cocoon, and face it all tomorrow. Some future tomorrow where I can handle this new fate.

I have to hold it together for my mom. I've never been as close and open with Mom as I was with Dad, but I love her, and she’s been so fragile since my dad died. She's the one that found him. She's the one that had to face the brunt of society’s shame over his suicide. I saw her hold it together for me in the light of the day and then crumble each night. I harbored an odd fear that she would try to kill herself too.

Caring for each other helped us pull through, though. We were a bridge together, an arch, able to take the burden better when we leaned on each other. She was strong for me then, as best she could so we wouldn't fall down. I have to be strong for her now; she can't take another hit. So I tense my muscles and resist the urge to give in to exhaustion. I don't want her to know, but deep down I do need her to bear more than her share. I need her to be the strong one. This strength of mine is an exoskeleton, a shell that's starting to crack.

I stare straight ahead as the car plows on. We're both silent because there is both nothing and all the world to say. If we talk, it will all come out, and neither of us can handle the force of those dark thoughts right now.

It's quiet except for the pings of rain all around. I let myself be mesmerized by the swish of the windshield wipers. The water collects and beads, then trails down like tears again and again. The line of water trods on and is relentlessly swiped away and pushed aside. Swish, swash. Back and forth.

My eyes stray to the crystal suncatcher charm hanging from the rearview mirror. It's a clear plastic crystal heart dangling from a rainbow of beaded crystals. It’s not exactly my style, but Dad bought it for me, and it's become one of my most treasured possessions. He said the scattered light and rainbows were like my spark and spunk, but all the light and rainbows are shuttered today.

Dark thoughts creep in, unbidden. The words I would say if I could. Mom, I'm scared. Mom, I don't want to die. Oh, God, Mommy...

---

Mom grips the steering wheel. Her eyes are wide and locked on the road.

I hug myself tighter and force myself to stare at the windshield. Swish, swash. Back and forth. Again and again.

Chapter Three

ILATHER ON THE HOMEOPATHIC arnica gel. Arnica is a plant that causes joint pain, so according to the theory of like heals like, it can help with joint pain when diluted to just energetic essence. In this case, the goal is to prevent knee pain on my run.

I stretch a few times, letting my mind wander before my body does. It's a weird theory that something can be stronger when diluted, or even that something can transfer its essence when there’s nothing left but the energy vibrations.

Will it be like that when I die? Nothing left but my energy vibrations? My energetic signature the last thing to disperse?

Do I have a hope of being more? Energy that gets stronger with dilution? A soul that doesn’t die?

I shake my head free of morbid thoughts and place my hand on my heart. It's an old habit of mine, ever since my acupuncturist told me my strongest energy was from my heart. I take a deep breath and ground myself. I’m right here, right now. Better get running.

I push my legs hard like I pushed myself out of bed this morning. It’s been several days since my diagnosis, or D-Day, and I couldn't take another day of sleeping in, watching shadows crawl across the wall, and ignoring the buzzing of my phone.

I pull my phone from my armband and rapidly cycle through songs. I want something to match my mood. Ominous notes of an electric guitar herald one of my mom's favorites. It's been a long time since I last heard it, and it's just what I need.

My feet slap the pavement as the trees around me blur by. I want to push myself until I can't breathe, until my body feels used up and renewed at the same time. Until this buzz of useless energy is expended, and all that's left is the feeling of wet, hot skin, burning muscles, and a throat dry from gulping great lungfuls of air. Until I can't think anymore.

The lead singer of Better than Ezra weaves the words of desperation and desire between the rebellious, loud notes. The tension in the song Desperately Wanting builds, the lyrics telling of lost chances when life has its way with you as it crescendos.

I turn onto a deer trail and run hard and fast. I let my body become fully engrossed in jumping over logs and brushing by branches, the path dipping and turning. It's exhilarating, like flying. I'm on the slope of a gentle ravine when the song ends, and I come down from my high.

I climb onto a large rock and perch there, gasping for air, releasing into the feel of my heated body and tired muscles.

The view is expansive, overlooking the gully with its small stream. Being out in nature, my body feeling so alive—in some ways, this moment feels perfect, and that makes it crueler. My gasps for breath are more rhythmic now, and I’m reflexively exhaling more than inhaling. I gasp air in and long-pant it out, in again and a giant sigh on the exhale. The sound is a lot like the sound of crying, I notice, like when your soul has reached max capacity.

Stars disrupt my vision, probably the combination of lack of air and not enough water. I lay my head down on the rock, taking deep breaths with my eyes closed.

The smell of mothballs and antiseptic cleaner fills my nostrils. It's a unique combination I know from in-home hospice care. Older gray eyes stare at me, into me. I break away from the woman’s gaze. What would I see if I let myself look? Pleading? Desperation? Or would her stare be empty, the mind relieved of its duties like the body has been? What would she say if she could talk? I can’t look. I’m too scared I’ll see the answer. I’ll see what I would say if I were in her shoes: Kill me now.

I’ve only met my grandmother a handful of times, but I guess it makes sense my poor oxygen-deprived brain is communing with her now. The stages of Huntington's are a slow progression from being less capable at your job to becoming totally dependent on others for basic life necessities. You lose your ability for language, thinking, memory, coordination, and movement. I open my eyes, determined to run harder and faster on the way back. Maybe if I do, I can find my way back to an innocent time where I can leave the tarnished future behind me.

SOUNDS OF MY MOM at the kitchen table greet me as I come in through the combination mudroom and laundry room. My brain is clearer, and my heart is a little lighter now. The laundry detergent perfume of clean clothes permeates the air, a faux freshness I'm willing to believe in.

We haven't talked in all this time, and that’s what I’ve needed. Seeing my mom at the small table, curled over her coffee in her worn-out robe, her swirling spoon clinking like a poor man's singing bowl, I know she's been giving me space. I pull out the chair and sit catty-corner next to her, the vinyl sticking to the backs of my sweaty thighs.

She pulls the spoon out and rests it on the tablecloth, making a little puddle but unconcerned about the mess.

I meet her eyes, perhaps for the first time since she drove me to my appointment. Don't tell me it's gonna be okay.

Her lips press together, and she minutely shakes her head back and forth. It's not okay, she whispers, still holding my challenging gaze.

I feel like starting a fight. I don't know why; I was just feeling thankful for her. My emotions are like scattershot, more ugly chaos to what I once understood.

My mom's can be the picture of frailty, but now she’s stalwart in the face of my buffeting emotions. Instead of rising to my challenge, she stays gentle. But whatever you’re feeling is okay.

I look away as I feel the telltale heaviness to my eyes. I am so tired of crying; sometimes I think it can't be possible to shed more tears. I hear her take a shaky in-breath.

And whatever you need, I'm here for you.

I look back to her, and I see the tears in her eyes, too. She reaches out her hand and rests it on my shoulder. I'm sweaty, and I don't want to be touched, but her hand is already there.

You're never alone.

I know, Mom. My eyes skirt away. I didn't mean for it to come out as a whine.

No, Enya, I need you to know.

I look back and see tear tracks. Her grip has changed on my shoulder, like I'm her lifeline now.

I couldn't reach through to your dad. He wouldn't let me in.

Oh, Mom. The guilt and what-ifs are the worst part about suicide. There's this alternate universe that just keeps going, a constant contrast to a reality you want to deny. You can't say, It’s not your fault to someone who's lived or is living through that. If a loved one had a stroke and you didn't bring them to the hospital, is it your fault they later died? It took a lot of therapy for me to get to a point where I was mad at Dad’s depression more than I was mad at him, or my mom, or me.

I know. I'm not going to do anything stupid. I just can't— An angry sigh escapes because there are no words for this indescribable feeling. I just can't deal? I can't imagine what comes next for me? I can't give up hope that there is some undiscovered cure? I can't believe this is happening? I can't go on, which is stupid, because right now I can; it’s the future I'm being robbed of. I can't stand myself in this space of roller-coaster emotions because I thought I'd deal better.

She seems to understand and takes control of the conversation. Like any disease, your father had times when the depression was better controlled. He was researching and compiling things he'd found to help him come to terms with his fate. He'd read and re-read his notes, and then he'd be reinvigorated with life for a while. I've looked through them, and I think you'd find them useful. He's got quotes from various people, notes on the pathology, and plans for things he could do, almost like a journal. In those moments, he could face the facts, and I think he showed lucidity, wisdom, and grace despite the cards he'd been dealt.

I'm trying to picture this side of my dad,