Letting Go

By Jessica Perrin Barcomb

LETTING GO is Deepak Chopra meeting the Salem witches in modern America. Instead of painkillers and antidepressants, Rebecca relieves pain and heals with touch. Dismissed by critics as quackery, her ancestors were hanged as witches; but what she can do i

• Language: English
• Publisher: R&R Press
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798985086911

Book preview

Acknowledgments

T

hanks so much to my family and friends who encouraged me along the way. I apologize to you all who were subjected to too much of my preliminary work on this novel! (Looking at you, Chris Mitchell!) I want to especially thank my friends Julie Crumb Trolley and Lynn Guilz Hemingway. If it weren’t for you two, I doubt I would’ve ever gotten beyond that first draft.

Many thanks to Greg Wolos (my writer’s group!) and to Tim Owens for his editing (he did what I couldn’t.)

I am grateful for the Schenectady writing group I attended pre-covid. Hope that continues.

Lastly, this book wouldn’t have happened without my husband and children. I love you.

To E3

Learn to let go. That is the key to happiness.

-Buddha (c.563-c.483BCE), India

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Becca: Floating

Becca: In Between

Becca and Tom: Burdens

Sarah: The Park

Rebecca: A Gift

Sarah: Unconditional

Rebecca

Halloween Party 2001

Sarah: Empty Pages

Rebecca: The Bottom Line

Halloween Party 2001: The Night Continues

Rebecca: A Sort-of Witch

Sarah

Rebecca: Becoming One

Sarah: The Entertainer

Rebecca: Balance

Sarah: Rob

Becca: Tom

Salem

Becca and Sarah

Becca: More Complete

Becca

Becca: Sublet

Becca: I Got This . . . ?

Becca: The Surrender

Becca: Moving In

Becca: Connected

Sarah: A Walk Through the Woods

Rob: A Moment

Becca: Allowing

Sarah: Two Weeks

Becca: One More Thing

Becca: Botanic Garden

Sarah: To Open Wide Enough

Becca: If I Find Out

Rob: The Yin and the Yang

Becca: All and Nothing

Rob: Penn Station

Becca: Stillness

About the Author

Prologue

F

rom the back seat Rebecca could see her mother’s green eyes in the rearview mirror. They were returning to her school from a dentist appointment. You’ll get there probably around ten forty, her mother said into the mirror. 

Rebecca pictured her classroom clock’s black numbers. I think we’ll be going to lunch.

I can’t believe you guys eat so early, her mother said, as she glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

It’s chicken nugget day! Becca smiled wide, giving her mother big goofy eyes as she did. Her mother returned her smile and Becca looked out, watching the road zoom by, the cars on either side. It was a rainy day, but nothing terrible. The quiet sort of day she rather liked. 

Becca wondered what her friends were doing in class, if they were going to be able to play outside for recess. She wiggled her loose tooth with her tongue, looking at the train overpass. 

Her mom looked in her rearview mirror, then adjusted it to the traffic behind her. She exited off the ramp, Becca knowing her mom preferred taking the peaceful drive on the back roads. She preferred it too. When they drove to Sacandaga Lake in the summer, just the two of them, they always chose the roads lined with trees and mountains rather than the highway with tolls. 

Entering the intersection, Becca saw movement out of the corner of her eye; but when the black-haired man ran the red light toward her mom’s side of the car, time stood still. His eyes glanced up and mirrored her terror in the split second before he plowed right into them, shattering the windows, caving the car door as his truck barreled through. 

She heard the crash, felt the shock, as her body whipped against her seatbelt, and her head smashed into the side window. Daylight disappeared; she could feel pain swirling around her as she tried to focus. Her head hurt; her chest hurt. It was hard to breathe, so she gasped for air. She saw only dark until she saw her mother’s face.

 Becca, just relax your lungs, breathe deep. Becca tried to listen, and slowly she let go of the pain, allowing her breath to come back. That’s good, sweetheart. Keep at it. I’m sorry to say that I’ll be leaving you for now. Her mother looked sad. Becca tried to focus but found that relaxing her mind allowed her mother to come in more clearly. You will survive, sweetheart, and try to remember what I’ve told you. Remember to trust and have faith. 

Her mother’s face faded, and Rebecca was looking from above as she saw her body lifted by some EMTs onto a stretcher. She could hear some murmuring amongst them as they rolled her into an ambulance, putting an oxygen mask on her. The man who ran into them was also being put on a stretcher, but conscious. The ambulance lights reflected off his shiny black hair. She watched as the ambulance left the scene, her mother’s body still in their crushed black Saturn. 

One of the policemen took off his hat, wiped his brow. We’re going to have to cut her out. Such a shame. Her little girl can’t be more than seven years old. Hope she’ll make it. He paused and shook his head. It’s hard to lose your mother. 

 Her heart burst, and she tried to cry out NO! Mommy! I need you!

That’s when everything swirled together and went dark.

Becca: Floating

T

he lights were dim at the party given at Lindsay’s apartment on the lower East Side. Rebecca sipped her glass of wine. Candles lit the sides of the room, carefully placed on partially filled bookshelves, and multicolored pillars stood almost waist high on iron stands, casting dramatic shadows on the walls. Guests chatted with each other about their work, their days, what shows they’d seen that season. It was a party for Becca’s co-worker, Tom, from their ad agency, Harvey-Bidell. 

Tom was turning thirty, married, but his wife Heather wasn’t there; he said she’d been sick for the past week. Rebecca had met her once or twice before. Pretty lady, quiet. Blonde hair, usually pulled back, always seemed to think before she spoke, reserved but nice, originally from Colorado, if she remembered correctly. She finished her wine, wandered into the kitchen and refilled her glass, choosing the merlot, some spilling on the speckled countertop, which she mopped up with a stray cocktail napkin.

It was quieter at the party; she saw a few people had moved onto the deck, the lights of the city sparkling behind silhouettes, an occasional cigarette tip glowing brighter as someone took a drag. Who was that? Oh, Tom. Rebecca smiled as she made her way out there. She tucked in the hair falling out of her bun and slid the sliding glass door open, her dark brown curls and tall slim stature reflected in the glass as she closed it behind her.

I was wondering where you went, birthday man! she said, noticing Tom was leaning a bit too heavily against the railing. He had a boyish face, blond hair and hazel eyes. Strongly built, he filled his suit well without being imposing, a soccer player rather than football. Does Heather know you still smoke these?

Smoke what? he said, hiding it behind his back, giving her an innocent look as smoke from his inhale slid out the sides of his mouth. They both started laughing and he started coughing. She patted him on the back. He was rather charming, she must admit. How long had she known Tom? She met him when she began at the agency, so about seven years? She sipped her wine, thinking about the time. How many drinks had she had, and what time was it already? It was late, wasn’t it?

What’re you up to, Becca? He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his body now facing the city spread below them.

I was just wondering that myself, Tom.

Hmmm. I think you’re up to trouble.

You think? I think I’m not up to enough.

What do you have in mind?

 Flying away from here.

This doesn’t involve jumping off this balcony now, does it?

No, Becca laughed, but making my life into what I want it to be.

Hmm. Some deep thoughts to put into a birthday night, there, sweetie. Maybe you should stop worrying and enjoy the present.

Maybe. She stood next to him at the railing, both looking into the night and the city, their arms touching. The strength and heat from him felt so good, especially as the rest of her body was swaying, however slightly. Doesn’t Heather worry about you being out so late? She looked at him, he back at her. 

Honestly?

Of course.

She’s been staying at her mom’s these days.

Why?

Because things aren’t working out so well between us. Seems as though we’re looking for different things.

I see. I’m sorry.

Don’t be, really. He tipped back his drink, draining it. Now how about a birthday cocktail?

She knew she probably shouldn’t, but she did. He was drinking Whiskey Sours, made her one as well. They retired to the living room. She admired the room, a tree house above Manhattan. An expensive tree house with a lot of windows. They sat on the blue, L-shaped sectional.

Where’s Paul?

He’s working late, as usual.

Is he why you want to leave?

Oh. No. I don’t know. She paused, shifted on the sofa. She was slipping in between cushions, finding it hard to find a place to rest her drink without spilling. She pulled over a glass end table and propped herself against the arm of the couch. There. Much better, she said, laughing. Now, what were we talking about?

Leaving.

Ah, yes. Well, how long does one stick around?

You stick around if you’re happy.

What if you don’t know what’s making you unhappy?

That’s what you have to figure out . . . that’s what my separation is about.

She thought about it. I guess I figured life would just kind of happen, to be honest. But it isn’t what I thought it would be, and I want something more fulfilling. My job is never going to go anywhere or add anything to my life.

What about Paul?

I don’t know. Things have been at a standstill for a long time. You know when you feel like you’re not connecting any more, and you don’t know when it happened? She drank some more of her cocktail, could feel the cold liquid numbing her throat, the back of her tongue.

 I do know. Maybe he is a part of the past and you need to move on, too. With that, he gently put his hand behind her head, leaned in and kissed her.

She pushed him away, Tom, really, you’re in no condition . . . but his arm kept pulling her closer. Really, this is not a good idea, she said, holding him back and trying to situate herself so the table didn’t get knocked over.

Why not? he asked. We’re both here, not happy with the way our relationships have been . . . I’ve liked you for a long time, Becca . . .

Sorry, Tom, but you’re drunk, and I’m tired. It’s time for me to go. She put her glass on the table and stood up. Hope you had a great birthday. Good night. 

She grabbed her coat from the front hall closet, could sense Tom watching her leave from the couch. Other guests were still hanging out in the apartment, and she exited, going down the carpeted stairway. When she opened the door at the landing, the moon filled the sky.

She taxied back to her apartment, paid the driver, and went into the building. As she unlocked her door she knew, without surprise, that Paul was not home. Where was he this late? She bent down to take off her boots, then was just exhausted. What was Tom thinking? She decided to lie down . . . thinking it was not a very respectable place to be, and that she shouldn’t have had that last drink. She rolled over onto her back, feet blocking the door. Wood floors, she thought, were occasionally very comfortable places to lie down. It was interesting how hard the wood felt on the back of her head. Tom was a nice guy, but what about Paul?

The ticking from the clock above the door became louder and louder. She felt like she was floating. But it wasn’t a happy floating. More like a stagnant hover. Then the door opened downstairs, and heavy steps ascended the stairs. The door opened, her foot stopping its swing, so Paul didn’t step on her.

What the . . .

Hi, honey! she laughed. You look so tall! His dark coat, dark hair, dark eyes towered over her.

What’re you doing down there?

Resting. Thinking.

About what? Can’t you think in a better spot?

I didn’t know when you were going to be home. How was tonight?

Paul squeezed through as Rebecca inched over. Annoying. Derek’s been keeping us all late just because he can. He doesn’t want to be there alone, and doesn’t want to go home to his wife, either.

Not the best work environment, honey.

Not the best talking position, either, honey, he said, laughing as he pulled her up by the arm. He suggestively put his arm around her lower back, but she deliberately stepped away from him, hung her coat in the closet, and walked to the kitchen, as he followed.

So, who was there late with you? she asked, as she picked up a sponge and wiped down the counter. 

Pete, Tim, Derek, of course, he said, leaning on the doorframe watching her.

What about the new girl?

Samantha? No, she went home earlier; her mom just got out of the hospital.

Oh. For what?

I didn’t ask. So where were you tonight? You sound a little tipsy, Beck.

I was at Tom’s birthday party, at Lindsay’s apartment.

Was it fun?

It was all right. I caught up with Tom a little bit. She poured herself some water with ice. You want one?

No, thanks.

I think we need to talk about us, Paul.

What about?

About how you’re never home, how we never do anything together anymore. I miss you; I miss having someone to do things with. I want to move forward with things.

With what things?

With my life. Where are we going?

We’re in the kitchen right now.

Come on, really, she laughed. 

Really. He smiled back, and grabbed her hand, pulled her to him, so she was pressed against him. His arms encircled her, and he slowly led her to their bedroom, kissing her neck and leading her, backwards, to the bed.

Becca: In Between

B

ecca’s mom led her to the garden shed in back, her childhood home behind her. I want to show you something, honey, she said, as she opened the door and let Becca through before her. Becca turned around as her mother reached on the side shelf, lifting up the lid of a wooden box. On it was a carved tree. This is the tree of life, she said, now holding it in front of her. Becca traced her finger along the curves of the roots and the branches, feeling the smooth finish. Notice how the branches entwine through the roots, the trunk joining it in the middle. The leaves show the spirit nourishing the body, the trunk, with hope and joy, sunshine. The roots ground the body to the earth, making the tree strong. The tree cannot live without either and shows the interconnectedness of the worlds. Without recognizing the spirit, the tree would wither. Without roots, the tree would blow away. 

Becca looked at her mother, a silhouette in the doorway, a bright white light shining all around her spilling over the tree. She started to take the lid from her, but as she did so it went right through her hands. Alarmed, she looked at her mother for help, and reached out to her, to make her stay, but her arms went right through her as well. Grasping frantically for her mother, her heart pounding, she woke up. 

She took a deep breath to calm herself, and as she opened her eyes the same white light was shining into her and Paul’s bedroom from the large windows across from the bed. They had lace curtains and never felt the need to block the morning light as they were both early risers. She rolled to her other side, regretting no shades for a moment, wondering what it was she was dreaming about. It was her mother again, she thought. That white light was the same light she always thought of when she thought about her mom, her mom the healer, the one who, when she touched her, could make the pain go away. She wondered if it was her spirit visiting her in her dreams . . . if that was a pathway to the other world. 

Her head was hurting her again, she noticed. So she put her hands on it, listened to it the way her mother taught her. She knew what to do; it was almost innate. Her mother taught her to follow the tissue, to allow it to move to bring things back into balance. Not control it but allow it. Let it heal itself.

She remembered one day when her mother worked on her as a kid. She had a migraine in class, a pain so severe she went to the nurse and her mom was called. She picked her up from school and brought her home, turned out the lights in her room. The only light came from the window, but her mother was lit as though she glowed . . . that same white light. The pain that day began sharp above her eyes, but then pulsed with pressure, ready to explode. Her mother sat on her bed and put her fingers above her ears, barely touching her. Becca closed her eyes as her mother’s hands went to her forehead. It felt almost like a breath, the lightness of her touch. The color red filled her mind, then orange. 

At first the pain changed direction, as though it went to a new part of her head, then moved like water, a river that would start in the center and float away like smoke. Becca felt her body become heavier, very still, as though she were a sack of sand, until the vice that surrounded her skull disintegrated, like a dandelion’s white puff being blown after she picked it and made a wish . . .

It was a vibration of healing . . . not quite solid, not quite air. It was where she went when she healed herself and her hands no longer felt distinct but vibrated and became one with what they were touching. Somehow, she felt her mother in that space. It wasn’t solid, it wasn’t air . . . it was in between. 

It had been a long time since she tried to go beyond that and further into the spirit world, to actually see it. When she talked to her father about it as a child, he’d dismissed her and told her that she had to let go of her mother, not seeing that she wasn’t just talking about her mom, but about an ability and understanding she was trying to connect with. He said dwelling on her mom wasn’t going to bring her back, not understanding he was asking her to give up a big part of who she was.

Lately, though, she noticed more and more of her dreams were of her mom, and frequent signs made her think of her. A song her mother loved would play on the radio. When she checked the time, the numbers on a clock were her mother’s birthday, 11:06. Sometimes she swore she could smell the perfume her mother wore.

She continued to release the pain in her head, feeling movement patterns it held on to, following back and forth beneath her fingertips, closing her eyes and seeing different waves of color until she reached that pause, the breath where everything met, stopped, and let go. She inhaled, wondering what this was, and how to describe it to make others understand.

Her alarm went off and she sighed, turning it off. She knew Paul would never want her to pursue any of this on others. His jealous nature wouldn’t condone her touching men; and what could she do, anyway, in that line of work? Massage therapy? But that wasn’t what she did. 

She picked out an outfit and walked to the bathroom to take her shower. How would she describe what her mother did? She touched people and made them better. Even her mom told her not to tell anyone about it, as they wouldn’t understand. The best description she came up with was that her mom was a healer; but what was healing, anyway? How did it work?

She stood in the stream of the shower, couldn’t believe that Tom actually kissed her last night. She noticed attraction between them throughout the years but had dismissed it because of Paul and Heather. At least Tom never tried anything before his separation. But now there was arguably no Heather, so the situation was up to her . . . up to her and her relationship with Paul.

Her mind went to what Paul said to her last night . . . that where they were was in the kitchen. Oh, really. Here she was, twenty-nine years old, in a job she saw no future in, in a relationship with a man who didn’t even know half of what really was interesting her, and whom she rarely saw any more. And to him they’re only in the kitchen. 

She closed her eyes and let the water wash over her, feeling the warmth seep in. She pictured Paul, his smile, the way he would glance over at her . . . the kind of glance that made her knees weak. He made her laugh, and he was so, so smart. Full ride to NYU for Law School, that’s how smart. 

A close-up of a knife Description automatically generated with medium confidence

When she met him, eight years ago, her senior year at NYU, Becca found herself alone. Her best friend Sarah, also at NYU, majoring in both English and Women’s Studies, was traveling abroad, wanting to learn about the history of women in the U.K. or, rather, what she called the hidden history. After learning that women had been targeted and persecuted in the past for witchcraft, she wanted to discover more at the actual sights and get a feel for it all. Becca stayed back at NYU, opting out of studying abroad, not willing to leave the sculptures she was working on. 

The New York Public Library was one of their hangouts. Usually they only went on the weekends, since it was so far from campus; but they loved the marble walls, the beautiful pocket paintings of clouds and sky on the ceiling. It was a nice reminder of a larger world than life on campus. They chatted at the library’s café beforehand, studied in the Rose Reading Room, and then went back to their apartments. Most of the time they would take the subway at least part of the way.

Since Sarah was gone it wasn’t the same; no one to laugh with or share the time and space. Being an introvert, Becca didn’t have many other friends, let alone any that were very close. She was friendly, but no social butterfly. She continued to go to the library by herself anyway, as she loved the quiet atmosphere, the stillness of the air holding the world suspended. It was a whole different experience alone and one she enjoyed in a much different way. She thought about life, about her mother, could feel the past surrounding her within those walls. That night she had been studying for her European History exam, and there was an especially handsome man with dark brown hair a couple seats away, who was a nice distraction. 

The chandeliers centered in the windows at the library held off the night in a warm glow, a haven from the biting wind outside. When she felt she couldn’t read another word, Becca packed her books into her backpack to leave the Reading Room reluctantly, knowing she had a trek to get back to her campus housing, roughly two miles away in the West Village. She knew the weather wasn’t great when she arrived earlier and seeing the scowls and red cheeks from those that came in, she figured it had probably gotten worse.

Her backpack weighed heavily on her right shoulder, which had been sore for a couple days, so she decided it was time to work on it. She didn’t have much patience with her own injuries, as she just wanted them to heal on their own; but when they lasted too long, she had to make a decision to take the time for herself. She flipped the backpack around to her other shoulder, and as she did so, her pen flung out, skittering along the red tile and landing at the foot of the handsome distraction, also standing to leave. He smiled, picking it up, and calmly walked it over to her. You dropped this.

She laughed, her cheeks feeling hot. Thanks. She mentally made note of her crazy hair pulled lazily back in a low bun, but was grateful she had at least put on mascara that morning.

Studying hard? his big brown eyes looked at her steadily, dark lashes emphasizing their size.

Yes, you?

Yes. NYU, law. What about you?

School of Fine Arts, NYU. What’re you doing off campus?

Sick of the same old scene. What about you?

Same.

I’m Paul.

Rebecca, she said, as they shook hands.

How’re you getting back?

Subway.

You want some company?

Sure, where are you going?

West Village. You?

Same.

Here, let me check these books out first.

Ok, she said, trying not to smile too broadly. She walked with him to the check-out area. He filled his space nicely, broad shoulders, but trim. She was glad he wasn’t another artist. She had met so many of those and was tired of the way they were so similar to her. 

He turned to her when he was done checking out and gestured her to walk before him as they exited. The biting wind blew against them as they walked