The Road From the Archive

By Ann F. Karlen

Former Assistant District Attorney Sarah Jensen arrives at the Gateway in the desert Southwest to receive a free second opinion about her mysterious illness. Instead, she learns that she is undergoing a process of transformation, initiated by an encounter that she had thought was a dream, but which was really an invitation to a new life of service. The member of the Community who invited her is unexpectedly absent, so James, the Community's librarian, becomes her substitute mentor. At Sara's request, James tells the story of his own initiation to introduce her to the group's practices and beliefs. What happened to James and to his fellow Circle-mates, Esri and Thaylia, alerts Sara to the possibilities and the dangers of this new life. But what significance do James's experiences have for Sara's future? After her formation in the Community Refuge, which path will she choose? In which direction does her road from the Community's archive lead?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667814209

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Copyright © 2021 Ann F. Karlen

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 978-1-66781-419-3

eBook ISBN: 978-1-66781-420-9

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person (living or dead), organization, or historical event is purely coincidental.

This book is dedicated, in gratitude, to the many communities that have shaped my life, especially the Caldwell Community, my colleagues at Creighton University, the leaders and participants in the Ignatian Certificate Program, the members of Ite/CLC, and St. John’s Parish. I would particularly like to acknowledge the generosity of Dr. Eileen Burke-Sullivan, Gregory Carlson, S.J., and the members of the 2500 California Writing Club. Finally, to Kathy Saunders, I can never thank you enough for what you and Rick have given me. May this book be a reminder of Rick’s legacy.

Contents

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 1

[Sara]

Don’t trust anyone who claims to have seen a place in a dream. My rules for evaluating a witness’s credibility—had I ever bothered to write them down—would have punctuated that warning with exclamation marks. Whether the person giving evidence is lying or deluded, jurors recognize a cock-and-bull story when they hear one. Dreamscapes never match real places, even if the places are familiar. How many times have you walked down a series of never-ending hallways in a dream, looking for a room—usually a bathroom—that you can never find?

Yet when I reached my destination that hot July afternoon, I recognized the doorway flanked by pine benches and agave plants in terra cotta pots as something that I had seen, more than once, just before my alarm startled me awake. You’re losing it, Sara, I thought, for probably the hundredth time in the last six months. The possibility that I was delusional had become familiar. At least I could be sure that I had come to this building in a rental car rather than a flying carpet: the brochure with precise directions was still in my purse. As my doctor had suggested, I had nothing to lose from a free consultation, especially since the LyghteGift Foundation had paid my travelling expenses. Before long, my short-term disability would run out and I wasn’t sure when or if I would be able to return to work. When you are sick and worried about money, a free second opinion is better than a lottery ticket.

Nevertheless, I hesitated on the doorstep. I’d been expecting a medical complex, yet I hadn’t seen another person, or even another car, after I had left the state highway for the private access road, where my GPS had gone dead. Only the lettering on the weathered oak door reassured me that I hadn’t taken wrong turn somewhere. The sign made it clear that this was the Gateway. The name was certainly more inviting than Desperation Clinic or Last Chance Hospital. Over the past year, I had spent hours and days in medical facilities, enduring batteries of tests that all came back negative. The Gateway was my last hope. The brochure had intimated that it was a refuge for people like me—whatever was wrong with us.

To my surprise, the door had no buzzer or bell, so I pushed it open and slipped into the vestibule. As one might expect in the desert Southwest, the entrance sported Talavera tile: a vivid blue pattern brightened the lower walls, while squares of soft gray with black edges covered the floor. At regular intervals, skylights opened the hallway to sunshine. This was obviously a place of welcome. Somewhere, a fountain was burbling, yet the space was incredibly quiet for a medical suite. The patients probably stayed in other buildings, with the Gateway as the admissions office. Anxious families would find its architecture reassuring. I wished that we had something similar in the courthouse. Where I worked, people in trouble had their status confirmed by the sight of guards and metal detectors at the main entrance.

The Gateway’s front hall led to a mesquite countertop--the logical place to wait, although there was no one on the other side. I was just about to ring the old-fashioned bell when I heard a door open, somewhere down the corridor to the right. Because I was rooting in my purse for my driver’s license and insurance card, I did not look at the attendant who came to the counter until he said, Welcome to the Gateway! My name is James. The Director’s Office sent me to take care of you, until the proper person arrives.

I nearly dropped my wallet, in response to this strange greeting. For a moment, I wondered if James was a patient who had wandered off the ward, because I had never seen anyone who looked less like a medical receptionist. To my embarrassment, I found myself staring, grateful that he had given me his name. If he hadn’t, I couldn’t have sworn whether the person on the other side of the counter was male or female. James was very short, with a mop of curly dark hair, and huge brown eyes, like an adorable puppy in a cartoon. His ancestry could have been Guatemalan, Syrian, Spanish, Sicilian, Caribbean, Hawaiian, Black Irish, Hopi, or Nebraskan. A cop might have pegged him as a juvenile, because there was no sign that a razor had ever touched his dimpled cheeks. Somehow, I had the feeling that he was older than he looked. His voice was soft and gentle, and he had the kindest smile that I had ever seen. My stare did not disconcert him in the least. If anything, he seemed delighted to see me. Perhaps our encounter was a welcome change to his routine.

You’ve had a long drive, he said. May I bring you a pitcher of ice water?

That would be great. Can I use the facilities?

Of course. Eventually you will have a chance to visit all the buildings on campus. The Gateway is only the first.

I’m looking forward to it. Right now, though, I need a bathroom.

After a moment’s confusion, James’s face brightened, as he realized what I meant. I’m sorry: there’s one just down the hall to your right. Let me know if anything that you need is missing.

Why did I ask for a bathroom? I wondered, seating myself on the toilet as if I really felt the ordinary physical urges. For days now, the only things that I had needed in a restroom were the sink and paper towels. This bathroom was cleaner than any of the others that I had visited during the trip, yet the bar of soap was desiccated, as if no one had used it for some time. Although I had retreated to the bathroom for a moment’s privacy, I didn’t linger. Suddenly, I felt anxious. I wanted James under my eye.

He had brought my water and a plate of fruit to a rustic table in a small dining alcove, just down the hall from the counter. Now, he seemed uncertain and shy—the kind of witness that I’m best at reassuring, or so my supervisor tells me. After we had taken our seats in the surprisingly comfortable chairs, I asked, Do you need to get information from me? Insurance? That kind of thing?

Oh no. Someone must already know the background for your invitation, or the Director’s Office would not have been expecting you. Encouraged by my interest, he confided, Occasionally, people do come to campus by accident: a car breaks down, or they are traveling and need money for food and gas. We care for them in the Guesthouse, not the Gateway. The Gateway is private Community space.

Will I be staying here?

James nodded. There is a set of bedrooms down the hall to the left. I wasn’t told whether the Director’s Office had assigned you to a specific room, but if no word comes soon, you may take whichever you wish. Each one has a private bath.

What exactly is your job here? I demanded. His apparent lack of knowledge was starting to rattle me.

Normally, I work in the library, he admitted. However, this morning, I received other instructions. I brought the message to show you. Like a suspect producing a credit card receipt to prove his alibi, James drew a piece of paper from his pocket and presented it for my inspection. The printed e-mail message was terse: James, go to the Gateway today and take care of Sara Jensen, who will arrive in the mid-afternoon.

You are Ms. Jensen, are you not? Then I am in the right place with the right person.

The message isn’t signed, I pointed out.

That’s true. The e-mail address shows that it came from the Director’s Office, but several people could have sent it.

Are we supposed to wait here until the director or one of the other doctors shows up?

James looked down at his hands, folded neatly on the table, for a long moment. There aren’t any doctors on campus and the Gateway isn’t a clinic. It is a sanctuary for people who are undergoing the Change.

I felt the blood drain from my face. The change? What the hell are you talking about?

I tend to grow weak and fall asleep, as soon as the sun goes down, he confessed. Am I correct in assuming that you have the same problem?

Don’t be embarrassed. It is normal to feel confusion, loss, and even anger. No one comes into the Change prepared. James’s tone was kind and reassuring. After bringing me a box of tissues, he had waited quietly while I sobbed, my face buried in my hands.

Wiping my eyes, I tried to smile. What you said gave me a shock, that’s all. I’ve had months of tests—every kind of scan that you can imagine—and in all that time, I’ve never met or even heard of anyone else who is going through the same thing. Forcing myself to be frank, I added, The doctors have obviously concluded that my symptoms are psychosomatic. I can’t be sure that what I’ve been experiencing is real.

It is, James said. I can promise you that, Ms. Jensen. But you are safe here. You don’t need to deny what is happening to you any longer. When he smiled, I felt consoled, as if he had touched my hand very gently in a gesture of comfort. With a sigh I said, Please call me Sara. I’m going to have a lot of questions for you.

I will tell you whatever I can. However, many aspects of the Change are mysterious, even for those who have completed it. Sometimes, I will probably have to confess my ignorance. James paused for a moment to allow me to digest this. One thing is clear—the various elements of the process don’t manifest themselves in a specific order. What one person notices first may happen much later for someone else. Perhaps we could start with your experiences, if you feel comfortable discussing them. Would you like to rest or unpack first?

No, I said. I’d like to get started. What do you want to know?

How was your life different, before you began to notice . . . alterations?

I laughed. That’s an easy one. Before this happened to me, I was a night owl. I’ve been a night owl ever since I was a little girl. I’ve always loved the dark.

Why?

The question was a reasonable one, but it took me by surprise, and I had to think about it for a moment. I don’t know. I suppose, because the night was quiet. I grew up in foster care and there were always too many people sharing quarters that were too small. From the moment that we got up in the morning, there was chaos. Kids fought over toys, clothes, space in from of the mirror, the first piece of toast. By the afternoon, someone would be crying because she wanted to go home, while someone else would be having a meltdown because DCFS was about to send her home. The only peaceful time of the day was when we were all in bed. I would pretend to sleep and listen to the sounds of traffic, as they softened during the evening and increased in the hour before dawn. I thought it was a sound that night made.

You had no family?

No one reliable. My parents were addicts. When I was twenty months old, the police found me in my car seat after my folks overdosed in an abandoned parking lot. Apparently, a good Samaritan heard me crying and called 9-1-1. My parents had been dead for hours by the time help arrived. Their extended families had less than exemplary records with child protective services. No one was in a position to take custody, so I went into the system and stayed there until I aged out at eighteen.

You’ve been on your own for a long time, James said. Did he sound impressed, or was I imagining it? With a smile, I continued, I guess you could say that. Fortunately, I had a great high school counselor who helped me to make a plan. After graduation, I worked evenings and started taking a few classes at a community college during the day. Before long, I was a full-time student who stocked shelves until midnight and picked up extra hours on the weekend. Eventually, I made it into law school, working nights the whole time. After I graduated, I landed a position in the district attorney’s office. It didn’t bother me at all that my dream job required late hours. By that point, I couldn’t have imagined another schedule. All my late-night work seemed to be paying off. Life doesn’t always proceed according to plan, does it?

James looked at me compassionately, encouraging me to continue. After taking a sip of water to steady my nerves, I admitted: "The hardest part of this for me has been the loss of control. I finally had what I wanted—the chance to make a difference—and then this Change started. This blasted disease—state-of-being—I don’t even know what to call it."

The classification is still under debate, James admitted. But many of us experience the Change when we have reached a turning point in our lives. If the question is not intrusive, can you tell me more about your desire to make a difference? What is it that you fear you have lost, because of the Change?

I wanted to do good, I answered. Perhaps that sounds corny, but it is the truth. I didn’t become a lawyer for fame, wealth, or political influence. I really thought that I could do good, as an ADA.

Did it turn out that way? Were you doing good? With someone else, these might have been loaded questions, but James didn’t seem to have a political agenda. I was surprised by the testiness of my response.

Of course! A nice guy like you might not understand this, but some people belong behind bars. I was honest and fair—I didn’t prosecute the innocent, for pity’s sake! The vast majority of my defendants got exactly what they deserved—maybe better than they deserved. I’m absolutely sure of that. It’s just that, around the time when all of this started, there was a case where I . . . wasn’t sure.

James didn’t interrupt. His eyes told me that he wasn’t judging me: he was only there to listen. Heaven knows, I had wanted someone to listen to me, for such a long time. With a sigh, I set out the facts in logical order, as they had taught me to do in law school.

"The defendant—let’s call him Smith—left his child in a parked car. The windows were up, and the baby died of heat exhaustion. Smith was playing poker with some buddies while his child baked outside in the driveway. At two a.m., Smith left the poker game and drove home with his dead child in the back seat. He went to bed and didn’t discover the body until the next morning.

The first time I laid eyes on Smith, I knew the jury would hate him. He was a weaselly-looking guy with a record of drunk-and-disorderly charges, although he had never spent more than a few days in jail. He’d been doing shots and beers with his buddies at the game and his friends admitted that they had all been wasted long before he staggered out to his car. Public opinion thought death was too good for him. My boss didn’t hesitate to layer on the charges. I was happy to assist in what seemed to be a slam dunk case, especially since Smith made me think of what my parents had done.

James closed his eyes, as if he was drawing a mental image of what I was describing. Quickly, I moved away from the specific details. Part of my job was to research similar cases in other jurisdictions. Unfortunately, children die from hyperthermia in car seats every summer in this country. However, what happens to the parents is a crapshoot. Often, a prosecutor decides that the death was a tragic accident. Parents believe they have left their children at daycare or at a sitter’s because that is what they usually do. Something throws their routine off-kilter, and they forget that the child is in the back seat.

I stopped for a moment to gauge James’s reaction. When I saw that he understood, I leaned forward and confessed, The more I studied Smith’s case, the more I wondered if that was what had happened to him. Smith and the child’s mother weren’t living together. On a normal Friday afternoon, she would have picked the baby up from Smith’s mother’s house. That particular Friday, she was doing an emergency double-shift at the hospital, so Smith had to step in at the last moment. His normal Friday routine was to play poker with his buddies: on most weekends, he didn’t see the baby until Sunday morning. He insisted all along that he thought that he had left the baby at his girlfriend’s mother’s house, just as he always did on Sunday afternoon. That story didn’t seem impossible to me. There have been times when I would have sworn that I put the milk back in the refrigerator, only to find it sitting on the kitchen counter at the end of the day. I’ve listened to enough witnesses to know that memory is not always reliable.

So, what did you do?

Eventually, I expressed my concerns to the lead prosecutor in the case. He reminded me that it was the jury’s job to decide the facts. If Smith’s lawyer wanted to call their attention to the limits of memory, he was free to do so. I sighed, conceding the accuracy of that statement. Of course, Smith’s counsel didn’t call any memory experts. The guy was an overworked public defender who made the rookie mistake of putting his unsympathetic client on the stand. During cross-examination, my colleague shredded Smith. I can’t forget how dazed he looked, as he admitted to playing poker while his little boy suffered in that car. The jury needed less than an hour to convict him. When the foreman announced the verdict, Smith looked as if he didn’t care what would happen next.

My office was elated at the conviction, and the district attorney issued a statement claiming that justice had been served. The lead prosecutor insisted on taking everyone out for a drink to celebrate. I put on a brave face, but I wasn’t sure that the outcome represented justice. Looking James in the eye, I admitted, "Smith’s memory is going to torture him for the rest of his life. What did we accomplish by sending him to jail? I left the party early and walked home, wondering if I was doing any good at all. I considered looking for another job. It wasn’t the first time that I had had doubts, but it was definitely the most painful. I guess you could say that I had reached a fork in the road.

That night, I had a really strange dream. I thought that I was awake and that there was someone in my apartment. Weirdly, I wasn’t afraid. In the dream, I got out of bed, put on my robe, and went to investigate. There was a soft glow coming from the living room, as if my Christmas tree was still up, and I had forgotten to turn off its twinkling lights.

Before describing the rest of my dream, I stopped to refill my water glass, using the interval to gather courage for the admission I was about to make. Out of the corner of my eye, I studied James surreptitiously, just as I had watched various therapists for their reactions to the same narrative. Did the story suggest that I was crazy, even though I recognized that it was only a dream? The doctors always managed to keep their reactions nonjudgmental. James’s face was vibrant with curiosity. Suddenly, I felt eager to hear his reaction to my experience.

There did seem to be a presence in the room, although my brain couldn’t make sense of the person standing there. I thought that I saw someone with a body made of light. The image was warm and comforting. I should have been frightened, but I wasn’t—not in the slightest. I didn’t think that it was an angel or a ghost or a being from another planet: in fact, I had no idea what it was. I only knew that it had come to help me.

What did the light-being say to you? James asked.

"It promised me a chance to do good in a different way, if that was what I truly wanted. I heard the words in my thoughts rather than in my ears. When I said yes, the being touched my forehead. Light streamed through me in a soft, warm shower. The being smiled and then it was gone. I didn’t want it to go. I’ve never had a better dream."

It wasn’t a dream, James said gently. "You were right to assume that this encounter initiated the Change. We classify an experience like yours, Sara, as a classic invitation narrative. Your transformation began as soon as you accepted the power to share the gift."

Power to share the gift? I sputtered. Classic invitation narrative?

I’m sorry, James blushed, wringing his hands in distress. It was probably the first time in my life that I had seen someone perform that melodramatic gesture and I nearly laughed at the incongruity. Fortunately, I had the presence of mind to restrain myself. It would be cruel beyond words to taunt such a gentle soul. Timidly, James added, I’m afraid that I have no experience in speaking of these things to anyone who is not already familiar with them. I apologize for being so . . . pedantic.

It’s O.K. Whatever his limitations, James was the first ‘expert’ on my condition that I had encountered. No good could come from flustering him. I just need you to explain the technical terms, that’s all.

"Of course. Stop me at once whenever my language is unclear. By gift, I mean the energy that flowed into your body when the other person touched you. In asking whether you wanted to do good in a different way, the person was inviting you to become capable of sharing the gift, by touch or by thought. Transformation refers to the changes in your body that began after the encounter: in fact, the Change is a more common name for the process of transformation. Typically, people who have accepted the invitation arrive at the Gateway only when their transformation is advanced, often after pursuing a medical explanation for their symptoms. What have you experienced so far?"

The first thing I noticed was that I was going to bed earlier, I admitted. It was no big deal at first, perhaps because the . . . transformation. . . began in the summer, when sunlight lasted well into the evening. But as the days grew shorter, I realized that my rhythm was matching the sun’s. It became more and more difficult for me to see at night, to stay awake after sunset, or to get up before sunrise. By December, I was exhausted by 4:30 and could barely drag myself out of bed before 8:00 the next morning. Thank goodness that my apartment was near an el station, because I was riding the train to and from the office in a stupor. Caffeine had no effect. The only thing that did help, I discovered, was to flood my office with bright light, so I brought in several extra lamps. My colleagues teased me about interrogating people ‘under the lights.’ The glare kept me conscious, but if I stayed there too long, I felt sick to my stomach the next day.

James nodded. A Community member warned me once that artificial light is like a sugar rush. One often feels bilious, after overexposure.

Wincing at the memory, I continued, "What I wanted was direct sunlight. Where I live, it can be gray and dull during the winter, when clouds blanket the sky day after day. I would stare out of my office window, dreaming about the summer sunshine. Since all of us were experiencing winter doldrums, I didn’t think much about it.

"Not long before Christmas, we had a terrible ice storm. After the power went out in my apartment building, I lay shuddering in my coat and mittens under the blankets, too weak to move. Yet the next morning, the sun came out. When I opened my eyes, I saw its light reflected on an