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Healing

By: Rowanberry



As before, this is part of a much longer work. It occurs sometime after SOLACE, but features the same characters, albeit some of them only marginally. A warning, this isn't in the same tone as my other story, so if you are offended by rougher things, you may not want to read.

There was still the matter of the vampire in my basement.

I'd put off dealing with Dain as long as I could. Rebeka and Adan had gotten him settled in, as settled in as a half-mad revenant could be. Even as I'd prepared upstairs, I could feel his broken aura calling to me.

It tugged at me as I bathed, washing away the blood and dirt I'd acquired rescuing him and dealing with Ivy. It tugged at me as I knelt on my balcony, under the moonlight, and prayed for strength to endure what must be done to cure him. It tugged at me as I dressed, slipping my ritual robes over bare skin and fashioning the silver bracer tight against my neck. It tugged at me as I stood outside the basement door, Adan and Patrick beside me.

"You don't have to do this now," Patrick said, laying a hand on my forearm.

I smiled at him, knowing he sensed my fear and anxiety. I'd never tried this particular tract before, certainly not with a crazed vampire. I wasn't certain I could do it. I wasn't certain She would be with me when I needed her. I didn't want to go in that room, and he knew it.

"Yes, I do." I sighed, reaching out to touch Adan. I needed both of them, needed that skin-to-skin contact. It steadied me, brought me into focus. I was beginning to suspect the Goddess had a greater purpose for putting them both in my life. A purpose I wasn't certain I was going to like, but knew I wouldn't refuse.

Adan looked at me, those melted penny eyes dark. Then he kissed my cheek softly. A smile and a small nod, but no words. He couldn't read me like Patrick could, but it was enough. Patrick understood me and Adan believed in me. It was enough.

"Don't come in, either of you, unless it's absolutely necessary." I glanced at Patrick. "Since you're hardwired into my mind, you get to decide when absolutely necessary gets here."

Adan scoffed in disagreement, but I held firm. Patrick had some idea of what was going to happen, Adan didn't. Adan was too alpha to let me endure what I had to; Patrick didn't like it, but he'd let me, so long as I believed it was necessary. I was counting on the Goddess to let me know when enough was enough. I was scared as hell, but I was going to act on faith anyway.

Taking a slow breath, I moved forward and opened the door. The basement was dark except for the candles Rebeka had lit earlier. I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.

I was alone with the vampire.

Dain was coiled in a corner, that pale sandy hair falling down his face. His eyes rose as I walked in, but everything else about him was still.

Give me strength, I prayed as I slowly pulled the robe from my shoulders. I stood naked in the candlelight, the silver bracer my only covering.

And still Dain didn't move. Even his eyes were still. The air was thick, heavy in the seconds before thunder claps and the storm breaks.

I took a step forward and prayed:

Lady of waters, I ask for cleansing. Use my hands to free this man from fear. Use my heart to free this man from madness. Use my body to free this man from pain. Use my blood to restore this man to wholeness.

He moved before I could breath, launching himself from across the room. He caught me by the waist, knocking me to the ground. I gasped, the shock of impact displacing the calm the prayer had wrought.

Panicked, I starred up at him. Dain's blue eyes were bright wild stars in the mask of his face. His fangs were bared and he hissed, not seeing me.

No, when he looked at me he saw Ivy, the source of his anguish. It was Ivy he had beneath him, finally free of his chains. Ivy he hated and wanted and despised. Ivy he meant to hurt.

He lunged for my neck and I forced myself to remain still. The silver bracer protected me, as it was intended to. It also infuriated Dain.

He swore at me in a language I didn't know and slapped me. The force of the blow made me dizzy and I wanted to call this off. Let him stay mad, let him stay crazed, so long as I escaped unharmed.

Even as I thought it, I knew I couldn't do it. He'd fought too hard to retain his sanity. He was still salvagable. He'd subjected himself to the worst of Ivy's tortures to keep others from becoming her victims. I could bear physical pain if it brought him back from his hell.

An earthy peace filled me suddenly. That presence I'd felt slipping away from me these last few weeks returned full force and all my fear evaporated. I was hands for healing. I was blood for revival. I was divinity enshrined in flesh. I was.

I stopped resisting Dain, my body going slack and pliant beneath him. He no longer seemed frightening, no longer an instrument of pain and injury. He was the wound I was born to heal.

The shift in me confused him, those blood-mad eyes focusing on me for a second. Then he hissed again, his hands moving roughly over my legs.

If he couldn't take blood, he would take other things. I could read the thoughts in his eyes. But how could he steal what was freely given?

I gasped as he pried my legs apart, large hands bruising my inner thighs. He grunted as he settled himself on top of me, one hand reaching to grasp at my breast. He meant to hurt me. Or rather, he meant to hurt Ivy since that's who he thought I was. He wanted her to scream as he had screamed, wanted her to break as he had broken. But he had none of Ivy's magic or manipulation, so he used his body instead.

He was hard and angry when he thrust into me. There was no gentleness with him, no teasing foreplay. He slammed inside me with all the outrage and panic and humiliation he'd accumulated under Ivy's care and I screamed.

I screamed, not only because of the pain, but because I could see his aura flatten and threaten to splinter. It roiled around him like a hurricane and I knew we were fighting for his soul.

I'd be damned if I let that bitch win.

Even as he thrust inside me and pawed at me, I willed myself to be calm.

With these hands you are free from pain.

I lay my hands upon his chest, let the pure, warm power seep from my body into his.

By the healing Lady of Waters, I banish you Ivy. You will torture this man no more.

Dain faltered, looking down on me with haunted eyes. He held stock-still, impaled so deeply inside me I could feel him against my heart.

I reached and took the hand that had been clawing at my breast and placed it flat over my heart.

With this heartbeat, all chains are broken. You will torment this man no more.

His eyes began to water and clear. He began to pull away from me then, realization dawning. He knew then that I was not Ivy, that I was pinned beneath him, that he had forced himself upon me.

"Oh, no. No. No. No. No. No." His voice was rough, shaken by shame and disgust.

I tightened my grip on his hand, tilting my hips upward. I bit my lip against the lance of pain the motion caused, but I wasn't letting him go now, not when we were so close to saving him.

Dain groaned, shaking his head. "No. No, I don't want to hurt you anymore. Oh, god. Oh, god, I'm so sorry. . ."

If he gave into his regret, I'd lose him. So I tugged him down to me and kissed him. I opened myself to him, letting the purifying powers I offered spill from my lips. Here is salvation. Here is forgiveness. Here is home.

He resisted, at first, then collapsed on me with a desperate groan, kissing me and drinking down my light like a blind man.

It flared inside me, the rightness of this. He belonged to us, not to the darkness. I felt his anguish was away in a flood, all the pain and fear and insanity. All those base, callous instincts Ivy had brought to his surface were buried again in one, bright, brilliant moment.

He broke the kiss, looking down on me with wonder. His sapphire eyes were his own again and I smiled.

He smiled back, a hesitant gesture. "I . . ."

I shook my head, laying fingers to his lips. "Shhh. There is time enough tomorrow for recriminations. Now is time to heal."

For a moment, I thought he would resist. Then he kissed me, so very softly it felt scarcely more than a breath. His hands, recently so rough and cruel, moved over me with the gentleness of early spring. Moved and touched and apologized with a language no mere voice could ever speak.

He touched and kissed me until I sighed, body relaxed and warm beneath him. There was no rush, not now. As cruel as he had been, he was equally caring.

He moved out of me, trailing kisses down my belly, my thighs, until he dropped the softest kiss between my legs. I shuddered then, reaching out for him. I was lost in him, buoyed up Power and success. All memory of pain was gone.

When he entered me this time, it was slow, lazy with promise and feeling. Each stroke so purposefully slow and deep it made me whimper.

He made love to me as a prayer, each breath I took seemed precious to him, each pleasured sigh a mark of my forgiveness. He was not content until I was boneless beneath him, a wave of long, slow climaxes stealing my breath.

And still, he had not allowed himself release.

I peered up at him, sated, my vision clouded. It took what energy I had left to unlock my necklace and push it aside.

"Drink," I whispered, hand stroking his cheek. His face had no barriers. He was all need and contriction, shades of gratitude and devotion. "Drink. Be restored."

This time, he didn't hesitate. His mouth descended and I felt the sharp prick of his fangs. And then such a wave of desire and sensation swept through me that I gasped, arching against him again.

He drove into me then, drove and thrust and arched until we both came over and over. Until I was certain I would die from the sheer joy of it.

We lay spent on the floor, Dain slowly rolling himself off of me. When I shivered, he pulled me to him, curling around me protectively. The last thing I saw before darkness claimed me was my blood glistening on his smiling lips.

Healing



I walked into the clinic with a happy smile on my face. I had come to the clinic every day for the past 3 months. I had developed a really bad blood disease on my last trip to South America that required daily, painful treatments in the nether regions of my body. The blood treatments were almost at a conclusion. I was glad that it was close to being finished because the pain had been intense. On the other hand, when it was over, I wouldn't be seeing my favorite nurse any more. That would not have been such a big deal if I had not fallen in love with her. 

Her name was Karen. She was a 35 year old and blonde. She didn't possess a model's figure, but she was full-figured, not fat. She had a great set of tits and a comfortable looking ass. I thought she was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She was kind, gentle and had a great sense of humor. Two flies were in this particular ointment jar. 1. I was married. 2. She was married.

She called me into the treatment room and I dropped my pants and boxers, lay down on the exam table and assumed the "Cosmo" position. She carefully started the treatment. The pain had largely subsided by this time. 

As we talked and joked, I thought I detected a bit of sadness in her eyes. I asked her what was wrong, but she just shook her head and said nothing. The treatment was over and I got my clothes on and prepared to leave. 

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked. 

"Yup. I hope you're feeling better then," I consoled.

I walked out to my car and drove slowly home. I walked through the back door and into the kitchen. I could hear strange noises coming from the entertainment room, so I walked slowly and quietly down the short flight of stairs to the center. As I peered around the door frame I could see my wife of 23 years bent over the pool table and a guy I had never seen before had his dick shoved all the way into her cunt. He was pounding her hard and she was moaning her enjoyment. 

"I'm not interrupting anything am I!!" I shouted. 

"Oh God!!!" she screamed. "It's Sam!!" 

The guy jumped back off her as I dropped him with a hard left hook. I'm no spring chicken, but I am 6'1" and weigh a muscular 205. He hit the deck with a thud. I turned to her. 

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" I demanded. 

She summoned up the courage to inform me that the guy, whose name was Bob, was her lawyer and that they would be living together from now on. 

"Get your ragged ass out of my house and don't come back!" I screamed. "When your new piece of shit wakes up, drag him out of here. I never want to see you again. Tell that shyster that if he tries to take anything out of my house through the courts, I'll kill him and you!"

She knew I wasn't kidding. She had seen me in action before. When her lover boy came to, she dragged him out stopping briefly to get her clothes together. He tried to get her to take more, but she saw me approaching and shoved him out the door. 

Great!! My entire life was now in a shambles. The woman I had lived with and had children with had turned into a major league slut. I was thankful that our 2 children were not here to witness their mother's fall into the pit. I staggered over to the bar and poured myself a double. As I sipped away (I'm not much of a drinker) I started to really think over my new situation. I decided that, in a way, I wasn't all that sorry. She hadn't given up any pussy in over a month, probably because of her new friend. I knew I had to rearrange my life. Luckily, being retired, it didn't present that much of a problem. The longer I thought about it and the more whiskey I sipped, the better I started to feel. I poured another double and trundled off to bed.

I woke up bright and early. The events of yesterday were still fresh in my mind. It was hard to believe how much had changed in the space of a few minutes. 

I called my lawyer and told him the story. He told me not to worry about it, that he would file the necessary papers and I would be shed of the bitch poste haste. That sounded good to me so I made myself a cheese omelet and contemplated the direction of the rest of my life. 

By the time I finished breakfast, I thought I had a pretty good handle on what to do and when to do it. Once again, the best laid plans of mice and men would fall to the machinations of fate.

I carefully prepared for the short drive to the clinic. I walked inside and was soon summoned to the treatment room.

Karen looked like death warmed over. As she completed her task, I asked her what was wrong. She said that nothing was wrong. 

I said, "Karen, I know you very well, and I can tell that something is making you very sad. Let me pick you up at lunch time and you can tell me about it. Maybe I can help." She reluctantly agreed to meet me at lunch.

I took her to a small Italian place and we had a very nice meal. 

Then I said, "OK. What is going on?" 

She looked at me with tears in her eyes. "Oh Sam," she cried. "My louse of a husband has been screwing around on me! When I got home last night, he told me it was over. I can't believe it!" 

"Karen, I'm so sorry! You have always been so good and kind, I can't believe that your husband is this much of an idiot." 

"You should have seen him, Sam. He had a big black eye and a split lip. He looked like he was happy, though. I offered to fix it for him but he said his new girlfriend would do it. I'm so unhappy. My life is over." 

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little bell was ringing. When I realized what it was, I suddenly asked, "Is your husband by any chance a lawyer?" 

"Why, yes." She replied. "How did you know?" 

"I'm the one who split his lip. His girlfriend is my soon to be ex-wife!!!" 

"No!" she squealed. 

I asked her to dinner and she quickly accepted. This time we went to a little Greek place. The meal was great. We sucked up some Ouzo and broke a few plates. I was feeling better all the time. The midnight hour came and we were sitting in a little booth in the back of the restaurant. I looked across the table at her and gazed into her eyes. I knew in a flash that I was sunk. She knew it too. 

"I love you." I whispered. 

"Oh Sam, I love you too." She replied. 

"Come home with me." I pled. "We'll get all this marriage and divorce nonsense handled and press right on. I've got a really good lawyer. He can handle your divorce too."

Suddenly, my perfectly laid plans for the future shot out the door and were replaced with an entirely different set of plans that didn't even remotely resemble the old ones. They were much better plans.

She didn't even hesitate when I said, "C'mon. My package needs to be looked at." 

She smiled and said, "Luckily, I know a nurse who can do that for you." 

We jumped in my Jaguar and headed for the house.

I took her into the entertainment room and lit a fire in the fireplace. We briefly toured the house. She was impressed with our huge double-king bed. 

"Looks like fun." She said. 

Back by the fireplace, I held her closely into my arms. I looked deep, deep into her beautiful brown eyes. It was like I had stepped off the edge of the world. I tumbled, stumbled and fell to the rug in front of the fire, dragging her with me. 

As soon as I hit the rug, I was stripping off her blouse. She had on a sheer silk bra. I could see her nipples through it. My cock got so hard a cat couldn't scratch it. She ripped off my shirt. Buttons flew everywhere. Next went her bra and my tee shirt. Seeing her bare breasts was like some kind of atomic injection. I bent forward and kissed them softly, letting my tongue make a little wet trail from one nipple to the other. I grasped her left nipple between my lips and sucked hard. 

I heard her gasp with pleasure as she felt her nipple shoot a lightning bolt to her pussy. I switched to her right breast with a similar result. She was moaning and trembling in my arms as I kissed her deep and hard. Our tongues did a tango of love. Our mouth juices intermingled. I was in heaven. 

She stood up slowly and I removed her skirt. I stood up slowly and she removed my pants. I slid her panties all the way to the floor and she stepped gingerly out of them. Then she carefully removed my boxers. We stood nude in front of each other for the first time. 

As I beheld her passion flower, I remarked, "Your soon to be ex has to be a total idiot to give up this beautiful pussy for that raggedy gash of my ex's." 

She giggled and said, "I have seen yours many times at the office, but I never thought I'd get to use it!" 

She took a small step towards me and I enveloped her in my arms. We lay down on the rug. The fire was warm, but we took no notice of it. We did notice each other. I noticed that her nipples were hard and her pussy was very wet. She noticed that my cock was really hard and that a drop of pre-cum was dribbling out of the meatus. Unable to resist, I leaned forward and again sucked her nipple into my hungry mouth. She moaned and licked my ear lobes. 

Her hand slid down my stomach and she grabbed my cock. She started to slowly jack it. I kissed her deeply again and then started a glacial slide down her tummy until I came to her wet pussy. I bypassed her pussy and moved on down her legs to her feet where I worshipped, licked and kissed for a long time. In sucked her toes one at a time and licked the soles. Then I started back up her legs with my mouth devouring every inch of her. I pushed her legs all the way up in the air, leaned into her butt crack and licked her asshole. 

She jerked and said, "No, not there. It's dirty." 

"It is not dirty." I said. "It is a tasty little part of your body. I love all of you. Not just some parts." 

With that I slid my tongue into her asshole as she wriggled like a worm on a hook. I licked her perineum and started licking at the bottom of her pussy. Her juices were flowing freely now. They were like ambrosia. Sweet, a little salty. Totally yummy. I sucked up as much as I could and moved upward. I was sucking on her labia and had my tongue jammed into her vagina as far as it would go. When I popped her clit between my teeth, she bucked, squealed and came like a freight train. While she was writhing in the throes of passion, I slid up her body and placed the head of my cock at her door. 

"I haven't even given you anything." she complained. 

"Tonight isn't about me, it's about you." I whispered as I slid my cock into her. 

Considering the time she had been married, she was insanely tight. I immediately concluded that she didn't get much vitamin 'P' at home. She was moving around my cock at a really intense rate. It's a wonder she didn't break it off. I had not had any vitamin 'P' in quite a while so soon, I felt that feeling deep in my nuts that signaled the oncoming flood. 

"I'm going to be there soon!" I mumbled. 

"Do it in me." She said. 

I slammed it as far into her as I could and the flood gates popped open. I must have shot a gallon of cum into her. She groaned and continued cumming as my cock wilted inside her. I had never been so sated and happy in my life. This is the way it is supposed to be!! My cock popped out of her and I rolled off by her side. She had a big silly grin on her face. So did I. 

"We'll try some other stuff after we rest. You know that you have to call in sick or horny in the morning, 'cause we're not getting out of bed for at least three days." 

"I'm for that." She giggled happily.



Healing



The house is finally quiet. No dogs barking, no kids romping, no man yelling and no woman jabbering. I slip out the back door and breath in the crisp, cold air. My breath comes in puffs of steam, rising in the night air like smoke. In that instant, I wish I had a cigarette. I hadn't smoked in years, but it didn't matter. The want for one just doesn't go away. I sit my butt on the cold concrete step and close my eyes. I pretend I'm anywhere but here. 

The ocean maybe. It's nice. I like the sand between my toes, the water lapping my ankles. Or maybe the Smoky mountains. Step outside, breathe in that woodsy smell, look out and see all the green. 

But no, I'm stuck in the beginning of December in a place that isn't anything special. 

My family is big. Eight kids, and I'm the oldest. Which means? I raised the rest of them. My dad is a big wig at the bank, and my mom thinks she's the president's wife. Always having people over for hors d'oeuvres and cocktails, like she's some society sweetie. Funny thing is, no one even likes her really. They just stay on her good side because she can be mighty nasty when the mood strikes her. 

I really just wanted out of this house and out of this town. It's stuck in the 1920's I think. It's seriously something out of an old soap commercial. Or maybe an old cigarette ad. It doesn't really matter. And this house.. Lord. This house is crazy. Three dogs, mom, dad, and five of the eight kids. The rest are off on their own. Me, I'm twenty-six, and just had to move back home.

The 'D' word. You'd've thought I punched my mom in the stomach when I told her. She stared at me with those big blue eyes, all done up with enough make up to make her look like a hooker. She fluffed her bottle blonde hair like she could hide my secrets in there. Then ya know what she said?

"You can stay, long as your not pregnant. Divorce is a big enough scandal."

Who the hell even says the word 'scandal' anymore? Like I said, stuck in the '20's. I just need some time to get some money together, so I can get outta this hell-hole again. Not on the arm of some man either. No sir, no ma'am. I'm going to do it on my own terms. I am my own woman. No one's gonna tell me what I can do and what I can't. I won't be bossed around any more.

My mom, she didn't even ask why I got the big D. She didn't even care. I bet she thought it would get her hands dirty, me just telling her. Well, I'll tell you. He was a drunk. He hit me anyway, but he hit me worse when he was drinking. And the things he said... I'm telling you, it would have turned your blood cold. I took it and took it for five years. Some people, they say that's too soon to give up. You have to stand by your man. (Now not only are we stuck in the '20's, but we're stuck in a country song too.) I say, five years is five years too long. 

I really am surprised at myself, putting up with it. But he didn't start drinking until after I loved him. Then I just thought it was an occasional problem. Then he started talking mean to me, then he started hitting me, then he started drinking everyday. Then he started drinking every day with a splash of something in his coffee cup. It didn't matter what I did.

The house could be spotless and he'd still manage to find something dirty. Dinner would be steaming hot on his plate and he'd find something to complain about, even if it was his favorite food. I bent so far over backwards to please him, I still haven't been able to stand up straight. And all my mom can ask is 'Are you pregnant.' I roll my eyes every time I think about it. 

She's a fine one to talk, asking if I'm pregnant- the lady with eight kids. It's sort of surprising she has time to leave the house, what for all the getting pregnant and being in labor. But that's not fair. My mom s a nice person, really. She just tries too hard to impress people that are never going to like her, for what? For nothing. Dad is just a manager at the bank. One of the three banks in this town that is six blocks long.

"Jet, what on earth are you doing out here? It's freezing. You don't even have a coat on. What would the neighbors think?"

"Not much mom, it's almost midnight. Why are you up?"

"I needed a drink of water. Dinner was too salty. Come on in out of the cold." She held the screen door open for me, so I stood up and went in.

Truth was, my butt was frozen. I reached behind me with both hands and rubbed it a little, trying to warm it up. Mom turned around and caught me, and wrinkled her eyebrows in the way that clearly states, 'Stop doing that or saying that right now.'

Finally, my curiosity and smart mouth gets the best of me.

"Mom, why didn't you ever ask why I got divorced?"

"Because things like that are best not discussed." Woo. She barely took a breath before that sentence.

"I think you want something that's some secret shame, so you have something to worry about when all your hoity toity friends are looking for gossip." My words were soft, but that didn't soften the blow.

"Excuse me? I did not raise you to talk to me like that." Her water glass clanked on the counter, and I knew she was mad. She never put down dishes like that.

"You thrive on gossip mother, as long as it's not your own. You're too worried about what your friends- who are not your friends, by the way- think of you. So worried about them, you didn't give two thoughts to your daughter." Pain lent a hard edge to my words.

"Jet, I don't have a clue what you're talking about." I notice she still didn't ask why.

I'm tired all of a sudden, and I give up. "Nothing, mom. I'm going to bed." Out of spite, I rub my ass while I leave the kitchen. I hope her eyebrows are wrinkled up, and I hope it leaves a line. Something else for her to have to complain about.

The days pass slowly around the house. I wake up, drink my coffee, and head to work. I'm a waitress in a little diner on the main drag. The pay isn't great, but at least it's something. And living at home, I don't have any bills to worry about. There are some real good tippers out there, but others, they don't leave much. It's all right though. I'll get there.

I leave work with my feet throbbing and my back aching. I'm too heavy. I need to lose some weight, take some strain off my body. But I'd have to exercise, and the last thing I want to do after being on my feet for twelve hours is exercise. So I will stay overweight for now. Maybe if I ever get a desk job, it'll be different. 

I draw my scarf up around my face and take off walking home. It's only a few blocks, so there's no sense wasting the gas. However, by this time, my feet are tired of having anything to do with my day to day activities. I see one of the men from the diner climbing into his truck, and I only notice because he's looking at me. I look down quickly, like I'm adjusting my scarf, and he jumps down and heads towards me.

If need be, I'm ready to defend myself. I am not going to take that same shit twice. The man jogs towards me, and I glance up, realizing exactly who it is. I finally place his name. 

"Hey, Jet. It's freezing, and I bet your dogs are barkin. Let me run ya home."

"It's only a few blocks. Thanks though, Wade." 

I smile briefly and head off again. His feet crunch the gravel next to mine. He's walking with me.

"It sure is cold tonight. I think winter's here." Wade shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Yep, it's that time. Christmas is only a couple weeks away." 

I'm trying not to make it easier for him, or harder on him either. Wade is one of those customers that's friendly, tries to act like you're friends, but you're still just the people who serve him his food. I can't figure out why in the hell he's following me like a stray dog that won't skedaddle. 

"I know. I need to do some shopping. Hadn't thought much about it so far, but I guess it's time." Wade said, as he hunched his shoulders against the cold.

"Excuse me, but you're getting farther and farther from your truck, and not to be rude, but I don't understand why you're walking with me." I stop and turn to look at him. My ears are cold, the wind is blowing my hair in my face, and I'm beginning to not be able to feel my feet.

Wade stopped too, and just stared at me. I could see him mentally shifting from one foot to the other, trying to decide what and how much to tell me. I'm just too tired to worry with him much. I just want to get home, out of these clothes that smell like grease, into a hot bath, then into my jammies and bed. But this fool has me out in the parking lot and I want to know what he wants. He's still wrestling with himself.

"Okay. I know you're back in town after a divorce, much as your momma tried to keep it hush hush. People aren't stupid, and it isn't the 60's anymore. I just think you're a sweet girl Jet, even if you do have a sharp tongue. I just wanted to get to know you better, ya know, when you aren't pouring my coffee." Wade flipped me a lopsided grin. 

I guess I should be sweet after all that. Sweet isn't the most prominent characteristic I've got.

"Look, Wade, I think you're nice and all, but I was in a terrible marriage to a horrible man, and I'm just not sure I'm... ready for anything... like that again."

"I'm not saying you've gotta date me, Jet. I just thought maybe we could hang out... like go to the movies or whatever sometime, just something to do." Wade shoved his hand through his hair, and quickly put it back in his pocket. I even thought maybe his face was turning a little red. From the rejection or from him thinking he was making a fool of himself, one or the other I'd bet.

"I understand. I think that's real nice, you offering. But I think I'm going to have to say no anyway." My voice turned soft. I like it to be soft when I'm saying something not sweet, when I try not to hurt the other persons feelings.

"That's fine Jet." Wade spun around away from me and took off the other way across the parking lot. Woo. He was mad.

"Yep, Jet, that's real fine. I'll just keep trying." 

I had started walking away too, but with those words, I stopped and glanced over my shoulder. He was walking backwards towards his truck, looking at me.

"Every day. I'm going to ask you every day until you say yes." There was that damn lopsided grin again.

"You're going to waste your breath!" The wind nearly snatched my breath saying so.

"No ma'am. You're going to say yes one day. And then I'll make you happy."

My eyebrows scrunched together like my mom's. "You don't know anything about what makes me happy!"

"I'm gonna find out, Jet. I am going to most definitely find out." He spun and jumped into his truck.

I rolled my eyes and turned back around. Now he was going to be a stalker. Just great. At this point, I can't feel my toes, and I'm really fantasizing about that bubble bath. I hear his truck screech out of the parking lot, and I glance to watch him go. Hmm. Maybe a nice guy like that would be good for me. Ya know, just get me out of this transition phase. Give me someone to do things with, maybe make me feel better about myself, so then one day I will be able to have a relationship. Ya never know I guess.

Christmas has come and gone, and so has the new year. I've been working my tail off, and I've got quite a bit of money stashed up. The holiday season was good for tips- especially New Year's Eve. All the drunks coming in for something to put in their alcohol system. I was secretly disgusted by them, but I kept my happy face on. I just wanted their money. When the few hands reached out and touched my ass or legs, I smiled real sweet and grabbed their wrists, grinding the bones together. Most laughed about it, but I caught them rubbing their wrists when they thought no one was watching.

Wade has kept true to his word. He comes in every day, sometimes only for a few minutes and a cup of coffee. But every day, he asks me a question about myself. Quick ones on the days he only has time for coffee, like what's my favorite color, what's my favorite flower. More in depth ones on the days he's there for a meal, like what's my favorite childhood memory, and what do I want to be when I grow up. I roll my eyes at that one. I'm twenty-six. If that isn't grown, I don't know what is.

But I know what he means. He wants to know if I plan on working in this dump forever. And the answer to that is no. I just don't know what else I'm going to do. Then he took to coming by some nights when I get off, offering to drive me home. I always tell him no, so he walks with me. One night he got there after I left, and drove his truck down the road , a mile an hour, keeping even with me. You should have seen my mom's face through that window. It still gives me a laugh.

Every night, I add my tips to my jar. Once every two weeks or so I count it. I want to have a couple thousand saved up before I make any rash decisions. I'm getting close. Only about eight hundred more. I smile to myself, knowing the end is near. Plus, somehow I am managing to heal. The sting of my horrible marriage and equally terrible divorce aren't in the forefront of my mind any more. That's a good sign. I don't know if Wade has anything to do with it, but if he does, I'm grateful. 

One day I get to wondering again, if my mom should know the whole story, in case any of her so-called friends asks. That way she can tell them the truth, and roll around in their sympathy like a dog rolls on a dead animal. So I head down stairs. I'm off today, so I'm still in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt. My dark hair is up in a ponytail, and my face is make-up free. I'm a real pretty sight. The hardwood floors are cold, and I'm glad I threw my slippers on. I can feel the cold emanating off the floor.

My mom is sitting at the dining room table, opening letters and mailing responses. She's in some women's group thing, and women send in questions about their life, and my mom answers them. What a joke. She doesn't have a clue. She's just the only one that was willing to give up hours of her day writing responses. Meanwhile, the kids are upstairs with a babysitter. The youngest one is six, and the oldest (that's living at home) is thirteen. 

"Can you believe this? Lavinia George wants to know how to keep her husband home at night. I have to wait 'til my sarcastic streak is gone before I answer this one." Mom held up the letter and laughed, then tossed it into the 'wait' pile, I guess.

"Mom. I want to talk to you." I sat down, and picked up a letter opener, turning it end to end in my fingers. Anything to keep my face off of hers for when she goes blank, unwilling to listen.

"What for, Jet? I'm awfully busy." She takes a sip of her iced tea.

"I want to tell you about my divorce."

"I don't want to hear it."

"I want you to know the truth, in case any of your friends wants to gossip. That way they know the story." 

"They aren't going to talk about it with me." Her eyes are on the mail.

"Right. So they'll talk amongst themselves and spread all kinds of lies. I want them to have the facts."

"Jet, I've already told them it's not to be discussed. They aren't discussing it." 

"Yes they are. They're bitches, mom. They are most definitely talking about you and our family behind your back."

"You don't know them! You have no idea what they are like! How dare you talk badly about them after they've agreed to help me keep your divorce a secret!" Mom covered her mouth with her hand.

I don't know what happened to me. The fact that she enlisted them to keep my divorce a secret, or the fact she felt it necessary to keep it a secret- something pissed me off. And I have my mom's temper that's fed by vengeance sometimes. That's what happened. One minute I'm sitting there like a normal person, and the next I am screaming at her the reasons. The verbal abuse, the mental abuse, the rape, the drinking, the physical abuse. That's right, my own husband forced me to have sex with him. It was rape, no matter which way you cut it. I threaten to put it in the newspaper, because if I'm not ashamed, she shouldn't be either.

I look down, and the letter opener is clutched in my hand like a weapon. So I attack.

Before I know exactly what I'm doing, I'm gouging the words 'Drunk. Beat. Rape. DIVORCE.' into the dining room table. Over and over again. I don't even hear my mom hollering at me to quit. Somehow, those words cut into the table look nice. They look like healing. They look like relief. Tears come and drench my face, and I realize I'm gasping for breath from the exertion. But somehow I'm lighter. Freer. I'm healing. My mom knows, the table knows, and the weight is being lifted from my shoulders.

I finally tune in, and my mom is screeching like a monkey about her table. The fact she cares more about her table than her daughter is not lost on me, so I say the only thing I can think of.

"Go to hell." I walk straight up to my room and lock the door.

The next few weeks are just weird. Wade still comes by everyday, but now, he comes a little bit before I get off, and we sit in his truck talking. I do like him... I guess I kind of like him a lot. He's a sweet man. Not a mean bone in his body. He passes a stray dog, he stops and coaxes it. If it won't come to him right then, he goes back later to take it food and check on it. Sometimes, it comes with him that time. If he sees an elderly person struggling in any way, he goes and helps. A little girl tripped and fell down in the diner one day, and he scooped her up almost before her mom saw it happen. 

Wade's just.. Friendly. Open. Honest. Hard working. There's jus something about him that speaks to me, that reminds me that there is good in life. At this stage, I don't hang around the house much. My mom hasn't been talking to me since the table incident, and I swear almost every day a different table cloth is covering up my ugly words. But my, those ugly words sure felt good coming out. I told Wade the story, and I could have sworn he wanted to cry. That's the only time I ever saw him want to have a mean bone. He got awfully mad at my ex-husband. 

That's the good kind of mad though. That's the kind that tells you you're special and wanted and protected. The kind that says that he'll do anything for you, if you'd only let him. I told Wade about the episode with my mom. He doesn't think bad of me, and in fact he even laughs. He understands. In some way, for some reason, he gets me. He understands that I've got to let out my feelings.

"You're something else, Jet. God's got to have something special for you to do one of these days."

Wade said that to me last night. I'm not a real religious person, but he is. He loves the Lord. I don't hold that against him at all, but that sentence got me to thinking. What if he's wrong? Or worse, what if he's right? 

So here we sit, on my mom's back porch, pretending like it isn't barely above freezing. It's the only place in the house we can be semi-private. It's getting dark, and it's getting colder. I'm about to ask him inside, when he leans over and presses his lips to mine. My eyes fly open and I stare, cross-eyed, at the bridge of his nose and his eyebrows. I wasn't expecting it. I mean, I know he's been following me around and all that, but I just never thought about when or if things would change.

Well, that night, he changed it. And I liked it.

The next morning I woke up with a bit of a headache. I should have read it as a sign. I got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. After I got my coffee I swallowed two asprin and went back to bed. When I woke up the second time, my headache was mostly gone, and something didn't feel right in my room. Like this had been... rearranged. Maybe. Something just wasn't right.

I headed back downstairs for more coffee, and I caught something out of the corner of my eye. I took a couple steps back to look, and realized the dining room table was gone. Hmm. My mom must've gotten tired of swapping table cloths. I honestly don't feel bad about it. It needed said and my mom made me nuts there for a second. Shit happens. I go back to my room and get my clothes together, and go hop in the shower. It's my day off, and Wade is coming at noon to pick me up. We're going to the flea market. The sun is actually out, and it's supposed to warm up a bit... it's going to be a beautiful day all around.




Healing



Or so I thought.

When I get out of the shower, I throw on my clothes and blow dry my hair. I'm looking good, even though it's the dead of winter and my skin resembles skim milk. I go on back to my room, humming to myself, ready to put on make up. I hear things banging around downstairs, and go out and look over the railing. There it is. A huge ass new dining room table. I just roll my eyes and go back to my room. Mom and her ostentatious décor. 

I finish my make up, and I'd already decided to take some money from my stash jar so I can buy things if I find anything at the flea market. I fish around in my closet and grab the jar. Last count, I had about twenty-five hundred dollars. More than enough to get out of here, but I was waiting to see what was going to happen with Wade. Sort of. If he was going to ask me to move in with him, this money wasn't quite so important. I smiled a little, thinking about him. I was pretty sure I was in love with him. 

My arm pulled out that big pickle jar, and I unscrewed the lid, lost in thought, a smile on my face while I thought about Wade. He really was a sweetheart. I stuck my hand down in the jar, and came up with empty air.

Air. That's all that was in my stash. It was like it was in slow motion- me looking down and realizing for real that it was empty. My brain started turning, thinking if mom had had any workers in the house, but no.. that wasn't it.. The only people in the house were the men delivering the dining room table....

The table.

I sat there, stunned, in disbelief that I was even thinking what I was thinking. Surely my mom wasn't that bad of a person...? Or maybe it was justified. Who knows. All I knew was, I was on my knees on the floor holding an empty pickle jar, when my mom walked past my room. She stopped in the doorway.

"That ought to teach you. Damaging people's property." Mom crossed her arms over her chest.

"You stole my money?"

"I did not steal it. I took it to pay for the table you damaged in your psychotic fit."

I can't even believe what's happening. My mind reels, trying to come up with an explanation for it all, when mom speaks again.

"Looks like you're not going anywhere now, does it? Which is better. I need you to watch the kids." 

Mom disappeared around the corner in a whiff of perfume. I drop my head to my hands and I cry.

Wade gets there a while later, and I'm still where I was, on my knees on the floor. I'm not crying anymore, but I definitely look like I had been. His face is full of concern as he sits next to me and pulls me into his arms. His hand cups my cheek and he turns my face to his. 

I briefly explain what happened. His jaw tightens. I'd spent so many years fighting, I'm tired of it. I don't have the energy or the strength. I drop my head and close my eyes, pretending today hasn't happened. Wade stands, and all of a sudden its clear that he's leaving. He doesn't want anything to do with this mess, and I can't blame him.

He walks out of the room, but its more like a stomp. I made him mad, and didn't mean to. I finally stand up too, in a daze. I am stuck, and I'm not sure how to fix it. I hear yelling, and for once it's not my dad. My head tips as I listen, and finally some words ring clear. It's Wade. Yelling at my mom. No one does that...

He storms back into the room and grabs my hand.

"Come on." 

I follow, mostly because I'm still shocked and I'm having trouble thinking for myself. In the drive, I can hear my mom yelling from the steps, and Wade turns to me, taking my face in his hands again.

"I love you, and I'm gonna marry you. You don't have to put up with people treating you like that. I'm going to give you the choice to come with me, or to stay here. I don't think many people have given you much choice in your life. So this one is up to you." Wade opened his truck door.

I swallow hard and look at him, then at his truck, then back to my mom. I love her, and as misguided as she is, she's still my mom. But she never did treat me quite right. My eyes lift to Wade's, and I see the sincerity and the love there. 

I climbed in the truck and he shut the door after me. 

A few days after the blow up, I got back to Wade's house after work, and he was waiting for me with a dozen roses. I'd never gotten flowers before. He officially proposed, and slipped a ring on my finger. It felt weird, wearing an engagement ring again. This time though, it didn't feel like a shackle. 

Wade caught me around the waist and kissed me. He'd snuck a few in on me before, but this one was different. I think all the months of him pestering me wore me down. I loved him. So I told him so. I already knew he loved me, and it was a nice feeling. Like being cold and stepping into the sun. 

Wade led me into the bathroom, and the tub was full of hot water and bubbles. After kissing me again, he pulled the door shut behind him so I could take my nightly ritual. Tonight, I hurried. Tonight was the night. I washed my hair and my body, getting rid of that diner smell. I put on lotion that smelled like coconut, and drew my nightgown over my body. Taking a deep breath, I went into the bedroom.

Wade was sitting on the edge of the bed, and he looked up when the door opened. That boy had more love in his eyes than anyone had the right to have. And for some reason, it was directed at me. I think there was something to his religion...God had surely given me a second chance. Having that first awful marriage, then to be given Wade...it was a miracle. 

I stepped in front of Wade and he pulled me down on top of him. We kissed for a bit, then he finally stood up and took off his clothes. He pushed my nightgown up, and I helped him pull it over my head. My body was still warm and pink from my bath, and Wade started at my knees, kissing and tasting.

He moved up between my legs, and he held my thighs open, swiping his tongue over me. No one had ever done that to me before, and I didn't quite know how to act. I settled for urging him upwards. He smiled as he kissed his way up my belly and onto my chest. My nipples were hard, sensitive, and he was so gentle with me. 

Wade crawled between my legs, and for a split second I froze. I had to remind myself he wasn't my ex, and that I wanted it. And I did. He pressed his lips to mine as he slid himself inside me, and I cried out. He felt so good, and good wasn't a word I'd used in relation to sex in a long time. 

Wade moved on top of me, kissing me, his hands running along my sides and hips, urging me up to him. I clutched at his back, clinging to his muscles as I climbed that peak towards release. My hands shifted through his hair, and he tore his mouth from mine. We stared into each others eyes, and Wade moved his hand down between us and rubbed me, and I bucked underneath him. 

He flashed a smile and encouraged me to let go...so I did. I shuddered around him, and my fingernails dug into his back. His tempo increased and a moment later he jerked, giving himself to me. My arms dropped to the bed, and Wade's head dropped to my shoulder. We both lay there panting, trying to get our hearts to stop pounding.

After several long minutes, Wade lifted his head and propped his elbows up, cupping my face in his hands.

"I love you."

"I love you too." I gave him a shy smile. I meant it. It occurred to me that I didn't mean it years ago with my ex. That wasn't love. But this was.

I kept working at the diner, and I hadn't talked to my mom for a long time. Eventually my dad called me, and I told him the story. He was pissed at my mom, and he said he'd deal with her. I don't believe he really would. 

The funny thing was though, I was at work, about ten minutes before my shift was over, and my dad walked through the door.

"Your mom isn't the easiest woman to live with."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know." 

"She really did you dirty, Jet. I can't imagine what possessed her. I'd glad you left with Wade. He seems like a fine man."

"He is." At this point, we'd been married for six months, and I was seven months pregnant.

Dad slid an envelope across the counter. 

"What's this?" I wiped my hands on my apron.

"What's rightfully yours." Dad stood up with a smile and walked away.

I saw Wade walking up to the door, and he and my dad shook hands. Dad took off, and Wade came in.

"That was weird." I came around the counter and Wade gave me a kiss.

"What was?"

"This." I held up the envelope. 

I grabbed a knife off the counter and slid it under the flap, tearing it open. Inside was a check. For five thousand dollars. I about passed out right then. I rocked my ass back and sat on a stool.

My dad had included a note.

"You deserve all the good things life has to offer. I believe Wade is one of them. That baby is another. I'm sorry for what your mother did. This check is from her 'allowance' money, which I cut off the day you left. Enjoy it, baby girl. Good luck, and I love you."

I looked up at Wade, a startled laugh escaping from my throat. 

"Well, I'll be damned."



Healing



All characters involved in sexual situations are 18 years of age or older.

*

It was the summer of '69. It was the summer of despair.

"The heat waves shimmered in the distance, rising off the sand in an unmerciful display of mother nature's authority. We lay where we had been for hours, in the only good cover around. Off to the left, we heard enemy snipers, the gunfire signaling the start of another day in Hell."

That was part of a letter Joey wrote after his unit fought its way back to base camp. He wrote as often as he could. Sometimes, I'd find a stack of his letters in the mailbox when I got home from work, and then, I wouldn't hear from him for while. Whenever his family got any news, they would call me or visit to share the letter. I did the same for them. I always let my folks and Joey's read what we wrote, including the parts where Joey and I talked about getting married when he got home.

*****

It was the summer of '59. That's when I met him.

Joey and I always liked each other. We were too young to think of each other as boyfriend and girlfriend at first. His family moved into a new house down the block the summer after third grade. I was a tomboy. I loved to ride my bike to the schoolyard to play on the swings, seesaws, and sliding board with the neighborhood boys. Sometimes, we'd play cowboys and Indians on the vacant lots in our development. Nobody thought anything of it a -- me, a girl, playing with a bunch of boys. We were kids. I didn't care about the differences between a boy's body and mine. I knew they could stand up to pee, and I knew why. Big deal. That's the way it was. The boys knew I was different from them between the legs. They knew that made me a girl, but otherwise, I was one of them.

Until Joey moved in.

He was different, maybe a little quieter than the others, more serious, more grown up. He was horrified the first time one of the boys took a leak where I could see him. "Don't look, Sue! Harold, what do you think you're doing? There's a GIRL here!"

"Yeah?" Fat Dennis sneered. "So what?"

"So what? So what? You can't let her see that! That's what!"

Fat Dennis stood up. He always bullied new kids at first. He towered over everyone, even Joey, and Joey was big, in a strong-looking way. "Joey, you moved in two days ago, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"That means you don't tell us what to do. If I need to pee when I'm out here with Sue, I'll walk to the nearest tree or wall or something and do it. We all do. So does she. She has to sit down or squat to pee, though."

"That's wrong."

"No, she does."

"Not that part! I meant doing it in front of a girl," Joey stated.

"Why?"

"Because it is."

"Says who? You?" Dennis taunted.

Joey stood up and looked at me. "It's also wrong to fight, and it would be real wrong to let Sue see if anything happens."

"You gonna fight me, new kid?"

"I don't want to," Joey said.

"You chicken to lose in front of a girl?" Fat Dennis strutted around, flapping his wings and clucking.

"No."

"You know I'd beat you up, don't you, new kid?"

"That's not how it would go," Joey chuckled.

"Big talk," Dennis threatened. "Come here and fight me."

"No."

Dennis was pretty worked up by that point, so everyone knew he was going to lunge at Joey. Poor Fat Dennis. Joey side-stepped, ducked Dennis' punch, and flipped him over so he landed on his back. It knocked the wind out of him for a couple seconds.

Joey knelt next to him. "I didn't want to do that. Are you okay?"

Dennis wiped his eyes with his t-shirt, refusing to cry. "What did you do?"

"Stopped the fight. I want to be your friend, Dennis. I know you're the leader here, so I'm telling you -- no peeing in front of her, and if she needs to go, we walk away."

Fat Dennis struggled to his feet, shaking off Joey's offer to help. "Fine, but why?"

"Do you pee in front of your mother?"

"No! Boys don't do that!"

"Right, but why not?"

"You just don't. Nobody pees in front of their mother. Heck, that stops when you're old enough to aim it. I mean, it's your mother!"

"You have a big sister, don't you, Dennis?"

"Yeah."

"Do you pee in front of her?"

"NO!" Dennis sputtered. He looked like he was working himself up to a second round.

"Why not?"

"Are you trying to start something, Joey? Boys don't pee in front of their sisters. That's wrong."

"Exactly. We don't do it in front of our mothers and sisters because it's wrong. You know why? They're girls."

"Yeah," Dennis said. Then, "Oh."

They shook hands, and with the new rule in place, Dennis suggested a game of tackle-tag. It was his favorite game. To tag someone, you had to knock them down. Tripping or shoving often were enough, but we usually went home scuffed and dirty. Dennis approached the game with brute force. The rest of us responded with agility and speed, so we were fairly matched.

Maybe Joey tried to treat me like a girl. It was easy to get away from him when he was "It." He'd tackle the guys if he had to, just the way they taught him, but not me.

When it was my turn to be "It," Joey was closest to me. He ran, dodging me, until I grabbed his arm and threw myself at him. He landed on his belly with me on his back.

"Holy cow, Sue! You hit hard!"

"Yup. You're "It." I scampered away from him. A few turns later, he was "It" again and came after me. He caught my one leg as I was climbing a tree and pulled me down. I landed on top of him, breaking my fall.

Lying on his back, he laughed and picked me up by my waist to hold over him like a trophy. "Tag. No tag-backs. You're 'It.'"

"I'm not on the ground. To tag someone, they have to land on the ground."

He pulled me against himself and rolled us over, pinning me under his body. "Now you're tagged." He rose up on his arms and looked into my eyes for a moment on top of me, smiling. Then he stood up, helped me to my feet, and ran away. 

Joey fit in well enough, but sometimes he'd wander off. I was curious about those times, so I watched him, to see where he went. I followed him after a while and found him sitting on a big rock in the shade, staring down the hillside at the surveyors figuring out where new streets would go. "Penny for your thoughts, Joey."

"Oh!" He jumped like I had appeared by magic. "Hi, Sue."

"What are you doing?"

"Sitting on this rock."

"May I sit with you?"

That was how it started.

Joey and I became friends. We spent the whole afternoon sitting in the shade on that rock, swapping stories and getting to know each other. The entire gang of us "Daisy Drive Devils," as our parents called us, were friends. At least a few of us were always together. The day after Joey and I talked, the Devils played as a group like we always did.

One morning we woke up to a steady, soaking rain. No one ever called each other on rainy days, since none of us was allowed outside because we would catch our death. None of our mothers understood that we would get wet walking to the bus stop that fall, too.

We sat alone in our living rooms and watched Looney Tunes, The Three Stooges, and game shows on television. My parents had a big, top-of-the-line, blond oak cabinet best and an antenna on the chimney, but after Joey moved in, I didn't spend much time in the living room, except when "Lassie" was on, Sunday nights.

I was helping Mommy with the breakfast dishes, watching the rain through the kitchen window, when the big black telephone on the table next to the refrigerator rang. Since I was drying, Mommy told me to answer. "Hello, Brown residence."

"Is that you, Sue? This is Joey. Do you want to come play at my house? My mother says it's okay."

"It's raining."

"I can come over with a big umbrella to get you."

"Do you want to watch television?"

"We could, or we could play in the basement or my room. Maybe we could trade baseball cards or something."

"Let me ask Mommy."

In ten minutes, Joey knocked on our door. With my shoebox of baseball cards safe and dry under my yellow rain slicker, I splashed down the sidewalk, protected by him.

That first day at Joey's house was an eye-opener. I had never been in a boy's room, but I thought all they did was play with toy trucks and soldiers and Lincoln Logs. Joey did stuff the other boys didn't do. He played the piano. He read books. He drew pictures. He was probably the toughest and strongest kid on the block, even though I did beat him arm wrestling once, but he had another side. Joey showed me different things in life.

He was a collector. He had baseball cards, coins, stamps, and models. I had my card collection and some dolls I took very good care of, since they were going to belong to my little boy and girl some day. I knew the value of things. Joey had some really neat stuff, and he liked things the other kids didn't.

Every time it rained, I went to Joey's house or he came to mine. Our parents liked each other, so our getting together was encouraged. We were close friends. We shared secrets, fears, and dreams. We were never bored or lonely like the other kids seemed to be when the Devils couldn't play outside.

Joey's parents joined our church, so we were in the same vacation Bible school class in August. By the time fourth grade started, the grown-ups saw us as a puppy-love couple, I guess, but we were just part of the gang to the rest of the Devils.

In seventh grade, Mom and Dad let me go to the Friday night dances with the rest of the kids. I always went with my girlfriends, and Joey went with the boys, old Daisy Drive Devils or teammates from the sports he played. At that age, boys stood on one side of the gym and girls stood on the other, both groups talking about members of the other group.

Joey knew my preferences in music. He liked some of the more modern, edgy bands, but I still loved the crooners. I saw him break away from his gang and go talk to the school principal, who served as DJ. I thought he probably requested a Beach Boys song, since he and his buddies liked that stuff, but instead, the principal got on the mike. "I have a song request. Here's your chance, gentlemen. Ask a lady to dance."

Andy Williams sang. Mom and Dad taught me to dance so I wouldn't look awkward, but Joey was the first boy I ever slow-danced with. I still remember all the lyrics to "Moon River." Feeling his hand holding mine as we moved, I knew I wasn't a child any more, and that things between us would change.

Monday in school, it was obvious they had, at least in the eyes of our classmates. Girls I didn't even know told me they thought I had a cute boyfriend. Joey told me that all his buddies referred to me as his girlfriend. All that from one dance. We talked about it the rest of the school year. Our friends were right. We belonged together.

Joey and I started going steady in eighth grade. The locket he gave me for my fifteenth birthday is in its original box in my nightstand. He bought it with money he earned doing jobs around the neighborhood. It's still one of my most prized possessions. He turned sixteen before I did, so he drove us to the mall so I could pick out the dress he would buy me to take me out for my birthday dinner. When he kissed me goodnight on my front porch after our date, he gave me one last gift -- a picture of him to put in the locket I wore whenever I dressed up for church or for him. It's still in there.

All through high school, Joey and I were inseparable. I became a cheerleader, co-captain of the squad senior year, mainly so I could be near him. Our parents were thrilled. My folks loved Joey, and the Ramsey's treated me like their daughter. They trusted us, knew that we had taken a vow in youth group to remain pure until marriage. On my eighteenth birthday he gave me a "sweetheart ring." We were in love, the kind of love that lasts, one built on friendship rather than hormones.

Don't get me wrong about hormones. Joey grew from a cute boy the girls whispered about in seventh grade into one they drooled over in high school. Guys looked at me all the time, too, but everyone knew we were off-limits. I was his girl, and he was my man. Everyone understood. It was how the world was meant to be.

As seniors in high school, we had the grades and credits to get into college. I didn't need to go, since I would be a wife, homemaker, and mother. Joey and I talked about it for years. He planned to follow in his father's footsteps by serving his country. When he was done, we would get married and he would continue his education.

Prom night was the night when a lot of couples had sex for the first time. Joey and I were king and queen of the prom. More than one of his buddies made comments about our plans for later that night, since we weren't going to the post-prom party. One of my girlfriends teased me in the rest-room at the prom, too.

"Are you and Joey going to do it tonight?" she asked from the next stall.

"Do what?" I asked. I had my lap full of prom gown skirt, trying to squat over the toilet to pee.

"IT. Are you two going to do IT tonight?"

"If you mean are we going to have sex, the answer is no."

"Why not? You two have been going together for, like, forever."

"Yes, and we promised we would wait. You and I talked about this."

"I know, but it's Joey. He's like, your world, isn't he? You're going to marry him, aren't you? And he's so gorgeous."

She was right. It was Joey, my gorgeous man, the man who made me feel like a beautiful, well-loved woman. Yes, other couples would have sex that night, couples who would never get married, who didn't love each other like my boyfriend and I did. They didn't understand that real love doesn't need sex. That two people can feel like they have one soul without being physically intimate. I thought about my parents and grandparents. Surely they didn't have sex anymore, but they still were deeply in love. That's how Joey and I were. 

Being in love was natural, like getting out of bed in the morning and brushing my teeth. Marriage and family were a given. We knew what some of our friends did. We knew we should wait. Sex was for newlyweds, something we would be when he got out of the Army. He left for boot camp three days after graduation.

It was the summer of '69.

His letters during basic training were so full of love, I thought he might surprise me and ask me to marry him when he got home. I would have. The minister's study would have been good enough for me. We were more in love than ever, having been apart. We both felt it, but Joey avoided any discussion about long-term plans. We lived in the moment.

The night before he shipped out, we were in the basement family room he and I helped Dad build, sitting together on the couch.

"Baby," Joey said, "Do you think you should wait for me? You know there's a chance I'll never come home. I could die over there. Maybe we should break up so you can get started on finding another guy."

"No! There won't be another guy, Joey. I'm yours. I've known that more than half my life."

"I feel the same way," he said, wiping my tears with his neatly folded pocket handkerchief. "I can't imagine feeling like this with anyone else. I thought about asking you to marry me before I ship out, but I decided that's not fair. You're young and beautiful. You're going to be here, and Lord knows where I'll be. Please, Sue, just write back to me when I can write to you."

I wanted to give him my virginity that night. He deserved it. He was the only man I would ever sleep with, and he wasn't trying anything! "Joey, do you want to make love?"

"Please don't ask me that. I do, but I won't. We've waited this long, honey. If I come back, we'll see if we still feel the same."

"You're scaring me. I can't lose you." We spent the night on the couch, kissing, cuddling, and finally sleeping in each others' arms, dressed except for our shoes.

I stayed at my high-school job at the diner. I didn't have any other job skills, but I worked hard. It was good enough. Work kept me occupied and earned some money, a nest egg for when Joey and I got married. I didn't burn my bra. I looked forward to a couple of babies and a nice kitchen. I didn't want a career other than wife and mother. Maybe, when the kids were grown, I would take some classes, but hopefully, being a grandmother would take up a lot of my time.

Joey had been gone for over two months. From the dates on his letters, it seemed like he wrote to me and his parents almost every night, but mail service from the jungle was sporadic. Often, we went for a week or more without any news. The letter about him being being pinned down by snipers was in the last bundle, over two weeks earlier. As always, I was sick with worry, but I knew things would be okay. They always were.

One night, Joey's parents rang our bell. My dad opened the door.

"Joe, Marge, how are...." The smile crumpled off Dad's face.

Joey's father shoved a paper into my dad's hand, and ushered his crying wife onto the sofa.

"Hon, Joe and Marge are here. Come down here now," my dad called up the steps.

Mom rushed into the room, and saw Dad reading a telegram. Joey's parents were holding each other. "Oh my God!" Mom wailed and threw herself at Marge on the couch.

Dad hands shook as he read. "He's M.I.A.? Missing in Action? Joe, Marge, that could be good. That just means he's separated from his unit, or he and some other guys are holed up somewhere with a busted radio, doesn't it?"

Joe, Sr. growled, "It means they don't know if he's dead but they haven't found his body, or if he's injured and dying in the jungle, or if he's in some hospital, so damaged they don't know who he is. He could be a P.O.W."

Marge and Mom started wailing in unison. I did nothing. I probably had the same expression on my face Dad did, since I was so much like him -- stunned silence, no tears, no anguish -- nothing. Numbness.

Finally, Dad said, "Maybe not. At least they haven't found his body, so he must be alive."

Joey's father spat, "Or blown to bits or burned beyond recognition or,..."

"Stop it!" Marge screamed. "Just stop it! This is my baby we're talking about! Mine! I carried him inside my body for nine months, pushed him out of me, and fed him from my breasts! Mine! You're supposed to be making this easier for me! Dammit! You're not helping!"

"Sue, would you get Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey some iced tea?" Dad asked in his dead voice.

Joey's mom wailed, "I don't want any damned iced tea! I want my baby back!"

I'm strong, or maybe I'm slow, but it finally sank in. I might never see my Joey again. I felt completely alone. Mom was awash in tears with Marge and Joe. I looked at Dad. I never saw such a look of pained love from him before. He helped me to the loveseat and held me while I cried. For the first time in my life, I saw him cry too.

Joey's parents went home when Marge ran out of tears. Joe helped her to her feet, kissed my mom on the cheek, shook Dad's hand, and then hugged me. "I'll call you or stop by every day, whether I hear anything or not. I know Joey wants me to do that."

When the front door closed, Mom said, "I need to go to bed." Dad followed her up to their room. I sat on the loveseat blowing my nose, wondering whether I would ever feel Joey's arms around me again. When I went upstairs, I was exhausted from crying, but I couldn't sleep. I paced, looked at photo albums, read his poems, and stared at his self-portrait he had painted for me. I cried for two days, trying to decide whether I could ever be happy again.

On the third day, my boss called from the diner. "Sue, I'm trying to write next week's schedule. Will you be able to come in?"

"I'll be in tomorrow for my breakfast shift, if I still have a job."

I was early for work the next morning, and I stayed for another shift because one of the evening counter girls called out sick. I worked as many hours as I could to keep from brooding at home, earning a lot in tips from people who knew Joey. After a year of burns from spilling hot soup and coming home smelling like fried onions, I had to do something else. I went to the local campus of the state university to become a teacher. Maybe helping children discover themselves would help me wait.




Healing



College was hard. I hadn't used my brain for much lately except figuring out checks as a waitress. I spent a lot of time on my schoolwork. That's always the way I was with school after I met Joey. He was an all A student in elementary school, something only a few girls could do. I really didn't think of myself as a "girl" back then. I was one of the guys, and my grades showed it. Joey was the most masculine boy my age, and he got better grades than me. He inspired me. He taught me to love to learn.

We were competitive all through school. We loved studying together and partnered for projects when the teachers let us. We teased each other about our grades, the one with fewer red marks on a paper lording it over the other. He never let me forget that he had the better grade point average at graduation by a lousy thousandth of a point. Now, I had no one I cared about to compare myself to.

Getting far enough in my studies that I actually dealt with little kids helped, whenever I was with them. At night, I grieved for the babies I might never give Joey.

Anguish, anger, and fear of being alone forever were my life. Love was something others had. I had baseball cards, a stack of letters, some jewelry, and an oil painting. A woman at church helped me to cope. As bad as things were for me, she seemed to have it worse. Her husband left her pregnant when he was killed by a drunk driver. It was unfair. It made no sense. Her tragedy was more final than mine and left her a single mother. The woman was smart and strong. She focused on the good memories she had of her man and tried to move on, and taught me to do the same. Nothing I could do would bring Joey home to me, alive or dead. I had to live for myself.

Classmates asked me out. There were some really cute guys, a few that could have been fun to date. But I didn't. I had lunch with them at the snack bar, or met with them in the library to study, but they were friends. I made them understand that. I already had a man. If that meant I went to my grave a virgin, so be it.

It was soon after I started student teaching in my senior year in college. Lesson plans were finished for the week. I was taking it easy, watching a new episode of "Sanford and Son" with Mom and Dad. The front door burst open.

"He's alive! Joey's alive!" Joe yelled, running into the living room. Marge was right behind him, crying and laughing like she had escaped from an asylum.

Dad grabbed the paper from Joe's hand. "Do you know when he'll come home?"

"They're evaluating him, whatever that means. He's in a hospital in the Philippines, but they'll bring him stateside soon. We don't know much about how he is, except that he's alive," Joe said.

"That's enough for me," Dad laughed. "I saved this for a special occasion. This sounds like it." He went to his liquor cabinet and brought back a fifth of expensive Scotch.

When the bottle was empty, Mom and I made up the sofa-bed in the family room for Joe and Marge. Dad was in no shape to help, and Mom wasn't much better. I lay awake for hours listening to my folks snore. My Joey was coming home. What had happened to him in the years he was away? Did he still love me?

The five of us flew to California to meet the ship that brought him home. We didn't get to see him at the dock. He was whisked into an ambulance that we tried to follow in our rental car.

At the hospital, his doctor took us to his office. Joey had been shot and captured. His injuries weren't life-threatening, and they stopped the bleeding at a Viet Cong field hospital. He was taken to a prison camp for debriefing.

"We're all adults here, and I believe in telling the truth, so I'll be blunt," the army doc said. "To the Viet Cong running that camp, 'debriefing' meant torture until they decided if a prisoner knew something useful, followed by long periods of confinement. Joey was a rank-and-file infantryman, so he wasn't very useful to them, but they kept him alive as a bargaining chip.

"American soldiers came to take the camp, and there was a fire-fight. Our guys were prepared, and the Cong ran out of ammo. They apparently tried to beat their captives to death when they knew the camp would to be taken. Private Ramsey sustained a severe skull fracture. When he was liberated from the camp, he was in a coma, nearly dead of starvation and exposure. He's much better now. Recovering nicely. With hard work, he should make further improvements. We're keeping him sedated, but you may see him for a minute each."

I was allowed to go first. A nurse led me to a window that looked into his room. I could hardly recognize him through the bandages on his head. Tubes, wire, bottles, and bags were everywhere. He had a cast on one leg, where surgeons had repaired the badly-healed fractures from his initial wound. His other leg had scars from long-healed sores. Skinny arms extended from his hospital gown, tubes in both of them between old cigarette burns. Always so big and strong, my darling looked like he was half his old size. He had a tube down his nose, and he was out cold.

We walked into his room. "Talk to him, honey," the nurse said. "He's in deep sedation, but some patients say they remember things when they wake up."

"Joey? Joey, it's Sue."

His chest rose and fell slowly.

"Joey? You're home now. Well, not home. You're in a hospital in California. We came to visit, me, my folks and your parents."

"Time's almost up, honey," the nurse whispered.

"I love you, Joey," I said as I backed out of room.

We stayed for a week, visiting him for a minute apiece each morning, afternoon, and evening. The day before our flight home, the doctor met us in the waiting room outside Intensive Care. "I have good news. Private Ramsey is showing excellent improvement. He's doing well enough that we've lowered his medication. He's in a "twilight" sleep now. He hasn't opened his eyes or spoken, but I believe that's coming. We'll be able to make arrangements to transfer him to a Veterans Administration hospital near your home soon."

That day, it was Marge's turn to go in first. She spent her full minute in his room holding his hand and crying. When Joe went in, he sat close to his son's head, telling him he would be home soon. Then it was my turn.

"He's asleep, Sue, but talk to him," Joe said when I passed him in the doorway.

"Joey, it's me, Sue. I'll be with you a lot more soon, when you're in a hospital near home. I've missed you so much, Joey." I laid my hand on his outstretched one and held it, like I had every time we visited.

This time, he made a noise.

"Nurse, he's talking!"

"He's been doing that ever since last night. He's probably feeling some discomfort from his latest surgery now, so there's a little moaning."

"Oooh," Joey whispered. "Oooh. Oooh."

"What's that, honey? Are you in pain?" I asked.

"Ooooooh. Ooooooh. Sssssss." He worked his tongue around in his mouth. "Sssssuuuuueeee."

"Yes, Joey, it's me. It's Sue!"

His hand twitched, like he was trying to squeeze mine the way I was squeezing his. He whispered "Sue" again. Then he slept.

By the time he was transferred to the local VA hospital two weeks later, Joey was awake a lot of the time. He didn't talk much, and when he did, he seemed confused. The staff said rehabilitation would take a long time. Because of his head injuries and the deplorable conditions in which he had been imprisoned for so long, we should be prepared for only a partial recovery.

The first day I went to see him, he was propped up in bed, asleep, but facing the TV. I pulled up a chair and sat next to his head. "Joey, can you wake up?"

His eyes flickered for a moment, and when they opened, I saw fear.

"It's me, Sue. I came to see you."

"Sue. Sue. Why am I here?"

"You were injured in the war. You were in a prison camp, but now you're in the VA hospital near home."

"Oh. Why are you here?"

"I came to see you. Do you want me to go?"

"No. Stay. Don't leave me."

Every day after I was done with student teaching, I went to the hospital to be with him. Every day, he was better, until one night about a week before before my birthday. He was agitated that evening.

"What's wrong, honey? You seem upset," I said.

"Your birthday is next week. I can't go buy you a present," he said.

"That's okay. Getting you back is the best present in the world."

"You don't understand. I can't go get you a present because I can't walk. I haven't walked in years. That cage they kept me in was too small to let me stand up, even if my leg had healed right. I went to physical therapy today. My legs are so weak I can't stand on my own. How can I ever get a job and go to a store to buy things for you if I'm like that?"

"It doesn't matter. You're alive, and you're with me again. I don't need anything else."

"No. I'm no good to you now. I'm a broken-down wreck. You need a man."

"I have a man."

"I'm not a man. I'm an invalid."

"You're a patient. You were shot. They tortured you and kept you in a tiny bamboo cage for years. You were near death from starvation. The bastards fractured your skull. It's going to take time for you to recover."

"You shouldn't have waited for me. I don't know why you're here. Why aren't you married and having babies?"

"I don't want to be married to anyone but you. I don't want any babies but yours."

When visiting hours were over, I kissed him, like always. Joey really kissed me back for the first time.

The next day, he was sitting in a chair. "I have to pee," was the first thing he said.

"Do you want me to help you to the bathroom?"

"No, you can't do that."

"They tell me you can bear some weight on your good leg. We can probably get you there."

"No, Sue, I can't let you do that. Find an orderly."

"Joey, I'm strong enough if you'll help me."

"Don't you get it? I have to pee! I need someone to help me onto the toilet. I can't let you do that," Joey protested. "Now please, go find a man to help me."

I came back into the room with a burly orderly, but Joey was adamant that I wait in the hallway while they took care of things. "I can't hold onto him and the railing and still keep my gown closed. Please, Sue, respect my privacy."

When the orderly left the room, I went back in. "I didn't mean to embarrass you," I said.

"It's okay. It just wouldn't have been proper for you to see me with my skinny butt hanging out of this stupid gown."

"I understand, Joey, but someday, I'll see that skinny butt in bed next to me."

"What?"

"When we're married, silly."

"You don't want to marry me, Sue. I'm not the man you fell in love with."

"I didn't fall in love with a man. I fell in love with a boy who once let me beat him arm-wrestling. I fell in love with the boy who danced with me to "Moon River." I fell in love with the guy who gave me this," I said, pulling my precious locket out from where it was hidden by my sweater. "I'm in love with a man now. You, Joey."

"But I'm not the same man."

"Yes you are. Whatever you can or can't do, I love you." I leaned down and kissed him. Joey kissed me back pretty hard, the way he did a couple of times the night before he left for the war.

When we let go, tears rolled down his cheeks. "I'm going down to physical therapy tomorrow, and I'll work until I'm healthy enough to take care of you, if you still want me."

On Easter Sunday morning, Mom, Dad, and I piled into the back of Joe and Marge's car to meet Joey for services at the hospital chapel. He was beaming, obviously very excited, but he wouldn't say a word as he led us back to his room on his cane.

When we got to his room, he sat in his armchair. "I can come home next week," he said.

"That's great news!" my dad exclaimed.

"They said if I could do something, I could go home, so I've been practicing a lot." He stood up and hobbled over to where I was sitting. Trying to mask the pain on his face, he got down on his bad knee. His father handed him something. "Sue, I should have done this five years ago when it was easier. Will you marry me?" There was a diamond ring in the little box in his hand.

"Oh my God!" I burst into happy tears, and leaned forward to kiss him, being careful not to knock him over. "Yes, Joey, my God yes, I'll marry you!"

"My therapist said he'll work with me until I can carry a nurse around. When I can do that, when I'm strong enough to carry you over the threshold, we'll get married."

It was supposed to be a small ceremony. At least, that was what we wanted. Our families had different ideas. Joey's platoon leader, who had been in the prison camp with him, was the best man. Mike recovered from his injuries faster than Joey. He came to visit when he could, driving three hundred miles one way, helping Joey keep his spirits up. The young widow from church who supported me through those lonely years when Joey was away was matron of honor, and her little boy was the ring bearer. Both our moms cried their way through the whole thing.

At the reception, Joey danced with me when the band played "Moon River," but he sat most of the time. When it got late, his father gave him the keys to a new car for us to drive to the hotel where we would be spending the night. After the garter was retrieved and the bouquet tossed, we left.

"Mrs. Ramsey," he said after the bellboy carried our bags into the room, "I never thought I'd see this day." He picked me up, and I wrapped my arms around his neck to kiss him as he carried me to the bed, the first real bed we would ever share.

We kissed, hotter than we ever had, fumbling with buttons, zippers and catches. We laughed at our nervousness and frustration with strange garments, until I was down to my bra and panties, and he was only wearing his shorts.

His manhood bulged against them, fascinating but frightening, moving, growing. "This is it, Sue."

"I've waited a long time, honey," I replied, reaching behind me to unclasp my bra.

"Wait, let me do that," Joey said. He pulled my bra off me, and knelt on the bed next to me, looking at my breasts. "You're perfect." His hand touched my bare flesh for the first time. "Perfect," he repeated as my nipple hardened.

I pulled him down on top of me, feeling his chest hair against my breasts and his manhood against my panty-covered mound. We kissed, tongues intertwined, until we were fighting for air. "Roll over," I said. I wanted a good look what was going to make me his wife physically. He raised his hips when I grabbed the waistband of his briefs.

Joey and I had made a pact that we would only go so far before we were married, so I had never seen his penis. I thought I had an idea of its size and shape from feeling it against me, hard through clothing when we made out, but seeing it bared, ready, and anxious, inches from me, was different. I was almost as scared of it as I was thrilled by it.

"I don't know what to do," I said.

"You got an A in health class in eleventh grade, Sue."

"So did you."

"We learned all about this there. I think we can figure it out," my new husband said, his hand pushing into my panties. It didn't take long for him to have them off, and to give me my first orgasm by someone other than me. He did it again, kissing my breasts, teasing my nipples with his tongue.

"I love you, Joey. It's time."

He got on top of me, kissing me as he fondled my breasts and then my pussy. He pushed himself up so he could see what he was doing, holding it and taking aim.

"Do it, honey. I'm your wife now." I tried to calm myself to relax my body, while bracing for the pain. Every woman I talked to said it hurt, including my mother and my mother. They said it got better over time. I prayed they were right.

I was terrified. I expected him to find his mark, push himself inside me, injure me (tearing tissue is an injury, after all), and then rut like an animal until he shot inside me.

That's not exactly what he did.

Joey and I discovered something that very first time. He could drive me crazy with his penis. He didn't enter me for a while. He stroked me with it, played with me, up and down over my wet cleft, massaging my clitoris with the hard, wet, spongy end of it, and bringing me to still another orgasm.

When I calmed down, I saw the happiness on his face. "I'm going to do it now. I'll try not to hurt you more than I have to, baby."

His penis pried my lips apart just enough that they gripped it. I had never felt anything like this. Nothing so big. I was torn between my fear and my lust about it being where nothing had gone before.

"I didn't know it would feel like this," he sighed. He shifted his weight, trying to keep from pinning me under him. That made him move inside me, change his angle, something. It felt good.

He saw it on my face, and he grinned, moving a little more, this time just a fraction of an inch further into me.

I pulled him down for a kiss, one I knew we would remember. He kept up with his slow, tiny thrusts, finally coming to a stop against my barrier.

"I love you, Sue. I have since the day we sat on that rock and talked. I've always loved you, all through school, every moment I was conscious in Nam -- it was what kept me sane. Now I'm home with you forever. Now I love you more."

He moved again to kiss me, and sank through. As soon as he felt me give way, he stopped, holding himself from going deeper, waiting for me to kiss him back. He gave me time until I nodded, kissed him, and said, "More."

He was gentle and caring, the way I needed him to be. Instinct, passion, and love guided us, but it hurt a little. I was very sensitive and tender. It felt wonderful, an odd mix of pleasure with pain. Our love was complete when he finally shot his essence inside me. He managed to keep his eyes open, the same as I did when I reached my first climax with him inside me a moment later. With everything we experienced, we loved more.

We wanted kids, prayed for them, but not yet. I went on the pill when we got engaged, and was quite satisfied with it. My breasts filled out a sweater better, and I had just a little wiggle when I walked, something I practiced when my parents weren't home to drive Joey crazy on our honeymoon. We cuddled after making love for the first time. "What if the pill doesn't work?" I asked.

"We start thinking about names."

"Would you want a baby this soon, Joey?"

"I'd rather be finished with some kind of school and into a decent job before we have kids, but I'll go with the flow. Maybe it's supposed to happen."

"I think I'd rather wait, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't practice for getting me pregnant." I caressed his muscle, the skin sticky with our drying juices.

Losing my virginity hadn't hurt as much as I thought it might, although I didn't care, since it was Joey. We made love again that night before we fell asleep, and in the morning before we got ready for breakfast. When we went to bed that evening I was still sore from stretching to accommodate him, as amazing as it had felt.

"Joey," I said, touching his naked body in the bed next to me. "I don't know how to say this, but I'm pretty sore."

"I'm sorry, honey." He kissed me gently and caressed my breast. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't. Well, yeah, the first time it hurt a little, but it was you, Joey, my husband. We made love a lot, and I enjoyed every minute of it, but I think she needs a break," I said, gesturing toward my crotch.

"Should I kiss it and make it all better?" he murmured into my ear.

"Very funny."

"I'm not trying to be funny. Guys in the Army talked about it. I'd like to try it." He kissed me again, and then leaned down and kissed my breasts. "I hope I do this okay."

His fingers teased my curls as he licked and sucked on my nipples. We learned the night before how much I enjoyed that, but he kept moving lower until he kissed my belly-button. Then lower.




Healing



I knew people did this, touched their partner's intimate places with their mouths, but I hadn't thought about it much. My promise to God and Joey as a teenager, followed by those years of forced abstinence, meant that I was poorly prepared for this sex stuff. I let my body figure out what to do with conventional missionary intercourse, and I liked it. A lot. Now, my husband was between my legs, kissing the tops of my thighs.

"I love you, Sue," he said, just before his tongue reached me.

That first jolt of sensation, his warm, wet tongue on my tender lips, was like nothing I imagined. My legs spread on their own, and my hands went down to caress his scalp, avoiding the ugly scars where hair would never grow. He was gentle, licking at me, kissing my clit, pressing his tongue into the bruised opening of my vagina. I couldn't believe the feelings.

He brought me to orgasm quickly the first time, faster than I've ever been able to do it myself, and more intensely that he did in our love-making earlier. I was still riding that high when I realized I was going to go again.

I was trying to make sense of the waves of sensation and emotion that kept washing over me when I heard him say, "You like that, don't you?"

"Very much! Where did you learn to do that?"

"Listening to guys. They said chicks dig it. I also read some magazines my roommate's friends brought him in the VA hospital. Seeing your reaction was kinda fun."

"Didn't it taste funny?" His chin was wet, and I felt the moisture under me.

"No, in fact, you taste kind of good."

"Really? People say that's nasty," I said.

"I know, but I think they're wrong. It was pretty cool. I'll definitely do that again."

I was so excited that I almost begged him to make love to me, but I knew that would only make me more sore. Poor Joey! If I was still that needy after what he did to me, how bad must it be for him? One glance at his manhood gave me the answer. It was only fair. We were married now. That changes the rules. "Joey, would you like me to do that to you?"

"Not if you don't want to," he said. His rock-hard penis bounced with his words.

"I never thought about doing it before. Do you know what I should do?"

"I heard guys talk about it."

I took him in my hand and stroked him, they way he seemed to like. "I'll try it." I held his manhood and kissed it. A drop of clear fluid leaked out. It was the same thing I saw on him just before he entered me each time. I licked him, tasting it.

"Oh, Sue!" he moaned.

That was what I needed to hear. My husband liked what I was doing, so I did it again. Then I opened my mouth, held my lips over my teeth, and lowered my head.

Joey let me do it at my pace. He played with my hair, never holding on to it, never forcing me. He loved me, I loved him, he loved what I was doing, and pretty soon I realized I enjoyed it too. I sucked him for a while, listening to him moan, and then licked him, giving my jaw a break, hearing him tell me how much he loved me. When he started moving his hips, I promised myself to swallow. It tasted ... well, I don't know ... different. A little salty, a tiny bit sweet, an odd texture in my mouth. Warm. Nice.

Like most newlyweds, we couldn't keep our hands off each other. We were both in love and in lust. We learned how to please each other, both quickly and luxuriously. Joey was stronger every day. He claimed that it was my love that did it. He worked his way through school, and with my income as a teacher, we got by.

We decided it was time to start a family, talked how amazing it would be if we could have a child by our fourth anniversary, so I went off the pill. On our third anniversary, Joseph Ramsey III was conceived. We both swear it was that night. I had been looking forward to it, an evening of dinner, dancing, and love-making. It would be a special night where we were newlyweds again, celebrating our love like it was our very first time, just like we did every year on this night.

In the days before, lying in bed with a bucket on the floor or sleeping in the bathroom, I wondered if it would happen. I was getting better, but I couldn't imagine having the stamina for a night out. We had sandwiches and canned soup at the kitchen counter as our anniversary feast. We skipped dancing entirely and went to bed. 

The next day, Joey had a fever worse than mine ever was. By the time we were both healthy enough to want to do something again, I had missed my period.

Joey and I learned to accommodate my growing size. We did everything we could to keep each other happy, and I believe we succeeded quite well. We were blessed with a full term, healthy baby boy exactly nine months later.

It was the summer of '79.

*****

Now, it's the summer of 2012. I'm newly retired, loving the fact that I don't have to plan for next school year. The kids don't live with us anymore. Joseph Ramsey III is married and living with his new wife in her native London. Suzanne (not Sue, Jr. -- I put my foot down on that one!) is working on her Master's Degree, engaged to a living doll of a guy who reminds me a little of Joey when we were young.

We're alone together, the way we started. It's nice. We have each other. That and a rock to sit on are all we need.

Joey was happier than usual when he came home from work yesterday. "In a month, I'm a free man. Can you imagine?"

"I know. Thirty-one days before I have an old retired guy underfoot all the time. Are you going to expect me to entertain you?" I teased.

"Maybe."

I did what he expected. I still need him as much as he needs me. I melted against him. "Should I entertain you like this?"

"Maybe."

Joey picked me up to carry me to bed. I knew it would be especially good when he did that.

"Will you entertain me too?" I asked.

The look in his eyes made me wet, just like it has for decades. He does something to my soul, to my heart and my mind, just being here. It's something about the love and the fire in his eyes. I kissed him so violently he almost dropped me.

Pulling my clothes off me and touching me, as lovingly and thrillingly as always, he said, "I hope I'm not losing my touch, Mrs. Ramsey."

He isn't. 



Healing Across Time



"Ever wondered who you were before?"

"Were before?" Claire was puzzled. She looked up at her friend, Louise, who was sitting on the sofa reading a magazine.

"Your past lives," Louise explained. "Caroline Rattenbury is offering a past life regression workshop in Netherbury Farm buildings next Tuesday night. Do you want to go?"

"Are you going?"

"I'd like to. I took one of Caroline's shamanic soul retrieval workshops last year. She was good. What do you think?"

Claire stroked the grey cat on her knees. "It is something I've always wondered about, but I'd only fall asleep!"

Louise laughed. Claire's reputation for drifting off during meditation sessions led to regular teasing by other members of their "personal development" group. 

"You work too hard, Claire. It was eight o'clock when I arrived tonight; you'd only just got in. You really should cut down."

"I know," Claire admitted, "Apart from the evenings I go out with you or Sally, there's nothing to drag me back here. Sorry, Smudge," she apologised as the cat meowed, reminding her he was always home when she returned. "I didn't mean to forget you."  

"It's a date then?" Louise put down the magazine and stood up ready to leave. Claire nodded. "I'll pick you up at seven. Don't be late."

"I won't," Claire promised, showing her friend to the door. Smudge went with her, standing on the doorstep sniffing the cool night air. The scent of rain still lingered from the sudden downpour earlier. Smudge ventured a paw onto the wet step and shook it. He sniffed disparagingly before changing his mind and disappearing off down the path.

"Will he be alright out this late?"

"Oh yes, he comes and goes as he pleases. I think he goes and complains to the new people at number seven until they take pity on him. I know he goes there sometimes during the day when I'm at work, they're company for him."

"I'll see you on Tuesday then. Bye!"

Claire waved her off then went to wash up. 

"Who was I before this life?" she wondered as she cleared away cups and plates. "Probably a servant, dying of tuberculosis before she was thirty -no Egyptian princess like Katy." Her friend was always boasting about her royal connections when anyone mentioned past lives. She dried the last plate and laid the table for her solitary breakfast, as she did every night. 

Methodical, people called her. "Maybe I'll find out I was a totally chaotic 1920s flapper; now I'm trying to make up for it!" She smiled as she put out the kitchen light and made her way to bed.

Tuesday came quickly. Claire was unsure about the proposed workshop, but she left work early, making her way home in time to eat, feed Smudge and change into something more comfortable.

"You'd better bring a rug and a cushion," Louise advised when she came to collect her, "Sophie said there would be a crowd when she brought the tickets round." 

Netherbury Farm lay on the outskirts of Little Brompton where Claire and Louise lived. The redundant farm buildings, recently converted into craft workshops, were beginning to acquire a reputation for good quality gifts. The grain store was hired out for classes or meetings. Claire and Louise made their way up the steep stone steps clutching their rugs and pillows. 

"Find yourself a space," Caroline Rattenbury told them. There were people of all ages lounging on the floor talking together. Claire and Louise eventually found a vacant corner to spread out their rugs.

"Now everyone is here, we can begin." Caroline brought the group to order. "I want you to relax and imagine you are walking along a path into a beech wood."

"Does it have to be a beech wood?" Claire thought rebelliously, "I'd rather go into an oak glade any day!"

"In this beech wood, you will find a very large tree. I want you to imagine you're sitting under the tree. Feel its warm bark against your back. In a moment, I'm going to start drumming. This will be your signal to leave the beech tree and start your journey back into a past life. You can keep in touch with your physical self by listening or being aware of the drumming, but when I change the speed, it means your journey is over and you must come back. Do you understand?"

There was a chorus of "Yes" and someone dimmed the lights.

"Good, now make yourselves comfortable, take some nice deep breaths and start on your journey."

The drum began its own unending rhythm. Caroline's voice died to a forgotten whisper in the darkness. Claire closed her eyes, waiting for the swirling mists of her imagination to settle.

It was the lean time of the year. She could smell frost while hunger gnawed in her belly. Claire stood in the foothills of a mountain. She was a dark-skinned woman wearing supple leather clothes. A single black and yellow feather adorned her beaded headband. Alone, she pulled a heavy sack across her shoulders; wrapping herself round with a brightly coloured blanket. The sun was just rising as she set off along the path. Already she was far above the green valley where her journey began. Claire knew she'd been travelling a long time, sleeping on hard earth in frost filled crevices, the last of her firewood consumed in the night.

This was a special journey, seeking answers for an unspoken question. She did not know the outcome - her only certainty, the journey itself. 

Pink shafts of light touched snow clad peaks; the colour warming her heart, if not her hands.

"Too far," she grumbled to her boots as they trudged wearily one foot in front of the other. She knew better than to mark out time as the sun rose on its journey through the heavens. For her there was only the path, twisting and turning its way between the trees. Huge, they were at first, hiding their green tops in shadow. Now the giants were gone leaving only shrubs clinging to crevices. Their long spines caught her clothes; drawing blood from her hands if she did not take care. Once or twice she caught sight of a shadow thrown upon the rocks, a movement on her outer vision, disappearing if she turned her head to judge its size and shape.

She murmured prayers to the passing rocks, asking for safe passage. 

"I've not come to hunt," she told the wind, seeking protection from those who might see her as an easy meal. Her ears craned for stealthy footpads or breath of mountain lion. The only sounds were her own laboured breathing and pounding of blood in her ears. 

As the sun began its downward path, she stopped; searching for food in her pack. Dried meat and bread took time to chew, but they stopped the pangs in her belly until it was time to sleep. She rested against a low rock, watching clouds chase each other above other mountain peaks. A sudden flicker of movement caught her attention. When she turned, a man sat watching her on the other side of the trail.

"Where has he come from?" Claire wondered. The man sat, his arms relaxed against his sides, showing he meant no harm. His face bore marks of deep weathering from many seasons.

"He's not from my people." The men of her tribe kept their faces shaved, but this man's beard was flecked with grey, his hair hanging loose past his shoulders. His clothes seemed familiar, but his deerskin was dyed green and underneath she could see a cloth shirt nestling against his skin. His eyes were shaded by the broad brimmed hat he wore. She knew enough of strangers not to seek his gaze, lest it give him power over her before she set her own protection. 

"Why is he here?" She made no move to greet him, trying to make some sense of his presence. "Am I not to travel alone?" she wondered. "Have the Old Ones sent me a companion, or is this just another test I must endure?

She noticed his gaze turn to the food in her hand. Was he, too, a victim of lean times? She broke off a piece of flatbread, offering it to him with a strip of dried trail meat. He accepted her gift with subtle grace, searching her eyes with his own as he nodded his gratitude. She wondered if she should speak, but was unwilling to break the companionable silence. She retrieved her water bottle from the carry sack and offered him a drink. 

She watched him take in her clothes, the soft russet tunic and long skirt decorated with beads and feathers, each one matching the black and yellow striped feather in her headband. Her weathered hands bore the markings of recent paint, a sure sign of the sanctity of her quest. She pushed stray wisps of hair from her face, swinging the two thick braids over her shoulders to reveal curved markings on her forehead as well as under her eyes. 

As he swallowed the last morsel of flatbread, she scattered her crumbs on the earth, uttering a blessing for their food. She could see him straining to catch the words of her chant, rising and falling on the breeze until the very rocks picked up the echo. She could not tell where her voice began and the earth gave back. To her it was but a moment's prayer, but it affected her new companion deeply. 

With a gentle flourish, he returned the water bottle and she stowed it away in her carrysack. 

"I go this way," she said, pointing to the path leading up the mountain. 

He nodded his agreement. "I walk with you." 

She hoisted the carrysack over her shoulders, placed a large felt hat on her head and threw the blanket around herself as she began the ascent. 

She climbed slowly but steadily, stopping every so often to notice a plant or a bush. Sometimes she shared the name with him or spoke about its use. He would nod gravely, as if thanking her for the information. Sometimes he would repeat the name to aid his memory for another time. 

"Look!" she cried, pointing to a hawk, lazing on the final thermals of the day. 

"This is a sign from my totem," he told her, his voice deep and halting, "You lead me where my courage and wisdom will be tested to the full. This hawk brings knowledge of things far away." His smile at the sight of the bird was tinged with true reverence. "I came to the mountain to pray," he said slowly, "to be one with all things." 

They stood and watched the hawk for several minutes until he was just a speck within the pale sky. Then she turned, leading the way to a large rock. 

"This is the place I was searching for," she told him. "Will you join me in the time between time?" She did not wait for a reply, but sat down in front of the rock, watching the beginnings of sunset. He came and sat beside her. Leaning back against the rock, they waited to be bathed with sunset rays. Colours began to dance in front of them like huge dragons in the sky, their wingtips ebbing and flowing as the hues changed. First deep reds and oranges flooded over them, making their throats ache with intensity, only to be relieved by the cooler yellows, green and brilliant blues. Then, as violet light touched the stone behind the woman, it became apparent it was not a stone at all but the entrance to a huge cave. 

Now came the time of questions. Was this man someone she could trust to follow her inside the cave.

"I have a task," she began. "When I started this journey, I did not know what it would be, only I must follow the trail. When you joined me along the way, I was not sure if you were part of this task or following your own song. Now, I feel you have been sent here. I don't know if you are a witness or a helper."

He looked at her. "I don't know. Last night, I kept watch within my house, far across the sea from here. I fell asleep. When I awoke, I found myself half way up this mountain. Then I caught sight of someone climbing up the path before me, so I followed you, thinking you might know what brought me here. Now, I wonder if you called me. It would not be the first time my spirit wandered whilst I slept."

The woman pointed to the opening behind them. "I do not know why you have come here. What I do know is The Mother rests with her new born child, deep within the cave. She needs light to entice her back within the world. This is our task." She waited for a moment to see if he would say anything further. When he remained silent, she asked, "Are you cleansed? Did your healer work on your hidden wounds?"

The man looked shocked. "I bathed in the river on my way only this morning. As to my wounds, my healer says walking solves everything."

The woman snorted, her feelings clear, "That is as may be," she said. "For some the walk will suffice, for others, we shall see." Then her voice changed, her concern apparent, "May I touch you?"

"You may." 

Although he gave his consent, she knew his heart chilled with fear of what she might find. She knew he shared his pain with no-one, ashamed a healer should be called to attend him. Now, months later, the wound still throbbed, no matter how many prayers he sent upwards. 

How did she know? How could she see through his clothes to the raised flesh beneath? She must be a powerful woman if she could sense so much without even touching him. But now she did. She asked his permission to touch and he agreed. There was nothing to fear. She saw him release the breath he was holding and let his eyes reach hers. 

She reached out her hand, pushing it gently under his arm so it rested on the soft fabric of his shirt. "The cut was deep. You are supposed to move when buffalo run at you." Her mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile.

He returned it ruefully, wondering how she knew about the goring. "My father, the chief, told me to falter before nothing."

She wrinkled her nose with disdain. "The tree stands tall and straight before the woodsman's axe, but Willow fronds bend before the wind and do not break."

"I know this." He spoke like a boy being chided. "I don't know why I held my ground when the great beast charged. For days I agonised whether I was afraid to move or merely struck by the arrow of invincibility. Those watching called me brave, fearless, but I heard other voices in the darkest nights."

"You needed to learn the wisdom of pain; it is a necessary lesson as the years turn." 

"I know as much now as the world has been gracious to give me."

She stifled a gasp as her hand became warmer. "Your healer is a fool. He did not clean the wound properly—no wonder it would not heal." His only answer was an involuntary moan brought about by the discomforting pleasure of her touch. She responded by placing a finger lightly on the centre of his brow. 

Hoping the opening would not cause him too much pain, she watched his face. He winced slightly, breathing in slowly to help himself relax. She waited for his outbreath before drawing her finger away from his forehead. Feeling the energy surging inside him, the prickling in her hand on his skin became painful. She noticed beads of sweat forming on his forehead. 

"Tell me if it is too much."

His fingers fluttered their own protest, but he stifled them, "It is ... helpful," he murmured, "go on; I am strong." 

She smiled at him, wiping his forehead tenderly with her sleeve as she removed her hand from his side. "Enough for now. Rest and drink," she said, handing him the water bottle. 

He accepted gratefully, gulping the water to ease the sudden thirst her healing wrought in him.

She waited until his breathing calmed and colour returned to his cheeks.

"Will you help me make light for the Mother?"

He looked at her and smiled. "I will." 

"Come." she took his hand, leading him through the entrance and deep inside the cave. When the light from outside was almost gone, she stopped beside a ledge, searching in her carrysac for a lantern which she filled with oil, then somehow lit. She made sure the man could not tell how she made the fire. One moment they were in darkness and the next the lantern filled the cave with a warm glow. She found another lamp, lit it and gave it to him, suggesting he explore further while she prepared herself.

She spread her blanket on the floor and removed her hat; untying her braids and running her fingers through the long hair so that it fell in a thick curtain down to her waist. The lamplight hid the streaks of grey, reflecting only the shining darkness of her tresses. She drew off her tunic and her long skirt, placing them carefully inside the carrysack where she would be sure to find them again. She knelt for a moment, feeling the coolness of the cave bring awareness to her naked body. She savoured the stillness around her then began her silent call to the spirits of place to help her with the rite.

She did not hear his soft footsteps as he emerged from the back of the cave. She felt his eyes on her as she knelt, eyes closed, with her palms open on her lap. She opened her eyes, catching him in their steady gaze . 

"What did you find?"

"Nothing, except a bear skull and some old signs painted on the wall." 

"Could you read them?"

"Not well," he answered, "they're very old, a script I did not recognise." 

"Do you have anything with you to make light?" she asked him. He felt in the pouch tied to his waist.

"I have three sticks of beeswax with pressed linen wicks." He brought them out and laid them before her on the blanket.

"Were you told to bring them with you?"

He shook his head. "I always carry such provisions. My sister makes them for my travels, she has since I was a boy. Every time I go away she brings them as a gift. It would please us both if you would use them to call the Goddess forth into the world."

She saw he was moving more freely, the unhealed wound no longer troubling him. 

"Now you are here, would you rather be back with your own people."

"Are you giving me the opportunity to leave before you began your rites? What will happen if I wake at home before the rite is completed? Will I disappear?"

"Do you want to leave?"

He shook his head. "What do you want me to do?" 

In front of her was a small pot filled with strong smelling ointment. She motioned him to sit and he joined her on the blanket. Her eyes flickered between the contents of the pot and himself.

"I told you I did not know the nature of my journey when I started. Then I knew about the light and we have made light. Now there is something else." Her breathing was slow and measured; her words did not come easily as if she were searching for something or listening for a voice outside his hearing.

"Something for me?" The man's voice was hesitant.

"Yes." She paused, "Something you have dreamed of for many years, something to bring you closer to the Gods - a gift." She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"The Goddess has asked you to do this in her name. You are to be painted with the flying ointment and your third eye is to be opened with essence of spikenard." It seemed to her, the man's face grew paler as she spoke. "Will you accept the markings? It will feel cold at first, then you may feel dizzy, but it will soon pass as you begin to travel into the spirit world."

He shifted uneasily. "What are these markings?"

She cradled the pot within her hands as if warming it, then touched her left index finger along the surface, drawing it along the back of her right hand in a single blue line. "This is how it appears. The designs mark you as one beloved of Mother Earth. If you journey too far into the spirit world, they will know you and bring you back. It will stay with you for some time, but as you wash each day, the colour will fade until you forget you were ever marked at all. All you will have will be memories and even those may be cloudy. Each journey is different and we can never predict what will happen." 

He drew himself up in front of her. "Do not mistake me. I do not fear this rite; I can live with any memory." 

The woman felt a chill run down her back as he spoke, for she knew the untruth in his words. Whatever happened here this night would live with him for the rest of his life. The aching loss in his soul would weigh him down with sorrow. What was she to do? How could she ask him to continue knowing what must occur?




Healing Across Time



"Are you really content to be here?" she whispered, touching his cheek with her fingertips.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I sit before you." He drew himself up so his back was straight, "I am a warrior. A warrior, who also knows the ways of the shaman." She heard pride in his voice, but she knew it was tempered by a humility only years of trial could bring. This was no young man boasting, but a man, sure of his strengths and his weaknesses.

"You search alone," she murmured, "with no comfort?"

"The Gods visit me," his face was suddenly illuminated by a joyful smile, "They bring me comfort." 

She felt a blush spreading over her face like a young girl, as if inviting his advances. She felt responsible for him, even attracted by him. Maybe it was the warmth of the cave, or the stirrings of the ointment on her hand made her feel this way. Was this, too, part of the journey?

She cleared her throat, seeking to bring herself back to earth, "You need to remove your clothes. All who honour the Mother must come to her as if newly born into the world" 

She stood up and brought the lamps closer to them, setting the lighted beeswax candles to complete a circle around them. He pulled the green deerskin gingerly over his head, trying to avoid his wound. Finally he slipped off his leggings, leaving only a breechclout tied around his waist and a small silver serpent with a sparkling eye hanging from his neck. The breechclout hid his manhood from her and she knew there would be no joining during this rite.

She returned to her spot on the blanket, sitting cross-legged in front of him. 

"Does your side still hurt?"

"A little." 

She shook her head sadly, "I can do no more for the wound at the moment..." 

Would she have time in the future to complete the healing, she wondered? She feared to lose concentration to bring down more energy once she painted on the salve. It would not be safe, as she, too was likely to succumb to the effects of the ointment through the finger chosen for painting, She needed to conserve her energy to watch over him while he journeyed further. 

His open smile warmed her. "I should thank you for all you have done already," he said, "it has healed a great deal since your touch."

She picked up a tiny jar and placed a small dab of oil first on centre of his brow and then on hers. "This is the spikenard oil; it will take you closer to the Goddess." 

They both sat quietly for a moment, each becoming more aware of the energy centre opening like a large indigo lotus flower beginning to pulse with energy. 

Once more she drew some salve onto her index finger and began to paint first his neck and then his chest. Her finger outlined intricate spiralling patterns, large curls travelling all over his upper chest and down across his arms. 

"What do you feel?"

"There's a warm sensation in my chest." She continued down his legs, marking them with elaborate trails which ended under each foot. She took his hand and painted each finger with delicate fronds, dotting the centre of each palm where the energy pulsed. Then she leant forward and steadied his face by putting a finger underneath his chin. At first she avoided his eyes until she finished the pattern, but then she raised hers to meet his gaze and held it. 

"Now where are you?"

"I'm here." The stiffness in his back was gone. He sat totally relaxed upon the blanket. The ointment was beginning to work. 

She smiled at him, "You must have done this before. Do your people often use such ointment for rituals?"

His voice answered her from a long way away. "We pattern the bottom of our young peoples' feet, so they may understand and learn through the effects. It is my calling to stay present, open to the divine. I've had some strong draughts given to me over the years." None of them has been as strong as this, he wanted to add, but his tongue seemed stuck in his mouth and refused to move. The flames from the lamps and candles kept shifting in the corner of his sight. The only thing keeping him anchored to the world was the sight of her large brown eyes locked with his.

"You don't have to fight it, if you don't wish to. I will hold you." She took his hands and rubbed each palm with both her thumbs, whilst still holding his gaze. His moan alerted her as he slumped sideways into her waiting arms and she sat, cradling him against her as he moved forward into the spirit world.

Hours later, he opened his eyes once more. The candles were nothing more than smouldering wicks; the lamplight dim.

"Where did you go?" she asked, holding the water bottle to his lips. The moisture helped to bring him back into the cave. His face lit up as he searched her face with his eyes.

"I soared with eagles!" There was no keeping the excitement from his ragged voice. "One came and took me up to Father Sky, himself! We flew above the clouds at day break, drawing the sun upwards on his journey through the sky! O, Wahosi, if you could only have been there with me, such wonders I have seen!"

The woman closed her eyes, hot tears spilling down her weathered cheeks. He had named her! Now she remembered the reason for her journey, to find the name she would carry for the rest of her days and he had spoken it. Wahosi, she was "the woman who walks". 

She felt a touch on her face and opened her eyes to find him looking up at her.

"Why do you weep?"

"You have brought me a great gift. I feel unworthy."

"Sssh" Now his finger paused at her lips. She felt his touch as benediction. "You have been blessed, we both have, not only by our gifts, but in the act of sharing. Neither of us would be here but for the other."

She closed her eyes, resting her head upon his. 

The sound of the drum changed. From the slow, steady beat, it suddenly quickened, drawing her back into another world, another time.

"No!" she cried, but the words were torn from her lips as she was dragged from the cave and opened her eyes on a different world. The cave was gone, the soft darkness replaced by a brightening light. Claire was able to see rows of waking bodies lying on mats in the large room.

"Can you tell us where you have been?" Caroline's voice was soft and encouraging as one by one, people began to recount their tales.

"I was a bricklayer in ancient Egypt," said Louise, "I wore a blue tunic and I lived in a substantial house with my wife and family."

"I went back to ancient Britain," another woman spoke.

"I was there with you," her partner said, "We were lovers in another life." There were smiles and soft conversation as the group expressed their pleasure at the tale.

Claire sat and hugged her knees. She did not want to share her vivid memories. Why had she been torn away so soon? How could the Gods have been so cruel to her companion. She knew he had been thrust back into his original world, forever mourning the loss of his companion, his Wahosi, the women who made his journey with the sun a reality.

"I was a shaman in ancient times." A familiar voice broke through Claire's reverie. "I fell asleep in my house." 

Claire sat up, her eyes searching across the room for the speaker.

"Suddenly, I found myself on the side of a mountain, following a Native American healer. I had an old wound in my side. She touched me and it was healed. We sat and watched the sunset and when it was gone, she led me into a cave....." his voice tailed off and someone sniggered.

"It wasn't like that!" Claire stood up. "They made light to bring Spring back to a darkened world."

"You were there as well?" Caroline was curious. 

Claire nodded then sat down again, wanting to hide from the prying eyes around her. She felt confused, out of sorts and desperately alone. Caroline waited a moment to see if she would continue her tale, but then moved on to other travellers until everyone had a chance to tell their story.

"Are you coming, Claire?" Louise stood waiting by the door. 

"I won't be a moment." Claire bundled up her coat, rug and pillow and made her way to the exit. The lights were bright now, preparing them for their journeys home to the real world.

"Wahosi?" Someone touched her arm. She looked up to see a man standing beside her. She'd not seen him before, but his eyes seemed to bore through her while the word he spoke sent shivers through her spine.

She didn't know what to say. The dream of her journey still clouded her thoughts. 

"Claire, we need to go!" Louise was becoming impatient.

"I'm sorry, my friend's waiting to leave."

"We have to talk!"

She let her eyes flicker one last time across his features – the tousled hair, the stubbled chin. He was scribbling furiously on a small piece of card. On his little finger shone a ring in the shape of a snake with a tiny diamond twinkling in the artificial light. She knew that snake. The priest in the cave had worn it as a pendant. It hung around his neck as she drew flying ointment in swirling patterns around it. He thrust the card into her hand.

"Call me, please! We have to talk. I can't bear the emptiness a second time."

She nodded helplessly as she scurried out of the room after her friend, her fingers wrapped tightly around the tiny card.

Once in the car on their way home, Louise chattered happily about the evening's workshop. "I told you it would be good. Caroline always does such wonderful workshops. She makes everything so real. It was exiting to find myself in Egypt, but I didn't expect to be a man!"

Claire let her talk. She hoped Louise wouldn't ask her about her own experiences; they still seemed too raw, too new, too filled with emotions. She wanted to sit somewhere quietly; allowing events to wash over her again and think about what they meant. 

"Where did you go?" Louise's voice broke into her thoughts.

"Me?" Claire played for time. "Oh it was very boring. It was nothing really, I just stayed at the bottom of a beech tree in autumn and kicked leaves around for a while."

"You said something about a festival of light?"

"Did I? I couldn't have been properly grounded. You know how spaced out I get sometimes if I don't drink water when I come back from these kind of journeys."

Louise drew up in front of Claire's front door. "Are you sure you're going to be all right? Do you want me to come in with you?"

"No, really, I'll be fine. I'm going to have a bath and go straight to bed."

"Well if you're sure..." Louise was anxious to get home to her husband and was pleased when Claire reassured her.

Claire opened her front door and put on the light. Smudge, came sauntering towards her, sniffing at the rug then winding himself around Claire's legs in an orgy of greeting.

Claire went towards the kitchen and put the kettle on for a soothing cup of tea. She felt in her pocket, drawing out the business card the man had given her.

Ford LandRover, Patrick Blayne, Project Manager, she read and a hastily scribbled number. Well, that doesn't tell me much about him, she mused. Without thinking, she reached for the phone and dialled the number.

"Hello?"

"Is that Patrick Blayne? My name's Claire Meddler, I was at the past life workshop earlier this evening."

"Claire, I'm so glad you called. Look, I know it's late, but can we talk?"

"Would you like some tea, I've just put the kettle on."

"You wouldn't mind if I came round now?"

"No. I need to talk as well."

"Bless you."

With the phone under one ear, Claire gave him directions while she made the tea. Luckily he wasn't too far away. Before she'd had time to think about the wisdom of her decision, the doorbell rang.

"Hello," He stood in the doorway shuffling from one foot to another like a schoolboy who'd been called in front of the headmaster. Claire took his coat and showed him into the living room.

"How do you like your tea?"

"Black, two sugars please."

He looked uncomfortable sitting on the edge of the sofa, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to be there. Claire brought in the drinks, together with some small sponge cakes she'd made at the weekend. She offered him one and he took it, peeling the paper off the underside with long, sensitive fingers.

Claire curled up in the armchair and sipped her tea. Her beating heart belied her calm exterior. Now she could see him in stronger light, there was no resemblance between him and the grey haired priest of her journey. He was younger, his brown hair neatly trimmed although streaks of grey around his temples suggested he might be older than she first thought. His skin was smooth with few laughter lines around his eyes. Indeed he frowned as he demolished the cake into small pieces, producing a mountain of crumbs, few of which found their way to his mouth.

"Look," he said, "maybe this is a mistake. I shouldn't be trespassing on your time like this. I expect I just imagined it all, people do say I have an over-active imagination."

Claire desperately sought for something to say, to reassure him, to tell him what she'd seen as well, but her mouth was dry and nothing came. His speech jarred on her ears. It was too fast, too clipped. She remembered the deep, languid tones of the priest as they traveled together. He put down the cake plate and wiped his fingers clean.

"It was silly, how could you know anything of what I saw? You probably had a totally different experience." For the first time he looked straight at her and she stared into the eyes of the priest. It gave her such a jolt, she almost dropped her mug and had to rush into the kitchen for a cloth to wipe up the spilt tea. She came back into the living room, gabbling apologies, but there was no-one there, only the pile of cake crumbs and a mug of black tea to show he had even existed.

Claire felt tears well up in her eyes, then brushed them angrily away. What kind of fool was she to invite a perfect stranger into her home? It had been a long day. The events of the evening were beginning to make her head throb. Quickly she cleared away the evidence and went to bed.

She fell asleep almost at once; her dreams full of memories of the dark-skinned woman. This time she was in a lush, green valley; smoke from tepees curling away into a cloudless blue sky. Children and dogs played together in the dirt, while women pounded corn or worked on hides with bone needles. The medicine woman worked with them in various tasks, but she seemed aloof, her mind not quite absorbed with the task. Often she would stop and stare into space for long periods.

The dream ended abruptly as the alarm catapulted Claire into another day. She showered quickly and dressed in her work clothes. A quick bite to eat, she was off to catch her usual train. Once there, she knew her mind would be taken up; she need not concern herself with the events of the previous night. After work, she went straight to a restaurant to meet friends for dinner. It was very late when she returned home.

There was a Range Rover parked in the driveway. As she turned her key in the front door, a figure emerged from the driving seat and came towards her. Claire wondered if she should scream or disappear inside the house. As he came nearer, she realised it was Patrick Blayne.

"Can I help you?" His face looked ashen; his clothes crumpled as if he'd lived in them since she last saw him.

"I'm really sorry. I wanted to apologise for last night. I've never been so rude to anyone before. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't worry, we were both fairly stressed by our experiences. Why don't you come in; we can try again. I'd like to tell you what I saw; see if it ties in with your dreaming."

Relief flooded his features; he nodded vigorously, holding the door as she led the way inside. Her shoulder bag touched him as she passed and she heard him gasp.

"What's the matter?"

"It's nothing, I was climbing last weekend and lost my footing. I fell against some rocks and bruised my ribs. There's nothing they can do with them except tell me to rest, breath deeply and try not to laugh." He smiled ruefully and his whole face changed.

"You poor thing, that must be so painful." She took off her coat and made her way into the living room.

"Would you like me to give you some healing for the pain?"

"Pardon?"

"I'm a spiritual healer, I work with energy helping the body to be able to find balance and help with healing whatever needs to be done. Some people find it really useful when they're in pain, or stressed out." She picked up her certificate from the piano and gave it to him.

"Very impressive," he said as he handed it back. "I had no idea healers really existed. I thought it was all part of my 'journey' from last night."

"I'm no-where near as powerful a healer as she was, "Claire grinned at him, "but I'll do what I can."

"What do you mean, as powerful as she was?" he spoke urgently, his hand almost gripping her arm. "What did you see? Please, tell me! It's driving me mad not knowing what happened last night."

Claire let her hand rest lightly over his. "It's ok, I don't mind. I wanted to tell you, but last night I couldn't find the words. Shall I make some tea and we can try again?"

He nodded, dropping his hand from hers and sinking down onto the sofa. He looked so tired and worn, she wondered what had happened to him since he'd disappeared. She went into the kitchen to boil the kettle and came back with some matches. He was so still on the sofa, he seemed to have dropped off to sleep. Claire moved quietly around him, lighting candles to provide a less threatening light and help them both to recall their memories more easily.

When the tea was brewed, she put the tray on the coffee table in front of him; sitting herself on a floor cushion opposite, leaning up against one of the armchairs.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his eyes smiling at her. Claire wondered if he was referring to the room or herself. She'd changed out of her office suit and put on a moss coloured T-shirt and matching velvet skirt, her bare feet tucked up underneath her.

"Are you all right?" He looked at her for a moment; then gave a deep sigh and shook his head.

"I don't know." he admitted at last. "Since I left you last night, the whole world seems to have turned upside down." She pushed his mug of tea towards him. He picked it up and took a few tentative sips.

"Have you eaten?"

"I don't know."

"Can I get you something? A sandwich, some soup?"

"No, please, I'm ok, I just need to talk to someone who doesn't think I'm going off my head."

"Why would anyone think that?"

"Because I can't stop thinking about what I saw last night in the regression session. Every time I close my eyes I find myself back there. I don't understand what has happened. I've never done anything like this before. I didn't even want to be there last night, it was a dare from a friend in the office. I kept telling him past lives were a ridiculous fantasy put together by losers who couldn't cope with their own lives."

"And now?" Claire sipped her tea slowly, aching to hold him in her arms again, to show him that everything would be all right.

"Now I don't know anything any more."

"If you thought it was all fake, how do you think you had such a vivid experience last night?"

"I don't know. When the woman with the drum brought us back, I didn't want to return. I wanted to stay with the Medicine Woman in the cave. She felt more real to me than anyone I've ever met before. I wanted you to be that woman, to let me experience the bliss of riding the winds with the eagles. When you didn't speak, I knew you couldn't be her, that somehow I was still under the influence of the drum or something, so I left, before I made a total fool of myself. 

"Last night, when I got home and fell asleep, I kept reliving parts of the shaman's life. He spent his whole life realising he'd lost the one person who really mattered to him. I tell you, that man was an arrogant so and so. He was so sure his actions were all he needed to be a good priest...and he was a good priest, but when he returned to his life, the loss of the Medicine Woman was almost more than he could bear. It was as if his soul was torn apart. It made him very humble. I think, as a consequence, it made him a better person. He lived a very long life and, I believe, was greatly revered by his people."




Healing Across Time



Claire nodded, "You seem to know a great deal about him." She kept comparing his voice with the one she'd heard in her own journey. This man was younger than her priest. His voice seemed lighter, but that might just be anxiety she heard 

"But you," his voice broke through her thoughts. "What about you? You said you knew what they were trying to do in the cave. How did you know that?"

Claire let a smile cross her face. "I was there," she said simply. 

"Why didn't you tell me last night?" His voice sounded hurt, as if somehow she were responsible for his distress since their last meeting.

"I wanted to, I was going to, but when I came back in here to tell you, you'd gone."

He slumped into his seat, the pain visible on his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured, "I've been an idiot."

"No!" Claire got up and sat beside him on the sofa. She took his hand and stroked the long fingers, her index finger retracing the pattern of swirls she painted there before. "It's not your fault what happened. I was scared to believe someone shared my journey as well. I was afraid you might think I was trying to "muscle in" on your story, but I couldn't sit there and say nothing."

"Please," he closed his other hand over hers, stilling her fingers; forcing her to look into his eyes once more. "Please tell me what happened to you."

"I was a Medicine Woman for my tribe. She was climbing up a mountain to find a cave to perform some kind of ritual. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to do." 

Claire stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. "Half way up the track, she was joined by a man with long grey hair. He'd been gored by a bull buffalo and she offered him healing." As she mentioned the words, her hands began to tingle as they usually did when the healing force was flowing through her. "I think the Medicine Woman knew she was there to help the man complete his journey. She painted his body with an ointment she carried in her bag and she held him in her arms while his spirit ...."

"Flew with the eagles." He finished the sentenced for her, his voiced hushed and reverend. "You were there!"

"Yes and last night I saw other bits of her life when she returned to her tribe. She was still their Medicine Woman, but she was apart from them. The priest gave her the name she wore for the rest of her days. She was called Wahosi, but she mourned the loss of the man she had held in her arms; the man whose story you were given."

Now he was stroking the back of her hand, soothing her, reminding her of his presence as she saw the old woman sitting alone by her fire watching the flames.

They sat in silence while candles sizzled softly around them. Eventually, she moved her hand and tucked it inside his jacket, almost against his ribs.

"Can you feel anything?"

Patrick smiled at her. "You've no idea how hot your hand is!"

"Good." She placed some pillows on the edge of the sofa and helped him to lie flat so she could balance his body energies more comfortably. He made no objection as she took off his shoes, but lay with closed eyes, his deep, slow breathing telling her either he slept or was deeply under the soothing influence of the healing energy.

When she finished, she placed her hands lightly on his shoulders and leant forward to brush his forehead with her lips. His eyelids flickered open and his hands caught her shoulders, guiding her gently towards his waiting mouth. It was the soft kiss of two lovers meeting after a brief absence, rather than the separation of centuries.

"Thank you." He murmured as he sat up and drew her to him. She let herself sink into his embrace, filling her nostrils with his scent; feeling the softness of his clothing. They sat for several minutes without speaking, his long fingers stroking her face, wanting to discover every tiny portion of it with his fingertips; sealing the knowledge in his memory forever.

"I'm not Wahosi," Claire said at last, waiting for his fingers to stop and his body to reject her.

"I know." Patrick kissed her again, more slowly this time, lingering over her lips before moving down to her chin and the most sensitive part of her exposed neck. "I know you're not his Medicine Woman, but I want you to be mine, more than I've ever wanted any other woman."

Claire held her breath. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. This was something she dreamed about in the small romantic part of her soul she kept hidden from the world. There had never been a man in her life since Philip's death fifteen years ago. They were teenage sweethearts looking forward to a life together when the car hit him on his way to school one morning. No-one could understand why Claire didn't put his memory behind her and make relationships with other men; no matter how hard she tried, it was never right. She'd lived by herself for the past eight years since she moved from her parents' home when her job took her to a different part of the country.

"Don't you have a wife? A partner?"

He laughed, "You mean I'm too old be to be on my own?"

Claire extracted herself from his arms and sat up. "Your ring," she said, pointing to his left hand, "You're wearing his ring on your little finger."

"You're right," he turned the ring so the stone twinkled in the candlelight. "My grandmother gave me that ring on her death-bed. She was a strange woman, full of dreams and wild notions - at least I thought they were strange when I was growing up, but now I suppose she must have known what she was doing. She said her grandfather had given it to her when she was a girl and told her to pass it on to the man whose finger fitted the ring. That man was me. I thought at the time it could have been any of us - I have five brothers, but when I tried it on, it wouldn't come off again, so that was that."

"But you must have married!"

"Do I look married?"

Claire blushed. "You've got a Range Rover. I thought you must have a wife and children to fill it."

Patrick laughed again, "Oh Gods, Claire, I work at the Range Rover plant. I'm managing the new production line for the company. My car went in for service two days ago, so they lent me one of the firm's runarounds. I'm not married. I've never had the time or the inclination before. I'm a social hermit...that's why the guys in the office keep pulling my leg, trying to get me to go out more. Goodness knows why they chose to send me to a Regression Evening of all things! I went and now I'm here and I don't want to leave. Please tell me you don't want me to leave.

"I don't want you to leave."

"Thank you." He cupped the side of her face with his hand as if she were the most precious thing he had ever cherished. Her whole body tingled with a fire she'd never felt before. She could hear her heart thumping in her chest.

"It will be alright," he murmured, enfolding her with his arms, then laying her gently on the soft carpet with a cushion at her head. He knelt beside her.

"I want to look at you," he said, "I feel I know you, but in my mind's eye I see her and I want to be able to see you." He pushed stray hairs away from her face and she gazed up into his eyes. They were like no colour she'd ever seen before. In the candlelight they appeared as pools of darkness, but the more she studied them, the lighter they became. They were like the golden/hazel eyes of a lion. 

He removed his jacket and laid it over the arm of a chair. She could see his throat and the beginnings of his chest through his unbuttoned shirt top. Without thinking, she raised her hand to trace the outline of his adam's apple, but he captured it with his own and brought her fingers to his lips in another sensuous kiss.

"I want to touch you!" she cried

"You will, my love," He drew his shirt over his head and placed her hand over his heart. "There, now what do you feel?"

"You." His skin was covered with fine, dark hairs that rippled smoothly over a well-proportioned chest wall. Her fingers traced the line of each muscle, feeling them move beneath her, marvelling at their softness; yet aware of their underlying strength.

"May I?" His hands drew her up so that he could remove her t-shirt. She shivered suddenly as the cooling air hit her skin. He pulled down a rug from the sofa and draped it over her.

"Shall I light the fire?"

Claire nodded. Patrick went over to the gas fire and lit it so the flames burnt brightly in the candlelight.

"Are you warmer now?" Claire nodded, her heartbeat racing again as he slowly drew the rug from her and eased her skirt from her hips. She'd never been naked before anyone before and whilst part of her mind was wanting to squirm with embarrassment, another part of her was revelling in his study. His hand stroked her arm, then lightly brushed over her skin, down past her shoulders, over her breasts and down the flat plain of her stomach.

"If I had some salve, I would paint you now so you could fly as he did."

Claire smiled, "I'm not sure I approve of drug induced trips," she teased. Patrick laughed.

"You're probably right, so I'm going to have to find another way to take you there." He licked his right index finger and drew great spirals across her stomach and ribs. Her skin felt momentarily cold and then burned at his touch. She felt her nipples straining against the thin cotton of her bra and she arched her back towards him. He leaned over and followed his finger with a trail of feather light kisses which drove her senses wilder. She didn't notice the last two items of her clothing disappear; only the touch of his hands and lips all over her, making her pulses race and her breathing ragged.

Gently, so gently his left hand moved slowly up her inner thigh , weaving its way into her darkness until a single finger poised to enter her. He was cradling her in his right arm covering her face in soft kisses as she lay with her eyes closed, basking in his caress. 

"Claire?" he breathed her name and her eyelids fluttered open in response. "Do you want this?" In answer, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. 

"Yes." She felt his finger slide down the slick folds of her hidden petals and enter her. She moaned into his chest as her muscles clutched him and sought to hold him fast. It felt so wonderful; so alive; so right. She felt his finger move inside her then suddenly stop. Then he was holding her tightly, rocking her in both arms.

"I never thought," he murmured into her hair. "Why have you waited so long?"

"It never seemed right before. It scared me."

"Do I scare you?" He brushed his hand down her shoulder and cupped her breast.

"No." She shook her head. "I've never felt like this before. I've never wanted anyone to make love to me as much as I want you." 

He leant over and started circling her areola with his tongue, finally drawing the nipple into his mouth and sucking on it. She let out the breath she was holding with a long sigh and thrust herself towards him. 

Immediately she was aware of his fingers rubbing the inside of her secret places. The pleasure was so intense, she opened her legs and moaned; her hips writhing in harmony with the motions of his fingers. When his thumb began to push against her tiny nub, it seemed as if the sky had suddenly exploded in a shower of sparks. Claire could hardly breath, yet she heard a voice crying out in mixture of agony and ecstasy. As her body bucked and throbbed under Patrick's hands, she felt tears slide down the sides of her cheeks until he kissed them away and held her safe within his arms once again.

She hardly noticed when he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. Tenderly, he pulled back the duvet and laid her on the crisp, white sheets. Sleepily she opened her eyes and saw him looking down at her. His smile was tender.

"Are you coming to bed?" she murmered.

"Not this time, love. You need your sleep and we both have work in the morning." He tucked the covers carefully around her and kissed the top of her head.

"Will I see you again?"

"You can be sure of that. I lost you once, my Wahosi, I'm not going to lose you again. When we next meet, we shall join together and nothing will be able to tear us apart."

It was several months before she saw Patrick again. His firm sent him on a business trip to Chicago and they had to make do with emails and long telephone calls at weekends.

They used the time to talk about little things- the food they liked, the books they read, their different hobbies and pastimes, sometimes even their work. He knew what time she caught the train, how long it took her to walk to and from the station, her love of oranges and how much cat food Smudge needed each week. She discovered his love of the outdoors, his knowledge of trees and the intricacies of the petrol engine compared with the might of steam. She also heard about his brothers, his widowed father living alone in the wilds of Staffordshire where he spent most of his time fishing.

As his trip came to an end, he started to ask her different questions. He wanted to know the length of her cycle, did she suffer any particular problems, could she swim, was she claustrophobic. In some ways they seemed strange questions, yet Claire answered as truthfully as she could, the intimacy somehow drawing them closer together over the miles.

"Can you book some time off?" he asked during one of his final phonecalls. He was due to fly back into Birmingham International the following day.

"When were you thinking?"

"I need a couple of days to debrief my team on what's happened over here and to recover from the trip. Jetlag always kills me for the first few days and I don't want you to see me in that state if I can help it."

"I don't mind seeing you in any state," Clare teased.

"I know, love, but I want our first time to be special. I've got an idea."

"What kind of idea?" Claire was curious now. She was very conscious how much Patrick had changed over the months she'd known him. She knew he'd been immersing himself in Native American ritual lore during his spare time in Chicago and had even travelled several hundred of miles to meet a Lahota medicine man one weekend. He wouldn't tell her what they'd discussed, saying he would explain everything once he was back in England.

"I can arrange to have next Monday and Tuesday free, would that be enough?" There was a short silence on the other end of the phone as Patrick considered her offer.

"That should be enough time. I'll pick you up at 7 p.m. on Friday. Can you bring some warm clothes and rugs and your velvet skirt?"

"But it's August!" Claire protested, "Where are you taking me – Iceland?"

Patrick laughed, "No, Wahosi, nowhere so far away, but we are going on a journey."

It niggled Claire he wouldn't let her meet him at the airport. She wondered if there was someone else he didn't want her to see. She even asked him if he had a secret wife and family he kept someone where else, but he only laughed and told her to trust him. He wasn't about to let her down now, not when they were so close.

So close to what, Claire wondered? But she held her peace and began to pack enough clothes for four days, together with rugs and thick, Mexican blankets she took to festivals.

Eventually, as the Grandfather clock struck seven, Claire heard a car pull in front of her house and the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, expecting to fly into Patrick's arms, she was taken aback by the sight of the tall stranger standing in her doorway. Long, dark hair streaked with silver hung to his shoulders and a ginger beard covered his face. Only his amber eyes and the silver ring on his little finger gave him away.

"Remember me?" said a familiar voice, tinged with a hint of American drawl.

"Patrick!" she gasped, "I didn't recognise you!"

"Now you know why I didn't want you to meet me at the airport," he chuckled. "I wanted to be in a fit state to explain everything to you before we began."

"Explain what? Begin what?" Claire felt she was stumbling through unchartered territory. Patrick opened his arms and drew her to him, enveloping her in the strongest bearhug she'd ever had, leaving her breathless, her head whirling.

"Gods, you don't know how often I've thought about doing that," Patrick exclaimed, then bent his head, grazing her lips with his own, "or this." 

Claire felt her head being cradled by his arm as she began to drown in the depth of his kiss. At some point, she knew she opened her mouth to allow his searching tongue access to her own, but mostly she felt he was exploring her deepest places, familiarising himself with dimly remembered territory. She had almost forgotten what it was to breath for herself when he gently released her into the evening sun, leaving her blinking and gasping like a newly caught fish.

"Did you miss me?" he grinned. Claire was gratified to see his chest was heaving too.

"A little," she admitted, but the look she gave him spoke more the truth of his absence. It was a bittersweet separation. Bitter, because every part of her body ached when she thought about his touch, but sweet in the growing knowledge and surety of his love for her.

He pushed a strand of hair away from her face.

"Can you cope with having me talk while we drive? We've got a long way to go tonight and although I want you to know everything before we get there, I'd rather not delay us any longer, if you're ready to leave."

Claire picked up her holdall and backpack. "Lead on MacDuff," she said as she closed the door on her previous life.

Over the next five hours as they drove south, Patrick told her about his visit to the Lahota medicine man. 

"They don't believe in past lives. They don't believe spirits come back and learn more during each period of life they live. They honour the ancestors and their wisdom, but once someone is dead, that's it. They stay the age they were when they died."

"So what happened to us?" Claire asked. "How did we manage to dream the same dream, see the same people? What about your ring?"

"Oh yes, the ring." Patrick grinned at her. "Look in the glove compartment would you and bring out what you find?"

Claire searched amongst the maps and CD covers and eventually spied a small red velvet jewellery box. 

"Do you mean this?" She showed it to him.

"Open it."

Carefully she opened the box, than gasped as she saw the beautiful gold ring enscribed with a twining serpent and two tiny diamonds in its eyes. "It's beautiful!" she breathed.

"Do you like it?"

"Oh yes!"

"Enough to wear it as your betrothal ring?"

Claire looked at him in amazement. Patrick took his left hand off the steering wheel for a moment and squeezed her hand. "I know I should be presenting you with this in some romantic setting whilst down on one knee, not half way along the M5, but could you try to imagine the setting and give me an answer? Claire, will you marry me?"

Claire looked at him, his eyes glued to the carriageway, then down at the serpent ring in her hand. She brought his hand up to her lips and kissed it. 

"Yes, Patrick. I would like to marry you very much."

Claire pulled the ring out of its holder and slid it onto the third finger of her left hand. It fitted perfectly. In fact, as she moved her hand so the diamond eyes caught the last of the setting sun, it felt as if she had always worn it, as if her hand was now complete.

"It's perfect," she breathed. "Thank you so much."

Patrick said nothing, as he negotiated the heavy holiday traffic leaving the motorway at Exeter and taking the Okehampton Road, but his face was a wreath of contented smiles.

"We're spending the night at Newquay," he told her an hour or so later when she woke from a short doze. "Then tomorrow, we'll be heading for Holywell Bay."

"Why there?"

"Caves," he said, switching on the windscreen wipers against the falling rain. "Tomorrow we're setting up camp in one of the caves at the far end of Holywell Bay."