Jerry arose before daybreak and started making coffee, then he remembered he couldn’t do that. Instead he boiled water and squirted some lemon juice in it, gazing at the honey bowl.

He pulled on his jeans, t-shirt, turtleneck, thick sweater, and hopped onto his overstuffed chair. He stared out the window. The sky, the water, the town below were all rendered in tones of gray. The ferry boat backed into its dock, churning up water and cars slid off in pursuit of their day; seagulls swirled above; up the strait, smoke belched from the paper factory’s two chimneys. 

He leaned over and grabbed his Bible. Five pages into it, he grabbed another book off his bookshelf: Ann Tyler’s Accidental Tourist. It was a favorite of his, and he started rereading it.

He eyed the clock: 7:57. This was going to be a long haul.

He cracked open his journal: 

February 2, 1982. 

I don’t feel like reading the Bible. This is not going to be some scholarly experience. This is going to be a journey to the heart, as April recommended. This is going to be a visit to the other side, entering the The Cloud of Unknowing, the mystical.  

I’m changing. All the potlucks, the chamomile teas, the co-op consciousness, and most especially, April have awakened another side of me. Nature. The Feminine. Gaia. My body. 

I’ve always had stomach problems. Bad digestion. Constipation. Stomach aches. Lately, I feel it softening, relaxing, like heretofore it’s been anticipating a punch.

So much about me is a mystery. Why is that? Am I holding back stuff from me?

4 pm: His stomach growled. Night descended. He took a hot bath and read. After, he pulled on his flannel pajamas, wrapped himself in his robe, sank down into his chair and journaled.

Here’s another thing in the mystery category: The other day, at the Town Tavern with friends, I took a swig of beer, and I couldn’t swallow, my throat just locked up on me. I panicked. It took every self control mechanism I had not to just spew it out in front of everybody. Finally, I relaxed enough to swallow. Weird. Does that happen to other people?

And another: I was in the kitchen at the Salal making oatmeal. I thought I was alone, and when I turned around, there was April. I fell to the floor, I mean, literally, my knees buckled, and I went down, I was so frightened by her appearance. She looked at me like I was crazy. She said I needed to relax. Duh.

The wind rapped on the windows. The house shook. He opened his futon and promised himself, as he lay down and threw a blanket over himself, that he wouldn’t let himself fall asleep.

When he reopened his eyes, it was morning. Woozy, he stood up. Lack of food was taking a toll. 

He resolved he would spend the day listening to music, really getting into it, dancing. He placed Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #2 on the turntable. The music flowed, so delicate, so gentle. He was swept into a river of tears. 

Why am I so sad? It scares me, like it’s a bottomless pit. 

I don’t like being alone, depression creeps up.

Then I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull myself out of it. 

I don’t like this.

Jerry slapped on some happy music: Huey Lewis and the News. He hopped, jumped and danced all around the apartment. It didn’t work. A heaviness pressed down on his spirit. He collapsed onto his folded up futon in the living room. 

Across the way, he gazed at his bedroom, with its closed door, as it always was. 

OK, here’s another mystery: Why don’t I sleep in the bedroom? I only go in there to dress. Something prevents me from sleeping there. I’m more comfortable out in the living room.

 

Nausea replaced hunger. A headache gripped his forehead.

Outside, the sky darkened. Shadows flew past his window. Ravens, three of them, soundless black streaks. 

It pissed him off.

Darkness wraps its arms around me, embraces me in a suffocating hold. I have fallen into a rabbit hole, and down here, the streets are mean. Ravens mock me. I hate them. A cauldron of rage surges within. I gotta learn how to cool it, not fuel it; soothe it, not infuriate it, for with it frothing, I’m gonna kill somebody. Hopefully, not me.

Why am I so angry?

He craved sleep, but didn’t let himself. He tried to meditate, but he couldn’t quiet his thoughts. He nodded off, then started awake, fighting off each impulse to sleep.

In the morning, day three, a knock at the door jarred him out of his stupor. He stumbled downstairs. Someone left a note: Call your father.

How weird. It’s like he knows I’m in trouble, or maybe, that I’m on to something. Synchronicity? 

Grasping the bannister, he wobbled up the stairs. At the top, he lay down. His cheek rested on the cold hardwood floor. As he gazed through the crack under his bedroom door, like a vapor, a memory slithered out.

Night. Summer. The whir of the rotating fan. I’m ten. I’m in my underwear, the cool breeze feels good as I lay on my belly. Dad enters. He starts massaging my legs. He works his way up to my thighs. I feel sweat dropping off him onto me. He slips his fingers under my underwear. He’s caressing my bottom, grazing my testicles.  

I don’t know what to do. Should I stop this? Should I say something? I pray it to stop on its own. My mind rages. Is this wrong? Is this OK? Should I speak? What should I say?

Dad’s breathing is heavy. His hand clenches my bottom. 

Then he stops. He leaves my room. 

Jerry jumped up.

“You motherfucking bastard!” he roared, saliva spraying across the room. He smashed his fist into his futon. “You motherfucking bastard!” Over and over, until he collapsed, throat burning, knuckles raw, arms shaking.

Against the ominous sky, the ravens, their beady eyes peered in.

Where was mom? Did she know about this? She should. I need to tell her the truth about dad, then she will open her arms to me and we will be united.

He staggered over to his futon, ripped a clean page out of his journal and began to write a letter to her. He related his disturbing memory and asked her to call him. After searching frantically, he found an envelope. With shaky hands, he folded the letter, addressed the envelope and stamped it.

He didn’t want to go down into the dark anymore. He recalled Ken’s advice to be easy on himself. This was enough.

He lurched onto the balcony and gasped for air as if surfacing from the deep. The sun emerged from behind breaking clouds and warmed his face.

This vision quest is over.