Ether

Ether

By:
Dana Michelle Belle

Chapter
1: Alive

            My body is
crumpled in the grass. There’s blood and glass and smoke. The strange thing is;
I’m standing here looking down at myself. That girl down there has huge green
eyes and a pixie face. She looks like a child’s doll forgotten in the long,
twisted grass. For all the years I’ve spent wishing I was taller, or curvier or
anything but cute and freckled, I guess I missed how pretty I was. There’s a
lot more blood now. She’s coughing it up and twitching. It’s not pleasant. The
scene’s getting fuzzy around the edges and my feet feel lighter. Is it still
grass I’m standing on?

            It’s not
until my body is very still that I manage to look away, to look around me. There
are swirling white columns of clouds, rising out of an endless silvery mist. It’s
like a colder version of heaven. I’m standing in white ether and all I can
think is that death is so much emptier than I imagined. I turn, feeling the
coolness on my fingers, the lightness of the air.

 It’s
then that I see him, watching me out of the mist. He’s stunning. With his
large, hazel eyes that sparkle with kindness, his gleaming skin, strong jaw and
fine features he’s beyond gorgeous. And every fibre of me, every tiny cell, is
pulling towards him. He smiles and I feel a flutter of warmth.    

            When he
takes my hand his touch is warm and strong, but soft. His eyes sparkle in this
pale, white world as he turns me around, facing the fading image of my body. “You
have to go back,” he whispers as a quiver of energy races from him into my
palms, along my arms and down the length of my body, filling me. The energy
trembles through me and now, beyond the whiteness, I can see swirling images,
shapes, sensations, glimpses of this world that isn’t mine. 

His
grip tightens. He gives a sudden tug on my hand and we’re running, the fog
streaming before us, back towards the crash scene. I try to pull against him,
to dig my feet into the ground, but we’re running on air, on mist. There’s
nothing to push against.

The
scene on the grass, the broken body, the blood, the shattered glass, looms into
view before us but it’s shallow and dim, like a shadow. It’s too far away to
reach, even if I wanted to. I belong with him. He holds my hand tighter,
crushing it in his. Just as the image of my body begins to fade away, he spins
me, pushing me backward out of the mist. I flail outward, reaching desperately
for him. My hands slip through his. It’s like trying to hold onto the wind. I
fall back into the world, back into my broken body.

Those first few days
are a blur. My dreams are sweet, peaceful, healing places and I fight to stay
in them. Waking up means pain and having to see how worried everyone is. No one
tells me exactly how badly hurt I am, but they don’t really have to.  I can see
with my own eyes that I have huge slashes on my right thigh and all down my
right arm where I spun along the asphalt. I look like I’ve been painted in horror
movie gore. And around the gashes are the deep blues and purples of badly
bruised skin. It hurts even to look at it.  What I can’t see is how severe a
head injury I’ve got. All I know is that my head hurts, a lot.  

But
for someone who was dead I’m pretty well off, considering. The doctors tell me
I’ll be in the hospital for
months.
But I’m not. I have two things going
for me; I’m a quick healer and my injuries aren’t as severe as they seem.  

Less than a month later,
I’m standing in front of our two storey, brick house. The same faded blue
shutters, patchy grass and old maple tree wait for me, but they look different
somehow. Buick comes bounding across the grass with great leaps and wags, his
ears flapping and his tail smacking wildly. He, at least, is just the same. I
bury my face in his black curly fur, hanging on to him. He smells like the
outdoors and damp dog; it’s a smell I’ve missed. He attaches himself to me as
we go inside, a giant, black, madly wagging burr.

            The entire
house shows the signs of my mother’s anxiety. It’s spotless and smells more strongly
of disinfectants than my hospital room. Even my room, usually a sanctuary of
comfortable chaos, shows signs of her frenetic tidiness. The carpet has been
vacuumed and there isn’t a single article of clothing draped on the furniture.
A bouquet of cheery Gerber Daisies in ink dipped colours stands on my bureau.
If it wasn’t for the embarrassing cartoon pony wallpaper, partially obscured with
giant posters, I’d swear I’ve gotten the wrong room. Somehow I expected coming
home to feel more familiar. I sigh and limp back downstairs.

            My mother
hovers over me. She fusses with the pillows on the couch, props my journal and
pen near my hand, scolds Buick when he tries to curl up with me and tries hard
to be nurturing. It’s not something that comes naturally to her. I’m relieved
when she finally asks if I’ll be all right while she runs out for groceries.

 I
find myself completely alone for the first time in weeks. I wait until I hear
the car pull out of the driveway before I ease myself off the couch. I give
Buick’s ears a scratch, pick up the journal, snag a huge bag of cookies and a
bottle of Coke and I set myself up on the sun bathed deck out back. Much
better.  

            I’m sitting
with a blank journal page open before me. Where to start? I’m only sixteen and
already on my second lifetime, a pretty heavy concept. A light breeze ruffles
through my bangs and softens the warm autumn light falling on my face.  I close
my eyes, enjoying the crisp fall air and feeling the sun against my face. For
the first time since the accident, I am warm. It would be easy to fall asleep
out here, even though I really am tired of bed rest.

            Because the
sun is lolling me to sleep, I miss the exact moment when I slip from
daydreaming in the sun to dreaming about the sunshine. I’m still here on the
deck, in the bright autumn sun, feeling the soft breeze on my skin, but when I
look up,
he
is leaning casually on the railing, arms crossed against his
chest, hazel eyes full of light. He smiles when he sees me looking at him.
“Hello Becks,” he says my name slowly, and his smile spreads from his lips to
his eyes.

            Usually, I’m
pretty good at talking to boys since my two best friends are guys, but gorgeous
strangers who say my name like its honey on their tongues and who have that
slow, knee weakening smile are an entirely different story, even in my dreams.
“uhh,” I stammer. “I’ve seen you before right?”

            He nods, “A
few times now.”

            “From the
mist.” I say slowly, the fragments of the memory filling in like scattered
puzzle pieces. “You saved me, didn’t you?”

            “I did.”

            “Who are
you? What are you? I was dead wasn’t I? Did you bring me back?” The questions
babble out of me. I clamp my jaw shut but it feels like my brain has been
chasing these questions around in circles ever since I woke up in the hospital.

            “Is it
alright if I join you for a while?” He asks, moving to sit in the chair next to
me. “I’d like us to spend a little time together before I try to answer those
questions.” So we sit together, looking out over the golden and ruby leaves,
watching the birds flit through the sky and land on the bird feeder. When I
open my eyes again, I am calmer and happier than I’ve been in months.

*          *          *

I’ve missed the last
green days of summer and landed solidly in golden yellows and bright reds. The
next morning the air is crisp and cool as it flutters through my curtains,
bringing with it the earthy scents of Fall. It is the kind of day that calls to
me, and I have a serious case of cabin fever. I lay on the couch long enough to
satisfy my mother that I am meekly following orders. She props the phone up
near me, reminds me not to overtire myself and kisses me goodbye.

            It doesn’t
take me long to be dressed and out the door. Taking short cuts, through
backyards and gravel paths, it’s about a half hour walk from our house to the
beach. I love our coastline. It isn’t the tame, smooth coast lines and fluffy
white sands the tourists come for. No, out here it’s rocky cliff faces and
bolder strewn beaches. It isn’t really safe to swim but the high cliffs and the
deep, cold water give me my own private beach.   

            I hurry on
the way to the coast, pushing my body beyond my comfort point, in my eagerness
to see the ocean again. My leg stings where the skin pulls across the new scar
tissue. If I take too long a stride the pain springs forward, jumping from a
slight pull to a ripping sensation. I have to walk with a strange, small
stepped gait, but manage a decent pace.

            There is
brine in the air. I inhale deeply, letting the clear, salty air fill me up. A
large gust of wind carries the tang of sea spray to me. Before me, at last, lies
the vast deep blues of the Atlantic. I stand on the bluff, arms thrown wide,
feeling the wind and salt spray against my body. I am alive!

            The path
down to the water’s edge is steep and slippery. I’ve never given it much
thought before but limited to one strong arm and leg, I have to choose my
footing carefully. A loose pebble turns my ankle as I scramble down and a
jarring pain zips along my leg making me wince. Pausing at the base of the
cliff, I survey the beach. It hasn’t changed in the month I’ve been recovering.
There are no changing leaves here, nothing to mark the passage of time. 

            I settle
myself on a boulder near the bottom of the path, ready to catch up on some much
needed sunshine. I swing my injured leg up before me, massaging it absently as
I looked over the frothing blue water.
Becks
, the crashing of the waves
seems to call my name. I’ve always pretended the ocean could speak to me. I
smile at the familiar sea. “Hello, old friend.”

           
Becks
.
I smile to myself. No one calls me ‘Becks’ anymore.
Becks!
The waves
pummel into shore, pounding my name more insistently with every crash. The
smile fades from my lips. I am just imagining the waves sound like words aren’t
I? I close my eyes, listening intently. I hear the surf pounding against the round
boulders of the shore. It is rhythmic and familiar. And then I hear it again,
Becks.

            Under the
noise of the crashing surf, the voice is tantalizingly familiar. “Hello?” I
call out hesitantly. The skin on the back of my neck prickles.

           
Becks.
The voice calls to me, louder this time. And now I can hear that it is male and
melodic. I stand, scanning the sand, the waves and rocks. I am alone. But someone
is calling me. My stomach tightens and my breathing picks up. I will not panic.
There is nothing to be afraid of. There has to be a reasonable explanation; A
trick of the wind, a strange bird call, or something. Forcing back the rising
uneasiness, I take a step toward where I think the voice is coming from. The
beach is not haunted. Not haunted. I take another halting step forward.

            The ground
vibrates beneath my feet. For a second I think a large truck is rattling by on
the road above the cove. The vibrations increase, making my feet hum, and my
legs jump under me. I shift, trying to keep my balance. What the heck is
happening?  Earthquake, I realize, a few beats too slowly. Now the whole beach
is shaking under me.

The
faint voice becomes a shout, screaming in front of me.
Run. Run. Run Becks!
Fear
roars through me and my legs jerk forward, pushing against the bucking sand. I
stumble. Recovering, I plunge forward again. I run, a plunging, desperate,
terror driven run as the land beneath me lurches and bucks. It’s like running in
a nightmare. The more I try to run, the slower I go, and the more I fall. The
shaking all around me crescendos and becomes so fierce I can’t balance. I throw
myself down, hugging the sand, eyes squeezed shut. “Oh God! Oh God!” I pray.

 Roaring
fills my ears, like a jet passing inches overhead and a tremendous, earth shaking
crack splits the air. The rocky face of the bluff cracks and crumbles. A volley
of boulders spray over the beach, rolling and bouncing, sending up a mist of
sand, dirt and rock chips. Rocks hit me; a painful bruising rain. As the rocks
settle a whirlwind of sand and dust fly up and tear the air from my throat,
stinging me with each gasping breath I take.   

            I squeeze
my eyes tightly shut and stay down, coughing and spitting the grit out of my
mouth and lungs. When the dust stills, I lift my head cautiously. A huge pile
of rubble now fills the space I was sitting only seconds before. Still wiping
my eyes I look back toward the path. It’s been obliterated.

            The entire
right side of my body is one giant ache as I kneel, and then stand on shaky legs.
I wince when I take my first step; it’s going to be a painful trip home. And a
long one, I realize, now that the path down the bluff is gone. I’ll have to
walk all the way down the beach to the stairs at the far end, which is at least
a mile out of my way.

            I’m bruised
all over but, for the second time in a month, I am lucky to be alive at all.
And this time I can’t pretend it was only luck that saved me. I definitely
heard a voice. Someone told me to run. Someone warned me. I’m not alone on this
beach. A little push of fear tugs at me but I dismiss it. I’ve had another
close call but car accidents are a lot different than earthquakes. This was an
act of God; surely it can’t have been targeted at me. Can it?