The Knowing: Awake in the Dark (2 page)

We drove on unlit back roads. The windows were down and my long hair lashed my face with sharp whips as Aaron made his case.

“I know I’ve been an asshole and I’m sorry. I’ll change, just come home.”  

My emotions swirled. All I ever wanted was for Aaron to love me, to want me. He was finally asking, but his explosive anger and violent outbursts were frightening and I didn’t want my son Raine to be like his father.

I bit down chewing on the soft pallet of my cheek.  “No Aaron, we can’t. I just can’t.” I said.

And just like that, his anger erupted. Suddenly his energy shifted. His very person disappeared replaced by billowing anger. His feelings were now locked behind a hateful smirk as he gripped the steering wheel. His speed increased dangerously.

He pushed down hard on the accelerator and began to babble emotionally as the car flew. Black silhouettes of trees and hills became a blur.

“Goddammit, Nita! Are you already fucking someone?! I knew it! I knew you were!” He screamed pounding the steering wheel with his fist.

“No Aaron! Jesus Christ, you’re unbelievable!” My fingers tingled and my heart ran wild and used up all the spit in my mouth.

“I mean it!” He bellowed, “If I can’t have you, then no one will! I will kill us both!”

I gripped the door handle.
Oh my god, what is he doing?
I was afraid of Aaron but I knew I was not alone in that car. I felt a presence with me. I called it “the light-body” and I’d been aware of it since puberty. The energy seemed to appear during stressful or dangerous situations but I hadn’t put those pieces together yet. The
light-body
along with the voice in my mind and the feeling in my gut (my
knowing)
told me,
you’ll be safe
.

Instead of terror I felt calmness as our speed increased. My seatbelt was secured, although it was not common to wear them at that time.

Aaron jerked the wheel to the right and caused us to careen off the road.  While in a sideways free-fall, I couldn’t hear anything. My world went silent. We hit a deep embankment where the groan of metal and shattered glass sounded far away.

When the car came to a stop it dipped sharply left crushing the driver’s side door permanently closed. Its nose was fixed securely in the ditch causing the hood to wrinkle like a crushed coke can. Aaron was cursing and throwing his weight helplessly against a door that would not budge.  I released my belt and crawled unhurt through the passenger side window and I fled. I gave no thought to Aaron and simply left him behind.
Why do I always give into him
? I wondered.
What power does he have over me?

The night was inky black. The back road was without streetlights, houses or traffic. I ran. The area was vaguely familiar. We were on the outskirts of an adjacent town, a predominantly black and poor area.

I half ran and half walked, barefoot for about a mile when the lighted sign of a 24 - hour store glowed in the distance. The unmistakable slang of black youths - whom I’d been conditioned to believe were unpredictable and dangerous - could be heard in the chill of the still night air. In front of the store in the glare of neon lights were groups of young black men drinking and loitering and selling drugs to late night patrons in search of an extended high on a Friday night.  Wary and shaken, I had no coat or shoes to guard against the increasing chill.

There came no taunts or catcalls as I had feared, rather a deliberate understanding passed unspoken and silent between us. I was a young girl in trouble and in need of help.  A pay phone hung on the outside wall and beside it stood a man in a raggedy knit cap. His eyes were bloodshot with droopy lids and had the shine of an addict. His wordless appraisal rolled over me like a second skin as he dug in his pocket and offered me coins to make a call. The stark contrast of white teeth against the bleeding red of his mouth and the blackness of his skin struck me and I felt like I knew this complete stranger. I felt safe and I was grateful for the unexpected help.

It was past midnight, and I awakened my sister Maggie with my desperate call. She came without comment or complaint. My mother was waiting up for us when we arrived home and said, “When are you going to learn that he is a fuck stick? You’re lucky he didn’t kill you. Stay away from him, Nita or he will.” My mother stood rigid, her arms crossed tightly over her breast. I gazed at her and saw disapproval spin like shiny lures around her body. The ability to see the energy that surrounded every living thing had been there for as long as I could remember.. Her hatred of him was visceral.

Aarons, attempt to hurt me was not his first or his last and the seriousness of his effort would grow.  But don’t let me confuse you by jumping ahead. Let me start slowly and show you how I got there. Instead let’s begin years before at church the day God burst through the room. 

I fixed my gaze on the church ceiling as random lights exploded across the room. Seven years old, I kicked my legs back and forth like scissors, enjoying the whoosh of air they created as they swung. Dry coughs echoed in the church while parishioners dressed in stiff Sunday fabrics wiggled in their seats on hard, wooden pews. I waited for the shooting star to fly across the sanctuary ceiling a second time. I was sure it was God.

Out of nowhere, the light zigzagged like lightning above our heads, silent in its flight. I was mesmerized. I turned to see who else had noticed the dazzling display, but all eyes were on the Bishop at the front of the sanctuary, his voice booming as he delivered his message. At that age it never occurred to me that others didn’t see it. I had seen lights exploding from as far back as I could remember and the ability to see them was a result of clairvoyance which is one of what is called the Clairs.

For as long as I can recall, I have always been able to see and hear things that most people do not. Over time, I have learned to uncover and understand my abilities. Like the feeling that settles into your gut as the hair rises on your body exposing an unknown truth that invades you like a final breath. The Clairs are spiritual senses that come in five forms. Their gifts create an ability to witness past, present and future events through visions, delivering unknowable information carried by a voice or sound that seems to come from nowhere.  The Clairs bring the smell of a loved one who’s passed, and the
knowing
of a stranger’s illness or deepest secret to which you have no connection. These are the mighty Clairs.

All people are born with at least one of the Clairs, but for some of us, the abilities are naturally stronger and more prevalent. It’s no different than a person who is born a natural athlete, artist, dancer or musician, deeply talented but untrained. They need to practice their skill and learn technique, but most importantly they need to believe in themselves.

My story is about how having the Clairs molded my life in a unique way that took time to understand and accept.  The abilities created an odd mix of
knowing
and confusion that always existed until I unraveled their meanings to understand and use them.

Having the Clairs didn’t change the swollen purple bruises from a violent beating or the pain of adolescence or the shame and isolation of rape. My gifts didn’t stop the progression of self-hate or curb my promiscuous behavior or stop me as I devoured dangerous drugs in an effort to blot out my miserable life. And the powerful Clairs did not stop me from getting pregnant at sixteen.

What they did was offer a
knowing
or intuition that revealed to me a person’s inner feelings or a different way to look at a situation. Frequently, in childhood, even though I
knew
how a person felt, it was beyond my emotional maturity level to understand, rather it was just a feeling. Likewise, I might have a vision or
picture
whose meaning I wasn’t able to fully grasp emotionally, but the experiences would reside within me until I matured and understood their meaning. From a young age, how I viewed the world was unconventional. Life didn’t happen to me, I
knew
there was a deeper meaning, but it would take decades for me to fully understand what those deeper meanings meant for me.

I did my best to deny the Clairs when I was an adolescent. I quickly learned that having the Clairs made me different.  I ignored the visions I saw and the voices I heard, telling myself they weren’t real. In the end, it was the
knowing
that told me the events of my life were purposeful. 
You can create your life,
the voice whispered
, you really can.
I recall hearing these types of messages most frequently in church but eventually hearing the voice spilled over into every area of my life.

Raised as a Mormon, I often felt like a fraud going to church because I broke God’s rules on a regular basis. I often lied to garner attention, sneak my sisters things, was envious of what others had and that was just the beginning of it. It was at church that the voice I heard in my head assured me that God was not vengeful and I need not be afraid.  One Sunday in a stuffy over heated room in the basement of our church, Mrs. Keller, our teacher, said “God sits on His throne in heaven where He can see everything you do and He has a book with your name in it and He is watching everything you do and writes it in His book. You can’t fool God.”

Lip’s tightly pursed, she clutched the ‘Book of Mormon’ and looked at each one of us as we squirmed uncomfortably in our chairs.

And then I heard the voice inside my mind say,
not true. Don’t be afraid, God doesn’t sit on a throne or have a book with your name in it. Don’t worry, God loves you no matter what.

In other instances I might hear a response to something that was said to me.

“If you say swear words,” warned a man in our church congregation, “God will make your teeth fall out so everyone will see that you swear. Swearing is unacceptable and God don’t like it.”

To convince me, he directed his youngest son to open his mouth and show all the teeth God had taken. The voice in my mind said,
God will not take your teeth for swearing. God doesn’t take teeth.

Hearing a voice in my head that I
knew
instinctively wasn’t mine, happened so early in my life that I don’t remember not having it.

At age seven I had no proof of who was right, the people at church or the voice, but at that age I trusted the voice in my mind. In childhood, the things I experienced were accepted without question, but as I grew up and it became apparent others did not share my experience, self-doubt and denial blossomed.

My family stopped attending church when my parents separated and then divorced.  My mother disliked church and regarded most people at church as “busybodies and do-gooders.” She often felt judged by fellow attendees and said so frequently. “Goddam do-gooders, I wish they would keep their do-gooder opinions to themselves” she would mutter after church.

In my childhood innocence, I looked forward to Sunday. I searched the bright ceiling of the sanctuary to see God fly around the room. I imagined I was God’s special friend sharing a secret.

Even before I saw the flying light that I thought was God in the church, I’d experienced a light vision. I clearly remember one such vision when I was five.  It involved my sister Maggie. She was a year older than me and from a young age we were close. I didn’t know at the time that the beautiful light was an angel but I would understand it years later.

I shared a room with Maggie, where we slept side-by-side in a double bed. Most nights we would snuggle together, our nightgowns tangled among spindly legs, whispering secrets and giggling in the dark.

One night, I saw a soft light hovering above my sister. The light had a soft golden glow and felt like music which resonated in my body rather than in my ears—like a melodious vibration with electric currents that caused my body to buzz. I gazed intently at the light and was not afraid. Instead, I was lulled to sleep. From that night on, I looked for the light so that I could relax and fall asleep. On one occasion, I reached up as far as I could to touch the magical glow while Maggie slept, but my hand felt only air. The light hovered over Maggie for several years and occasionally I would even catch a glimpse of it during the day, but I saw it best at night. I always felt closer to my sister while the light was there and yet I never mentioned its presence.

The year that I saw the light was the same time period when my parents learned that Maggie had a rare disease with no known cure and commonly fatal called Hand-Schuller-Christian.  Neither of us was aware of the disease, but Maggie sensed something was wrong. She had a recurring nightmare, “I’m dead,” she’d whisper, “and they put me in a coffin and keep me in the garage all by myself until Christmas. That’s the only day they wake me up and let me out.”

Fear radiated from Maggie’s tear-filled eyes - her lips would part revealing thick nighttime spit that created gummy strings inside her mouth as she sucked in air and cried, “I don’t want to be dead in the garage.” Her breath was hot against my face and filled with the smells of sleep.