Pathways to Ascension

Victoria and Richard stepped lightly down the five flights of stairs from the attic to the dining room of the Court Street Inn.  It was Saint Patrick’s Day.  The restaurant was filled with burly Irishman, some with their family but most without.  The hustle and bustle of the clientele was chaotic and it made Richard’s head ache.  It was so quiet and peaceful upstairs only moments before, he thought.  The men were loud and crass and sometimes rude.  It reminded him of the shanty inns in London’s Whitechapel area; Hungover whores and derelict men, gray and sometimes yellow from years of the drink. 

“Must we?’  Richard whispered to his wife.

“They’re working men.  This is their day!  We should be pleased to be a part of it.”  She said simply as she stepped fearlessly into the crowded eatery.  There, in a small corner Mr. Watkins and Mrs. Hopkins sat eating their breakfast of two eggs sunny side up, a piece of toast and jam and two cups of tea. As Victoria spied the other two of their entourage she noticed that Mrs. Hopkins was stiff and uncomfortable and looked positively petrified.

“May we join you?” she asked cheerfully.  Mr. Watkins stood as was appropriate for his station.  He looked about for extra chairs but there were none to be had.  Mrs. Hopkins seemed stunned.  This was truly unusual and certainly unheard of.  The Lady of the house never dined with the help especially in public.  The request took her breath away for a moment.

“You may have our table, Mrs. Rhys.  We are finished.”  Mrs. Hopkins said and she looked at Henry for corroboration. 

“But you are not finished.” Victoria protested.  Henry averted his eyes as only half of his breakfast had been eaten and he was still famished.

“Mr. Watkins and I must gather the horse.”  Mrs. Hopkins continued as she stepped toward the alcove that led to the foyer of the Inn.

“Nonsense.”  Victoria replied and she tapped a burly man sitting beside them on the shoulder. 

“Pardon me, sir?” She said.

His head was twice as big as the average person and when he stood erect he was beyond six feet tall and his chest looked like a wine barrel. “I was wondering if there might be a chair or two to be had?”  She asked demurely and smiled wide.  Without ever speaking the man returned her smile then with both hands lifted two smaller men up by their shirt collars and guided them, their feet barely touching the floor, toward the bar.

“These two are only having barley for breakfast today, mum.” He said in a brogue so thick that is was hard to understand.  The two Irishmen usurped by the English once again glared at the foursome.  Richard could see that they might expect retaliation and so he kept his eye on the two dark eyed Celts.  The large man lifted two oak chairs as if they were teacups and placed them at the table.

“Thank you so much.”  Victoria said warmly.  The big man smiled nodded and resumed his seat at his own table.  There was laughter and revelry already in full swing and it was only 9:00 am.

“Please sit, Mrs. Hopkins.”  Victoria instructed. “These have been extraordinary times.”  She added.  For some reason the words made sense and so Miriam took her seat and to Henry’s relief he was able to finish his breakfast.

“I think it a good omen that we are going home on this wonderful Christian holiday.”  She continued as Richard took his seat beside her.  Mr. Watkins hesitated unsure how to proceed.

“Please Mr. Watkins, do finish your meal.” Victoria instructed sweetly.  With that, Henry ate as if he were in the servant quarters at the Grove street house. Mrs. Hopkins sipped her tea when suddenly the restaurant grew quiet as a man stood up clinking his mug.  Out of the whispers came the most incredible tenor voice singing an old Irish ballad called “Foggy, Foggy Dew”.  The sound of the Irishman’s voice was so clear and profound that it moved her.  She caught Mrs. Hopkins’ eye and to her surprise she could see that her Governess was crying.  It was Mrs. Hopkins belief that emotions have no real value in servitude and so she kept her feelings to herself.  However, she was affectionate and loving to Victoria as a Mother would be to her daughter.  She never let what she considered unacceptable feelings show themselves.  At moments when weeping might be beneficial Mrs. Hopkins would remain silent and still.  But today, this moment, a song moved the older woman to genuine tears. 

“Victoria.”  She whispered as she wiped her eyes.  Victoria leaned in close to hear Miriam over the din and the singing.

“Nell…” Mrs. Hopkins began but her voice cracked and a quiet sob issued forth.

“What’s happened?”  Victoria replied.

“Nell passed away.”  She said quickly.  “I wish she were here to listen to this young man sing.”

“Mrs. Hopkins.” Victoria asked as she reached for Miriam’s arm.

“We sent her out.”  Miriam started and then she was overcome.

“We sent her out to try and find you, Mrs. Rhys.”  Mr. Watkins said slowly.  He gazed down at his cup of tea.  “She was caught in the storm.”

“Oh, my.” Victoria whispered trying to hold in the great breath of air that would manifest as tears.

“No one helped her.”  He continued.  “She froze to death in a doorway ten blocks away.”

“My God.”  Victoria uttered to herself.

“When they brought her in…”  Mrs. Hopkins began but her voice continued to crack. “I thought it was you.”  She leaned into Mr. Watkins for support as a torrent of emotions flooded through her.

“Where is she now?”  Richard asked innocently.

“In the cellar, Mr. Rhys.  Because of the storm it was the only place she would keep until the undertaker could pay a visit.”  Henry replied

“Funeral arrangements?” Richard continued.

“The Priest will say a few words and she’ll be buried here in Brooklyn at Green-wood.” Henry said.  A round of applause erupted in the restaurant and the crowd of Irishmen grew loud again.  But Victoria was overcome and the clapping at their table was half-hearted and laced with sorrow.

“The house won’t be the same.”  Victoria whispered to Richard and he wrapped his arms about her as if she were his fragile girl.

“She’s home now…in the green fields of Erin.”  He whispered back.  “And she’s having a laugh at the merriment of the day.”  Then he kissed her cheek and tucked a loose curl back behind her ear.  He raised his hand and the overwhelmed bartender caught his signal.

“A round!”  Richard said loudly as his fingers moved in a circular fashion indicating the table.

“I don’t indulge.”  Mrs. Hopkins said sternly.

“You will.  Today.  And you’ll do it for Nell.  Because you know it would make her happy.”  Richard said authoritatively.  Then he picked up a butter knife and clanked on a plate.

“Eh-hem!  I’d like to make a toast to my…friend, Nell.  A good Irish woman.  Who died this week in the storm.”  Richard announced.  “God rest her soul.”

“To NELL!  GOD REST HER SOUL”  The restaurant erupted.  Then a man pulled out his fiddle and began what sounded like a dirge at first and then quickly moved into a Ceilidh tune. The music soothed Victoria and Mrs. Hopkins.  Today was a day to rejoice.

 

 

Chelsea sat on the stainless steel bench in the middle of the Tate Galleries staring at the huge ocean paintings by Richard Rhys.  She could smell salt in the air and for a moment she could feel herself undulating as she focused her entire being on the canvas and the waves they evoked.  She pulled out the small piece of paper with the combination of canvases written down by Ashley as dictated by Dame Thornton.  She felt strangely odd not telling Ashley that she was at the Tate, but she knew Ashley would be in Essex for most of the day.  What could a few hours hurt of being still and meditating on these grand works of art.  It was canvas number seven.  The day of her birthday fell on the 7^th.  She found it interesting that it was the first in a series of thirteen.  But seven was one.  It was the beginning, the alpha, the first.  From this point on everything would be built.  The painting seemed to be in two parts.  The lighter, cerulean blue hue constituted an abstract form of the sky…a kind of firmament.  The lower half painted with varying ultramarine, Prussian and indigo hues became the primordial waters.  It reflected Chelsea’s subconscious in a way.  Her feelings ran deep and the hidden meanings eluded her.  Along the horizon was the same almost imperceptible orange line.  But in this particular canvas the orange line was repeated in the upper right quadrant in the form of a circle.  It was darker at the bottom and fiery orange on the sides and top. There was also a small clump of paint at the bottom that made the circle imperfect.  As she gazed at it she felt her spine begin to tingle.  She took in a deep breath and noticed that a man, a Sikh had entered the gallery quietly.  He stood at the back contemplating the work.  Chelsea smiled and then returned to her concentration.  He stepped quietly up to the canvas and scrutinized the orange circle.

“Mmmm, interesting…Ouroboros.”  He said to himself softly.  Then the sound of a smart phone vibrating interrupted the tranquility of the space and the swarthy gentleman apologized and excused himself.  She pulled out her own phone and googled Ouroboros.  She discovered that the Ouroboros is an ancient alchemical symbol illustrated by a snake swallowing its own tail.  The circle of life.  The cycles of nature.  The ebb and flow of emotion and the human experience of duality within the divine.  She got up and moved close to study the fiery circle.  It seemed to spiral out and up in an almost three dimensional way.  For a moment it reminded her of the conch shells that would wash up on the beach.  There was something mathematical about it and yet simultaneously fluid.  

She closed her eyes and in her mind the spiral became the familiar strands symbolic of DNA.  Maybe the doctor was wrong.  It is possible.  Maybe he made a mistake and she really was pregnant after all.  She could still feel something inside even after all the tests and diagnoses.  She imagined that she was four months and that she had a baby bump.  She let her hands caress her belly and then she did something extraordinary.  She ‘remembered’ backward.  She remembered as if it had already happened, as if she had already given birth to her daughter and was reliving the images of being pregnant.  She remembered Ashley and the tenderness she showed.  She remembered how vulnerable Ashley was and yet how confident and self-assured.  She remembered how sensitive and thoroughly sensual the experience had been and even now she could feel it in her body.  They had certainly made love to each other but it went far beyond the physical experience.  It touched the hem of transcendence.  Somehow the thought of it made her joyful regardless of her reality.  She decided that she would travel through time in a different way and perhaps the act would produce a surprising reality.  Loss was not really loss.  It was opportunity turned upside down.

 

 

Ashley stood in front of the Hyde Park residence.  It was a large townhouse like the exquisite mansions found along Fifth Avenue near the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.  She sat on a bench in the park directly across the street from the Dame’s home.  And the earlier conversation replayed in her head.  Chelsea had said, “I dreamt is was ours…really ours.”  The words had weight and though Ashley knew what Chelsea meant she also knew it was biologically impossible.  She had the orange sari tied at her waist and she draped it across her shoulders as a damp breeze was blowing up off the river.  As a Southern woman she was taught that one marries and has a child or children.  But the idea of it seemed foreign to her artistic mind.  She liked children well enough but not to the extent that she wanted to actually have one.  She had gotten used to the idea that if she were meant to have a child it would come to her in whatever way the universe deemed necessary.  The idea of pregnancy had the same effect as the idea of purgatory.  Nine months of feeling out of sorts, uncomfortable and ill was not exactly the sales pitch she had in mind.  Then the pain associated with actual birth was downright unacceptable. She liked her parts just the way they were. Something moving that big through a miniscule opening had to do some kind of damage and she was not at all lulled by the ideal of motherhood or the romantic notion of the miracle of birth.  The only thing that seemed to lodge explicitly in her brain was the medical details of a painful process. However, if Chelsea were the birth mother then the idea of it excited her. Scott’s presence had made Ashley think within the constraints of normal human desire.  Scott was gone and now Ashley and Chelsea were together.  They were really together.  And as Ashley contemplated the significance of her epiphany she could see the possibilities.  As she brushed her hands across the orange fabric she could feel herself moving as if on horseback.  She felt a little drunk and yet happy---exhilarated.  So what if they didn’t have any Y chromosomes between them. Big deal.  Miracles happen every day.  The trick is to ‘see’ them and to perceive them as such.  Ashley felt invigorated and up for a challenge.  The material world would consistently say ‘no’.  But her aspirations and faith in the higher etheric places told her that ‘maybe’ was real and that ‘yes’ was within the realm of possibility.  If science could map the human genome and create clones of sheep, rabbits and dogs--- and genetically engineer plants for better nutrition and disease and pest resistance, then why couldn’t this same alchemical endeavor be applied to gender? It was possible---absolutely possible.

Ashley got up confidently and walked across the street to the large wrought iron gate that protected the beveled glass door behind it.  She rang the bell and stood there for a moment.  She wondered if anyone was home.  Certainly the servants would not leave it unattended.  After about ten minutes she was about to walk away when a thin, pale balding man opened the glass door.

“May I help you?” He said in his classic British accent.

“I’m Ashley…Coleman.  Dame Thornton---“

“Yes. You are expected.” The Butler said as he unlocked the gate. “Do come in.”  Ashley stepped inside and the entranceway was palatial and grand like in the old Hollywood movies.

“Dame Thornton said that you would be expected for dinner.”  The Butler continued.

“Yes.” She replied.

“My name is Wilkins.  I am at your service.  Is there anything particular that you would like this evening?” He asked in a perfected formal way.

“Actually, there is and this may be a strange request, but…Thai coconut soup.”  Ashley said excitedly.  Wilkins grimaced.

“I don’t know if the cook is schooled in oriental cuisine.”  He said slowly.

“That’s okay.  There’s a place in the East End.  I’ll write down the address where the cook can get the food already prepared.” Ashley instructed.

Wilkins looked confused and taken by surprise.

“My friend.  She has a bit of a tender stomach since we arrived and the Thai food seems to be the only thing she can keep down at the moment.”

“Oh Splendid.” Wilkins said sarcastically.

“I’ll be back with our things by eight.”  Ashley added.

“Will you need the car?” Wilkins offered almost by rote.

“There’s a car?”  Ashley said surprised.

“Of course there’s a car…with a driver.  Shall I send it round for you?”  He said in a monotone.

“The Savoy.  7:30 would be great.  And if the food could be hot and ready to eat by 8:15 that would be extra special.”  Ashley said and she smiled at how her plans were falling into place perfectly.

“Oh, happy day.”  Wilkins said in his wry monotone.

“You’re funny.”  She said cheerfully and almost skipped out the door as the sun was slowly sinking in the west.

The Epiphanies of the Unknown

Fourth of July 2010.  It was 89 degrees and 7:00PM New York time.  Felix walked through the Manor house he had bought for Ashley surveying the day’s work by the skilled laborers.  Reclaimed wood from various old Brooklyn buildings had been brought in to reconstruct the original beams and joists.  Because the wood was hard oak and literally ancient, it took time to faithfully rebuild what had been accidentally torn down.  Abe told Louis earlier in the day that many of the oak beams came from an old livery stable turned private residence on Court Street that had finally been torn down in order to make way for a Banana Republic clothing store. There was a deep sense of loss when he conveyed the news.  Little by little forgotten parts of New York were being chipped away in the name of progress.  The biggest innovator or demolisher was Robert Moses depending on your perspective.

The air was humid and Felix quickly sweat down his Armani shirt and slacks.  As he wandered from room to room he tried hard to put himself in Ashley’s shoes and genuinely take in the craftsmanship and appreciate the history that was infused in the old house.  The molding and the fleur de lis and the old wallpaper whispered things to him that, perhaps, he had never experienced before.  It was not anything that he could honestly put into words.  Studying the architecture and the brilliant craftsmanship of the old house made him suddenly appreciate the kind of artisanship that brought the house to life, gave it character and a kind of eccentricity…just like Ashley.  The epiphanies came quick and wordless.  It was a sudden burst of knowing.  A quick flash of awareness and being alive just as the house was alive in a hibernating state.  Felix felt an overwhelming need to revive it at any cost---down to the drawer pulls and square headed iron nails that held the planks of the sub-floor in place. 

Ashley was visibly absent for the press conference earlier in the day.  The whole slant to the story was that Felix had taken it upon himself to rebuild a castle for the love of his life.  Louis handled it with great aplomb and manufactured the story that Ashley was absent because she was overseas collecting various authentic materials to help restore the grand mansion. The broadcast on the local evening news made Felix look like a hero, a community activist and protector of the city’s history.  Somehow he didn’t quite feel like a hero.  He felt lost.  His girlfriend was in London with another woman.  He pulled out is cell phone and dialed her number.

“Hey, Felix.” He heard her answer through the tinny, crackling amplifier.  She sounded a million miles away.

“Hey.  How’s your vacation?”  He asked sweetly.

“Felix, it’s 1:00AM here.”  Ashley replied sounding tired.

“Oh, I’m sorry---did I wake you?”

“No.  But I’m about to turn in.  What’s going on?”  She said heavily.

“The Press conference went over really well.”  He said cheerfully.

“Oh, Great---Hey, I’m sorry I wasn’t there.  I’m sure you guys did a great job.” She said.

“Yeah, Mayor Mike came out and everything.  Listen, when are you going to be back because I really want your input on this.  I mean, the house is intricate and amazing.  I want to find authentic materials and things to reconstruct---“

“I’m going to be here for a while.” Ashley interrupted.

“How long?” Felix asked as he fidgeted with a rotten piece of molding that had fallen from the east wing ceiling.

“About three months.” She replied.

“Three months!” He exclaimed.  “Look, are you moving to London with her.  What the hell is going on?  I bought the fucking house.  If you don’t want it I’m selling it.”

“I do want the house, Felix.  I love the house.  I do.  I just…I found these paintings at the Tate and they’re…I don’t know, I can’t describe how they make me feel but they’re important and I want to study them and I need a good amount of time to do that.”

“Are you blowing me off?” Felix said angrily. 

“I thought you said the house was mine.” Ashley said pointedly. 

“Are you going to be with her for three months?” He shot back.

“Her?  She has a name.  She’s not a cat, you know. No.  Chelsea has to be back in New York by the end of the week to finish her article.” She replied.

“I’m flying in.” He threatened.  “If you’re going to do this then do it to my face.”

“I’m living my life, Felix, and you can not control me!” She said raising her voice.  “I am not ‘doing’ anything to you.  You make your choices and you have to be responsible for how you feel about those choices.” She said and she hung up.

“Ashley!  Ashley!”  Felix said and he threw his phone on the floor where it shattered into several pieces.

“That’s gonna cost you.”  A voice said from the darkness.

“Who’s there?” Felix said startled. 

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to make you jump.” The female voice said.  “Louis told me I’d find you here.  I’m Antonia.” She purred as she moved into a work light.  She was petite with short dark hair and a round face.  Her eyes were as black as coal and she looked French.  She was in a pair of hiking shorts and leather sandals.  Felix wiped his sweaty palm on his pants and shook her hand.

“Nice to meet you.” He said embarrassed.  He leaned down and picked up the pieces of his broken cell phone. “What can I do for you?” He said softly.

“I work with the New York Historical society…in the fine art division.”  She began.  “And earlier today as the workmen were removing part of the original rotted lattice work behind the pitted plaster they came across this old wooden draughtsman’s box.  Probably the property of the original owner.”  She explained.

“Mmm, hmmm.” He grunted still reeling from his angry outburst.

“There were old photographs inside.  They were of Mr. Rhys standing next to one of his paintings.”  She continued. “Of course they’re old black and whites, like Carte de visits so the clarity is a bit muddled.”

“And what does this have to do with me?” He asked distracted.

“Well.  It just adds even more value to the property.  I’m not sure how Mr. Rhys fits into art history and more importantly New York City History, but I am now assigned to make sure that no anachronisms, materials or otherwise, are used to renovate this house.” She added.

“Are you the History police?”  He said sarcastically.

“I am.” She replied.  “I am also here to help you research and find the correct materials in order to restore this place to its gilded age grandeur.” She smiled.

Something about how Antonia grinned at that moment seemed to alleviate Felix’s frustration.  Suddenly the fireworks in Prospect Park and the East River began take over the night sky and infuse the moment with a kind of celebration, excitement and even wonder.

“You’re going to help me?” He asked again for reassurance.

“Yes.  I’ve been assigned to help you.  This is a huge undertaking. I’m not even sure where to start.  But we will have to start somewhere and I thought this would give us a clue.” She handed an old cardboard photograph to him.  On the edges he could make out some of the details of the artist’s studio.  It seemed to enliven and even challenge him.

“I’m unreachable.” He said chuckling holding the pieces of his phone. “Want to go for a beer?” He asked. 

“I’m parched.” Antonia replied and they walked through the house and the yard through crowds of kids with sparklers and pockets of inebriated adults to a neighborhood pub.

 

 

Ashley and Chelsea had just returned the rental car when Felix called.  Chelsea dropped the keys in the lock box at the parking lot leaving Ashley on the street to finish her conversation.

“Who was that?” Chelsea asked softly as she returned.

“My ex.” Ashley sighed.

“You have an ex?” Chelsea said feeling uneasy.

“Oh, no, we were never married.  An ex-boyfriend.  He’s a piece of work.” Ashley said shaking it off.

“Oh.” Chelsea replied and the tone of her voice gave way to a different subject.

“What?” Ashley asked.  Chelsea shook her head as her cheeks flushed. “What?” She pressed.

“Nothing. I just…I never knew you had an ex is all.” Chelsea said trying to dodge an uncomfortable subject.

“Why is that hard to believe?” Ashley asked unsure whether or not to feel slighted.

“I just…I can’t picture you with anyone else but me.” Chelsea said in a fragile tone.

The way she said it was incredibly endearing and Ashley felt immediately drawn to her.  As they walked arm and arm into the foyer of the Hotel, they were greeted by the Concierge.

“Ms. Barrett?” An older gentleman called.

“Yes?” Chelsea replied.

“There has been an upgrade to your suite.  Please see the front desk.” He said in his clipped British accent.  The two women were greeted by a hotel representative.

“Hello, my name is Mrs. Chamberlain and I’m pleased to inform you that Mr. Burton has generously moved you both into one of the luxury suites on the top floor.” She said.  “Follow me.”

“What about our stuff?”  Ashley asked.

“Oh, One of the chambermaids carefully gathered your belongings and moved them to the new room.” She beamed as they all stepped onto the lift. In the elevator Mrs. Chamberlain handed Chelsea and Ashley their own keycards.

“This suite comes with a fully stocked bar, access to a car and driver, all the amenities one could wish for.” The woman explained.

“Do we get to have tea with the Queen?” Ashley asked in a smartass tone.  Chelsea jabbed her in the side with an elbow. “Ow!”

Mrs. Chamberlain chuckled pleasantly more out of duty than actual humor.  How many times had she heard that from a crass American.

“And here we are.” She opened the door with her master key and as the door swung open Chelsea and Ashley’s mouths dropped.  The ceilings were twenty feet high, the walls were exposed stone and two exquisitely hand carved walnut canopy beds fitted with luxurious Egyptian linens and fine heavy damask bed curtains cloaked the sleepers in privacy.  On the walls hung what looked to be unicorn tapestries.  If they were not the real thing then they were just as good as the medieval ones hanging at the Cloisters.  The room had a balcony with twelve-foot high French doors.  The windows were just as grand.  Beautiful satin curtains could be drawn to cut out the spill of light from the Eye and other high rise buildings.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”  Mrs. Chamberlain said.  “Oh, and Mr. Burton left this for you.” She placed a note in Chelsea’s hand and quietly slipped away.

 

Dear Chelsea,

When you get this note please call me immediately.  It is urgent I speak with you.  I don’t care what time it is.  I have been given an extraordinary assignment and I must speak with you before I leave.  I hope you enjoy the room.

Very Sincerely,

Scott

 

Chelsea folded the note and picked up the stationary phone on the credenza.

“What are you doing?  It’s 2:00 o’clock in the morning.”  Ashley said.

“He said to call him.” Chelsea replied sheepishly.  Ashley sank down on one of the beds.  Her eyes fixed on an intricate design at the top of the canopy.

 

“Hey Scott.  It’s Chelsea….Yeah, it’s beautiful.  It’s astonishing.  You shouldn’t have, really---but thank you!”  Ashley heard her say.  “It’s really late, though.” Chelsea whispered.

“I can hear you.  I’m still here.”  Ashley said from her bed.

“Okay, okay…Um, It can’t wait til the morning?” Chelsea asked. She sighed and looked over at Ashley’s bed.  “All right.  I’ll be down in a minute.”  She hung up the phone.  Ashley could feel a wave of emotion start to roll over her.  She couldn’t understand why.  She was not the possessive type.  She sat upright and looked at Chelsea who seemed to be wearing shame as a badge.

“I can’t compete.” Ashley said softly and the tears started to roll and her nose started to run.

“What are you talking about?” Chelsea asked startled by her honesty,

“If this is what it takes, I can’t compete.  I can only give you what I have and that’s me.  I’m all there is.” She said softly.

“You don’t understand.  I have to see him.”  She said softly.

“It hurts my feelings that you don’t think I count.” Ashley replied and she rolled over and turned her back. 

Chelsea slipped out into the hallway and all the feelings she had kept guarded came rushing forth.  She heaved with confusion and a kind of grief.  She was at a crossroads wondering which path to take.  She obviously felt strongly about both Ashley and Scott.  If she was carrying Scott’s child, and she was convinced of that truth, perhaps the universe had led her to him. However, she could not remember being intimate with him and was unaware of what that experience was really like.  She did not have the magical moments and an entire past existence tugging at her as she did with Ashley.  And, although she and Ashley had never actually made love she already knew what it would feel like.  It would be all consuming.  It would be the mindful merging of body, mind and spirit. Her Midwestern conventional upbringing seemed to override what her heart appeared to be craving.  Marriage is an institution born and bred of business arrangements.  As long as there are structures and rules in the agreement, all parties can get along. Those sentiments surprised her.  Were they her own thoughts, she wondered.  But what of love?  What of the rules?  Are there any?  What of being annihilated by the thing that stirs that inexplicable passion?  What of being submerged completely in the eddies and tides of sheer ecstasy?  What of identity?  All of these questions churned in Chelsea’s head as she tried to catch her breath and make her way to the hotel lobby.  She had been in this predicament before and she could feel it but she could not put her finger on its origin.  It was a remnant.  A dull, lingering, feeling that touched her edges.  She found a Kleenex in her pocket and quickly dabbed her eyes. Just then the elevator doors opened and there he was…holding a bouquet of freshly cut baby blue hydrangeas.  He smiled endearingly.  How did he know they were her favorite flower?  Where did he find them on such short notice?  Was this an elaborate plan, a grand courtship to win her over?  She wondered and the questions were sharp at their tip.

“Em, you must be tired.  I really appreciate you taking a moment to see me.  How---how are you feeling?”  He asked as he led her to a bevy of puffy chairs in the hotel’s lobby.  As she looked around the hotel patrons coming back from a night of clubbing and pubbing moved in slow motion.  The bustling murmur of youth faded into some unknown vault.  She could hear her own heart and it sped up as she prepared to speak.

“I’m fine. A bit tired.” She said softly.

“I’ll be brief.  I’ve taken an assignment and I leave in about 5 hours. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.  You see, I was the equivalent of a navy seal in the royal forces when I was younger.  And now I have the opportunity to embed myself in Afghanistan and report on the British forces as well as the US forces still there.” He said cheerfully.

“That’s great. Um, wow…how long will you be gone?” She asked a bit upended by the news.

“I’m not sure.” He replied.

“It’s dangerous.” She said.

“Very.” He replied.

“Well, that’s great---congratulations.  That’s, like…real journalism.”  She said.

“Yeah, yeah, the BBC finally threw me a bone.” He said taking her in.

“So…what is this all about?” Chelsea said confused.

“I wanted you to wait for me.” He said softly.

“I haven’t made a decision yet.” She whispered.

“I know.  But if you do decide to go through with it…I wanted you to know that I will be back…and I will be ready…and I won’t ever forget you.”  He replied.

Chelsea took in a deep breath.  “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” He asked as he checked his watch.

“Okay, I’ll keep that in mind when I make my decision.” She said and she got up to leave.

“Chelsea.  I was hoping I’d convince you to keep it.” He said anxiously.

“Yeah, well…you’re going to go get your ass shot off and so the probability of me being a single mom is pretty high.  And I have to be honest.  I don’t want to be a single mom.  I want a partner.” She walked over to the elevator bank and she could see him standing there deflated and confused.  She smiled weakly and disappeared behind the metal doors.  As the elevator ascended she could feel the weight of her body.  She felt proud of herself.  There was a rush of relief.  She was not going to settle.  She was not going to repeat a pattern.  She was going to try something new.