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.

Manifesting the Grail

“Well, it looks like you are definitely not pregnant.” The attending physician said.

“What?” Chelsea replied astonished.

“You are not pregnant.” The doctor repeated.

“How can that be?” Chelsea asked as she became uncharacteristically emotional.

“Your various hormonal levels are such that you are not with child. What typically happens with women that are under unusually stressful situations---life changes, traumatic events and such, they may enter a phase of perimenopause. This can be treated with effective hormone therapies---“

“I’m not menopausal. I’m only twenty- seven.” She said growing ever more upset.

“Don’t misunderstand, Miss Barrett. I’m not saying that you are menopausal or even in perimenopause. What I’m saying is that incredible stress can bring on the symptoms. You’re just out of balance.” Doctor Whitcomb tried to calmly explain. But his words felt like needles and with each puncture Chelsea felt herself deflate even more.

“Were you…em, were you trying?” The doctor stumbled in his British tone.

“Trying?” Chelsea managed to say through her sobs.

“Trying to conceive.” He said softly.

“NO---no, no, no. It was an accident.” She said.

“Then perhaps you’re relieved to know that an unplanned pregnancy has been averted.” He said and he smiled as if his words had absolved and resolved the situation.

“Are you on birth control?” He asked as he took notes.

“Yeah. I’m on the pill.” She said.

“Perhaps when you return to the states you can see your regular gynecologist and have the doctor prescribe something that will evenly distribute your hormonal make-up.” He smiled condescendingly.

“You can’t do anything for me right now?” She asked. “I’m planning on being here for another three months. The fatigue is overwhelming. I need something so I can function and do my job.” She said.

“Do you have your birth control medication with you?” He asked. She flipped out the oval packet with the perfect circle of tablets. He eyed them and handed them back scribbling as he turned.

“You’re health care benefits don’t apply here in the U.K., you see.” He said and he looked pointedly at her.

“I see. It’s a cash only business.” Chelsea said cynically.

“Sterling.” He said in a chipper tone as he continued scribbling. “We’ll have to do a full blood work-up.”

“Can I come back?” She asked as she tried to strategize how she could pay for the new medication.

“Certainly.” He replied amiably as he reached into his white coat and produced a card.

“Just ring us up.” He said and smiled and then turned on his heel and left Chelsea alone to dress in the examination room. She sat there and a cascade of disappointment rolled over her. She could not understand why. The pregnancy had been an obstacle. But now that it had magically vanished she was experiencing loss. She could still taste Ashley on her lips and whatever soap she used mingled with her own scent stayed with Chelsea. She could smell Ashley in her hair. And somehow she thought if she wished hard enough that perhaps the pregnancy would have been the hinge that glued she and Ashley together. She fantasized that as a result of their lovemaking the child she would produce would be wholly theirs, not Scott’s. She imagined with poignant accuracy the visual characteristics that were hers and the ones that were genetically her partner’s. She had somehow subconsciously grown excited at the idea of this child being the perfect combination of Chelsea and Ashley. Intellectually she knew that it was a biological impossibility, but she could dream. And now her dreams were gone and she wondered if, perhaps, this is what it felt like to miscarry. As the tears subsided a wave of fatigue enveloped her and she wondered if Ashley had come back to the hotel to find her missing. She grabbed her phone and texted: “Couldn’t wait. I’m at the doctor’s. xo, C”

Ashley had just stepped back onto the elevator at the Savoy when her phone buzzed signifying that she had just gotten a text. She figured it was Felix so she’d check it later. Fumbling for the room key she exited on her floor carrying the coconut soup. As the door to the suite swung open she was met with silence.

“Chelsea?” She said in a regular tone. “Chelsea!”

There was no answer. It was odd and as she sat down she wondered if maybe Chelsea decided to meet with Scott again. The thought of it tore at her and she felt her stomach ache. Where could she have gone and why didn’t she call? She wondered. Then her mind began to meander to those scary places. What if she had a medical emergency? She wondered. She called the concierge from the room phone.

“Good Morning. How can I help you?” A friendly voice answered.

“Yes. I was wondering if there were any emergencies here on the top floor this morning?” Ashley asked.

“Emergencies?” The woman reiterated.

“Yes. My friend wasn’t feeling well and I’ve come back to the room to find her gone.” Ashley explained.

“There have been no emergencies here at the hotel. Perhaps, she made her way to a clinic.” The woman replied cheerfully.

“Yes---okay, thank you.” Ashley said and she hung up the phone. Just then Ashley recalled the text noise her cell had made. She quickly grabbed it from her purse just as the door to the room swung open. Chelsea stood there pale and about to unravel. Ashley froze.

“Are you okay?” Ashley asked not moving afraid that her world might collapse.

“No---yes…and no.” Chelsea said softly like a child as she shuffled over to one of the canopy beds. Ashley laid her phone down and waited. Chelsea sat down on the edge of the bed and stared blankly at the stone wall.

“I’m not pregnant.” She whispered deflated.

There was a part of Ashley that wanted to jump for joy but she could not. Somehow Chelsea’s emotions carried over and although intellectually she was glad that her friend would not be burdened with a child, she was also aware that a part of her wanted a child.

She sat down next to her and took her hand.

“I…I understand.” Ashley said and they sat there for some time in silence as the business of London drifted up off the streets and into their space.

“I dreamt it was…ours.” Chelsea said and she felt herself slowly submerge into tears.

“Oh, now. It’s okay. It’s all right. If you really want to have a child you can. You’re young enough and…” Ashley said trying to comfort her.

“No…I mean….really ours.” Chelsea said as she looked straight into Ashley’s eyes. Ashley understood completely.

“Well we can try.” Ashley chuckled hoping a little levity would help the situation. Just at that moment Chelsea’s eyes moved to Ashley’s hair. She wore a look of amazement.

“What?” Ashley asked. “What is it?”

“You’re gray.” She said still taking in her friend’s appearance.

“Yeah, I need to color my hair.”

“Don’t!” Chelsea said. “It’s more gray than I remember from last night even.”

Ashley got up and looked in the mirror and she was awestruck herself. The hair at her temples had turned color almost overnight. She was indeed gray and almost white.

“Wow.” She whispered as she pulled her hand through her mane.

“I like it.” Chelsea said smiling.

“Do you think it’s the Thai soup?” Ashley asked. Chelsea shrugged. She retrieved the sustenance encased in a plain white paper sack.

“I already had mine.” Ashley said. “I made an appointment to see Dame Chelsea Thornton this afternoon.”

“I think I might stay behind.” Chelsea said and her eyes were growing heavy. “I’m just so tired.”

“Sure. Sure. Take a nap and I’ll be back by eight and we’ll have a nice supper on the town.” Ashley replied.

Richard awoke with a start. He rubbed his eyes and found Victoria sitting at the end of the room at a small servant’s desk as the winter sunlight bathed her in an almost whitish glow.

“What are you doing, dear?” He said softly as he cleared the sleep from his voice.

“Making notes.” She said without lifting her head. “I must contact Stanford White about the house. Repairs should begin by mid-April for it to be habitable by the end of the summer.” She said and her forehead crinkled with determination. “We shall have to spend our anniversary elsewhere I’m afraid…Perhaps Paris?” She giggled.

Richard looked about and found that Mr. Watkins and Mrs. Hopkins had already dressed and begun the day.

“They’re at breakfast, dear.” Victoria said and she finally looked up and smiled at him.

“I was waiting for you.” And her words cascaded over him like a memory from the future. It echoed and resounded with potent meaning and revelation. He sat down in a small cane chair next to her. She ran her fingers tenderly through his hair and she gazed at his temples.

“So distinguished.” She whispered and she smiled revealing a part of herself that Richard had not fully seen before.

“You’ve been through so much.” She said almost to herself but trying to explain the increase of white in his hair. But Richard was well aware why his hair was turning gray so fast. It was not stress or trauma or fear, but rather knowing. She gazed down at his hands and noticed the orange thread wrapped about his index finger. She pulled at it and he seemed protective.

“Saving threads from my scarf?” She said lightly.

“Yes.” He replied leaving no explanation.

“Whatever for?” She asked.

“So I won’t forget.” He said teasingly.

“What is it that you might forget, dear?” She replied inquisitively.

“What you’ll look like in one hundred and twenty two years.” He replied enigmatically. She laughed but there was something very real to his words and she knew deep down that he was telling the truth. She gazed out of the window over the white landscape and the river in the distance. The way the light reflected off her porcelain skin reminded Richard of the halos that the renaissance masters used to paint in a bygone era.

“We’re finally going home.” She said in a dreamy tone as if they had been away for years.

“Yes, we’re going home.” He said and he kissed her tenderly.

Ashley parked her rented Vespa and quickly walked into the Assisted living residence where Dame Chelsea Thornton lived. As she moved to the circular ‘concierge’ in the lobby she noticed that Delilah was sitting there.

“Delilah, would you please let Dame Thornton know that I am here for my appointment.” She said sweetly without ever looking her in the eyes.

Delilah hissed, got up and disappeared for a moment. Ashley took in the grand hall that was the foyer. Various etchings and engravings lined the dark oak walls. It seemed more in keeping with an exclusive Victorian men’s club than a contemporary home for the aged. Suddenly a young nurse appeared. She was not dressed the requisite white or green scrubs. Her attire was for a formal dinner. The only clue that she was a nurse was her name tag.

“Maggie Cummings.” She said as she stretched out her hand warmly. “Dame Thornton is very excited to see you…Right this way.” They walked down the elegant hallway that Ashley had remembered the night before but turned right into a large sunroom. Dame Chelsea was sitting in a wheelchair next to the window reading the London Times.

“Ah, my protege! Maggie you are a dear. Thank you.” The Dame said warmly. Maggie smiled and petted her hand.

“If you need anything just ring.” Maggie said as she smiled at Ashley and vanished leaving them to their private conversation.

“You’ve seen him.” The Dame said and she patted the chair next to her signifying Ashley to sit.

“Him.” Ashley reiterated unsure whether or not to speak of the experience.

“Grandfather.” The dame said. Ashley slowly nodded as she sat.

“I knew it.” And her eyes took in Ashley’s graying hair. “Soon there will be no demarcation.”

“I’m not sure I follow.” Ashley said confused.

“You seek the grail.” The Dame smiled.

“Actually I came to talk to you about learning the Rhys paintings.” Ashley said.

“I gave you the order. The rest falls upon you, dear.” She replied.

“Yes, I know. But for me to stay in London for the required length of time I was wondering if it might be all right for Chelsea and I to stay at the Hyde Park residence?”

“Why certainly. I suggested it last night. I don’t know why you’re staying in that old hotel. I shall ring Mr. Wilkins and let him know to expect you this evening for dinner.” The Dame said and her smile was supple and young and her eyes bright as if she were twenty years old again.

“You realize you are everlasting, grandfather.” She continued. And the words gave Ashley pause. “You’ve met the one who holds.”

Again Ashley slowly nodded unsure of the words and yet quite sure of the meaning.

“The grail holds.” The Dame continued. Then she took Ashley’s hands in hers and gazed at her intently. A smile bloomed across her face.

“I want to come back, grandfather.” She said softly as if revealing the ultimate secret. “Will you visit me again?”

Ashley nodded yes.

“There is much to learn.” The Dame continued then she turned toward the window and the sunlight and closed her eyes. Ashley got up and placed the small blanket across the Dame’s lap and tiptoed out.