SoC 3:1

Excerpt from Jen-Zen and the One Shoe Diaries

Chapter One

 

“Look into the window.”

 

Grains of sand skipped across the floor. The floorboards creaked, the lights flickered. The house shook. Forces brewed in the morning.

Bookshelves, dishes, and pots and pans rattled, like a drummer gone mad. Dogs barked and car alarms blasted in a symphonic roar. The rattling slowed down to a soft drill and Brad Lynberry looked outside. Broken bits of a red tile roof littered the street.

Brad opened the garage door, grabbed a broom, dust pan, and trash can and got to work cleaning up the mess. As he swept up the broken tile, he listened to the neighbors talk amongst themselves. “It’s nice to see him outside again helping out.”

Another one added, “You know the photography work he did for my kid’s ballet recital is just breath taking. We should have him over to barbecue . . . hey isn’t your sister-in-law single?”

Brad did not have time for the explanations. No, that’s not true. Time came in downpours, too much of it washing all around him. The salted sea, he could make whole buckets, if he didn’t stop himself.

After emptying the last bits of broken tile into the trash bin in the garage, Brad grabbed his digital camera, a Canon Power Shot Pro1, locked up the house and headed for the beach.

Walking down the steps to the sand he touched a Band-Aid on his knee, forgetting where he stumbled. Inspiration made him the clumsiest runner, but his clients thanked him, the ones who needed beach photos never went neglected just his knees and calves. Somehow he always managed to put on a Band-Aid and antiseptic ointment, but never got around to applying vitamin E to ease the scaring.

Music blared, Beethoven’s 5th symphony, the cell phone ringer. Staring at the phone, Brad wished he turned the ringer off, but that meant living in the memories and saying hello to Jen-Zen.

Getting dumped would have been easier. No one prepared him for the other. Whoever thought about those things in their late twenties?

Not a freaking soul!

The mobile phone rang and rang. Brad remembered how Jen-Zen labeled the cell phone a collar, one she vowed never to wear. She didn’t see how he would need the diversion. No one did, except maybe his Grandma when she saw the photographs of the shoes.

Picking up the phone, he listened to an ad guy at Surf Clean give him a work order for the new campaign,

“Photograph beach art, no wave shots and make it edgy.”
Interpretational assignments like Surf Clean's became a specialty of his over the years. The riddle of inspiration in all its unplanned glory waited for his camera lens; not feeling like work at all.

The answer for Surf Clean came with the foulest smell; the sight of six rotting sting rays in the wet sand fit their ad requirement. As Brad photographed the stingrays he felt sad noticing the missing chunks of flesh; bright red, white, and pink revealed their insides and so much more.

He realized it didn’t end in the sand; the stingrays became lunch for the seagulls not dying in vain. Besides, how did he know that their life was not complete when they took that last ride on the waves. Maybe they did it together, never knowing what hit them, and they died smiling.

He told that to Surf Clean, figuring it would give them something extra to run with for the campaign.

The ad guy, so typical of the business spun it around within seconds and said, “The tagline is “Can a sting ray smile? It’s brilliant."

Since when is death brilliant?

This thought Brad didn’t express to the client. Instead, he tried to focus on other clients needs, recalling how some nail polish firm wanted sea shells photographed. He assumed he’d end up taking pictures of a clump of mussel shells at low tide, perhaps with the luminescent insides captured in the sunlight, not counting on finding a bunch of fingernail sized shells the color of skin: brown, tan, and white with pink bellies.

The last of the “beach art” Brad almost walked right past, until the unmistakable bend of a woman’s legs in the spooning position commanded attention. He sat down beside the woman’s body carved in sand. Her hips curved sideways. With her hands covering her eyes, she looked like she was sleeping.

When he slept he covered his eyes too, but he always woke up. SHE stayed in the sand.

Before the tears came, Brad ran back home, hoping the neighbors needed assistance rounding up the cats. During the last earthquake several cats got scared and wound up climbing the Eucalyptus trees.

On his street he listened to the neighbors milling around, surveying the damage, assuring one another that nothing severe happened. “Just a little rattling of the nerves like the last earthquake,” he heard someone say. This angered Brad. They rendered shaking of the ground commonplace. It robbed the event of authenticity.

He knew if Jen-Zen stood beside him she would have understood; having your house shook to the core is not a typical day in Southern California and that when what is solid moved it is magic!

TWO MONTHS THEY SHARED and still the connection grew, when it shouldn’t have, then again a house was not supposed to move and the earth was not supposed to rock.

Brad went inside, tracking in sand from the beach. Bending down to pick up a grain of sand by the entryway, he smelled a familiar scent, lavender, not understanding how the smell came in the house.

He recalled how Jen-Zen’s hair smelled like lavender and seaweed when she came in from the ocean. The lavender blossomed when they made love. He closed his eyes and saw purple all around, the purple fields, where the dreams still lived.

He thought.

No don’t go there you have clients and a Grandma whose
days are limited. Stay in the moment, that’s what the self help book said. But, if I go back to the memories, maybe I’ll understand that Leanne was right that Jen-Zen was a stoner. What difference would that truth make? An answer, the self-help book said, is a step towards closure, towards letting go. But I don’t want to. Damn it! Just try and remember.

I promise it’ll be the last time for a while, then I’ll go visit Grandma and get her something real nice, but first I need to see Jen-Zen.

He opened his eyes and swept the sand into a pile and stared at it. Insight came, to know the sand is to know Jen-Zen.

Walking down the beach she often stopped, as if she forgot something. He knew to look into her eyes. Inspiration in its purest form enlarged the pupils when ideas formed. His eyes did the same thing in the camera’s lens.

The first time he had told that to his sister Leanne she said, ”What a bunch of crap. Eyes don’t mark inspiration. They mark drugs. End of story.”

The second time he bridged the subject Leanne said, “Damn it, Brad, drop the rose colored glasses routine. The girl’s a stoner. “

The third time he left the sand pile in the entryway and began sorting through the recycled paper bin in the garage looking for the words Jen-Zen had left with the request, “Not to open, unless.”

The envelope he’d tossed out under the guidance of a self-help book, which advocated a clean slate for closure. The psycho-therapist author didn’t know the lesson he learned photographing in black and white film. Shadows come in varying shades of gray.

Extracting the crinkled up remains of the envelope he smelled lavender. Opening the envelope the smell grew stronger.

Brad read a few lines of the Window Poem.

Look into the window
It is a mirror of time
Reflecting images from the past

Look into the window
You see sand on a deserted beach
The fragments of a forgotten time
And particles of the future

 

He saw their days in the sand.

Just before the sunset Jen-Zen liked climbing up the steps of the deserted lifeguard tower and writing poetry. The sunset felt so real to her, as if it went into the sea. Sometimes he kissed her and rubbed her shoulders as the sun went down tears trickled down her cheeks.

He wondered if maybe she was a mild autistic, seeing the world in one dimension: the sun left, it died, she cried. But, sunsets never felt so real, until he stood by someone who treasured each one like it might be the last one. Maybe that’s living life to the fullest.

Unless? Jen-Zen knew her fate, that’s why he needed to go back revisiting the memories, to understand what happened and find some answers.

He remembered when the spark ignited between them. Jen-Zen had invited him to a poetry reading. She looked like the quintessential Southern California girl created by an artist’s brush stroke with her blonde hair wrapped in a purple bow at the nape of her neck, wearing a see through blouse in varying shades of purple over a gray jog bra and blue jeans.

As she read from her chapbook Walking Slumber Brad touched his hair; static electricity. That’s when it began. There was no stopping the universal forces in motion. Hearing her say, “Night flies, fiery recognition,” reminded him of the fireflies he saw as a child. Mesmerized by the little sparks of light, he caught one as a kid and watched it flicker in a jar. In the morning the firefly was gone.

He told Jen-Zen about the firefly, knowing she’d understand why a little thing like that stayed with him for years.

She said, “Nature can’t be captured; just the memories can; they’re captured in the soul.”

Jen-Zen’s prescient words were more than poetry.

She led him into her world bit by bit. Like the day he walked along the beach, photographing sandpipers scampering in the sand, jellyfishes shimmering rainbows and clam shells arranged so they formed an arrow.

He chased the tip of the arrow down the beach on pure intuition, sensing it was her doing. The arrow tip went on for yards and yards until the words, “Ocean, keeper of dreams,” appeared in the sand. As the incoming tide erased the message, Jen-Zen called his name, opened her backpack, and grabbed a yellow-smiley pen.

Entranced, he watched her take the smiley-face lid off the pen and pull out a small wand with soapsuds. Pressing it to her lips she blew bubbles. They popped onto her face, arms and legs, not a one of them burst onto the sand or in the air; that should have told him something! Instead he marveled at a girlfriend that wrote messages in the sand.

Later in the day they watched surfers paddling out to catch the waves, dodging what looked at first like a tire. As it rolled towards the shore they could tell it was a seal. Its head looked seaward, while its torso rocked against the beach. Then it closed its eyes and lay motionless in the sand.

Lifeguards examined the seal and retreated into their tower. Jen-Zen followed them. When she returned she dug her toes into the sand and said, “Red and Blue Cap”, referring to the lifeguards, “smiled there were no traces of tears, just faceless masks, pretending to be the ocean’s friends.”

The Blues and Reds poem she wrote on a discarded flyer. It described the lifeguards’ reaction to the seal, but over time Brad came to realize it was autobiographical, an explanation, he would struggle with for months.

Blues and Reds

Running away from pain,
Hiding feelings
Feeling the blues of sadness, the reds of rage, and all the shades in between;
Striving so hard to stop this kind of living;
Knowing all too well, the drug of denial;
Using it until you no longer feel;
No longer feeling; is walking death.

 

When Jen-Zen completed the Blues and Reds poem she attached it to a metal thumbtack on the side of the lifeguard tower and kicked the sand. It spurted in his eye.

He told her, “Thanks a lot. Your way of saying you want space?”

“No Brad, space closes in with too much chatter, not company.”

“So, does that mean you want me to go?”

“No. Togetherness binds where words fail.”

He inched a little closer, “Why failure?”

Jen-Zen pointed at the ocean and a mound of seaweed and said, “I can’t keep taking it all in.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering she jogged in place for a couple of steps then waved for him to follow her, as she ran fast down the beach.

He moved in even stride with her and said, “Jen-Zen, if something’s bugging you, let’s talk about it.”

She shook her head no, stopped running, then opened the cap to her pen and blew bubbles.

Giggling, she reached out to hold his hands, then said, “Brad, it’s time you really know about the bubbles, oh sweet bubbles. When I blow bubbles, the little rainbows form. Do you know why they’re not white like in the soap?”

He said, “I think the colors are caused by the refraction of light.”

She kissed him on the cheek, “Brad, in the colors without color we live. In love’s window.”

Her words, her beautiful words, drew into her world as her hands pulled him closer to her body. The mystical discussion itself, dissolved into one wet kiss after the other from lips to ears, to neck, to salt water splashing all around them.

A week later he jogged on the beach with his sister Leanne and stopped abruptly at the sight of Jen-Zen. She wore a pink sweatshirt and jean cut offs and sat cross-legged on top of a white blanket.

Leanne held the palms of her hands up as if saying, “What now?”

Brad answered, “I want you to meet Jen-Zen, she sees wonder, like Grandma!”

Leanne glanced at Jen-Zen, scrunched her nose, disapproval written all over her face.

He introduced them and Jen-Zen shook her head and said, “Brad, I was hoping we could be alone.”

Leanne said, “Go ahead don’t mind me.”

Jen-Zen told him as they walked over to the tide pools, “Brad, can you feel it? I mean you did feel it, when we met. It wasn’t just me?”

“What sweetie?”

“The static electricity it runs through your whole body that’s how it feels when you know for the first time.”

He put his arm around her and kissed her lips. Jen-Zen pushed him away gently and said, “Brad, please answer.”

“Yes, I feel it too. I love you.”

She rubbed her stomach and grimaced.

“Jen-Zen, are you ok?”

“Stomach cramps.”

He said, “Did you take anything for it?”

“Too much, I think. I shouldn’t have, Brad. Sometimes the pain is so bad I just can’t take it anymore. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“Brad, just hold me.”

They hugged and watched the waves. Deep in their own thoughts, they breathed in the salt air, listened to the pounding water hit the sand, watched surfers and talked about the ocean spray’s miniscule rainbows. But time went too fast.

If he could slow it all down and go back, he would have asked so many questions, instead of just accepting it when she said, “I feel dizzy. I better sit down.”

On the way back to the blanket Jen-Zen stumbled. Brad put his arm around her. Leanne shook her head and looked at the ocean. Jen-Zen stiffened and walked straight to the center of the blanket by the picnic basket, sat down and served a salad made with sweet vinegar, sesame seeds, chili paste, pink and golden brown seaweed. After she finished her second helping she laughed with the pure joy of a child. Her eyes flickered wildly. She closed her eyes and opened them in a slow even motion.

The pink sky faded. Night fell, small banks of fog rolled in, leaving the moon suspended between swirling circles of fog.
A cloud passed over the moon as Jen-Zen’s lips quivered.

Her mysterious words came out slurred. “Wide moon glides when the bull toots its last horn.”

Leanne laughed and said, “What are you smoking, girl?”

Brad glared at Leanne and put his arm around Jen-Zen and ran his fingers through her hair. He pulled a few strands of hair off her face.

A tear fell down her cheek as she said, “Lay me up, lay me down, but don’t lay me goodbye.”

She rested her head on the blanket and closed her eyes.

Brad held her hand and rubbed her fingers. They were unresponsive. He let go of her hand. It fell against the blanket. He touched Jen-Zen’s forehead. It was cold.

He snuggled up against her and said, “Why are you so cold? It’s a nice summer night.”

Leanne said, “Brad, it’s probably her period. I’m always freezing.”

He saw a flash out of the corner of his eyes and sensed something. No, don’t dare think it. The beach blanket he wrapped around her shoulders and pressed his fingers along the side of her neck. The pulse felt too slow. He picked Jen-Zen up, cradled her in his arms. She flopped on his shoulders like a rag doll.

He screamed, “Leanne, grab the stuff. Run to the car.”

They drove Jen-Zen to the emergency room. The hospital nurse told him to wait in the lobby, that the doctor would examine her soon.

He said, “No. Let me go with her.”

Leanne rested her hand on his shoulder.

The nurse said, “They’ll let you know when you can see her.”

While the doctors examined Jen-Zen, Brad opened her backpack, set aside her poem books, before finding her Mom’s phone number typed on an inside tag attached to the base of the backpack.

Panic stricken, he called her Mom and said, “Mrs. Martin, this is Brad, Jen-Zen’s at . . . ” The words choked in his throat.

Her mother said, “I haven’t got all day.”

Brad bit on his lower lip and said, “Jen-Zen’s in Urgent Care at UCSD.”

“You took Jennifer to a county hospital? How dare you?” Her tone sounded threatening.

“I’m on my way. Call me on my cell.” She reeled off the number before hanging up. Her voice left no question in his mind; it was an order not a request. He dialed the cell phone. It rang and rang.

She answered, “Hold on . . .” The line clicked. She said, “Dr. Carther, drop everything. Jennifer’s in Urgent Care at UCSD. The moron didn’t think to take her to a private hospital.”

Brad interrupted, “Mrs. Martin it’s . . . ”

She said, “Hang on . . .” The line clicked. “Dr. Carther, yes I know. It’s out of my hands. You’ll take care of her. Thank you.”

Brad screamed, “Look, I’m not Dr. Carther this is Brad, remember?”

“Who?”

He took a deep breath and calmly said, “I’m Jen-Zen’s friend. We’ve been dating. She didn’t tell you? Well, something happened at dinner. I don’t know what. I got so scared. I rushed her to the hospital. Jen-Zen’s an incredible poet, you must be so proud.”

“My tea leaves make more sense and another thing I just pulled into the hospital. I’m running things now.”

The door to the waiting room opened; stomach acid assaulted Brad’s taste buds. A woman in her sixties stormed through the door leaving behind a scent of stale cigarettes and rum. Her form-fitting gray pantsuit, short-cropped blond hair and the way her eyes darted back and forth across the room reminded him of a vulture. Behind her, a thick-necked man carried a large burgundy brief case. The man stopped when she did, but remained two paces back.

Brad swallowed hard, the taste of acid still fresh on his tongue. He walked towards her. The acid taste intensified.

“Are you…“

"I'm Mrs. Martin," she interrupted. "Who are you?"

"Brad Lynberry. I called you about Jen-Zen…"

"You're the one responsible for Jennifer being in this . . ."

Brad’s face flushed. "My sister and I were having dinner with Jen-Zen..." His words faded, unheard as she walked past him, moving towards the admission desk. The large man followed two paces behind.

"Mrs. Martin . . ." he called to her retreating back. She stopped, turned and glared at him. Brad opened his mouth to speak.

"You," she said, in a menacing tone, "Have nothing to say. You gave my Jennifer drugs and did who knows what to her when she was stoned and now you’re going to try justifying yourself."

Brad clenched his stomach and fought back the urge to vomit. He took a deep breath, but no words came.

Leanne put her hand on his shoulders and said, “Look lady, my brother’s not the bad guy. He knew something was wrong and insisted we rush Jen-Zen to the hospital.”

Mrs. Martin turned away from them and walked towards the front desk. A woman looked up from the computer screen, smiled at Mrs. Martin and gestured towards a man with a briefcase, who leaned against the wall.

The two woman exchanged words in whispers. Then Mrs. Martin spoke to the man, "I'm going in to see Jennifer. You wait here."

Brad lurched forward, belched and no longer suppressed the urge to puke. Just seven feet from her, Mrs. Martin held up her hand and asked, "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"To see Jen-Zen," he stammered.

"The hell you are!" She stared at Brad; the coldness in her eyes stunned him. She gazed at the man with the briefcase then towards Brad and spoke a single word, "Jimmy."

The man said, "Yes, Ma'am."

Mrs. Martin nodded. The man stepped in front of Brad and clinched and un-flinched his hands. Brad started to protest,

“You can’t . . .” Leanne’s firm grip on his shoulder silenced him.

He didn't know how long he sat in the uncomfortable squeaky chair and stared at a painting on the wall of a lady’s purple high-heeled shoe standing upright on a white grand piano.

Leanne's fingers pressed around his. She pulled his hand to the left. He looked in that direction.

Mrs. Martin walked down the hall. Her shoulders looked less square, more rounded. Brad swallowed hard; the sharp taste of acid singed his tongue. He stood and walked towards her. Jimmy, who stayed motionless against the wall like a hawk scouting its prey, moved forward and stepped between Brad and Mrs. Martin.

She put the palm of her hand upward and said, "It's all right, Jimmy." The man took a step back.

Brad said, "How is Jen-Zen? Can I see her?" Mrs. Martin stopped in front of Brad. She smelled like a bottle of rum. Her face looked chalky white.

"Let me see Jen-Zen." Brad demanded.

Her wrist snapped striking his left cheek. As her hand dropped, blood rushed to his cheek. "My daughter is . . . because of you and people like you, she's . . ."

Tears blocked his vision. “No!” He screamed. “She
can't be dead!” He shook away the tears. "Mrs. Martin, "I want to see her!”

"Jimmy, get him the hell out of here.”

The man’s fingers wrapped around Brad's forearm and tightened. His black boots squeaked across the floor making large black smudges. "You heard the lady. Now leave. Or do I have to show you how?” Brad glanced at the fresh marks on the tile, not understanding the cruelty.

Leanne touched his hand and said, "We should go." He held her warm hand and nodded. Jimmy released his grip. Brad stared at the painting of the purple shoe and noticed a slight shadow in the base of the heel.

Jimmy’s black boots streaked across the tile as they walked towards the door. Brad pictured Jen-Zen's lifeless body on the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed, so alone and cold. Tears spilled from his eyes.

Back at their beach, Brad dug a hole in the sand. Leanne handed him a bouquet of pink and white roses. He spread the flowers and formed a circle with the petals touching each other. In the center he placed clam shells and a tall white candle.

Leanne cupped her hands around the candle and lit the wick.

Staring into the flame Brad rhythmically moved his thumb and index finger back and forth in the candlelight. In the soft light, he visualized the two of them, once again, dancing in the sand.

Jen-Zen’s words came back to him. “Left in the shadows, soul dances missing the beat.”

He wrapped his arms around his knees and rocked slowly back and forth. His side tingled. The body knew.

 

Chapter Two

 

Bella ran her hand over the dove-feathered barrette in her hair and read the Shoe-osophy brochure. She promised her grandson, Brad she would read the marketing ploy, the attempt to give notoriety to shoes, of all things. After reading it three times she still didn't get it.

“Shoe-osophy is a term coined by Brad Lynberry, famed La Jolla photographer, describing his latest awe-inspiring collection, The Windows to the Sole.”

Bella mumbled, “More like window’s to foot odor,” she said aloud, even though she was alone.

“Never staged or studio altered, the lost shoes are photographed as they appear. A throw back to pre-computer generated images, before reality and virtual reality vied for attention.”

"At least he is being natural," she thought and continued reading.

“The forgotten shoes are everywhere: littering the side of the highway, floating in the tide, going upstream with the Salmon, or occupying a field like a dead body, discarded and left to rot.”

She picked up a pen, crossed out upstream and wrote downstream; then again maybe it explained the condition of Brad’s mind.

The doorbell rang. She wasn't expecting anyone, but her intuition kicked in, of course like she told Brad, “It’s a fools’ wobble until you set it straight.”

He had the wobble all right.

She invited Brad in and motioned for him to sit at the kitchen table. He smiled when he entered the living room carrying a photo album and a portfolio bag in brown with turquoise and silver snaps.

Brad said, “This is for you,” referring to the photo album, which he carried in his left hand.

“Let me guess another shoe photo?”

The past month he’d brought a multitude of pictures of shoes over to show her.

“No. Grandma, I took pictures of your doves. I know how much you miss them since moving into the apartment. I would have taken care of them, but Mom felt I was too busy with work. Lately, I could use the company.”

He sat the portfolio bag on the floor and placed the photo album on the kitchen table and said, “Now take a look. If these pictures are your birds, we’ll go catch them. I’ll take care of them at my place. I promise and you can visit them as often as you want to or even better I’ll care for them on the patio for you, ok?”

Flipping through the pictures, she smiled, “Now this is a good use of your talent. You should try and get these photos in some of the birding magazines. Here, let me get you the addresses.”

“No Grandma. Look at the dove pictures. Isn’t this a photo of Simon’s foot? He has that green band of yours. How can you just turn away?”

Bella ran her hand over her feathered barrette and said, “I’m tired. My work is done.”

She fanned the Shoe-osophy brochure towards him and said, “How about you keep an eye on the doves and drop this Old Man and the Shoe routine?”

“Grandma, let’s talk about it after I show you the latest shoe.”

She sighed, knowing there would be no more talking about birds. The day had come when an inanimate object held Brad’s attention longer than the living. She’d sensed it first with his obsessive photographing of plastic bags blowing in the wind. In an effort to end that cycle she told him there was a reason the plastic bags showed up in his life, like there was some higher wisdom for shopping bags. She laughed for days over that one, even told him the universe played a joke and made plastic his thing and encouraged him to find meaning in it. By photographing the bags he came to see the flow of wind and in time he stopped taking pictures of them at all.

She needed a similar diversion for the shoes, but didn’t know what to use. So she relied on the old standby, sarcasm.
“Honestly, Brad if I want to look at shoes, I’ll open my closet door.”

“But, Grandma, there’s something in the perspective I want you to see, please let me know what you think.”

Watching Brad remove the protective layer of plastic on the photograph of a sneaker on the beach, whose shadow stretched over the sand doubling its size, Bella didn’t understand why if he was so enamored with shoes, how come the shoe’s shadow became the focal point.

Bella glanced outside. A sparrow bathed in the fountain. She asked, as she motioned to bowl of birdseed on the kitchen counter, “Brad, do you mind putting this on the patio and photographing the sparrow?”

He sat the bowl next to the potted roses and removed his camera from the portfolio bag, accepting the diversion she planted.

Oh, she didn’t like being so manipulative, but it was for his own good.

The sparrow pecked at the seeds then pooped moments later on the patio table. At the sight of the white dung Bella laughed. She said, “Smart bird,” and hoped Brad would take the hint.

“But, Grandma, you don’t understand. Shoe-osophy is not some joke. It’s going be bigger than my other collections. I got a feeling.”

“Oh no. How many times have I told you intuition is a fool’s wobble until you set it straight and most people never do? What makes you think you can?"

He nodded.

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not getting me involved in this one. I’m too old. ”

“But . . .”

“Brad, just photograph the sparrow and we’ll see.”

 

Chapter Three

 

The State of Jen-Zen, the flag of feathers, hung on Grandma’s living room wall.

The flag idea formed not from a day, or a moment, or a passing glance, but from walks along the bay in search of the forgotten spaces in grains of sand. Like the way Jen-Zen touched her hair when it fell on her face, the freckles on her neck, how she laughed, or rested her head against his shoulders.

The fleeting memories lost, as lost as she was.

He stood in front of Jen-Zen’s face woven into the flag and pulled out the blue feathers.

Grandma put her hand over his and said, “Brad, what’s wrong? You got the same look on your face when you were a boy scared about some dream.”

He lied and said, “I had the recurring dream. You know the one?”

She nodded.

When he was a kid he dreamed over and over about being perched on top of a tree and afraid of falling. She used to calm him down and say, “You can fly in your sleep.”

If only it were so, he’d fly to heaven and hold Jen-Zen in his arms.

Pulling out another blue feather from the flag he said, “Grandma, do you ever wonder if there’s any truth to the Native American legends where spirits fly as birds,” just one of many stories she told him.

“Oh, Brad that’s just a child’s tale, all that happens is kerplunk and you’re six feet under.”

“Then how come you told me so much magic?”

Grandma pointed to a crow that had landed on the patio railing and said, “So you’d see the colors, remember the forest crow?”

“Yes.”

They reminisced about bird watching in the woods when Brad was six years old. On a tree limb close to the ground, a crow perched and turned its head, staring at him for the longest time, then it flapped its tail feathers. They weren’t all black, like he thought. The feathers contained the deepest shades of blue and purple.

He watched Grandma pucker her lips and make birdcalls. As a tail feather fell down to the ground she winked at him and said, “Enjoy the gift.”

“What gift, Grandma?”

“Silly boy, nature’s presents don’t come wrapped in shiny bows.”

As he rubbed the feather between his fingers Grandma put her hand over his and said, “It’s your bird, Brad, in time it will show you its wisdom. Animals have their own smarts they can teach you.”

The crow squawked. Brad looked at Grandma smiling. The past and present merged.

Reaching into his portfolio bag, he handed her a wooden picture frame. In calligraphy on the frame’s edges he’d written, “Grandma’s Slipper”.

The photograph inside the frame showed a slipper designed to look like a polar bear. He found the slipper in the San Diego Zoo parking lot.

Grandma said, “Oh, Brad you saved it.”

“I couldn’t save anything.” Not Jen-Zen at the hospital, not our memories, they all seemed to be lost fragments.

Grandma hugged him and said, “Sure you did. It’s the picture of the slipper I gave you for your eleventh birthday.”

He remembered on his birthday how Mom had eyed the package with doubt and said, “This one better be appropriate.” And it was; they all were.

Grandma gave him things no one else did. Before the slippers she gave him a do it yourself kit for making stained glass windows, to study as she said, “The way light changes colors and changes your perception.”

The birthday present before that was a kit for gluing constellations onto the ceiling. They stayed up all night gluing the stars on the ceiling and when Grandma traveled on her birding retreats, she would call him and tell him the constellations she saw, that is, until the stars started falling down on his head. At first it was funny just one star fell at a time then two and three.

She told him, “Think how lucky you are. Most folks never get to watch shooting stars in their bedroom.”

When the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt disappeared during a school day and Oscar the dog wound up with bits of phosphorescent plastic stuck into his fur, the game wore thin.
But Grandma didn’t want their game to end, she’d suggested he put the solar system onto the ceiling and went so far as to buy the kit and glue.

Instead, he pointed to a pair of binoculars Mom and Dad had bought him and said, “Grandma, the manual says I can see Mars.”

She crossed her arms and said, “Brad most nights, visibility is so bad you can’t see the planets, but they are there all the same, that’s why you bring them closer, like in the pictures on the ceiling.”

Staring now at the mischievous twinkle in Grandma’s eyes, past and present became one and he knew; the state of Jen-Zen was Grandma’s fault. But he wasn’t mad.

Grandma stirred the stew with exotic spices of mystery and lore, the right ingredients left to simmer, just waiting for him to fall for someone like Jen-Zen.

He stood up, looked at the ceiling and noticed the sparkles. Jen-Zen’s words came back to him, “Grief counts dots in the ceiling, afraid to count pebbles in the ground.”

It was then Brad realized he could leave, figuratively walking out of Grandma’s apartment, but it wouldn’t matter, one of them opened the window and the other said “How wide?”

 

Chapter Four

 

Ding, ding, ding went the computer bell, the reminder for Brad to begin work on the Interior Illuminations campaign. He looked over the work order, requesting photographs of lines of light to be used for a new ad campaign. The ways to angle it had been on his mind for days. He pondered, whether to aim for a bold statement and use strobe lights set against the blackened sky, photograph a series of pen lights in alignment against a black board, or better yet, the afternoon sunlight streaming across a hardwood floor.

He walked into his study well aware how the afternoon light formed stripes of sunlight poking through flaps in the vertical blinds. It would work.

Brad called Sam at Interior Illuminations to pitch the idea, but got his voice mail. No matter, he’d test run the idea and email Sam some sample shots later in the day.

The rays of light stretching over the study floor he photographed. When he waved his arms, the field of light moved. He spun around the room and tried to capture the ever-straying beam of light, and wound up losing the focus to dizziness, despite knowing full well he’d taken some incredible pictures.

Opening the blinds, Brad took a step back at the sight of Jen-Zen’s poem book, Whispered Dance. It stood face open in the windowsill. He ran his fingers over the stapled binding like he had done for months after her death. Each time he touched the book, static electricity shocked his fingers and he closed the book sensing something beyond words.

He touched her poem and waited for the static.

Fog
Blanketing fog
Engulfing all
Faces obscured
Familiar roads blurred

 

He read the poem over and over again and the next one and the next one and noticed the absence of static. Without the spark the connection left.

Feeling like a day at their beach might do him some good Brad packed a backpack with a beach towel, sun block, the digital camera, the log book and went to Wind and Sea, in La Jolla.

The sky stayed gray due to the marine layer. Rocky ledges wide enough to walk on and stretch a towel across covered the shore. The strip of sand got narrower and narrower each year. Fighting seaweed, waves and rocks, sun worshipers coveted their turf. Surfers rode the waves, couples jogged, children built sand castles, and dogs chased seagulls and sandpipers.

As he stared into the gray sky a forgotten memory returned.

Jen-Zen liked the marine layer. She named it on one of their many walks, “The beach whispered.”

Brad learned the meaning of those words after a day of playing in the water. When he found a whole sand dollar, he was baffled by her reaction. Jen-Zen looked at her flowered watch, slung her beach gear over her shoulders, and left without a goodbye.

Hours later she phoned him and explained in a loud whisper, which sounded rather sexy, “It’s Mother.”

He joked, “Hmmm. Well, Mother’s voice isn’t husky, now confess my Sky Pillowed Poet.”

“Brad, I was late. Mother couldn’t see.”

“See what?”

She said, “Us.”

“Why?”

“Brad, you don’t understand—I never found a whole sand dollar before.”

“Big deal, now what’s this about your Mother?”

“It’s best, the beach whispered.”

“So we have to be a secret, is that it? Jen-Zen, you’re an adult. You shouldn’t sneak around.”

“Brad, you don’t understand. Mother’s coming. Promise me, ok.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Hours later he found her note on his front door.
“Brad,
Beach whispered
Don’t make me say why again. Just pretend this is ok.
I’ll pretend too. It’s just us, nothing beyond.
I know you need to know why. Please, sometimes knowing is why all the shells are broken. It’s best to keep some whole.
Love,
Jen-Zen"

Brad took off his shoes and socks and felt the warmth of the sun on his right foot. The left foot remained cold.

A black beach flip-flop rolled in the incoming tide. Worried he’d miss the shot, when the shoe drifted back out to sea, Brad quickly reached into his back pack, retrieved the Canon digital camera, adjusted the focus and photographed the beach sandal as it rode the crest of a wave.

In the camera log book, he wrote down the title, Swell’s Lullaby and chuckled. The misplaced emotion fit the mood. There was nothing swell about goodbye. Then he saw the irony. The poem in the windowsill talked about fog and when it is foggy outside all you see is a white vaporous wall, covering what you once saw clearly.

 

Chapter Five

 

The Window

 

No one speaks about the fog. Everyone always talks about the white light, the long tunnel. Hollywood’s made them quite famous. Fog is less dramatic; it hovers, it lifts, and it floats.

Jen-Zen stared at the fog.

For some the fog is a window. There should be a drum roll when a recognizable face pokes through the fog, it’s a monumental event.

Seeing a familiar face reminds people of their connections to the other side, the ties you hold onto when you don’t understand why you’re in the fog.

They’re the light posts that beam through.

Light itself is difficult to see in the fog, just for seconds it shines in brighter than the fog itself and if you look again it is the fog and nothing more.

The day Brad’s face appeared; the unmistakable sharp sculpted cheekbones, the dark intense eyes, staring back at Jen-Zen; she tried to touch his face.

A wisp of fog obscured it. And then she saw him again looking distraught, the way he bit his lower lip, the lip she didn’t have enough chances to kiss. And then he smiled as if looking right at her, and she tried so hard to hold onto the image of his face, but the thick fog returned, then it lifted and she saw the profile of his eyes. They blinked.

She called his name. The sound muted. She imagined writing his name, Brad, in the sand at their beach, circling it with seaweed and clam shells, wanting to write a poem to him, but more urgent words came, “Brad can you hear me? Will you light a candle and put it in the sand by the life guard’s tower?

Remember, when we made love there, during the earthquake, you called me earth tremors? Why can’t I feel them? Or the vibrations of cars, people walking, and floor boards creaking? Everything is so silent. You know how I once said when we were on the beach, that “Too much chatter crowds company,” I was wrong, so wrong. Why won’t the fog go away? Where am I?”

A stern voice said to her, “You have one hour and no more.”

Jen-Zen asked, “For what?”

“Jen, it’s Dad.”

“NO. But, you’re dead. Why . . . how can you speak to me?”

“The specifics don’t matter. Now will you promise me, that you’ll stare into the fog that you’ll try real hard?”

“First let’s talk. Dad, there’s so much I want to tell you.”

Dad said, “No. You have to look in the fog.”

“Why?”

“It’s your tie to the other side. Princess, sometimes people visit here by mistake, and they always say they see the fog.”

“I’m scared.”

“Remember when I read to you when you were a little girl and told you there’s magic in the forest. Well, it’s
all around us, like the fairy tale books say.”

Jen-Zen laughed.

“I’m serious Jen. Now promise me you’ll focus on the fog.”

“But, it’s so boring, Dad.”

“Not when you saw that boyfriend of yours.”

“You’d like him Dad.”

“Keep focusing.”

Jen-Zen stared at the fog. It floated all around her like vapors of steam rising.

She remembered meeting Brad on her 22nd birthday. The gray clouds typical June weather by the coast left a soapy residue over the sky. She leaned against a pine tree with limbs shaped like a Z and took deep breaths, breathing the scent of pine in and letting her breath out, when Brad approached her. His soft steps moved in tune with her breathing.

He patted the tree and said, “Where’s the sun?”

She said, ”It’s hiding.”

He stretched his arms up and down and said, “The lighting’s never the same, no matter how many times I come here.”

He spoke like a poet and noticed the nuances in the sky.

The fog grew thicker and thicker. It made white walls all around her, then Dad spoke to her.

“Jen, there’s no time for memories. I need you to think about how when you are swimming underwater you can hear sounds, but you can’t automatically respond.”

“But, I hear you fine, Dad.”

“Oh, that’s no good.”

“Why? I like talking to you.”

“Me too Princess, but please concentrate on Brad and your Mother.”

“Not Mother, she . . .”

“I know she told him, you were . . . ah . . . well, you know what I mean."

“You mean before this, Dad?”

Instead of answering, Dad told her about some man, who became a prisoner to his own body and communicated with the outside world with blinks. Dad explained that each blink is a small vibration, and how the minutest vibrations are felt and they connect the whole universe.

The vibrations reminded Jen-Zen of being in a swimming pool how when she closed her eyes the water shook all around her and she could tell if someone was near or far based on the movement in the water.

Dad said, “That’s my Princess, you always were a good swimmer.”

“Dad, you heard my thoughts?”

“Yes, Jen, I always have.”

Whole banks of fog drifted towards each other in the distance. Jen-Zen saw small spaces between each white swirling mass and felt a sense of space. Before there was no depth, just vapors floating all around.

And one day in the fog, she felt vibrations like someone dove into a swimming pool and she heard inaudible words shouted from somewhere, then the sound of her name being spoken came through clearly and the words SHOE PHOTOGRAPHS, those words pulled her in and she saw her poetry book, RIPPLED TRAILS on Brad’s desk.

She concentrated real hard putting all her energy into opening the cover of the poem book, to see once more the words, she’d written to Brad, about the photo he’d taken of ripples in the koi pond.

The cover page moved slightly.

Brad jumped.

 

To read the rest of the story about Brad and Jen-Zen, buy the novel at: http://www.synergebooks.com/ebook_oneshoediaries.html