I have lived what can only be described as a charmed life. I had excellent parents who taught me right from and wrong and instilled in me a general love for my fellow man. I had great teachers who helped me to learn everything I needed to know about the world and my place in it, to give me a proper foundation from which to build my own life, some of whom I've kept in contact with.
It was in college that I met the man who would be my husband. I'd had my fair share of blind dates and dead-end relationships. I'd even had my heart broken on three separate occasions. A few pints of ice cream and time with my girlfriends healed the ruptures and helped me to move on with my life and start looking for my soulmate.
The main issue I had with so many of my prospective mates was what could only be described as a soul that hadn't sufficient light. It's hard to describe, but I would call it a kind of sixth sense of mine. The best I can manage to describe is a kind of light that radiates around the person and through them.
It's not an aura, as you might be thinking, since there is no color, just white or dark light. I've only met a few dark lights and I made it my mission to avoid them. I only wish I had known that early on and not been drawn by the difference I saw as something unique. A hard lesson learned and never to be violated again.
I only really started to notice the difference after I hit puberty. Before that time the whole world was a glowing ball of light that dazzled my eyes and was honestly difficult to discern contrast, but I managed. I was generally disturbed when the world itself became darker and soon there was no light anymore.
This sent me into a depression that lasted for most of my teens. I bounced around from therapists and psychologists who were of the same opinion, I was a psychotic and the light I saw was a hallucination triggered by my psychosis. Their primary means of treatment was to suggest different medications that are designed to combat depression and relieve psychosis.
Then I met Doctor Joyce Raintree. She was a therapist who possessed the beauty of a woman with traces of Native American blood in her veins. More than that she had a glow that was simply brighter than I have ever seen. She listened intently to what I had to say and reserved judgment or suggestion until I had fully unburdened myself, which took several sessions.
Aside from the light that radiated off her I was enthralled by the patience she exhibited while also being deeply interested in what I had to say. She told me that her personal belief is the Great Spirit was communicating with me through the light and that it would guide me through all the turmoil that life had in store for me.
She prescribed a mood elevator to help battle my depression and a photocopied book which was the journal of her great, great grandmother. The original had been passed down through her family through the generations. I couldn't have been happier with her gift and poured over it the first chance I got.
Her name was Raincloud since she could be a supreme benefit to her tribe or a force of nature that could block out the sun. She lived during a tumultuous age of change that saw many Native American tribes wiped off the face of the Earth. Her clan had been forced off of their land and were given some to live on, only to have it taken away, an act that was perpetrated numerous times and even had her walking the mass, forced migration known as The Trail Of Tears.
Eventually she was resettled into a reservation where she was forced to live with what remained of her fairly long life, but mostly saw her living among strangers. After that it was only a matter of becoming comfortable with a bad situation. She eventually had children of her own that led to baring children of their own and so on and so forth.
What really endeared me to the words written on the page was how she could weave them into a colorful tapestry that made you feel as though you were there, even to an uncomfortable degree. She could be both an intense, emotional individual while coldly analytical and descriptive of her circumstance. In the end I loved it and it became my favorite, historical book.
It took all of my teens, but I eventually got out from under my depression and slowly weaned off my medication till I was able to maintain a balanced emotional state. After that I kept a regular weekly session with Doctor Raintree just to talk and we became great friends, to the point where our conversations had a therapist angle and a friend one.
I was simply devastated when she died and for days was inconsolable. I started to fear that the depression had hold of me since I just couldn't stop crying, but I had no other familiar symptoms. So, I decided to attend her funeral which I had to learn about through the hospital since our sessions, which were the only times that we chatted, meant she wasn't permitted to tell her family about me.
As such, I felt like a real sore thumb when I entered a room of people with varying degrees of Native American blood. I wasn't exactly white myself, but my skin pigment leaned more towards a peach complexion. I took a place at the back and tried to keep my head down while I kept receiving unabashed stares from nearly half the people.
I was more than happy when their attentions were shifted forward as one person after another took to the podium near the casket and gave their personal stories. We heard from all her close family and it was quite an extensive family tree which included other members of the reservation she grew up in.
I was surprised to find that not all the stories were positive, but they all sounded honest. She was a real woman, beautiful and flawed. Regardless of the stories being regaled each ended the same, declaring that her sudden and mysterious departure, which even the doctors could not nail down a reason for, was her being called by The Great Spirit.
Tears were streaming down my eyes and my sobs were quiet, but still present. As such I was unaware that the entire congregation had turned their head upon me until I started to feel the heat of their stares. I raised my head and felt more than intimidated by what was happening. I thought it time to leave, but the stares seemed to be saying something else.
I stood up and made my way down the aisle and up to the podium. The stares never wavered. I cleared my throat and after a rocky start full of 'ums' and 'uhs' I found my thread and continued on. I tell them all about my relationship with Joyce and how she saved me from a fate worse than death when all others seemed to be acting with blindfolds on.
When I concluded my testimony I had tears in my eyes and a chuckle in my throat. After that there is only silence as they continue to stare. I'm starting to feel very small. I've poured out my heart, I have nothing left. Then I noticed a nod, and another, until, one by one, each person nodded in their own time and the stares ceased.
I heaved a sigh of relief and gave my own nod. I turned and beheld the body of my friend in peaceful repose. My joy fills me to the brim and pours over. Even death could not rob her of the brilliant gleam and my tears amplified the light to an almost uncomfortable degree. After that I was welcomed into their community and at last met my husband, Jonathan Raintree.
He was an outlier in their community who really wanted to break free and find his fortune in the world. My eyes could behold no other as he shined brightly. We started dating and seeing each other meant commuting from the city I lived in to the reservation since he didn't know how to drive. Some years later we decided to get married and I introduced him to all the amenities the outside world has to offer.
Johnathan loved everything about the outside. He said the old traditions that persist to this day are suffocating his people. That wasn't the impression I got from Joyce, but I decided to reserve comment. He even got himself a job, the first real job he'd ever had in his life since he only ever did odd-jobs for ready cash at the reservation.
At first it was frustrating. He was stuck at a desk all day doing low level, busy work, or so he complained nonstop. He blamed it all on him being a diversity hire since his pigment swung more to the tan side. I was able to console and help him move past it, but just like a cold it kept cropping up.
That all changed a year ago when Johnathan came home with the best news. He'd been promoted. To what, I don't know. All I knew was that it made him very happy and extremely frisky. I was surprised I didn't get pregnant that night, but that is a matter to be explored at another time, when things aren't weighing so heavily on my mind.
Six months ago something changed. He started getting moody and I could tell he had something on his mind, but he'd lie to me and tell me it was nothing. I accepted it and let the matter be. I figured he would tell me in due time. Till then I would just have to stay observant of any red flags he might send up.
I carried on this way till the biggest red flag flew into my face. Jonathan's light was dimming. I tried to dismiss it, but everyday more and more of his light would diminish. I became so worried and I burned with all the questions I could possibly have, but I held my tongue and let him continue to sink further and further away.
I didn't say anything because I remembered the conversation we had about my gift. I didn't tell him I had it, I kept it very hypothetical. My power is dearer to me than the children I don't have. I don't just let anyone inside without understanding how they feel about it first. So I dipped my toe into the water. I asked what he thought about the gifts bestowed by The Great Spirit.
The very name Great Spirit set him off. He ranted and raved all over the place, spouting stories of all the dumb traditions and ceremonies he endured as a child all for the betterment of the multiple tribes that lived inside the reservation. He was an open minded child who threw himself into everything he could get his hands on. He was going to be a great warrior and help the tribes reclaim what has been continuously taken from them.
His faith was strong. He was studying to become a medicine man. He grew and excelled at his studies. The ceremony to make him a medicine man was the following day . He and three friends decided to get a celebratory drink. They decided to try a new bar, one two miles outside of the reservation. It was new. It was exciting. So why not?
They arrived. They picked a nice little table off to the side. They ordered their drinks and they had a good time. The only thing that was slightly unnerving were the sideways glances they would receive that would not fade even when they looked in that direction. They should have been bothered by this, but they were having too good a time to really be disturbed by it.
The next thing he knew, three guys in trucker hats walked through the door. At first there was no real problem. They're pretty loud, dropping racist terms left and right trying to get a rise out of Jonathan and his friends, but it's all harmless and they don't engage. That is until the rude men caught sight of the woman in their party who sat to the inside so she wasn't as visible. This brings the trucker hats to their table and it just escalated from there.
They simply would not take her avoiding eye contact as anything but playing hard to get. Even his and his two friends' direct disruption only seems to make them all the more set on saving the princess who will thank god once they've finished showing her a good time, his words not mine. I can only imagine what they must have really said.
From there the situation only got worse till a fight broke out. Jonathan and his friends fought as hard as they could, but the trucker hats had an additional thirty pounds of rough hewn muscle a piece and it wasn't long before they'd beaten them roundly with fists of rock that cracked ribs and busted faces and for good measure broke Jonathan's leg.
He seethed as he tried to bring the pain radiating through his body to a tolerable level. Then the horror began. The trucker hats pulled the woman out of the booth and dragged her kicking and screaming outside. He knew exactly what's going to happen and he tries again and again to stand up, but only falls back down with a new surge of agony.
He starts to panic, but quickly reigns it in. He focuses his thoughts and reaches back to the prayers he'd been taught. He calls out to The Great Spirit with the words of his ancestors to heal him and give him strength. His words intensify when he hears the screams from outside. He places absolutely all of his will power into reciting the prayers with tremendous fervor. Nothing happens.
Time ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace and he looked to the only help he had at this point, the other people in the bar. They all turned to him a deaf ear. They just go right on drinking and acting as though they can't hear the screams coming from outside. They hardly move. They don't speak. They just kept pouring booze down their throats.
Soon, there was nothing but silence. He broke down and cried. It was the only thing he could do at that point. Three knocks on the door reverberated through the room and the bartender picked up a phone and called the police. It was at that point that he stopped crying and quietly seethed, but the nightmare wasn't over yet.
When the cops arrived they arrested him and his friends since they had started the fight and no one in the bar supported their claim that they were defending the woman from the rapists, another claim which the rest of the bar refuted. They insisted that she went willingly and this was further supported by the victim herself who refused to talk about what happened and would not submit to a rape kit.
The police were going to haul them off when the bartender intervened. He said they'd had enough and they would never come back this way again. It was obvious what they wanted from them so they swore never to come back. A promise they kept. After that, the police had no issue with releasing them and he and his friends collected the woman and drove back to the safety of the reservation.
Things didn't improve after that. A short stay in the hospital healed Jonathan's broken leg, but not his spirit. His two friends turned to drugs and became wastrels that lived only for their next fix. Worse of all was the woman, who could not get past what had been done to her, and it only became more difficult when she found one of the bastards had put a child in her.
She refused to tell anyone about it no matter how many times he begged her to and she swore him to secrecy. She took matters into her own hands and did everything she could to get rid of the child, no matter what the method entailed. In the end she succeeded, the child was destroyed, at the cost of her life.
He returned to raving. Where was the Great Spirit that night?! Where was it when his people were being massacred by the white devil who had no right to take the land from them?! Where was it when they were forced out of their homes to walk a lonely trail to lands they knew not?! Nowhere, that's where, because The Great Spirit does not exist, cannot exist and that was the end of it.
I tried to hold him till all of his tears ran dry, but he isolated himself for the next week and wouldn't see anyone. After that I learned my lesson and never brought it up again, not even to explain why I sought out certain people and avoided others. To me there was no denying that The Great Spirit exists.
It had given me my gift, for which I was more than grateful. It had sent Joyce to me, my one, true friend of friends. And most importantly of all it had given me my husband. But that was my way of looking at it and I wasn't going to force my opinion on someone else, even if that person be the love of my life.
That was a long time ago and he's starting to withdraw again. I surmise that his issues must be a result of his work, but I still didn't know what it was that he actually did. Prior questioning on this matter had always solicited the same response, 'this and that'. Now, it garners a blank stare and an immediate change of subject.
I return to the moment and find myself pacing the floor, wearing a million footprints into the carpet. I sit on the bed as I attempt to collect myself. I know I have to do something, I just don't know what. I wish Joyce were still alive. She'd know what to do and help me to do the right thing.
A sudden feeling comes over me. It's something I've never felt before. I explore it and find that the sensation is telling me that a stranger is in the house. I've learned to trust my instincts and make my way to the bedside table where I withdraw the thirty-eight revolver from the drawer. I open the chamber and find it fully loaded. I snap it back in place and head out the bedroom door.
I creep along as I hold the gun low. I make it to the top of the stairs and peer down. It's dark, but my eyes are quickly adjusting. I slink down the stairs, careful to make as little noise as possible. There are two open doorways that stand before me. The first leads to the kitchen which is completely dark. The second is the study which is emitting a muted blue light.
I take a quiet breath in and walk with hurried steps past the kitchen. Once on the other side I press my body against the wall and let the air out of my lungs. I turn my head and focus on the target. I slide along the wall and stop at the door frame. I sneak a quick look and return to my cover.
I recreate the image in my head. A single person dressed mostly, if not entirely, in black, standing before the safe. The only mystery is where the light is coming from, but I don't have time for that. I need to confront this sneak thief. I take another breath and slowly count in my head, three, two...
"Are you going to stand out there all night?" a strange, masculine voice asks from inside the room.
I've lost the element of surprise, but I can still salvage the situation. I turn around. Aim the revolver directly at the wall and take a step to the side. I am now facing the thief with the gun trained center mass. "Do not move," I demand in a calm, collected voice as I hold my finger near to the trigger. "I have a gun, it is loaded and it is pointed at you."
"So I can see," he points out as he is now facing me with what appears to be a shadow covering his whole face.
"I'm going to call the police, you stay put," I demand as I fish for the phone in my pocket with my non-dominant hand.
"You can trust that I will stay put, but I advise you, do not call the police," he returns with a voice calmer than my own and hands at his sides.
"And why is that?" I throw back, my voice raising as I push forward into the room.
"Because there is enough evidence here to put your husband away for the rest of his life," he tells me as he places a hand on the safe.
He almost had me convinced. "Nice try, but I know the contents of the safe and there is nothing in there that would prove detrimental to him or I," I scoff and raise my phone which was tucked inside my pocket.
"There is more in there than you know," he returns as he moves to the other side of the room, slowly enough that I'm able to keep the gun trained on him.
"And how would you know this?" I challenge as I hold my thumb ready to dial.
"I know a great many things," he responds as he holds still. "And though you have no reason to trust me, the information in that safe is a loaded gun pointed at your husband."
"Is the safe all you can think about?" I retort as my patience grows thinner with every word spoken. "I will prove to you just how wrong you are."
I maintain the revolver on his person as I move to the safe. "If you move I will shoot you," I warn him as I set the gun on top.
I input the combination while I keep an eye on the thief. I pop open the door and check over the contents. Family jewelry, a coin collection, some keepsakes and a pile of paperwork, marriage certificate, deed to the house, pink slips for the cars and other important documents.
"I told you," I start in as I turn my attention fully on him. "There's nothing dangerous in here."
"Look down at the bottom shelf," he speaks undeterred by my truth.
I decide to indulge him. "I'm looking," I chide as I split my observing so I keep an eye on him.
"Reach your hand to the back wall," he instructs.
I comply and cast him a look.
"Give it a push," he proceeds.
I give a deep, exasperated sigh and deliver the necessary strength to my fingers. I feel the wall give and a cold shudder runs the length of my hand and finds my spine. I stare at the thief, a million questions on my mind without a single word to put to them.
"Lift up," he carries on while standing still.
Fear is growing inside me. Aside from his work I thought I knew everything about my husband. My fingers are trembling as I lift up. I completely forget about everything else and focus on the secret compartment. There is only one thing inside, a single folder. I withdraw it and set it on top, right next to the revolver.
I open it up and don't care that I have covered the firearm. Inside I find nothing but gibberish. Five pages, typewritten, single face, two columns, the first a series of numbers, the second a series of letters. I look again and again at what should be the smoking gun. I'd nearly forgotten there was another person in the room.
I reach my hand under the folder, take hold the gun and snap it back to my target. "What is this!" I demand as I hone in on him. "Who are you?!"
"No one of any consequence," he states without missing a beat. "And what you have seen is the cipher to a very nasty ledger."
I shift my vision and gaze upon the folder. Could this gibberish, which looks like a child was practicing their numbers and alphabet, really be as powerful a document as he claims it to be and could it really put my husband behind bars for the rest of his life? The logic centers of my brain tell me I'm being played, but something undefined tells me there's more at play here than I can feasibly understand.
"What do you plan to do with these papers?" I jump straight to the point as my hands slacken on the revolver.
"I plan on memorizing the key," he informs me and keeps otherwise still.
"But won't publishing this information harm my husband anyway?" I posit as I feel my arm grow weaker due to my tumultuous emotional state.
"I have no intention of publishing it," he insists as he keeps his eyes on me. "I will use it to decipher the information once I have the ledger."
"But won't that prove that my husband was complicit at the very least?" I continue to pry as I fight to understand the scope of the situation unfolding before me.
"I'm after the men your husband works for," he explains and shifts focus to the cipher. "I have no intention of bringing down the hapless people who support these men through the inane activities that seem nothing more than pedestrian. Although your husband is a little bit further up the command chain, I still do not wish to bring him ruin."
"How can I trust anything you have to say?" I press on, hoping to hear something to assuage my fears and doubts.
"Unfortunately, there is nothing I can say or do to convince you of my good intentions," he admits and returns his eyes to me. "I can only ask that you put your faith in me and know that I will not violate that trust."
Confusion is all I feel at this point. The questions continue to mount in my head, but they all just feel so meaningless. If my husband is doing things he knows are wrong that would likely diminish his light. But he hasn't done anything too wrong else he would be emitting dark light. But can I trust this man? There's one way I can find out.
I lower the revolver in my hand so that it is pointing at the floor. "Would you come here?" I request and hold myself still.
He says nothing. He just walks over to where I'm standing and stops within arms reach of me and I find myself wavering from the shock of the sight. This thief, this man, emits no light, neither white nor dark. It's a sight I've never seen before. The only thing I can surmise is this, he has done things that neither bring him joy or cause him distress.
I gaze into the shadow that covers his face. It's faint, but I can see something there, just beneath the surface. I think to brush the shadow from his face, but I realize that his identity is not important. It's what he does that defines him. Whether he is a good man or bad I do not know, but I feel that what he is doing needs to be done.
"Would you care to step aside?" he suddenly speaks, interrupting my train of thought as he gestures to the papers.
I take a step back and watch him pick up the folder and read through its contents several times as he commits each character to memory. He then arranges the papers in their proper order and slips them back into the folder before closing it and setting it on top of the safe before taking a step back.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he says as he turns his face to me. "And congratulations." He places a hand on my stomach.
His final word has my brain reeling and once I recover I find he is gone and so is the blue light. I move over to the wall and flip the light on. I turn around and gaze at the evidence before me, the ones I wish were not there. The open safe, the folder, the papers and the gun in my hand. All of it weighs heavy on my mind.
I take a deep breath and return to the safe. I put the revolver on top and pick up the folder. I pull a chair from the nearby desk and sit myself down. I place the folder in my lap and face the open doorway. I need to be ready when my husband comes walking through it, whenever that should be.
Having nothing else to do I start focusing on that final word again, 'congratulations'. What did he mean by that? What could I possibly have to celebrate at this point? My husband is keeping secrets from me that could possibly have him jailed. He's losing his light and I don't know how far it will go.
So what is it that he meant? What could it possibly be? Why did he touch my belly? The last question sinks deep in my mind and I place a hand on my stomach and rub it in a circular fashion. It all becomes perfectly clear to me. It seems this night is just full of surprises. I just hope that no more arise until I have a chance to talk to my husband.
Roughly twenty minutes pass before I hear a key in the door. I hear him enter and shut it. He doesn't say a word, but I can feel the weight of his steps. He hesitates. He must be looking at the light coming from the study that is usually closed. He starts walking again with deliberate steps that border caution.
He steps into the open doorway and freezes in place. He sees the evidence in my hands. He doesn't know what to say. He's desperately trying to piece together the things before his eyes. I can see the confusion etched across his face. He's trying to formulate a plan that will explain everything.
I start. I tell him it's okay, that we will get through this. He tells me he never meant for it to happen. That he was pulled in deep before he knew what was going on, by that time it was too late, he was part of it. But everything is going to be alright. He quit his job. Our finances will get a little tight, but we'll make it through.
He asked how I found out. I decided to forgo the strange truth and opt to tell him that I chanced upon it while cleaning the safe. I pretend not to know what it is and ask him about it. He tells me he doesn't know what it is, just that his boss told him to keep it safe. I ask about the secret compartment. He tells me it was a DIY project over a weekend.
I wonder if he's lying to me, but decide to let it go. After all, I have my own bombshell to drop. I set the folder on top of the safe and walk over to him. I take him by the hand and look deep into his eyes. I tell him it's a shame about his job, but we will get by and it is not just we who are the issue now, but also our little one, growing inside of me.
A look of horror comes over his face. We have to get rid of it, is his declaration. The color leaves my face and I take a step back as I release his hands. He says that quitting his job, though the right thing to do, has marked him so that no other firm will hire him. As such, what money we have will soon dry up.
I remind him that I still have my job. He says that won't be enough. It will barely support us, let alone a child added to the mix. I tell him that we will find a way, that there is always a way. He simply will not listen to reason. Money seems to be the only thing on his mind. In my desperation I say what I oughtn't to say, The Great Spirit gave me this gift and I will not throw it away.
He takes a step back as though wounded and I can see the hurt and rage flooding in his eyes. I drop to my knees and apologize. I swear I didn't mean it, but it's no use, the damage is done. He turns around and walks out the door. He leaves the house and I am forced to imagine what he will do.
I stay upon my knees staring into nothing as I try to make sense of the situation. We'd talked about having kids and he was for it, even excited by the prospect. He wanted as many kids as possible. But, to be fair, that was when he had a job and prospects for his future with the company. All the same, I never believed he would turn heel so abruptly.
I have no idea when he'll return and I'm simply exhausted. I return everything to its place. His boss will likely come for the key and I don't want him to suspect anything. I take the gun upstairs with me and put it back in the nightstand before getting ready for bed. I slip beneath the covers as I stare at the ceiling. I want to cry, but I simply haven't the energy. Luckily, sleep is not far off.
I'm not sure when he came back, but I awoke to find him in bed, sound asleep, still wearing the clothes he had on last night. I let him sleep and go about my day. From then on we live as strangers. We do not speak and we barely acknowledge each other's existence. What's more, my heart further breaks when I notice his light diminish further.
Time passes and I go into labor pains. He drives me to the hospital, most likely out of a sense of obligation. I am his wife after all. After a long, excruciating labor I am delivered of a baby girl. She is placed in my arms and she glows as a baby ought. I rock her back and forth as I calm her screaming body.
I am so lost in my joy that I don't even notice that my husband has entered the room. I catch sight of him out of the corner of my eye. I lift my head and acknowledge his presence. I raise the child slightly as I present a gift to him. He's confused. He knows what he wants to do, but it seems as though he's forgotten how.
I sit up and hold her out just a little further. One step at a time he makes his way to the side of the bed. He flashes his eyes upon me, confusion lies within him. I think to speak, but decide just to nod. He refocuses on the baby and with trembling arms takes her up. She's still whimpering and he holds her on his shoulder as he pats her back.
I am simply overjoyed that our family is whole and my eyes are overwhelmed by the brilliant light that floods the room. I don't know if my husband will ever feel like a proper man, but I know that this child will help him find a balance to his life and may even heal his broken spirit. The Great Spirit has given me a gift and I do not take that lightly.