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.
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.
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J u l i e S h a p i r o