Authors: Lenora Henson
“Then there are the gods—like the Horned One, Cernunnos. The playful man who has the heart of a child. We find him in Peter Pan or Pan himself. I pray to the Horned One as well as the Mother. I often imagine Cernunnos walking beside me, helping me grow spiritually, but protecting me from growing up and from taking myself too seriously. I’ve entered into a covenant with him that I renew every April Fools’ Day.
“Sometimes I pray to Hermes and Aphrodite, too, simply because, together, they make me feel a sensual love for the universe that I can’t find anywhere else. When I pray to them I’m completely open to potential, allowing a creative give-and-take to occur.”
Having been raised by a transpersonal psychologist and a hippie mystic, Eli had grown used to tuning out talk of archetypes and cosmic energy. But, now, he was rapt. He could happily sit beneath this tree, listening to Gretchel talk like this forever.
“Sometimes I pray for rescue, for a god or a goddess or
someone
to save me from my shadows because I don’t have the courage or the strength to save myself.”
Gretchel stopped talking long enough for Eli to realize that some kind of response was required. “And what form would this rescue take?”
“Love, of course.” Her smile was radiant.
“Of course.”
“Yes, I think that love is the only thing that can save me from myself, and I know that the universe is holding that love for me, and anyone else who wants to claim it. Can you imagine a love so pure that it’s infinite, Eli? Doesn’t that just blow your mind?” He thought about how
she
was blowing his mind.
“I don’t know if I can imagine it, really, but I’d like to try.”
“I feel closest to that love when I’m outside, in the elements. When I’m connected to the earth, I feel like I’m free, like my wild heart is open, like my bare feet can dance. I feel like I’m truly awake and alive. I guess I feel like I’m home.”
“That’s beautiful.” Eli wasn’t sure if he was talking about the girl, her words, or both. “My parents raised me to believe a lot of the same things you believe, but I’ve never heard them express their beliefs quite so passionately.”
“I’m extremely high,” she chuckled. “I really do feel like that. I just wouldn’t have pontificated quite so, um, expressively if What’s-His-Nuts hadn’t come out with a joint earlier.” Gretchel narrowed her eyes at Eli. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“Nope. Pacific Northwest.”
“Why are you in Illinois?”
“I have a date with destiny,” he said.
She looked deep into his eyes, and Eli felt certain that she could see his soul.
“Gretchel, do you believe in fate?”
“I believe in possibility and potential,” she smiled, still looking straight into Eli’s eyes. Then she lifted her gaze. “And I do believe I’m falling deeply in love with your curly hair.” She reached up and ran a gentle hand through his unruly mop. Her touch raised goose bumps on his arms.
Eli had resented his mother’s insistence that her crazy prophecy had anything to do with him, but now he believed. He was meant to be with this girl. If he knew nothing else, of this he was absolutely certain.
∞
It was Sunday night in Carbondale, and Eli was sleeping peacefully in his room when the screaming began. He lay staring at the ceiling, listening to Gretchel’s obvious distress, trying to make out what she was saying. After about an hour, he couldn’t ta
ke it anymore.
Eli tiptoed down the hall and slowly opened Gretchel’s unlocked door. He could see her thrashing around in the moonlight.
This is not normal
, he thought. Gently, he sat on the edge of her bed. He didn’t want to frighten her, or even wake her. He just wanted to help her if he could. He placed his hand on the small of her back. His touch seemed to calm her.
Eli couldn’t see Gretchel’s face, but he could tell that she was awake after all.
“Tell me everything’s going to be okay.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.
Eli lay down next to Gretchel and wrapped his arm around her waist. His hand found what felt like a rag doll pressed against Gretchel’s belly.
“Everything’s going to be okay. I promise,” he whispered back. She slept quietly the rest of the night.
It was still dark when her alarm clock sounded. Gretchel looked at Eli, who was clearly unsure of what he should do after waking up in Gretchel’s bed. She pushed back a tangle of runaway curls, kissed his forehead, whispered “Thank you,” and was on her way.
∞
Oregon, 2010s
Eli puffed from a small pipe as he stared at the picture of Gretchel with her children. He hadn’t let himself revisit these memories for a long time, but it felt good—like a kind of therapy. He worried, for a moment, that going back to his memories of Carbondale was going in the wrong direction, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to remember that, once upon a time, his life had been beautiful, or the snake that stalked his dreams would swallow him whole.
CHAPTER ELVELEN
Oregon
, 2010s
Eli was obsessed. He sat at the computer for days, looking at every picture, reading every post and comment on Ame’s Facebook page. His phone rang—calls from Rebecca, his mother, his father, and several friends. He ignored them all.
He was surprised—and pleased—to see that Gretchel was living in her hometown. He had assumed that Troy would have dragged her to the Chicago suburb where he had grown up. That’s where she was headed the last time Eli saw her, the day she broke his heart.
Eli watched to see if Ame was using chat. He wanted to talk to her, even if he had no idea what he was going to say. He just wanted some connection—however tenuous—to Gretchel.
In the meantime, he just returned—again and again—to the photo of Gretchel with her children. Gretchel was squeezing them both lovingly, and Eli was sure she was the wonderful mother he had always known she would be.
Other photos were more disturbing. She had aged well, but she looked different. She was too skinny—sickly, almost. She dressed like a soccer mom, and it didn’t suit her. When Eli thought of her, she always wore jeans and a tank top, or a wild hippie dress she had made for herself. Eli knew that seventeen years was a long time—he knew that all too well—but Gretchel looked uncomfortable and unhappy in this suburban persona. She didn’t look like herself, and Eli got the sense that she didn’t
feel
like herself, either. This woman he was seeing—she wasn’t Gretchel.
When Eli peered into her photographed eyes, he felt like he was seeing all his fears for her come true. He had predicted this—or something like this—but he still couldn’t fathom why she felt she deserved the punishment a life with Troy was sure to bring her.
Gretchel was still the woman for him, though. He didn’t care how much she had changed. He would never be able to imagine truly loving anyone else, no matter what his mother or an oracular crone from an acid trip might have to say about it.
∞
Carbondale, 1990s
Gretchel had already left the house by the time Eli got up
on his second day in Carbondale. Will explained that she worked for a landscaper who liked to get an early start, and that she always went out for a run first thing in the morning.
Eli holed up in his room all day long, writing to kill time. Shortly after three, he heard singing coming from the bathroom. He closed his notebook and waited for the right moment to approach Gretchel.
Finally, he crept out of his room and walked slowly down the hall. The door to her room was open. He tried to seem casual, but he couldn’t help turning to look at her as he walked past.
“Hey, Hermes,” she smiled.
“Hermes?”
“The Greek messenger god. I’ve always pictured him with wild, curly hair like yours.”
Eli took a cautious step into her room, trying not to step on anything. Books and CDs mingled with sketchbooks all over the floor. An easel stood in the corner, surrounded by canvases in various stages of completion. Fabric was strewn about near a desk that supported an old sewing machine. An altar sat in the corner of the room, partnered with a prayer pillow. Gretchel’s altar tools were carefully arranged on top of a printed, violet piece of fabric.
Houseplants and potted herbs flourished amongst the mess. Gretchel’s hippie lair smelled like sandalwood, and Eli noticed the incense burner on her nightstand, along with a rag doll and a tarnished silver cup.
“That’s a beautiful quaich,” he said. Gretchel replied with a confused grin. He pointed to the two-handled cup.
“Oh, yeah—the loving cup. It’s been in my family a long time. A
really
long time, I think. My grand mama gave it to my parents on their wedding day, and my mama gave it to me after my daddy died.”
“My apologies,” he said quietly.
She brushed at her quilt, smoothing out the wrinkles. “He’s been dead awhile now. It’s ancient history.” Then she started straightening the pillows on her bed. “Sorry about the mess. I have no great excuse, other than I work a lot, and when I come home I just want to chill. I haven’t wasted time like this since I was a kid.”
“I love wasting time,” Eli said as he took a seat. She scooted herself against two big, fluffy paisley pillows as she dog-eared the book she was reading. He glanced down at the title and smiled. “You like Graham Duncan?”
“I do. I think he’s a brilliant god, and I’m hopelessly in love with him.” She pretended to swoon. “Have you read any of his books, Hermes?”
“I have."
“I would love to meet the man, just to pick his brain. I’d hitch a ride and follow him across the country like a Deadhead if he ever did a book tour.”
“You and every other fanatical reader. He’s a complete nutter if you ask me.”
“But I didn’t ask you,” she replied with a laugh. “I wonder what he looks like. I hear he has a birthmark in the shape of a phallus on his ass.”
Eli shook his head, trying to keep a straight face.
Gretchel chuckled. “Duncan makes me laugh.”
“Is a peculiar sense of humor all it takes for you to fall hopelessly in love with someone?” he asked.
“It certainly doesn’t hurt,” she said as she coyly batted her eyelashes. “Duncan’s words make my own logic seem a little less bizarre.”
“He definitely has a unique perspective on reality.”
“I like his perspective. His characters are like Alice in Wonderland. They’re illogical in a normal social environment, but perfectly logical within the context of the story.”
“A trip down the rabbit hole,” Eli said. He picked at the beautiful quilt on her bed. “What would you do if you went down the rabbit hole?”
“I don’t know. Paint the roses red?” she shrugged. He laughed.
“Actually I would do a lot more than that. I think that more people should explore the depths of the psyche like Duncan does. I think that the psyche holds incredible secrets, and I want to go there on an expedition. Have you ever read the book
Deep-See Diving
by Miranda Stewart?”
Eli had to suppress another grin when he heard his maternal grandmother’s name. “Interestingly enough, I have. But most people don’t want to go that deep. The psyche is also where universal, archetypal pain resides.”
Gretchel stared off into space for a moment, and Eli wondered what she was seeing. “Do you think a person can go there and bypass the pain?”
“I don’t know. I think a person should try to go there in order to befriend the pain, to release it and use that transformed energy to create something else, something beautiful.”
“Do you think a person could visit their raw pain and survive?”
“Absolutely. I’ve...” and he stopped himself. He was going too far.
“What would happen to a person if she went into the psyche, unlocked the wrong door, and got trapped by her own ghosts and shadows?”
“Well, I think that person would need a guide, someone experienced, to escort her through the labyrinth,” he said. “Have you ever tried mushrooms or acid, Gretchel?”
She shook her head with a tinge of disappointment in the gesture. “I want to. I’m just petrified by the thought of what I might encounter.”
“I’ve tripped on many occasions,” Eli said.
Too many times to count.
“We could do it together sometime if you’d like.”
“Can we do it now?” she asked, eyes sparkling with sudden anticipation.
He laughed. “I don’t have any acid or ‘shrooms right now. Are you in that much of a hurry to meet your shadows?” he teased, and absentmindedly ran his fingers up and down her calf.
“Maybe I’m just trying to befriend my pain,” she smiled. He wanted to reply, he wanted to ask her about the nightmares. He wanted to know what made her scream in the night. But the moment passed when she leapt from the bed and grabbed a tube of red paint and a brush. “Shall we paint the roses red?”
Eli sat up. “Huh?”
“I’m kidding.” She put the art supplies down and grabbed his hand. “Let’s tend to the garden, then I want to show you the fairy ring I found in the woods behind the house.” Eli raised his eyebrows again, but he followed her.
He would have followed her anywhere.
∞
Their days developed an easy rhythm. They spent the late afternoons talking on her bed, which led to tending the garden as the sun went down. Then they made dinner. Will could barely boil water and, left to her own devices, Patty would have subsisted on almond milk, cold tofu dogs, and weed. Gretchel, on the other hand, knew how to cook, and Eli was happy to serve as prep chef.
After dinner, the residents of the house on Pringle Street would retire to the backyard. Gretchel and Patty would sit and listen to Eli and Will play their guitars. When Will and Patty had other plans for the evening, Eli and Gretchel would lie on a blanket, look at the stars, and talk.
When Gretchel went to bed, Eli never followed. He waited until she was asleep, and then tiptoed to her bed to hold her all night. His presence seemed to keep the nightmares at bay.
“Whoa, dude! What the hell?” Will was looking at Eli’s guitar, sitting on its stand in the living room. “She painted your fucking
Martin
? Does she know how much that thing cost?”
Eli looked, too. Gretchel had covered his very expensive, carefully crafted acoustic guitar in psychedelic flora. “I think it looks cool.”
Will shook his head. “You got it bad, dude, and I can tell you right now this ain’t going to end well, but hey, keep doing whatever you’re doing ‘cause I’ve been sleeping like a baby since you got here.” Will paused for a moment, reflecting. “So what
are
you doing, anyway?”
Eli shrugged his shoulders, and walked out of the room.
It was Friday, and he thought he might ask Gretchel out to dinner. He hopped the steps to the second floor. She was standing in her doorway, waiting for him. She had dried her long red hair and left it down. She was wearing a floral kimono with a wide scarlet belt around her waist—Eli recognized the dress as something Gretchel had made from thrift-store finds. He was stunned to see that she was wearing makeup—her lips were painted a soft shade of red—and not surprised at all to see that she was barefoot, although the deep red on her toenails was also a new development. She was unbelievably gorgeous in jeans and a tank top, but this was too much. Eli couldn’t speak. He was bewitched.
“You want to come in?” she asked with a sultry smile, not surprised by his muteness.
He entered the room, but didn’t sit on her bed like he usually did. He stood, looking at Gretchel, befuddled. He felt a strong desire to bow down and worship this redheaded incarnation of Aphrodite. Gretchel broke the silence.
“I haven’t felt this good in a long time, Eli,” she said, coming in closer. “This house has healing energy—really good healing energy. Ever since I moved here I’ve felt peaceful, and then you came, and it’s like my whole world shifted again.” She stopped for a moment, her eyes turned down. “I’m not always like this, Eli. I have issues—seriously deep, fucked-up issues. I just think you should know this now.”
He reached out, and put his hand on her waist. “Should we talk about your issues?”
She shook her head. “No, but one thing is for sure, you heal me, too.” She stood on her toes and kissed him on the mouth. It was a short, wet kiss, and his tongue met hers for only a moment. It was the kind of kiss that just begs to be repeated with conviction.
Eli reached his hand behind him, and shut the door. “Don’t lock it,” she whispered. He undid her belt, and the dress flowed loose around her. He put a hand on her face, and kissed her, lingering this time. He worked his other hand under her dress and tenderly grabbed at her backside.
“Eli, it’s been a long time since I’ve had sex sober,” her lips whimpered against his.
He pulled his face back a few inches.
What an odd thing to say
. “Then let’s consider it making love,” he replied, bunching the fabric of her dress in his hands as he lifted the hem.
She pushed his hands back down. “I have scars. I’m afraid for you to see them. It’s easier when I’m buzzed.”
He released her dress and gently swept her crimson bangs back from the side of her forehead. He kissed the scar that peeked out every now and again. “I think it gives you character.”
“That’s not the scar I'm talking about,” she said. Her voice was sad, and all of the sudden, she was a million miles away. Eli took a step back, letting her go.
“Show me,” he said.
Gretchel dropped her head, and then her eyes rose to meet his. Her gaze dared him to watch as she pulled her dress up over her head and dropped it to the floor.
The right side of Gretchel’s torso was a map of scars. Eli knew enough to recognize them as burns—serious burns—patched with skin grafts and imperfectly healed.
The sight didn’t offend Eli. He was just sad—incredibly, incredibly sad—that Gretchel had endured whatever pain caused these scars. He slid his fingers along them. Her hand fluttered above his, but she didn’t stop him. He let his hand slide up to her breast. Her nipple became firm at his touch, and he felt her breath catch. Sliding his hand down her torso, Eli felt more scars. Not burns. These were smooth and regular. Seven cuts, parallel to each other, about an inch in length. He languidly lowered his head to her abdomen and tenderly kissed each scar. The smell of her skin was overwhelming. Strawberries.