We communicate with light

The phone rang. I hesitated to answer the call. My voice was still hoarse, my spirit still settling back in, and my body still on the couch.

I was on my third day of recovery and trying to make a final decision. Earlier that morning, I heard a knock at the door. I opened my eyes and looked out the window above the couch to see my employer standing there, waiting. I knew she had come to check in on me out of genuine concern, as well as for an explanation. I wasn't surprised. It was unlike me to miss work. I had to get up and have that conversation with her. I slowly sat up on the couch by bracing my elbows beneath me, pushing with my hands, and stabilizing my neck muscles to keep my head in the same position. I held my breath and winced as I got to my feet, dizzy from being unable to eat. I regained my balance and walked to the door. As the door opened, her eyes widened. Her expression revealed she understood the 'why?' I invited her in to explain the 'how?' I spared her time by excluding the details as I spared my voice by only giving the highlights.

Sunday dinner had been prepared, served, and received with tension in every course. My husband and I were like a kettle of water, feeling the heat and coming to a boil. I knew our steam would blow a whistle, but who would blow it first. I dimmed the lights hoping to change the mood or at least prolong what was to come. We chewed and swallowed the food. We listened to a symphony of clanging cutlery on ceramic plates and porcelain bowls, glasses thudding on the tablecloth, slurps of ice water, long signs, and throat clearings. The music substituted conversation but it was not pleasing to my ears and it unsettled my stomach. The meal was tasteless. The symphony finally fell silent after a rapid series of pots and pans resonating the metallic sink, cupboard doors slamming, and condiment bottles cracking on glass shelves ending with the final pop of the fridge door closing.

Then came the after-dinner performance. It was not our first, or one of our best, but it was our last. That too was tasteless. Our scene opened with the closing of the fridge door. We began with an eruption of synchronized dialogue like an opera with voices that rose and fell in response to the other, disproving that one cannot listen when the other is speaking. We were the part, not reading from a script, not acting or dancing around each other. If we had played, sang, and danced together more often, we would have had the background to perform it differently. I knew the last scene was coming to an end when I threw a roll of Bounty Quick-Size Paper Towel and hit him on the head. His steam whistle blew.

My part was over, and now the stage was his. His final scene, I thought, must have been choreographed and rehearsed to perfection with someone else because it was flawless. He held my throat with both hands, flipped me over his left side onto the floor, pinned both my arms above my elbows using his knees, left-hand on my neck, right-hand to the right side of my face, back-hand to the left side, and both hands back around my neck. The end.

The dimly lit kitchen was silent, then a light began to brighten. I was unable to move, feel, breathe, or speak. Compassion and love for him surged when suddenly, there was an explosion. The flash of light threw him back. I lay still for one second, and two, and three, and inhaled the light back into me. He sat on the floor with his fingers in his hair, motionless, and pale. He was in shock. We regained our composure in silence and retired to separate rooms for the night.

Emotionally exhausted from the visit, I was given all the time needed to recover. I walked my employer to the door and closed it behind her. I went back to the couch, gently lay down, closed my eyes, and continued to consider a final decision. The phone rang. I hesitated to answer the call. My voice was still hoarse, my spirit still settling back in, my body still on the couch.

I answered the call.

At the other end of the line was Heather, a friend from high school, whom I spoke to once a year. "Are you ok?" she asked with concern. I burst into tears and then told her what had happened once able to speak. Heather explained why she called. She had a message for me from someone. She said, "It's not your fault, it's his, and he needs help to deal with his anger. You will be alright whatever you decide to do." Tingling energy penetrated my toes, shot up through my body and out through the top of my head like an electric shock.

Heather continued to explain. She had gone to a psychic fair the day before, dragging her unwilling husband along with her. They settled in the back row, waiting for the next show to begin. The seats continued to fill when a psychic walked up on stage and stood in front of the microphone. The psychic said, "Before I begin, there is someone in the audience who knows Rachel. I need to speak with you. Please, raise your hand." Heather and her husband looked at each other. The audience was silent. After asking a third time, Heather's husband nudged her with his elbow. He hissed, "Heather, she's talking about Rachel! Raise your hand!" She was stunned he believed the psychic and happily raised her hand. The psychic left the stage, walked down the aisle, pulled Heather aside, and told her the story.

Sunday night, the psychic was lounging on her couch watching television. When she drifted off to sleep, she saw a light emanating from me going to my guardian angel. My guardian angel received my light, sent her light to the psychic's guardian angel above her, and then received it. The light contained a message and she was instructed how to send that message to me. The psychic was informed, a friend of mine would be in the audience, that audience.

Heather finished the story by saying she was given her phone number and if I needed to, I could call her.

I didn't need to, I had made my decision.