The Originators

CHAPTER 22: LISTEN TO ME: I HEAR TOMORROW (LAURA)

I.

I fall, wondering if all of this will work out. I mean I could actually die. What exactly would that be like? I ponder this as I fall. It's much faster than one would think. We always see people falling; plunging so slowly they must have a chance to imagine all kinds of things as they tumble towards an inevitable connection with solid Earth.

Thinking, as I fall, this is not a trampoline I'm about to land on. I won't be bouncing up, arms lifting with joy, the momentary exhalations to the heavens, celebrating life, a false bounce. I was going to land – flat, no bounce, just sudden brick, smack impact, limbs twisted, broken, only to smile up at a blind audience to rearrange my limbs; and walk away.

This was real. I fall, expecting nothing. This will either work or not. The only person who can save me is Solomon.

I look up and see Merc from afar. His eyes are on me; mouth open, wading rapidly in the sky, his head turns left looking at nothing, questioning with his rapid shouting to nothing; to everything. Turning my head downward to the ground, I see I'm milliseconds from landing; twisting, I hit.

Don't ever, ever throw yourself off a patio, or a random lonely cliff, or climb out of your tenth-floor window to fling yourself downward. It's painful. It hurts. It's not an easy death. It cripples you. Ironically, you could still live, but your life would always be about how things used to be; before that impetuous, desperate choice.

Thump, bounce, thump again. The ground is hard the first time; softer the second time since I have created the first imprint; the third time it welcomes me.

Gasping I look up. Seeing him spinning around, moving towards me, I want to tell him it will all be fine. Merc, my sweet, sad sociopath. I know I'm saving you.

Then I have to go. I turn on my side. This will all work out. I feel a presence, a hand, crying.

I decide I'm gone.

So, I go.

II.

The first sensation is mud seeping around me, cradling me, molding me into an organic sculpture. I'm wet and cold. The next thing surrounding me is sound; I distill them; waves crashing, birds rushing around me, voices rise, screaming.

Waiting until I have strength to shout out to those who are trying to raise me, I lift myself up. "What is going on? Where is Merc?" I creakily ask, rising slowly. Solomon, Poll and Cass all grab and pull me up.

They look at me, mouths open, flopping mouths, spewing words. Their sentences are not registering because they don't have answers. I instantly know I have to take charge.

"Let's get out of here. We will discuss how this plan failed once I get something to eat. And, I need to get warm." After I am wrapped in a sweater, twisting my hair at my nape, feet shoved into boots, I start walking. Pounding the Earth with my feet, up the bank, away from the lake, towards the sienna, clay pebbles, finding my car. Well, really it had become our car. I get into Merc's old convertible, not waiting for my rescue team, I peel out of the lakes' visitor parking. My chest is heavy. I want to hurt something, someone for it all going so wrong.

I turn on the car radio, envisioning Merc here with me, after a successful route. We would laugh, hold our hands up to the plentiful rain, the bounty of rain, wind, grabbing and releasing it. I listen to our old favorite, "I Want to Touch You" by Catherine Wheel. I see him reaching for me every time. Merc would sing along to it, and wink at me from time to time. His winks always delivered.

Smoking, he'd pull his flask out and toast the fates, the beauty of Earth, its unpredictability; its gracious acceptance of all of us. We would look at each other and smile; reveling in getting each other. Becoming a We. I would push his shoulder as he admitted he finally read Martin Buber. Or, maybe one day he'd admit he had read Ich und Du years ago.