sorry for me and see that it’s not a rock bottom what I have hit because from a rock bottom you can bounce back
He doesn’t say anything about the piano madness.
“Around her I felt a filthy bastard who had to dirty his existence by doing unspiritual things like earning money for the family. She made me feel unworthy and probably I was. But I had to survive and the only way to survive was to break away from her constant disapproval. I loved her…”
I burst out crying, my sobs are uncontrollable. I feel a wreck. I feel a carrier of an incurable disease called misery and I spread its virus thus contaminating everyone I come in contact with. If I come to think it was Alec talking to me in these terms. My beautiful GP also mentioned something like this making me feel part of a statistics showing the growing number of people diagnosed with chronic unhappiness. She tried to tell me that the soul also has an immune system and its failure leads to a diagnosis like that, “Elizabeth,” she said after handing me the prescription for the anxiety pills. “Hypocrites, the father of medicine, said nearly two thousand five hundred years ago ‘Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food’. In twenty first century we have to add a modification saying, ‘Let thoughts be thy medicine and medicine be thy thoughts.’ You are killing yourself, kid!”
My father places a hand over my clenched hands. “Now, now, you better stop this, you are a big girl, remember?”
“I don’t want to be a big girl,” I sob with another doze of desperation while wiping with my tongue what’s pouring down from my nose. He finds the paper napkin they put in the burger boxes. It’s greasy but does the job. I blow in it and he wraps it up carefully, then squeezes it into a ball and targets the sink through the open kitchen door. For a moment I strain my ears so I can judge by the sound whether it has landed on the plug or bounced against the tap but he is back talking to me.
“…I have made tons of money, now I can find a purpose in my current life.”
The dude has money! Rob him! Or better kill and inherit! “You call me a purpose?”
He looks me in the eyes and sighs. “You can be as hostile as you want, kid! But that’s the normal way to go. Read all these books about successful people who were killing themselves in the rat race, have sacrificed their health and love life in the name of Mammon until one day death reminds them that they are mortals and they embrace spirituality in order to heal themselves. You have to try the other way around. Heal your life by embracing the right notion of money.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.” The fat lie wobbles on my mouth like a deflated gum bubble.
I sit aware of my clenched hands trembling in his warm big palm, tears that now don’t find their way to my eyes block my throat. I swallow and choke. He taps my back and brings me water.
She drinks coffee not water, dude!
“She was not exactly a “material girl” your mother.” A thin smile slides along his lips. “She was not made for this world.”
Saying this he crosses the space to the bookshelves. There he stands for a while browsing the shelves until he picks out a loosely bound print out. “That’s it,” he says then opens the pages with utter care. “I knew I’d found it still here.”
He turns to me, the print out of a book I know too well eagle-spread in his hands. “In her memory we are going to follow her way of building a life for you, Elizabeth. For doing this you have to meet a healer, a teacher, a warrior and a visionary perhaps not in that order.” While he closes the book a page breaks away and flies down landing between us. I shiver, it’s as if it’s a sign of her presence, as if my mother is with us at that moment and I can’t breathe with the overwhelming sensation.
My father comes back to the sofa, comes back to me carrying the book ceremonially, like a box of ashes perhaps, or a box of subtle wisdom possessing the power to transform lives. He sits next to me, still aloof as if contacting other dimensions, and offers the book to me. My hands unclench only to grasp it so hard I hope it doesn’t hurt the pages full of wisdom.
“Let’s the healing begin,” my father whispers ceremonially and we both turn to the corner where like a sarcophagus traveled across time my mother’s piano is ready to spill ancient secrets. “Here is your ticket, Elizabeth. First you go to Ursula.”
“But Ursula hasn’t got money!”
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