SWITCH!! -- A Past-Life Murder Mystery

Chapter Sixteen Holy Toast, Suddenly I Am Writing a DIFFERENT "Novel"

2010-11-21T03:22:00.001-08:00

By Claudia Ricci

It has happened. I am officially switching gears here. I apologize in advance to anybody who is angry. I apologize if you clicked onto this site, SWITCH!!, and suddenly you went, hey what the hey happened to that author Gina Morrison who was writing this book, SWITCH!!?

You don't see author Gina Morrison's name here on this blog because she never existed. Well, she existed, but only as a "writerly" self inside me. In other words, I made her up.

Gina, in the company of her friend Xandra, had just arrived in a kind of spooky redwood forest in northern California and was just about to meet a healer in one of those fairy rings -- where the redwood sprouts grow in circles. It was a lovely setting for her, and I myself miss it a bit, and who knows, I may get back to it!

Just not now.

Now I'm writing another book and I have only 40 days to do it. Forty days, wow. That number is downright BIBLICAL.

Anyway, I have agreed to finish my book as part of the Albany Times Union's Writing in Motion project, organized by my good friend Lori Cullen, herself a fabulous writer. Lori has challenged me and a handful of other writers to finish our books by year's end.

I am determined to meet my friend Lori's goal, for a whole host of reasons you will understand if you just read the new book, called Sister Mysteries. Try starting with Chapter One.

It's hard to explain exactly how I switched gears here. Let's just say it finally dawned on me about a week ago, after 16 years of trying to write this book as fiction, that I absolutely had to write it as the "truth." But you can also give Lori Cullen credit, for setting me and my writing in motion. (Lately, it's been a spin!) What is most ironic, I think, is that the character Xandra, in SWITCH!!, a brilliant, beautiful and highly creative woman living in California, was loosely inspired by no other than LORI CULLEN, my brilliant, beautiful and highly creative friend, and a writer who has read much of my nun story over the last decade!

Curiously, it was Lori who served as inspiration for my character Xandra; it was also Lori who had the inspiration to launch the Writing in Motion project back in October, which then got me writing my new true story.

It makes sense that I write this book as a true story. For 16 years I kept saying that I had to write Sister Renata's true story. Her diaries, rescued by her best friend Sister Teresa and released to the press, revealed the truth about her relationship with her crazy cousin Antonie.

Antonie had written all these crazy but very lyrical stories about Renata. Stories that got her into deep, deep trouble. First he portrayed her as an exotic, and erotic, flamenco dancer, who was always seducing him. In scene after scene, Renata would slip out of her nun's garb and dress in the flame-colored flamenco dress, and then fulfill all of his greatest fantasies.

Those fantasies of Antonie's -- as much as I loved them -- landed Renata in prison, falsely accused of murder. (More on that part of the story later.)

Meanwhile, Renata had her diaries, and they reveal the true story of what happened.

So all these years I've been trying to write the TRUTH about Renata. I kept saying that the truth would set her free. What I didn't realize until LAST WEEK is that writing the truth about MY LIFE, would SET ME FREE TOO.

I tried for sixteen years to write a fictional "outer story" that didn't want to be. I wrote at least three or four completely different versions of the story. I had different sets of characters, first, Heather Richochet, a rock star turned nun, and her buffoon of a sister, Malvina. I had another religious nut, Lucy, and her academic sister, Christina.

And now, here, in SWITCH!!, I invented Gina Morrison, and Xandra (short for Alexandra), her best friend from college. As readers of this blog know so well, Xandra is a high-powered DNA researcher out in San Jose, California who also happens to be an African dancer, and the daughter of an African healer.

When Gina's marriage is starting to fall apart, and her husband Dave forbids her to write her story in an on-line blog, Gina flees to California, where Xandra takes her to a healer who lives in the middle of a redwood forest in northern California.

I can see that forest now. I myself was waiting to discover how EXACTLY that healer was going to help Gina.

And if anyone really wants me to go forward with Gina's story, I would be more than happy to do that at another point soon. (Please email me right away at claudiaricci054@gmail.com.)

Meanwhile, I have been swept up into this new book, Sister Mysteries, within which the nun story is contained on a blog called Castenata.

OK, so now on with CHAPTER TWO of Sister Mysteries! Here you will meet my best writing buddy, Peg, who has over the last 16 years read every single draft of the nun story that I've been trying to write. For years, Peg told me I had to write the "true" story that I was living.

Well, so, here you go, Peg. This book, and especially this chapter, is dedicated to YOU!

******

It was a beautiful November afternoon, not too cold and perfectly clear. The light was soft and lemon yellow – and the sun was low in the sky. It made the rhododendron glow outside the window. Peg had driven all the way over from Massachusetts, where she teaches at the state university, just so we could write together. And now here she was sitting in the kitchen staring at me, and blinking in surprise. “I think you're kidding me but I'm not sure. You're kidding me right, Claud?"

Her voice was up in that higher register, the one she occupies when she’s either delighted or dumbfounded or just confused.

Peg is my best and my oldest writing buddy, and she has read no fewer than 6,000 pages of this novel called Sister Mysteries (and more recently, Switch!!) I started this tome almost 16 years ago and at this moment it exists in a rather odd set of interconnected blogs and also, a huge pile of typed pages in a blue crate in the closet. I keep the crate under wraps -- covered by a azure blue satin shawl, the kind that my character Renata wears when she dances flamenco. On top of the shawl sits a black garbage bag full of rags.

Peg was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me to say something. I was busy at the stove making tea. “Yeah, you heard me right Peg. I am… I think I am... OK, I am really writing it this time.” I cringed as I spoke the last few words; I was holding my breath. I wasn’t sure what she would say next.

Peg has always loved the book, or at least she has always adored the part about the nun, Sister Renata. For years she kept saying, Claud, you just gotta finish it. But then she saw what it did to me over the years. She saw me slowly but surely write myself into a deep dark hole. She saw me write myself into a kind of writer’s grave -- or maybe it was a prison -- from which I wasn’t sure I would ever emerge.

When I was sick with lymphoma in 2002, she heard me say that I feared that the book had made me sick. "No," she would always say, quietly but firmly. "This book didn't make you sick, Claud. This book wants to heal you."

Yeah, well, maybe. But it sure didn't feel that way. Writing the book felt like pure torture.

Oddly enough, when I started writing it in 1995, I did it thinking I would give each of the chapters to my dear friend Nina, who at the time was in an agonizing round of chemotherapy treatment at Sloan Kettering for breast cancer. (She is great today, by the way!)

I told myself and others that I was writing the book to help to distract and comfort her when she went through chemotherapy.

But then, when I landed in chemotherapy at Sloan Kettering in the summer of 2002, I realized how ridiculous that notion had been. There wasn't a book on earth, with the exception of the Holy Bible, that comforted me.

Now I poured us herbal tea and brought the steaming cups to the granite counter.

"But this is so so strange," Peg said. "Tell me how it happened? You haven't touched that book for..."

My heart was hammering. "I know, I know, for a long long time. Except...."

"Except?"

I took a seat on the round stool. "I haven't seen you for a while (Peg got married in August and she was pretty busy, for months beforehand, preparing for the big event.) I never told you Peg but I started again earlier this year. Writing it...as a blog. I called it Switch!! and I even paid a web designer to write some code so that the chapter titles would appear on the site."

"Wow," she said in a kind of hush. "That is so, so weird."

"I know," I said, cringing. I had this very odd feeling, like I was confessing to some kind of a crime.

I was waiting for Peg to say it: “Claud, this is crazy.” When Peg says that word “crazy,” she always hangs onto the last syllable, making the last "zee" swing back and forth for about half a sentence. It's really funny actually.

But she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything for a minute or two. She just smiled. Finally, she got up from the table and went to her canvas bag near the door.

"Now this is really really odd," Peg said, pulling something bright turquoise out of her bag. "This has got to be one of the strangest coincidences." She chuckled. In her hand was a small square gift wrapped in turquoise paper.

“Claud, I really think you should open your birthday present right right now,” Peg said, handing me the gift.

"But Peg, for heaven's sake, what are you doing bringing me a birthday present, my birthday isn't for a few weeks." She said nothing but watched me rip the tissue paper apart.

I gasped. My heart started racing and my hands went clammy.

Over the last 15 years, Peg has bought me numerous images of the Virgin Mary. I happen to believe in the Virgin Mary. When I was so terribly ill in the summer of 2002, feeling so nauseous and so wasted from the chemo I could hardly lift my head, I used to sit on the porch and imagine myself hiding in Mary's sky blue veil. It comforted me immensely. And when in 2003 a doctor at Sloan told me that I absolutely had to have a stem cell transplant or I would die, and I refused, I spent a month praying to the Virgin Mary, around the clock. I would wake up in the middle of the night saying Hail Marys.

At the end of that month, all of my prayers were answered (more on that later.)

Anyway, having read the whole story, as they say, Peg knows about my beliefs. She knows that I think the Virgin is a symbol of the divine feminine force in the Universe. A feminine force that ultimately is helping to free Renata, and me (more on me later!) Peg is not Catholic (but she is a feminist like me, we did our doctoral exams together and read many of the same books.)

Still, whenever I would talk to Peg about my fascination with the Virgin Mary, she would just laugh and laugh and laugh, that wonderful laugh of hers.

"But Claud, you're Jewish," she would always say, getting a little hysterical.

"Well, the Virgin Mary was Jewish too," I would reply.

And so it went. Meanwhile, over the years, Peg would bring me some mighty fine Virgin gifts. My favorite is a plastic device shaped like a piece of toast, (called "Holy Toast.") Some Mary devotees claim to have seen the Good Lady's image in their morning toast. So with that in mind, some manufacturer of wacky plastic tchotchkes came up with this device, so that anyone can imprint a piece of breakfast toast very CLEARLY with Mary's image.

I was standing there with the beautiful Virgen tile in my hand, thinking, how strange was Peg's timing with this newest gift. I hadn't been writing Sister Mysteries for years, so how had she known to buy it for me?

"I love this tile, I love it," I said in a whisper.

The tile carried the image of the Virgen de Guadalupe, the virgin worshiped by Mexican devotees. I suppose because Renata is a Latina woman, I connect most deeply with the Virgen de Guadalupe, or in Spanish, La Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe.

Legend has it that a simple peasant, Juan Diego, walking from his home village to Mexico City, first sited the Virgen on the famous Tepeyac hilltop -- a sacred site believed to have been a Pre-Columbian worship site for the indigenous mother Goddess Tonantzin. Even though it was December, Juan Diego found roses and other flowers blooming. According to Juan Diego's account, written originally in his native language Nahuatl, the young Virgin herself arranged the flowers in Diego's tilma, or cloak. href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Our_Lady_of_Guadalupe">great story. It's a great story, and it involves roses as so many sightings of the Virgin do!

"So Peg how did you know to buy me this? As far as you knew, I'd given up writing the book a long, long time ago."

She shrugged. "I have no idea, all I know is that when I saw this tile in a little shop in Northampton the other day, I said, 'oops, gotta buy this for Claud.'"

OK, so some people will think this is crazy, but to me, this serendipitous event seems like a sign, that I am supposed to be writing this book. Its time has come.

"I'll say it's time," Peg laughed. "If this book were a child, Claud, it would be a teenager, it would be out getting its driver’s license." She laughed hysterically.

I started laughing too. "But Peg," I responded, "it has been driving for years, IT HAS BEEN DRIVING ME CRAZY."

"Claud, think about this: when you started the book, your daughter Jocelyn was only 11 years old. Your son Noah was six. Lindsay was nine."

We laughed a little longer. And then Peg opened her computer. "I have a lot to say about Sister Mysteries," she announced. "And I think we should record our conversation right now."

So we did. And if I can get Peg to send me the file as a download, I will post it here.

One thing is clear: Sister Mysteries wasn't meant to be a book. Not the paper kind that you can sit down and read from cover to cover.

This book is alive. It lives in the world of the internet. It lives inside me, and inside Peg, and hopefully, it will live inside other readers.

And even though I started it in 1995, it wasn't until the appropriate technology -- blogs, mp3 files, digital audio and video recordings -- emerged, that Antonie's crazy stories Renata's life, and her diary, appeared, and can be read now, here for the first time.

Sister Mysteries is part of the Albany Times Union's Writing In Motion project, in which several authors are committed to completing their books by the end of the year. Sister Mysteries is contained in a series of interconnected blogs, one of which, Castenata, is a story of a nun, Sister Renata, who in 1883 was falsely accused of murdering her cousin Antonie.

Chapter Fifteen: SWITCHING gears, OR try CHAPTER ONE of this NOVEL NOVEL, which isn't a novel at all!

2010-11-14T04:40:00.001-08:00

Believe me because I'm not lying this time.

By Claudia Ricci

This time, I promise I will tell the true story. Because I've got to, to save me and the nun, Sister Renata. And now, I've only got 46 days to do it.

I have tried to lie about all of it so many times before, and always, always, it fails. The story at one point or another always and inevitably starts to fall apart. In this last version, Switch!!, I got as far as Chapter Fourteen. I haven't given up on Switch!!, but it's starting to feel a bit...shaky. Like I cannot sustain it. The lying. The fiction. The idea that I am making this mixed-up narrator Gina Morrison tell the story that I am supposed to tell.

It feels like I am trying to hold up a house of cards, made out of words that don't feel write. I mean right. I will keep trying to write Switch!!, but I warn all of you loyal readers of this novel (to date, this site has had nearly 8,000 hits!): it is possible that I won't make it to the end of this particular narrative thread, I can feel myself heading in another direction, Gina Morrison is slipping away, maybe, so maybe you just might have to SWITCH!! gears right now, right here.

I've been here before. More times than I can count. I have written thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of pages trying to get this "novel" write. I mean right. Trying to tell this story that doesn't seem to want to be told.

So now I've decided, what the hell, I will just tell the true story, here on this new blog. Because clearly it is time. Because if I don’t write the book, right now, right here, if I don't look deeply into the issues that it raises, I am taking a chance. I am risking my health. I cannot take that chance. You could say that my life is on the line here, so please. Listen. Hear me out.

The medical intuitive who helped diagnose my cancer in the summer of 2003 -- she was 3,000 miles away from me, and she had never even met me, didn't even know my last name -- convinced me of this: she said that in order to heal, I had to come to grips with certain underlying issues related to my mother. Somehow, I had to stop resenting her illness and what it did to me as a child.

I know now that it isn't just the asthma I resented. It is her anxiety too. Her deeply fearful view of life. Her sometimes dark and dismal attitude. But how I am supposed to stop resenting this? I’m not exactly sure. But I am determined, you could maybe even say desperate, to figure it out, to let go of all that negative feeling I harbor toward my mother. I know I want to let go of it because I love my mother. And she is 84. How many more years do I have to resolve this?

So here now is Sister Mysteries and if you would, please, I would very much appreciate your reading this book. Because like all writers -- read Lori Cullen's blog, Writing in Motion, if you have any doubts -- I fight despair. More often than not, I lose steam. I am at a loss for inspiration.

Lori's challenge is simple: finish your book by the end of the year. The year having only 46 more days.

It is amazing but for the first time, I'm thinking, I can do this. I can finish a book I started 16 years ago. And I can do it in a matter of 46 days.

Too often during those 16 years, I have been telling myself what all writers tell themselves as they write books: "this is just nuts, you must be crazy to write this stupid stupid book. There is no way in hell you are going to finish this stupid stupid book." And here I have already finished and published two novels (you might enjoy my new one, Seeing Red, which is due out in about a week.)

Still, every book is a new and different challenge. Every day is a blank new screen.

Like all writers, I need readers. I need people to tell me to keep going. Even if you just wrote those two words, KEEP GOING. That's all it takes to feed the writing beast, to make a writer go forward with more words.

*******

OK, so it started almost 16 years ago. Yes, sixteen long years!! It's completely absurd I know. When I reminded my writer friend Peg the other day that it had been sixteen years, she laughed that hearty laugh of hers and said, "Claud, if your book were a kid, then it would be a teenager now. It would be DRIVING!"

Yes, well, this kid has been driving for a long, long time. It has been driving me totally and completely insane.

It started as a novel. The first vision came to me while I was lying on the floor doing leg lifts, in the middle of January. I could say perhaps that it was snowing, but I don’t know for sure. I believe there was ice on the window. Outdoors snowdrifts were blowing everywhere. Inside, the NPR station on my night table was playing a piece of pulsing flamenco music. I had my face down on the cool pine floorboards and one leg was in the air and out of nowhere came a vision of a nun.

A nun with a white wimple bound so tightly across her forehead that she had a red crease in the flesh just above her bushy eyebrows. She was staring into a small mirror. She was unbuttoning her scratchy wool habit. She was disrobing, dropping her skirt, and putting on a black satin flamenco dress with red ruffles.
She was tying tap shoes onto her petite feet. She was smearing bloody red lipstick on her lips, and decorating her eyes in mascara.

What was this? I had absolutely no idea. But it didn’t matter. I hurried downstairs to my computer to write it down. Soon enough it became the first chapter of a “novel,” a novel I called Sister Mysteries. The first chapter is called "Renata Dancing." It's vivid and exotic and a bit erotic. And the amazing thing: it didn't take me but a few hours to write it. More chapters followed in quick succession. Before I knew it, I had spun a whole world, created the nun's world, and I was inhabiting that world – out in California in a convent on a dry golden landscape with hills dotted by live oak and deep forests of towering redwood trees. I could step into that world at will. Indeed, I felt like I lived there.

The book felt like it was writing itself. I spun the chapters out one after another.
And then, a few months later, I was accepted at a writer’s colony. Where else, but in a dry golden California landscape

dotted by live oak trees and deep forests of towering redwood trees.

By this time, I had decided that I was writing this novel as a sort of gift to a dear friend -- someone who was as close to me as a sister -- a sister who was ill.

Indeed, my dear friend Nina had been struggling with breast cancer. Oddly, I told myself that I would send my friend Nina the chapters I was writing, and she could read them while lying in bed in the hospital, or getting chemo drips. I told myself that she needed distraction. She would read them, and be distracted from her pain and suffering.

Odd indeed, considering what happened to me later on.

Anyway, back to the nun’s tale. It was a piece of cake to write Sister Renata’s story. I wrote about 120 pages total and people read it and just loved the writing. I didn’t even need to make corrections. Some people asked if what I wrote was true, because it felt so much like it was. No matter that the events I wrote about happened in 1883. I could see every minute detail. I could write pages – and did-- about every detail of the convent. I could see the black cracks snaking through the blue and white tiled fountain in back of the convent. I could see the texture of the white adobe walls in the nun’s chamber. I could feel the straw in her mattress and how it scratched her back. I could see exactly how Sister Renata and her buddy, Sister Teresa, laughed and thinned the carrots while kneeling in the garden. I could see the two of them picnicking on a blanket beneath a giant live oak on the hillside. I could see them feeding the chickens, lifting the smooth pellets of dry corn that they heaped into the laps of their white cotton aprons.

I could see the flowers embroidering the long cape that Renata wore when she visited her cousin Antonie. Renata, in this story, is accused of killing Antonie, by slicking his throat.
Ah, but here, I am getting ahead of myself. I am getting distracted.

Back to the writer’s colony in California. When I arrived there, I thought I was writing a novel and my writer self decided that I needed an outer story for the nun’s tale.

It was that outer story that I worked on doggedly at that first writer’s colony in 1996.
It was that outer story that would ultimately “sink” me. Or at least that’s the way I used to think.

I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. I wrote for years. I wrote to the point that I had piles of manuscripts like small white mountains circling the walls my study.

I burned some versions of the manuscript in a small bonfire in my front yard.

I gave up writing that novel so many times I cannot count. No matter how many times I gave up, I started again. Perhaps because I loved so much inhabiting the world of the nun.

At one point, in the late 1990s, I got so depressed that my sister insisted on bringing me to a new shrink. The shrink – at Harvard University—listened carefully to me when I said that I couldn’t write this book about a nun who lived back in 1883. I told her that I was going crazy. I told her that I had three kids to raise and that I couldn’t afford to go crazy.

She studied me for a moment and smiled. And then she said. “Have you considered getting past life regression therapy?”

I blinked.

I left her office more confused than when I went in.

Well, so, there is a lot more to this story.

But let’s cut to the chase. At some point, I took those mountains of pages and threw out a ton and burned a few more. And then I carefully lay the remaining pages of that very dangerous book into a blue crate, and covered it with a Spanish shawl, covered in red roses.

I set the crate into the corner of the downstairs closet where I keep the vacuum cleaner and the ironing board. I took a giant black garbage bag full of rags and set it on top of the shawl-draped crate. And then, I just left it there.

I told myself that I would wait until the Universe gave me permission to write the book. Maybe I was just going about it the wrong way. Or perhaps the problem was that I was too much in a hurry to write it. After all, if I was writing about a nun who lived more than 100 years ago, then I had perhaps to be… more patient.

Well, so, today, I have opened the crate and taken out the first pages at the top, the one with the nun's photo on it.

Today is the day. Today is the day that I must write again. I must move forward. Most importantly, I must tell the truth, and not dare call it a novel.

Sister Mysteries is part of the Albany Times Union's Writing In Motion project, in which several authors are committed to completing their books by the end of the year. Sister Mysteries is contained in a series of interconnected blogs, one of which, Castenata, is a story of a nun, Sister Renata, who in 1883 was falsely accused of murdering her cousin Antonie.

Chapter Fourteen: The Place Between, I've Seen it I've BEEN HERE Before

2010-09-12T06:22:00.000-07:00

By Gina Morrison

When we arrive, the first thing I see are the darkly splendid redwoods, and the ghostly grey light they create as the sun filters into the space around the bark. Xandra was right, there is indeed a giant fairy ring growing, the redwood sprouts form a circle that must be 20 or 30 feet in diameter. In the center of the ring stands an odd little building, eight-sided, with lots of long glass windows and of all things, a roof that has grass and vines growing.

"However did she built it?" I whisper, and Xandra just chuckles. We get out of the car, and it is only when we are standing outside, that I see through the redwood forest to the "other side" -- the starkly bright golden hillside, dotted with live oaks. And on the top, one that spreads in all --

Dear God.

I gasp. My eyes start to water, and I close them and open them again, half hoping the hillside won't be there, because

because I've seen this hillside, because I've been here so many times before, because I've laid beneath that spreading oak more times than I can count, I've climbed it with my dear Teresa, with a blanket with a canteen of fresh lemonade she made me. I've sat beneath the prickered leaves, I've written and written about my cousin Antonie filling my diary just the way Teresa instructed me...

I turn to face Xandra but she is already a few feet away, standing at the edge of the fairy ring. I follow, determined to have her explain what is happening. Before I have a chance, though, I see Xandra step into the ring and take the hand of a woman with long dark hair and a wide face and a smile so bright you might say it lights up the redwoods.

Xandra and the woman hug briefly, and then Xandra turns and motions for me to follow. I stop just before the ring, wondering if somehow I need permission. I wish I had a picture of what I see next. At the edge of the redwood forest, there are four deer standing. Four deer! One of them is smaller than the others; one of them has an architecture of antlers so big you could hang the laundry on it.

The deer are quietly watching us. Then they turn and leave.

But then I see something I never thought I'd see up close: a coyote. We have them back home; David and I have lain awake at night listening to them howl. But here is a coyote only about 2o yards away.

He is greyish yellow, slightly bedraggled. He slinks along the edge of the redwoods, and I am thinking he must be following the deer.

And then the coyote too is gone. As if on cue, I hear something right overhead. An owl. I look up and see the curved brown head. White speckles. And one yellow eye.

"Are you coming?" Xandra calls to me.

"Do you see the owl?" I point to the branch, but when I look back, there is nothing.

Now I am realizing, this is the kind of place where all kinds of weird things are happening.

Gingerly, I step into the ring, and walk across the spongy forest.

"Gina, this is Lenora," Xandra says, and I shake hands with the woman. She is wearing jeans and a white blouse embroidered in colorful flowers. Her arms are exposed, and they are strong and very muscular.

"I think the best way to explain what she does is to have her show you." Xandra smiles. "I have to go, but I'll be back in a few hours and we can take a walk."

"OK," I say. Lenora turns and I follow her, my heart beating so hard I feel it in my hands. What awaits me I don't know if I want to know.

Chapter Thirteen: We Go Somewhere "Closer to God"

2010-08-29T05:05:00.000-07:00

By Gina Morrison

As the crow flies, it isn't that far from Xandra's home to her office in Menlo Park, but with the horrendous traffic, we go so slowly that I end up nodding off. When I wake up Xandra tells me that I've been snoring.

I shake my head and sit up. I realize that we have left the freeway and now we're driving on some back road that winds up through the golden hillsides.

I yawn. "This looks like the very long way around," I say.

Xandra smiles, and sips from her traveling cup, which contains green tea.

"I told you, Gina, I'm taking you to see my friend."

"Oh right, the therapist."

Xandra looks at me slyly and nods. Her dark eyes are full of mystery. "Trust me, Gina, this is like no therapist you have ever met before."

I shift in my seat. "You're making me nervous Xand."

"Oh, just relax, she's wonderful."

"Yeah, so, where does she live?"

"I would say she lives in a fairy ring, but then you would think I was joking."

"Yes I definitely would think that."

Xandra laughs. "I could also say she lives closer to God, but that might be hard for you to swallow too."

"Yup." I yawn, and rub my eyes. Two things are clear, my dear Xandra is taking me someplace beautiful. And she isn't going to tell me much about her friend in advance.

"She lives in the Santa Cruz mountains in a house that she built herself."

"Wow. That's cool."

I gaze out the window. The sun is just climbing over the golden hillsides. The sky is that brilliant California blue, and the hillsides are rounded and full of billowing live oaks. I yawn, and in that sleepy state, I am thinking, weird how familiar all this looks, and in that instant,

suddenly my head clears and IT HITS ME

I've been here before,

I've been here before. I've been here before.

I suck in my breath.

"Fuck," I whisper. I gaze out the car window

up into the branches of the live oak where I'm lying on the baked earth. Teresa and I escaped up here after chores at the convent.

We are on a blanket beneath our beloved live oak tree. A hot breeze is blowing. I so much want to take off my veil. I don't dare because there are times some of the other nuns walk up here and that would be the worst thing in the world for them to find me without my veil.

"Are you thirsty?" Teresa asks now.

I turn. She has buried in her basket beneath a towel a cool canteen of freshly squeezed lemonade.

"You are so kind," I say, and drink from the canteen.

After a few minutes of silence, Teresa asks again to read the pages I've tucked into my sleeve.

I'm scared to let her read them. What Antonie has written here on these thin pieces of white paper is clearly the work of an insane man. But I cannot keep them from Teresa any longer.

I hand her the piece he calls “Renata Dancing." She reads in silence. Then I let her read "Roseblade.”

When she finishes, those normally cheerful blue eyes of hers are muddied and solemn.

“Oh Renata.” She takes my hand. “He… he is… that devil who is your cousin is going to destroy you with these lies for sure.”

“Yes, I fear he will. But what am I to do?”

She gazes out to the golden hillside, where two large black birds land. She is still holding onto my hand. Slowly she shakes her head.

“I don’t know that there is anything that can possibly help. But one thing you must absolutely do.” The deep blue sky color sails back into her eyes. “Take precautions. And continue to record everything that happens. Write it all down in your diary. Leave out nothing, not a single detail.”

I nod. “God knows, I am writing in the diary every blessed day.”

“Yes, yes. You must continue. And one other thing you could do. Remember I told you to write the story of how things were when the two of you were growing up?”

“Yes. I remember. And I have considered it. But how is writing such a history going to help?”

“You will see for yourself, and show others too, how the past, your past with Antonie, has shaped things. You will see how things have come to be the way they are.”

I consider her face. Usually such a jolly soul, Teresa is wholly serious today.

“Yes, I suppose it can’t hurt,” I say.

“And now Renata, I’ve got to head back. Mother Yolla instructed me at lunch to attend to the henhouse today and I dare not show up to supper without having done it, or I will pay dearly.”

“Oh yes, of course, and I’ll come, I’ll help,” I stand too. But she stops me.

“NO.” She holds up one hand in commandment. “You my dear sister, you are going to sit down and write.”

“But it might wait, I could…”

“NO.” Another hand up. “You must write in the diary. Right now. I am leaving the canteen with you. Open straight to a clean page. And begin. Write about your cousin and you. In the old days, when you first came. Maybe buried in your words you will see if there were clues, already, back then.”

When she says that, I squirm. There are things about Antonie and me in the past that I would prefer not to recall.

I watch my dear Teresa retreat down the hillside. She holds the dark skirt of her habit wide, in two hands, and as she lopes down the hill, the hot air shimmers, and she presents a ghostly figure, there on the hill.

Chapter Twelve: I Arrive in California, Where Xandra has a Surprise Waiting

2010-08-21T07:20:00.001-07:00

By Gina Morrison

I wake up on the rock hard floor and it is it takes me more than a minute to figure out that I am wrapped in Xandra’s red Navaho blanket and that it scratches at my face and for a minute I’ve got myself convinced that I am lying on Renata’s narrow bed beneath the crucifix.

I blink and then I see one thick leg of Xandra’s brass bed, the bed I was supposed to sleep in last night and I am a little frightened wondering how the hell I got here on the floor, I’m sure it has something to do with that bottle of white wine I downed on the plane and then the two, yes, two ativan I swallowed, one as the plane did a severe rocking and rolling and nosediving routine somewhere over Kansas. And the second one I took as we started to descend into SFO, that’s the moment I realized for the first time that I had actually left David 3,000 miles behind and the fact I did it sort of blew my mind and not in such a good way either.

I vaguely remember Xandra meeting me outside baggage claim in San Francisco, I remember her saying we should get dinner and I remember thinking I was so tired that I couldn’t hold my head up.

“Oh God, I’m starving, would you mind if we stopped somewhere?” So how could I say no? W hat I should have done was have a strong shot of espresso but instead I had more wine, and by ten p.m. when we were heading down the 101 toward San Jose, the lights along the Bay were like birthday candles all alight, whirling on the dark horizon with the stars bright overhead in the sky.

I don’t remember when, but I fell asleep.

The weird thing about the ativan is how it makes me forget so completely, it takes my memory and turns it into a piece of Swiss cheese. Sometimes it scares me, like the time I went to make a milkshake and I put a spoon in the blender and then I went to peel a banana and I turned on the blender and there went the spoon.

And so much for the blender.

David refers to ativan as “outofit.”

I sit up now, here on Xandra’s floor, and my head is still swimming upstream, and the first thing I realize is how I miss him, really totally miss him in the gut in my legs and in every other part of me I won’t even mention, especially in my heart , I ache and that feeling sets me into a sweat and frenzy.

At that moment the door squeaks open and I see what looks to be a powder blue curtain, which turns out to be Xandra in a chiffon bathrobe. Very sexy, and her dreds are a cloud flying in a million directions.

“Are you awake?” she whispers and I whisper “uh, yes, I guess so.”

She makes her way into the room. “What in God’s name are you doing under the rug?”

I push it away. “I wish I knew,” I mumble, rolling over.

“So I’ve got to get to work early today, but I want you to come with me. I have a friend I want you to see this morning."

"Who is your friend?"

"She is a therapist, but not the sort you've been seeing."

"What sort is she?" I sit up, and I am yawning and so at first when she answers I am not quite sure I hear her right.

"She does hypnosis for past life regression."

I don't answer right away. Finally I say, "I don't think so, Xand."

"Look, Gina, you just have to meet her. She's someone you would like. I work with her now and then and she's amazing. And all you have to do is meet her. You can decide later if you want her services."

I lay back down on the floor and close my eyes. "Right now Xand all I want is more sleep. I don't want to meet anyone. So if you don't mind, I think I'll stay here this morning."

Xandra doesn't say anything at first. Then she sits down on the floor cross-legged and suddenly I realize that she is studying me.

"What?"

"Oh it's just that I was thinking of taking the afternoon off. I thought we could take a walk at this bird sanctuary and talk about what’s going on with you and David.”

"Sure. That sounds great. So you could come back and get me at lunch and I can sleep a few more hours."

"Yes, except if you stay here it means an extra two hours of driving."

I feel trapped. Xandra is pushing me way too hard, and I don't want to be pushed. I am about to say this to Xandra, except she beats me to it.

"Look, Gina, I know I"m putting a bit of a squeeze on you, but I really wish you'd go along with me here. I have a strong intuition that you are going to like this woman. She's helped a lot of people and she's very easy-going."

I am not happy, at all, but I decide that in the interest of keeping peace, I will meet Xandra's friend and get it over with.

I drag myself off the floor and head for the shower, where I stand for an extra few minutes, letting the water soak into my head and neck. Soon I am dressed and in the kitchen, where Xandra hands me one of her green "power" shakes.

"I'll take an English muffin, if you have one," I mumble. Naturally, she doesn't have English muffins.

I take a sip of the power shake and it tastes vaguely like my lawn back home. I place the glass very carefully back on the counter and soon, I'm sitting in Xandra’s BMW, and we are in traffic backed up the 101, and my new life in California, packed like a sardine in a car on the freeway, has begun.

Chapter Eleven: Renata at the Campsite

2010-08-15T12:12:00.000-07:00

Only with great reluctance did Renata return to the campfire to lie in the bedroll that Señora had prepared for her.

Antonie was in a deep sleep when Renata woke him sometime during the night. The first thing to catch his eye as he came to consciousness was the moon, a glowing curl, visible just over Renata's shoulder, as if it were somehow entwined with her image as it moved toward him.

He knew that was an illusion, because her hair, naturally, was tied back and completely curtained by her dark veil. Her eyes shone, too, or at least the whites stood out, circling the irises that dropped with the rest of her looming form into night. All but the stark white swath of linen binding her forehead was black.

For a moment, he imagined the linen to be some insurmountable white barrier, the stone fence he once faced, years before, back when he was a child struggling to master the forbidding Arabian steed that his father had called “Paolo.” In an instant, Renata’s face had displaced the frustrating memory of the horse. Her breath was shallow and insistent, and before he was altogether sure what was happening, she was drawing him in over the white wall. Her lips were moist and warm, and her mouth lingered tenderly on his for a long time. In the morning, he knew for certain that she would deny that she had ever left her bed. In the morning, she would deny she had ever approached his cot, or knelt beside him, or that she had kissed him repeatedly, cradling his head, or that she had laid her own head briefly on his chest berfore she got into his bed and proceeded with her seduction.

Nonetheless, he let her proceed. He kept his eyes closed and tried to breathe in calmly as she unbuttoned his shirt and slipped the belt out of the hammered silver buckle of his pants. Silently, she set to work with her fingers, letting them pass lightly across his raised nipples, dipping them gradually toward the ribs, lettting them dance down his chest until he was heaving with impatient desire. Soon she traded lines for circles, the circles following the slight swell of flesh around his stomach. She enlarged the circles so slowly that he hardly noticed them widening, expanding, until, her hand just grazing the uppermost edge of his pubic hair, she proceeded to leave it there. Her circling abruptly stopped, and her hand remained, poised, lightly running back and forth along the line at the top of the triangle of hair. He lay there, head flopping side to side, teeth digging into his bottom lip, not daring to moan because it might wake Senora, or the driver of the wagon, but praying all the while that Renata would keep on, dip further with her fingers, let them encompass the rest of him. His legs turned liquid, and limp. Tired of waiting, he groped impatiently for her hand. He allowed himself to groan, and to call out once, “please, Renata, now.” And then, his own hand shaking, he pulled at her fingers, desperately pushing them downward, at which point she froze, and grabbed her hand away from his groin.

“No,” she said abruptly, her voice stern. She rose and he lay there, his eyes wet, his chest heaving. For the first time he realized that he was almost completely exposed to the damp night air. He shuddered, but made no attempt to cover himself, there, where his desire welled.

“You…you are so unfair to me,” he began, tears pooling. “You are…” but he couldn’t finish, because his voice had risen to a high pitch, and he felt choked off and breathless. After a moment he was able to continue, but only in fits and starts. “I…I lie here…I …I am…half crazy with desire…I am in sheer agony when I’m near you…I am helpless around you, and you, you know that, you know that so well. Helpless. I am helpless to do anything about my…myself, the way I am…you know that too, you know me so well, so long. You know, and yet you…you just…you just keep taking advantage of me.” The last words were barely audible. She stood over him, and he was horrified to see that she was smiling, she was delighting in his humiliation once again. Whenever this happened, whenever she led him to his breaking point, and left him there, abandoned him, unwilling to follow through, to show him she cared, he felt as though he had to start over, invent himself anew.

“It’s too bad that you’ve developed such an…attachment to me,” she murmured after a moment had passed. “You know,” and here she sighed deeply, and he wondered if it was just for effect, “you know Antonie, or you should, that this is…this has been so…so hard for me, too, your illness especially, trying to coax you through, this has been more difficult than you can imagine.”
He raised himself to both elbows and poised there, trembling. If she could have seen his face then, she would have observed an unusual fury in his eyes, a brutal anger creasing his forehead and pulling back his lips and chin.

“Hard? For you? Hard for you?” His voice was coarse and throaty. “For you, no, this isn’t hard. This isn’t hard at all. And this isn’t new either. This is, this is what you do best, best in all the world. You tease and mock me, yes, you mock me, you scorn me, you always have, forever, ever since you were the horrifying child I grew up with.” Exhausted, he dropped back off his elbows onto the makeshift bed, which wobbled with his every move.

She was silent again, and again, he couldn’t imagine her face. Nor did he want to. He vowed not to think of her again, not to let her come near him, to tempt him, tease him, and then, let him down. But it was fruitless, and he knew that too. Within a few days, another episode, another encounter, another seduction by Renata would follow, because that is how it went, always.
Gazing at her, he could barely make out the white linen fence.

“I suppose I could lie with you, lie next to you, that is, for a short time, if that would calm you.” Her voice blended into the night wind.

He stared at the stars, pinpoints of light in the blue black night sky. He watched one of the points flicker and blink. “Am I awake or asleep?” he asked himself then. It occurred to him that if he would just keep asking that same question over and over throughout the night, then it might not matter what Renata said, or did, because she would simply assume a place beside him, a place in one of his grand illusions. She might seem real, or she might not. But she would be fixed for certain in her uncertainty and she could not hurt him anymore. She would become, simply, a matter for discussion, observation, an unstable image or object evading direct perception, one of a myriad fluid aspects of nature. Her reality, simply, would reside apart from him behind a curtain. He could live with that. At least he thought so, in that moment, lying there, staring at the winking stars.

But almost immediately, and maybe because of the way the stars flickered, he wasn’t sure. After all, he knew so little about the boundaries of trickery and sorcery and witchcraft. And Renata, after all was said and done, was of that nether world.

“Yes, I would lie with you,” she said in an enchanting whisper. And before he could answer, or refuse, she stretched herself alongside him on the cot. As he felt the rough black fabric of her habit against his bare skin, he thought of her soft white underclothes beneath, and beneath those clothes, her flesh, as soft as the underbelly of a new pup. As she cupped her clothed body submissively around his, his mind circled around one fact: that black is black and white is white, and the world, understandably, wasn’t ready to accept someone like himself, or Renata, either, people who so casually blurred the distinctions of propriety and good taste.

“So why,” he asked himself, “should we be any different than we are? Why should we be shy about our desire?” That thought squared him, gave him assurance and peace, eased his mind, allowed him to let go of his anger and frustration. He folded her in his arms and stared into the dark sky and held her black and white layers to his yearning flesh, and he felt terror about what was to come, the grotesque treatments the doctor would soon prescribe. He feared dying, but even more, he dreaded living through what was in store.

But now he lay quietly beside Renata, happy to absorb himself in the stars, and in her, and in the curl of the moon approaching the horizon. In his feverish state, her words echoed and reverberated in his mind. He heard her saying: “I would lie with you, I would lie with you.” But soon enough, like the winds cooling his forehead, the words shifted. “I would lie with you” became “I would lie in you.” The vacillation continued until finally her words achieved their final form: “I would lie to you, I would lie to you.” He felt her warm breath, heard her singing whisper, and knew that “I would lie to you” was the only truthful statement he would hear from her all night.

Chapter Ten: En route to San Francisco, Antonie Writes

2010-08-15T11:46:00.000-07:00

It was their first night at camp en route to San Francisco. They had been traveling for the better part of one day, all the way from the convent, and shortly before dusk, when the sun's rays had fallen behind the horizon, and the sky was a milky blue, Señora Ramos pulled the wagon up to a stream, where they proceeded to water the horses.

After a simple dinner of corn meal and beans, Renata withdrew from the fire. She hugged the blue shawl closer around her shoulders, tucking her slender white fingertips protectively into the folds of her elbows on either side. The shawl was satin, and hardly offered protection against the chilly night. A brisk wind lifted the lip of her veil and scooped at the hem of her dress. A tall line of trees made a ragged black silhouette against the dark sky, and tiny stars dotted the sky like diamonds.

Renata's chin dropped to her chest, and she rocked, slightly, with some impatience. The toe of her black shoe was barely visible, but it kept time in the loose gravel where she stood, tapping out the rhythm of some vital internal clock. She avoided Antonie, even managed to ignore the odd collection of noises –wheezing, coughs, congestion, and steady chattering – that rose from him as he lay on blankets on the ground. She had taken her share of the dinner basket – a cold thigh of chicken, a hunk of sourdough bread, a sweet potato baked in the stones of the campfire – and she had eaten the meal on a warm rock, apart from the others.

She faced the steep ridge of the Santa Cruz mountains that they would climb through the following morning, and she watched the last of the sun slip down the western sky, and she wondered how the traveling would go, with Antonie so ill.

Once the sun dropped into a dark pool behind the mountains, though, she put aside her concerns and walked back to the fire. There were more night noises now, and there was no telling what creatures – bobcats, jaguar, bear — roamed the gathering shadows beyond the campfire.

Señora hummed a low wordless melody, huddled over her open-toed leather sandals, her white cotton skirt spread in the powdery dust. Renata listened closely to the tune, but could not identify it nor could she say even whether she had heard it before. She wished then that when Antonie had come to take her from the convent kitchen in the morning, that she had been able to bring her guitar, although under the harried circumstances of her departure, there was no time even to pack a simple change of clothes. She stared at him, and hateful thoughts flooded her.

As if he were reading her mind at that moment, Antonie looked up from his makeshift bed, which Señora had prepared as soon as they had made camp. Antonie had instructed Señora to place his head close toward the fire, so if he woke during the night he might have sufficient light to write "his pages." Señora defied him, however, saying in Spanish that she dare not place his blanket right next to the flames, lest stray sparks set fire to the bedroll or to "el pelo," the long black hair that rippled in waves over Antonie's shoulders.

“I would like it so much if you would sing to me,” he said now to Renata. He lifted one hand in her direction, and spoke slowly but with deliberation. Renata saw that he was shivering, and that his face was wet beneath the brim of his hat. The jumping flames of the fire

licked golden stripes in both his eyes.

“You know I came on this trip only because you forced me to come. I have no intention of singing to you,” Renata responded, lowering her eyes so that the flames could find no reflection there. She was going to add the word ‘ever’ but just then, the coffeepot toppled over and sent boiling liquid into the fire.

Señora rose abruptly, yelling out “Dios mío!” Grabbing at the fiery pot with the bottom of her cotton skirt, Señora managed to lift her dress high enough to show off her brown wiggling thighs. She missed the pot, which hit the ground, discharging sizzling liquid all around. Hot black coffee shot out at Renata’s feet and Antonie’s head. Simultaneously, Antonie turned and the nun jumped away, so that the coffee all but missed her dark skirt and her blue shawl

and his black hair. Señora crossed the distance to where Renata stood gazing at the coffee pot as it roasted in the flames.

Señora began a furious babble of Spanish.

“No, no, Señora, please, don’t worry, I am fine,” Renata said, calmly touching the woman’s thick graying hair. Señora looked up, and shook her head, her eyes large and round. There was contained in those eyes a pleading look that Renata had never seen before.

“You...we...God, I believe, He is telling us that we must be more kind to him,” Señora whispered, at which Renata recoiled, mouth open. She tossed one loose end of the blue shawl across her chest and hurried out of the light of the campfire. For the rest of the evening, until the sky went pitch dark, and the fire settled into glowing red and white coals, and the stars were dull sparks glittering above her head, Renata sat on the same large rock where she had eaten her dinner.

She listened to the coyotes call, and she prayed that she would see no wolves or bobcats. And then she whispered a second prayer asking God that whatever He had in mind for her as they traveled to San Francisco the next day to see the doctor, that all would be well.
more to come...

Chapter Nine: I Arrive in California, Where Xandra has a Surprise Waiting

2010-08-11T05:26:00.001-07:00

Chapter Eight: How I Wanted Desperately to be A Nun Growing Up!

2010-08-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

By Claudia Ricci

As a little girl, I was desperate to be a nun. I wanted so badly to be a nun that my Grandfather Claude, for whom I am named, and whose English was thickly accented by Italian, used to trail me around the house calling me “Seester.” So maybe that’s why I think I am a nun since he christened me and his name was Claude, which by the way means “lame one” (for the Emperor Claudius.)

My dear friend and spiritual advisor Denise, who helped me recover from cancer eight years ago, thinks I should change my name. I asked her why and she told me that the "lame one" creates an energetic field that isn't just good for me.

She suggested that I use my middle name, which is Jean, or some version of it, Jeanna or Gina, because Jean “is of Hebrew origin, and its meaning is "God's grace." I should mention perhaps that some years ago I converted to Judaism.

How odd, a Jewish Italian woman writing a story about a Spanish nun who is imprisoned for killing her cousin.

Well so, Grandpa Claude and my Grandma Mish (short for Michelina) referred to all nuns, except for me, that is, as “crows.”

The ones I knew in Catholic school certainly fit that description to a T, they were as mean as black beady-eyed crows. They made us kneel on hot asphalt in the schoolyard in June so that we could say the stations of the cross. I remember the hot burning tar and the sharp grit cutting into my young knees.

And now it hits me: the name of the church and the school that I attended as a little girl, where I suffered the brutality of the nuns, was Saint Anthony's.

I have so many nun stories I could tell, and so does my brother and so does my mother too. Very scary stories. But the only nun story I really want to tell is the murder mystery, the one about Renata and Antonie, and how I believe that I am living in 1883, sitting in the courtyard and climbing the hillside with Teresa and traveling to San Francisco with Antonie and Señora.

Denise believes in past lives, and she thinks my nun story is…important.

Once a few years back I saw a psychiatrist at Harvard, my sister Karen took me there on a sunny cold morning in January, we drove I 90 all the way to Boston, my sister, who is a nurse, insisted we go because she was so worried about me, my mental health, I was quite depressed.

When I told the shrink about my nun story, how I feel like I’m in prison, how

I have the scratchy feeling of her black wool habit right here at the tender part of my waist, where my big black rosary beads hang, how I sit in the courtyard of the convent with Sister Teresa, how I can see the black cracks snaking through the blue and white tiles, how I can see the fountain, dry now of water, how I can count the birds, how I feed the chickens corn pellets from my white apron, how I often stare up at the lion-colored California hillsides near the convent how I walk up those hillside giggling with Sister Teresa, how we have picnics under the live oak trees, how the smells make me sneeze, how we unlace our blocky black shoes and we take them off and lie down on the blanket side by side, how we stare into the azure sky, how I decided to let Theresa read my diary, http://renata1883.blogspot.com/2010/04/renata-writes-diary.html and so now she is the only one who knows the truth about Antonie and how he is trying to frame me with his outrageous stories.

Well, so, I should tell you that I even have the newspaper clipping from 1882 accusing me of Antonie’s murder. The one from the San Francisco Examiner, you can see it right here http://renata1883.blogspot.com/2006/06/this-is-newspaper-that-condemned-her.html So this way maybe
I can prove to you and the world that this nun story is absolutely true.

Anyway, when I told the shrink at Harvard all about that, I expected her to commit me, but she didn’t even blink at my story, she simply suggested that I take it very seriously, she actually suggested that I consult a past life regression therapist she knew about in Worcester. Or she said, I should find a different past life therapist nearer my home.

I was surprised, and my sister, well, she was a lot more surprised.

I never did seek out a past life therapist.

And then there was the time more recently when my sister Holly bought me the nun costume. It was a really lovely costume, and it looked quite good on me, even the white headpiece binding my forehead, and the black veil looked quite lovely too. But that was not good timing, her buying me that nun costume, because. Well.

Let's just say it was a difficult time in my life. A very scary time.

Sometimes I get scared even now.

Sometimes I get scared because I am convinced that maybe I am just plain crazy. A crazy Italian Jewish Spanish woman telling a nutty story which
nobody will believe
and
nobody will ever read.

Of course, on that subject of readers, Denise would say to me, Claudia, it's your ego that makes you feel like you need readers.

Denise has tried to impress upon me the difference between objective and subjective art. She suggests that a person who is on a spiritual quest

(and here I should pause and say that most days I do consider myself to be on a spiritual quest)

is looking always to be guided by the Divine and motivated to enhance the BEING; that same person should always be looking at her motivations, why she is doing what she is doing.

I called Denise a few weeks ago and told her I was a bit confused about how to go forward with this crazy story about Sister Renata. I was confused about whether it was objective art, or subjective art. I was confused about whether I was feeding my ego or operating out of a spiritual quest for the Divine.

She told me to start by considering what my motivation was behind my book.

And all I can say is that my motivation is unclear, except for one thing: FREEING SISTER RENATA FROM PRISON.

I know I've got to get her out, and I'm the only one who can do it because I alone know the true story, I know that she did NOT KILL ANTONIE. Señora Ramos knows it too.

I also know that somehow by freeing Renata, I am also freeing me.

I know that but still, it gets difficult. Sometimes it feels impossible to go forward.

So often all I can do is sit in the courtyard with Teresa and stare up to the lion-colored hillside where we walk. Sometimes all I know is that I write in my diary about my cousin Antonie and his foolish stories making me into a flamenco dancer.

Sometimes all I know is that I am in Renata's body. In her blocky black shoes and in her scratchy wool habit.

I am sitting on the cold stone bench in the prison with her staring out at the gallows and...

and on and on.

Anyway, Denise doesn't deny all of this. She simply tells me me that I have to call forth art from the BEING, which is part of the eternal, and not from the ego, which is a fleeting construct of my mind.

I would be lying if I said I understood completely what she is saying. Sometimes I understand but sometimes I just don't.

Sometimes I think I am just telling a story that I have to tell.

Sometimes I think I am telling a true story.

And sometimes I think I am lying.

Of course, sometimes I am convinced that all stories are lies, even if they are supposedly true stories. Because all stories are made out of words and words are just not real. They are only symbols for what we are thinking.

Stories are made up of symbols, little black and white squiggles which are known as words, which fill up a page or a screen.

But words are also magic. If Antonie writes a story about me, dancing in a red dress with ruffles, you can see it, right?

And if I write the words, “green pine trees in a forest” you see can that too right?

And if I say, “hummingbirds at my backyard feeder,” you can see that too?

Stories are a lot more important than people realize. Without stories, without memories, we wouldn't know who we are.

I started writing the Renata story when my dear friend Nina was going through chemotherapy at Sloan Kettering way back in 1995. I thought that by delivering up to her a good story, in this case a kind of wacky time travel murder mystery, that she would be distracted from her terrible pain and suffering.

Nina is absolutely fine today but when she emerged from Sloan she looked just dreadful: like a greenish yellow ghoul, puffy with no hair. Awful awful.

But then what happened: I never delivered her the story, and then I got cancer in 2002 and then I too had to get blasted with chemo at Sloan Kettering and let me tell you no story could possibly have distracted me from the goddawful misery that was sitting week after week in those olive green barka lounge chairs with those poles swinging overhead, waiting for hours as those clear plastic sausages full of vicious fluids drained slowly into my blue veins.

Is it any wonder I have had some difficulty with the nun story? Is it any wonder that I'm stalling even though all my readers probably want me to go forward, assuming there are readers?

But of course, I don't need readers, I just need a mission of love and integrity and divine purpose.

Or not.

It is fucking absurd to write a book like this, on a blog. WHO EVER HEARD OF SUCH A THING?

Maybe I will Google, "Novels on blogs" and see what comes up....

Chapter Seven: How Antonie Stole Me From the Convent Kitchen

2010-07-26T09:05:00.000-07:00

Renata’s Diary

July 21, 1883 Oh dear God help me for all that I am living through! This is how it happened that Antonie came here to the convent and kidnapped me and took me and Señora to San Francisco. And no, we are not home yet!

Mother Yolla had chosen me for a whole week of lunch duty, because she said cooking “suited” me, so there I stood on Friday morning in the kitchen, patiently chopping a large onion, dropping the pure white slices into the hot sputtering oil. I hummed to myself, and my thoughts turned to the falseta I had been strumming the night before on the guitar, and I had a flash out of nowhere of the altar, and the large silver cross that keeps watch over the chapel. And then once again I was back in the kitchen, mindlessly pushing the wooden spoon through the sizzling onions, mixing them together with the tiny slivers of garlic that had already turned golden and crisp at the bottom of the cast iron pan.

A cloud of onion fumes rose into my eyes (I write this here and can still feel the sting of the tears). I set three red peppers on the wooden cutting board, and prepared to slice them along their length, Teresa appeared, carrying a pile of plump green chiles in her garden basket. She added a couple green chiles to my pepper pile, turned and disappeared into the garden again.

A second cloud of onion rose up, and this one got my tears flooding, and at first I tried mopping them on the sleeve of my habit, but finally, as the tears wouldn’t stop, I pulled my long white apron up to cover my face. Holding the cotton apron in two hands, I began laughing, thinking, here I am crying over one large onion in a frying pan. But when I dropped the apron, my laughter vanished, because there filling the small window in the pantry behind the kitchen was Antonie’s wilted face. As he was pressed up close against the wavy glass, his features were distorted. He looked more ghastly than I had ever seen him look before.

Where had this sad specter of a man come from? Certainly he wasn’t supposed to be here, he was never ever supposed to appear at the convent, that much he knew as well as I did. Antonie himself had told me repeatedly that Father Ruby had clearly forbidden him entry. When I asked why, Antonie replied that at some time, he would explain “every last detail” of the arrangement that he had with Father Ruby regarding me; but indeed, I had been told this much: he was forbidden at the convent, which explained why I always went to visit him.

But here now was his face flushed and streaked and red, pasted against the crosspole of the window. He looked all the more odd, divided as he was into four window panes. At first it looked to me as though he had been running, because his skin was shiny with sweat, and his long black hair was slicked to his head and his black hat dangled on his back by the leather strings tied at his chin. He was open-mouthed and breathing hard, and in his eyes was a tired, sallow look. He met me at the door.

“Why have you come?” My voice quivered. I had opened the door no more than a crack, and I was whispering and trembling. I was a mixture of amazement and anger and fear and something else too, something I couldn’t identify clearly, but it too was crawling all over me. Antonie took one step forward, and wobbled there, barely able to place the square toe of his boot against the door, and his face swerved forward to the opening, and I could see the remote look in his eyes.

Suddenly he lifted his hand and he bit hard, desperately, into his own knuckles. His eyes shone large and empty and glossy. He raised one hand up, and he braced his open palm against the doorframe, and he gasped for breath. Looming there, his arm arched over me, he scared me. He trembled, and those eyes of his bored into me.

“I want to ask…I must ask that you accompany me,” he wheezed, and I was already shaking my head before he finished, in complete and utter amazement and disbelief, that he was here, that he was asking something that I clearly could never do. All the time I stared at him I was aware of those liquid black eyes on me, eyes that looked like they had been ladled out of death. His moist red face was inches from my own, and the smell of his breath was rotten.

“You…must be crazy, that’s impossible,” I said, and thought then in a great rush that he would indeed prove to be the death of me, or certainly the dishonor. “You know that I cannot think of such a thing, and that you could even imagine it, or propose it.”

“Listen,” he demanded, and despite his exhaustion, he maintained his imperious stare. His eyes opened wider still. “I will explain. I have Senora with me. I have also hired a coach and a driver, for your…for all of our comfort. I need you to come with me to see the specialist in San Francisco. We leave immediately.”

He had spoken before of this doctor. We had discussed his worsening condition, the syphilis, how he would need to see someone with skills beyond those of the local physician.

“But I am in no position to go, not now, not ever, you must know that,” I said, letting the door swing open a little wider, and with that, he stumbled forward and he grabbed onto me. And the two of us back stepped inside. The frying pan sent up its woeful steam of onions, now turning black. The noonhour was quickly approaching and the nuns would be clamoring for lunch, or as Mother Yolla called it, “our midday repast.” Meanwhile, here was Antonie straddling over me, barely able to stand up.

His heavy boots clattered on the kitchen floor. And he filled the room with his height, and with his foul smell. I caught another glance of those pained, brooding eyes. He was, to my way of seeing, a swarm of dark clouds hovering, threatening a downpour – or more—over my calm morning sky.

“Please, Antonie, please, you must leave, you must go, now, you know that, please, before anyone discovers you, because if you are here, I don’t who knows what could happen to me, I’m not sure what Mother Yolla will do, but the two of them, please…” I managed to push him away.

He swayed, and took hold of the wall. I raised my apron in both hands and twisted it. I thought of trying to hammer him with my fists, because I was so angry, but I was much more afraid to touch him, as he listed so weakly.

His mouth opened twice before he got the next words out. “My dear Renata, pl…ease pl…ease cousin.” He whispered and leaned forward as he did, so that I could smell that fetid warm breath. Then he bent his head slightly to one side. “”Father Ruby…likes me,” he said, a queer smile spreading across his lips. A glaze of sweat lay there too. “

And he is most urgently concerned about my…health. The good father… needs me, my…” Here he started coughing. His head came forward and when he raised his face again, I was horrified to see a paste of blood on his chin. He leaned forward again and forced his words out, between gasps.

“You see, he…Father… Ruby is most concerned that I continue my…my donations.” Here Antonie paused and then lifted the back of his hand to the side of my face. I shuddered. And then he uttered four words that I wish I had never heard.

“He insists…you go.”

With this, Antonie swiveled and sank to the floor. Here was the man who once commanded whatever he willed, who thrilled in his own power, who delighted in satisfying his every desire, who dictated even to the likes of our own priest and master .
I cried out to see him so pathetic.

At that moment, Senora’s face appeared at the pantry window, and seeing Antonie, she rushed in. Her face. Lined. And worn.
And behind her. Father Ruby. Giving me a look that I will never forget: something I can only call primitive, he motioned to the two of us to help him lift Antonie up. And as the onions turned to blackened wisps on the stove, and then to char, the three of us dragged Antonie to the grey wagon. And lifted him to a pile of blankets on the back.

As we set off, I turned to see Father Ruby pivot and retreat into the rectory. Rage flooded me and so too, did utter hatred, and then I reigned in both emotions: this was no way to feel toward the priest. God was almost certain to punish me for my despicable thoughts. But in my heart, I could see. He was simply a despicable old man.

My eyes filled and I closed my hands around my face. Senora murmured something to try to comfort me. But I would not be comforted. For there I was, still in my apron, and with the odor of the kitchen onions still clinging to my hair. I had not a stitch of extra clothing with me, not even a cape or my shawl, and I was off for who knew how long to God knew where.

But no sooner did I feel a chill than Senora patted my hand and I saw that she carried for me the blue silk shawl, all covered in flowers, and dripping in long fringe. “Un rebozo,” she murmured wrapping my shoulders and that just made me cry harder.

She began to hum something. Ah. But it was the same lament that Antonie liked to strum on his guitar. That music just played more cruelly on my mind and I cried harder.

“No más,” I said. And so she stopped. But the tune kept up for hours in my head as we drove over the bumpy roads. The music coiled and coiled there, reminding me of my poor mother, and her untimely death, and the childhood that I never had.

Chapter Six: How Badly Do I Want to Write This Book?

2010-07-15T06:04:00.001-07:00

By Gina Morrison

Call me Renata. Call me Gina. Call me,

"XANDRA CALL ME, please?"

I was driving to work and I shouldn't have been on the cell phone but I was because I had to talk to Xandra.

My hand trembled as I thumbed in Xandra's number. I got voicemail.

"Xand I have to talk to you I am so losing it. David told me the other night that I have to stop writing my book. I tried to explain that I have to get this stuff out of me, that it's the only way I know to deal with the PTSD, but he doesn't get it. I want to come out to see you, we've been fighting all week and last night was horrendous. He walked out last night and I cannot stay here a day longer."

I flashed on the way he stood there by the sofa pointing a finger at me last night. We stood on either end of the couch, where he'd been sleeping for a few days. "Do you want to see this marriage work? Do you? Sometimes I don't think you do."

I nodded my head slowly. I do I do, don't I? DON'T I? Oh God, what do I want?

"I do," I said in a soft voice.

"So then STOP WRITING about the affair," he shot back. There was a bright fire in his eyes. "What's the point Geen? You write about it, you are just keeping it alive. Just stop. STOP WRITING."

My head started swinging back and forth very slowly. No. No. "I'm sorry," I said. "I really want the marriage to work, David. I do. I really love you. But I am in awful pain right now, I am living in a kind of prison inside me, trapped in pain and insecurity. I have to work through it. I have to free myself. And to do that I have to write. I have to. And I have this other story, too, this story about this nun, who actually is in prison, and she keeps calling to me, to tell her story, to tell the truth about what put her in prison. It's all so unfair. But she's inside me, she is begging me to be there, to be her voice, and so, it's got to be told, I have to free her and me, I've..."

"Oh for chrissake," David said. He was holding a pillow in his hands and he threw it down on the couch. "For chrissake Gina why do you always have to be so goddamn melodramatic and complicate things way more than they already are. Huh? Why do you have to go trumpeting our lives this way for all the world to see? Write your stup.... write your... write your story. Write whatever story about the nun you want to write, but don't mix it all up with us, with the stuff we've been through, because if you do..."

I picked up the pillow and stepped onto the bed and I stood there and I smacked it against the white wall. I hit the wall hard.

I screeched. "You're the one who had the fucking affair," I screeched louder, so loud that the back of my throat felt like someone was mowing the lawn across it. "Or DID YOU FORGET? HUH?"

I looked down at him and he looked up at me and suddenly, my blood boiled over and I just whipped the pillow down across his face. I wish now I could erase that, take it back, but I can't. I hit him in the face and the worst thing, he just took it. He crossed his arms over his head.

"If I do write it then what? WHAT? Huh? WHAT THEN?" I started to shake. But I had stopped screaming. "If I stop writing now, it seems to me that once again, you will be in charge of hurting me. And you know what? That's bullshit!"

I stepped off the couch and let the pillow drop quietly to the floor.

"And while we're at it, what was it you were going to say just now about my writing? You were about to say, 'Write your stupid what?" huh?"

At that point he did something I wasn't expecting. He sat down on the couch and bent over. He rested his face in both hands. I stood there, staring at him, regretting now that I'd hit him, because now he was actually crying.

"I want this all to be over," he whispered between sobs. He looked up at me. "All this pain. All this anger. Can't you see? I am trying so desperately to put it behind me. Behind us. And now you are writing this....this novel. That's the problem Gina. It's not that I care what other people think. It's that I know this writing just keeps it alive."

I stared. I didn't want to think about what he was saying. I couldn't allow myself to think that there might be a shred of truth to what he was saying. If there were, then what would I do? How could I ever stop writing?

"I've always supported your writing Gina. You know I have. I've been a huge fan. But you have to let this go. Can you? Can you let it go?"

That's when the shaking started in. Both hands. Both arms. My shoulders. And a pool of hot tears began to bubble up. And the choking feeling, my throat tightening, threatening to close down. "I...I want to let it go David. But the only way I know how to do that is to write it out. And if I have to write it out, then I will. I just have to. And you have to let me. And I don't see why I can't write it AND have the marriage work."

He sniffled. He got up from the couch and went into the bathroom down the hall. I could hear him blow his nose. He came back to the living room. He faced me. "That's where we part ways," he said, his face wet with tears. "You decide. You want to write your book, well, then, feel free. Go right ahead."

He went to the bedroom and came back with a suitcase, into which he'd thrown a few clothes. And then he walked out.

I was sobbing into the cell phone now.

"XANDRA CALL ME, please?" I was having trouble breathing. I was having trouble driving. "I don't know what to do," I said, my eyes so blurred that I could hardly see the interstate ahead of me. I pulled into the next rest stop. I didn't have to be at the University to see students in office hours until 11.

So I sat there. And I took out a notebook and I just wrote.

Renata's Diary

April 3, 1883

In the afternoon, after I returned to the convent from Antonie’s, Teresa and I came out to the courtyard to snap beans for dinner. We finished, but never went back inside. For a long while, we stared in silence up to the golden hillside and felt the warm wind coming down off the slope and filling us with the peaceful smell of sage and dry crisp grasses. The sprawling oak at the hilltop called to us.

Teresa disappeared briefly inside the convent and when she emerged, she held something hidden in the folds of her habit. “Come,” she commanded. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet and pointed to this diary.

We found the blanket in its hiding place inside the henhouse and as the afternoon sun starting dropping, we lifted our habits to our knees and headed up the steep slope. All the way up, the blonde grasses -- thick and sharp as razors -- caught at my black stockings, and pricked at the skin of my calves and ankles. We panted and sweat poured and I murmured over and over, “I can’t do this Teresa,” and she laughed at me and never turned around, but said, simply, “just be quiet and keep up.”

Finally we reached the hilltop and spread our blanket beneath the beloved live oak, where all manner of speech becomes possible.

The breeze grew warmer and kept up blowing. The climb had turned our faces deep pink. I was so warm and slippery in sweat that I felt desperate to remove my veil. I didn’t. We sat in the shade, and I fingered a single dusty oak leaf, its edge prickered.

Teresa surprised me with a canteen of freshly squeezed lemonade that she’d hidden in the folds of her habit.

We took turns drinking the luscious sweet liquid. As I drained the last cool drop, she told me to read.

I dropped back onto the blanket. “I’m not feeling the need,” I said. “Not today, when, honestly, this wind wipes away all of Antonie’s madness and my energy with it.”
Her plump face grew perfectly still and her eyes bore holes into me. “My dear Renata,” she said finally, “you’ve got me worried.”

I sat up and faced her. “But, Teresa, you really have no reason to worry,” I replied. “I’m saying only that on this glorious day, I can handle all of it, just that.”

She crossed her arms over her rounded bosom. “So, then, if that be true, and you have everything under control, and nothing to hide, well then let God – and me-- be witness. Read, please. I want to hear from those light blue pages tucked there.” She pointed to the place where I had so carefully folded and tucked the sky-colored stationary.

I inhaled. There was no denying Theresa. I kneeled and sat back on my knees. I read “Roseblade.” It did, in parts, bring a deeper blush of pink to my cheeks.

When I finished, I did not speak. And I tried to avoid her eyes.

“Oh Renata.” She took my hand. She inhaled a gale of air and sat there squeezing my hand so hard it felt as though she might crush the bones. “He...he is...your cousin Oh I fear he is going to destroy you with these lies for sure.”

I dropped my gaze. My heart throbbed, and my eyes sank right through the blanket into the golden grass and deeper, much deeper. I felt as low as I have felt in ever so long a time. Looking up, I lifted my chin. In defiance? I bit into my lip and said nothing.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I fear he will. But what am I to do?”

She gazed down the golden hillside, still holding onto my hand. The sun was resting on the horizon, a bright gold and orange button. Slowly Teresa shook her head.
“I don’t know that there is anything you can do, with Father Ruby aligned with Antonie as he is. I can’t see any way out. But one thing you must absolutely do.”

The deep blue sky color sailed back into her eyes. “When you go to your cousin’s side, record absolutely everything that happens. Write it all down there. Leave out nothing, not a single detail.”

I opened my mouth to speak. I wanted to say more. But then, just as quickly, I decided to say…nothing.

The two of us remained a few minutes more, until the sun sank into the lavender row of mountains rising above the Pacific. The wind coming off the sea now cooled us. Theresa pulled the blanket up to wrap around our shoulders, and the two of us sat cocooned there together, and I felt happy and peaceful, despite everything.

“Mother Yolla will be screaming soon,” Theresa said finally.

“Oh yes,” I said. “She will indeed.”

I leaned my head briefly against Theresa’s soft shoulder. The sky overhead was turning steely, so we rose and folded the blanket and quickly retreated down the hill.

Chapter Five: DAVE GIVES ME THE ULTIMATE ULTIMATUM!

2010-07-07T04:09:00.001-07:00

By Gina Morrison

I am back at Dottie’s cafe on the sofa that I consider my own. I should start paying Dottie rent.

I am frying pan mad. I am trying to get my head around what Dave said to me a few minutes ago and I just cannot. I am trying to figure out what to do.

He gave me an ultimatum. We had just finished a rather pleasant dinner. He had roasted a chicken, and he even made my favorite mashed potatoes and Grandma Mish’s carrots, coated in flour and fried.

He lit candles and there we sat, chatting away about nothing in particular. It was rather delightful. But as soon as we’d finished, and he was putting water up for tea, he started in on me.

“So, Gina,” he began, “I want to talk to you about something important.”

I eyed him, suspiciously. What was he going to spring on me now? For a horrifying moment, I thought maybe he was going to tell me that he was seeing her again. There was my heart, jammering away in my chest. I did my best to quiet my nerves.

“What is it now?” I whispered, feeling that draining sensation go snaking down both my arms turning my limbs into warm puddles.

“I was wondering if I could ask you to consider something."

"Yeah?"

"I was going to ask you to stop writing that book of yours. You know, take a breather for a while.”

I looked at him, relieved, in one respect, and horrified, in another. It was if he had just asked me to climb up to the roof and jump off the peak into the driveway.

“But why?” I said, thinking to myself, I'm already having a hell of a time writing it, all I need is for him to interfere.

I picked up the dirty plates off the table and carried them to the sink.

He followed me in silence. He filled the kettle with water and took two mugs from the cabinet. He put a mint tea bag into each mug. Turning his back to the counter, he leaned up against the kitchen sink and crossed his arms. “I don't want to be a jerk about this,” he said, “and I really do understand that you’re into writing it, as a kind of healing thing, but I’ve been reading what you’ve been writing, up on the blog, and honey, I…” He stood up straighter. “It’s making me really uncomfortable.”

I didn’t answer. Not right away. I was tempted to say, “Well isn’t that a shame,” but I bit my tongue.

Finally I spoke. “Well so don’t read it then.”'

“Yeah, well, it’s me and my life you’re writing about, in part anyway.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, in part. But mostly it's about me, and the PTSD. Elizabeth says that writing this book is going to help me.” Of course, as I said those last words, part of me wondered, is that true? I would love to think that writing the book is helping, but part of me thinks, I'm feeling even more crazy writing than before I started.

My heart was really jamming up against my chest.

“Well, so if you’re writing about me," he said, "or about us, then it seems to me that I should have some say about what you are telling the world. It seems to me that I have a right to say that you can’t post something in a blog for all the world to read.”

“I'm afraid I don’t know that I agree with you about that.” I busied myself rinsing the plates.

“You I think I’ve got a right to my privacy, Gina, don't you?"

I inhaled. I wanted to say, "no, dammit, you gave up that right," but I couldn't really see that was true.

Honestly, I really couldn't think straight. But I hated the feeling that he was telling me what to do.

“Look, Dave, my shrink thinks it’s helping me to get it all out. To write it all down. There is research that shows that…

“Gina, you’ve explained the research to me at least three dozen times already. I’m all for you writing your story. Yes, by all means, get it all out. But why not write it all down on paper. In a journal? At some point down the line, maybe you can put it together in a different way, calling it fiction. Change some of the dicy details. But don’t go posting all our lives and dirty laundry on a damn blog for God’s sake. I don’t wanna see my business splashed all over the web four or five days a week. I happen to value my privacy even if you don’t.”

He had a point about his privacy. Perhaps. But I wasn’t about to admit it. I thought back to my last post. http://switchthenovel.blogspot.com/2010/07/ptsd-is-son-of-bitch-with-club_11.html Sure, I'd had just a little twinge of doubt about what I was doing, even as I had posted it. But hey, I needed to write the story that mattered to me, didn't I?

"The point is, Dave, I feel like I have to this book. Period. And I'm hoping it helps me. One other thing, too: I feel like I’m on something of a cutting edge, artistically."

That last point was true. Ever since the Ipad came out, it has become more and more clear to me that printed books are going the way of rotary telephones and vinyl records. I want to write a book on-line, with illustrations.
'
“Look, Gina, I don't want to cramp your style. But I told you, I won't stand by while you air our dirty laundry in public. You've gotta try to be more sensitive to me honey."

My head started reeling. I started to feel the PTSD kick in. I started to see him in bed with her, I didn't want to, oh God, I didn't want to. I stood there and stared at him. And answered finally in a kind of robotic voice.

"Dave, I am desperate to cure the PTSD. And so that’s what I’m doing. I'm writing my story. And I'm writing about a nun too and I'm going to set her free with my story. And I'm going to..."

Suddenly the kitchen started to swirl around me. I heard myself talking but I couldn't actually say I believed what I was saying. I dropped into a chair and kept going.

"All I know is that I’ll be damned if I am going to be censored by the man who caused the problem to begin with. That man being you.” I paused, and the kitchen kept twirling. And then I went on. “I think I have a right to tell my story. Period.”

Dave took the chair across from me. He reached out to take my hand.

“Yeah, except it’s our story honey. Think about that, will you?”

I must say, he spoke the last few words in a very gentle and loving voice. But that just made me more nervous. He was asking me to give up a project I was really enjoying, and one I really think is starting to help me deal with the PTSD.

I stared at him. I felt numb. I felt like words were coming out of my mouth that I couldn't control. The whole kitchen was falling into my lap.

“Look, Dave, when you decided to have an affair you didn’t consult me first. So it seems to me that if the only way I can heal is to write this, then you might try to…”

His eyes flared. He stood up. “Gina this isn't fair. This blog stuff you're doing is just you being the wreckless artist. It's about you mixing truth and lies in a way that hardly disguises what is going on. Really what it is, it's about you doing whatever the hell you feel like doing on-line for everybody to see. I'll say it again because obviously you didn't get it the first time: you don’t have the right to expose us like this to the world. You know that too. We both agreed in therapy that we value peace and harmony in our day-to-day lives. So now I’ve got to ask you, how does writing this book and posting this shit on line help create peace and harmony? Huh, tell me that?”

The word shit me like a stone in the forehead. Maybe if he hadn’t used that word, maybe I wouldn’t have lost my temper. I stood up. I had all I could do not to throw the teacup I was holding into his face.

“You don’t get it. You never did, you still don’t. So this discussion is over. I’m going to write whatever I feel like writing, and I will tell the world whatever “shit” I please. So my advice to you, is, deal with it.”

I went to the sink and dropped the cup. It smashed. I left the kitchen via the back door, which I slammed as hard as I could.

So I am at Dottie’s frying pan mad. I have to decide what to do. I am half-tempted to take off. I think I’ll phone Xandra, maybe she can help me make sense of what I’m feeling. Maybe, just maybe, I will take this opportunity to head out to California to see her.

Chapter Four: I Sit Here Caged

2010-07-07T03:45:00.001-07:00

By Gina Morrison

I am back here on the striped couch at Dottie's and I am trembling because of what happened with David last night, we had another fight I called Elizabeth my therapist and she says I have to write about it, I am trying to, right now, but when I do, start writing, I start crying, I see all the awful images again, I see him and her, him and her, I hear him saying what he said, what he said was "Yes, I fell in love with her," he actually said that to me, why would I want to write this? I am getting hysterical just sitting here, just trying to write shit I don't want to write I don't want to write

I would rather slit my throat than write about this, I would rather do anything in the world than write and see it all in my head, I would in fact rather

sit and rot write here right in this cell I tell you this bench is stone cold, rock hard, and I'm sitting, an animal caged, my ankle bleeding and crusted at the rusty chain. The skin is boiling red, and pain shoots closer and closer to my knee.

Only one thing saves me: my mind making lovely pictures. I see Teresa and me walking through the fields. Or the two of us hoisting our dark skirts and trudging up to the live oak tree on the golden hillside.

I see the sky, and hold the color close to me. What a glorious pink and blue the sunset can be.

Teresa’s letters are my only comfort. In the moments when I am most frightened, when I cannot even bring myself to whisper a prayer, I clutch my rosary and open her letters and reread what she has written.

Sometimes I say her words out loud, speaking them over and over again like a soothing chant. Tears pour out as I hear her cheerful voice echo. I can’t accept the idea I may never see her again.

Oh Teresa. You came to the convent a scrawny Irish orphan and so quickly you started to grow so plump. Ah but you were always the one I could count on to make me laugh. Each morning before prayers there you were, solemn, straight-faced, imitating pie-eyed Mother Yolla and her scowl. No one can imitate Yolla's waddle the way you do, how like a cow our Mother Superior walks. You have me laughing in tears. And then just as suddenly I am saying a prayer, “God, forgive me for laughing.”

I am laughing no more. I am certain now that I will die, as the lawyer says the most recent appeal has failed. I can’t see any hope. Mr. Deluria came briefly to the jail yesterday morning and said he isn’t sure what else he can do on my behalf.

After he left, I sat for who knows how many hours, staring through the barred window, looking out into the courtyard at the gallows. As the afternoon wore on, the sun got hotter and brighter. I grew more and more weak and dizzy. Fearing that I might faint, I finally tore off my wimple and veil. My hair stands like dry straw.

Occasionally a wagon came into view, the wheels sending up thick clouds of yellow dust. Finally, just after five, the guard brought dinner – a cold, grey mass of greasy potatoes he called stew – and I couldn’t begin to eat. As he retreated, I asked him where the hanging would be and at first, he glared at me and wouldn’t say.

“Ma’am, I ask you, what good would it possibly do to know?” He stood there jangling his circle of keys, and smoothed his hand over the impossible stubble on his chin. Then, when I said nothing, he silently pushed back his soiled hat. I saw his dark eyes, as flinty as the iron bars, and the wrinkles of the brown weathered skin of his forehead.

“Please,” I said. “Please just tell me where the hanging will be.” He eyed me carefully and replied, “If you must know, ma’am, it will be right outside there, in the far corner of the lot where the horses water.”

I ought not to have asked. For the rest of the evening and well into the ink of night, I clung tightly to the bars of the cell, so tightly that my hands and face smelled of rust. I kept wishing I had my guitar because if I had,

I would have played and sung and that would have calmed me. As it was, the sun sank lower and lower into the blue crust of the horizon and with it sank my spirits. Slowly the sun became a blazing orange egg yolk in the creamy azure of the evening sky. Still I kept riveted on that dreaded spot out there in the courtyard where my body will dangle from a rope until I am dead.

At some point during the night, I must have fallen asleep. I dreamed I was swinging from a rope that hung from a crucifix. I had been hanged, but somehow because I was on the cross, I didn’t die. I woke up with a start, slick in sweat, my heart beating as frantically as a hummingbird’s wings. I was collapsed against the grimy wall of the cell and I heard a drunken song coming from the jailer.

Oh this hell on earth must end. The only thing I can hope for is that my death comes fast and that some day, in some way, my living, my suffering, will not have been in vain. I pray that Theresa will take this diary, as she has said she would, and she will use it to clear my name, to show how Antonie lied.

Maybe it is a blessing that I am destined to die. Because I cannot imagine the shame I will feel once the newspaper publishes all of that rubbish from the trial. I can’t see how any purpose will be served by printing the filth, the lies, all that Antonie wrote and attributed to me. But if they are going to make the transcripts public, then yes, I fully agree with Teresa, the newspaper should also print my side of the story, side by side with his lies.

And so, Teresa, I am continuing to write this journal just as you suggest. You came to me that first week I was imprisoned. You squirreled the leather book at the bottom of a basket of Irish soda bread, covered in a red gingham tablecloth. We sat in the cell singing together that afternoon, and then you turned and stopped singing and leaned your lips to my ear. While I continued singing you whispered: “Look in the basket for the journal and the ink bottle and the quill.”

When you had gone, I lifted the gingham and pushed my fingers under the crumbling soda bread. There was my journal. Tucked inside the first page, this pale blue note: “My dear Renata, this --and my prayers, day and night – are all I can offer. As I’ve said so many times before, your writing will save you. Just remember, put everything here. Make it clear to the world exactly how Antonie lied. How he tried to portray you as the seductive dancer. How he framed you, made you look guilty of his murder. Write all of it. Expose his lies for what they are. Someday, I promise you as God is my witness, the truth will be revealed.”

Ah, Teresa, would that you were right. But how can I possibly undo the vicious lies that Antonie has woven so tightly around me? How can I make people see that he created me in his own mind? In his own words, he framed me, made me into the kind of woman that he wanted. A Spanish dancer of all things.

Still, sitting here, I know, I have no choice but to follow Teresa’s advice. I have only my diary to show the world that I am innocent. Dear Teresa, you will be the guardian of all that I write. Once I am hanged, you will be the only one who can ensure that these words are published. Only you can rescue and restore my sorry and trampled reputation.

At least I will die knowing that you will try to clear my name.

The jailer comes now with another plate. I tuck the diary inside my billowing sleeve.

I turn the plate away. I cannot bring myself to eat even a bite. He says I will die of starvation. Maybe that would be a blessing.

Chapter Three: In Which Antonie Has Me Shave His Ghastly Face

2010-07-06T04:42:00.001-07:00

April 13, 1883 This time when I arrive at Antonie's, he is sitting up. His face has that ghastly purple hue, but it is one I am getting used to. He reaches out a bony hand. "I beg you, sweet cousin, to shave me."

I recoil. I have never in all my life shaved a man and certainly not Antonie!

"I see no reason why I should do that," I say, moving out of the way of his grasp.

"Oh but my dear cousin, you know that Father Ruby would approve." He leers at me. "And so would my physician. If you shave my face, I am told by the good doctor, it will hurry my cure." He closes his eyes but manages a sleepy smile.

"Surely you don't expect me to believe that," I say. "Your doctor is an intelligent man, and to my knowledge, he is well grounded in science. And I am an equally intelligent woman. Shaving your face will have no influence whatsoever on your syphilis..." I feel my cousin's forehead. Damp, and feverish again.

This much I know: when Antonie's temperature rises, his mind begins to spin the most perverse fantasies about me.

Still, I agree to shave him. Together with señora, I heat the shaving cream in the metal bowl and we scrape his face clean. And because it is so late when we finish, señora prepares the guest room for me, and I sleep at the hacienda. The next morning, before breakfast, I go to his room to check his temperature. His eyes open when I place my hand on his forehead. He asks me to change his sheet, so I do.

This is when I find it. I lift the mattress and I discover the pile of pale white pages, all in Antonie's slanted handwriting. There, at the top of the pile is another story he wrote about me, the one called "Roseblade."

Once again he's made me into the seductress he wants me to be. When I threaten to burn the pages, he musters all his strength and rises out of the bed and into a rage. His eyes are demonic as he demands that I hand over the pages.

Dear God, help me to know what to do!

Chapter Two: Writing is How I Free Myself -- or make myself CRAZY!

2010-07-04T04:07:00.000-07:00

By Gina Morrison

I sit here on an old gold and white striped sofa in a coffee shop called Dottie’s, writing down the slop that my shrink thinks I’ve got to write down in order to heal. In order to kick the PTSD.

“Try it, Gina. Just get it all out there, and put it down on paper,” she advised. She being the woman I will call Elizabeth. “The research shows that if you write three or four times a week, and if you write about both the events that are troubling you, and the emotions connected to those traumatic events, well, then your health is very likely to improve.”

My eyes narrow. “But will I feel better? Less depressed? Less…crazy? And will I be able to write the nun story?”

She lifts her shoulders slightly, and then lets them drop. “I can’t promise anything, Gina,” she says, “but I suspect you will find that releasing your feelings on paper will end up making you more calm.”

That’s what I like about Elizabeth. She doesn’t lie or even try to skirt the truth.

That’s why I am sitting here on this gold and white striped couch, following her advice. I am hoping Elizabeth is right, I am hoping the writing will help me with the PTSD.

I liked Elizabeth that first day I met her. The day I came to her some months ago I was contemplating swallowing the whole bottle of Ativan that I was carrying in my purse. Elizabeth listened very patiently, while taking a few notes on a legal pad. Finally, she looked up. Her face was as peaceful as the sea on a quiet day. Her eyes were the same bright blue as the sky.

“Well, Gina,” she began, and here she gently tapped her pencil eraser against the legal pad. “You can do that, swallow all of those pills. But you can also realize that you have other choices. And that’s my job, to make you see that you have options.”

That was a good thing to say. That was an important thing to hear.

That was the day I stopped thinking about swallowing the Ativan, or at least, swallowing all of it.

And somehow, I felt a kind of switch go on. I’m still not sure exactly how or why. Just like, I’m not exactly sure how or why

I'm suddenly in the courtyard with dear Teresa, the blue and white tiles snaked with black cracks, the green luminescent hummingbirds soaring back and forth overhead, and me sitting there, dreading her questions about what happened last night with Antonie. She knows something is wrong, she is gazing at me with those giant crystal blue eyes of hers, and she is gazing too at the leather diary lying in my lap, the diary with the R chiselled on the cover, the diary I have come to love writing in so much.

Finally the silence is overwhelming and I get up and say to Teresa that I have to feed the chickens. I cross the courtyard and disappear into the convent and

I sit down here on the orange, gold and white striped couch at Dottie's and it is 4:30 on a Tuesday afternoon in March 2010 and I have come here to do exactly what Elizabeth suggested.

I take out my pad and pen and I begin to write. I write and I write and I write and I write and I write about what’s bothering me. I write about things in the past too, like my mother's asthma and how much it scared me. And then I write about David, and him having the affair and that makes me so damn anxious I am starting to tremble so I stop.

And when I look up and glance out the window I notice, of all things, my dentist crossing the street right in front of me. How odd, to see my dentist. He actually smiles and waves.

I wave back to him and then I return to the writing and this thought occurs to me: I might never stop writing. OR worse, the writing might not cure me. And that makes me feel like I might start crying. And that makes me scared that perhaps if I do start crying, I might never stop.

Then I begin to wonder this: maybe I am just not right in the head. Maybe no amount of writing or anything else will help me deal with the troubling events of the last year or so.

And maybe writing is making everything worse: maybe I am doing exactly what Antonie is doing,

just telling all kinds of lies, seeing things that don't exist, turning me, Renata,

into the Spanish dancer, http://switchthenovel.blogspot.com/2010/05/chapter-two-xandra-can-you-help-me.htmlme, a devout nun,

slowly peeling off my heavy black stockings and my white cotton underclothes and finally, unpinning my short black veil and lifting off the starched white headpiece that binds my forehead. The skin beneath the white headpiece is moist. I rub the creased line above my eyebrows and shake my hair loose, gathering it through my fingertips and then

I lift my latte to my lips and fingering my pen, I think,

clearly I'm crazy, I mean, why in God's name do I think I'm a nun named Renata, living in 1883? Why do I keep flipping back in time with no warning

I look up and see the rusty bars, I look down and see

my ankle crusted in blood, Oh God, I feel my leg actually getting hotter and hotter from the infection that is snaking up toward my knee!

Dear GOD, what is WRONG with me, why would I write this? Why would I be me, Gina, and me Renata, a nun in 1883 in prison?

Maybe I'm just as crazy as Antonie. He's writing stories about Renata, and I am writing about her too.

Suddenly, coming over the sound system in the coffee shop I hear an old Beatles’ tune: “Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be, whisper words of wisdom, let it be.”

I start writing again, “Oh Dear God, that’s what I need to do, LET IT BE. LET IT Be. Let it be GONE. Let it GO. All of it.”

And then I feel like yelling out in the coffee shop. “But I can’t!!!! I can’t let it go. All of it is driving me crazy. All I want to know is why did David have to hurt me so badly? Why did he have to betray me? And why did it – the suffering, the sadness—have to go on for such a long time? Why is it still going on?”

That’s when the song switches, I SWEAR THIS IS PART IS TRUE, and the next song to come over the speakers is “Only love can break your heart….”

At that moment I begin to shake. My arms and legs go bananas, and I sit there on the gold and white striped couch just…shaking.

I pick up my cell phone and dial my friend Xandra out in California on her direct line at Ibex, the company she runs in San Jose. By the grace of God, she is there. I start to cry, and she listens. She tries to talk me down. She asks me to read some of what I’ve written out loud to her over the phone. And I do that, and it feels good, I need to say the words out loud. And then, I reach into my purse and yes, I pop an Ativan beneath my tongue. But I pop just one.

As the pill starts to give me a bit of relief, I think to myself, if I could, I would make all of this go away. I would do that by going back in time, by rewriting history. I would rewrite Renata's story, to set her free from prison, by telling the world that she isn't guilty of Antonie's murder.

And I would also rewrite this story about me and my husband. I would revise it drastically, so that nothing awful ever came to pass between us.

While I was at it, I would rewrite a whole bunch of my personal history; I would erase the cancer I had in 2002 and maybe I'd take away those three horrible cases of pneumonia that almost killed me as a child.

Oh, and I would take away my mom's asthma too, because it was so damn scary when I was four or five years old and she would be sitting up in bed wheezing, hunched over her pillows. I was petrified standing there watching her because I didn't know whether or not she would take her next breath.

In this new and revised story, my mom would be healthy, and she would never be depressed, and neither would I, and I would never end up sitting in this coffee shop writing all the slop that I have been writing for the past hour or so. And I wouldn’t sit in this goddamn prison chained by the leg, staring out at the gallows where I'm going to hang for a murder I didn't commit. I wouldn’t be accused of killing my cousin Antonie, and I wouldn’t have this festering sore crawling up my leg, the skin more red and puffy every day, the pain slowly rising, threatening now to overtake my kneecap.

No. Instead, I would switch SWITCH

back to that courtyard I love behind the convent. The courtyard with all the hummingbirds, the courtyardtiled blue and white, the tiles cracked in so many places. The cracks are black and they snake all around the fountain, which at this time of year, is dry.

This is long before the day when I sat with the diary in my lap, trembling, and I told Teresa the ghastly thing that had happened a few hours before, how I'd had to bury my blood-stained habit after...

No, on this day at the convent, the sun beats down on me and Sister Teresa and we are enjoying a pleasant day. We are out here surrounded by roses. We are here to snap beans for dinner and when we finish the beans, we don't go back inside. Instead, se sit here scattering some stale bread crumbs for the birds. We sit in silence, with Teresa occasionally humming or whistling. We just let ourselves feel the sun on our faces, bound as they are in our tight white wimples. We feel a gentle dry wind on our cheeks. We stare up to the hillside behind the convent. The hillside is the color of a golden lion, and on top sits the sprawling live oak where Teresa and I often take a blanket and some fruit for late afternoon “picnics.”

Later, we have hiked the hillside and we are resting on the blanket and I talk to her about Antonie and how, now and then, he acts strangely. But this is way before the illness turned his mind inside out. Teresa tries to give me advice. She raises herself up on one elbow.

"Be nice to him, Renata, but be careful that you are not... too nice." She pats my hand and we lie side by side and I wonder if maybe I have already been too nice to my cousin.

I close my eyes and try to put the disturbing images of him out of my head, and then we get up and fold the blanket and I inhale and smell the sage as we descend the hillside. The California sun is warm and so reassuring. When we enter the courtyard again, there are bees swarming the hummingbird feeder.

A couple of grey and white cats (one is Jonah, and the other, honest to God, is called Catechism) are asleep by the door.

Teresa lets loose with a sharp whistle to attract the hens, and soon they are bobbling over to her side, cackling their hearts out. She reaches into the pocket of her habit and pulls out some hard corn and scatters it for the pecking chickens.

Despite the heat, Teresa and I are dressed in black, our wool habits going head to toe.

And yes, if I could, I would go back

There. Right now. And then, I stop writing.

I leave Dottie's, and

I go.

Chapter One: XANDRA AM I JUST PLAIN INSANE?

2010-07-01T11:30:00.000-07:00

By Gina Morrison

This time I’m on the phone with my best friend from college. This time I’m trying to explain this crazy nun story to Xandra and finally I think it's all beginning to make sense.

But then I hear myself. “So I’m sitting there, talking to somebody, or I'm playing guitar, or just standing at the counter, cutting a grapefruit or peeling a carrot,” I begin, “and then suddenly something comes over me and I switch, boom, I am just...her Sister Renata, there in the prison shaking the bars. Or I'm sitting in the courtyard with Sister Teresa just staring up at the lion-colored hills.”

Xandra listens without saying a word.

"Are you still there?"

"Oh I heard you."

This is a woman who lives 3,000 miles away in California, but she's still closer to me than my own sister.

Xandra was my roommate at Brown an eternity ago. She was a chemistry major, but not one of those neurotics who filled the study carrells in the high-rise science library. Sure, she spent long afternoons measuring clear liquids into glass beakers. But then she'd spend two or three evenings a week dancing barefoot with her face painted in red and white streaks -- she was part of a campus African dance troupe.

Xandra grew up in Nigeria, the daughter of a village healer. Her mother used to make her swallow bitter potions in order to stay healthy. After she graduated from Brown --summa cum laude-- she went on to med school, but dropped out after a year and a half, disgusted with the way western medicine is practiced. She switched to a Ph.D. program in chemistry at MIT and finished in three years. Today she runs a lab for this company in San Jose that's developing a machine that will sequence DNA.

Meanwhile, she still does the African dancing, and she does yoga too, and lately she's gotten into something she calls "divine healing."

The most important thing I can say about Xandra, though, is that she is a bundle of love, and she really understands me. I can tell her absolutely anything and I always have, and just now on the phone I have told her the terrifying truth, that I think I am a nun living in 1883. I tell her too that I'm writing down the nun's story, whenever it comes to me. Doing that, I tell her, I believe that I can free the nun -- who is falsely accused of murdering her cousin Antonie.

A moment goes by. Finally Xandra speaks. “Well, so, it sounds to me like you're writing a great story. Exactly the story you need to write. And I have an idea how I might help you."

"You do?"

She laughs. "Yeah, but it's way too complicated to explain over the phone. I will however be delighted to read everything you write."

That comes as no surprise.

At Brown, I was the English major who used to stay up nights writing by candlelight. Xandra would wander into the dorm after dancing for hours in her grass skirt and there I'd be, asleep with my head on the desk, next to an empty wine glass and a couple of lumps of melted wax.

She read every single version of every short story I wrote. Every poem too. All of it. Often she would write comments like, "I'm not sure I get the point of this one, honey, but honestly I love the writing. I really do. Keep going."

I am pacing the kitchen now. Ten steps to the door, ten more back to the jade plant in the corner. Around and around the granite counter three times, my fingers trailing the cool stone surface. “The problem, Xand, is that I can’t stop thinking that I’m her. Sister Renata. The problem is that I’m in her life as a nun more than I am in my own. The visions are coming more and more often and they are so.....”

I close my eyes.

I feel my backside damp and cold against the stone bench. I feel my fingers gripping the bars. I see my ankle crusted in blood and the infection in my leg spreading up toward my knee. I smell the rust on my hands and the cabbage slop in my metal dish and the sweat in my pits and worst of all, I smell the shit in the foul pail. The putrid odor is a swamp rising out of the corner of the tiny cell. Only when I yell and yell and bang my spoon incessantly on the dish does the jailer finally come down the hall jangling his keys and complaining about having to retrieve it.

“Gina, are you still there?”

"Yeah, yeah, sorry Xand.” I snap back to the phone.

"As long as you’re getting to work, and teaching your classes, and functioning in the house," Xandra says, "I don’t think you should worry. It sounds to me like you've got to write this."

I run my finger, the one that’s sore from playing flamenco rasqueados on my guitar, along the granite counter. Clear quartz crystals the color of a cantaloupe glisten under the kitchen light. “But I do … worry,” I say, very softly. “Lately I worry a lot.”

Xandra sighs.

“I know you do,” she says. “You worry way too much.” She doesn’t ask what I worry about. She doesn’t have to. She flew back East numerous times eight years ago, just to be with me through the chemotherapy and radiation, the horrifying treatment that almost killed me, for the cantaloupe-sized tumor that filled my chest. She has also accompanied me on occasion to see a few other doctors too, namely, my shrink. Once she helped me make a list of all the meds I’ve been on -- Ativan to Prozac to Zoloft. She assembled careful notes when side effects forced me off.

And she’s been with me through the last couple of years, too, through more phone conversations than I can count, when I wept over my son Adam leaving for college. She was there for me for all the rest of it too. The rest of it being the stuff that I'd like to forget but can't.

The rest of it being the shitty PTSD that still plagues me.

Let's just say there have been buckets of tears filling Xandra's and my transcontinental conversations of late.

I thank her again for sending me the beautiful African wall hanging she bought for me on her last trip to Nigeria. It's wild yellow, with a red sunset and black silhouettes of giraffes and elephants and tigers and lions roaming on the horizon. My eyes practically dropped out when I opened the box.

“You are more than welcome. I felt bad that we didn’t get to see each other over Christmas or New Year's. So are you thinking of coming out here for a visit any time soon?”

“Maybe.” And then I start to say something that I had no idea whatsoever I was going to say until the moment I say it. “I might need to come out to do..."

I stop.

“To do what?”

“Research.”

“Research? On what?” I can hear that Xandra is genuinely curious.

“Well, so, you know. I would be researching this...this story about Sister Renata because I feel like...like maybe it could actually be..." I don't continue.

“You should definitely come visit. Stay with us. Maybe this is what you need. Maybe you'll finally let me teach you a little yoga. And talk to you about divine healing. I've told you this time and again, Gina, you need tools to handle your stuff. You need to find a way to manage all the heartache and trauma you’ve been through.” She sighs. Her words feel like cold little hammers tapping on my heart.

I can't count the times she's lectured me about yoga and meditation and spiritual stuff. My reply is the always the same:

"Xand, I don't have a head for meditation. And I don't have a body for yoga."

Xandra is silent for a moment.

“What I wanted to say before, Xand, is that I honestly believe the nun story could actually be...true. I mean, I keep seeing the newspaper in my mind.

November 13, 1882
NUN MAY HANG FOR COUSIN'S MURDER!!

http://renata1883.blogspot.com/2006/06/this-is-newspaper-that-condemned-her.html“Honestly, I see all it so clearly that....” I let my sentence go off a cliff of silence.

My dear Xandra, always there for me, catches it. “Well you are always welcome here,” she says simply. “I am happy to help with whatever you need. And Sam and I would love the company."

I close my eyes and I see Xandra. Dark shining eyes, a strong muscular body (she plays tennis, what a backhand), a flawless brown complexion and a head full of long fluffy dreds. Oh and a ferociously beautiful smile.

“So Xand, then you don’t think I’m...totally insane?” I hold my breath.

Xandra laughs. “Of course I think you’re totally insane. You’ve always been insane. You're just a little more insane now than before. But that’s OK, that's what I love about you. Or one thing at least.”

Xandra can say this to me and not make me feel the least bit bad. Maybe because we've had so much history together. What's amazing is that we are as different as we can possibly be. She spends her days hunkered down in a lab at Pacific Genomics, a company out in California developing this brand new DNA technology. The way she explains it, we'll soon be able to walk into the doctor's office and ask for a reading of our DNA, and then, a "personalized" therapy to treat it.

I've never had the guts to tell her that I'd be afraid to find out the gory details of my DNA.

Anyway, I say goodbye to Xandra and go out to the backyard. I walk in my house slippers across the grass and stand looking toward the pond. The moonlight turns it into a shimmering silver coin.

David is inside. I call to him. He joins me in the middle of the backyard. He holds me by the shoulders. We gaze in silence up at the dark sky. Then he kisses my cheek and goes back in the house.

I remain, staring at the pinpricks of light. Glittering stars. Blinking on and on and off and off. The stars start it going. The switching.

I close my eyes and there I am, under a pale green night sky, and I'm riding on the wagon with Señora Ramos once more. Or what's even more likely, I'm writing about in my diary!