Chapters 6-10

Chapter 6

(The Story of Anne)

No. That wasn’t me. That’s not what I mean. Now hold on, what exactly do I mean?

Let me try to answer it right.

“Uhm. I don’t know. It was metallic, silvery. One end was pointy, and the other rounded. Like the ‘Star Wars’ ship.”

Marta looked puzzled. She just shook her head at me. God, for such a big movie buff, you’d think she’d seen “Star Wars.”

“Was it like a blimp?”

“No, not at all.” Geez. She’s not listening. “Like a ship. Only seamless, rounded and somewhat flat. … My mother saw it, too.”

“Your mom saw it?”

“Yes. And my father. We all saw it.”

“And how old were you.”

“Let’s see, it would have been in 1976, so I was five.”

“And it was just this ship? No people, creatures?”

“Right, just the ship.”

“And did anyone believe you?”

Aha. Finally. This seemed to be the gist of Marta’s questioning – credibility.

“Now let me try to remember,” I thought. “I wanna be honest.” Finally, the answer came.

“It’s not that they didn’t believe us,” I said. “They just thought we were mistaken.”

Marta’s interview continued in this vein. The questions were vague and extremely meandering. I didn’t understand completely what she wanted. The essence of “me,” is how she vaguely termed it. So why this persistent interest in the UFO incident 30 years ago?

“It’s all about trust,” Marta repeated. “No one’s gonna believe us, Anne. It’s gotta connect with – everything. We gotta come clean. The world has to trust us. This is your chapter. Your life. It’s time to share it.”

Hah! My chapter? Obviously, this was hard to imagine. Clearly, Chapter Six, like everything else, would be about Marta. Don’t get me wrong. Despite her narcissism and claims of being God, I always believed in Marta. To be included in her strange “projects” always seemed fulfilling. There was something bizarre and exciting about them, something mischievous perhaps, yet something that always seemed to lead somewhere positive. The latest book project was no exception. A group of us seekers – the chosen ones – would join forces in search of finding our long-lost friend, Emily. Still, like Steve, our “guide,” I wondered, who am I in this endeavor, and what exactly is my role?

Marta, as always, seemed honed in on my every thought.

“Anne, are you a follower or a leader?”

The question, from far left field, was harder than it sounds.

“A leader,” I said confidently, knowing that’s what she wanted to hear. Marta smiled. The smile made me wonder, “Is it an approving smile, or sarcastic?” And, of course, this was the ironic test I had just been set up to lose. But did I lose?

Marta knew this conflict was constantly going on in my head. She knew that my doubt, however infinitesimal, was the difference between us.

Understanding my disgrace, she switched the subject, back to her. She began speaking in the third person. Again, I was not fazed by this odd yet familiar tack.

“Tell me how you and Marta met,” she asked.

“It was the personal ad.” Marta, in the early 1990s submitted a personal ad in the Bloomington Voice, an underground newspaper. It read:

“PreOpTS ISO m/f for intimate phys or non-phys relationship. ‘A tender hug is all we need to uncomplicated the mysteries.’”

In recalling this memory, Marta and I both laughed. Even she acknowledged her corny words. The ad, translated, means pre-operation transsexual in search of male or female for sexual or non-sexual encounters. It was written as part of an exercise on behalf of Marta’s psychologist to explore Marta’s social and sexual identity. She seemed proud that several life-long friendships resulted in the ad, and that we could both recall the ad so vividly after so long.

“That was creepy,” she laughed affectionately. “So then what happened, after you saw the ad?”

“Well, I’d never responded to a personal ad before,” I said. “I would just read them for fun, especially the weird ones. I didn’t know what a PreOpTS was. Still, the silly words maybe did inspire me to call … Marta. I thought, ‘that’s someone I’d like to meet.’

“It wasn’t a physical relationship I wanted,” I continued. “I think I just needed someone to hear me. I was having a tough time with my husband and my autistic son. If I recall, the first time we met, all I did was vent. Since then you, I mean, Marta and I have had ups and downs, but we always address all our problems and now I feel like we are best friends. And we always will be.”

Marta seemed pleased with my recollection. But I sensed she was getting lost in nostalgia as she tended to do. For the longest time she sat silently absorbed in the past. For once, I was the one getting us back to our mission at hand.

“What about Emily?” I asked finally. “Are you wanting us to write about our lives, and include it the book? Is that what we’re trying to do here?”

Marta remained silent.

“Marta? What about our story? I thought you said that our own personal memoirs somehow lead to a universal connection, and that we all end up on Emily’s metaphorical mountain somehow?”

I did think this was the general plan. That by coming to terms with both our ordinariness and our greatness we would find salvation, and that it would perhaps help others. We would all contribute our limited, weak “essences” to make a stronger, unified character that all the world could identify with. Chapter Six was to be the Story of Anne. I was proud to add my two cents worth, and earlier, before Marta arrived, assuming this was the plan, I jotted down a few of my own personal narrative points to be included in the story. I began reading my “story” aloud to Marta:

It’s always something — deadlines, illness, schedules, setbacks, obligations, fatigue. I always feel that I’m frantically racing to try to get all the pieces of my life to somehow fall into place. Most everything I do is done in “crunch time.” It’s how I perform best, but it takes a toll on me. It pushes the limits of my optimistic tendencies, takes me away from the thoughts and feelings that I enjoy, makes me feel less and less like the me I used to know, makes me feel trapped.

I love Emily. I miss her. But really, I could almost feel envious of her -- isolated, having all the time in the world to meditate when I often I don’t have time to pee. Does she really need rescued from her simplified existence? I always felt that Emily went on these seemingly crazy retreats only to escape living a life like mine. It makes me realize just how subjective “crazy” really is.

I paused for a moment to notice that Marta hadn’t been listening at all. Finally she looked at my notes and began reading what I had just read.

“No,” she said firmly. “This isn’t it. This isn’t it. This won’t work. No, Anne. This isn’t you. This shit’s been done before … a zillion times”

I was devastated. Her instantly abrasive review came as quite a surprise, especially considering the time and passion I had devoted to my few words. I remained silent, hurt, unable to respond. This reaction seemed too harsh and much too serious for our fantasy project.

“What the hell does she want?” I thought. I was afraid she would be equally insensitive if I verbally posed that or any other question. And now, on top of everything else, Marta proclaimed the interview was over. Did I disappoint her, I wondered. Mostly the disappointment was my own.

My frustration began to grow. I didn’t get to include any personal details about my life. My background … just who the hell I was.

“We have to include this,” I thought. I was convinced that Chapter 6, “The Story of Anne,” was indeed that, so let’s get it on. Here I am, Marta. Ask away.

Instead, Marta seemed oblivious to my “essence.” She knew what giant obstacles I had to overcome to get this place in my life, yet she seemed completely uninterested and unwilling to share them with our global audience. No. No interest in that whatsoever. No interest in my legendary problems with men, nor in my work as a speech pathologist, nor in my involvement with crystal meth and a gang of outlaws. Hah! That was a wild period. … Nope. She didn’t ask about my peaks and valleys.

Mostly she failed to ask me about my three children, whom she, knows I adore beyond anything ever created, and who are the true inspiration in my life. This was too big an omission, I thought. Yet I did nothing to question her, afraid Marta might dismiss me even more.

I sat wondering these thoughts, replaying a thousand relevant scenes of my life in that brief moment. It was as if I was on my death bed reviewing it all before Peter at the gate. Did it all matter or not? Did I matter? To Marta, evidently not. To me it did. But compared to others, I began to wonder. Yes, I matter, absolutely. … Or do? Dammit, I’m screwed!

Then I reconsidered our project. I remembered reading the earlier chapters, and feeling perhaps there is a common thread and a contribution we are all making on some deeper levels.

Her comment kept resurfacing: “This shit’s been done a zillion times before.” Marta was known for thinking outside the box. Clearly this new project belongs out there with her other bizarre schemes. I realized her criticism was aimed at normal-thinking society, not me. She knew that drifting outside the mainstream was one of my strengths, too, not a weakness, and that perhaps my writing reflected a desire to merely please her and other readers. Anybody can tell a story, I realized. We are here to change the world.

Reluctantly, I set my ego aside and accepted her critique. The truth is there is no place I’d rather be than out on that fragile limb than with my crazy friend.

“What do you want?” I finally asked. “What about the rest of us?”

She remained silent.

“I mean, where are WE?” I persisted. “Is it always you, Marta?”

Again, Marta sat silent, smiling. Perhaps she was still stuck in her own nostalgia or maybe focusing on my UFO responses. In either case I was afraid to question her further. Her happy expression was now beginning to morph into the one I’d seen before, the scary one, where she seems to detach herself from reality. It is a look of mischief and self indulgence. Whenever I see it I am reminded of insane cult leaders like Charles Manson and Adolph Hitler and Jim Jones. The smile remains but the connection is lost. Or is it?

“Are you a follower or a leader, Anne?” she repeated on cue this test that was already going on in my head.

“A leader,” I said confidently. But again, like countless times before, we both knew I failed.

“I understand what’s going on with you,” she said. “I understand everything. Everything, Anne. It’s all good.”
“Suddenly, I’m not feeling so good,” I admitted. “I’m starting to lose it a bit. My faith, my confidence.”

“It’s good, Anne. It’s working perfectly. Don’t worry. It’s still your chapter. You belong.”

“But maybe we’re in over our heads,” I warned.

“No, no, no. That’s just the resistance. Brace yourself, it’ll be bumpy.”

“But what about me? The interview? Where do I fit in? How’d I do?”

Again Marta laughed. It was that unpleasant, condescending smirk that I so hated.

“You fit in perfectly,” she said smugly. “You’re just not the writer. At least not yet.”

“Not the writer?” I repeated the words to myself.

She then got up, went to her car and drove off, back to Bloomington, seemingly abundantly pleased with the interview.

Over the next few weeks this bizarre encounter would be replayed in my mind repeatedly.

“Not the writer, what does that mean exactly?” I kept wondering. It pounded in my head like a noisy train several towns in the distance. I could feel it inching closer and closer to West Terre Haute.

“Not the writer indeed.”

Chapter 7

Several weeks had passed since Emily received Marta’s initial letter detailing the “In Search of Emily” project. With the time, Emily’s outrage about the project had subsided. It was unlikely any additional mail would arrive for months due to the remoteness of her primitive living quarters. The monks, whose larger quarters were a mile from her cave, kept an adequate supply of essentials. As it had for thousands of years, if something broke it was simply jury-rigged or not fixed until reinforcements would arrive with new supplies from the larger communities down below. This was the obvious trade-off of living the hermetic life – what you gain in privacy you lose in convenience. And Emily was completely happy with this situation.

The rare times she would get a piece of mail it would remind her of those civilized luxuries she had taken for granted, but, as was clear with Marta’s latest note, it also reminded her of all the silliness that goes with living in the “Hobby Lobby.”

Now, four weeks removed from Marta’s ill-conceived book, she had all but forgotten about it and the Lobby in general. Her focus was on meditation, prayer, mental and physical discipline. She diligently strove to preserve and sustain this continued growth toward enlightenment. Having caught glimpses of “the absolute” throughout her life, she knew her quest was completely attainable and felt she was making great progress. Yes, Marta’s letter and the book had sidetracked her a bit, but after time she forgave her friend. Emily knew Marta’s project was probably just a well-intentioned exercise in Marta’s imagination. Like always, Marta just needed some attention. And, like most of her projects she assumed it wouldn’t be finished. Furthermore, she could use the experience to strengthen herself from temptation. It could be used as a learning experience.

Such wasn’t the case at first. Instantly after receiving the letter, she couldn’t stop thinking about the harm it was causing. Even her meditation was affected.

“What is she thinking?” Emily would ask herself of Marta’s intentions. “She has to know what this will do. Isn’t it obvious that I DO NOT want any association with you people. Why else would I dash off to another part of the planet and hide out in the world’s highest mountain range? And to involve all these other people, most of whom I barely know?”

Mostly she was afraid of what others would think. The dedicated porters who risked their lives taking essential items up to the monks, now might think this on-going correspondence from Marta is important, and risk their lives getting it up to her only to find out Marta is just playing out some role-playing fantasy game.

“Your actions could actually kill someone, dumb ass,” she said harshly during those early days.

In addition, on the off-chance that Marta’s story was actually being read by others or involves others, as she claims in the story, these people might develop attitudes about Emily that may be inaccurate. She knew Marta had a way of stretching the truth, or in sharing information that was once thought to be very, very private. Marta always had a blurred sense of vision between the real and the unreal.

On top of everything else, Emily was deeply concerned Marta’s self-interests might somehow cause harm or embarrassment to her mother, Beth, whom she knew Marta had roped into playing her deranged “game.” The fact that Beth’s name was among the list of participants was deeply disturbing to Emily.

Accordingly, shortly after reading the first installment, Emily dashed off a scolding letter of reply, urgently ordering Marta to desist of her plan. She trekked down to the monk’s postal area, and in her limited Tibetan language, she fervently tried to describe her disapproval with Marta’s project to the confused monks. The monks, unable to understand her, just smiled, amused by her flustered appearance.

But that was a month ago, and now, as Emily prepared a meager bowl of rice for dinner, she realized the event was becoming a vague and silly memory.

“Who cares,” she laughed. “I got to feel some anger. Maybe that’s all Marta wanted.”

As she prepared to take her first bite of her sparse dinner, she heard a commotion up the trail. It was Drahka Dorje panting, struggling through the brush to get to her cave. He smiled and handed Emily a package. It was the second installment of “In Search of Emily.”

With great shame, Emily accepted the unopened mail, apologizing profusely to her spiritual friend. She offered him 50 rupees, which to both of them was a lot of money. Of course, Drahku would not accept the offer. He just smiled and took a cup of Emily’s watered-down tea. It was clear to Emily that the young monk wasn’t happy about taking time out of his schedule for such a pointless errand. Emily didn’t like this either, but if nothing else, at least Marta’s package did allow a rare visit with a fellow human which she greatly welcomed despite the obvious language barriers.

After Drahku left her cave, Emily was now left alone with Marta’s letter. Like a predator eying her captured, helpless prey, she stared at it angrily for the longest time. A battle was going on in her head. Perhaps she should just throw it away. Forget about the whole thing.

“That’s what I should do,” she thought. “They don’t know if I’m still alive. I don’t have any obligation to these people. There is no real need to get sucked back into all that. Marta’s just playing games. I don’t need to play.”

But, like the starving tiger, she knew her prey had to be eaten. Suddenly a new hope entered her thoughts.

“Maybe it’s just a follow-up note to explain the initial project had been scrapped. Yes, Marta could feel my negative vibes from across the world and she has understood the folly of her project.”

But clearly the envelope was too thick. It was much larger than the initial package.

“This thing is picking up steam,” she thought. She slowly removed the contents from the envelope. “I better get it over with.”

Chapter 8

Schizophrenia: One of the most damaging of all mental disorders---causes its victims to lose touch with reality. They often begin to hear, see, or feel things that aren't really there (hallucinations) or become convinced of things that simply aren't true (delusions). In the paranoid form of this disorder, they develop delusions of persecution or personal grandeur. There is no cure. Severe attacks may require hospitalization. … healthsquare.com

While little actual writing had been done, Marta could sense great progress being made in the Search for Emily project. With the exception of Steve, the team’s “guide,” Marta conducted multiple private visits with the other members of the project – Beth, Pat and Anne. In each case, whether conducting formal interviews (as with Anne), or merely carrying on typical activities with them, Marta was pleased with the results. As she predicted, she was experiencing a growing resistance to the plan, but this was something she deemed crucial to its development.

Emily’s mother, Beth, was a perfect sounding board to reinforce Marta’s controversial it’s all good theories. On the surface Beth was the most resistant to it, but she was a polite listener, and would always encourage Marta’s seemingly diametrically opposed ideas.

“The human nervous system is a beautiful, complex organism,” Marta said during a recent visit. “Like all matter in our science/logic-based universe, it is limited. Yes, we are matter to be defined conditionally. But of course we are unlimited, too. This is a problem for most rational beings to accept. Our nervous systems have trouble appreciating that we are both sane and insane. Limited and unlimited.”

Rather than renew her objections, which were strong and obvious, Beth often would let Marta drone on until another, more relevant discussion would evolve. Why she would put up with Marta’s relentless, outrageous and repeated sermonizing was a mystery, especially since Beth disagreed with most of them. Perhaps these discussions reminded Beth of her estranged daughter. Marta’s philosophies seemed similar to the Buddhist teachings Emily devoted her life to. These family discussions between Emily and her Christian mother and college professor father (who died 10 years earlier), would often escalate into volatile, intellectual battles that contributed to their family’s dysfunction, and many believe inspired Emily’s retreat into the mountains.

Marta didn’t care. She knew that once the true concept of it’s all good seeps in, it’s hard for anyone to reject. It is important to share this philosophy, that was Marta’s lifelong crusade.

It was also Beth’s great conflict. She was always taught to be good and to do the right thing. The Bible and the 10 commandments mattered to her. Now, at age 62, at least according to Marta, perhaps they didn’t matter or shouldn’t. As her Buddhist daughter was preaching for years, maybe nothing really matters. Or, worse yet, as Marta keeps saying, maybe it’s all “good.” Yes, even murder and rape and pedophilia!

Beth reviewed her options. Do I fight to retain everything about what I know, and who I am, or do I suddenly follow these sketchy ramblings of a transsexual pizza driver from Indiana who thinks she’s God? The answer was simple. Not Marta.

Marta sensed resistance from the other members of her party, too, even Anne and Pat, Marta’s own mother. On the surface, the two are clearly Marta’s staunchest supporters. But underneath, like with Beth, all was not well.

During a recent discussion with her own mother, Pat, Marta admitted to feeling strong opposition to the new project. She told Pat her body and her mind were struggling to carry on, especially in regards to her writing tasks. Originally she attributed her increased blood pressure, irregular heartbeat, fatigue, and mental confusion as simple exhaustion and stress. This diagnosis was shared by a physician who told her “all your tests come back good. It’s probably psychological.”

At first, Marta accepted this explanation, admitting she had taken on more hours at work, and recently had to deal with her beloved cat, Jasmine, being euthanized. It was the second cat to die in six months, leaving Marta for the first time in 30 years without a roommate.

This wouldn’t be the first time Marta had psychological and physical issues. Not by a long shot. As a youth she struggled with asthma, panic attacks, fainting, and of course, the gender confusion, for which she received therapy from 1983 to 1993.

Now, as she worked on “The Search for Emily,” Marta continued to wonder why these struggles were all returning. She began developing a new theory, contrary to her doctor’s. Finally, it hit her, and she shared the news with her mother.

“I think you’re all trying to kill me, Pat.”

Chapter 9

(Pat’s Test)

At age 76, Pat seemed an unlikely candidate to be included in Marta’s quest for Emily. Obviously, she couldn’t physically make the trip to Nepal. But even vicariously, or as part of some deep, metaphorical adventure, Pat had doubts that she was among the “chosen ones” involved in a plot to change the world and end suffering.

But Marta knew her mother’s inclusion was critical. And to her credit, Pat followed along, not as a way of humoring Marta, but as legitimate contributor to their now-mutual quest. Why? The reason was simple. They simply liked playing together.

Ten years earlier, after Marta’s sex change operation would shatter their family’s once peaceful existence, Pat and Marta vowed to extend their relationship. They would work very hard to become good friends, a journey that would continue to this day. Mixed between their glorious casino trips, movies, TV game shows, and over-abundant meals, they had engaged in conversations about hatred, dysfunction, Charles Manson, rejection, panic attacks, suicide, alcoholism, and incest, among many other non-typical mother-daughter discussions. The topics were generally, but not always, initiated by Marta, and were appreciated on different levels, always with a spirit of collaboration and learning, not condescension or one-upmanship.

Frequently they talked about death and fear. These were the sticky subjects they both knew they were here to study, confront and overcome. Pat assumed this was the main reason she was part of Marta’s team. Marta was different, not crazy, she thought. But even if Marta was crazy, she was convinced it wasn’t a dangerous crazy, so she would usually just play along. She knew she could always just say no.

As such, unlike most moms, she was not the least bit shocked by Marta’s latest, seemingly outrageous claim.

“What do you mean, we’re trying to kill you?” she asked.

“We’re getting too close,” Marta said. “It’s getting dangerous. I might be going crazy, Mom. You’re all trying to kill me. That’s why I’m getting sick.”

Instead of trying to comfort or reassure her daughter, as most moms would, Pat actually considered Marta’s charge. Was she unconsciously wanting her own child dead? Is that possible? I’m just some old grandmother. Could I really be that evil underneath all this?

Marta chimed in on cue, as if creepily reading her thoughts.

“Yes, Pat, this is it. You’ve admitted you’re the devil. At least a part of you did last time I came up here. Do you remember? When you confessed that you cuss at the Governor Mitch, or you eat too much pie at the boat or you con other people into filling up your gas tank because you’re too afraid to do it yourself. This is the evil in us all. Take it to the ultimate level. It goes past these petty transgressions. You’re Satan, too, don’t you see? You’re Satan, too, mom, and you totally want me dead, because we’re getting too close, and the work is getting too hard. But we have to fight through it. It’s like everybody’s children not wanting to go to school, but we all have to go.”

Again, rather than argue the growingly outrageous point, Pat just listened. To her surprise, Marta noticed that her mother’s demeanor was not the least bit flustered by these accusations. This was a good sign, Marta thought. There’s a part of her that believes me. She wants to be whole. Let it out, Baby. Be cruel, be ugly, be evil. Be my friend, Satan, not just my evil mom.

“But it’s OK, Pat,” Marta said aloud. “I’m right here and I always knew this dark secret about you. … Just stop trying to kill me or we won’t get to play the slots anymore.”

This friendly reminder put a smile on Pat’s face, a nervous smile, but filled with hope, too. She looked up and stared at her daughter who was once her son.

“But what do we do?” she finally asked, as a student would her teacher.

Instead of accepting that too-limited role as teacher, Marta responded instead as a collaborating friend.

“Well, what I’ve been focusing on is fear,” she said. “I’ve been doing a lot of work in this area. It’s hard but rewarding. It’s becoming quite obvious that I have an addiction to fear. I secretly love it like nothing else. But at least finally I’m starting to acknowledge that. … Now with you, let’s see, I know you’ve been working hard in the areas and health and death, and maybe fear, too. But I like what’s happening with this new evil stuff. I have an idea, it’s a hard one, but I think we can both have some fun with it and it’ll tie in with what we’re doing. The thing is, it’ll test our nervous systems and you won’t wanna do it. I think it’ll help the project. But we don’t have much time.”

With that, Marta instantly unveiled an exercise – they would watch a movie together. But not just any movie, it was “The Exorcist,” a film he knew would stir resistance in his mother. And Marta was right. Suddenly, Pat said “NO.” She did not want to play anymore.

Pat was adamant.

“No, that’s silly. I’m not gonna do it. I don’t wanna watch that.”

Marta tried to explain why she thought watching that particular movie on that particular day seemed to have some cosmic relevance, but Pat wasn’t buying it. For years she’d heard her four children and many others saying “The Exorcist” was the scariest movie ever. For that reason, and the fact that it depicted Roman Catholics in some negative way, she decided it “wasn’t something I needed in my life.”

Still, Marta persisted.

“Mom, c’mon. It’s just a stupid movie. We LOVE watching movies. We’ll make popcorn, and I’ll be right here. We have to start branching out. It’ll strengthen our nervous systems, we can get in touch with this part of ourselves. We’ll have fun.”

“No,” Pat repeated. “I don’t wanna watch that movie.”

And again Marta persisted, pulling out all the stops. “Think of the soldiers who are risking their lives for us in Afghanistan,” she said. “Don’t you think they get scared? And this is just a dumb film. We can turn it off if it gets too creepy. We can do this, Pat.”

Not wanting to force the issue, Marta realized it was a lost cause. Later in the day,

however, she made one final, admittedly manipulative attempt.

“I’m going for my walk at the beach. Can I borrow your library card so I get that DVD?”

Pat was silent for a moment, then noted, “It’s in my purse, in the red pouch.”

Marta thought, “Did she hear me?” Then she realized, that after a few hours to think it over, maybe Pat wanted to play Marta’s game after all. And in that instant Marta could feel her ailments leaving her body.

“Holy shit, this is really happening!” she thought. Her strength was indeed returning.

Following an anxious, hope-filled walk along the shores of Lake Michigan, Marta found an old copy of the horror masterpiece. With Pat’s approval, the curtains were drawn and the seats were set up in front of her high definition television. The next two hours were spent, almost chat-free (a rarity in Jasicki movie-watching tradition) watching sweet Regan MacNeil spit up green vomit, shove a crucifix into her vagina and spin her head around her neck while sickly Max Von Sydow tosses burning holy water all over the demon-girl’s chest.

And, just like that, the movie was over.

Letting her mother absorb the event, Marta finally spoke.

“See, it wasn’t so bad,” she said. “Well, what did you think?”

“It wasn’t scary at all,” Pat noted, almost proudly. “Actually, it was pretty boring.”

Marta smiled with some disappointment. She’d hoped that Pat would at least like the movie. Mostly she wanted her mother to identify with the ugly Satanic imagery in the film as they applied to their earlier discussion.

Still, the exercise proved an overwhelming success. Normally, Marta hates having people do things just to appease her, but in this case she felt it was necessary. She would play the role of teacher one last time. She knew Pat dreaded watching that film. Earlier in the day, they discussed the dread they both shared about death.

Granted it was just a dumb movie, but getting past this long-time fear would go a long way toward getting past other fears, they both realized, hopefully even past the fear of death.

Pat agreed to do the work, that’s what Marta liked. At age 76, risks were still being taken, tests conducted. Passing with flying colors, Marta proudly could see her mother/student was now becoming her friend. Pat did, indeed, belong on the dream team. And both were starting to see that the once-dim future loomed an even bigger playground.

Chapter 10

It was dusk when Emily finally decided to read through the latest chapters of “In Search for Emily.” Drahku had long ago returned to the monk’s village, seemingly unaffected by the pointless errand. In preparation for her read, Emily had a long meditation to clear prepare her mind and body. She wanted to be strong, knowing there would be much work to deal with. The previous letter had only included a description of her book project, and the opening chapter. Hopefully, this letter was just a lengthy discussion about Marta’s failure to complete projects.

She began reading Marta’s introduction. There was the usual updates on mutual friends, acquaintances, relatives, work, etc. OK, so far so good. “But please tell me you’ve terminated the book project. No. Uh oh. Here we go.”

She read further:

By now, perhaps you remember the project I’ve started. It’s sort of a book thingie, which I expect has pissed you off a great deal since I decided to make you the central focus of it without your permission. While at your mother’s, I discussed my reservations about resuming the project. I told her that I was 99% sure this is the sort of thing you would absolutely detest being a part of, and probably was the exact reason you trekked across the globe. To get away from us “hobbyists.”

Still, for some reason, I feel compelled to continue. Do I wanna make you angry? Force you into some sort of action? Sabotage any remaining vestiges of a friendship? Hopefully not, but maybe. As we have often discussed, a part of me acknowledges my sex change is probably an unconscious desire for me to cross the ultimate line, to take the “unconditional” love test to its limit. I realize that such actions are incredibly selfish, clearly my brother and sister would agree. I’m probably guilty as charged. So if that is going on here, too, I am very sorry in advance. I love you, this I know on all levels.

And so there’s more. Emily turned the next page to see it begin with “Chapter 2.”

The next several hours would be spent absorbing the details of those 11 pages of copy. Emily was conscious of her simmering emotions. She would become angry any time her mother was mentioned, or if Marta was deliberately misleading the reader. She didn’t like how Marta portrayed her mountainous surroundings. “The cave is a complete miss,” she thought, “it’s not like that at all. How dare you take these creative leaps!”

And again her skin began to boil when she turned to the description of the gentle and good monks, who “don’t deserve any of this nonsense.”

“Chrin-She, hah! What the hell is that! That’s not even a Nepalese name. And the town of Prevlisha? Excuse me, Prevlisha? That’s supposed to be a nearby town. Why not do at least some research. Prevlisha, Chrin-She? If you’re gonna be that lazy why not just say Ellettsville and Johnson? Here’s an idea – Google search.”

“Ooops,” she thought, “the anger’s coming back. Now calm down. They’re just words. Marta knew this. She just wants to get a rise out of me. Let it go, Ems, it’s all good … I mean, it’s not all good. Dammit, Marge. I hate you so much.”

Chapters 3, 4 and 5, were much less stressful. Yes, there was much to contradict, question or challenge, but Emily felt her anger subside greatly. In fact, as she slowly inched her way to the end, she even found herself smiling occasionally, not just at Marta’s creative clumsiness, but also perhaps at her good-intentioned attempt to keep her in everyone’s memory despite the distance that separated them.

But was this surprising positive response enough to permit an ongoing correspondence? She remembered the porters who would be affected, and suddenly the anger returned.

She spoke to herself out loud, hoping Marta could somehow hear her.

“OK, Marta. I get it. You wanna remember me, somehow. That IS sweet and kind. I love you. We love each other, yes. But you gotta stop. The mail system here is very backward. The porters shouldn’t be climbing mountains. They think this stuff is important. They might fall off the goddamn mountain getting this here. Do you really want them to die for this?”

Since she was so alone, Emily was enjoying the conversation. It forced her to think of her friend in all the usual ambivalent ways. She continued.

“So, in conclusion, stop writing to me. Stop it. Just let go. Let it go. If you have to, just keep the damn thing there and save it. Maybe some day I’ll get back and read the whole thing then. We won’t be friends, of course.”

She smiled, hoping Marta would sense her sarcasm. But as she reread the story again

(something she would do several times in the next few days), she started to feel sadness for Marta.

“Oooh, she is really out there,” Emily thought. She knew Marta always envisioned herself as a wannabe Hemingway or Steinbeck, but her writing was a far cry from that. She was lazy with her structure, her grammar, her characterizations, her details, and even her plot. The biggest problem, however, was that Marta’s stories always had to deal with Marta and Marta’s annoying philosophical meanderings.

She realized “In Search Emily” was no exception.

“Marta,” she pleaded, “It’s even called ‘In Search of Me.’ But it’s about you. You have to come up with a story that people are really gonna be interested in. Please, for once, get outside your own bullshit.”

It was at that precise moment that Emily heard a very strange rumbling coming from outside her cave entrance. She got up feeling quite anxious.

“Is that an airplane?” she wondered, seeking its source. The sound was getting closer. “That’ll be a tight fit getting through this range. Maybe a helicopter. … But why? Nothing ever comes up through here. Especially at night.”

Now the sound was louder, almost deafining.

“Jesus,” Emily said. “What the fuck?!”

Finally, through the clouds, Emily saw something she had never seen before. Incredibly large, and squeezed between her mountain and the adjacent one, it hovered just over her cave.

It was metallic, silvery. One end was pointy, and the other rounded. Like something out of “Star Wars.”