31.

Trust

Monday, April 22 - 9:45p.m.

Jennifer reacted to the news that she was pregnant with sheer panic. Suddenly her stable world was crashing down into rubble like the World Trade Center towers in Manhattan. It felt like a trap door had opened beneath her and she was falling into an unfathomable abyss, a black hole with a single word at the bottom: responsibilities. That unspoken word stuck in her throat like a rock. Responsibilities to her meant no more personal freedom. No more peaceful, uninterrupted sleep and no more sleeping in late: a baby had to be fed and changed constantly. No more skipping meals when she got too busy: a baby needs regular meals. No more listening to Madonna with her boom box cranked up to ten; it would hurt a baby’s ears. The freedom she so cherished, freedom to come and go as she pleased, all would be lost. And her money–at least most of it–would be lost too, spent on baby clothes, playpens, car seats, diapers, formula, doctor visits, shots, daycare, thousands upon thousands of things she didn’t even know about. She was breathing faster now and her eyes were darting left and right.

Dr. Elders could see panic on her face. He said, “Jennifer, are you all right?”

She hesitated. She wasn’t all right, she was terrified. She lied anyway. “Yeah. I’m okay. I’m just trying to get over the initial shock.”

Another thought came to her: her job, which often required flying all over the world on a moment’s notice, sometimes for days at a time, would also be jeopardized. No more midnight flights to the middle east to cover a peace summit: she would have responsibilities. Working late–which she often did because it was easier to write when the office was quiet–would also be impossible, and the quality of her work would suffer because of it. Now she would have to pick the baby up from daycare before five-thirty or be charged by the nanosecond. Her boss, Scott, wouldn’t be happy with her drop in quality, but she could no longer threaten to quit if he was making unreasonable demands: she would need the job to feed and care for the baby, and daycare was expensive. Now she needed Scott more than Scott needed her, and that was a frightening thought.

She took a deep breath, thanked Dr. Elders and left. As she walked back to her car with vacant eyes and a mindless lost look on her face, a horrible thought occurred to her: she could have an abortion. One simple medical procedure and her problem would be gone forever. It was her right, too. After all, it was her personal freedom that was on the chopping block and her own body that had manufactured this fetus, this baby that now inhabited her body and sucked her future away from her. She had a choice. She believed very strongly in a woman’s right to choose, but she never expected to be facing the decision herself. It was harder than she ever imagined.

A sudden screaming fury arose in her. Anger at herself: How could she even think about an abortion? What had possessed her? Losing Mike had been the most awful thing in her whole life, but he had left her a precious gift, his own DNA inside her body, a tiny part of his life and his love inside her tummy. This baby would be all she would have left of him and his love, and she was going to hold onto that as tightly as she could, no matter the costs. Mike’s message was love and she owed it to him to raise his child with a deep understanding of love. Of course she needed to have this baby. She couldn’t love Mike, but she would cherish his memory and she would love his baby.

Another horrible thought occurred to her: what would her mother say about her being pregnant? She could hear her mother’s voice echoing in the back of her mind, biting accusations, flying at her like bullets. Pregnant out of wedlock? What were you thinking? You’re throwing your life away, you know. I thought we taught you better than that. When are you going to grow up? You’re not a goddam teenager anymore. Your father always said you were a slut. And knocked up by this rock singer of all people. You’re no better than the other girls–or whores–who throw themselves at rock stars, giving up their innocence for a stupid rock and roll fantasy. At least they’d have had the sense to use a condom. Think about the baby. It isn’t right growing up without a father. It isn’t easy being a single mother, either, believe me. I was lucky to have your father around to help . . .

She would catch some hell all right, but she decided she didn’t care what her mother said or thought; her love for Mike made it all right. She told herself what they did was not wrong. They had loved each other and this baby was a natural extension of that love.

She would have to resign herself to raising the child alone. The boy–she already thought of it as a boy–wouldn’t have a dad in his life. She rejected the idea of dating, trying to find another man to replace Mike as her husband and the child’s dad. He was Jesus Christ, for God’s sake, so how can any mortal man not disappoint her? She would have to do it all alone.

At first she didn’t sleep. Talking to the psychiatrist, Dr. Flite, had lifted her depression earlier and the thought of writing a book about Mike had given her a new sense of purpose, but finding out that she was pregnant was equally disturbing. She tossed and turned all night, worrying about her future and a thousand questions ran through her mind. How could she have this baby alone? How could she take care of it? The thought of having a baby no longer felt like a noose closing around her neck, but the mounting responsibilities were terrifying. She’d roll over again and tell herself to stop worrying; she would do whatever she needed to, women had babies all the time, having a baby out of wedlock did not make her a slut, no matter what her mother was going to say. She decided she wouldn’t tell her mother for a few months, and try to ease her into the idea.

She tried to brighten her own mood by thinking about what to name the baby. She knew it wasn’t going to be Mike Junior. Or Jesus Junior, for that matter, she laughed for the first time in days. No, she thought with certainty, a child should be his own person, not a living legacy of his parents. Even more so for her baby: how’s a kid supposed to grow up normal, knowing his father was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ? Would it even be safe to tell him who his dad was? What if he rebelled and became the Anti-Christ? Had she unwittingly brought about the apocalypse? Would the baby be born with the number “666” on his forehead?

She told herself she was being silly. Being Christ’s son should make him holy, not evil. Who knows, she thought, maybe something holy was passed on in his genes. She wondered: would there be a star hovering overhead when she gave birth? This and a thousand other questions filled her head as she drifted off to troubled sleep.

In her dreams, she could see Mike, naked except for a white cloth around his waist, just like a stained-glass church window, with his arms outstretched and blood trickling from holes in his hands, beaconing her to come and embrace him, to love him once again. He seemed to be saying something but she couldn’t tell what. His lips were moving, but he made no sound. She struggled and fought to get to him, just to feel the warmth of his embrace. She would be happy if she could just touch him, to know that he was real, that he was alive in some other nonphysical world. But something held her firmly in place, like a prisoner in the death chamber, tied with leather straps to the electric chair. She clawed the air in an effort to get closer, but it was futile.

Tuesday, April 23 - 12:00p.m.

She jumped when the telephone rang. She looked at the clock. Midnight. She felt like she had been so close to reaching Mike that she could taste it. And now some asshole was calling her at midnight. She picked up the phone and yelled into it, “What’s the idea calling me at this hour?”

“Jennifer? Is that you?” It was her boss, Scott. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Since you don’t return my calls, I thought I might catch you eating lunch.”

Lunch. She thought. Oh my God, it’s not midnight, it’s noon.

“Um. Hi, Scott,” she mumbled. She was tired, and tried desperately to sound more awake. She knew Scott wasn’t happy with her and she needed to make things right with him. She had responsibilities now. Unconsciously, she started combing her messy hair with her fingers as if Scott could somehow see her through the telephone receiver.

“Listen, Jennifer. You’ve been MIA for a week now. Where have you been?”

“Sick. The doctor says it’s the flu. But I’m feeling a little better today.”

He was still angry. “Too sick to call?”

She felt bad, but she didn’t want to tell him about the depression. She just said, “Sorry.”

“I don’t want an apology, Jennifer. I want you here. Your voice-mail is full. I keep getting calls for you from this lawyer named Ken Burgersen. I need you to come in and straighten this thing out. Or you’re fired. You got that?”

She was already crawling out of bed. “I’ll be in at one, Scott. I promise.” She knew he wouldn’t fire her. She was a good reporter and he needed her more than she needed him, at least until he found out about the baby.

“Fine,” he said. “One,” and hung up.

Tuesday, April 23 - 1:00p.m.

When she got to work, Jennifer apologized to Scott for missing so much work. Much to her surprise, he was sympathetic. She didn’t tell him she was pregnant.

When she got to her desk, she had twenty-five voice-messages. There were probably more, but the voice messaging system had stopped accepting calls. It seemed like everyone wanted to talk to her, including her mother, the Original Artists, three of her snoops, and lots of curious readers who wanted to know more about what happened to Mike. There was even a message from some priest, but she didn’t recognize his name, Father John Lowry. When she called him back, all he would say was that he had information to share about Mike. He insisted that she come down to the rectory to meet with him, so she agreed to meet him at nine o’clock the next morning.

The most intriguing message of all was from the attorney Scott mentioned, Ken Burgersen. His voice message only said to call him back. She started worrying; when a lawyer calls you, it’s usually serious. When she called him, he insisted that she come to see him at his office, but wouldn’t tell her what it was about. She made an appointment for four o’clock. She returned several of the other messages, but left many more unanswered. Instead, she wrote down a list of their names and numbers on her notepad.

Tuesday, April 23 - 3:55p.m.

At five minutes to four, she walked into a cold steel building, took the elevator up to the ninth floor and entered the Law Office of Daniels, Burgersen and Howe. It was a small law office, nothing like the big corporate attorneys she had dealt with before. She thought to herself, The Law Offices of Dewey, Cheatem and Howe. She wondered why anyone would choose a profession where they are hated and feared.

As she opened the green glass doors and walked down the hall to the receptionist desk, she remembered part of an old lawyer joke. Something about God wanting to sue the Devil, who defiantly replied, “Oh yeah? Where are you going to find a lawyer?” She spoke to the receptionist, who asked her to take a seat.

A burly man in a black pinstripe suit and red tie walked into the reception area and extended his right hand. “Jennifer Farrell?” he asked.

He had bad breath, but she only said, “Yes. You must be Ken Burgersen. Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” She looked worried.

He smiled. “Why don’t you step into my office and I’ll explain it all?” He led her down a hallway and into an office with rich cherry furniture. He motioned for her to sit across from his desk. When she was seated, he opened a filing cabinet and extracted a file from it. He opened the file and took out a legal document.

“Ms. Farrell, the document I’m holding is a Living Trust. Do you know what that is?”

“No. What?”

“A living trust is a legal document, assigning legal ownership of assets to named parties after death. It’s like a last will and testament. This living trust is for the estate of one Mikael Steven Tomson, now deceased. It names you, Jennifer Farrell, as the sole beneficiary of his estate. In other words, Mr. Tomson died and left you his belongings.”

Jennifer was struck numb with this news. Her mouth dropped open.

“Ms. Farrell? Jennifer?”

At last she blinked. “What did you say?”

He explained it to her again. Then he made her sign some paperwork, then gave her the document, entitling her to all of Mike’s belongings, which wasn’t much. Aside from small personal items and his computer, the Harley was the only thing of value. All she could think was, He must have known he was going to die. Why would he have done this unless he somehow knew he was in danger?

Tuesday, April 23 - 6:00p.m.

She met with The Original Artists, including the temporary singer they had hired to cover for Mike while he was in Israel. She told the guys about her book about Mike and got them to open up a little. They were still shaken by Mike’s death and eager to tell stories about him. They talked about how he was always late, how he sometimes acted weird and talked about God at odd times. They told her about the incident at The Mirage, where Mike picked a winning slot machine. She taped the interview.

Tuesday, April 23 - 10:00p.m.

Jennifer fumbled as she turned the key to the deadbolt on Mike’s apartment. Suddenly choked up, she paused and took a deep breath before opening the door. She stepped inside, but an eerie silence pervaded the place. She remembered the dinners and the late-night philosophy with rowdy background music; Mike always wanted music, usually some form of heavy metal, to be playing. The apartment was warm, inviting and noisy back then, but now it was cold, empty and silent.

She could hear her own breath as she walked down the hall. She turned to her left and opened the door. It was black inside but she could smell oil and gasoline. She reached in and flipped on the light. In the center of the garage was a black Harley Davidson Softail, Mike’s beloved motorcycle, now legally hers, although she didn’t know how to ride it. It was a horse without a cowboy, an empty and silent icon of a life unfulfilled. She closed the garage door and her eyes started to mist. “Stop it,” she told herself, as she walked down the hall into the kitchen. She was going to get through this, too.

The apartment was too clean, for a bachelor anyway. It was almost as if he cleaned it because he knew he wouldn’t be coming back. She took slow, calculated steps as she made her way through the apartment, viewing echoes of Mike’s life. A copy of Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance sat on the night-stand in the bedroom. A rack with hundreds of cassette tapes and CDs sat next to a boom box. She turned it on and pressed play to hear the last song he had heard. It was Mike’s favorite band, Savatage, a song called “Believe.”

I am the way, I am the light,

I am the dark inside the night,

I hear your hopes, I feel your dreams,

And in the dark I hear your screams,

Don’t turn away, just take my hand

And when you make your final stand

I’ll be right there, I’ll never leave

All I ask of you is, believe.

The song brought the tears she had been fighting since seeing the Harley. What was she going to do without him? He was not coming home this time. All she wanted was just to be held by him, but that was impossible now. She fell asleep on Mike’s couch, crying.

Wednesday, April 24 - 8:00a.m.

She woke up on Mike’s couch. She got up and walked off the stiffness around the apartment looking for something to eat. In the livingroom, she found a computer, with yellow post-it notes attached to both sides of the monitor. A Harley Davidson sticker adorned the case. She wondered if the computer might have any clues to Mike’s final thoughts, so she flipped it on and waited for it to boot up.

She ran the e-mail program and checked his messages, hoping to find some insight into his dying word, e-mail. There was only one piece of e-mail in his in-basket and it said:

Mike:

Here are the manuscripts you wanted from the VCDB. See attached docs. Call me when you get this. CK.

The return address was ghosthacker@visi.net.

She noticed that the e-mail had photo documents attached. She opened one of the attachments and it looked like a photograph of an ancient crumbled manuscript, like the dead sea scrolls. The document was handwritten and obviously in some foreign language. She wondered what it was, but decided it could wait until later.

She started up the word-processing program. Under the “file” menu was a list of the ten most recently used documents. She opened the most recent one, which was called “chapter 36.” This must have been the book Mike was working on before they left for Israel. It was a collection of his writings about God and the meaning of life. She read several pages, but then stopped.

Deciding to start at the beginning, she found another document called “Chapter One” and opened it. At the top was a title page: The Gospel According to Mike. It was Mike’s memory of what actually transpired in his past-life as Jesus, the autobiography of Jesus Christ. She knew Mike’s account of what really happened would turn the Christian world upside down. I can publish this as part of my book, she thought. She dug around in Mike’s desk until she found a floppy disk and inserted it into the computer.

After she copied Mike’s most recent documents to the disk, it occurred to her that she should save off the incoming and outgoing e-mail files so she could gain insights for her book. When she tried to copy the e-mail attachments, her floppy disk was full. Only one of the pictures fit. She dug around in the desk drawer for more floppies, but found none. She decided the other documents would have to wait until later, and tucked the diskette inside her purse. There would be plenty of time for the rest. Maybe she would even just haul the computer back to her place. Then she ran off to her appointment with Father Lowry.

Excerpt from The Gospel According to Mike

He said, “He who finds enjoyment through money will lose it all in death. He who finds enjoyment through hurting others is only hurting himself. He who finds enjoyment through selfishness will end up with nothing but himself, and he may not like what he finds. He who finds enjoyment through arrogance will be humbled. He who finds enjoyment through pride will be ashamed. He who enjoys vanity will become wrinkled and old. Only people who find happiness inside will be able to retain it always.”