Into the Mystic

A life lived - inspired by the great Van Morrison Song

“Charlie paid me a visit a couple days ago,” he said to Linda. The slow, methodical whooshing that fed him fresh oxygen, and the hypnotic pings tracking his heart rate were there, but he didn’t hear them. The small speaker sitting by his bedside played, capturing his focus. The volume was set low, but he heard the music just fine. He lifted his arm for a sip. The IV needle pinched his skin, more of a reminder than a pain.“Oh, Linda. I’m glad he comes, though. Besides Charlie, I only have you and the music. ‘Course, that’s been enough; still is. I’m grateful for Charlie though.”

A song faded to an end. After a brief pause the gritty guitar twang of the Allman Brothers began to play.

Perfect, he thought. Closing his eyes, he fell into the song as "Ramblin’ Man" spoke to him, just like it always did. Memories of those earlier, simpler days rolled vividly through his mind.

“T.J., grab me another beer from the cooler,” I say. We are driving in my ’62 Corvair Monza and I’m feeling free. Austin, Texas - summertime, top down, wind whipping past my face.

“Ain’t nothin’ better than this,” T.J. says. A crack and a fizz as my best friend pops the Old Milwaukee and passes it over.

T.J.’s a mechanic. Me? I’m an apprentice, on my way to becoming a journeyman electrician. The hours are long and hard, but I was able to buy the Corvair. The boss isn’t kind, but he’s thorough, and he knows his shit. At twenty-four, I think I’ve finally found something that’s gonna stick.

“Yep. Life is good, T.J. Life is good.” We’re not heading anywhere in particular, just driving on, quietly for the next few miles, sipping our beers, watching the world, and enjoying the music.

“Boy oh boy, I remember those days, Linda. It was before you, I know. But still. There’s somethin’ about being young and free.”

Through tired, faded eyes, he made out the gray, antiseptic walls of the room.

“Do you remember that day I came runnin’ in with my radio? Think it was ’73 or ’74. I told you, ‘Those Allman Brothers must know who I am ‘cause they wrote a song about me. Me, in my younger days. ’Remember that?” His mouth managed a smile. “You laughed so hard. You said, ‘Honey, you were an electrician back then in Austin, Texas. This song’s about a guy, born on a bus, whose father was a gambler.’ You made me laugh right along with ya, Linda. You always did. You were right about the song, but man, it still always sent me back to those times.”

He’d lost track of how many songs had played as he reminisced. Then slow, tender piano bars rolled out of the speaker and carried his sweet dreams to an even sweeter place.

“Here we go, babe” he whispered.

His muscles relaxed and the tension melted from his face.

“McCartney. I was a southern rock guy, but you loved Paul McCartney.”

Why am I still so nervous, I thought. I rubbed my sweaty hands on the pant legs of the rented tuxedo. Then I saw Linda. She was standing on the other side of the dance floor, her flowing white dress and her pink corsage glistened from the dancing lights. She took my breath away.

McCartney’s "Maybe I’m Amazed" began to play and my new wife walked towards me. We met in the middle. Our foreheads touched gently as I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her close.

“I’m not much of a dancer, you know,” I said.

“But you look pretty damn sexy in that tuxedo.” Her eyes raised to meet my own. We laughed. Then we twirled and circled the floor. The tables, the decorations, and all the eyes on us melted away and it was just Linda and me.

“I am truly amazed that I have you,” I said, echoing McCartney’s words. “That you love me as much as you do.”

“We were made for each other,” she replied. “And I have the man that will take care of me forever.”

“I picked that song for our first dance, Linda. You remember? I went through every Paul McCartney and Beatles song and kept coming back to that one. You told me it was perfect.”

Those years twirl around in his head and for a while, nothing else matters. Meeting Linda as a young cashier at the market, picnics in the park, the intensity, the passion, building a life together, all of it burned deep inside him; it was a flame that would never go out. When Marci came along, it brought them closer. He remembered watching Linda sit in the rocker, feeding their tiny, beautiful little girl.

The oxygen machine continued to wheeze in the background like a run up to the next tune. Then the soft, mellow guitar picking of Neil Young began to play, changing the mood. Neil’s sad, heartfelt voice singing "The Needle and the Damage Done." His eyes couldn’t make tears anymore, but he’d come to realize you can still cry even if you can’t make tears.

“Linda!” I yell, screamed until my voice shattered. “Call 911!” On my knees, I lean over Marci. My daughter’s lifeless body looks peaceful, but I can't accept it. I shake her. Shake her hard, willing her to open her eyes. Yell at me. Hit me. Anything.

An empty bottle of vodka sits on the table and pills are scattered everywhere. I can’t lie to myself anymore. She’s gone. Behind me Linda knelt to the floor, her hands covering her face as she wept.

EMTs rush in. Linda and I press back against the wall of Marci’s bedroom in silence and shock while they work feverishly to revive her. It wasn’t the first time when they carry her out, but this time I know she isn't coming back.

All the moisture had left his throat, and it cracked as he whispered.

“Charlie told me he wanted to delete that song from the playlist,” he said. “He said it wouldn’t do me any good. I told him no, though. I needed it to be there.”

The blinds on his windows were open. The sun shone in and illuminated the liquid IV bottle, that kept the pain at bay.

His voice trembled as he spoke. “I remember one night, about a year into our marriage. Danny and I were havin’ a couple beers, and he asked me if I thought you and I would ever leave each other, Linda. I swear I laughed out loud; told him no way in hell. But when Marci left us, we almost didn’t make it. I wasn’t there for you. Hell, I wasn’t there for myself. Between the years of Marci’s struggles and then her passing, I think we both lost sight of everything. Linda, I’m so sorry.” He was quiet now. A few more songs played but he wasn't listening.

After a while, he continued. “I was thinking about this the other day, my love. How can a man have his saddest moment and his happiest one at the same time? I did. Remember? That night we opened a bottle of wine. Must have been almost two years after Marci passed. Then we opened another one and probably one more after that. We laughed and we cried. We talked about Marci. Her death, but also her life. I’m pretty sure we stayed up until the sun came up, listening to music, even singing a bit if I remember right. It filled me with joy, knowing that we were gonna’ make it. In that moment, I was ready to move on ‘cause we still had lives to live.”

The hole in his heart never really left, he thought. He was pretty sure it was the same for Linda. But they moved forward. They had friends, they vacationed, they worked and then they retired. They lived their lives fully and, most importantly, together.

He'd been getting tired so quickly these days. He felt it now and his breath became shallow.

“I need to rest a bit, Linda,” he said.

He glanced over to the bedside table, just behind his speaker, and there she was. Linda's photograph was taken about five years ago, just a year before she’d passed. Her eyes still sharp and narrow with that bright green shimmer. Her lips curled in a smile that could easily have passed as a pout.

The line is long, full of people dressed in black who’d come to see her, to say goodbye. Light piano music played in the background. Linda’s casket is surrounded with beautiful flowers. Guests walked slowly, stopping to shake my hand, to tell me how sorry they were. It took hours, but she deserved every minute.

When everyone left, I reached down and gently took her hand.

“I couldn’t have done any of it without you. I don’t know what’ll happen to me now.”

As he drifted off, the haunting acoustic Van Morrison began to play. It was "Into the Mystic."

“Do you hear that, Linda? Can you hear Van? It’s like he’s singing to me. You’re probably chuckling. ‘He’s not singing to you, honey,’ you’d say. But I think I can hear the foghorn blow, Linda. I think I’ll be there with you soon, my love.”

Morrison’s words were more distant now, something about sailing away and letting your spirit fly. Now, he couldn’t hear Van Morrison at all. He heard silence. In his mind was only her picture. She still took his breath away.