I’ve met my Muse—Letha Kessem—a beautiful woman whom I instantly recognize as my soul mate.
I know instinctively she’ll be good for me because just being with her I’ve remembered parts of a work in progress that my accident caused me to forget.
This adventure in recovering the flotsam and jetsam of my past has now turned into a kind of mythical quest where I’m romancing my Muse
Six weeks later, we’re spending a rainy Saturday lazing about my house in the Bloor-West Village.
We’re sitting on a braided rug in front of my fireplace, our backs resting on the sofa and both of us staring dreamily into the flames.
“I had this nightmare about being lost on city streets,” I murmur.
Letha’s consoling me by pushing damp hair back from my forehead.
“Perhaps you’re trying to hard to remember, Jase.”
The warmth of the fire and rhythm of rain had lulled me into a troubled sleep, but now I was back—fully awake, sitting on the floor of my front room, and trying to unscramble the misery of me.
Only six weeks since we met, but now we’ve long crossed that divide between hers and mine, and every time I’m with her, another part of me returns.
“I know I’m pushing it,” I tell her, “but this is something I have to do—I have to get my life back.”
“Why?” she whispers, “Was it better than what you have now?”
I know she’s talking about us—women always take everything as personal to them.
“This isn’t about some other woman. It’s not about Elle—it’s about me. Besides, there are parts of me you don’t even know.”
She smiles seductively, “You sure about that?”
I have to laugh, but also have to let her know I mean business. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
She doesn’t understand, but I’m determined to recover as much of the past as I can before it’s gone forever—carried away on the tides of time, or lost to the seas of oblivion.
But she’s grown quiet, probably digesting what I’ve said.
Suddenly, her eyes brighten. “Let’s play a game.”
“Uh Letha, I’m kind of tired right now…”
She giggles, “Not that kind of game, Silly—close your eyes.”
“Okay.”
Her tone is serious now and her voice quiet as a whisper.
“It’s an early November afternoon and we’re out for a walk by a creek. It snowed last night and the woods are lovely and still. Can you picture that?”
“I suppose.”
I figure this is one of those meditation exercises Helen Moore, my nurse, loves me to practice, and I’m pretty sure she’s roped Letha into coaching me as well.
My eyes are closed but all I can see are fluttering shadows from the fireplace flames against the soft pink of my eyelids.
I could fake it, but it’d be futile. Letha would know. She always knows.
“I’ll wait until you can visualize it,” she whispers.
The fire is bubbling away merrily in the grate, the rain’s ticking against the windows, and far off in the study, as if wrapped in cotton, I can faintly hear the soft chimes of the grandfather clock.
I absorb the peace and serenity of the quiet house, savoring the comfort of being in her presence.
Suddenly, an image takes shape before my eyes. A woman, in a black, in full-length coat, is standing with her back to me.
I see a dark creek winding through a snowy wood and hear the unmistakable sound of a nearby waterfall.
The details of the setting and atmosphere are so familiar they fill me with an ardent longing that surprises and even frightens me.
The woman turns around, and my breathing stops—Letha is staring back at me.