Navigating the Margins (eBook)

The Way Station

by Katie Hoopes

I died an accomplished man. I know I did.

It’s rather the fact of my death that is so jarring. I can’t seem to remember how it happened, or even when, but the strange feeling I have in my fingers and cheeks, well I don’t know how, but I know it’s a feeling only dead people feel. Not to mention where I am. It seems that I’m nowhere, but that’s not possible. I have a body, but it doesn’t feel like a living body—or even a physical one. Everything around me is, to put it simply, everything. It’s black and white and every color of the rainbow at once. I see elephants, unicycles, Ikeas and sticky notes. I don’t know how, but it is.

“Huh, so this is death,” I mumble to myself. I’m beginning to have a lot of questions, but one sticks out above all others. Where is God? I haven’t been the most devout Christian my whole life, but certainly devout enough that I deserve my spot in heaven. The mere fact that I’m still experiencing some sort of sentience after death must be proof that God is real, so where is He?

Suddenly a whisper sounds from the vastness of the space I’m in. “Remember,” it says. And then I hear it again. “Remember.” It seems to be coming from everywhere at once. I have no idea what it means. “Remember.”

“What am I meant to remember?” I cry out. It seems like there is no response for a while. Then I see it. A human-like figure forming from the things around me. Forming from everything. First go the people—everyone on earth that’s ever lived, it seems like—but only the idea of them, being absorbed into the shadowy figure. Then the animals and plants, and all things living, or were once alive. Not me though, which I suppose indicates I am not part of everything. Then the physical things start to go: the sun, a bedframe, several rocks, and paintings. Such beautiful paintings. Then goes music, words, and laughter. Then ideas, goals, reasons. Then numbers. Then colors. Everything is absorbed into the looming figure until just black and white are left.

And me, of course.

“Are you God?” I call out to the figure. The figure was made of everything except for black, white, and me.

“Remember,” it whispers, but it isn’t really a whisper. It is silent, but somehow I hear it, like reading a message without seeing it.

“I don’t know what I must remember,” I respond, hoping it can understand me.

“Your name.”

My name. My name? I remember my name. Anyone would. It’s possibly the hardest thing to forget. If I can remember grasshoppers and the TSA and fifty different Italian words used in musical notation, then obviously I remember my own name.

“I remember it,” I shout out.

“Say it.”

Of course. Just say my name. Easy. Then I’ll probably go to heaven and live a happy afterlife. All I have to do is say my name. But what if giving my name leads to something else, something malevolent?

“Let me help,” the figure says, but doesn’t speak.

All of a sudden it vanishes, and the world is empty. The black and white around me starts to shift. Shapes begin to form around me. The highlights and shadows start to look like a picture. Was that a violin I saw? It immediately makes me excited. I dedicated my life to that instrument.

The shapes in the picture aren’t still. I can make out at least two young children fussing about.

“Nina!” one of the children shrieks. It startles me. That’s my voice. The child is me, and obviously my third grade friend, Nina. “Did your mom tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Nina asks.

“If you got the letter. If you got into the advanced orchestra.”

“Oh.” She goes quiet.

“What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t get accepted. Maybe I will next year.”

“How could you not get in? The audition excerpts were so easy.”

“I don’t know.” She is on the verge of tears. Clearly the me in the vision notices and backs down a bit.

“It’s ok. I bet it was hard for your skill level.” That doesn’t work at all, and Nina begins to sob.

Another person in the room begins to comfort Nina. It’s probably my old orchestra teacher, Mr. Briner, but I can’t tell. The picture is only focused on me and Nina. It doesn’t matter though, because the memory promptly dissipates.

“That was odd,” I say to myself.

“Remember.”

“I-” I begin. No. I remember my name. Why would I give the strange figure what it wants? I don’t even know what telling him my name would do. “How was that meant to help me?” I ask instead.

The figure, which still hasn’t returned, gives no answer. Instead, the black and white once again start to shift into the shape of a memory.

“Again? What is this for?”

This time I’m a little bit older, probably around twelve or thirteen, and I’m with my two friends who stuck with me through most of middle school: Lily and Noah. I instantly recognize the place we’re in, even though the background is blurry. It’s the rehearsal room for our local youth orchestra.

“Ms. Stacy said she’d announce the concerto competition winner during rehearsal today,” says Lily, bouncing slightly on the tips of her toes. “How come you didn’t enter, Noah? I bet you could’ve won.”

Noah brightens up at that. He opens his mouth to speak, but the me in the vision beats him to it.

“It’s probably a good thing he didn’t. There would be no point. Everyone knows who’s gonna win.”

Noah’s smile drops off his face.

“Well, that’s incredibly rude,” Lily says.

“I’m the best violinist in this orchestra. Probably the best musician, although you’re pretty good too, Lily. They wouldn’t pick a cellist, though. Just watch me win, I bet you I will.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Noah says, looking at the floor. I feel bad for Nina and Noah, but it wasn’t like I was wrong, just a little harsh. Besides, I grew out of it eventually. And I still can’t see how these memories will help me remember my name, or even convince me to give it up. They helped me remember the names of some old friends I forgot about, but they mean nothing to me.

“I remember my name,” I repeat to myself. “Who wouldn’t remember their name?”

The memory continues. I won the competition of course, no surprise there. Looking back, it’s clear that I was a little egotistical about it, but I worked hard to win. Didn’t I deserve to brag a little?

The memory fades away and the shadowy figure made of everything returns. Its presence sends chills down my spine, and not the kind of chills I ever felt when I was living.

“Why are you showing this to me?” I call out.

“Your name.”

“I know my name! What purpose do these memories serve?”

“Say your name, and you can leave.”

I nearly shout another quip back before I realize what the thing said. “Leave? To heaven?”

The figure says nothing.

“To heaven?” I repeat a little louder. “Jesus Christ, work with me here,” I mutter under my breath, laughing a little at my own joke. “If I go to heaven when I say my name, where are we now?”

“Say your name.”

“Right, so I’ll just do that.”

Around me, for a third time, a scene starts forming out of the black and white. This time it’s from when I was just out of college, auditioning for the New York Philharmonic.

“I guess we’re doing this now,” I sigh.

In the scene, I’m warming up alone in the corner of the room. I play my usual scales and etudes, along with some showy Paganini pieces, just so everyone in the warm up room knows I’m at a level above them.

In real time, I’m beginning to understand why these memories are being shown. They’re some of my accomplishments as a musician. I guess this isn’t too bad, reliving some of my best moments. Of course, my childhood memories aren’t very significant to my career. This memory, though, was a turning point in my life. It all floods back to me, so now watching the memory feels like reading a book for the hundredth time. A number of expletives pop into my mind as I begin to realize the true significance of this memory. The emotional significance. I’m overcome with the itch to stop watching, but I can’t peel my eyes away. In the vision, a woman around my age walks up to me while I’m warming up. “While I’m warming up!” I had thought at the time. The audacity of some people.

“Hey,” she says. “I just noticed your excellent playing. I mean, you’re already showing everyone up and we’re only warming up.” I just stared at her. “I’m Melanie by the way.”

I ignored her, in the memory. In the present, I almost chuckle at my young self’s naivety. I had no idea what was in store. A deep chill runs through my bones when the vision shows her laughing nervously. Well, I thought it was nervous laughter at the time. Now it feels like she’s laughing at me, for the same reasons I almost did. It’s just...