Convergence Read online

  That final summer marked our third spent in the artist’s enclave of Three Rivers Village—the gateway to Sequoia National Park, as it was known. But art wasn’t what lured us to the tiny town nestled in the southern Sierra foothills. We shared another common bond—our love for the river.

  The Kaweah’s drainage—a drop of almost 2.5 miles from headwaters to Terminus Reservoir—make it one of the steepest in the United States, offering some of the most challenging class IV and V rapids in Central and Southern California. With names like Chutes, Osterizer, Bumper, Powerhouse, and Suicide Falls, the rapids draw thrill seekers and experienced paddlers alike. And it drew us, summer after summer.

  The Kaweah called our names.

  I have no intention of allowing my mind to linger on memories of our collective past. Instead, I will let my mind wander within boundaries I’ve set, but only for a time.

  The past is why I’m here. It fuels the fire within. It will also determine my future. But I don’t dare look back for long lest I lose myself to the fantasy we created. Instead, I will let the past push me forward.

  “The past is either a shadow that haunts us or a force that propels us.” The words stop me short.

  But thinking of Denilyn exceeds the boundary I’ve set.

  Landmarks on either side of the two lanes of Highway 198 lead me back in time, including the small farm where Jaylan spent her summers, her dark skin covered by long-sleeved chambray shirts and jeans as she helped with chores, tended animals, and wrangled an overgrown garden until it produced a bounty. She lived on the farm in a small guest cottage, saving her earnings rather than spending them on rent like the rest of us did.

  Jaylan worked harder than all of us put together.

  As I enter Three Rivers, I pass Ride the Kaweah, where Ryan and I worked as guides leading trips down the rapids. It was exhilarating work, if one could even call it work. For us, digging oars into the water and navigating the rapids was a shared passion. Pure play.

  Play? That was true for me. But for Ryan it was something more.

  We each interacted with the river in our own way—took what we needed from it. Ryan’s need was mastery. That need drove him to Three Rivers each summer. He used his keen intelligence to learn the topography of each straightaway, twist, and chute of the Kaweah. The constantly changing levels of the river, based on the heat of the week and the snowmelt it produced, were the undulating rhythm he lived by. His ability to read the river, his deft use of a paddle, and the apt instruction he offered customers achieved, if not mastery of the river, the respect of the company’s owner.

  Jaylan sought the natural beauty—the power and solace the river offered. The way the cold, clear water slipped over the rocks and boulders of the river’s bed, and the deep swirling pools where trout hid under the ledges of rocks spoke to her. The graphic design etched in the banks by runnels and rivulets was the art that evoked her passion. In both the roar of the rapids and the burble of the creeks and streams that fed the Kaweah, Jaylan heard the voice of her Creator.

  Ryan and Jaylan were opposites from the beginning. Like oil and water. Ryan brought out a side of Jaylan rarely seen. During our master’s programs, they debated schools of thought, theories, and treatment modalities. During the summer, if they had nothing better to argue about, they’d debate what time the sun was expected to rise the next morning. Whatever the topic, they assumed opposite views and sparred. When they were called on it, they said it was all in fun. But there was an edge to their relationship, one that I’m only now beginning to understand.

  Back then I needed the opportunity to shift gears, to break away from the intense study and work I pursued. The river afforded me that opportunity. But now the idea of powering through the rapids evokes feelings I refuse to entertain. Now it isn’t the river that’s wooed me to the village. The call comes from another source.

  It’s a call I can’t—I won’t—refuse.

  Whereas Three Rivers may have offered me an escape in the past, now as I enter the canyon wedged between steep mountains, canopied by overhanging sycamore, willow, and oak trees, I feel trapped—as though the mountains and trees are closing in, suffocating. Even the river, flowing freely, is rife with obstacles—boulders protruding from the water, dead tree branches caught in eddies, chutes that will soon be too narrow for rafts to pass through.

  If I leave here this time—when I leave here—I will never return. It’s a vow I make to myself and one I intend to keep.

  I am here to close a chapter, finally.

  As I pass through the village, the coffee shop where we’d often meet before our days began and the café where we’d sit on the deck as the day came to a close still stand. I slow as I tick off familiar sights and take in new businesses. I follow 198 beyond Three Rivers, cross the Pumpkin Hallow Bridge, then pull into a parking place in front of the Gateway Restaurant. The house is back in the direction I’ve just come from. I could have cut off the highway several miles back, but the memories served a purpose.

  Knowing cell service is spotty in this area, I printed directions to the house. I lean over, open the glove compartment, and pull out the directions and read through them. Then I pull out of the spot and backtrack, not allowing the memories to accompany me this time.

  I turn off the highway onto a narrow drive almost hidden by the overgrowth. I follow the driveway for almost a quarter mile before it widens in front of what I assume is the house. All but the peak of the roof is hidden behind a wall of scrub oak and manzanita. A large sycamore tree provides an umbrella of shade.

  Satisfied, I park the Jeep in front. Later I’ll pull it into the garage, out of sight should anyone make their way down the drive. That was one of the provisions I checked for when looking for the rental, either a driveway around back or a garage where I could park the Jeep. This property has the garage, along with two more essential provisions.

  I secure the emergency break, turn off the ignition, lean back in the seat, and exhale. It seems I’ve held my breath for weeks. Months maybe. Or has it been years? It doesn’t matter. I’m here now.

  And I’ve made the right choice.

  The only choice.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Denilyn

  January 12, 2017

  During my office hours, my door is always open, even when I’m meeting with a student. It’s a policy I adopted when I began teaching and one I established for the faculty under me when I came to PCU. So when I look up from the lesson plan I’m going over and see Willow standing a few feet outside my door, eyes cast down, I observe her for a moment, then make a decision.

  “Willow?”

  She looks up as though she’s surprised I’ve noticed her. But I suspect that’s what she was hoping for. She takes a few steps forward but hesitates at the door.

  “If you have a few minutes, come in and catch me up. I miss not having you in a class this semester.”

  She shrugs the backpack off her shoulders and sets it inside my office, then comes and stands on the other side of my desk.

  “Pull a chair over.” I motion to the corner of my office. “Have a seat if you’d like. How’s your week going?”

  She pulls a chair over and then drops into it. Her shoulders droop and her eyes are ringed with dark circles. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Did you get the classes you need?”

  “Yeah.” She tucks a piece of her long, straight blond hair behind one ear.

  “Full load?”

  “More than full.” Her slim frame, all limbs it seems, looks lost in the large chair.

  “Ah, does it feel like more than you can handle?

  “I don’t know. Not really, I guess. It’s just… other stuff.”

  “What else is going on?”

  She shrugs and looks away. Her demeanor tells me she’s troubled, so I don’t say anything more. Instead, I give her a little time and space. When she looks back at me, her large blue eyes reveal a storm within, not unlike the one that’s raged outside this week.

>   “Deni, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know last year in Intro to Psych?”

  I nod.

  “You said something about how the past either follows us or…” Her brow furrows. “What was it? Do you remember?”

  I recite the statement I’ve often made. “The past is either a shadow that haunts us or”—it’s my turn to look away—“a force that propels us.”

  When I look back to Willow, she seems to search my face, looking for what, I’m not sure.

  “How do you let it become a force that propels you?”

  I lean forward and rest my arms on my desk. “Willow, do you also remember I said I believe it’s our choice? We can either choose to let the past haunt us or choose to let it propel us. I also said it isn’t black and white. We may desire to let go of the past, even choose to do so, but sometimes it requires very hard work to facilitate the healing of wounds we’ve sustained. Actually, I’m still learning just how gray that choice can feel.”

  I lean back. “We let it propel us forward by working toward healing, by learning from our experiences and taking that knowledge and, hopefully, wisdom garnered, into the future. We use the experience to grow. We let it strengthen us.”

  She seems to consider what I’ve said before she continues. “Did what you went through”—she drops her gaze to her lap, then glances back up at me—“you know, before… Does that, like, haunt you? Do you still think about it a lot? Or did it make you stronger?”

  Since coming to PCU, only a handful of students have asked me about the well-publicized events that took place. Whether that kind of news wasn’t on their radar, or now, because it happened so long ago, it has rarely come up. To quell speculation for those who had seen the media coverage of my case—parents of students and faculty members, mostly—before starting at PCU, I changed my last name. I reverted to my maiden name, Rossi. It was time anyway. The divorce was final, and I needed a fresh start, in many ways.

  “So, you’ve heard about that?”

  “Sort of. Some people were talking about it last semester, so I googled you. It didn’t come up right away—”

  “Because my last name is different now.”

  She nods. It’s clear that revealing that she dug up the information embarrasses her. But that tells me just how important this conversation is to her, though I don’t yet know why. “It’s okay, Willow. As much as I’d like to think people no longer remember what happened, or talk about it, I know that’s wishful thinking on my part. The stories are just a few clicks away; I know that.” I pick up a paper clip from my desk and unbend its curves. “I’ve worked hard with a therapist to put the trauma of that experience behind me, but I’m not there yet. I still struggle.” I take a deep breath. “That’s hard for me to admit. It both frustrates and embarrasses me. It seems like, because of my degrees and the work I do, I should be further along in the process. But when I let my mind dwell on thoughts like that, shame creeps in, and that can derail me if I let it. I guess what I’m learning is that we can’t always control how we’ll respond to something, or how we’ll heal. I do believe healing is possible, and I’ll continue working toward that end.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Thank you.” I drop the paper clip into the trash can under my desk. “Now, may I ask you something?”

  She hesitates. “Um, okay.”

  “Is there something you’re working to deal with?”

  She looks down at her lap and mumbles. “I mean, maybe. Sort of.”

  Within moments, red blotches flush her face and neck, and she’ll no longer look at me. “I’m sorry for whatever it is you’ve gone through.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  I’m silent a moment as I consider what she’s said. Then I lean forward. “Willow?” My tone is gentle, and I wait, hoping she’ll look at me. It takes a moment, but finally she meets my gaze again. “Sometimes at night, when I wake from a nightmare that’s made me feel like the whole thing happened all over again, or during the day, when I have a flashback of what happened, I let that voice in my mind tell me that it wasn’t a big deal. That I just need to get over it. And I’ll wonder what is wrong with me. Why can’t I move on? Why am I making such a big deal out of something that happened so long ago? When I find myself asking those kinds of questions, I know I’m listening to the voice of shame.”

  “What do you do then?”

  I consider the answer I want to give her versus the truth. I offer her both. “Sometimes I tune out that voice. Recognize it for what it is and do something good for myself, like remind myself that what I went through was traumatic and it’s okay to still struggle, or I’ll talk to a friend or my therapist, someone who can help me see the truth of my circumstances and someone who will remind me that the voice I’m listening to isn’t God’s voice.” I hesitate a moment, then continue. “But other times, more often than I’d like, I believe that voice. Because, honestly, a lot of times it’s easier to believe the voice of shame than it is to believe I’m okay, that I’ll heal, that God loves me. Oftentimes that voice affirms what I feel inside. But my feelings don’t always line up with the truth. Does that make sense?”

  She nods as tears streak her face. She wipes them away, and I reach for a box of tissues and hand it to her.

  “When I listen to that voice, when I let it affirm negative feelings I struggle with about myself, then I make choices that aren’t helpful. They aren’t emotionally healthy. And then”—I sigh—“things get kind of ugly. Know what I mean?”

  She smiles briefly, despite her tears. “Yeah, I know.”

  “I thought you might. May I share one other thing I’ve learned?”

  She nods again.

  “It isn’t helpful to compare whatever it is we’ve gone through to what others may have experienced. If whatever happened hurt me or hurt you, then it may take some time for us to heal. We’re all uniquely created, and we’ll all deal with things differently. And that’s okay.”

  She sniffs and wipes her eyes with a tissue.

  “Anything you want to share or talk about?”

  She shrugs.

  “Have you talked to anyone about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “What about a counselor? Would you be willing to talk with a therapist?”

  She darts a glance at me then looks away again. When she finally looks back, there are tears in her eyes again. “Aren’t you a therapist?”

  “I am, but I’m not practicing now, but even if I were, because of our relationship here, at school, I couldn’t work with you. That’s considered a dual relationship and goes against the ethical codes counselors are required to adhere to in order to protect their clients. We can talk some as friends, but the therapy relationship is different than friendship. I’m happy to refer you to someone.”

  “Doesn’t therapy cost a lot?”

  “Yes, it can be expensive, but there are services for those who can’t afford a fee. There are also many excellent therapists who take insurance. Are you covered under your parents’ plan?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t… I can’t…” She shakes her head.

  “It’s okay, Willow. If you decide you’d like me to refer you to someone, let me know, and we’ll talk about what would work best for you.”

  “Okay. I’ll think about it. Thanks though. I mean, for telling me some of what, you know, you go through.”

  “Anytime.”

  As Willow leaves, I know I mean what I’ve said. If what I’ve gone through, am still going through, can help her in any way, I will share it with her.

  Even when it’s difficult.

  I leave the building, briefcase in hand, and stand at the top of the steps. The rain that’s spit and spattered much of the day has stopped for the moment, replaced by a cold northern wind. I pull my raincoat tight and fasten the top buttons, and then I make my way down the stairs and head for the parking lot. I follow one of the
pathways that cuts across a large expanse of lawn dotted with trees where, in the fall and spring, students are sprawled on the grass, hanging out with friends, studying, or dozing in the sun. This evening the lawn area is saturated and deserted. Bare branches whip in the wind, and the same gray hues, the only palette we’ve seen this week, enshrouds the campus as dusk falls.

  As I walk, I consider my conversation with Willow, and my heart aches for whatever it is she’s endured. Or is enduring. It does no good to speculate on what she’s suffered, the possibilities are endless, but my sense that she’s sustained wounds was accurate—I saw further evidence of that today. As I near the parking lot, I notice a hawk gliding above the other side of the lot where the asphalt meets the natural landscape. Then it makes a steep descent to the river. The bird, wings stretched, lifts and falls with the wind, trusting, it seems, the currents to carry it.

  I slow my pace and watch for a moment, then whisper a silent plea. “Help Willow to trust You to carry her.” As I watch the bird, it isn’t lost on me that while I pray for Willow and believe God will not only hear my prayer but also answer it for her, I no longer hold that same faith for myself. Loneliness tugs at my soul. A longing for the intimacy I once experienced in my relationship with God.

  Help me to trust….

  As I begin to form the silent prayer for myself, images ambush me and the soundtrack plays in my mind, snuffing the flicker of hope that had sparked.

  How do you let it become a force that propels you? Willow’s question comes back to me.

  The truth?

  I haven’t let what happened propel me forward.

  I can’t seem to do so.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Denilyn

  November 2009

  I crossed the hallway in the suite of offices Jaylan and I shared and grabbed a new box of tissues off a shelf in the room we used to store supplies, make coffee, and occasionally microwave our lunch or dinner. I took the tissues back to my office and sat it on the end table next to the loveseat. How many of these boxes had clients gone through this week?