Alana disobeys Messenger and follows her as she delivers a message. Alana sees her project through her friend, Mary’s, eyes.
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Episode 8 Complete Text 📖
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YOU GO ON
Alana and Messenger walked together down Fifth Street one morning the next week. “Shane’s back,” Alana announced.
“Poor soul,” Messenger clucked.
Shane sat on the sidewalk on a small square of cardboard up on the corner of Third Avenue and Fifth Street. He had no coat and the clothes he wore were full of holes. His face was red and chapped. Dirty, greasy blonde dreads, pulled back in a scarf, formed a halo around his head. The circumference of his vicinity smelled really bad and it wasn’t just the hamster in the small cage on the sidewalk beside him, either. The hamster ran on his little metal wheel very fast. He could really make that thing go. Shane watched and absently picked at the sores on his arm.
“Hello, Shane,” Alana called.
“You know, yeah—it’s so cool,” he answered, his voice high and breathy. “My hamster’s name is Breakfast, so, hey, can you give me some money for breakfast?” His beady, unfocused eyes turned to the side of Alana, not on her face. Then he caught Messenger’s eye and quickly looked away. He jumped up, puffed out his chest like a rooster, butted up against a guy in a flannel shirt and work boots who happened to walk by. Shane yelled, “I bet you fifty dollars I can arm wrestle you. Find a table! Find a table! Come on. I bet you fifty dollars you aren’t that animal!” Breakfast kept rolling on his wheel.
Messenger shook her head, pulled Alana along past him. A yellow cab drove down the street with its Flash Dance Gentlemen’s Club sign lit up on the roof. Just down the block, on the steps of the Unitarian Church, they saw a young couple sleeping intertwined, like the big pretzels the street vendors hawked. You couldn’t tell whose arms or legs were whose. Messenger paused on the sidewalk in front of them.
“I want to brush the hair from their eyes,” she spoke softly. “Spit on my hand and wipe the dirt from their faces. Tuck a blanket up around their ears to keep them warm tonight. Wind back the clock and fix whatever terrible thing happened that landed them here, asleep outside on cold concrete steps in the city in the middle of winter.”
Alana let her professional guard down. “I wish you had a message for them. To change things.”
“Me, too,” she answered. “But,” A sob caught in her throat. She took a deep breath and sighed. “It doesn’t work that way.” She turned back to the knot of kids. “Angels guard you,” she whispered.
Later, they popped into Ed’s for coffee. Ed didn’t even say “hi,” just looked up at her and barked, “Order?”
“Two coffees,” Alana snapped.
He didn’t say a word. He only charged her for one. Hers. She grabbed them, turned without a thanks and sat down.
“Thank you.” Messenger reached over and rubbed Alana’s forehead. “That better?”
“Uh huh.”
Messenger chuckled. “You keep thinking so hard you’re going to get wrinkles bad as mine.”
“I know! Ed’s hard today.”
“Yes, he is. Don’t worry about it.” She paused, “Listen, your mom has passed, right?”
Alana was suddenly alert. “How did you know that?”
“Uh,” Messenger stared into her coffee. “The Flower Lady might have mentioned it.”
“Yeah,” Alana said. “Four years ago. Lung cancer. Well—breast, really. Spread to her lungs. Terrible.”
“Tell me about it.”
“She had breast cancer and beat it once. It was cigarettes, too. She could never give them up. Even though she was a nurse. She didn’t last long after the breast cancer came back and it spread to her lungs.”
“Were you close?”
Alana felt the air change, as if Messenger was holding her breath until Alana answered. Was this conversation about more than her just being nice?
“It was always just Mom and me, so sure, we were close. No family to speak of. Just my aunt in California and her daughter and kids. It was really just Mom and me. But she had to be gone a lot. All the time. She was a nurse. Once I was old enough to stay by myself, she’d take on extra shifts at the hospital. She had to work.”
“She did it for you?”
“I guess. For us. When she died she left me a nice savings account.”
“But that’s not going so good, right?” she asked softly.
Alana stared into Messenger’s eyes. How did she know? “No. there’s not much left.” Alana shrugged, “That’s what I’ve been living on, actually. That and a hostessing job I have at a restaurant a few nights a week. That’s one reason I’m so eager to move our project forward.”
Messenger nodded. “Do you miss her awful much?”
“I miss her. Of course, I miss her. She was my mother.”
“She’s still working on your behalf from the other side. But you never get over missing your mother.”
Alana shrugged. “What can you do?”
“You go on,” Messenger whispered.
MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: EIGHT SIGNS TO WATCH FOR IF SOMEONE YOU LOVE HAS PASSED (DON’T BE AFRAID—JUST WATCH)
Any or all of these could be a communication. They are close by and can help you if you let them. They will try and reach you SOMEHOW, but if you’re hooked up to your boxes, you won’t get the message.
POST: NINA
I’m trying to keep the faith without having any faith. Pray to a Swami, the Dalai Lama, The Buddha, Jesus, Mary, Mohammed, the Universe. I’ll tell you where I see the Divine. Recently, I noticed a monarch butterfly float way up there above me in the sky. I could hardly see it, just a flash of orange. So fragile! Headed to Mexico on an impossible trip, but they do it.
I remembered that butterfly when I got the message from my 84-year-old mother that after a childhood with an alcoholic father, an unhappy marriage endured for her children’s sake, thyroid cancer, stage-four uterine cancer at 70, massive amounts of chemo which caused loss of hearing and any feeling in her toes and most of her short-term memory, atrial fibrillation and several stents, now she had breast cancer and needed a lumpectomy.
That afternoon I walked to her apartment building to take her to the doctor. I really was dreading seeing my mother because I had no idea what to say. This dirty old woman snuck up behind me and stuffed a piece of paper into my hand. “For you,” she said. I took a second to look at the paper. She’d written, THERE IS NO DEATH. YOU ARE STRONGER THAN YOU THINK. The second I read it, I was that butterfly. I knew I could face this whole thing with my mother. It was doable. Her message was for both my mom and me. Amazing.
MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK:
Goal of life=personal happiness
Sounds right?
We think happiness means money, fame, love of a man, love of a woman, love of a parent, love of a friend, love of a child, love of a pet. Security, prosperity, property, peace. We’re all looking for answers. For a little help for ourselves. But we are every mother who puts her child to bed hungry, who doesn’t have fresh water for her child to drink, who leaves her child along the road to die because she’s a girl, who holds her daughter down for genital circumcision, who paints her lips and sends her into an old man’s bed. Every mother who offers her sons to the mines, to the river, to the workhouse, who straps the bomb on his chest with one last kiss. We are all of them and they are us. We all long to hear our mother call our name as only she can. Even after she’s been gone 30 years, to hear that voice again, just once.
ALANA BREAKS THE RULES
After they’d shared a coffee at Ed’s, Alana handed Messenger a whole fistful of chocolates, hugged her goodbye, felt those strong arms surround her, the buzzy energy in her hands and feet that came with any touch from Messenger. It was like holding a live wire, yet warm and soothing, at the same time. Alana had researched it—all she could find to explain the buzz was qi—the Eastern life force, so strong and alive in Messenger. But when she’d asked for an explanation, Messenger always smiled as if Alana had mentioned something embarrassing. “We’ll talk about that later,” she always stalled.
It had been a perfectly normal day at Ed’s, a perfectly normal conversation with Messenger. As usual, after a while, Messenger said she had to go. Alana watched her leave Ed’s and head slowly down First Avenue. Alana pretended she was checking her e-mails in case Messenger happened to glance back. She’d just asked Messenger for the hundredth time if she could come with her to deliver a message. For the hundredth-and-first time, she’d said, no. This time, Alana wasn’t taking no for an answer. It was time for her to witness this phenomenon. She needed a first-person account of her own to add to the website.
She gave Messenger a head start, then flew out onto the street, pulling the collar of her coat up against the damp and cold and seemingly imminent rain. Alana wove in and out of the crowds pouring along in both directions, kept her gaze down the street on the smudge of red already a block ahead. She could barely spot it through the crowds. She passed the Rite Aid, So Hair and Karma Cafe. Three of Cups on the corner. The Professor’s alley. When Alana got to the corner of Second Avenue and Fifth Street, suddenly she lost sight of Messenger’s cap. She turned onto Second Avenue, ducked the Flower Lady, headed down the street, run-walking as fast as she could.
Up ahead, three blocks at least, that red smudge reappeared between the people. How did she get so far ahead at the pace she walked? It didn’t make any sense. Time and space seemed to bend when Messenger was involved. Alana halted in her tracks and a skinny, tatted boy in a white t-shirt and huge leather jacket ran into the back of her, almost knocked her down. She caught herself and he walked on, earbuds still firmly in place, oblivious to the whole thing.
Alana stood close beside the hardware store and realized she was holding her breath. It was like watching a movie with no sound. She spied Messenger halfway down the block. Messenger pulled a slip of paper out of one of her many pockets. Just ahead of Messenger, Alana noticed a mother walking with her little girl, probably seven. The mom was dressed for the office and the girl wore a deep purple coat, her long blonde hair spreading out across her back. Why isn’t the girl in school? What are they even doing down here? Alana wondered.
Messenger handed the girl the paper when the mom was distracted with her phone. Then, the mom put the phone in her pocket, noticed the paper the girl was holding, and glanced at Messenger standing a little bit away from them. The mother pulled the paper away from her daughter and threw it on the sidewalk. She wiped her hand and her daughter’s hand with a tissue. Then, she turned and pointed her finger, like a knife, at Messenger, and started yelling.
Messenger didn’t flinch but turned and headed down the street away from them. The little girl bent down to pick the message back up, but her mother grabbed it and threw it down again, then yanked her daughter by the arm, stomped off. Alana’s last glimpse of them before they turned the corner was the little girl pulling away to rub her arm and wipe her eyes. Messenger was gone.
Alana hurried to the very spot where they’d been, bent down and picked up the paper. YOU ARE A TREASURE, the message read.
LUNCH WITH MARY
Alana sat on the bench beside the playground one bright morning, waiting for Messenger to show up. She checked her phone and realized she’d forgotten to call her best friend, Mary, back again, to confirm their lunch date. Mary was an account analyst for a big firm—Alana could never remember the name. She made lots of money, lived alone in a great apartment on the West Side, the works.
Mary answered right away. “Finally! What’s wrong? Why won’t you answer my calls or texts? I was worried.”
“Sorry! I’ve got a lot going on. I’ve been so busy.”
“Everybody’s busy, Alana.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll do better.”
“It’s just, you never were this flaky before.”
“It’s this story I’m working on.”
“About?”
“I’ll tell you more at lunch.”
Alana was so happy they were meeting at “their place,” Joe’s, an old diner with cheap but good food they used to always go to when they’d first become friends. It was cozy and familiar, and Alana knew she could afford it. Alana found Mary staring at the menu when she breezed in. Mary hugged her and Alana settled on her side of the table, but even before the waiter left with their orders, Mary began her interrogation. “So,” she said. “This big story?”
“Yeah. I’m actually thinking I might have a book on my hands.” It was the first time Alana had said this out loud to anyone except Messenger.
“Oh, wow! That’s great! Okay, what’s it about?”
Alana told Mary just the basics of the Messenger project and watched Mary’s face as she sketched, in broad brushstrokes, Messenger, the messages, the posts from recipients, the Clinamen. Mary kept her face open but focused. Alana could tell she was really listening.
“So,” Alana added. “Do you think this whole thing is insane?”
“I get why you’re intrigued by Messenger and everything,” Mary commented. She raised an eyebrow. “No offense, but she sounds a little sketchy.”
Alana laughed. “You are so right! Now, really. Please. You can’t breathe a word about this to anyone. Swear! I don’t want any other writers to steal my story.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t. But you can’t let yourself get so obsessed about it. You know how you do. I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Nobody has. It’s like you’ve fallen off the planet. I’m worried about you.”
Alana picked at her dry cuticles, avoided Mary’s eyes. “I know, I know. I’ve been working really hard. I have to. I’m having money problems.”
Mary paused as the waiter served their salads. When he turned, she added, more gently, “I thought you had your inheritance . . .”
“You know how fast money goes here.”
Mary nodded and took a bite of her food. She looked back up at Alana and asked, “You’re not living off credit cards, are you?”
Alana shook her head. “Not quite, but it won’t be long now.”
“Oh, Alana. I’m really sorry.” She reached out and touched Alana’s hand. “Do you think this book project is worth all the effort? I’m scared.”
“Me, too.” Tears filled Alana’s eyes. “But I can’t stop now. I keep pushing Messenger to tell me more, to let me expand my website, keep the buzz going—all that. I get so damn frustrated with her! I’m putting as much pressure on her as I dare.”
“I get it,” Mary said. “But you better be careful how hard you push. I know you, Alana. When you get fixated on something, you’re like a dog with a bone. You don’t want to scare Messenger off. There’s probably a whole lot more going on than you know about. What if she just disappeared one day, then where would you be?”
Alana felt like Mary had just punched her in the stomach. Mary’s right! Another serious concern she hadn’t thought to worry about yet!
Mary took a sip of water. “You need a diversion. Maybe a man in your life. Wait.” Mary smiled broadly and turned her head to the side. What’s that look about?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Not ‘nothing.’ Come on. Dish.”
Alana sighed. “No, it’s nothing, really. Just this guy who works at the coffee shop where I usually meet Messenger.”
Mary rested her elbows on the table, crossed her fingers and rested her chin there. “A barista? Is that his side gig?”
“No. He’s the manager.”
Mary laughed. “I know it’s slim pickings out there in the men department.”
“No! Ed’s nice.”
Mary’s smile narrowed. “And? Describe him.”
“Well, he has this amazing thick, black hair. Cut short. You have to study his face to realize he’s part Japanese.”
“Yum! Good-looking, then.”
“Well, yeah. And he has just a few tats, no lame ones. This really pretty iris one he told me came from a suit in a Japanese card game. Isn’t that cool?”
“It is,” Mary agreed but her slight frown remained. “Has he asked you out?”
“No!” Alana cringed. She couldn’t begin to imagine Ed ever getting up the nerve. “And, really. There’s nothing going on. He’s super moody—makes flowers and a heart in my coffee one day, then the next won’t even say hi. I don’t have time for him, or anybody really. I’ve got to get this book written!”
As soon as she and Mary finished their lunches, Mary had to hurry back to the office. Alana promised to come to Mary’s annual Thanksgiving potluck. “No excuses,” Mary told her.
They hugged each other before Mary headed to the train. “Don’t be a stranger,” Mary said.
On her own walk back to the subway, Mary’s warning about scaring Messenger off replayed over and over in Alana’s head. She decided to ride back downtown and find Messenger, to reassure herself that everything was okay. It had felt good to share her worries with Mary, as always. Mary had acted supportive, but Alana could tell she had doubts about her project. Why shouldn’t she? Alana admitted. I have plenty of doubts myself. She’d sacrificed so much.She was just plain tired of all the hide and seek. Of trying so hard to get Messenger to tell her what she needed to know. Messenger could be infuriating and sometimes Alana wanted more than anything to just tell her off.
But there was another side to it all, too, she had to admit. Who are you trying to fool? You love Messenger. When you’re with her, you feel wonderful. Peaceful. Like you belong. You came to this city to follow your dream of becoming a writer. To find a story and serve it. Well, your story is Messenger. Alana thought back to the day before, when Messenger caught her off guard, had asked, “What are you serving?” That time, Alana didn’t reply. But the answer is, she suddenly realized, this book I’m going to write. About you, Messenger.
Alana headed down the street towards First Avenue, dodged an annoying guy dressed in green cotton pants with round glasses and black ear gauges, who texted while he walked. She streamed along the sidewalk with the crowd.
Poor Mom would roll in her grave this very minute, if she hadn’t been cremated, Alana mused. She hated to think of all the many ways her mom had scrimped and saved, had denied herself. Self-punishment. That’s what her mom was all about. In a moment of clarity, Alana had realized long ago the self-punishment went back to when her mom got pregnant with Alana in college. Her mom spent the rest of her life punishing herself for that one mistake. She must not have thought she deserved to have fun, Alana figured, so she worked instead. She was really good at that. Alana remembered the ugly green plastic Tupperware cup with the clear cap her mom filled every morning with coffee to take to work, then refilled with water for the trip home. Alana would see it in the car’s cup holder on the way to school and when her mom finally pulled into the curb to pick her up in the evening.
A guy rode a skateboard down the middle of the sidewalk jostled Alana before she could jump out of the way and almost knocked an old lady down. “Watch out!” Alana yelled at him. She turned to the lady. “Are you okay?” Alana asked. The lady nodded and hurried away.
Walking along, Alana saw her whole project through Mary’s eyes and felt the weight of her commitment to it like a body suit of lead. The stakes were very high. Alana remembered how, when the circus came to her town every year, she’d always looked forward to the high-wire acrobats in their tacky, worn-out sequined leotards and jackets. She’d held her breath during the entirety of their death-defying act, filled with anxiety at every move they made. That part made her sick to her stomach. What she loved was the moment when the agony of their performance was finally over, their act finished. Then, each performer, one by one, fell slowly, gracefully, effortlessly into the safety net below. It caught them like a soft, fluffy cloud. That’s what she longed for—a permanent safety net. Alana knew that’s what her mom had worked so hard to give her. But once the money’s really gone, my safety net’s gone, too. Alana felt that harsh realization spread through every cell of her body, like water permeating a sponge. That’s what an orphan has to face, she thought. Well, not technically an orphan, she corrected herself, but in true fact.
She’d had no actual contact with her father since her parents’ divorce when she was a baby, but she’d found her father, Marvin Peterson, through his son, Marvin Junior’s Facebook page. It hadn’t been that hard. Alana prided herself on her search abilities, one thing she’d learned from her previous click-bait job. Marvin Senior wore glasses. Alana had been lucky. She’d gotten her mom’s 20/20 vision. He had a cowlick at his part, the same cowlick Alana tamed by parting her hair on the other side.
When she’d first found him, four years ago, right after her mom had died, Alana had stared at his face on the screen for a very long time. Then she’d searched her own face in the mirror for any of his features, besides the cowlick, but all she could see was her mom. Her mother’s long, oval face, wide forehead (Alana still had a slight scar from a sledding accident) and deep-set brown eyes. Mom’s thick, brown hair, which she’d always worn in a neat nurse bun. Marvin was fairer, though graying now. His three sons were blondes. They all looked like him. His daughter looked like his new wife. Whenever she allowed herself to go to Marvin’s page, which was seldom, she searched his face again, around his eyes or the corners of his mouth, for any hint of sadness or regret, any sign that losing her registered there. She saw nothing.
Alana focused on the faces of all the people who passed her on the street. How many of them are operating without a safety net, too? she wondered. Did she look as anxious as many of them did? She shook her head as if to shake off her fears. Okay, Alana. That’s it! Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something! Take action! Honor Mom and all her hard work by pulling this off. Mom did it on her own, without any help from Marvin. You can, too. You’ve just got to work more efficiently. Striding faster down the street, Alana decided she would go ahead and build her website, complete with her research, notes, lists, her own experiences of Messenger, posts from people who’d received messages, interviews. She’d be ready to go live the minute Messenger finally decided the time was right. She didn’t need to tell Messenger about it. Why would she care, as long as Alana waited?
These plans occupied her thoughts until she stopped dead in her tracks and caused a mom to almost run over her with an umbrella stroller. Ice climbed up her back and scalp. She apologized to the mom, then walked the few steps to the curb, to be absolutely certain of what she thought she’d seen.
A green Mini Cooper was parked in front of her between a van and another car. She knew what the license plate would say, even before she looked. There it was, in black letters, all caps. “CLINAMN.”
Alana’s shivering spread up and down until even her teeth chattered. She clenched her jaw tight, to stop it. It’s a sign, she thought, and her heart soared.
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