Ira.
The boy.
Fate.
Prince!
All of it. I remembered everything. I was a guardian angel! I . . .
Shit.
I did step in front of the Mercedes.
Didn’t I?
I was here on this mountain. I could hear the waterfall. I could see the glimmering lights of the city in the distance. I realized that while I may have done it, I wasn’t dead. I was here. On top of this mountain, showering in moonlight. Very much alive. For maybe the first time. Ever. I took a deep breath and gave the deer a long, gentle pat on the head. Thank you, Blondie.
Had I been given a second chance unlike any other? I felt like I was completely open and aware but also wearing a kind of transparent, impenetrable armor. I was completely exposed yet unable to be harmed. Total vulnerability was the best defense against any attacks from demons. Instead of running from fear, I could move toward it. So easy. If I welcomed my demons with open arms, they’d have no idea what to do.
I needed to get down the mountain. I needed to get to Jess. I needed to try to understand what any of this meant.
What do I do now? It was a question, but it wasn’t the same kind of question. It wasn’t one of doubt. It was one of anticipation. Excitement.
As I hustled back down the trail, I felt an overwhelming urge to text Timmy. It was the middle of the night or the very start of the morning, but I didn’t really care. Besides, there was every chance that he was awake and on his way home from somewhere or saying goodbye to someone. He certainly wouldn’t understand this story—ever the scientist, ever the atheist—but he’d understand the text: “I love you, man.”
I sent that same text to Adam, Dan, Scotty, Steve, Andrew, Sandy, Andy, Jeff, the Pauls, and all of the people who had, knowingly and unknowingly, propped me up as I continued to fall down.
“Things are going to be very different,” I said out loud to myself. And, maybe as an assurance to God that he hadn’t made a mistake . . . even if God was just me. Which, therefore, meant I was just saying that to myself. If I tried to figure it out, I’d make my ears bleed. So I laughed at the absurdity of it all. Because it was absurd.
How will I ever write this book? People were going to think I was crazy. People were going to write reviews telling me I was a terrible writer or just flat-out stupid. “Yes, they are,” I again said out loud. “And that has nothing to do with you.”
It was around 4:30 a.m. when I got back to the house and quietly climbed into bed. I kissed Jess on the top of her head and pulled the covers over me.
It wasn’t more than a couple of hours later when my phone started blowing up. The texts were all the same: “Are you okay?” Better than ever, I thought. I’d respond in a bit.
Jess was still asleep. I wanted so badly to wake her and share this story, but it was more important that I started writing. I had my assignment. Whether it came from God or from somewhere inside me, it didn’t matter. I quietly gathered my backpack, threw on my jeans, pulled on my boots, and . . . damn, the café didn’t open until 7:00 a.m.
I had approximately forty-seven minutes to kill. I decided to drive to Mo’s, park, and walk the path that lined the bay.
As I walked, I began recounting the story in my head. I started to imagine the feedback and fallout:
What the fuck are you talking about?
How could any of this be true?
You didn’t die.
You didn’t meet God.
You weren’t sent back to earth.
What is wrong with you?
You fell asleep on a mountain and had a weird dream.
You got high and wandered out of the house and hallucinated this entire thing.
It’s a fantasy.
You might not have been on the mountain at all.
It was all a dream.
You fell asleep after sex.
That is all fake bullshit.
Plus, you’re a shitty writer.
“All of this could be true,” I told myself. I laughed when I thought that the last bit about being a shitty writer would likely use “your” instead of “you’re.” And then said loudly, “Who gives a fuck?”
I had spent my life worrying about what other people would think. Doing things for others first. Asking for permission. But I had a story to write. We all have something inside of us, yearning to break out. The thing that is uniquely ours. I had spent too many years suppressing it, which only served to cause great injury to my soul. I was writing for me. And then I really understood. I was writing for the little boy who ran away from home. I was writing to forgive myself. I was writing to trust myself. Writing was trusting myself.
As I watched a lone, standup paddle boarder work his way across the glassy bay, I realized something else. I needed to call my mom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A couple strolling on a beach finds a message in a bottle. The message is the wedding vows of a couple that had recently gotten married across the big lake. It turns out the couple that found the bottle had gotten married on the same day years earlier.15
