Now, Mitch takes on more detail. Whether he can do this at will or not, I don’t know. I can see what looks like a lot of damage to the left side of his face. The glow of blue-green splatters over his face and neck and shoulder is, I think, a ghost hint of blood.

  I sense great sorrow from him. In fact, I can see it coming off him in slow waves of low energy, energy that eddies around him, as if the vibrations around him are sick and weak. Then again, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, either. Still, the entity sitting before me, staring down into his imaginary cup—who seems to be composed entirely of slow-moving, low-energy light particles, looks lost. And I don’t know what the hell to do about it.

  Before I did anything, I absorb this moment, take it in, revel in it, even. After all, my old friend is sitting with me again at Chango.

  Like old times. Or not.

  Indeed, we are at our same table, sitting across from each other again. That one of us is ‘seeing’ through spiritual eyes and the other is dead, suddenly seems irrelevant. We are here together again.

  I take it in, soak it in, and wonder if I am smiling in the physical world, too. I shouldn’t be smiling. My friend is lost and haunting our old coffee shop. All because of me.

  Does he see me? Does he see anyone? Does he even know he’s here? Or is this just a ghostly memory of my ex-partner? I don’t know any of this, but I decide to find out.

  I slowly reach out with my right hand. In this world of light and energy, I see my physical right hand just beginning to move forward when I am plunged into complete darkness. I understand that the physical act of moving takes me out of my deep meditative state, a state necessary to enter the Winter Wind.

  I find myself focused in my body again, feeling the small wind, the cool shade, my panting dog, and sensing a presence sitting across from me again. Try as I might, I am not able to slip back into a meditative state, and so I sit there quietly, unmoving, until I sense the presence across from me leave. I know this because my dog turns her head and watches him go. To where, I don’t know. The air itself is less energized. The agitated hair on my arms settles down, too.

  Goodbye, buddy, I sign.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Jacky, the little old Irish boxer, is here again.

  This time he came alone. No John Wang. I’d been hoping to see John Wang again. I had questions. Lots and lots of questions. About seeing and the Winter Wind. About how to sustain it, about how to move around in it.

  Jacky had been boning up on his sign language, I see. Or feel. Although slow and methodical, he has learned the individual letters of alphabet. Hell, he can be as slow and methodical as he wants. I am touched beyond words, even the signed variety.

  His seemingly frail fingers spell into my palm: “Are you ready to knock some heads today, cowboy?”

  I nod and we begin our lesson. He first guides me through some jabbing exercises, and I lash out with my left hand, jabbing, jabbing, all while holding my right hand up in the cocked position, ready to unleash like a cannon shot. A wild, blind cannon shot. He has me moving in circles, jabbing and ducking and weaving. I feel silly, of course. I do not know how my form looks. I do not even know if he is throwing practice punches at me. Occasionally, I do feel air whoosh past my face, but that could be anything. My own breath, maybe. Or just barely missing a bookcase. He steps around my punches and sometimes taps my shoulder to stop me. He’ll correct my form, guiding my hands and arms and shoulders through the motion. I wonder if he’s this hands-on with his other clients. Probably not.

  We do this for another thirty minutes, by which time I am sweating and dizzy from the turning in slow circles. My head is spinning and I am sucking wind hard through the small opening in my throat and now Jacky is patting my shoulder and rubbing my arms the way all boxing trainers do. I am grateful for his undivided attention. He lets me catch my breath. I suspect I am wheezing through the tracheal tube. Jacky rubs my arms and shoulder and neck the entire time I’m hunched over and doing my best to suck in enough air to feel satisfied. I feel spittle and drool forming at my neck, no doubt bubbling out of the fluted opening, and Jacky wipes it away without missing a beat. He is going far beyond the call of duty. When I stand again, breathing a little more normal, he pats my face…and puts me through another round or two of workouts. I dodge and weave invisible punches, all while punching through the combinations he has been teaching me. We take a short water break, and he signs to me that he will next be wearing punching mitts. I nod and soon I find myself swinging wildly at his mitted hands, mostly missing, but soon I get the hang of where they are, and my jabs and combinations and straight punches and hooks start landing with more consistency. I can’t hear the sound my hands are making, but I feel the firm jolt as some punches land more squarely than others.

  Soon I am hunched over again, gasping, hurting, hungry for air, and now, I feel his arm around my shoulders, patting me, rubbing me, helping me through this, and whoever Jacky is, I think I might just love him.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Betsie and I take an Uber ride to the beach.

  The process seems fairly smooth to me, but perhaps, in reality, it is a clumsy one. Perhaps the driver isn’t too keen on transporting a blind man and his dog anywhere. Perhaps he doesn’t want the responsibility. Perhaps he is glaring at me even now. Perhaps he is sweating. Perhaps he is texting. Perhaps this is just another lift. I hope it’s just another lift. I’d like to think that my existence doesn’t disrupt too many lives.

  As we head steadily onward, his car moving through space and time so smoothly that I often think we are at a standstill—and confident this is an electric vehicle—I think again about my brother and realize the great mistake I had made.

  I had leaned too heavily on him, and he had crumbled. I should have sensed it long ago. But he kept offering, kept volunteering. I think in the beginning he had enjoyed helping his older brother. The goof-off little brother wasn’t such a goof-off now, was he? How long that sense of pride had lasted, I don’t know. And that it had segued into resentment, I had no doubt. I’d sensed his change long ago…and had felt helpless to do anything about it, except to be as pleasant and easy-to-work-with as possible.

  But now he was gone. To where, I don’t know. When I would hear from him again, I don’t know either. My brother was famous for cutting people from his life. His ex-wife, and even our own father, whom my brother hadn’t talked to for the last twenty years. I had no reason to doubt he would do the same to me: cut me off.

  I think about this as the car comes to a stop. By my own internal clock, we have certainly been driving long enough to reach the beach. Indeed, I feel the rush of fresh air as the driver opens his door and, a moment later, my door is opened, too. I don’t need my door opened, but I appreciate the gesture. Per my written instructions, he has let me off on the east side of the Santa Monica Pier. I hope. If he has dropped me off anywhere else, I will be lost.

  Once standing outside, he takes my hand in both of his, shakes it, seems reluctant to leave me on my own. I give him the thumbs-up sign and smile and, a moment later, finally releases my hand and pats my shoulder, and now, I am alone with my dog.

  Well, not entirely. This is, after all, Santa Monica Pier.

  I snap my walking stick open, take in some air via the tube in my throat, and we move forward carefully along an arcing bridge, and then onto the pier itself.

  Once there, I feel my way along the railing to the steps I am looking for…steps that will lead down to the beach below. At one point, I feel a hand on my shoulder, firmly guiding me away from the stairs. I think someone thinks I am unaware of the stairs. I smile and mouth the words thank you, and point to the steps and make little walking movements with my fingers, letting them know that all is well. The hand releases me—again reluctantly—and then Betsie and I are working our way carefully down the pier, to the beach below.

  ***

  We are on the sand, maybe a dozen feet from the shoreline, and a few dozen feet from the pier itself. Not quite far enough away for me to get disoriented. I hope.

  I remove my backpack and spread out a blanket. I click open the oversized umbrella and lean it into the sun. I guide Betsie into the shade, where I set a water bowl in front of her and fill it with water from my bottle. Half for her, half for me. Soon, I am sitting comfortably, legs crossed, mostly in the shadows. I had already applied sunblock.

  I do not know if the beach is crowded, although I suspect it’s probably not. It’s a Tuesday morning, after all. But who knows. Maybe the world, in general, is more crowded than I remember. It’s also my first time here since the explosion. The beach, admittedly, loses some of its appeal when you can’t see the blue ocean or hear the crashing surf.

  Still, I can feel the wind and, if I’m lucky, I can even smell a hint of salt on the air.

  Good enough. For now.

  Betsie is breathing fast. Already it’s a warm morning. She’s hunkered down in the shade and that’s all I can really do for her. That and the water. I ease away from the shade, sit full in the sun, and cross my legs, resting my forearms on my knees. The malleable sand takes pressure off my ankles and knees, and I settle into a comfortable position.

  I lift my face to sun and wind and the sprinkle of sand. I sit quietly, breathing slowly, deeply. As I do so, I feel the faintest of vibrations beneath me. A small, but deep echo that seems to emanate from the center of the earth. There it is again: another seismic groan, another shiver of sand. Again and again, so faint that I sometimes think I am making it up.

  No. It’s the ocean waves crashing over the nearby shore.

  Betsie’s harness handle rests under my knee, always connected to me. She is still in the shade of the umbrella, no doubt sound asleep: a good place to be.

  I breathe calmly, easily. My clothing is loose and comfortable—workout sweats and a comfy t-shirt. I brought with me a wide-brimmed, straw hat that took some time to find…but I finally did find it on a top shelf in my closet. The hat is still in my backpack. As of now, I am enjoying the sun on my face and forehead and arms. That might change, though. If it does, I have the hat and more sunscreen, too.

  As I sit and rest my hands on my knees and feel the earth groan beneath me, I am determined, once and for all, to get a handle on this Winter Wind business.

  I begin with the breathing exercises that John Wang had walked me through. Slowly in, faster out; slowly in, faster out. I do this over and over, feeling spittle forming and dripping down my neck, spittle I cannot control. I let it drip. It’s not hurting anything. I’m not trying to impress anyone here. Hell, I haven’t tried to impress anyone since, well, since Rachel recently.

  I let that thought slip away, as I continue to breathe. I try to let all thoughts slip away, breathing as easily and comfortably as I can, although I never truly get enough air through the single opening in my throat. But I am used to the amount now, although a part of me remembers when I could take big, beautiful, blissful breaths.

  I let that thought slip away, too.

  Letting thoughts slip away is not as easy as it sounds. Many thoughts return, over and over. Many thoughts lead to other thoughts, and I have to mentally step back and start over again. I keep starting over, keep trying to clear my thoughts. Sometimes I focus on my breathing longer than other times, and now, I have decided to focus on the wind and the sprinkling sand and the occasional whiff of salt and surf, and this seems to be doing the trick. It occurs to me at some point that, even with my eyes closed and shades on, that I should be seeing some brightness in the sky above me, a brightness that can pierce through even closed lids, until I remember, with a jolt, that I have no eyes. I do an admirable job of releasing that thought, too, and I soon find myself swaying in the wind, pushed this way and that, my hair whipping and clothing flapping. I feel the heat on my face and the sprinkle of sand and the vibrations under the earth.

  It happens quickly. One moment, I am in complete darkness, and the next, blue light appears in my thoughts, filling rapidly.

  I watch it fill before me, spreading, taking on shape and depth. I watch as a world of light fills my thoughts, a world of light and vibration and energy.

  Once again, my perspective seems higher, as if I am standing just behind myself. I wonder if this is my soul’s perspective, but let that thought go, too. There’s Betsie, crashed under the umbrella, tongue lolled out, her water bowl nearby. I did a good job of setting up camp. I look down. I did a good job dressing myself, too. Looks like I mostly covered myself in sunblock, but I see I missed a swatch on the inside of my forearm.

  I shift my perspective further out, and see others on the beach. A couple in front of me are hugging. The woman occasionally looks back at me. She is in a bikini and he is in shorts. Both wear shades. Neither have guide dogs. The woman crinkles her forehead as she looks at me. Now the guy turns and looks, too. They exchange words, and he shrugs and turns back around. Her gaze lingers on me, then she turns around, too. She is unaware that I am watching her in return.

  So very, very weird.

  The beach is indeed quiet, but not empty. No, not even on a Tuesday morning. Umbrellas and blankets are staked here and there. Kids play near the shore. Mothers watch. Others appear fast asleep, half-naked and baking in the sun.

  I shift my focus further, and realize I am reaching the limits to how far I can see. Good to know. In this bluish light, in this world of flowing energy and vibration and ideas, the ocean looks almost as it should. The color seems right, even. I watch a smaller wave roll in—and watch a little boy run away from it, a plastic shovel in his hand, probably squealing. The wave foams and churns and then disappears seemingly into the sand.

  I am overwhelmed by this and want to bury my face in my hands, but I know that if I do, I will lose my connection to the Winter Wind. Any movement, so far, breaks my connection.

  I power through the gasps and the rolling tears and watch the seagulls circle overhead. I find myself fixated on the foaming, retreating surf, perhaps even mildly hypnotized. Everything I am seeing, sensing or feeling, I had thought was lost to me forever. And so, I find myself soaking it up, making up for lost time, with no guarantee I will ever see any of this again, or if this Winter Wind business will dry up and disappear…

  Or until I finally wake up.

  I spend many long moments in this position, my physical body unmoving, but my spiritual eyes seeing everything they can, soaking in everything they can, memorizing everything they can. I can only see so far, maybe twenty or thirty feet in every direction. I cannot see the far horizon, or even the end of the pier. But I can see enough and I am happy.

  So very, very happy.

  ***

  When I have had my fill—but already hungry for more—I turn my attention to the other reason why I am here.

  I look down and see my physical body sitting on a corner of the blanket. My legs are crossed, my hands are resting on my knees. I am composed of tens of thousands of particles of light, all moving, all forming and reforming over myself. It is, I know now, the ever-flowing light of God, the light of creation, the light of love, the light of everything.

  I take in some air and see my chest rise a little. I expel it and raise my right hand slowly, doing my best to maintain my connection to the Winter Wind, to remain in a deep meditative state. With mounting excitement, I watch my hand rise one, two inches—and then the world goes black, and I am plunged back into my broken body.

  I gasp, and curse under my breath. Way, way under my breath.

  Although I had been prepared to lose my tenuous hold on the Winter Wind, I am still jolted by the sudden darkness. I take a few minutes to collect myself. Then I go through the meditative steps again, breathing evenly, clearing my thoughts, and this time, the blue-green light returns a little quicker than before, and I find myself looking out toward the ocean.

  I can do this. I want to do this. I want to be able to move and see. Is that too much to ask for?

  Actually, yes it is. In fact, I have no right to ask for such a thing, or hope for such a thing. Ever.

  But I am asking for it, dammit.

  So, I continue breathing. Continue focusing. Continue staying calm…and lift my right hand again. This time, I watch it raise maybe three inches—definitely higher than before—before my world once again plunges into a blackness deeper than black. A Stygian darkness without hope of ever seeing light.

  But I do have hope—and I now have the skills to access the creative force of the universe.

  Whatever that is.

  Again, I slip into a deep meditation. Again, I enter the Winter Wind. Again, I move my hand, this time not quite as high as before. And again, I find myself reeling in darkness. I do this again, and again throughout the day. I pause and add more sunscreen and drink from my bottle and continue working on meditating and connecting to the Winter Wind…and moving my arm. Higher, dammit. Higher and higher.

  And higher.

  Chapter Forty

  Detective Hammer and Rachel make a surprise visit.

  It is later that same day, and I am officially burned from my prolonged stay in the sun. I had just popped in the last of my frozen dinners—again, my brother could have had the decency to shop with me one last time—when my phone buzzes at my hip. My phone that’s hooked up to my doorbell.

  Now we are sitting around my living room like old times. I offer coffee, only to discover they have brought me one from McDonald’s, which Rachel sets in front of me and guides my hand to. She sits next to me, her thigh brushing mine. I can’t remember a time when the brush of a thigh has been so exciting.

  I think Rachel is sensing my excitement, because she takes my open hand, squeezes it and spells out: “Detective Hammer is here about your brother.”

  I set my coffee down, and sign: “Did you say my brother?”