Grains of Truth (5 page)

Sometimes she felt she’d been born in the wrong century, though thus far, she’d failed to identify an era that might’ve been preferable. A student of history, she’d only found that not much had changed over the millennia. Human beings were basically the same as they’d always been, with the same qualities and characteristics, the same hopes and dreams, the same attributes and shortcomings. And, lord knew, there was no shortage of shortcomings. 

Julia’s thoughts wandered to her own personal dilemma. She was now without any close family ties. As a young adult and only child, she suffered the untimely death of her mother in a car accident and, more recently, watched helplessly while her father swiftly descended into the vagueness of Alzheimer’s. He now lived completely in the past with his hazy memories, no longer recognizing Julia or anyone else other than the caring attendants in his new, diligently controlled home.

Over time, in an almost imperceptible yet remorseless advance, she’d drifted into a kind of emotional wasteland. Although she’d once been well-known for her good humor, laughter was an infrequent visitor now. And yet she’d moved beyond tears. A mantle of dull, mind-numbing apathy had settled over her, threatening to harden into a permanent shell of impenetrable indifference.

Her mind inevitably swung back to this new, this daunting, situation. If she obeyed the instructions of confidentiality, it meant she couldn’t discuss the extraordinary development with anyone. How could she possibly make a decision of this magnitude without input from those whose opinions she respected? From those who cared for her well-being? Sarah would have an absolute seizure if she found out that she’d gone off on an escapade like this without consulting her. The thought of her friend’s predictable, and no doubt vigorous, indignation tugged the corners of her mouth into a grin.

~

Sarah Littlefield was Julia’s oldest and closest friend. Daughter of a prominent “establishment” San Francisco family, she looked every inch the patrician. Barely five-foot-two with the physique of an athlete, raucously curly natural blonde hair, green eyes that flashed like brilliant-cut emeralds, and an infectious smile, she traversed life with a supreme, unshakable confidence.

People regularly underestimated Sarah’s uncompromising core of obstinate determination. Her parents, pillars of the community, had been delighted when she was awarded a scholarship to Stanford University to study art history. They were less than thrilled when, after the first year, she switched majors to political science and relocated her academic endeavors to U.C. Berkeley. 

It hadn’t taken long for Sarah to channel all her brilliance, energy and resources into becoming a major force in the Berkeley peace movement—and she never looked back. If there was a peace rally in the Bay Area, Sarah Littlefield was involved, if not the instigator. As a political activist, she effectively—and tenaciously—led the pack.

Some twenty years later, she’d evolved into a staunch feminist, pacifist and environmentalist. Her single-mindedness was amazing, unyielding and often exasperating. She worked tirelessly for her causes, many of which were in direct opposition to the views held by her conservative family. That never stopped her from making the most of her media-worthy name and substantial inheritance.

The two women had met during the late ‘70s when they were both young and idealistic. Shortly after Sarah had been released from jail after handcuffing herself to the iron fence outside City Hall in a peace protest, they sat cross-legged next to one another in a sit-in for women’s rights. Over the years, their instant friendship had matured into an enduring and committed one, where it didn’t matter if they hadn’t seen each other or even spoken for weeks; they could always pick right back up where they’d left off. 

Visually they couldn’t have been more different. Julia’s tall, lanky frame, pale complexion and long auburn hair made a striking contrast to Sarah’s petite, perpetually-tanned golden exterior. Ideologically they were in perfect sync. Frequently, they simultaneously spoke the same words, which always resulted in a good laugh.

Sarah was the one person who knew most of the details regarding Julia’s mad and maddening relationship with Mohamed. Most of the details, not all. And she was practically the only one who’d supported her and her compulsive behavior throughout the entire saga. 

Julia quivered with the urge to jump in the car, drive to Sarah’s bungalow in the Berkeley hills and spill this latest, unbelievable story, to hear her friend’s adroit and, no doubt cynical, assessment. Sarah could be trusted to keep a secret. But something held Julia back: the realization that “they” would know and would not approve. They hadn’t gone to all the trouble of keeping her under surveillance for over two years to let her run off and expose their shocking, reprehensible activities at the first opportunity. Oh, no, they were still keeping tabs on her. That was a given.

Besides, she couldn’t bear the thought of involving Sarah, or anyone else, for that matter. There might be “practically no danger,” but she wouldn’t dream of putting any of her friends in harm’s way, even if there was the slightest chance. Her impulsive actions had gotten her into this mess and it was up to her to find a way out.

But was getting out what she really wanted? That nagging question had been worming its way up through her sub-conscious for the past hour. A part of her was appalled at the proposal. It clashed against her every conviction. And, if she was to be strictly honest with herself, another part of her—the emotional, impulsive, adventure-seeking part—was intrigued. No, not intrigued. She was excited by the idea.

And, of course, the prospect of seeing Mohamed again sent sparks of anticipation surging through her veins. It had been long enough since her last trip to Egypt for her to remember only the good things that drew her there, and forget the many things she found repellant and infuriating, including, at times, Mohamed. She was, as always, the proverbial moth to the Egyptian flame.

Had she completely lost her mind? Well, yes, probably some time ago. She often took solace in the thought that persons far greater and wiser than she had made much bigger and more public fools of themselves. At least so far, anyway.

As presented, it was an easy, simple, one-week trip. She could tell Sarah a fabricated tale of a sudden unplanned hiking outing—to keep her from worrying. No one else even needed to know she was gone. There was nothing pressing on her calendar that couldn’t be rearranged. The trip might allow her to finally put things in perspective. Then maybe she could make some kind of damn decisions about her future. And she would even possibly be making a small contribution to the prevention of more violence. 

Julia grimly acknowledged she was slipping towards a decision in favor of the astonishing assignment. Her heart, she realized, had taken control and was urging her head ever closer to a decision she might come to regret. With a deep sigh, she turned back to the car, aware that hours of tortuous internal debate lay ahead. It was going to be a long day, and an even longer night. 

~

As she swung along the sidewalk on Haight Street, Julia caught sight of the old woman who’d staked out her regular spot. Covered in layers of tattered clothes, she sat cross-legged on a worn blanket amidst piles of junk. The young dog stretched out beside her thumped its tail when Julia bent to pat his head. With her free hand, she reached in her suit pocket, took out a folded ten-dollar bill and held it out.

She was rewarded with a snaggle-toothed grin. “Thanks, Julia.”

Julia kept a firm grip on the bill as a gnarled hand tried to take it. “For food. Not Starbucks.”

The old woman cackled as she palmed the bill; the dog licked Julia’s hand. Shaking her head, Julia moved past them to push open the door of a rundown store front. Above the handle, a bumper sticker proclaimed There is no way to peace. Peace is the way. Posters in every window called for peace in Iraq, Afghanistan. Inside, more posters covered the walls, and stacks of flyers overflowed tables around the perimeter of the room. The churning of a copy machine drew her to the rear, where the figure of a gray-haired woman, a long braid hanging down the center of her back, stooped over the machine. At sight of Julia, she switched it off.

“Wow. Look at you. All dolled up. How’d it go at the lab?”

Julia gave her a quick hug. “Good. My hemoglobin is normal.” She rubbed the band-aid on the inside of her wrist where the demonic needle had extracted her blood.

“And has that jackass doctor ever admitted that you had parasites?”

Julia shook her head. “Oh, no. If they can’t define it, it doesn’t exist.”

“Jackass. I wish I’d known you then. I could’ve told you . . . ”

“Never mind. At least I lived to tell the tale.” Julia nodded at the stack of freshly printed flyers. “I’m finished with my pile. Want me to take more?”

Her friend Passion poked her shoulder with a stubby, be-ringed finger. “What I want is for you to take a break. You’ve done enough, more than enough.”

“But we have to…”

“Listen, you runnin’ yourself ragged won’t change the world, darlin’. What you need to do now is concentrate on gettin’ your own life back.”

~

By the time Julia left “Peace Headquarters,” the morning clouds had all blown out to sea. She ambled back in the direction of her car, enjoying the warm fingers of sunlight dancing through the leafy trees to caress her face. Sweet birdsong filled the soft, cool air. She slowed as she passed beside a row of polished limousines parked at the curb in front of a small chapel tucked in between a row of brightly painted Victorian houses—the “painted ladies.”

The church bells suddenly rang out, joyous and strong. Julia looked up at the vine-covered building as people began to spill from it doors. A bride and groom came bouncing down the steps. At the bottom, he caught her up in his arms and she welcomed his ardent kiss. The crowd cheered approval and pelted them with birdseed. Tears welled up in Julia’s eyes, even as she smiled.

Back in her utilitarian studio apartment, Julia opened the refrigerator and stared vacantly at its contents. After assembling an odd assortment of leftovers on a plate, she sat down in the one comfortable chair with the plate on a tray in her lap and surveyed her surroundings with a judicious eye. The ceaseless white noise of traffic on the Bay Bridge hummed away in the background, with an occasional siren punctuating what would have otherwise been a deafening silence.

Before her last trip to Egypt, she’d sold her home, her car and put all her belongings in storage. The plan had been to remain there indefinitely. When things hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, she’d returned to San Francisco, taking what was meant to have been a temporary apartment until she could decide what to do with the rest of her life.

Right away she began to feel seriously unwell. The first diagnosis had been depression. They always wanted you to be depressed. Overnight it changed to profound anemia and she was rushed to the emergency room for a massive blood transfusion. It seemed she had very few red blood cells.

“I’ve recently been traveling in Egypt,” she explained. “Could this be related in some way? Some kind of parasites, perhaps?” 

“Oh, no, it’s not parasites,” a parade of self-assured medical professionals insisted. Six months later, after every test imaginable (and some unimaginable), she continued to suffer the debilitating effects of whatever unknown malady was causing the exhausting, brain-draining anemia. The doctors remained baffled.

“Parasites?” she asked for the umpteenth time.

“No,” the hematologist said in his patronizing way. “It is not parasites.”

One day, in a chance encounter, a stranger encouraged her to consult an alternative medicine professional—a naturopathic doctor. Well, she thought, what have I got to lose? She felt as though she’d aged twenty years. The future at that point looked pretty bleak, with having to make weekly hospital visits for the rest of her life only to cling to a dreary existence of fatigue and despair. 

“Parasites,” pronounced the herbalist after a simple and splendidly non-invasive saliva diagnostic. “You have numerous, nasty little parasites.”

From the day the herbal cleansing commenced, Julia began to improve. Four months later her blood count was almost normal. It would take some time to repair the damage done, but she felt better every day. The next time she traveled to a developing country she would be a damn sight more careful. 

The diminished delivery of oxygen to her brain had made it impossible for her to think clearly or to make any major decisions. Apart from her new-found friend Passion and helping her with the peace rallies, she’d done little about getting her life back on track. Now here she sat, almost a year later, in her “temporary” room, contemplating a course of action that would never, in her wildest dreams, have occurred to her. It was only for a week, she told herself, not a career move. What’s wrong with that?

A strange phenomenon had also occurred during her illness. Her mind, now free from a lifetime of left-brain domination, frequently took off on elaborate and lengthy flights of fancy. Returning from these trips usually left her confused as to what she’d been doing before take-off.

Looking down in mild surprise at the untouched food in her lap, she set it aside and went to open the closet door. The decision was not firm in her mind, but at least the act of packing was something to do. Julia had always been a woman of action. Physical motion now provided a degree of comfort, along with some relief for her conflicted emotions.