Prove Me Wrong

I drive. I step outside. It is raining. I carry no umbrella. I am getting soaking wet. I am standing here in front of a tombstone. The capstone belongs to that of my father. It is thirty years since his passing by assassination. 

At five years old, I was too young to understand. All I knew is that he was not around anymore. There were no rides on him as my horsey. There were no stories read by him when I went to bed.

Later, when I grew up, I began to realize the divergence of opinions people had about him. The news said people shouted with joy upon his death. They ran clips of people laughing and singing in Congress. Yet, he did nothing to them. He never physically harmed a soul. He only espoused a vision, ‘Prove Me Wrong’. Countries and they know who they are also distorted his work. They obviously feared what he meant.

Then, there are the well-wishers. Those who took up his mantle after death. They helped my mom rise above the ashes. Yet, I feel alone. When I look into the mirror, I ask myself what do I seek. I am a woman buffeted like a raft in the ocean. I feel jostled with whatever direction the current takes me.

A drop of water on my nose brings me mind back to the now. I am here at the cemetery. The rain here pitter patters out of respect. The water denotes the skies tears of sadness. I came here to read out loud by written speech.

Dear Father

I am sorry that there are ugly people in this world. Violence is their obsession. They only feel good when they lie and were happy at your death. Your vast reach still spreads hope. Your message has tremendous support. As for me, I feel such emptiness without your soul around to guide mine. I am not sure how I can be a force for good, but I will try. I will use the inheritance money you left me to prove the naysayers wrong.

Yours Truly

Daughter Elizabeth Holt

I place the rain-soaked paper upon the capstone above his place of mortal death in residence. I lay a rose beside the paper. It symbolizes the love he inspired and the dreams of hope and friendships he shared.

Having completed this mission, I slosh my way back from the capstone in the pouring rain to my vehicle. I do not see how one woman, me, can help right the wrongs. But I vow to try. A strange thing occurs. I hear the voice of a lamb and out of the sky falls a feather. The plume settles lightly into my hand. I glance above me. I see nothing but dark skies and falling water. In other words, I have no idea from where the light as a feather came from. I take it is a sign. I rub the feather in between my two fingers for luck. I place it in my pocket.

As I drive, I think of my life. I hope my life will be a lot like a good book with meaning. The funny peculiar idea that strikes me is that a good man is harder to find than a good book. It sounds curious to say that doesn’t it. But it feels true. Right?

You out there holding this book. Did you pause and reread the last paragraph. Did you ask yourself if you heard that right. Yes, you did. I did just compare a good book to a good man.

“Well, yes! I should. After all, the books and men we seek are those that make us feel good and desired. I mean after all a good man is a friend to the end. He does not leave you hanging on a deserted street in a bad neighborhood in the middle of the night unless he is Stephen King. Or, unless there is another story in the book series.

Other than that, my real man will endorse the sense of purpose that I have. He will also watch my back. Now, there can be misunderstandings. Life is like that. But we work through them just like in a story. Right? He does not just walk away from me.

Dependability. Sounds nice in a book. doesn’t it? Does it in a man? You tell me.”

You nod your head in agreement. “Yes. A good book is all that. But how does a good book help me find a good man?”

“Good question. Why don’t you follow me into this used book store together. I think it will relieve the touch of sadness that I feel today and maybe helps us find a good book that teaches us about finding a good man.”

You think about it. You decide why not come as a ghostly apparition. We enter the secondhand store. The bell at the door chimes. The man behind the register looks me up and down. He asks, “New here?” Do not worry. He does not see you, as mortals cannot see other mortals along for a spiritual ride.

I nod my head, “Yes, I am new to your bookstore. I want to peruse your book collection. Specifically, where is the fiction section?”

He pauses to look at me again, more thoroughly this time. He says, as he points to the right side of the store, “Adult word this peruse. Don’t let it go to your head. Be careful!”

I am thinking be careful of what. These are books. They do not move. Still, I have a penchant for being safety consciousness. Death to a family member does this. So, I halt in place. I look a bit nervously at the tall bookshelves. They look solid to me. I see no cracks in the floor either. I decide the book clerk must be playing a joke. I cannot fathom the need to be careful. I give the man a smirk.

He gives me a knowing nod, as if to say I warned you.

I have this feeling he knows something that I do not. Still, this trip through books is an adventure I refuse to pass up. You see books have always made me feel at home. I mosey over to the fiction section and the first genre I come into contact with is the espionage group. I do see the books are arranged differently here. Ludlum’s Jason Bourne sits out.

The pages move in the air with no visible human presence. I quite naturally blurt out, “What magic is afoot.”

A voice startles me. It says, “Keep walking. Someone is watching you.” This voice astonishingly appears to come from inside the Jason Bourne book.

I start to twist my body around to look back behind me. The voice says, “Don’t turn. You give up the surprise advantage. Try the political romance section. Two bookshelves over on your right.” I keep walking. Yet I wonder out loud. “Why are I taking advice from a book?”

I am all female, which means I am curious. I need to find out what surprise exists in the political romance department. As a female, if I am lost, then I will ask for directions. Hint. Hint. Not a feature in the male population. But still, I love a good man. Is this a weakness of mine? Maybe, but I do not care. I want a strong, handsome, virile man to woo me. Is that too much to ask?

I feel vulnerable a lot. This is because I open myself up to people and see how they react. Most of them show sympathy once they realize who I am. I do not need sympathy. I need life.

For the most part, men do not open themselves up. But this can be explained by the corporate mentality world they work within. They survive or die on their own in the macho corporate alligator swamp. Each man is an island in that corporate world.

Oh, yes, back to the idea of a political romance book. I am intrigued. I have moved two bookshelves over and am entering into the political romance department. It is a newer book that sits out. It is a bit dusty. It is also a tomb. I am not sure a book that long suits me today. Hmm. The title looks blank. This is interesting. Or, at least I cannot read the title. Curiously, the pages look blank, too.

I hear noises. I begin to wonder what is going on in this bookstore. I ask out loud to no one there, “Does anyone else hear a whispering sound?”

This is when a voice cries out from inside the book, “Hurry up. The story is just about to begin.”

I am intrigued. I inch a bit closer to the book. After all, I have always wanted to be included at the very start of a story. The next thing I know, a man appears. He points to a door at the back of the store.

For whatever reason, I follow him. Suddenly, I feel myself sinking to the floor. I am caught before I smash into the tiles.

A little while later, I awake sitting in a chair at an outside table at a restaurant. I am alone. I am in a red dress with red heels and a red purse. There is no rain. There is only sunshine.

A man comes and sits at my table for two. Do I know him? I do not know. At first, he does not say a word. Then, he smiles disarmingly and says, “I like you.”

I reply, “I like you too.” I do not understand why I said that because I do not know him. Yet, I feel an attraction for him. Ha. This is a surprise. I have spent my whole life without a clue of what man is my type. I think I have an idea now.

He casually waves to a waiter come hither. The boy waiter comes over. This man sitting next to me says, “The lady and I will each have a glass of your best wine.” I wonder where this is going. He says to me, “Act like this is a real date.”

Okay, a new piece of information. Apparently, he is not someone that I know. The next thing that happens is I feel something nudging me under the white cloth table. I feel below with my hand. I am being handed an object. He whispers from above the table top, “Put it in your purse for safe keeping.”

I do as he requests, except that I slip the object into a pocket underneath by dress. A bit scandalous maybe, but I felt it is a better move than putting it in my purse sitting on the table top. I mean I feel I should put the evidence away hidden from prying eyes. Otherwise, why hand it to me underneath a table covered by a white table cloth. If I put it in my purse, then everyone around me would know that I took something from this man.

The wine arrives. He takes a sniff and a sip. He asks me, “What do you think?”

I give my best wine sommelier like impression. I twirl the red wine in the glass. I breathe in its aroma through my nose. Then, I take a sip. I pause to consider the smell and taste. I give my verdict. “Ah, it is an exquisite red cabernet wine. I breathe in lavender, herbs, and grapefruit. The flavor feels of red cabernet grapes combined with cocoa. It is surprisingly mouthwatering as opposed to an acidic finish.”

A crooked grin appears on his face. He thinks that she has matured well. He says out loud, “You have a nose for wine. A woman after my own heart. You also have a distinctive taste for red blends. Are you from a wine region?”

His social persona speaks to me. I tease him back, “A lady never kisses on the first date and definitely does not reveal her secrets of red wines.”

He is gladdened that she is happy. He gives me an appreciative nod. “Well played.”

I feel more alive than ever and reply, “I thought so too.”

He answers, “Although I think a kiss on the first date is acceptable under certain circumstances.”

I did not think magic was real until just now. I cannot resist the tease and inquire, “When would you kiss on the first date?”

He pauses to look about the outdoors as if seeking an audience above the atmosphere. He nods his head. After a moment, he reorients his thoughts and looks back at me. “Now, where were me. Ah, yes, when should a gentleman kiss on the first date. The cosmos informs me that this occurs when the lady demands a kiss be the payment.”

After this response, I am surely envious of whoever he dates. His technique is spell binding. On the other hand, I feel it is his tongue I should be most careful about. I give in to good temptation. “Your tongue, sir, it has the skill of a seasoned orator.”

His wicked reply, “Talk is often cheap. Yet, in the right mind, it can be used to enchant the most powerful lady. The seduction when played out with proper etiquette is how an impassioned man pays tribute to his lady. His tongue is used to invade her outer skin. The idea is to penetrate into her soul releasing visions both tantalizing and delirious that speak to out of this realm fantasies.”

I turn slightly pink. Yet, I am taken by the idea of delectable treats. I suddenly envision fantasies. I do not need to make believe that he has me on the ropes. He is the first man not to feel sympathy or hate towards me. Rather, he speaks to my heart with a tune of merriment. I know my reply, “You have me at a distinct disadvantage. I hardly know you, but you produce a melody that makes both my mind and body sing.”

He waves his hand deprecatingly, “You are of sound wit yourself. I know when my lady is testing my IQ. Your tongue is both a sword and savior. Now, in fact the tongue may often lie. Rare is the human that feels the lie. Those that do find it is received as a cold hand around their heart.”

I sit stunned for a moment. He reads my ideas and longing for a warm heart.

He adds while I am in repose thinking, “But your feet rarely ever lie. If your feet look away, then your mind has already left me. On the other hand, if your feet look forward to me, our tongue’s best entanglement is yet to come. The tongues best foray being a licking that leaves a wet mark, where intended for the recipient to remember the occasion. This is usually followed by giving the tongue the chance to flick a few strokes on the intended, which is all the more delectably inciteful.”

I welcome his lesson on how to ascertain people’s intent by reading their micro expressions. I check my feet to see where I am headed. They are looking towards him. Oh, my, love. I pause. Did I just think love? No. It is not possible. I am in serious trouble. Never I have felt so taken. I hope it is good trouble that I am wading into. These licks he is talking about are driving me good crazy.

He interrupts by revelry. “Are you up for dinner?”

I thought he would never ask. I agreeably reply, “I would be delighted.”

Over a light dinner, he adds more delightful repartee.

He gets up to leave once the meal is over. “This was an enchanting encounter.”

Oh, I think, do not go, please. I think of what to say. I answer back, “Leaving so soon?”

He places three fifty-dollar bills on the table. “This will cover the wine and dinner. If you would like, I would be pleased to take a stroll with you along the river.”

I need no more encouragement and happily answer, “I though you would never ask.”

The walk we take is in the evening air. Along the river, I exclaim, “The water looks wildly rapid and dirty.”

It is his character I notice to pause and reflect before answering. “Ah, yes, you are quite correct my lady. The rainfall of a few days past caused mudslides. The muddy fluid is still entering upstream of here. This is what is making the river here flow rapidly. It is also what has turned the river from what was once clear to this murky shade of brown that you see.”

It is close to dark as we return up some steps from the river to the restaurant. The moonlight is out. The stars twinkle subdued in the sky. It is a most divine state of time. I feel a charmed pull that I cannot explain. He points across the street. “Please excuse me for being forward, but I took the liberty of booking you accommodations in that quiet yet elegant hotel across the way for tonight.”

I am surprised, “My hotel room stay.” It is now that I realize he likely has to do with my unexplained presence here.

He thinks to answer Elizabeth’s question, “Yes. The hotel Mizou over there. I reserved a room for you there. I hope this was not too forward of me. Tomorrow morning when you get up, might I suggest a stroll to the art museum. It opens at 11 a.m. Ask for Psychic.” He gives me a military salute without the wearing of a uniform or cap.

I do not want this encounter to end. I entreat him, “Would you be so kind as to escort me into the hotel?”

I observe a smile tug at his face. I am warmed that my request is met with him by happiness.

He finds it unusual to be taken with any soul. He examines her exterior shape more closely. He gives up. He recognizes that his fortune is not solely because of Elizabeth’s outer hour glass configuration. He does appreciate her beauty. But he knows that her real fortune exists inside. She carries an unexpected, unexplained effect that fixes on him.

I head across the street to the hotel Mizou with my escort. I find it fortuitous that I have lodging, and I am curious about this promised hotel room, as I have no other place to call home. I ask myself if this is his plan? I do not know right now. I will have to wait and see. I wonder whoever he is.

He walks with me inside the hotel. There are a few hotel patrons lounging. The two in the loggy look up and then away. My escort waves me to the front desk. I walk up. I announce my arrival. “I believe you have a hotel reservation for me. My name is Miss Mercury.” I proceed to extract my wallet from my red purse. I show the person my identification card.

I half expect the desk clerk to say I have no reservation. But to the contrary, the person offers no upsetting noise. Rather, the person lightly murmurs, “Ah, here you are. A key is passed to me. Your room is 506.”

I take the key. The clerk points, “The elevators are in that direction.”

My man walks with me to the elevators. I am toying with that cosmos idea he mentioned earlier. As the elevator door opens, I decide why not and I put forth the idea. “You have me at a disadvantage. I do not know you well, but I have willingly played along with this game of yours. I do appreciate the hotel room. But I feel you owe me more.”

He inclines his head, which I take to mean he agrees. He asks of me, “What payment do you seek?”

I mull the idea around in my head one last time and give into the delightful thought, “I deserve a kiss.”

He graciously leans in and kisses me on the lips. I taste cocoa and grapefruit from the wine. I smell vanilla and cinnamon on his clothes. I could dine on him and be quite happy. I am not in this world right now. The moment ends far too soon.

Afterwards, I look up at him. I cannot help but tease his flushed looking face. “I see we both enjoy the succulent tastes of life.”

He gives me a short bow, which is all the more endearing. As I enter the elevator, I hear “You, my dear, play the hunt well. I have never seen my spirit so taken before by a mere mortal.” With that unusual pronouncement, I watch him turn and walk away. I put my hand on the elevator door to keep it from closing. As he leaves, I am filled with an image in my mind that he is warm, joyfully fun, and temptingly witty.

I sigh. I release the elevator door to let it close. I admit that I find him devastatingly handsome mostly because of his eyes and persona. I might add that this encounter leaves me feeling more than a bit happy and yet more than a bit unsettled too. I am happy to have met a stranger with whom I like who can tastefully flirt. Yet, I find this meeting equally unsettling, because this exchange is what I have wanted my whole life. Yet, I wonder if I shall ever see him again.

I take the elevator to the fifth floor. I enter my assigned room. The accommodation is nicely appointed. There is a couch, desk and chair. Off to the left through a door is a bedroom with a queen size bed and a suitcase. I am curious and open the suitcase to find a multitude of clothes that all fit me. I am delighted at both my accommodations and the clothes selection. I reorient myself to focus on the object the man handed over. I pull the object from under my dress. I open the cap on the object to find a rolled-up piece of paper.

The rolled-up piece of paper contains this note:

You are the person I have sought. I recognize you are important, smart and in a bit of a predicament. I assure you that I have your best interests at heart. Your power lies in your vulnerability, which is a willingness to be seen without a guarantee of outcome. Take the chance. Be the candle that lights the way. This takes courage. Accept your imperfections. Recognize you are not for everyone and everyone is not for you. But that does not mean to not try and cross the divide. Sometimes take a breather. Trust carefully, yet lovingly, which is a hard crosshair to manage.

All in all, it is full of meaning. But what does it imply? I do not know. Only time may tell me.

The next morning, I arise from my bed. It was a good night of sleep. Notwithstanding the pleasant stay, I am eager to see the art museum and meet this Mr. Psychic.

I arrive at the art museum at noon. The museum sign identifies it hosts a combination of classic and contemporary art pieces. I am thinking business comes first. I enter the premises. I stop at the information desk and ask for Mr. Psychic.

The person behind the counter asks me my name. I tell her, “Miss Mercury.”

She calls from her phone to say, “Miss Mercury is here to see you, Mr. Psychic.” She listens for a moment or two, then she hangs the phone up. Afterwards, she looks at me, “Mr. Psychic will be with you shortly.” She points behind me. “Please feel free to have a seat.”

I understand. I turn around and find a seat. The wait is not long. This older gentleman appears. He is dressed in gray attire. He looks to me and waves as if he knows me. I tentatively return the wave wondering how he knows me. This is when I look about. I realize that I am the only person waiting. Duh. I am the obvious Miss Mercury. I grin self-consciously at this determination.

He holds his hand out in a warm greeting. “I am Mr. Psychic.”

I offer my name in return. “Ms. Mercury.”

He gently shakes my hand. “It is good to see you. How was your trip?”

I am not sure how to answer. I flail away in my mind and come up with, “The trip was uneventful.” I leave it at that, as I remain unclear about why I am here.

Mr. Psychic walks with me to a back area. He ushers me into a room. Well, room is an understatement. The walls are decorated with four famous recognizable paintings even to a novice like me. There is a Raphael, Christus, Caravaggio and Bougureau that adorn the four walls.

I forget for a moment about the uncertainty of the visit. These paintings grace the undersized room in magnificent detail. It is like being present in the halls of angel history. These four artists painted angels in relationship to us mortals. The angels help us find our mortal way.

Psychic waves me to a chair. I sit. He introduces the issue. “I am in a predicament, and I am hoping you can help me out.”

I am far from certain that I can assist. Still, I ask “What do you need help with?”

He looks not at me but rather above me. I twist to look at the picture above my countenance. Angels are looking at a human. I turn back around wondering if there is symbolism in the painting that applies now.

Psychic gets to the point. “I had a congressional candidate. She looked pretty much exactly like you. She is no longer alive.”

I gulp. Déjà vu of a material kind. I am not sure how to respond, especially as it hits close to home. Ultimately, I decide upon, “I am sorry for your loss. But what does this have to do with me?”

Psychic looks to his left at another painting. It is of angels gathered around a human too. He turns and looks back at me. “I know this is a big ask. This is somewhat of a whim of a question, depending on perspective, but I am wondering if you would be willing to take her place.”

I think my ears did not hear him correctly. “Say, what?”

Psychic proceeds to explain his dilemma. “We have a situation where one faction of a political party is conspiring to try and push regime change in the United States. They employ transgenders as assassins, because they are easy to manipulate. They open borders to add illegal aliens with murder, rape, robbery and drugs on their agenda. Add to that, they have made ties to Marxism.”

I try to quickly assimilate the details. I make some sense of the situation. I commiserate, “It is terrible news. I suspect that the legacy media are in on this given their penchant for reporting on only what funds their existence, which comes from this party faction. But how does this suggest that I am right for this battle?”

Psychic nods affirmatively. “You understand the political dynamics of the situation.” He adds, “I know that I am right about you. This radical party faction claims the assassin is not their fault. They point the finger at the other party home to religions, which is a ploy. We have indirect information tying the cult faction with the transgenders and Marxist movement.” He pauses. He looks to the Caravaggio painting as if for inspiration. He spreads his hands out on the desk. “I know this is a big ask to give up the life you have, but I am asking you for the love of God and country to replace her.”

I am floored by this repeated ask. I issue a logical question, “What makes you think I would be helpful?”

He waves his hands. “Your father experienced assassins. You have wanted to make a difference and tell people the true story. I realize this makes my big ask a touching subject. But I do believe it when I say the country needs you to replace the dead candidate as an impostor.”

I do not understand. Then, I do. I am stunned. He wants me to act as the candidate, an impostor. My brain quickly argues though the law-abiding part of being an impostor. “Isn’t that illegal?” I think a bit more, while he just stares at me. “What about her fingerprint and dental records and health information at various doctor offices and such?”

He waves his hands as if this issue is trivial. He seems unperturbed. “The health data that matters will be corrected. Your personal identifying data switched for hers.”

I look at him curiously. “You make it sound easy. You can do this insert me in place of her and no one will notice?”

It can be taken care, if you are willing. Your records will replace hers. There will be no way anyone will know.”

I evaluate the ask. “So, if I agree, I become a figment if you will of my own imagination.”

He pauses. A thought plays out across his face. He nods his head yes, delicately. “If you should later wish to reappear as you, the records can be reversed.”

I test the waters a bit farther. “You know I am the daughter of a political man killed by the shadow left faction because they feared his thoughts. Then, there is your candidate killed in a copycat manner thirty five years later. These episodes speak of a sort of revolving déjà vu door playing out. Why won’t they kill me too?”

Psychic expected this possibility and counters. “It is a possibility. This unstable wing of their party is back at it again. I will have bodyguards assigned to you. As to replacing her, we will report that the woman who died was you, Elizabeth Mercury, acting as Elizabeth Holt’s friend, sort of a body double.”

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. “I am not sure people will buy that explanation.”

He disagrees. “The tricky part is Elizabeth Holt had a lover that you will need to disown. We cannot have him second guessing the situation.”

I stare at him. “Oh, this creates a tangled web of lies. May I suggest a radically different approach.”

He shows willingness. “I am all ears.”

I inquire, “Elizabeth Holt was not doing well in the polls was she. So, why not just recognize her death and say you are adopting a new campaign candidate?”

He places his hands on the table. His fingers strum a tune. I suspect as they pitter patter against the wood the melody is done for mental clarity. “I think,” he says, “it is unlikely that a fresh start candidate can gain enough traction in the next few months to cause a dent in the polls to win the primary race. As to Holt’s place in the polls, she was gaining ground.”

I counter with, “You have high ambitions. I have other issues. If you know it or not, I am quite well off financially. I am reluctant to let that money disappear from my side. I have plans to use it for good.”

Psychic stays silent. He seems to be addressing my issue internally. He comes out of his shell with this reply, “We have people that can help you move the funds into a Swiss unnumbered bank account. It will require your fingerprints as the only way to access the money. A guarantee that the money remains yours forever.”

I digest the answer. I ask the obvious. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

“Ah,” he says, “trust is and always has been a leap of proverbial faith. One never really ever sees the full internal mortal workings of individuals. Our skin shields us from anyone else ever completely penetrating to within our interior.”

He pauses in thought and amends himself. “Well, what I have said is true for the most part. There are moments and times when one can even see even within a mortal to their very soul. These incites do not last long and as mortals’ minds change so frequently even the read of a mortal’s interior can sometimes be an unrealistic view of their true nature.”

I am flabbergasted by his speech. “So, you can read people’s thoughts?”

He inclined his head. “In a sense, yes. But it is difficult to read people’s interiors. Each person contains a veritable conundrum of thoughts washing back and forth inside their mind. In the end, what it is that causes them to make an internal decision on how to proceed is still a mystery. In other words, I make mistakes too as to the health and earnestness of people. Tell me, are you interested in this opportunity. If you like, I can offer you a one-week trial period.”

I am without a doubt falling for this idea. I have wanted to make a difference, but I did not know how before. This opportunity gives me what I seek. Still, I ask the obvious, “Do explain to me how you would extract me from the situation after a week if I should desire to stop?”

“Hmm,” he says, as he strums his fingers, “I think the plan would involve not identifying who died for a week. In other words, we keep a lid of uncertainty on the person who died. This is until your week with us is over. At that time, we need to make a decision as to either you die or Elizabeth Holt has passed. Are you in?”

I tentatively nod my head, yes. I know full well that this is no time to be hesitant. Yet, I am. Even though I am not sure, I feel this is an opportunity to good not to pass up. I see in this plan a chance to right wrongs. This is what I seek. I long to be mortally free from the past as well as set life on earth back along the correct lines of evolution. Be kind. Be trustworthy. Be loving.