The Threes

Chapter 2

The Times
 

I found myself hovering in the air, my nose three inches above the brick floor. I was back where I was before meeting the angels.

Am I having hallucinations while dying, or am I already dead? I thought. Did I imagine it all: the angels, the challenge? Or could it have happened for real?

Fuck, if I know! But, I have nothing to lose, do I? Whether I believe in a dream or in something that really happened, it doesn't matter. So...let's think about it. Am I supposed to survive this fall?

Nothing has changed. This is the second during which I was going to die. But...time isn't running. I'm being suspended in this last second of life. Why? Is there something I can do?

The last thing I remember is myself farting. So, I'm capable of acting, or at least some acts of my body are possible. Maybe...

I tried to move my hand. It moved. Encouraged, I tried to press both of my palms against the floor. It worked.

I almost laughed, but it wasn't the time for merriment.

I guess that time will be running again very soon. If nothing changes until then, I'm going to crush my face against these bricks. And my neck will be broken, too. That isn't an acceptable scenario! I don't want to spend the rest of my life as an invalid. If I could even survive such injuries.

In the case that the angels really are granting me a chance of surviving this dive, apparently it's up to me to come up with a solution to this little problem. And I have to figure it out quickly.

To make things even more interesting, I'm falling with quite a velocity. Is it even possible to fall on the bricks without serious damage to my body?

I'm afraid it isn't.

So, what part of my body will I sacrifice?

After some experimental acrobatics, I found out that there was a point that I could rotate around but which wouldn't move. In order to protect my head, spine and hands the best I could, I brought my feet to the ground and struggled to a somewhat standing position. Then, I could but wait.

It took an eternity, or no time at all.

I fell on my feet and, a moment later, felt a shocking pain.

 

*****
 

My recollection of the accident ends there. Others have told me what happened next, but it doesn't really matter. The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed.

The first thing I saw was the fear stricken face of my boy. He was perching on the chair next to me, holding my hand.

"Brent," I tried to say, but my throat was too dry. Fortunately, whatever the sound I managed, it was loud enough to alert my son.

"Dad! Dad, you're awake at last," he said, tears suddenly flowing from his eyes, sobs almost choking him. My handsome, nine year old boy looked like he was five again. He squeezed my hand with all his might.

"I was so afraid," he said. "Mom said you might never wake up."

"I could never do that to you, son," I croaked. How could she say such a thing to our son?! I fumed, knowing only too well the futility of such a thought. Hell, it shouldn't have surprised me at all. I knew why.

"You sound awful," the relieved expression on Brent's face was turning into a worried one. "Would you like some water? The nurse said that you might want to drink something after such a long sleep."

I nodded my head indicating that he should hand me the glass of water that stood on the side table. The tepid water helped a little.

"How are you, dad?" Brent reseated himself and took my hand again.

"I've seen better days, but it's not too bad." For Brent's sake, I tried to put on a brave face, but it was hard. I was in a lot of pain, and in addition, I was afraid. I wanted to see a doctor.

"When you fell with that broken railing, I thought you'd die, daddy. I was so afraid!" The tears fell again. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have climbed on it. You told me not to. I almost killed you." The boy sniffed.

"Yeah, you shouldn't have climbed on it," I said, but I kept my voice gentle. "Look at me, son. You did the wrong thing, and I ended up hurt, but I love yo..."

"You're hurt because of me," Brent bawled on top of my words.

"Don't cry, son. I'll get better in no time." I didn't feel like that, but how could I have told him that? "As easily, it could've been you getting hurt. I'm glad it was me instead of you."

Brent let out a hiccup and turned his red rimmed eyes to me. "I won't do it ever again. I'll never do a thing you tell me not to, dad. I promise."

"It's a good thing that you want to make such a promise, but you're a boy, Brent. Boys always disobey their fathers, more or less. In your case, from now on, let's hope it'll be less rather than more, shall we?" Grinning, I fluffed his hair. Brent gave me a little, teary smile that gripped my heart. I wanted to cry, too. "What time is it, Brent?" I managed to say in quite a normal voice. "And which day? For how long have I been sleeping?"

"It's about eight in the evening. Tuesday evening. You slept for three days, dad!"

"No wonder you were worried. It's a long time."

In order to lessen his worries and anxiety, I kept prattling with my son. Soon, Brent started to relax. While we talked, I kept wondering where his mother was. What is Brent doing here at this hour all by himself? The question kept running through my mind. About thirty minutes later, I found out.

Brent's mother poked her head into my room. "Brent!" she yelled as soon as her eyes picked out the boy at my bedside. "What are you doing here? I've been looking all over for you!" she cried as she pushed the door all the way open and rushed in.

"Mom?" Brent turned to look at the approaching mother hen. "But...I told you I wanted to see my dad."

"I told you to stay home! Why can't you ever listen to me? I've told you thousands of times that you mustn’t leave home without my or dad's permission!"

"Malcolm's not my father; Val is, and he's hurt because of me. I had to come, mother." Brent chewed on his quivering lower lip. "I had to do something. I couldn't just sit at home, doing nothing."

"Oh, Brent. There's nothing you can do. Val is in a coma. You can't wake him up. Nobody can."

"But..."

"No, Brent. We've talked about this. You're wasting your time here. Besides, it's probably for the best if he doesn't wake up. He fell badly. His injuries must be very severe. Brent, even if he woke up he might not be the man you remember."

"But..."

"No buts. We're going home now."

"Erika," I croaked loud enough to make her startle. For the first time she turned her eyes on me. In the brief, unguarded moment before she got her facial expressions in check, it was apparent that the surprise of seeing me awake wasn't a pleasant one.

"But..." she said.

Knowing the frogs she was capable of blurting out of her mouth, I cut her off. "No buts. I'm awake. At the time being, not quite in mint condition, but certainly getting better. I'm still Brent's father."

"Some father!" Erika huffed. "What kind of a father climbs on a second floor balcony railing in front of a nine year old boy? It's hard enough to keep Brent out of such foolish acts without you giving him lessons!"

"Mom! That's not fair," Brent cried out looking at her with unhappy eyes. "I told you it was my fault that daddy fell. Don't blame him!"

"He's a man. He should shoulder the responsibility of you: not the other way around." The harridan looked at me with enough venom to kill a bull.

What have you told people about the accident, son? I wondered. Aloud I said, "I didn't climb on it."

"I told you, mom!" Brent said. "It was me, climbing. Dad pulled me down and fell."

"You'd say anything to defend him," Erika said in bitter tones. "And even if it had been you, he should've stopped you. It's his own fault that he got hurt."

"He tried to stop me!" Brent stomped his foot. "Dad told me not to climb, and he told me to follow him, but I wanted to see the clowns. I ran back and almost fell. Dad got me but fell himself."

"He should've kept you by the hand."

"No! I didn't let him hold my hand. I'm a big boy! I don't need to be held by the hand."

"He was just too lazy to quarrel with you, too self centered to keep track of your whereabouts. He should never have let you out of his sight."

"He didn't! I ran from him!"

"He should've run after you."

"He did!"

"Sure..."

"So, you admit that I was running after Brent, trying to keep him away from the railing?" I chimed in, making her turn her angry, red face in my direction. "You admit that I wasn't the one who climbed on the damned thing?" Erika tried to cut into my words, but I didn't let her contradict my claims; instead, I went on with, "Since I didn't, how do you suggest that I fell? How did I fall from the balcony without climbing on the railing, Erika. Answer that if you can!"

"Obviously, you reached too far out and lost your balance. That can easily happen if you're stupid enough to reach out further than is safe." She cast me a glance that told me how stupid my question was.

"Why did I reach out over the railing, Erika?" I asked with mock gentleness.

She huffed in exasperation. "Who knows what makes you do anything? I don't know why you ran to the railing and reached out. You should've been running after..." Erika started but snapped her mouth shut before the rest of the words could escape.

I cocked an eyebrow at her. Gotcha!

"Instead of running to the railing, I should've been running after my son, you mean?" I asked in the sweetest tone of voice that I could muster. "After my son that was climbing up the railing, perhaps? Is that what you mean? So, you actually admit to yourself that Brent was the one climbing and that I was the one that reached out for him. Seems to me that I did exactly what you think I should've done. Of what are you accusing me, woman?"

With words Erika didn't answer, but I got her non-verbal answer clearly enough. Her glance held daggers all pointed at my heart. I was grateful that Brent couldn't see that look. The words he had already heard were quite enough, and more.

 

*****
 

Erika took Brent home, and I was left alone with my thoughts. I was wondering about my injuries and wanted to talk to my doctor, but the nurse that checked on me let me know that he wouldn't be available until morning. She told me that the day I was brought to the hospital both my legs had been treated, but she wouldn't tell me what they had done or what the prognosis was. "The important thing is that you're on the mend. It's best that I leave further explanations to the doctor. He knows more than I," she just said.

Too soon to my liking, I was left again with the unsettling thoughts of the three times I had left. How many times have I already used? I wondered.

What happens when I run out of times? Why didn't I ask that when I had the chance? Wait...I did, but Rinne couldn't tell me. No...that's not true. I assumed that she wouldn't tell me, and she confirmed my assumption. But, I think, she didn't mean that she wouldn't tell me; it meant just that she couldn't tell me unless I asked. Shit! Now it's too late.

Stop it, fool! It'll do you no good if you get stuck with this.

I can't answer the question about what happens, but there's a question that I can answer. What have I done since the time started running again? I need to keep track of my acts!

First, I broke my legs. Does breaking my bones count in the things I can do just three times? I hope I won't find out anytime soon...

What about losing my conscience? Is that an act? Or hurting? Sleeping, falling into sleep, waking up. They can't be acts, right?

Damn!

I understood that there weren't answers to those questions either, but more of such futile questions just kept coming. I wondered about the tepid water I drank after waking up, about relieving my bladder, about changing into another hospital gown.

Actually, I welcomed the questions. For some time, they kept the really worrying thoughts at bay, but before long, an unwanted memory sneaked through my defenses. I recalled how my boy kept me by the hand when I woke up. I could still feel the warmth of Brent's fingers.

It couldn't be an act, I told myself. I didn't do it; he did. My hand just lay in his. But what about fluffing his hair? I did that, didn’t I? Will I have only two times left of doing that? Oh, God!

It dawned on me that there were way too many little things that I would lose forever. Only three times of playing basketball with Brent. Three times of taking him to MacDonald’s. Three times of taking him to see my mother.

Too late, Rinne's last words made sense to me. What, indeed, do I have to lose!

Three times. It is nothing, I wailed in my thoughts. That was a cruel joke you played on me, you bastards! Why? Are you immortals so bored that you find us mere mortals things you can play with? Go to Hell!

Suddenly, in my mind's eye, I saw Rinne as she was at that last moment, again fading away as she asked what I had to lose. At the time it happened, I was distracted by her words and the fact that she was fading. I looked at her, but I didn't really see her. This time, I did.

I remember her face: compassionate and sad. Or...no. She was disappointed. With me. Already, somehow, I had let her down.

What did she think right then? She read my mind like an open book. What did she find?

As if my mind had responded to my questions, a memory rose from my past: the first time I held Brent in my arms. I guess every father knows what I felt at that moment. The awe, the fear, the joy: the overwhelming feelings that squeeze one's heart with the strength that one doesn't expect of such fragile, tiny fingers. I cried.

I will never forget that first time.

When was the second time? Where did the third time take place? I don't know! I cried silently, in remorse.

Why can't I recall the second time, or the third? I've held my son so many times; I know what his tiny body feels like in my arms, I know his unique scent, and I know his impossibly wide yawns. I know that I've witnessed those things many times, and I can recall quite easily some of the stronger feelings and some of the more uncommon events too, but compared to the first time, I can't remember any of the other times well.

Oh God! I've already lost countless times.

Indeed, how many times do I have left to lose?

It was late in the evening, and the ward quieted down, but I couldn't find my way into sleep. Bewildered and anxious, deep into the night, I kept circling back to the same lonely, distressing thoughts. Only the tic-tac of the clock on the wall kept me company.

In the dimness of the wee hours, I still stared at the hands of the clock patiently measuring the time. I found the clock useless. It couldn't measure the times I had left.

 

*****
 

The next morning, I found out the extent of my injuries. Considering the nature of the accident, I was commonly held as a very lucky man. I had nothing more serious than two broken legs and a fractured hip. The doctor found my long unconsciousness a bit alarming, but regardless, he thought it unlikely that I had life threatening injuries to my head. He expected me to regain most of my abilities. It would take time and therapy, but I would certainly walk again. I was happy to hear that. I was happy also to get more effective medication for the pain.

The time I was kept in the hospital went quickly, and soon it was the morning in which I was released to the care of my mother. I wasn't capable of living by myself, so without so much as a word to me, she took a leave from work and moved into my condo, and decided that my father would drive over every weekend to help her. She didn't ask for his opinion, either.

Mom drove us to my building and helped me out of the car and into the wheelchair that I had borrowed from the hospital. I wanted to move independently again as soon as possible. After all, I still had two functioning hands and a pair of strong arms. I might need help with some things but certainly not with everything, whatever my Mom might think.

"Do you have your keys?" Mom asked as she was pushing me to the door. "In case you don't, don't worry. Brent gave me his."

I didn't have my key--it didn't show up among the things the hospital returned to me as I was leaving--so I had to appreciate my mother's skills of thinking things through in advance. However, I would've preferred her asking me first. But, she was my mother, so I let it go. She opened the door, steered me to the elevator, and pushed the button for my floor.

"You look a bit pale, Val," she said, putting a hand on my brow. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I growled, swatting her hand away. Then it dawned on me, what I just did. "Oh, fuck!" I breathed.

"Don't use such language with me, boy," Mom retorted, but clearly she was more offended by my unkind gesture than my dirty mouth. At the back of my thoughts hovered a need of apologizing for my grumpiness, but other thoughts overwhelmed the feeling.

I did that: I swatted with my hand. Since the deal with the angels, it was the first time I did any such thing. Undeniably, it was an act. I've been consciously avoiding any kinds of acts. I let people do things for me instead of doing them myself. That's the main reason I let my mom move in for God's sake!

What have I done? I've got only three times left of swatting with my hand, and I go and use the first one to swat my mom. What a worthy cause for that precious act! What if I really need to swat something, but I've already used all the three times, what then? What if, as Brent is sleeping, I see a poisonous insect crawling towards his leg, and I can't swat it? What will I do, what can I do? Will the deal render me powerless to protect my son?

Oh, why did I act so carelessly!

Don't try, you fool! I admonished myself. You were annoyed and, as usual, let the nearest person take the brunt of it.

I've done that so many times that I didn't think at all! I just reacted. How am I ever going to break that stupid habit? I need to pay more attention to such, all but unconscious acts.

Something from the outside invaded my thoughts enough to tell me that, while I was preoccupied, we had arrived in my condo. It took a conscious effort to get the worries out off my mind. Belatedly, I apologized to Mom for my grumpy attitude, and we settled down for the rest of the day. Mom tucked me into bed as if I were a child and told me to sleep the pain away. I rolled my eyes, but as soon as she was out of the room, I was out, too.

As tired as I was, still I couldn't stay asleep for more than a couple of hours. The alarm clock beside me on the night stand told me that it was early afternoon. Laying there on my aching back, I found myself pondering about a very fundamental problem: should I call my Mom?

I've been talking more than three times, so it seems like talking isn't among those things that I can do just three times. But, I'm not sure.

Why would talking be one of the things that are left out? What would make talking a necessary act for my survival? There are people that never have had the ability, very much alive.

What if it's about people? Does the deal dictate that I can talk with each person just three times? Oh, Lord! I guess that might apply.

In the hospital, did I talk with anyone more than three times? I can't remember!

I talked with the doctor twice, that I am sure of. But the nurses? There were so many of them...did I talk more than once with any one of them? And Brent, Erika, Mom and Dad, how many times did they visit?

Erika never came back, but she let Brent come to see me one more time. Dear God! I've talked with Brent twice already. Let the third not be the last time!

And Mom and Dad: they visited me twice together, and today Mom came alone. I've talked with her three times! Is it over with her, so soon? Those three times, we didn't talk about anything worthwhile.

Oh, Lord. Please, don't let it be over.

For a moment I felt like crying, but then something popped into my mind. At least, I didn't start those conversations with Mom. What if that makes the difference? Could it be that talking with people is an act only if I start it? Is it among the things I have only three times of doing?

What happens after that? What will happen when I try to talk to someone for the fourth time?

As I started to see more clearly the situation in which my deal with the angels had landed me, my mother called me. "Val," she whispered from the door.

The fourth time, I thought. Feeling my blood turn cold, I took a deep breath.

"Yes?"

A sigh of relief puffed out of me, and a smile rose to my face: the easily uttered word proved that I could respond to a call of a person more than three times.

"I just wanted to know if you still were sleeping," Mom said, exactly like she has said so many times before. It didn't take her much time to slip into the role of a mother with a sick child. As easy as it was for her, I think the role is written in her spinal cord.

I found it much harder to revert back to the role of the said child. "I'm no longer sleepy," I told Mom, somewhat irritated, but trying to keep the feeling out of my voice and my face. I was too bored to shoo away the only person that could redeem the situation. "Would you help me get up? I think I can manage on the couch for a few hours, watching a movie or something."

 

*****
 

Mom helped me to the living room, to my well equipped home theater. She offered to keep me company, but my choice of a movie soon sent her looking for something else to do with her time. Exactly as I assumed it would. For what I had in mind, I didn't want an audience.

I sat there, staring at the TV monitor, the remote control in hand. Quickly, I changed channels three times in a row. Then I took a deep breath, held it in, held it in. My finger was poised on a button of the remote control.

With great care, I changed the channel for the fourth time.

Nothing happened.

I told my finger to push the button, but it did not. The finger was there, I felt it and I could feel the button beneath the fingertip, but the finger did not push. It just sat there like a contrary child on the button.

Then I tried to take the finger off the button. The finger moved like it never had had a mind of its own.

I stared at the finger that now was on top of another button. Just to be sure, I pushed it, too.

What the fuck!

I stared at the car ad that had just replaced the news broadcast on the screen.

 

*****
 

For a long moment, I just sat there, on the couch, staring at the TV screen, the remote control in my hand. I changed channels four times, was all that ran through my mind. I didn't question the truth of it, and I wasn't asking for explanations for it, either. I couldn't move on.

The car ad ended, and an energy drink one came on, then one promoting a bank, and then one trying to persuade people to buy a fresh tooth brush. As the show continued, I came up with a new thought. Why? I asked in the emptiness of my mind.

There has to be an explanation, I thought in a desperate attempt of finding hard ground on the treacherous swamp. The three times must mean something! I didn't imagine the angels, the deal...did I?

Suddenly, word for word, I remembered something that Rinne said. For some reason, I was certain that the answer to the dilemma was in her words. I repeated the words in my mind for several times; then, at last, it dawned on me.

I've got it all wrong!

I pushed one more button on the remote control, again changing the channel. Then I laughed softly.

My lady angel told me that I have just three times to do things, and I rushed to the conclusion that the challenge would be over in just three heartbeats. She outright denied that. Her exact words were, "The rule of three times doesn't apply to every act of your body."

I interpreted those words to mean that acts that are essential for my survival aren't included in the rule, and she confirmed my assumption. But that was the only thing she confirmed; she did not confirm the underlying belief. I thought that only the acts essential for my survival were excluded. I didn't ask; she didn't tell.

Apparently, I was wrong, and there are more acts that are excluded from the rule. Now, I just need to figure out what those acts are. That should be easy...

Well, it seems that to push a button is one of the acts that have been excluded from the rule.

Wait! The rule...

As I made the deal with the angels, I believed that I knew the rule of the three times, but apparently I did not. I need to figure out what the rule really consists of.

There's something shady about the rule. For some reason that to me seems completely incomprehensible, the act of pushing a button has been excluded by the dictates in that rule. Which kinds of dictates could produce such a result?

In deep thought, I punched the buttons on the remote control without paying any attention to what my finger was doing until it found the button that shut down the TV.

Startled out of my thoughts, I stared at the dark screen. Suddenly, Rinne's words again echoed in my mind, and I understood.

She said that I have three times to do things, and she said that the rule of three times doesn't apply to every act of my body. Different words! The rule doesn't mention acts at all! Why didn't I notice that earlier?

It's about the two different concepts: to do and an act. The most fundamental difference is right there, in the words that are used for the concepts. To do is a verb; an act is a noun. The rule applies to doing something, but it does not apply to the acts that carry out that doing!

In the case of changing channels on the TV 'to do' means to set the apparatus to show another channel. The acts that carry out the doing can differ. I may push a button on a remote control, or a button on the TV, or I could even ask Mom to do it for me.

So, I've changed channels three times. I can't do that any more. However, the act I used to do it those three times, pushing a button with my finger, that is still available for me. The fourth time, the channel didn't get changed because I changed it but because I tested if I could do it. The act was the same, but I did a different thing!

So, in the challenge, doing is determined by the intent that guides the necessary acts that take place. It's the intent that I can carry out three times. Which means...

I took a look on the TV guide, perusing the lists of shows for the day, trying to find a show that, right then, promised to be interesting. Then, keeping the thought I want to see the documentary American Vesuvius firmly in my mind, I pushed the relative button.

It worked! I thought with a wide smile.

It seems that the things I do every day aren't as repetitive as I've thought them to be. I need to pay attention to the minute differences. I need to be keenly aware of my intentions.

For the next forty-seven minutes, I was intent on watching the documentary. Even though I knew it wasn't my third last chance, I appreciated the experience like it was.

 

*****
 

Life went on. My injuries healed well, and the therapy freed me from the wheelchair quite quickly. Before the weeks on wheels, if anyone had told me that I would enjoy using crutches I would've dismissed such claims with a laugh. As an adult I had never been dependent on people helping me to get into the chair and off again, to get into car, to get into buildings. Those weeks were an eye-opening experience. I hated it.

Three months into the recovery, I could go to work again. Because of that I succeeded in persuading Mom to move back home and thus regained the rest of my independency. The casts were removed during the fourth month, and that was another reason for celebration. I still needed the crutches, but at least I could bend my knees again. Little things that one doesn't appreciate until they are gone, bending knees!

The therapy kept me bending those knees and stretching the muscles all around them. It was a tedious job and often painful, but it worked. My feet got better, and one day I walked out of the therapy room for the last time, without any walking aids. I wasn't going to run marathons anytime soon, but twelve months after the accident my feet were pretty much back to normal.

About my life, the feet were pretty much the only things that were as before. The Challenge of the Threes had taught me a very different attitude towards life. As a consequence of that, one evening before starting my shift, I went to meet my boss.

"Fred, I quit," I blurted out as soon as we had exchanged the greetings. "Here's my resignation," I said, handing him the paper. I hated the situation, my clumsy way of dealing with it.

"But, why, Val? I thought you liked it here." Fred was as surprised as I knew he would be.

"I do like to work here, with you and the other people," I hedged, trying to come up with a reason that would make sense to him. "It's the job that I can't do anymore."

"You mean...the accident?" Fred said in hushed tones.

My accident was never really discussed between the two of us. I returned to work after a sick leave; as far as Fred and the company were concerned, nothing else was their business. With me that was fine, too.

"Yeah," I admitted, at a loss for words.

I couldn't tell Fred my real reasons which had nothing to do with the accident. My deal with the three angels would have been a convincing explanation only for my incarceration into mental care.

I was worried. While my work as a bus driver was repetitive in nature, because no two rounds on the route were exactly the same I was able to continue driving. However, the challenge had an impact on the work. I was worried about getting distracted.

People talk about living life to the fullest. I wonder if any of those people have agreed to the angels' challenge. Because of it, I had to be constantly aware of my intentions which made me watch closely to every little detail. Before, I used to complain about all the tedious routines in my job, but I never really understood what a routine was. The challenge had taught me that, unless I make a thing a routine, there's no such thing.

I was learning to pay more and more attention to details. I noticed the red ribbons that tied the pigtails of a little girl. I noticed the dirt carried in by the soles of a young man's boots. I noticed the polished wood of the cane that an old man used as he walked across the sunny street.

Such things were the reason why I could still drive a bus. I had learned that I could hide my true intentions behind some insignificant ones. As I started a round, I took a look at the passengers, thinking something like, I'm taking the little girl with the red ribbons on her pigtails on a ride. It worked. As long as the girl was in the bus, the rule of three times didn't stop me from starting the motor, from changing gears, from taking off, from turning the steering wheel, from accelerating, from driving, from braking, from stopping. Apparently, my intentions are layered, and the rule of three times didn't go beyond the upmost level.

That was a good thing, but while the new, more attentive attitude was making my work more interesting, it also led to distraction.

At that point, I was distracted from my ponderings. My new attitude made me pay attention also to the little details in the situation in which I currently was. I noticed that my boss' eyes were considerate, compassionate and remorseful.

He seems to feel responsible for me, I wondered. Why would he? Is it because of the accident? Or because he never visited me while I was recuperating? And...we never talked about my duties after the accident, either.

Well. Be the cause what it may, he seems to want to do something for me. Well, if the man wants...

"Actually," I said with a sad little smile. "If the company could offer me a job that would feel better suited for me, I would be happy to say yes."

"What is it about the job that makes you feel uncomfortable?" Fred asked in a thoughtful voice.

"The driving itself. Fred, my feet still hurt from time to time, and sometimes I get cramps," I lied. "I'm afraid I might get into another accident and..."

I knew that I was spreading it quite thick, but finding another employer wasn't very high on the list of the things I wanted to do. Behind the desk, I had my fingers crossed.

Fred's face seemed to brighten up. "Let me make a few phone calls, Val. Let's see if I can find you a post you can handle 'til you get better."

As I left Fred's room, the man smiled as wishfully as I did. Whistling, I walked out of the building. I admired the red giant hanging above the horizon. Soon, the night would fall, but the sunset promised to be a glorious one that evening.

 

*****
 

In order to start my shift, I climbed into a bus that would drop me off at the appropriate stop. On the way, I chatted with Eddie, the colleague driving the bus.

"Did you get an invitation to Paula's wedding?" Eddie asked with a grimace fifteen minutes later. We were almost at my stop. "And more importantly, are you..."

"Ed! Look out!" I screamed as a boy on a bicycle appeared from nowhere in front of the bus.

Eddie stood on the brakes, people were tossed forward from their seats, and I smashed my face against the windshield. The bus stopped, and I rushed out to see what had happened to the boy.

To my huge relief I found the lad unharmed, sitting on the street, his bike on top of him. I helped him up and to the sidewalk. His knees were wobbling badly. As soon as I let him go, he dropped on his ass again. The boy had a pale face and wet pants, but otherwise he seemed to be fine. He seemed to be a year or two younger than my Brent.

"Are you hurt?" I asked squatting down at the kid's level to look him in the eyes. He stared at me, but I'm sure that he didn't see me. After a moment, he shook his head but said nothing.

"Are you sure?" I hoped to get him to talk, but still speechless the boy shook his head again.

"Oh, boy." I patted his shoulder thinking, Poor kid. I guess you're too badly shaken to know what your shakes stand for.

"Will you be OK here for a minute? I have to go to get your bike. Look, my friend Eddie is coming here. He'll keep you company in the meanwhile."

As I stood up, the kid nodded his head a little, hesitantly. I told Eddie what I was up to and left the kid into his care. I walked to the bike that seemed to be unharmed also. As I bent down in order to lift it up from the ground, I heard a loud crash from the back of the bus.

I lifted my head and saw the bus moving towards me and the bike. It didn't move very fast, but I knew very well that even at a low speed a bus could cause great damage to a human body, and I was too close to get out of its way.

Reacting by gut instinct, I lifted my arms in front of my face. Oh shiiiiit! I thought as the runaway bus inevitably collided into me.

The bus stopped. I felt a light touch on my left arm, nothing else.

It can't be...I thought, but I knew it could and was. Again, I was about to die. Again, I was suspended in the final moment of my life.

Was that it? I wondered. Is the Challenge over already? Am I going back to Rinne's place now or what?

I waited, but nothing changed.

What if it isn't like the last time? What if this isn't about the angels and their deals?

The deal...

The rule...

This is the second...

What if this is the second of the times mentioned in the rule of three times? Was it the first time when I came back from the meeting with the angels, before time started running again!?

Holding my breath, I took my arm away from the bus and broke into a wide smile. It moves. I'm not helpless!

I waved my arms in completely embarrassing choreography. I can move!

My happy dance didn't last for long. A more sober thought popped into my mind.

The last time...

I need to find out what I'm capable of doing. Where is the point that I can't move this time?

Last time the point was at my navel, so my first experiment was to try to move that part of my body. I was excited when nothing stopped me. Then I tried to take a step to my left. I couldn't. I felt panic rising from my stomach. I tried a step to the right, to no avail. The panic rose higher.

Dear God! What can I do? How will I survive if I can't avoid the bus? How, keeping my feet where they are, can I change the situation? Hey! Maybe I can...

Hope swelling in my chest, I bent to undo my shoe laces.

"Oh, shit!" I burst out saying a moment later. I could open the laces, but I couldn't get my feet out of the shoes.

There hadn't been any way I could avoid falling on the brick floor; there wasn't any way to avoid the collision with the bus. As the last time, I was in harms way and couldn't get away.

Oh, God. Help me, please.

A clear thought popped into my mind. Whether it was an answer to my prayer or not, I didn't know, but I knew that it was true. Oh, no. I'm running out of time!

Somehow I knew that there was a limit to my timeless existence and that the limit was drawing close.

Stop panicking, you idiot, I thought trying to cajole my backbone back from my pant leg where it was hiding.

Take a deep breath. Calm down, and think!

So, the soles of my feet are glued to the street, but everything else moves freely. I can flatten myself on my back and...no, it doesn't work. My knees would be sticking up anyway.

Could I sacrifice my legs for the second time? Could I lay here, waiting for the bus to crush my knees and what else?

I tried to swallow the fear that rose to my throat but could not.

Do I have to do that?

In my mind’s eye, in slow motion, I saw the bus mangling my knees, ripping the upper legs from the lower parts, dragging my bleeding, feetless torso away. I screamed.

It wouldn't even help; I would die anyway. The injuries would be too severe.

I have to come up with something else.

Something else?

Something else than the first time? Why? The first time, in order to survive the fall, I sacrificed my legs. This time, I considered doing the same thing, but I can't do it. Why doesn't it work? It should work for two more times, right? The rule says that I can do a thing three times.

To do? What is it that I'm doing? What is my intention?

What if...

A tiny spring of hope flowed in the desert of my thoughts. For a couple of seconds, I shied away from the idea, but then I gathered every last drop of courage I could find and bet my life on one card. I set the intention that I thought might save my life firmly on the front of my thoughts and took a firm grip of the front grill of the bus. Then, with great trepidation, I bent my knees.

"I did it!" I cried aloud as my feet came free of the ground like they had never been glued to it.

I took a couple of deep breaths and drew my feet to rest on the bumper. Then it was time to wait.

Soon the time took hold of me again, and like a grotesque hood ornament I hung on the bus as it rolled to the nearby upwards sloping hill. The bus slowed down, rolled back, and at last stopped. I let go and, with a thud, fell on my ass on the ground. It was a hard landing, but I didn't complain. Against all odds, I was alive.

As I sat there on the still warm asphalt, another reason for not complaining dawned on me. I understood that an even worse accident was avoided only because of the late hour. Just an hour earlier, there would've been a great number of other cars on the street. A lucky accident...I thought, feeling numb.

I was still sitting on the ground when Eddie and the other eye-witnesses of my little mishap reached me and the bus. At the same time, badly shaken, passengers started to exit the bus. As Eddie helped me up, my knees wobbled as badly as theirs.

Eddie kept supporting me and the other people gathered around the two of us. Eddie looked into my eyes questioningly, wanting to know if he was hurting me. I told him that I had not hurt myself.

"How can that be? You were barely one foot away from that damned bus when the truck crashed at its back. The crash cave the bus quite a momentum, and you were just in front of it." The people at his back nodded their heads in agreement.

"Eddie, listen. I'm okay. I'm unharmed."

"It's a fucking miracle, man." The heads were nodding again.

"If you want to think so." I shifted my feet, uneasy.

"The way you hung from the grill," Eddie said with a little grin. "I've never seen anything like that. How on earth did you manage to get up there?"

"I..." I started, but I couldn't find words for an explanation.

"Sorry, Val, I know it's not funny, but you looked like a giant spider or something..." Eddie tried to keep the laugh inside, but he couldn't help a few chuckles from escaping. I saw the grins on the faces behind him, I heard the chuckles. I blushed.

I knew it, I thought resignedly. I chose it. But I don't like it.

I had done exactly what I intended. By taking the completely ridiculous pose of a hood ornament of the bus, I sacrificed my dignity.

The angels granted me three times of doing a thing. Apparently, the thing I'm doing those three times is to sacrifice something of great value to me. And apparently I mustn't sacrifice the same thing twice. First time, I chose to sacrifice my feet, this time my dignity. What will I sacrifice the last time? What do I have left to sacrifice? My life?

But, I already sacrificed that, for Brent.

And, is it not the purpose of the challenge to find the sacrifice that will keep me alive?

"I'm sorry, Val." Ed's words startled me out of my thoughts. "I shouldn't have laughed at you. Please..."

"I don't mind," I chimed in before he could complete his apology. "I guess it's better to laugh than to cry. I don't know about you, but at the moment, I'm too close to both laughing and crying."

"I think we both might be a bit hysterical," Eddie grinned.

"But don't tell that to Paula and the other girls, you hear me! Men don't do hysteria!" I grinned too. "The girls can keep hysteria to themselves."

The prattle helped us calm down a bit, enough so that we could check on the passengers. Fortunately, every one of them had been able to get out of the vehicle on her or his own feet. There were bruises and sprained ankles, a few cuts, and a couple of broken wrists, but we didn't find anything more serious. We did our best to help while we waited for the paramedics. It wasn't a long wait.

The bus was a wreck, but it was a headache of someone else. I enjoyed the gorgeous sunset through the rear window of the ambulance that took me to hospital.

 

*****
 

I was kept in hospital just overnight. The same doctor that had treated me after the fall from the balcony checked me out, but he didn't find anything to worry about. The next day, I was enjoying a free afternoon at home when the doorbell rang. Before I even got up from the couch, Erika let herself in.

"What the fuck?" I was beyond surprised. "Who gave you my key?!"

"You did, idiot. Were you drunk even then?" The glint of her eyes was as nasty as the tone of her voice.

"I'd never give you my key, drunk or not." I saw red. "You helped yourself to Brent's key, didn't you? Give it to me! It's not yours to use."

"Don't yell at me! You’ve got no right to raise your voice at me! You're not going to intimidate me, you bastard! You hear me?!"

"I do hear you," I said with a grimace, "and so does the rest of the house." The woman was yelling at the top of her lungs.

"Good! Let them all hear what a pig you are!"

"Shut up, Erika," I said letting my tone of voice tell her how bored I was with her drama.

"Don't tell me what to do!"

If only the rule of three times could put an end to my quarrels with this woman, I thought.

"Give me my key and get out. We've got nothing to say to each other."

"Nothing to say?! If only! I would like nothing better! I would like nothing better than to never see you again, to never hear your voice, to never again hear about you!"

"The feeling is mutual, believe me."

"Whatever. I didn't come here to talk. I came just to tell you that I'll never let Brent near you again."

"What the bloody hell?!" It was my time to lose my temper. "We have joint custody of Brent as you well know. You'll follow the court order to the letter. You've no say in the matter. I'll never give up my son!"

"After this latest little mishap of yours," Erika said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "the judge will finally give me sole custody. At last, I'm free of you!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"About you, walking under a bus!" she said with a satisfied smile. "What did you drink to get in such a condition that you didn't see a bus?!"

"I wasn't drunk."

"Yeah, right!"

Erika's eyes were gleaming with malice. I looked at her, wandering why I had a child with such a person. Noticing what I was thinking, I smiled sheepishly. I knew why: a young man doesn't think with his upper head. But, there was a benefit to my stupidity: back then, if I had seen beyond Erika's lovely face Brent wouldn't exist.

Erika's face hadn't weathered the years well, and her current state of mind didn't help. Smirking at me in her glee, she was rather ugly.

"Give me the key, and leave," I said, reaching out a hand.

With a smug smile, she dropped the key on my palm and burst out laughing. "Why not?" she cackled, "Why would I want to have your key, anyway?!"

Erika turned around and, still laughing, walked out of the door.

 

*****
 

Erika went through with her threat, and some time later, I was subpoenaed to testify in a hearing. That didn't upset me, but something else did. The next time Brent came to spend the weekend with me, the boy seemed confused and worried. Usually he prattled without a pause from the moment Erika left him at my door to the moment he fell asleep at night. He used to go straight to his stuff, games and toys and such, or beg me to put on some movie. I had to remind him to put his coat and shoes in their proper places. This time, nothing like that was happening. Brent lingered in the foyer, meticulously putting away his clothes.

Expecting Brent to follow me when he was ready, I went to the living room. Brent, however, stopped at the door, unwilling to step further. I asked what he had in mind, but it took quite a while before Brent started talking.

"Why can't I come to see you anymore, Dad?" he asked quietly, not looking at me. I heard tears in his voice. "I don't mind if you're a bit drunk," he went on. "Malcolm often is, and Mom."

"What are you talking about, son?" I had to take a deep breath. Brent's questions angered me, but of course, he wasn't the cause of my foul mood. I forced the anger out of my voice and face as I went on with, "Of course I want to see you."

Brent didn't answer; he didn’t even look at me. He stared at his feet, kicking softly at the threshold.

"Come here, son." I patted the seat beside me, and after a painful moment of hesitation, Brent crossed the room and sneaked under my arm. I pulled him close.

"Did Erika tell you that I don't want to see you?" I asked and felt Brent's head move a little. I took it as a yes. "And, did she tell you also that I didn't want you around because I wanted to drink?" Another silent nod. "What else did she tell you about me?"

"That you want to go to the court so that the custody papers can be rewritten and that then I'll be living just with Mom and Malcolm."

"It's not true. Brent. Look at me." Gently, with my finger, I guided his chin up. "I don't want that. Erika is mistaken. She doesn't know my mind. She doesn't even live here, with me. Since we hardly ever talk to each other, how could she know what I think? She may think that she does, but Brent, love, don't take her words about me at face value. If she says something confusing about me you need to ask me about it. She doesn't know the truth."

"Because she doesn't live here?"

"Because she doesn't live here." I squeezed him even closer.

"But, I do?" Brent asked timidly after a brief pause.

"Of course! You do live here. Even if it's just every other weekend, you live with me."

"I know you better than Mom?"

"Well, I guess you're right about that too, boyo!" I said, startled. Brent looked at me; a small smile appeared on his lips, but hesitation still lurked in his eyes. I ruffled his hair. "Now, don't you worry about it anymore. Shall we watch a movie? You'll get to choose the picture if you let me choose the pizza. What do you say?"

"Sounds good, Dad, excepting you deciding on the pizza. You've got awful taste!"

"Do not!"

"Do!"

"Not!"

 

*****
 

That Erika told Brent what she was trying to do set my gall boiling. Three days later, on the morning of the hearing, the anger was not the topmost thing in my mind, but it was simmering just under my skin.

"Colin," I said to my lawyer as we arrived at the court house, "I'm going to wait in the men’s room. Call me when it's time to go in. I think that I shouldn't see Erika before the hearing." I hoped to be calm and collected in the hearing, but most likely that wouldn't be the case. I was afraid I might blow up just seeing her face. I hated her.

Colin chuckled and sent me on my way. The men’s room wasn't decorated keeping in mind the men seeking for some quiet and privacy. Since there weren't chairs, I sat down on the wide windowsill. The upper half of the window was transparent, and so I kept myself occupied by watching the people passing by. During my watch it began to rain, and I was able to admire the designs of the very few not so black umbrellas. I tried to keep Erika out of my mind, unfortunately without success.

It took an eternity before Colin's call came.

Prattling with Colin, I walked down the almost empty corridor towards the room in which the hearing was about to start when suddenly someone grabbed my shoulder from behind and wrung the phone from my hand.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," the man behind me said and went on with, "Start walking out of here."

I didn't start walking. Instead, I tried to see who was trying to push me around. Since the next thing I felt was a small, cold, and hard object pressing against my neck, I guessed that it was not a smart move. Suddenly, I was much less interested in finding out who was behind me and started to move.

Followed by the man holding the gun, I walked the length of the corridor, down the stairs, out of the doors to the sidewalk. We passed by a number people, men as well as women, but none of them tried to save me. Instead, they gave us a wide berth as the man bellowed orders to get out of the way. He had a very loud voice.

"Where's your car? Lead me there," the man demanded when we got outside; he was once again pressing the barrel of the gun into my neck.

"But..." I tried to tell him that I had come by bus, that I didn't even own a car, but the man just told me to shut up and walk.

"But..." I started again after a few steps, but this time he stopped me by yanking out a tuft of my hair. I cried out from the pain. "Keep moving!" the man grumbled.

We walked to the parking place; he yelling at people and trying to make me walk faster; I trying to figure out how to make him see that I couldn't provide him with an escape vehicle.

"Look..." I tried once more as we walked between the rows of cars.

"Where's your car, man?" he demanded, on top of my words.

"I haven't got one!" I cried out. "That's what I've tried to..."

"What!" the man barked making my already abused ears ring. "You son of..."

The man yanked me around, and I swallowed, hard, as I understood that the barrel of the gun was now pointed right at my left eye. I stared at the gray metal of the barrel, at the hand holding it, at the finger pulling the trigger back...

Oh shit! I started to cry out, but I knew that I hadn't enough time left to get out one sound. I would die between the intention and the act.

The man pulled the trigger all the way back, and practically simultaneously, the hot gases from the exploding gunpowder pushed the bullet out of the cartridge, into the barrel, through it, towards my wide open eye.

 

*****
 

The bullet stopped when three quarters of it had left the barrel.

Bloody angels! I didn't need a second to figure out that, again, I was suspended in the second leading to my death, and staring at the bullet, the device of my impending death, I was mad. I wonder if Rinne and her siblings have any idea of what it feels like to be forced to stare one's death in the eye?

Of course they don't. They're immortals: how could an immortal understand the fear of death? I'd like to kick their asses!

For a moment, I could but curse my fate. Even so, I couldn't take my eyes off the bullet.

I had to make myself stop cursing. I have to gather my wits, I urged myself. This isn't the time to fall to pieces. This is the third time I'm challenged to make a sacrifice that will save my life.

If I've figured out the hidden meanings of the challenge.

I can only hope.

Calm down, fool. Concentrate!

So, I thought after a series of deep breaths, what is happening here? The bullet, of course, is coming out of the gun, and behind it, there are the hot gases. The muzzle blast will burn my face, but such wounds aren't lethal. It'll be the bullet that kills me. I have to focus on the bullet.

My previous near death experiences taught me that I can't avoid being hit by whatever it is that is killing me: in this case, the bullet. So, I have to find a way of surviving the hit. Further, I know that the key to my survival is the thing I choose to sacrifice. In addition, since I already sacrificed them, I know that it can't be my legs or my dignity.

So, what will it be?

What if I could avoid one part of the threat? Could I avoid the bullet and only get hit by the gases?

If I succeeded in that, I would sacrifice my looks. Even if I'm no beauty, it would be a big loss. Even an ugly face would be better than a burnt face. Maybe, that intention would let me turn my head far enough to the side.

But, would it help? Badly burned, incapacitated from pain, I would be a sitting duck. The shooter could empty his clip into my head, and I wouldn't lift a hand to stop him.

But...the bullet and the blast are just the obvious threats. What if there are others, less obvious ones, too? Like...the man? I should take a good look at him, I guess.

I had to force myself to look beyond the bullet that was suspended at the mouth of the barrel, just two inches from my left eye. Struggling with my instincts, I looked at the hand holding the gun, the arm, the shoulder, the face.

He is a bit taller than I, a lot more muscular, clean shaven, well groomed, well dressed. He doesn't seem like a mad criminal who points a gun at eyes of people. If I survived the shot, badly wounded, in pain, could I reason with him? I doubt that. He still might take another shot at me.

What the hell can I do? I was getting close to the time limit; I felt it. Dear God!

Think! I know one thing for sure: the bullet will hit me. Just like the bus hit me, and like I fell on the floor. Those are the inevitable events, the causes of my deaths. But, I changed the part of my body that hit the floor. Could I do that, again?

I lifted a hand and moved it in between the bullet and my eye. Nothing stopped me. A hope kindled, but died again when I tried to move my head. Nothing happened.

Damn! Apparently, I couldn't sacrifice my hands. Too similar with the sacrificing of my legs? Probably. So, what about the hit by the bus? What was different about it? I sacrificed my dignity and was able to move the location of my body.

No! That wasn't the essential change. I made myself a part of that moving bus. That was the key. But, it shouldn't be possible; the bus should've hit me by the same force as on the ground, but...

I knew I was getting close, the answer was just around the bend. I tried to calm down, tried not to fret, tried not to scare the answer back into the chaos of my subconscious.

It shouldn't have been possible. It went against the rules of... Physics. It went against the rules of physics. The rules were bent to fit my intention. My sacrifice of dignity allowed me to bend the reality a little!

So, in general, I know what I need to do, but how do I apply the knowledge in this particular situation? How do I dodge the bullet?

Could I stop the bullet; is there a sacrifice that allows me to do that? What about...

No! I can't do that; that would take too much! I can't...

But a thought had taken root and I couldn't come up with an alternative.

A memory floated up from somewhere: the moment I had to choose whether to take the angels' challenge or not, Rinne's words "It will be a leap into the unknown. Do you dare?"

Do you dare, she asked, and I took it to mean whether I'd dare to take the chance or not. Apparently, it wasn't what it meant, at least not everything it meant. Do I dare? Willingness to take a calculated risk seems to be the third thing I need to succeed in these challenges. I have to dare.

So, for what it was worth, I had chosen my intention; I had chosen the thing I would lose. There was nothing else to do but act, to dare.

I took a tiny step, closing the distance to the bullet. I pressed my left eye against the point of the bullet, forcing myself to disregard the reflex to remove the object from my eye. It isn't worse than a contact lens, I told myself. Forget the irritation.

Then, deliberately, keeping my intention in mind, I closed my eyes and waited.

 

*****
 

I waited for an eternity, but too soon time started to run again. The world exploded into white-hot pain, and I fainted.

 

*****
 

Against all odds, my gambit paid off. I woke up. I was in too much pain to really care, but I knew that I wasn't alone. I could hear the sounds of the people talking around me even if I couldn't concentrate on words. I didn't need to, I could guess what their amazed voices were saying. Why is he not dead? Why didn't the bullet kill him? Why didn't it destroy his brains? What stopped the bullet there?

I didn't even try to look at them. I knew I couldn't, not like before. As I hoped, the bullet destroyed nothing but the eye; it stopped in the eye socket.

I had sacrificed the left side of the world, one half of the light, my left eye.
 

[TBC]
 

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