A fireman grabs my arm as I reach the road’s edge. Then, I stand alone, renegotiating my balance with the Earth. I bend over, vomiting river water, and then wait to be loaded into an ambulance.

 

To my right, I notice Rob Brims, surrounded by police, wrapped in a ragged towel, also bent over, shivering, sobbing. Dear sweet man. He risked his life trying to save my Beloved. I stumble across and speak to him. Thank him. Ask him to thank his friend. I mumble some words: I don’t know what.

 

Inside the back of the ambulance, John, in a fluorescent yellow jacket, smiles at me. He is wielding a formidable pair of scissors, huge like gardening shears.

 

“I am going to cut off your dress, madam,” he announces.

 

I cough.

 

“John, this is my new dress, and today was my birthday party. Could you pull it over my head, please?”

 

He does that.

 

“Now I am going to cut off your tights, madam,” John says.

 

“John, please call me Wendy. I am just Wendy. I do not want to be difficult. They only cost eight dollars, these tights. But it’s a 70-kilometer round-trip to K-Mart from my place. Do you think you could just pull them off, please?”

 

John pulls off my tights, and I let him cut off my underwear. Then he gives me a tetanus shot, fastens the neck brace, and settles me on the stretcher. We tear up the winding road to the Tweed Heads Memorial Hospital, siren blaring, lights flashing.

 

Hours later, I am freed from the neck brace. Trying to be gentle, the staff hoist me on and off various platforms and gurneys for a CT scan, a chest x-ray, and an ultrasound. I am told I have two crushed vertebrae and soft tissue damage from the airbag and the seatbelt. Otherwise, I am uninjured.

 

I find myself deeply naked. I have lost everything: cell phone, handbag, shoes, wallet, money, credit cards, driver’s license, shawl, glasses. 

 

Without glasses, I can barely see.

 

I have no identification, no identity.

​

This was the death we feared.

 

At about 2 a.m., two police officers from the local command materialize in my hospital room, looking exhausted and drawn. I guess the nurses let them in. I am awake, adrenalin coursing through my veins.

 

“We’re so sorry,” one says, scuffing a muddy boot on the linoleum floor.

 

I struggle to listen, even to breathe. Feel sorry for them and welcome them. I am a crime prevention planner with a long career working with the police. I hear myself announce, somewhat formally, “The New South Wales Police are welcome at this bedside.”

 

The man hands me Karl’s wallet, watch, and wedding ring. I slip it on my wedding finger. Safe now.

 

He explains about the morgue, the autopsy to be conducted hundreds of kilometers away, the Coroner’s report, and the expected delays in releasing the body.

 

They have confiscated a small zip-lock bag of cannabis. “Sorry,” he whispers.

 

We permit ourselves a weak smile.

 

They drove hundreds of kilometers to our home to locate my address book and notify Karl’s sister in Perth. I thank them again.

 

The male officer records my statement on a tiny notepad. His young female colleague cries softly.

 

This was the death we feared.

 

* * *

 

Later, Narelle, a middle-aged nurse, peeks in to ask if I need anything. “A cuppa? Would you like a magazine?”

 

“I can’t read. Lost my glasses in the river. Can’t see much of anything, actually.”

 

“No worries, dear. I’ve got an old pair of readers from the pharmacist in my bag. I’ll get them and some magazines from the nurses’ lunchroom. And that cuppa.” She adjusts the pillows, minding my injuries (now emerging as purple bruises on my chest and shoulders), and administers more painkillers and a tranquilizer. I struggle to hold my head up.

 

Later still, Narelle returns to the dimly lit room with a hesitant smile: “Are you by any chance religious, Wendy?” Her gentle inquiry thaws something in my shattered mind. I put down the magazine and try to focus on her.

 

“I’m not sure. Maybe. I guess I’m spiritual—is that religious?”

 

“Good enough for me,” Narelle murmurs softly, looking at her shoes. “My shift finishes in a few minutes. So, I will ask Jesus to hold you in His arms until I return if that’s all right with you.”

 

“Please do that. Yes, please do that. Thank you.”

 

Evening blends into night. I relax onto my pillow, cradling a mug of tea in my bandaged hands. I breathe my first full breath in twelve hours.

 

This was the death we feared.

​

And it is not the end of life.

 

Only hours ago, I held one of Earth’s precious beings as he embarked on his next sacred journey. My dearest Beloved. Now, he is finding his way. The river water that claimed his life flows from the same source as the Deep Creek water that nourished me and calmed my vulnerable, terrified heart, during that year I spent alone in the outback, before I’d met Karl. That tiny, ephemeral creek helped me see how to unearth, celebrate, and sing my courage. Now, I must trust that courage.

 

River and creek. All one. Each is a source of life, of creativity. Creek cells in my blood now dance in Karl’s, reciprocating.

 

A narrow window admits the pale shimmer of a waning moon. I consider my circumstances. My life was spared. After one glimpse of the sacred blue light, I was flung back into life. I am free from the shelter of my old life. I must find the courage to accept my circumstances. I must bless the life that has been returned to me. I must stand on new ground. And I must find the courage and the words to speak about it.

​

And so, what now? What does this mean?

​

What is left of my life? What is in front of me? What beckons?

 

What is my next step?

 

***

 

I am too shaken to return to Nimbin—my neighbors, our home, and what remains of my life—from the hospital with Karl’s brother and sister, who have flown from Perth. I am terrified of driving past the crash site: a long drive in an old truck along a narrow, winding, two-lane road. I cannot face Nimbin. 

 

How can I stand on this ground?

 

How can I embody my new being?

 

How do I go forward from this? 

 

Far beyond unstable, I am crushed. What can the future possibly mean? I am alone. I am a widow. Everything else: a grey cloud on a distant horizon.

 

All that I must do looms gigantic: the burial, the memorial service, guests, arrangements, insurance, my grief.

 

Already, bouquets are crowding my hospital room. Desperate telephone calls from overseas. Word is out, and I cannot face it.

 

My close friend and surrogate son, Andrew, arrives in the morning with a shopping bag of clothes, underwear, sandals, and toiletries. He looks so heartbroken. I can’t find words to say to him. He stays for three hours as we begin ordering credit card replacements.

 

I overhear a conversation in the corridor: “She must be very brave, that elderly lady. Did you hear: she climbed out of the wreck of her submerged car after watching her husband drown?”

 

On day three of my stay, Vivienne, the hospital social worker, kindly (and with wry humor) explains that I cannot live the rest of my life in Medical Ward 3.

 

My old friend Geoffrey drives down from Brisbane and delivers me to the home in Brisbane of another dear friend, Wendy Truer. I feel much safer in the large city. Nimbin is a tiny hamlet, and the closest city is Brisbane. We had driven partway to Brisbane to celebrate my birthday and were on the way home back to Nimbin when the crash happened.

     

I feel safe and protected from more sinister things in Wendy’s house. We have lots in common, personally and professionally. She is gentle, respectful, and peaceful. The morning after I arrive, she lingers on her back porch, drinking tea with me. Initially, I worry she’ll be late for work. Later, I realize she was worried about me. Later, Wendy explained that I was repeating almost every sentence I spoke.

 

I feel nothing. I am emotionally numb. I am balancing drugs and severe physical pain, mostly in my chest and left shoulder. Heavy-duty painkillers barely take the edge off. I am grateful for that buffer between me and my life. The cuts on my hands and feet are healing.

 

Wendy’s booked a Reiki healing session for me that afternoon. Geoffrey will collect me, drive me to my appointment, and pick me up afterward. He excelled yesterday, driving from the hospital to Wendy’s house at 45 kilometers per hour. Geoff drove so slowly—well below the speed limit, being highly attuned to my recent experience of being in a car crash. He told terrible jokes. Geoffrey was the emcee at our wedding.

     

Geoffrey is so nervous that we get lost, and I arrive late for my Reiki session. It’s a hot summer day. I rush in, flustered and sweating. Angela, a warm, middle-aged woman, greets me with a compassionate smile and ushers me into a small, high-ceilinged room with white walls. A candle flickers on a small table, and a ceiling fan whirrs above me. Its cool breeze brushes my cheek. Angela offers me a seat and a glass of water. She is calm and reassuring. I ease my aching body into a wicker chair across from her, holding the glass in two hands. Angela’s old Queenslander house is familiar and comforting. A lot like Wendy’s house. I am safe—for now. 

 

I guess that Angela wants to talk about my injuries before I climb on the massage table for her treatment. But she has other ideas. She leans toward me, smiling.

 

“We have lots of time, Wendy,” she whispers. “Your friend Wendy has paid for your session, and I have no other appointments this afternoon. So, let’s just chat a bit before I do your treatment—if that’s all right with you. I am so sorry to hear about what’s happened to you. It was only a few days ago. Is that right? What a terrible experience! You poor, dear thing.”

 

Although relaxing seems impossible, I kick off my sandals and settle back into the chair. Angela leans forward, looks at me directly, and speaks again. “Karl has some things he wants me to tell you,” she says softly. She eyes me carefully. She must know that this revelation will not shock me. As I quickly determine, Angela is clairvoyant. A welcome relief! I studied with a clairvoyant for a year and have many clairvoyant friends.

 

I draw a small, painful breath and nod. “Thank you. That’s fine with me.”

 

“It would be good if you could breathe a little bit,” she suggests.

 

I draw what I imagine to be a long, deep breath into my bruised chest and slowly exhale it. I wince. “Okay, please go on, Angela.”

 

“Karl wants you to know that he did not intentionally drive off that cliff at Uki last Saturday afternoon. It was an accident. Not intentional. But he accepted that he probably would not live a long life.”

 

I nod again.

 

“Karl wants you to know that he is fine. He did not suffer. He knows you tried to save him. He is showing me the two of you in the submerged car and your desperate attempts to release him from his seatbelt before he drowned. And he is so grateful that you held and comforted him after he died. That time you had together in the river—when you did that Earth healing work for him—made a huge difference to him. It opened a channel of communication between the two of you that will last forever. He wants you to know that now, his entire purpose—for as long as you live—is to support you in your life.”

 

This revelation touches me deeply. I know it is true: Karl would never leave me.

 

I do not cry. My first tears will not come for nearly three weeks.

 

“Is this all right with you? What I’m saying, Wendy?” Angela inquires softly. 

 

I nod. “This is not uncomfortable for me. I understand what you are saying. It all makes sense to me. Please go on, Angela.”

 

I allow myself the luxury of a sense of expectation.

 

“Karl wants me to tell you that the road was wet and slippery, and he simply lost control. That’s all. He hopes you understand and accept that. He is glad you are not injured, except for some bruising. That’s true, isn’t it?”

 

I nod again. That is mostly true.

 

“Is it okay if I continue?” Angela gently inquires. “Karl has more he wants to tell you.” 

 

I nod.

 

“Karl wants you to know that from now on, he will be in charge of the money for you.” 

 

I smile and allow myself a chuckle that surprises me. I bend forward to reply. “That’ll be a change,” I whisper. “It’s time for Karl to be in charge of the money.” Taking care of money—he called it kröten—had hardly been Karl’s strong suit.

 

“Well,” Angela continues. “Karl means it, and he says that things will now be much easier financially, as he will be dedicated 100 percent to taking care of the money in your life. You will notice a difference in the ease with which all financial matters are resolved from this point on.” Then she looks at me closely and continues, “Where there was once shame and guilt between you two, there will now be understanding and forgiveness.”

 

“Thank you.” I nod, unable to imagine what that might encompass.

 

“There’s one thing more he wants me to tell you,” Angela says softly. “I know it’s a bit early, but I have checked this out with Spirit very, very carefully, and I have been told that now is the right time to tell you this information.”

 

I perk up. So far, things are going well. Karl is in heaven. He has not suffered. He is not suffering. He is taking care of the money, and I will be okay financially. All good news after the worst four days of my whole life.

 

“Karl wants me to tell you that you will have love and happiness again. He will see to that.”

 

“I am glad for that,” I sigh, wondering what that means and why it’s so essential for Angela to have “permission” to relay this information. It feels so generic. But any good news is welcome at this point—though this is not particularly remarkable news. I hope to have love again, as my heart knows that loving Karl has not turned me away from human loving.

 

“I did not explain that very well,” Angela corrects herself.

 

She is the sort of clairvoyant who does not look like she is in a trance. Talking with Angela is just like having a normal conversation.

 

“What I meant to say is that Karl says you will have love and happiness later with this new partner.” She mentions the name of an old friend of mine—a former lover now living in Vancouver.

 

“Isn’t that a bit premature?” I stammer. I shift uneasily in my chair. I feel uncomfortable but intrigued.

 

“Yes,” Angela replies. She smiles warmly. “You’d think so, Wendy, but, as I said, I did check this out very carefully with Spirit before you arrived, and I’ve been told it’s okay to tell you this. So, Karl has this man in mind for you, and he will help bring it about: your new partner.”

 

Silence bathes the sunlit room.

 

“Karl says not to worry about the details right now. He’s in charge of that now. It will all work out. He just wants you to know that he’s on it.”

 

I am shocked. How can this be? This whole conversation is verging on the bizarre.

 

“Karl’s a bit rushed in his matchmaking, don’t you think?” I inquire, leaning forward, wincing from my neck and shoulder injuries. “Karl’s not even in his grave, and already he’s finding me a new lover?”

 

“It will all come to pass in its own time,” Angela quietly reassures me. “Of course, you have a lot to think about and a lot to do now, Wendy. For now, Karl only wants you to be healed, and that’s his job. Healing you, supporting you, and taking care of the money. And loving you. What unfolds with your new partner will come later.”

 

I stare at Angela.

 

During the next fifteen months, we’ll become close, and Angela will guide and support me in innumerable ways. Right now, hardly able to breathe, my beloved husband lying on a slab in the hospital morgue, I have no idea what to think—or what to do next.