The Fate of Droplets (vi)

I returned to the hospital the following morning. George had taken me home and joined me for some coffee. She asked about Henry, about his condition and what had been going on. She sounded, at the time, genuinely concerned and I was happy to shake the strangeness of her meeting with Henry. I could not then make sense of why she would probe except out of sincerity or some earnest curiosity. I informed her as best as I could, avoiding only those details which fit poorly with my own memory, the ones that lacked coherency with the remaining story—though I would have omitted the feeling of transmission or broadcast that Henry had emitted on his return home following Jessica's party.
At the hospital, Henry and I filed the appropriate records and left, at which point I asked about the meeting with Brother James.
“We spoke of my experience, that which I tried to articulate when you visited. Brother James assisted me in finding words for it, though words will remain lacking for describing it. Brother James referred to a Japanese term, kakugai, or 'world beyond conditions or understanding;” he said that I had reached perception of such a place, that I had returned from a backward journey.”
“What does that mean, 'a world beyond understanding?'”
“It is hard to say, my memory of the experience slips in and out of my own thoughts; it evades my ability to place it anywhere, not in experience, memory, or intellect will it stay.”
“You're speaking differently. Is that from Brother James or from the experience?”
“I do not know. I feel uncomfortable, cramped, as if this space I am now in has changed, too.”
“Are you worried? What will you do next?”
We had walked passed the hospital parking lot and entered the neighborhoods surrounding it. I felt alarmed, but in an intellectual, academic way, as if a research subject were describing unusual responses, not presumed by any preceding research. I was also rapt by Henry's telling, though his tone lacked luster and finesse, but spoke plainly and courteously, as if he were offering it all to me. Henry replied after a moment of contemplation.
“I feel beyond concern. Seeing 'world beyond conditions' was like seeing a city from an airplane or an antfarm from outside, but every detail is illuminated: What I sensed were underlying patterns, motions, energies that revealed that which one cannot see from within. It was all clear and crisp, unpolluted. I smelled it, even in my sleep last night it came back to me; I smelled the world, both the richness and the foulness, neither beautiful nor disgusting, but certainly, sharply. I feel the pressure of waves—the secretive momentum of the world—urging me forward or backward or to stay put, walking is not exertion so much as flowing. In that tide, in the tingling sensation on my calves and at the base of my neck, I can ascertain danger, danger keeping itself hidden, but I cannot fear it. Do you worry for me, Alexis? Perhaps you are frightened.”
He turned to me then, with those words, and I saw in his eyes some hint of the foreignness he had experienced, some exquisite depth and volume that does not reside in our eyes normally. I thought then of Brother James and the droplets on the window pane. The recollection swelled up stolid and powerful, like a wave gathering at the edge of sight.
“You have been where others cannot ponder, where you yourself cannot understand. Yes, I am frightened, but not exactly of you, but of what you now are.” I trembled then, and he reached out and touched my shoulder, heavily, with the palm of his hand pressing against me, warming me and cooling my fears. I knew then that he had returned not only as himself, but also as an avatar of this world of an illuminated, majestic city, of that place beyond understanding. He calmed me with something in his touch.
“That is good, that you do not fear me, and likely wise, that you fear the what of me.” He turned ahead again, toward his home. "Tell me of the party, of when I felt far away. I remember leaving with you, but that feel vaporous and thin. How did the evening go.”
This change startled me because it so directly connected the two entities that were and became of Henry. I did not expect him, I know realize, to be interested in the events before. Now, I see that it may have been a ploy to further calm me, a sort of theatre to assure me that Henry remained Henry. All the same, I recovered myself and told him of his discomfort and described my aspirations concerning Mona. When it came to the telling of the conversation with Thomas, I began to pause and stutter. It felt foreign on my lips, like someone else's story I had adopted.
“This Thomas, had you met him before? Have you spoken with him since?”
It struck me heavily that so much had occurred in the time since the party only two nights before. I had heard mention of Thomas, but never in detail, and that night had been our first meeting—as it had been for me with Mona's other friends. “No, why do you ask?”
“I wonder if something else is about, something that revealed itself in him. I wonder about those patterns I witnessed. They revealed layers, incomprehensible depths, each working in itself and between the layers.” Henry's words tapered off into his own quiet thought. We were nearly to his place when he began to speak again. “Please, tell me what else happened?”
And so, I concluded the tale, the walk home, saying as little as I could about his murmurings. At the end, I asked him about the accident, if he recalled it at all.
“I do. That is what drew me back. It was like a cord, tugging on me back to myself. I believe the physicians thought me far gone as I worked my way back. When we left for the party, I had been at the end of a lengthy meditation session, during which I had felt an increasing and profound distance from my familiar characteristics. With the accident, those accoutrements were brought sharply back into focus. First I felt my legs, then my feet, then my fingertips. It was like my body was shipped back to itself piecemeal.” I winced at the idea, which Henry noticed and added, “It felt more scientific than painful, I enjoyed the novelty of waking bit by bit.”
We were at his door when I asked, “I am a bit worn out. Do you mind if a stay a while?”
“Not at all. I'll make tea. You can lay down if you would like.”
“Tea first, then perhaps I'll lay down for a moment.”
Up the stairs and in the apartment we went, but the tea sat untouched as I nodded off on his simple but comforting furniture. When I woke, I found the cup of tea cooled, but I drank it quickly. I heard nothing at all in the apartment and so stealthily searched the rooms. One of the doors was closed, so I checked the others first. Each was tidy, though the bed had been hastily made, with the edges of the blanket ruffled near the single pillow at the head. Finally, I peaked into the room with the closed door, cracking it just so slightly. The room was completely unfurnished, but in the center of it sat Henry in full-lotus position with two firm cushions underneath him. I nodded and left, hoping that I might not disturb him. I pulled a scrap of paper and pen from my pocket and wrote him a note, thanking him mostly, and hoped to hear from him soon. Quietly, I laughed at myself because finding an appropriate place to put the note was difficult, as anywhere I might place it seemed to clutter the whole room. In the end, I set it on the table, next to my empty teacup and left, easing the door closed on my way out.
On the stairs, I heard and then saw George. She was mildly frazzled, a typical look for her between her own questions and the work she did, but her presence in the setting befuddled me.
“George, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, Lex, I wanted to see Henry. I wanted to hear more about his incident.”
“How do you know where he lives?”
“You mentioned it to me on the ride to the hospital. You pointed it out in case we were going to take him home.” This, I very well could have done, and it had been on the way, but I could not at all recall the ride to the hospital with George the day before. Nor, it might be said, did I recall not bringing up Henry's apartment.
“Well, he's in the middle of something. I would suggest coming back in an hour. I just left and the door locks on its own. I don't know if he would hear you if you knocked anyway.”
“Oh, alright.” George's face turned pink, and faintly red, as if she had made plans for this rendez-vous and now they were spoiled. “Where are you off to?”
“I need to take care of a few things at home today before work tomorrow.”
George stared at me, then around the stairwell, and back at me, waiting for a cue or hint.
“Are you coming down, then?” I asked.
“Oh, of course.” And so I walked her to her car, out of which she grabbed a bag heavy with this or that. We said goodbye to one another and I began to walk home, retracing some of the course to the hospital on the way. It was a longer walk home, but in the time I was able to consider all the strangeness my life had entertained over the past few days. The wind was sharp and whipped my face. I felt satisfied in the motion of dried leaves and the rustling of grass; somewhere, a lawnmower hummed and as I walked, the scent of the grass wafted over. Some semblance of peace, even a hint of tranquility had made its way into my mind, and I sincerely believed that the worst of it had passed.