Los Angeles, California
August 1999
What’s that all about, I wondered? With my luck, probably some sort of religious fanatic. Aside from her subtle beauty, what I had noticed first was her necklace, with the words, Heaven First, spelled out in gold letters.
Until that moment, my evening at the annual faculty dinner had been uneventful. Boring, in fact. I found the invited speaker to be less than inspirational. The event this year was being held in Los Angeles, a two-hour drive from our college near Bakersfield, making it more of an ordeal than usual. However, the young woman seated to my left was beginning to alter my outlook.
Dr. Pat Worthy was tall, with a triangular face accented by short blond hair and a small nose. She was in her mid- to late-twenties. Although she had joined our staff weeks earlier, this was the first time I’d had the opportunity to talk with her. Not that I hadn’t noticed her. Now I was discovering that there was one fascinating woman behind that pretty face.
“How did you come to choose our small college and move all the way to California?” I asked.
“It’s a small world. Dr. Maxion is my godfather, and I’ve known him all my life. Three years ago, when my parents died in an accident, he took me under his wing. It didn’t surprise me at all when he invited me here, once I finished my doctorate.”
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” I responded sensitively. It wasn’t hard for me to act sympathetic. I was already biased, silently cursing the fate that had taken her parents. Larry Maxion, the department chair Pat referred to, had actually carpooled with me to this event. Although he was twenty years my senior, he and I were good friends. As was the case with Dr. Worthy, he was responsible for bringing me to the university in the early 90s.
Our psychology department was not large—twelve full, assistant, and associate professors—but that’s not bad for a medium-sized college only thirty years old. I’d graduated from a large Midwestern university, while Larry, a California native, had done his undergraduate work at the very college where we now both taught. Larry was a full professor. I had advanced to assistant professor and looked forward to the permanency of tenure.
As our colleagues deserted their tables and moved to the adjoining room for the evening’s entertainment, Pat and I continued to talk. We compared the differences of growing up in my native Illinois, as compared to her Pennsylvania. We discussed our interests, fears, and many other things. I was falling in love by the minute. The earlier slow motion of the evening had transitioned to warp speed. Soon it was midnight and time to leave.
“Do you need a ride back to Bakersfield?” I asked. No sooner had the words passed my lips did I mentally slap myself on the forehead. Did I think she had not arranged for transportation home? Pat was gracious, though, and said she had carpooled with another of the female professors. To my ears, Pat’s response carried a hint of disappointment.
* * *
Larry and I said our good-byes and left for the parking lot. We had driven down in my car, and twenty minutes later, we were headed north on Interstate 5, leaving behind the summer smog of the City of Angels. As we crested the mountain before the Grapevine transitioned into the San Joaquin Valley, the full moonlight was enough to illuminate the skyline of pollution in the rearview mirror. Although the air would be cleaner, the heat of the valley would soon replace the smog of Los Angeles.
I began to review the mental recording I had made of our evening. In those few hours, I had learned an awful lot about Pat. As a psychologist is prone to do, I examined the details of our conversation to understand more fully the meanings behind the words.
Until moving to California, Pat had spent her whole life in Pennsylvania, living in the shadow of Pennsylvania State University in the town of State College. Her father was a physician and her mother a psychologist.
How did Larry come to know her? Since Larry was Pat’s godfather, he must have been there from the beginning. Pat said she knew little about Larry’s connection to her parents and never felt it right to pry, although she had always wanted to ask.
“Did you enjoy the evening?” Larry intruded. “It didn’t escape my attention, nor anyone else’s, I might add, that you got the lion’s share of Dr. Worthy’s time.”
“Was it that obvious?
“Yes. But aside from your personal interest, I think Pat will be a fine addition to our staff. I’ve known her since she was a baby,” Larry added with obvious pride.
“You have?” I asked, with intended surprise in my voice, not wanting to give away that I had already deduced that fact. Perhaps with a little prodding I might be able to learn more about Pat and her family. What was the godfather connection? How did Pat’s parents die?
“I knew Pat’s mother back in the early 1970’s, as a graduate student at Penn State,” he explained. “Jane and I were close friends from early on. We had similar interests and spent a lot of time together. It could have turned romantic, but never did. Any such hopes I might have had were changed permanently after the accident.”
My mind whirled with the mention of accident. Coming to my senses, I realized that this accident was obviously unrelated to the one that had taken Pat’s parents three years earlier.
“What happened?” I asked, my curiosity aroused.
“Are you sure you’re up for this? It could take a while.” I glanced across at him. “Other than transporting us to Bakersfield in one piece, does it look like I have other plans?”
Larry laughed. “Okay, then.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “It was almost the beginning of our third graduate year,” he began. “Both Jane and I had spent the summer working on campus for the department. Neither of us had well-to-do families, and we had to struggle to make ends meet. Jane had a night job as well, making good money as a waitress in Bellefonte, about ten miles from State College. The accident happened one Sunday night as she was returning to campus.
“You may not know that Nittany Mountain is a peak near State College that lent its name to the Nittany Lion,” Larry mentioned with pride, “the mascot for Pennsylvania State University. Although I understand that the last of this species of mountain lion was destroyed years ago, that hasn’t stopped rumors that this creature still stalks those hills.
“Jane was driving along Route 26 near Nittany Mountain. As the cliché goes, it was a dark and stormy night. She couldn’t remember exactly how it happened, but she lost control of her car and veered off the road, skidding fifty feet down an embankment into an oak tree. To make matters worse, those were the days before seatbelts were common. Jane’s head broke through the windshield, and she was knocked unconscious.
“Although Jane’s apartment was within walking distance of mine, I didn’t know she hadn’t made it home until the next day. By Monday noon, I was getting worried. I called the restaurant and found out she had indeed completed her shift the previous evening. I figured that she had plans that she hadn’t mentioned to me. By Monday evening, I was seriously concerned and left a note, asking her to call me immediately.
“What I have told you so far is from my point of view. The next part of the story I got from Jane. It’s amazing to me; I remember the details to this day.
“She said the first thing she could recall was awakening to the hammering of rain on the car’s hood and sensing blood streaming down her face. She lost consciousness again but remembered being dragged through the rain on some sort of stretcher. Her next conscious recollection was lying on a bed in a small room. She had bandages wrapped around her head, and throbbing pain. As her consciousness returned, she remembered lifting her arm to the comforting sight of the Bulova watch her parents had given her for college graduation. It read ten o’clock. From the light coming through the window, she concluded it was Monday morning. She realized she’d been unconscious, or at least sleeping, for more than twelve hours. She was trying to move into a sitting position when the door to the room opened.”
“She must have been terrified,” I broke in, “hurt, and not knowing where she was, or who was there with her.”
“You would think so,” said Larry. “She remembered looking up into the kind face of a tall man. He told her to take it easy, that she had had a concussion and had lost blood. He said that he didn’t think anything was broken, and that her regaining consciousness and being lucid were good signs.
“Jane later told me his voice was reassuring and not at all threatening. He fed her some broth and before long, she was asleep again. She later learned he had mixed a tranquilizer in with the soup.”
“This is weird, Larry,” I said. “Why didn’t this guy just call an ambulance?”
“You’re right. But we later found out this tall stranger was no ordinary fellow. It turns out that John was a doctor. Just out of medical school, he had been drafted for service in Vietnam. He later told us he’d spent two horrible years in that country, probably not unlike those of many Americans who served there, but maybe more so because of his job. He told me he’d treated every combat wound imaginable during those two years.”
“You said, ‘he told us.’ Does that mean you knew him?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Larry said and continued his story.
“As bad as it was in Vietnam, John wasn’t prepared for what would face him when he returned home. You’re too young to remember how unpopular the Vietnam War was, not only among college students but for a large segment of the population as well. You’ve probably heard of soldiers returning from Viet Nam and finding their military service totally unappreciated; no welcome-home parades, no dinners held in their honor, no gratitude at all. John remembered one incident in particular: walking down the street in uniform, when an unknown voice yelled out the words, baby killer. Not until we erected the Vietnam Wall in Washington in 1982 was there an official acknowledgment by the country at large that many men and women had served their country, and died doing it, in good faith and at the direction of the government.
“Who of us would have the strength to endure that sort of strain in war, only to return home to have it thrown back into our faces? That’s what happened to John. His reaction to that rejection was the same as that of many others of his fellow service members. He withdrew from society.”
It was getting late when Larry’s story carried us to the outskirts of Bakersfield. I thought to myself that his tale couldn’t have been made up, that it took the reality and cruelty of the world we live in to produce such a situation. I’d been born only three years before President Nixon resigned, after Watergate, in 1974. We’d covered Vietnam in high school history. But only through stories like this could one truly appreciate the pain that wracked the country at the time.
Larry went on. “Owing to the medication John had given her, Jane slept through that day and Monday night as well. He knew the danger had passed. He said he would have taken her to the emergency room if he had thought it necessary. He told me the body heals itself best when in a state of near shutdown.
“Jane awoke on Tuesday morning to find John sitting at her bedside. He helped her to her feet. She said she was amazed to find she could walk, albeit with his help. They entered what appeared to be the only other room in what she now saw was a two-room cabin. He helped her to the table, where she sat in amazement, looking at the stranger who had saved her life.
“I remember her describing him as tall, probably in his early thirties, with dark hair and a husky build. Although he wasn’t particularly handsome, she sensed a quiet confidence and a soothing demeanor that calmed her. But beneath the soothing exterior, she said she sensed something more.
“It wasn’t long before the reality of what had occurred hit her, that there were friends and colleagues who were wondering where she was. She asked if he had a telephone, and he said no.
“She explained that she worked at the university. He told her not to worry, that he had a truck and would drive her back to campus as soon as she felt able. After a modest meal, which Jane said she devoured, John suggested she take a hot bath, guaranteeing that she would feel like a new person.
“Jane said that by noon she felt as if she had her wits about her and wanted to return to campus.”
We arrived at Larry’s house and parked in his driveway. With the windows open and the warm valley air moving on a breeze, Larry continued his story.
“I was sitting at my desk Tuesday afternoon when the phone finally rang.
“‘Where the hell have you been?’ I demanded.
“Jane explained she’d had a car accident but that she was all right and back at her apartment. I rushed over, and she related what I’ve just told you.”
“I’m guessing that isn’t the end of the story,” I spoke aloud what I was thinking.
“Hardly!” Larry said .
“Jane borrowed my car while the insurance settlement was being made and visited the accident scene prior to her car being removed. She remarked how lucky she had been when she saw that the car’s position was such that no motorist would have noticed anything unusual. The heavy rain had washed away the skid marks from the roadside gravel. She hiked down the embankment and looked around for John’s cabin. She walked the surrounding area for some time before locating a dirt road that led a quarter of a mile farther to the cabin.
“John was working outside and seemed please to see her. He invited her inside. She thanked him and asked how he had found her.
“He said it was just luck that he happened to be outside at the time. He was bringing in firewood when he heard this dull thud and went to investigate. The rain was so heavy he almost gave up, but finally he saw a light through the woods. Luckily, one headlight was still burning.
“They talked that afternoon, Jane told me, for over four hours. She said that by the time he walked her back to her car, she realized she had found her soul mate.”
“Have you ever heard that term?” Larry asked, leaning in my direction.
I shook my head.
“Linda Goodman wrote a book back in 1978 called Love Signs. It was interesting reading. Goodman looked at all combinations of astrological signs and gave you her assessment of the benefits and risks of each combination, primarily in terms of a romantic relationship. Beyond that, she discussed the ultimate combination, called Soul Mates or Twin Souls. She said that such instant magnetic attraction between two people is often called love at first sight, but that it is real. Each person instantly sees the other half of himself in the other. And, if you can believe it, once soul mates find each other, they can’t be separated, even by themselves.
“Interesting, huh? I don’t know whether I buy all of that or not, but if there is such a thing, John and Jane came as close to that ideal as you can imagine. Jane said that John later told her he had experienced the same feelings.
“Before long, Jane was back at John’s cabin. As a psychologist, Jane recognized the repressed hurt and resentment that he had from the war and went to work to bring out these feelings and help him face them.
“It worked, and as they say, the rest is history. Within a year they married, John joined the staff of a clinic in State College, and they were happy and doing well. Within another year, Jane finished her doctorate in psychology. Three months later, Pat was born. I was Pat’s godfather at her christening. I finished my degree about a year after Jane and moved to California. She stayed on with the university, and by then, John had set up his own practice in State College.”
“That’s a sweet story, Larry.”
“I wish I could say they lived happily ever after,” Larry continued.
“Tell me the rest. What happened?”
“They stayed in State College, raised their daughter, and had a wonderful life. Jane and I corresponded, and we saw each other every year or so at conferences and workshops. I also visited them occasionally. Being Pat’s godfather, I kept in regular touch, sending birthday cards and Christmas presents. She called me Uncle Larry.
“In the early 90s, at a workshop here in Sacramento, Jane told me that, although John had done well in recognizing and coping with all of his repressed hurt and anger, there were still remnants of feelings she could not reach. She encouraged him to write to his old war buddies, and that helped.
“Jane, who would have done anything to enable John to achieve peace with himself, ultimately decided that a trip to Vietnam would be one final therapeutic step she could prescribe. Although hesitant, he agreed. In fact, he convinced three of his army friends to make the trip. They planned to meet in Saigon.
“Jane decided that they should take advantage of such a lengthy trip. So she planned a visit to Europe, with a stopover in Egypt, on the way to the Far East. It was to be a major vacation. By then, Pat was finishing her graduate work at the University of Chicago, and the time was right.
“They left three years ago, on the seventeenth of July in 1996, from JFK in New York. I’m sure you remember TWA flight 800. It left for Paris and crashed into the water twenty minutes out of New York. That was their flight! Several of the bodies were never found, including Jane’s and John’s.”
“Damn!” I exclaimed. “How tragic!”
“I received word a day or two later that they had been on that flight. I couldn’t believe it. I flew immediately to Chicago to be with Pat. Later, when she finished her doctorate, I asked if she wanted to come here. I felt that my position as godfather had its obligations.”
Larry had opened the car door and was getting out.
“Wait,” I said, “one more thing. Pat was wearing an interesting necklace, a gold chain with two words at the base, Heaven First.”
“I saw it.” Larry smiled.
“Remember I told you that Jane considered herself and John to be soul mates? Completely devoted to each other, they had a pact that, if something were to happen to either of them, the one who left this world first would try to make contact with the other. More importantly, he or she was to set up shop in heaven and wait for the other to arrive. John gave Jane the necklace as a gift, telling her never to forget what the shorthand stood for. Pat found the necklace in her mother’s jewelry box.”
As I drove away, I thought about this pact and the simple beauty and love that it implied. It also occurred to me that their agreement had proved unnecessary. I would suspect that John and Jane entered heaven together, hand in hand.