The Color of Cold and Ice Read online

  The Color of Cold and Ice

  J. Schlenker

  Binka Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Cover designed by author using Art Studio and www.canva.com

  * * *

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or in the case of someone real, used in a fictitious manner. Alternative health therapies are also listed in the book. This book is not intended as a substitute for the medical advice of physicians. The reader should regularly consult a physician in matters relating to his/her health and particularly with respect to any symptoms that may require diagnosis or medical attention.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2015 J. Schlenker

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  DEDICATION

  * * *

  To my husband, Chris, who continuously encourages me to write.

  What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?

  Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.

  For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.

  The best way to know God is to love many things.

  I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.

  I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.

  There is no blue without yellow and without orange.

  As we advance in life it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties the inmost strength of the heart is developed.

  Vincent Van Gogh

  Over time, we, as humans have developed a different attitude towards nature around us and we actually forgot one thing,“inner power.” This is the relationship by our physiological mechanisms to adapt and survive within our natural environment, which is direct and effective. Because we wear clothes and control the temperatures at home and work, we have changed the stimulation on our body, thus the old mechanisms related to survive and function. As these deeper physiological layers are not stimulated anymore we have become alienated from them, thus our bodies have weakened and we are no longer in touch with this inner power. The inner power is a force accumulated by full awakened physiological processes. It also influences the very core of our DNA

  * * *

  Wim Hof, Wim Hof Method

  Chapter 1

  Black

  * * *

  AND THEN THERE was light, but something had to come before the light. That was me. I am so often swept aside, grimaced at, feared, as if all sorts of unfathomable things lurk in my being.

  I am the absence of color, the void. I am nothingness, yet everything. I am a paradox. From me it begins. I am silence, the space between the thoughts, the sound between the chords. I am all things imaginable.

  From me it all springs. I am a combination of all of the colors. I am the unknown, the mystery. I am the palette of creativity, the deep etched lines of the printmaker’s hands, the quill pen stains on Jane Austen’s fingertips.

  Mystery is my demeanor.

  I am the grim reaper that comes at death.

  I am the stovetop hat that sat atop Lincoln. I am the mourning clothes of Mary Todd.

  I am the strapless dress at evening cocktails and the tie there as well.

  I’m formal, elegant, sophisticated and dignified. I am the fashion that lines the streets of a big city. New York and Paris know me well. I am power and confidence. I am serious.

  I am submission, the black lingerie of a seductress, or the robes of a priest who has renounced.

  I am sorrow and lamentation. Beads of rain fall from me as I stand over a grave on a gray day. Gray is a different story, but all the color stories come from my story. I may be the end, but I’m also the beginning. I come full circle.

  I hide. I depress. I strengthen. I exude confidence and power. I am aloof. I am a complete study of opposites.

  I am somber, reflective.

  I am powerful, energized.

  I absorb. Wear me to a place where I can draw in what is good. But avoid me around anything bad. For I will digest that too. My empathy is too great.

  I am the depths of the sea, the depths of a soul.

  I am the opposite of light; yet, I am the very essence from which light came into existence.

  I’m emptiness. I have no content. I’m what the Tao said can’t be named. Words are inadequate for me. You have to experience me. Meditate on me. See what I can reveal.

  * * *

  I’m cold.

  * * *

  Meditate on cold. Experience cold. Turn me into warmth. Turn me into light. And, ironically, I will give rise to the palette of Vincent Van Gogh. I give hope.

  Chapter 2

  Sybil

  * * *

  SYBIL AWOKE WITH a start, the sheets damp with her sweat. She stretched her moist bare arm from the heat of the blanket, the crisp cold air of the room striking it like pins and needles, to turn off the clock radio alarm. Yellow by Coldplay, echoed across the emptiness of the bedroom, a perfect acoustic chamber, a space that needed a chair, a rug, more pillows, something to add warmth, accessories to make the place more of a home, not the place she and Clark came to temporarily between the long hours they both put in at work. But the business, the coffee shop, had taken all her time — and her money. Also, Clark was climbing the ladder in his law practice. By some unanimous auctioneer’s gesture, they had both put decorating on hold.

  She released her finger from the clock radio’s button and grabbed her faithful terry-cloth robe from the end of the bed. Being cold-natured, waking up in a sweat in the dead of winter was something new to her.

  She looked over at her husband. Flickers of gray hair were illuminated in the laser stream of light coming from the gap in the curtains. When had that happened? His face, erased of all lines and worry while in a deep slumber, was turned towards her. His faint snore settled into the fibers of his pillow. Her Superman. A new shiver took hold of her — the good kind. Still there was something missing, a type of void. It hung in the air she breathed and was like quicksand when she walked. It was the something that had been plaguing her mind for months — a child. Like the decorating, they had also
put children on hold. The absence of a child had created a hole in her. Had she and Clark waited too late? Had she just experienced her first hot flash? Couldn’t be, she told herself. She was still having her periods or had been. She had skipped one, maybe two. She couldn’t remember. It was stress. Sometimes the dreams could do this to her. Her dreams, the ones that were important, could do strange things to her. This dream was important. She felt it in her gut.

  Headaches had plagued her for weeks after the dream about Michael. And the one preceding 9/11 sent both dread and rays of hope through her. She found herself switching from dark moods to happy moods causing her to think she might be bipolar.

  And now, this dream coming the night before Em’s last day at the coffee shop. How could she cope with not having her sister by her side at the coffee shop and not seeing her nephew, who was like her own, before and after school? She was so used to seeing them every day. That wouldn’t be the case any longer. They might drift out of her life. No, that could never happen.

  Sometimes she was jealous that Em had Chad, the child she didn’t have. But, then, Em no longer had her husband, and she did. She had no right to be jealous. It had been three years since Em lost Michael. Em showed no interest in even looking at another man, but the dream told her this would change. What if Em met someone and moved away completely? How could she cope? She should be happy for Em. She slid on her slippers and made her way towards the bathroom.

  Warm beads of water cascaded down her back. In the shower she recounted the vividness of the dream. It was clearly one of the strangest she ever had. She stood alongside a canal where a multitude of boats all drifted in the same direction. She scanned her body to find she was dressed in an orange t-shirt and cut-off jeans. Everyone wore some form of orange, the people in the boats, and the people on the sidelines. It appeared to be some type of celebration or water parade.

  Then things in the dream shifted. The place in her dream didn’t change, but the weather turned cold. In an instant, it went from a bright summer day to a wintery day. Chunks of ice floated down the canal. Yet, the water had a serenity, a calmness, a spiritual feeling about it. She still had on her same orange t-shirt and cut-off jeans. Chill bumps covered her legs. Yet, she thought it was normal to be dressed this way during the dead of winter. But then all things seemed normal during a dream. It’s upon waking that dreams seemed so totally absurd.

  Unlike most though, her dreams meant something. So many of them foretold the future. But, the dreams could be fuzzy, or the events in them bizarre. Such was the case with the dream about Michael and the 9/11 one. But in this dream, the events were crystal clear, like walking into a 3-D motion picture.

  A man was swimming in the canal, in the freezing water in nothing but swim trunks. His muscular arms rose from the frigid water to stroke forward. His skin was perfectly smooth, no trace of chill bumps. She marveled at him and felt worried at the same time. In the dream, he was someone she knew, yet in reality he was no one she knew. She knew none of the people, except for one. She looked over to see Em, by her side, also wearing the same orange t-shirt and shorts. Like the man in the water, her sister seemed immune to the cold.

  The man who had a huge smile on his face, one that conveyed a sense of accomplishment, pulled himself up from the water of the canal to the sidewalk. He raised his arms in victory and shouted, “Right on!” Em applauded and kissed his icy lips that turned upward into an even bigger smile. Frost glistened on his stubbly beard and coal-colored hair that dropped down on his wet neck like corkscrews. The man with sapphire eyes as liquid as the water, glanced Syb’s way, and gave her a wink, while Em handed him a large white towel.

  Sybil gazed upward into the soft sprinkling of snowflakes, which had just begun to come down. She lost her balance, causing her to stumble against the bare arm of the man. His arm felt warm, not cold, as she would have suspected when she considered he had just emerged from the bitterly cold water of the canal. Em handed the man clothes. The scene changed. He was dressed in jeans, a pale blue shirt and a brown leather bomber jacket. The trio walked towards a building, a house, narrow and tall with a forward tilt, three stories, which overlooked the canal.

  Sybil turned up the hot water a notch as she reached for the soap while still recounting the dream in her mind.

  The scene again changed abruptly, as often happened in dreams. A roaring fire crackled from a stucco and delft blue tiled hearth, illuminating the faces of Em and the man, although their faces clearly weren’t in need of illumination as they had love written all over them. Along with them, eight or more sat on pink yoga mats on a wide planked floor in gray sweats, some donning hoods, all barefoot. They ranged from young to old, both male and female. The rich aroma of chocolate wafted from the mugs held by everyone except the man with the damp dark curls and liquid blue eyes. He was now dressed in the same gray sweats as the rest and playing a guitar. An orange emblem adorned his sweatshirt, something that was known to her in the dream, but something she couldn’t place now.

  He strummed, and the song was pleasant, tender, the melody soothing. Like the emblem, the lyrics that she knew so well in the dream, also faded.

  Syb concentrated as she turned the hot water down a few notches, as cold as she could stand it, trying to bring back the mood of the dream. This action seemed lame compared to swimming in the dead of winter in a canal. Still, the cold water running down her shoulder blades made her sharper. It was something about smiling, about being there? About a bedroom? No, she wasn’t sure, but the words were about love, about Em. This song was about her sister. She remembered looking over to see her sister sitting cross-legged on the floor looking up at the man and smiling. Em was at peace, content.

  Sybil thought over the past week’s occurrences and couldn’t think what thoughts or events may have prompted such a dream. Sure, it was cold outside, and it had been snowing. But, why water, and why skimpy summer clothes on a winter day? What could it possibly mean? In her gut, she knew it was about some future event, like the dream she had before 9/11 and the one before Michael’s death. Of course she had had many others that foretold what was yet to happen, but the 9/11 dream and the one about Michael were major, and she knew in her heart that this one was too. She told herself not to worry. The dream was pleasant. Strange, but pleasant. Nothing foreboding.

  Sybil stepped from the shower into the heat of the steamy room, toweled herself dry and grabbed her pink robe, the same color as the yoga mats in her dream. She wiped a spot on the mirror and struggled to smile back at herself. She was still young, not too old. A child could yet be in her future. Why wasn’t she dreaming about a baby?

  She walked barefoot back into the bedroom. The snow glimmered against the streetlights through the small opening in the curtain. She looked over at her husband, half of his face snuggled into the white duvet. She would wake him in another hour. Tonight they would talk. They had discussed children before. It was just that the time never seemed right. No longer. It was time. She was sure Clark would think so too. They must begin trying in earnest.

  Without disturbing him, she grabbed the journal that lay on the table beside her bed and walked in a whisper toward the kitchen and the coffee pot. This was her quiet time, the time she used for meditation and reflection and for writing down those reflections in what she called her morning pages, something she had learned about in a book called The Artist’s Way. The dream would definitely fill up her pages this morning. She snuggled deep into her oversized chair with her morning coffee, a rich textured Jamaican brew she could enjoy without a rush of people. Good coffee, one of the perks of owning a coffee shop, she thought, while warming both her hands against the mug.

  On Sundays, her only day off, she enjoyed coffee with Clark. It was the day she brought in a plethora of sugar laden pastries leftover from Saturday. They both indulged while he worked the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle, and she caught up in her journal, a weekly recap of sorts. She placed pen to paper and wrote, This coming Sunday, the day we
make love like tantric adepts, the day we conceive. Would writing it in her journal make it so?

  Looking up from her journal, she spied yellow from beneath the chair. She focused more clearly to see Chad had left his galoshes. Today of all days. He would need them. She would have to leave at least half an hour earlier to get them to him in time. Em would tell her not to go to the trouble, that he could survive one morning without them, but no, it was the mother hen in her, the older sister talking. It was no trouble. Helping Em and Chad out was her privilege, something to which she looked forward.

  She left for work before her husband, usually going straight to Em’s apartment before opening the coffee shop. She sometimes fed Chad breakfast and got him dressed for school, more so in the beginning, when Em wasn’t able to. Right after the accident, Em, in a fragile state, wasn’t able to do much. As of late, Sybil noticed that Em was returning to her old self. Sybil sometimes walked Chad to school as well. This had been the routine for the last three years. Now, it was coming to an end.

  * * *

  Starting a coffee shop had been a long shot, with a zillion coffee shops on the streets of New York already, but it was her dream. She had the business sense, and she had been saving and scrimping ever since her high school graduation, living on cheap instant coffee, ramen noodles and Campbell’s soup.

  Maybe it was all that cheap coffee that made her decide on the business of a coffee shop. Or perhaps it was the distant memory of her first trip into the city with her father. Her father held her hand as they entered an enchanted shop. Aromas of what must have been hundreds of blends of coffee, or so it would seem to a child of five, all intermingling with the fragrance of breads and pastries doused with chocolate, powdered sugar and fruits, bombarded her tiny nostrils all at once.