Soul Dancing, page 1
Soul Dancing
Red Adept Publishing, LLC
104 Bugenfield Court
Garner, NC 27529
https://RedAdeptPublishing.com/
Copyright © 2024 by Gail Priest. All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
In Memory of Charles V. Osborne Jr.
Chapter One
2015, Philadelphia, PA
Shirlene
Next to me, a familiar voice snaps, “She’s moaning again. Please do something.”
Someone holds my hand against a scratchy face. It must be Stan. Why hasn’t he shaved?
“Don’t worry, Shirlene,” he whispers to me.
The deep burning in my chest intensifies. I groan.
Then he barks, “She’s in pain, damn it!” As always, my husband is polite until the pressure builds up, and then he blows his stack.
The panic in Stan’s voice forces me to focus. This isn’t good for his heart. I want to reassure him, but I can’t make my mouth form words. I open my eyes to a blurry environment and glimpse someone fussing with a pole and plastic bag over my left shoulder, but my head refuses to turn fully. I try to sit up.
“Hold on, Shirlene.” Stan gently presses me down. “The pain will subside now.”
Warmth travels up my left arm. I need to ask Stan if he has taken his blood pressure medicine, but with the warmth comes a shadow, like clouds traveling across the moon. The need to get answers slips away, and my eyelids become heavy.
“She’ll be calmer now, Mr. Foster. I’m sorry. That won’t happen again,” a young woman’s voice murmurs.
“See that it doesn’t.”
“I apologize.”
My Stan sighs. “No, I’m sorry I lost my temper. How am I going to live without her?”
“I understand, Mr. Foster.”
“I’ve loved her since World War II. I bet someone as young as you can’t imagine that.”
“It’s romantic you’ve been together so long. I’ll be back to check on her again soon.”
After the gentle whoosh of the door opening and closing, the room becomes still.
Stan kisses the back of my right hand. “It’s time, Shirlene. I won’t be long behind you. It’s okay to let go.”
Although Stan firmly holds my hand, nothing prevents me from detaching from his grasp and from my entire body. I float up. While hovering near the ceiling, I see myself below, eyes closed and face relaxed. I’m covered with the double-wedding-ring quilt my mother made for us back in 1945. Over the years, the pastel colors of the interlocking rings and corner diamonds have faded. On a table next to the bed is a picture from our sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. I was well back then. We are both dressed up and smiling broadly.
This hospital room is not the same one where my doctor told us there was nothing more he could do. Oh, I remember. He said, “I’m sorry, but it’s time for hospice.”
My Stan lowers his head of white hair onto his arms on the side of my bed. His shoulders shake. He’s crying. I wasn’t supposed to go first. Who will take care of him?
I begin to panic when a fierce energy drags me through the ceiling. I don’t want to leave him, but the more I resist it, the stronger the pull becomes. I’m swept into a brightly lit tunnel. The light is so intense that I can’t open my eyes without shielding them with my hands. I separate my fingers and glimpse the silhouette of a small figure several feet away. Sensing it’s the person I most long to see, I keep watching, unable to wait for my vision to adjust. My eyes sting as I blink against the glare. The little boy I know better than anyone exists in the glow. When I attempt to call out to him, a sob escapes my throat. Weeping, I stumble toward him. I would like to kiss his ruddy cheeks, to ruffle his auburn hair.
“Danny.”
“Don’t cry, Mommy. Everything will be all right now.”
“Is it really you?”
“Yes, Mommy. Come with me.” He holds out his hand for me to take.
My eyes begin to adapt to the light. He still appears to be four years old, but he speaks as an older child, a wiser spirit. The last time I stroked his soft skin, he lay dead in my arms. And now he stands before me. I ache to bundle him up in my arms, to inhale his little-boy aroma. Behind me, Stan sobs my name. He is leaning over my body at the other end of the tunnel. I want to stay with my boy, but Stan needs me. My heart is being ripped in two.
My voice breaks. “Daddy needs me a while longer.”
“But your old body won’t work.” A pond appears at our feet. “Look at yourself now, Mommy.”
I peer at the liquid reflection. My strawberry-blond hair flows around my shoulders. All the wrinkles are gone. I smile at myself with perfect white teeth.
His small hand slips into my palm. For sixty-four years and ten months, I’ve never stopped yearning for the feel of his hand in mine. My fingers curl over his warm flesh.
I kneel next to him and gaze into his sweet hazel eyes. “I wish I had died instead of you.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” My little boy wipes a tear from my cheek. “It was my time, but now it’s yours.”
Again, Stan cries, “Shirlene.”
I peer through the tunnel and watch him caressing my face. He kisses my lips. He’s ninety-three with a failing heart. How will he manage? I’m torn between the two people I love most in the world, but my beautiful son is safe. He’s guarded by angels.
“I have to take care of your daddy. We’ll both come to you. Soon.”
“Your old body is gone, Mommy. You can’t go back to it.”
“But your father can’t cope without me. I don’t want to leave you, but I must.” I release Danny’s hand.
The first time I was separated from my boy, it wasn’t my choice. This time, it is, but it’s just as agonizing. My chest is splitting apart as the tunnel spirals out of control. I’m still being yanked toward the light.
“No!” I shout. I float up and start swimming urgently away from the light and my son.
“But your body is dead, Mommy!” Danny shouts from a long distance away.
Once I break free of the energy carrying me to the light, a vacuum sucks me through the vortex. The bright light fades. I lose control as I spin like a wash cycle. Blurred images whirl about me, making it impossible to focus on any one thing. I squeeze my eyes closed to avoid vomiting.
The movement abruptly stops. Everything becomes still, and I blink my eyes open. I gasp to find myself hovering above my body and Stan in hospice. A force prevents me from returning to my old body, which is cold and solid. I can’t penetrate it.
I cry out, “Stan!”
He glances up, but his confused expression makes it clear that although he may sense me, he doesn’t see me.
The energy sucks me through the ceiling again. Determined to stay with Stan, I fight against the bright light. This decision returns me to the swirling vortex. I close my eyes to fight the recurring nausea.
Reverberations pound in my head until an unfamiliar female voice whispers in my ear, “Take care of her.”
The sickening whirling stops. Intense pain returns, but it’s different.
“We have a heartbeat!” a woman shouts.
“It’s crowning,” a different lady says. “Come on, Rain. Now that you’re back, work with us.”
Damn—it feels as if my insides are being squeezed against my pelvis in a nightmarish scenario. I have the urge to push.
“That’s it, Rain. Keep pushing,” the woman demands. “Can she hear me?”
I feel pure agony. I keep my eyes closed, bear down, and scream.
“She hears me. I have the head.”
Panting, I can’t inhale enough air into my lungs.
“Try to take deeper breaths, Rain. And push again.”
The pain intensifies. I push, grunting.
“Here we go. Shoulders are out. And torso and legs.”
A baby cries. Something warm, wet, and squirming is plopped onto my chest.
“Open your eyes and say hello to your lovely daughter.” It’s a male voice, deep and gentle.
I take in the tiny infant covered with blood and amniotic fluid and wrap my arms around her. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. When Danny was born, the nurse immediately whisked him away. I touch the soft, round line of the newborn’s cheek. I must be dreaming. A tiny bubble comes out of her kiss-shaped lips. She furrows her brow.
“Do you have gas, sweetheart?” I whisper.
People laugh, which reminds me I’m not alone with this precious creature. There are medical personnel in my dream, women in scrubs and masks, going about their jobs. A small blanket is positioned over the baby. A hat is slipped over the top of her head.
“Rain, give another push. Hopefully, the afterbirth will be easier,” the woman standing below my legs says.
Why does the doctor keep calling me this odd name? I’m so preoccupied with the tiny infant that the contraction delivering the placenta feels like nothing more than horrible cramps. The doctor continues taking care of me below the sheet propped up on my knees.
Another person steps into my view. He’s young, with black hair and a light-bronze complexion. Perhaps he’s Polynesian. He must have been the one who told me to open my eyes. He touches the baby’s tiny blanket-covered back and beams. His hand is giant in comparison to the child.
The baby starts rooting around toward one of my nipples, only these firm breasts aren’t mine—the nipples are lighter in color. But that’s how dreams are.
“She’s hungry.” I move her to help her latch on.
The man steps back. “You don’t plan to nurse, Rain, so don’t let her do that now,” he says without judgment in his tone.
Who is this guy? I cover myself with the blanket. I wish he’d go away and let me enjoy this dream.
One of the nurses touches my arm. “Some new mothers change their minds about breastfeeding once the baby arrives. It’s instinctual for them.”
I can’t take my eyes off this precious peanut getting her fill, but as I support her head with my hand, I notice my fingers are larger and long. The knuckles are no longer gnarled with arthritis. I shift the baby and brush a strand of long blond hair out of the way. My hair is blond? The doctor lowers the sheet over my legs, which also seem longer, and steps out the door with one of the nurses.
The baby finishes feeding. I gently lift her to my shoulder to burp her. A tiny sound comes out of the infant.
“Is it okay if I wash and wrap her up now?” another nurse asks. “I promise to bring her right back.”
I reluctantly let go. Without the newborn to distract me, my heart races. Things are appearing more real.
The young man sits on the edge of the bed. “We thought we were losing you. The doctor said your heart stopped. They had me step away while they worked on you. Then you were suddenly okay.”
I am unable to look at his face. I need to hide the panic building in my chest. What has happened to me? Where am I? Who am I? I shiver.
I vaguely hear the man ask, “Are you all right?”
My teeth chatter.
“Nurse?” He rises from the bed.
This isn’t my body. Old or young, I’m no longer me. The nurse places a warm blanket over me. The man reaches to adjust the blanket.
“Don’t touch me!”
He opens his mouth to speak.
“Please, get out,” I say firmly.
Surprise registers in his eyes, followed quickly by disappointment.
The nurse places the baby, now cocooned in a tight wrapper, in my arms. Guilt, horror, and sadness grip my heart. For an instant, I see the reflection of my son in the window.
I hug my tiny girl close to my chest. “Danny,” I whisper.
The man hesitates a moment longer before leaving the room.
I read my hospital bracelet. Rain DeLuca. Born twenty years ago on May 1. Not that I expected to find my own identification on my wristband. Still, the truth is difficult to face. I am in someone else’s body.
The doctor reappears, and I focus on her for the first time. She’s quite young with a smooth olive skin tone and a sparkle in her eyes. It’s obvious from her enthusiasm that she loves her work.
She speaks quickly. “They’re going to take you to your room, Rain. But we’re going to monitor you closely after the heart event you experienced. I’ve ordered an EKG, which they can do in your room, but that’s precautionary.” She trots away from me. “I have to go. Another baby on the way. The nurses can answer any of your questions.”
“Thank you,” I say as she dashes out of the room.
The baby yawns. I think of Danny, and I force a sob back down. Stan comes to my mind. I must find a way to manage a newborn and a new body and locate my elderly husband.
Before I can gather my thoughts, someone arrives to roll my daughter and me out into the hall. I’m relieved to find that the man isn’t lurking nearby. In my private room, the nurse, who introduces herself as Sharon D’Alessandro, settles the baby into a bassinet and helps me into bed. Sharon appears to be in her fifties, with short salt-and-pepper hair. I’m hooked up to a monitor and have a pulse thing on my finger.
“Can I take a shower?” I ask, hoping to have a moment alone to try to process what has happened to me.
“Not yet. You had an unusual incident during labor. That’s why you have the heart monitor and pulse oximeter.”
I remember the EKG the doctor ordered. Rain’s heart—now mine—stopped during labor. Why? And why did it start again? What happened to Rain? Did I force her out of her body? Is she dead?
Sharon fills up a plastic cup with water from a pitcher. “It’s better to be cautious. Besides, you have to pee first, and we have to make sure the epidural has worn off.”
“I had an epidural?”
She laughs. I’m sure she hears that a lot.
“If Mr. Michaels comes back, should I keep him out?” she asks.
Who? Oh, the man. The news that I tossed him out must have traveled from the delivery room. I press the heels of my hands against my forehead. What the hell has happened to me?
Sharon hurries to my side. “Are you okay?”
Although I feel like Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream, I release my hands into my lap and try to appear calm. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Please tell me if you’re experiencing any headaches or pain.” She points to the heart monitor. “We need to keep an eye on you. So if having Mr. Michaels in here will stress you, I can tell him to come back tomorrow.”
I feel guilty that I told him to leave. If this is his daughter, he has a right to be here. “He can come in.”
Besides, where am I going to go with an infant, no money, and a different body with a new identity? It is distressingly obvious I’ll have to ride this out for a little while with the young man, Mr. Michaels. But I can’t very well call him that. How am I going to find out his first name?
