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Where I Got the Crazy Idea for The Rift & Other Tidbits
I've always loved B-science fiction movies. I grew up watching sf movies on TV: Them, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Invaders from Mars, and more. And I grew up reading depressing end-of-the-world books. So perhaps this book started in my unconscious when I was a girl! I've always been interested in how people react when ordinary life changes. How would we react to the apocalypse—to the end of life as we know it?
I started this book the winter after my mother died. My father suddenly went into the hospital for emergency heart surgery while Mario and I were at our writing retreat in Tucson. (I wasn't able to finish the book that winter. I completed it about two years later.) My world had definitely changed after my mother died and while my father was ill. During that time, I saw in my mind's eye a rift in the earth. I often feel as though I am separated from most of the world: There is a rift between myself and my family and myself and the mainstream culture. Having a literal rift in the world felt perfect—for this novel.
I wanted the main characters to be people who weren't part of the mainstream culture. I wanted them to be like people I knew and loved: They worked in "jobs" that weren't usual—but they weren't strange or crazy. I wanted to portray their lives and beliefs respectfully. Often in books and movies, if someone is connected with the "invisibles" they are portrayed as kooky. I talk to plants, clouds, winds, and the land, and I am not kooky.
Writing this book was a different experience for me. I had to just let go and write. The Rift is definitely a different kind of book from any I've ever written. Of course, none of my books is like any of my other books—something which drove my publishers crazy. But that's just the way it is.
Wholly Inadequate Descriptions of This Book
The One Sentence Pitch and Cover Blurb
Maggie lives on the edge of Tucson where she edits technical manuals and creates medicine from desert plants...until one morning when she hears her dead dog barking, a stranger shows up in her driveway, and an unexplainable rift appears in the land, separating Maggie and her neighbors from the rest of the world.
Chapter One
First
Sonora Desert, January,
Full moon, Blue moon, Lunar Eclipse
Maggie lived in the desert on the edge of the city limits of Tucson, Arizona, in a casita near a wash that filled with water once a year and threatened to overflow and flood Maggie’s house and her shop. Every year Maggie stood on the lip of the wash as the water roared through and asked very politely if the New River would please stay away from her house. She threw flower petals into the water to seal the deal.
In ten years, the wash had not breached its banks.
Maggie was generally a contented person. She enjoyed working with people and trying to find the right desert plant that would help them heal. She liked going out into the desert and talking with plants, wildcrafting for tinctures, or plucking blossoms (with permission) to make flower essences.
She lived outside the mainstream of American life. She didn’t watch television, wasn’t on any social networking site, got most of her clothes from Goodwill, and had no idea about the private lives of anyone famous.
Maggie didn’t make a living talking with plants or helping people heal. She didn’t make a living howling with the coyotes at sunset or following the path of a bobcat at dawn. She didn’t make a living whispering to the wind and discussing the weather with the crows. But she did create her life in this manner.
For a steady income, Maggie edited technical manuals from home. She didn’t particularly like this work—wasn’t overly fond of computers—but she was good at taking nonsense sentences and turning them into sensible sentences. Her boss said she was the best translator of geek in the business. Maggie didn’t tell him she was good at many languages: geek, crow, cactus, road runner.
She was not always good at translating human.
She wasn’t awkward with people. She had social graces. She could nod and say, “Uh-huh,” with the best of them. With people she knew, however, Maggie spoke her mind and her truth. Her friends valued that about her—even though she sometimes frightened them.
Especially men. At least men who wanted to have sex with her. Maggie had never batted her eyelashes or pretended she was more interested in a man’s opinion than she was in her own. In fact, she couldn’t believe women still did that. Her friends introduced her to their male friends sometimes at dinner parties or celebrations. At the end of the night, the man usually left with a younger woman.
“He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” whichever friend it was would say.
“Yes, I am amazing,” Maggie would agree.
Maggie did not spend a lot of time thinking about men or sex. She did wish she was sexually attracted to women. Once she mentioned this to Joanna, her partner in Desert Bloomers, and Joanna said, “Women are a pain in the ass, too. They always want to know what you’re thinking. You’re supposed to be sensitive to their needs, and I’m just not that sensitive.”
Sometimes Maggie did get lonely for her own kind, but she wasn’t quite sure who her own kind was. She had friends of all persuasions: flora and human and other fauna, elementals and Invisibles.
When Maggie woke up that Full Moon Blue Moon morning, she felt off-kilter. First thing she did was get out of bed and shiver as her feet hit the cold tile floor. Then she padded to the front door of her casita to let out her dog Irving. When her hand touched the door handle, she remembered Irving was long dead. Three months now.
Old habits died hard.
Yet she had heard him barking.
Must have been a dream.
She opened the door and stepped outside. The pink dirt was cold against her bare soles. She turned to the east where the sun was coming up over the Rincon Mountains. She raised her arms and whispered a prayer to the wind and to the east. Some mornings she offered cornmeal or a song. This morning she whispered,
“Thank you for inspiration.”
She turned to the south.
“Thank you for the fire of creativity.”
To the west.
“Thank you for the ocean that courses through my veins.”
To the north.
“Thank you for the earth, that place where I stand my ground, and the place of rebirth.”
She breathed deeply.
She still felt muddled.
A breeze wound its way through the mesquite and cholla and around the paloverde, and Maggie heard, “This is the day everything changes.”
Maggie knew she should thank the Wind for the warning. Or the prediction. She often told her clients that one must learn to go with the flow: Change was inevitable.
But this morning when she heard, “This is the day everything changes,” Maggie thought, “Oh crap.”
Too much had changed this year. For one thing, Irving had died. Her father had had major heart surgery. One of her sisters had become holy. Maggie’s landlord had upped her rent when she couldn’t come up with a down payment to buy the place. And Joanna told her last week that Alexandria had a job offer in Seattle, so they might be moving. Which would mean they’d no longer be partners in Desert Bloomers.
More change was coming?
Maggie started to go back into the casita when she noticed a coyote walking by in the wash. He stopped and looked at her. She loved coyotes the way people loved beautiful sunsets. Some coyotes were more spectacular than others. Some were just ho-hum. Not that Maggie really ever thought of coyotes as ho-hum. But every once in a while one crossed her path that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. And this coyote was one of those. She’d seen him before, many times. He had a scar on his right haunch. She called him Old Brandy. Seemed like he was always on the prowl. Maggie got the sense he was lookin’ for the ladies.
Now he stared at her, his tongue hanging out. Looked like he was grinning.
“I’m not your kind,” Maggie said. “So move along.”
The coyote continued to stare.
“Yeah, you’ve heard me howling, but I wasn’t calling to you.”
He closed his mouth. Now he looked a little dangerous. Maggie growled.
The coyote put his nose in the air for an instant, glanced at her, and then kept walking—bouncing down the wash as though he was walking on his tiptoes.
“I don’t know why you don’t like that coyote,” Joanna said as she came across the wash toward Maggie. “I think he has a crush on you.”
“That would be flattering,” Maggie said. “Kind of like having one of those old drunks at the East Side Bar and Grill have a crush on me.”
Joanna laughed. “I swear I’ve seen coyote tails on some of those men.”
“Old Brandy is probably one of them,” Maggie said. “And I don’t dislike him. I’m just wary. You’re up bright and early. What’s going on?”
“Just had a feeling it’s going to be a day,” Joanna said. “I’ve got two appointments but—”
Maggie nodded. “Yep. Something’s up.”
“John and Nina thought they saw lights coming over the Rincons last night,” Joanna said. “Swear it was a whole group of UFOs. But then they’re always seeing that kind of thing.”
Maggie shrugged. “Hey, I talk to plants. Most people think that’s weird.”
“But do you think the plants came here from outer space?”
“Maybe originally. I’ve never asked.”
Joanna grinned. “Go eat. I’ll catch you later. I may need your help when Alan Josephson comes in. He picks up little pockets of energy like he was flypaper. Might need help cleaning him off.”
Maggie nodded. She went back into the house, sat on her living room floor, and meditated. Her mind kept drifting. She wished she could remember her dream about Irving.
When she finished meditating, Maggie made oatmeal. She took the bowl with her to the back porch and looked out into the desert as she ate. A shiny green hummingbird flew around her for a moment. Maggie held out the bowl of oatmeal to the bird. “You’re welcome to it,” she said, “but it’s got nothing on nectar.” The hummingbird flew away west, in the direction of a tall saguaro with two limbs raised up in a kind of cacti yoga pose. The day smelled very slightly of creosote.
Maggie closed her eyes. “May it be good, may it be good, may it be good,” she whispered.
She heard someone banging on her front door. She got up, carried the bowl into the kitchen, put it on the counter, and then went to the door. She wasn’t sure she wanted to open it, but she did.
“Margarita! Rita! We need your help!”
It was her neighbor Ricardo. She had known him ten years and had not been able to convince him that her name was Maggie, not Margarita. Not Rita.
She glanced at Ricardo. He didn’t appear to be injured.
“What is it?” She came outside. Ricardo’s old white pickup stood in her driveway with his teenaged daughter Alicia kneeling in the back of it.
Maggie hurried over to the pickup.
Sprawled on the truck bed was a man. He reeked of alcohol so much that Maggie had to lean back away from the truck.
“Whoa!” she said. “Is he hurt?”
“Sí,” Ricardo said. “His heart is broken. And he can’t stop drinking. We’ve tried. All of his friends have tried.”
The man’s jeans were ripped and caked with mud. His T-shirt was dusty, and the shirt over the T-shirt was so dirty Maggie couldn’t tell what color it was. His dark brown hair was greasy and his face was covered in stubble.
“I think he tried to drown himself in the wash,” Alicia said.
“In the wash?” Maggie said. “There’s no water in the wash.”
“Exactamente,” Ricardo said. “He’s loco. He went out for a walk about an hour ago. I went looking for him with the truck and found him stumbling out of the wash and into the road.”
“Can you do anything?” Alicia asked. “Mom’s about had it with him. But he needs somebody’s help.”
Maggie looked at Alicia. She still believed in the natural goodness of everyone, believed everyone could be saved.
She’d grow out of that soon enough.
Ouch, Maggie thought. When had she gotten so cynical? Maybe she had picked up some negative energy herself.
“Are you sure he doesn’t need a doctor?” Maggie asked. “Could he have taken some pills?”
Ricardo shook his head. “No, he’s just your ordinary drunk.”
“Alicia, go into the shop and get Joanna,” Maggie said. “Then open the bunkhouse door. We’ll put him in there.”
Alicia hopped out of the truck and ran toward the barn.
Ricardo pulled down the tailgate. Maggie jumped up into the truck bed.
“What’s his name?” Maggie asked.
“Jack,” Ricardo said.
“Jack!” Maggie said loudly. “Jack, you need to wake up.”
The man moaned.
Maggie felt his pulses. They were strong.
“Jack, you need to get up.”
The man moaned again.
Maggie nodded to Ricardo. He got into the truck bed. Together they lifted Jack into a sitting position.
Jack mumbled something.
“We’re going to take you someplace where you’ll feel better,” Maggie said.
Joanna and Alicia walked over to the end of the truck bed and each grabbed one of Jack’s legs. They pulled while Ricardo and Maggie pushed until Jack was sitting on the edge of the tailgate.
“Should we carry him?” Joanna asked.
“I think you should move out of the way,” Maggie said.
Everyone moved away from Jack.
He promptly threw up.
“Better here than in the bunkhouse,” Joanna said.
“Yep,” Maggie said. “Get it all out of your system now.”
Maggie put Jack’s left arm around her shoulders and her right arm around his waist. Ricardo did the same on Jack’s right side. They half-dragged, half-walked Jack into the bunkhouse—the guest room that doubled as an extra treatment room—and laid him on the bed.
“Let’s get these clothes off,” Maggie said. “He stinks like a sewer. No telling what’s on these things.”
“I will do it,” Ricardo said.
“It’ll be easier if we all do it,” Maggie said.
Ricardo shook his head. He motioned to Alicia to leave. She rolled her eyes but left the bunkhouse.
“I don’t think there’s anything underneath,” Ricardo said.
Joanna smiled. “Ricardo, we’ve seen naked men before.”
He looked at her.
“Yes, even me,” Joanna said. “I used to dabble in men a bit, before I saw the light.”
“Me, I haven’t seen a man in a long time,” Maggie said. “I think I’ve forgotten what they look like. Let’s get his clothes off for a better look.”
Ricardo stared at them.
“I thought this was an emergency,” Maggie said.
“The sooner you go, the sooner I take off his clothes,” Ricardo said.
“Oh good grief,” Joanna said. “All right. There are gowns and pajamas and stuff in there.” She pointed to a dresser across the room.
The three women waited outside while Ricardo helped Jack get undressed. Maggie could hear Ricardo arguing with the incoherent Jack. “But I gotta piss, man.”
Maggie looked at Joanna. “Please let him make it to the toilet.”
A few minutes later, a pale Ricardo emerged carrying Jack’s clothes.
“I’ll take them home to wash and bring them back later,” he said. “Thank you for your help. He’s a good man, really.” He started to walk away with Alicia. Then he stopped and turned around. “I got his clothes off, but I didn’t get any clothes on.”
Joanna and Maggie went into the bunkhouse. Jack still lay on his back. Now he was snoring, his mouth open. Ricardo had pulled the sheet up over Jack’s naked body.
Joanna went to his feet, Maggie to his head. Maggie closed her eyes. She imagined roots growing out of the soles of her feet into the earth. Imagined the main root going down deep while smaller roots went horizontal into the earth until they found other roots to twine around. Then she imagined the energy of the earth coming up the roots and filling her body until the energy spilled out of the crown of her head. She put her hands on Jack’s head.
She felt or heard a kind of thump, as though the earth had shifted deep beneath them. She looked at Joanna; Joanna shrugged.
Maggie pressed her hands lightly on either side of Jack’s head. She imagined healing light flowing into the top of her head, down her shoulders and arms and out the palm of her hands. Her hands tingled. Jack stopped snoring.
Maggie felt slightly dizzy. That happened sometimes when she worked on someone. It passed. The room felt like it was filled with creatures, most of them desert creatures.
“He feels overshadowed,” Joanna said.
Maggie nodded. “But I’m not sure by what.”
“The alcohol? The plant spirits of the alcohol? Agave?”
No images came to Maggie. She felt slightly sea-sick, the way she did sometimes when she walked the wash when it hadn’t rained in a very long time.
Usually a plant spirit would offer to help during a healing. Or Maggie would get an image of what the client needed.
Not this time.
“My hands are warm,” Maggie said. “So he is drawing the healing energy into his body.”
“I’d like to stay and help,” Joanna said, “but I’ve got a client in about five minutes. I’ve got pulses in his feet. Plus, I see he’s got a little something going on beneath the sheets.”
Maggie looked down at Jack. She laughed softly.
“They can’t help it,” Joanna said. She slowly took her hands off of Jack’s feet. Then she left, closing the door behind her.
Maggie looked down at Jack again. Just then his eyes snapped open. His eyes were yellow. Maggie blinked. No, they were blue. Bright blue. Jack smiled sleepily.
“Hello, bruja,” he said. “Are you the one I’ve been looking for?”
“I doubt it,” Maggie said.
“I think you are,” he said. “What’s under the sheets doesn’t lie.”
“Charming,” Maggie said.
Jack closed his eyes. “Your friend started it. I was just trying to hold up my end of the conversation. So to speak.”
“Your job right now is to get this alcohol out of your system,” she said.
“After all the trouble I went through to get into my system? Seems like a waste of a good time.”
He began breathing deeply again. Maggie moved her hands from his head and down to his chest. His skin was cold. She felt grief. Intense grief. He put his left hand over her left hand. His fingers were clammy. She moved her right hand down to his belly. Warm. She could feel his stomach gurgling under her hand.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right. This is the place and the time that heals all wounds.”
“Even yours?” he whispered.
Ah, so he was awake.
“Shhhh,” she said.
“No,” he said. “I have to know if you’re the one.”
Maggie shook her head. Of course she wasn’t the one, whatever that meant.
“You’ll know the answer to that when you wake up,” she said.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he said. “I will. I’ll hold you real close.”
