Donna MacLeod turns to the theme of man's eternal search for spiritual enlightenment. She expertly reaffirms the power of faith, mind and love in a world that has become remote and indifferent. In Between Two Souls, the reader is taken into the heart and mind of Concetta Tullio, a mother who struggles to endure an unfathomable loss, the loss of her son. Her journey back to sanity takes many twists and turns. She shares this journey with her husband Frank, and daughter Donna. Frank doubts God's existence and shows little raw emotion when in Concetta's presence. Donna sees another side of her father that he keeps locked up from the rest of the world. Together, they look for explanations to assemble the pieces of an intricate, lifetime puzzle of unusual, paranormal occurrences that are more complicating than they could have imagined. In the final days of Concetta's life, she encounters a mysterious yet glorifying revelation thus unlocking humanity's most sacred secret. Can Frank, a realist, unlock that same secret when his final days come?

Between Two Souls

By Donna MacLeod

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Donna MacLeod
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4490-2891-6

Chapter One

Trembling in fear, she ran toward the door in a state of blank mindlessness, her eyes blazing wildly and a burning sensation sweeping upward from her feet. The burning scorched her eyes, causing her head to ache. She began to choke while clearing an acrid taste that had developed in her mouth, then slapped open the door loud and angry. She looked to her left, where a beautiful red cardinal perched on the forsythia bush near the driveway. Her eyes widened in confusion. The cardinal looked back but did not move. For a moment, their eyes were locked.

Dressed in one of her many floral housecoats, she was slight in stature. Set into her full, round face, her emerald eyes were glazed over and unfocused. Her tiny mouth was struggling to form words as her mind raced trying to process what was happening but could not. Barely conscious of her actions, she looked up the hill. With a sweep of her loose golden hair, she began to rotate her head, and while moving her head furiously, she ran, still puffing short gasps of breath. Then her mouth opened wide.

Long and high pitched, the primal terror scream was heard at the far end of the street. As neighbors ran furiously from their homes to see what the clamor was, some thought for a moment that it was all a ruse, part of the day. It was Halloween 1989.

Frances, the first neighbor to arrive, had heard the scream as she was baking biscotti in her kitchen. She stopped rolling her dough just long enough to determine that the sound was a human scream, not some animals fighting on the street. She ran toward the noise, and stood face to face with Connie, who was motioning incoherently toward the house. Without asking any questions, Frances reached the door, which was still slightly ajar. Connie stumbled in behind her. The house was silent. Frances stood in the living room for a moment, and Connie came up from behind. With anguish distorting her face, Connie staggered toward the bedroom, and summoned another scream. Frances looked into the bedroom just long enough to observe the horror. She ran into Connie's kitchen, grabbed the telephone, and dialed 911. Connie stood in the doorway trembling, her eyes fixated on the scene before her. Frances returned and held onto her so she would not fall. A tense silence prevailed as they stood embraced searching for any sign of life from his body. Still not able to speak, Connie fell to her knees shaking by the bedside. Then they heard the ambulance coming down the street. With its siren blaring, it lurched to a stop in front of the home, where a small cluster of neighbors had now gathered. Three paramedics sprang out and began unloading from the back of the truck. Frances met them at the door.

"He's in there," she said, pointing. "He's not breathing."

"Thank you, ma'am. We'll take it from her," the paramedic replied.

Another paramedic pulled out a stretcher and some other equipment, and they hurried into the house.

He was being moved onto the floor. From somewhere outside his body, somewhere near the ceiling, he watched them lay him on the rose colored shag carpet that was secured to the living room floor. He heard noises. He wasn't sure if they were coming from him. His eyes flapped open, huge and gaping, at two strangers in nameless horror. When trying to revive him with chest compressions failed, the paramedics began using an external defibrillator. Again, they followed with another ten minutes of compressions, until they finally were able to detect a faint pulse and some shallow breathing. They placed a line in the patient's arm. He closed his eyes. His skin was pale and sheened with sweat. He felt his body shake as it was being prodded. Then he was being lifted. Again. The paramedics packed up their equipment, draped a blanket over him, and transported to the nearest medical facility, which was only five minutes away, leaving his sixty-five-year-old mother sitting slumped in a living room chair-paralyzed.

A peculiar uneasiness blanketed me from the moment I woke. Looking around the room, my eyes widened. I shrugged and readied myself for the task at hand. Usually, the anticipation of the day lifted my spirits, as I remembered Halloween through the eyes of a child. I thought of Mom, reveling in the festivities as each year she would host another party for me and my friends in our damp, dark turn-of-the-century basement. With an uneven dirt floor, one tiny, nearly opaque window, and cobwebs clinging lazily from almost every hand hewn beam, the basement provided the perfect setting for screams, treats, and dancing.

"Great party, Donna. Great food. What fun!

"Yes," I reply. "Lots of fun." Then without warning, the lights were turned down low. The clamor hushed, and all eyes turned toward the staircase. Standing huddled in place with our arms wrapped tightly around each other, our eyes search widely for reaction. We don't dare speak for fear of interrupting the pervasive silence that has swept us up in its path. But soon a loud thumping breaks the conqueror's hold, and the basement stairs seem to echo with each and every thump. There is a pause after the last thump, and with that pause we expel such blood-curdling shrieks that they should have been enough to send the creature back to where it came from, but they didn't. There before us is a monster wearing blue jeans and sneakers. The mask seems to open at an unnatural orifice, and it howls so realistically that you swear a wolf is skinning the hide right off your back.

My brother Phil always the prankster, wearing the scariest, most gruesome masks he could find at the local costume store each year. Mom follows behind laughing hysterically and carrying yet another bowl of cupcakes, candy, and soda. Even in her golden years, when most of her neighbors had turned out their front lights and stopped giving out candy, Mom was ready at the front door with bowls brimming, a smile on her face and a witch's hat on her head.

Many years had passed. I now had two girls of my own and tried to carry on the traditions Mom held so dear. I smiled at the memories, shuffled on my slippers, and wrapped up in my bathrobe. I walked down the front staircase and opened the door. The sky was gray and dull. It was unseasonably warm, the air thick with anticipation of rain and an innocuous veil hanging over the town. I felt a gentle breeze churn silently over my head. I paused and closed the door. Hmm, I thought, it must be the weather.

Within seconds, my girls were stumbling down the stairs behind me, almost tripping over their costumes. They settled in at the breakfast table and began shoveling cereal into their anxious little mouths.

Nicole, at nine years old, was dressed as a geisha. The ebony wig styled into an enormous pouf, black liner for eyebrows, porcelain skin, and fire engine red lipstick were sensational, and a complete contrast to her own blonde hair, green eyes, and peaches-and-cream skin. She wore a lovely authentic kimono, brought back from a recent trip to Japan. Nicole was every bit a little lady; demure and sweet, she loved to wear dresses. "Look at you two. You look great!" I said. "Too bad Nana won't get to see you all dressed up. You know how she loves Halloween."

"It's okay, Mom. Maybe you can drive us over to see her after we come home from trick-or-treating," Nicole replied.

"I don't think so, honey. It will be very late, but we'll see how the evening goes."

I grabbed their sweaters and gestured toward the door.

"We have to move quicker if we're going to make the bus. Kimmy, grab your juice box. Nicole, don't forget your wig. You both are dawdling like zombies. Should I have dressed you both like zombies?"

"No, Mom. Girls aren't zombies. Boys are," Nicole insisted.

"Oh really. Fine then. Out the door with both of you."

We reached the bus stop, where parents had already staked out prime locations for the photo shoot. The children were waving at their parents, who were busy flashing away, and as was customary, most of the girls were princesses, while the boys were monsters of some sort. By the street corner, some of the boys were deliberately intimidating the girls, the girls fluttering off with their crowns and halos hugging their heads and shoulders for protection. Finally, the bus arrived, and Nicole boarded.

"I want to go too Mommy!" Kimmy wailed.

"I will bring you to school later on today. You must wait."

"No."

"Yes." Stubborn child, I thought.

My younger daughter, Kimberly, at almost three, was a true tomboy. She hated dresses, preferring jeans, and handled every slimy creature native to the planet. Trees were a favorite too-she attempted to climb them with the best of the boys. Kimmy has auburn eyes and dark brown hair. Even as a child, she possessed that untamed look. She was dressed as a ferocious lion, complete with the roar. Very independent, Kimmy had a mind of her own.

We arrived at the party at 1:30. When I opened the door to the school, laughter hit me first, followed by cookie and cupcake crumbs strewn through the hallways like little lost tokens left behind by Hansel and Gretel. When we entered the classroom, we noticed children with face paint oozing in transparent, vivid patches down their animated faces. Homeroom moms had prepared a variety of treats, and the children were gorging themselves.

As the party was winding down, I packed up my girls' belongings and we exited the building together. Ahead of me, they were skipping. Their legs couldn't keep up with their excitement. While walking toward the car, iciness raked my flesh. I paused for a moment and looked up. From a passing cloud, I thought, then opened the car door.

Arriving home shortly thereafter, I settled the girls in for a snack and began walking up to the attic for their candy baskets.

While walking back down the stairs, the telephone rang, but before I could answer it I froze in place. I felt the hair rising on my forearm. My jaw clenched. That earlier uneasiness gripped me again, and I tried not to convey this emotion to my girls. Finally reaching the kitchen, I caught the phone on the last ring.

"Hello, I heard through the receiver.

"Hello," I said, my stomach beginning to pitch. "This is Uncle Sam. Philip was just taken to the hospital in an ambulance. You must get there immediately."

His message was non-specific. I wondered why. Guarded, I had waited all day for the bomb to drop. Now it had. "I'm on my way."

Running around in confusion, I began to gather the items Nicole and Kim would need that evening.

"What are you doing, Mom?" Nicole asked.

"Listen, honey. That call was from Uncle Sam. Uncle Philip has been rushed to the hospital, and I need to get there as fast as I can."

"But it's Halloween."

"I know. Please be a big girl and look after Kimmy for me. I am calling Mrs. Landers. She will take care of you until Dad or I get home."

Kimmy grabbed my leg and began to wail, and Nicole's eyes filled as well.

"Please don't cry," I said as I lifted the receiver and called my neighbor, Sheila, to explain the situation, or what little I knew of it.

"Don't worry about it," she said. "They will be fine with us. I will call Mark for you. Take your time, and good luck."

I dropped the girls off and began my drive north to the city hospital. Usually bustling with traffic, the road seemed paved for me. My mind was as erratic as my driving, and my expectations were unclear. My breathing was coming in shallow gasps, as I arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes earlier than logistically possible. I parked my car in a handicap parking the space-the only one available-and ran full speed into the emergency room, adrenaline pumping fast into every vein in my body. After identifying myself to a nurse, I was admitted and led through the corridors, where my eyes fixed on a staggering sight.

I cannot even begin to describe the sheer terror in his eyes as he gazed up at mine. Lying silent on a gurney, my brother seemed so tiny and frail in the bed. His small frame was covered with a thin, white blanket. I pulled the blanket up closer to his chin and bent down to kiss his cheek. His face too had become small, pulled painfully tight and thin like a girdle on a fat lady. Attached to a ventilator, Philip was the only patient in this room, which was cold, sterile, and awash in bright light. As a machine roared beside him, he didn't seem to respond. He closed his eyes, which appeared to be too heavy to remain open. My parents flanked him on each side of the bed. My mother was ashen, shaking, and clearly beyond the ability to console. Her head was bent forward toward my brother, a soft whimper emanating from her mouth. On the other side, my father moved slightly so that I could get closer. I bent down, stroked Philip's hand lightly, and whispered, "I'm here. Listen to me. You must fight. Please," I cried.

I repeated these words again and again. Then his eyes began to flutter, and he opened them, looking around confused, as if his vision was blurred. Startled, my body shook for a moment. Clearly, Philip knew I was there; he seemed fully aware of his surroundings, and I sensed he wanted to tell me something by the way he is looking at me, but he couldn't. The breathing tube was set deeply down his throat. I continued my words of encouragement.

He stared at me for a moment longer, his mouth trying to open as if to say something. Instead, he shook his head slightly to one side. There was a haunting sadness in his eyes, that same sadness that had been in his eyes for a very long time. He had struggled to survive these last five years, and I wondered if he was trying to say, Let me go, or was he pleading for me to save him. Involuntarily, I reached out, as though my touch might heal him. I rested my hand on his left shoulder in silence, groping for the right words. His eyes were riveted on me.

"Please, you're strong. We need you." I choked and had to catch my breath. "We love you, and this is not your time."

"Ssh now," my father murmured. "Try to stay calm."

My father. Always stoic. How could he be calm now?

I looked down again at Philip. Those piercing emerald eyes were still gazing up at me, his head moving to the side again. Confused, I didn't dare take my eyes off him. I was searching for a sign, any sign, that would clarify his wishes. A moment later, from behind the privacy curtain, a doctor and a nurse appeared. The doctor moved toward us, then introduced himself. He approached Mom first.

"Mrs. Tullio, I am Dr. Kane.

Dr. Kane was heavyset, about forty, with a mop of black hair flopping on his forehead. "Can you tell me exactly how everything unfolded today?"

Mom began to speak but soon paused, looked at Philip, and began crying again. Dr. Kane grabbed her elbow gently.

"Why don't we talk out in the hallway," Dr. Kane said, gesturing us toward the door.

My parents and I walked out slowly, each of us turning back every few steps and gorging our minds with Philip's presence. I could still see the image of his eyes in his face staring at me with abject fear. I didn't have a clue what he was trying to say as he gaped at me. I closed the door behind me. Out in the hallway, Dad delivered the story, as Mom was far too upset to think or speak with any real clarity. I listened in horror.

"Philip was having lunch with my wife in our home, where we cared for him. He had just returned from a trip to the bank. As they were eating, he began to complain about excruciating pains in his legs. He was pale and told my wife that he was nauseous. He said he was going to the bedroom to lie down, and that he felt horrible. When my wife asked what was wrong, he said that he had never felt this way before. She told him she would get his blood testing monitor to check his glucose levels. She heard him walking very slowly down the corridor to the bedroom. She couldn't have been gone for much more than a minute when she heard an unsettling noise. She dropped her supplies and ran toward the bedroom. When she reached the room, she found him, on his back, arms and legs outstretched, his eyes fixed on the ceiling."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Between Two Soulsby Donna MacLeod Copyright © 2009 by Donna MacLeod. Excerpted by permission.
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