Crystal Clear Read online

  “It’ll be different this time,” he said on that occasion—and again and again and again as the months went by. “I love you. I don’t know how I could have let you work your ass off to support both of us, but I’ll hold up my end from now on, Crystal, I swear.”

  The first time he made the speech I was incredibly moved by what I perceived to be his remorse, his devotion to me, his intention to do anything to keep us together. But after a while, the apologies and the pledges and the it’ll-be-different-this-times got old, very old. Still, I hung in. Our anniversary came. We went out to a nice restaurant for dinner. I paid. And then, a few weeks later, a job materialized.

  Terry said he had an interview with the father of one of his fraternity brothers. The man was in the music business, he told me. An executive with one of the big recording companies in the city.

  “They want me to scout the clubs for new, young talent,” he said excitedly when he returned home after the interview to report that he’d been hired.

  He quit after only ten days, claiming: “Life is too short to stay up all night listening to really bad garage bands. I’d rather be home in bed with you, Crystal.”

  People often think of “last straws” when they look back at marriages that fail, and I suppose if there was a last straw in my marriage to Terry it was his refusal to grab the opportunity his friend’s father had handed him. But the truth is, there was no last straw. I just faced the fact that I had fallen in love with an image, not a flesh-and-blood person. I had fallen in love with the idea of the Terry Hollenbeck I’d known when I was a naive, impressionable student. I had allowed my worship of a college icon to blind me to a real man’s faults.

  When we broke up and went our separate ways, I simply carried on with my life, working, making money, paying the bills, just as I’d done when Terry was still around. Was I angry at him for not being the man I thought he’d be? No, I was devastated…the way children are when they discover that there isn’t a Tooth Fairy…the way adults are when they discover that people aren’t always what they seem…the way romantics are when they discover that love isn’t always enough.

  “The captain has turned on the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign, indicating our initial descent into the Phoenix area,” said Sherry or Valerie or Anastasia, I couldn’t tell which, interrupting my descent into my old life. “Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened and your seat backs and tray tables are returned to their upright position. We should be arriving at the gate in twenty minutes.”

  Twenty minutes, I thought with a jolt, my stomach suddenly swarming with butterflies at the adventure of it all.

  And speaking of stomachs, I peered over Dave’s—no mean feat—so I could look out the window. It was only 9:30, Phoenix time, and there was a film of haze over the area which the captain had assured us would burn off by noon. He had also mentioned that the temperature in Phoenix was 98 and climbing. I was glad I would be heading north to Sedona, which, according to the travel agent, was always a good ten to fifteen degrees cooler than the desert.

  “Have the two of you ever been to Sedona?” I asked Larry and Dave as the plane continued to descend. Neither of them had uttered more than a single sentence to me in five hours, but I was getting really keyed up about the trip at that point, and when I get keyed up, I get talkative.

  “No,” said Larry.

  “Not me,” said Dave.

  “Well, I’m renting a car at the airport and driving up there today,” I said, positively bursting with nervous energy. “I don’t know what to expect, to be honest. I’ve heard Sedona is magnificent country, of course, but then there’s the whole metaphysical thing, which isn’t exactly my thing, but I’m convinced that once I’m in Sedona I’ll be healed, spiritually and emotionally, because of all the vortexes, and if I actually meditate while I’m standing on them and surrender myself over to the natural beauty of Sedona’s ancient and extremely sacred land, I’ll return to New York not only with new meaning in my life but with the inner peace I’ve been severely lacking.”

  Larry looked at Dave and shrugged apologetically. “Next time you book the seats, okay?”

  Chapter Six

  I picked up my rental car, a burgundy something-or-other, loaded my bags into the trunk, and asked the friendly Avis lady for a map showing me how to get to Sedona. And then I set off on my journey.

  Getting out of downtown Phoenix was a little tricky, but within twenty minutes or so I had passed through the blizzard of restaurants and hotels and retail stores in the center of town and found my way onto Interstate 17, where, with every passing exit, the terrain began to grow less and less populated and more and more like the sort of barren, sagebrush-and-cactus-covered desert you see in old Clint Eastwood westerns. As I continued to head north on I-17, moving further and further away from civilization, I started to come down with a case of the creeps—that out-of-kilter feeling you get if you’ve lived in a big city most of your life and are used to having people and buildings and at least one Korean produce market within eyeshot. Hoping for a little traveling music to keep me from flipping out altogether, I fiddled with the car radio in search of a decent station. All I got was static, and I ended up riding the rest of the way with the fan of the air conditioner as my only acoustical accompaniment.

  I was about halfway to Sedona when it dawned on me that I was becoming perpendicular to the earth! Yes, I was no longer speeding along the flat-as-a-pancake desert, but driving almost straight upward into altitudes that were making my ears pop! Up and up and up chugged my car, its pathetic four-cylinder engine coughing and bucking and resisting all the hard work I was making it do. Higher and higher and higher I went, the two-lane highway curving and curling and threading its way between mountain ranges of increasing size and majesty. The word “awesome” became a casualty of the unfortunate Valley Girl period, but it really was the most apt description of the sights surrounding me that Tuesday morning in September. Especially when the road roller-coastered down into the so-called Verde Valley—a vast, low-lying expanse of pure greenery, smack in the middle of the stony gray mountains and dusty brown desert. The contrast was so startling that I had trouble concentrating on my driving. It was like watching The Wizard of Oz and having the movie suddenly switch from the black and white of Dorothy’s life in Kansas to the dazzling emerald of Oz—right before your eyes. Where was I, anyway? I thought as I swallowed hard, trying to unclog my ears and my brain, opening the car windows to catch a whiff of the air, which was warm but no longer the furnace it had been back in Phoenix.

  I turned off I-17 and continued northwest on Route 260, which, the Avis lady had assured me, would take me through the town of Cottonwood onto Highway 89A, Sedona’s main drag, and would allow me to bypass the heavy midday traffic of what she had called “Greater Sedona.” I laughed when I recalled the conversation. What kind of heavy midday traffic could they possibly have in Sedona? Bumper-to-bumper coyotes? I’d been driving for nearly two hours and had only seen a dozen other cars.

  It was while I was passing through Cottonwood, the future site of Arizona’s premier golf resort and conference center, if you believed the jazzy billboards, that I first saw the red rocks. They were still off in the distance but they were just as advertised: towering, timeless, individual—like finely chiseled pieces of sculpture, no two alike. Oh, and they were definitely red. The exact shade depended on the specific piece of rock and the exact time of day and the precise way the light was hitting it, but if I had to pick the predominant color out of a crayon box, I’d probably go for the burnt sienna.

  Rona was right, I marveled, as I tried to keep my eyes on the road. If the outskirts of Sedona are this magical, what must the heart of town be like?

  My curiosity grew with every mile as my rental car and I climbed 89A, which was presently winding uphill—steeply—taking me higher and higher, the air getting thinner and thinner. I sincerely hoped that being 4,500 feet above sea level wouldn’t cause me to lose consciousness. I had journeyed mu
ch too far to black out now.

  When I reached the junction of 89A and Dry Creek Road—the Avis lady had told me to watch for a movie theatre on the corner with the too-precious name “Cined-ona”—I turned left and followed the signs to Tranquility. The road led not only to the hotel that was to be my home away from home for the next ten days, but to Boynton Canyon, the famous red rock formation that was also a vortex site. Oh, boy.

  The resort was as breathtaking as the canyon, I was delighted to see after the guard at the hotel’s entrance checked my name on the guest list and waved me through. Several dozen adobe-style buildings dotted the mountainside and were perfectly color coordinated with the surrounding red rocks. There was also a large building on the property that apparently housed the lobby, gift shop, and restaurants. It was in front of this building, in the fairly crowded lot intended for guests, that I parked.

  I was about to get out of the car and stretch my legs when a man approached me—a young, blond man with a rather intense expression. He was wearing faded blue jeans, a turquoise-and-silver cross, and a T-shirt that read: “There’s No Place Like Om.”

  “Yes?” I said as he poked his head through the open window of the car. “Is there something you want?”

  “You’re in a really bad space, you know?” he said.

  “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry,” I said sheepishly, thinking I must have parked in a space reserved for the handicapped. I peered out onto the pavement, searching for the ubiquitous blue lines and logo. There were none. I was confused.

  “I’m talking about here,” said the man, placing his forefinger on his temple. “In your head. You’re in a bad space. A really bad space.”

  Sure. Sure. I understand now, I thought. I’m in Sedona, and everyone I meet will speak in a language as incomprehensible as Rona’s.

  The man reached into the pocket of his jeans, and, before handing me his business card, said very proudly, “I know Reiki.”

  “You know Ricky?”

  “No. Reiki.”

  “Reiki.” I smiled politely, trying hard to follow him. Was this Reiki a Native American medicine man? I wondered. A psychic? A local drug merchant? Who?

  “Yes, Reiki,” he said. “I believe it can help you.”

  “It?”

  “Reiki.”

  I shrugged, exasperated. “Look, I’m an accountant,” I said. “This is all geek to me.”

  The man remained serious. “Then I will explain,” he said. “I’m a healer and the method of healing I practice is the ancient art of Reiki.” I felt a demonstration coming on and I was right. He rubbed his hands together rapidly for several seconds, then placed them on the top of my head.

  “Hey, they’re hot!” I said, referring to his hands, which felt surprisingly toasty on my scalp.

  “Yes,” he said. “And they have the power to pass along healing energy to the problem areas of the body.”

  I wasn’t about to argue with him. I just wanted to check into the hotel, get something to eat, and take a nap.

  “The material world is of no consequence to me,” he added as I started to open the car door. “However, a love donation of $65.00 per one-hour session would be gratefully appreciated.”

  “I’ll keep your card,” I promised, stuffing it into my purse. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “You, too. Go with peace,” he said and then tried his luck with the red convertible that had just cruised into the parking lot.

  The hotel lobby was as attractively decorated as any I had ever seen. The colors were muted and soft, the furniture sophisticated but made of woods and fabrics indigenous to the area. Whoever was in charge of the place was obviously clever enough not to try to compete with the natural spectacle outside Tranquility—the truly magnificent Boynton Canyon—but to simply let the view make the statement.

  I introduced myself to the fresh-faced young clerk at the registration desk, who told me her name was Kara and that she hoped I was having a beautiful day. I said I was but that it was still early. She giggled, then began to search her computer screen for my reservation.

  “Did you book the spa vacation package, the tennis vacation package, or the spiritual vacation package?” she asked when she couldn’t locate the reservation.

  “I’m not sure I booked any of them,” I said, feeling increasingly like a stranger in a strange land. “I just came to Sedona for a little R & R.”

  “A little R & R. So you did book the spiritual vacation package,” she said, nodding. “You’re here for a little Reiki and a little Rolfing.”

  I knew about Reiki, thanks to my pal in the parking lot. Rolfing was another story. But one out of two wasn’t bad, I figured. Especially for someone as metaphysically challenged as I was.

  “I kind of sensed that you’d booked the spiritual vacation package from the minute we started talking,” Kara said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because of your name. I bet we had ten or fifteen guests in the last month alone who registered as Crystal. They were all booked for the spiritual vacation package, too, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, suddenly wishing my parents had named me Nancy.

  Eventually, Kara found my reservation, gave me my room key and a speech about Tranquility’s amenities, and told me that Todd, my bell person, would retrieve my luggage from my car and take me to my “casita.”

  “Listen, before I forget,” I said to Kara, “how do I book the Sacred Earth Jeep Tour?”

  “The concierge here arranges those,” she explained, then giggled again. “You’ll never believe this but her name is Crystal, too.”

  I thanked her and told her to “Go with peace.”

  My casita was positioned along a particularly scenic section of Tranquility, which, if my first impression was accurate, was indeed tranquil. No drunken convention-goers. No rambunctious golfers. Not even a screaming kid. All I heard as Todd escorted me to my room were the sweet sounds of birds chirping and the occasional whoosh of a sudden mountain breeze. I was thrilled. The room itself was lovely, boasting the same muted tones and tasteful decor of the lobby. But, once again, the view stole the show. From my sliding glass doors and adjoining patio, I could look straight up at the enormous peaks of Boynton Canyon and feel an amazing connection with nature, an instant harmony with my surroundings, a genuine oneness with—

  I know, I know. I was starting to sound like the rest of them, but the truth is, I really felt these things.

  After I unpacked, I walked back to the main building and had a late lunch in the more casual of Tranquility’s two restaurants, the Red Rock Grille. As I was taking the last bite of my Tranquility Turkey Club, my waiter came over and asked me if everything was all right.

  “It was delicious,” I said. “Especially the sage bread.” Virtually everything on the menu had sage in it somewhere. Sage was the basil of Arizona, I guessed.

  “No, I didn’t mean the food,” said the waiter.

  I glanced up at him, wondering what else he could have meant. He was a waiter, after all. “I was asking if everything was all right with your energy centers,” he explained. “When I took your order I tapped into some major problems there.”

  “Don’t tell me. When you aren’t working as a waiter, you’re balancing people’s chakras,” I said.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “I do attunements.”

  “So you have a part-time job at a gas station?”

  “No. No. You’re probably thinking of tune-ups. Or maybe alignments.”

  “Probably.” This was going to be more difficult than I thought.

  “Atunements are healing sessions where I put your body in tune with its energy centers. They’re $50.00 a session. Here’s my card.”

  “Thanks,” I said, slipping it into my purse next to the Reiki guy’s. Then I looked down at my empty plate and told the waiter he could clear everything.

  “That’s terrific,” he said. “I do clearings, too. Only $25.00 a session for those.”

  After lunch I
met with Crystal, the concierge, and braced myself for a remark about my being in a bad space or needing a clearing or whatever. But she was all business as I asked her about the hotel’s fabled Sacred Earth Jeep Tours.

  “The tours are a marvelous experience,” she said. “The drivers, many of whom are of Native American heritage, are extremely well versed in the ancient rites and customs practiced by the tribes that once occupied the land here. And the vehicles themselves are in tip-top condition. There hasn’t been an accident or a breakdown or an incident of any kind since we started the program.”

  “That’s reassuring,” I said.

  “Now, to the details. The tour is a five-day package—from nine in the morning until 4:30 in the afternoon each day—and bottled water and boxed lunches are included in the price.”

  “Which is?”

  “Only $500.00, plus tax. And you can charge it to your room.”

  Five hundred bucks seemed like an awfully unspiritual price. “So it’s a hundred dollars a day?” I asked, trying to convince myself that the tour was worth the money.

  “Precisely,” the concierge said.

  “And you can visit all the vortexes in five days?”

  “Oh, yes. The vortexes and much more. People come from all over the world to participate in these tours.”

  “Well, I guess I’m about to be one of them,” I said. “Sign me up for the tour that shoves off tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh,” said Crystal, looking dismayed suddenly. “I had no idea you wanted to take tomorrow’s tour. It’s completely full.”

  “You only have one Jeep going out each day?”

  “No. Let me explain. Each Jeep seats six passengers. Those six passengers begin the tour on a specific day and end the tour five days later. In other words, you can’t join a tour that’s already in progress.”

  “And the tour that’s beginning tomorrow has its six passengers?” I said.