Life''s Golden Ticket

  “But how did it appear, how did this place just . . . ?”

  Henry shook his head and interrupted. “No questions like that. Let’s start with a simple ground rule. No questions about how the park came to be, or what it is, from here on out. If you question it, the experience isn’t what it should be.” He gave me a take-it-or-leave-it look. “Just accept that this could be a place of miracles for you, and choose to experience it fully. Got it?”

  “Okay, but . . .”

  “And no buts,” he countered. “Now, come with me. . . .”

  He walked to the far side of the square, and I could do nothing but follow obediently. I felt an urge to ask more questions, but I was so unsettled by the happenings of the past few hours that I couldn’t even muster the logic to put the words together. Even if I could, Henry had already warned me.

  When we got to the edge of the square, he said, “This is the Truth Booth.” It was tiny, like one of those mini–photo booths kids and love-struck couples gravitate toward at shopping malls. “In a few minutes,” he said, “I’m going to have you sit in there, and we’re going to figure out some of the reasons you might be here. You see, everyone who comes to this park was invited by someone who cared deeply for them. And they accepted the invitation because they knew this place might just change their lives. That’s why Mary would have come here: to change something. Most folks who get here, though, only have a vague notion of what they want to change. The Truth Booth helps them get clarity by forcing them to look at the reality of their lives. But before you go in there, you have some questions for me, don’t you?”

  He had read my mind. In the moments he had been talking, logic had returned, and I had fixed on the one question I couldn’t leave alone.

  “I’m sorry for asking again . . . but are you sure you don’t know what happened to Mary?”

  Henry studied me for a second, shaking his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know exactly what happened to Mary. Everyone who comes here has a unique experience. They all go on rides, play games, eat, and walk around thinking about their lives, but exactly what they experience and what they learn differs for each individual. I can also say that everyone who comes here ends up confronting some things about their lives that may not be pleasant. Sometimes in that process people freak out, shut down, or get lost. I fear one of those things may have happened somewhere along the journey for Mary, but I just don’t know. We’ll have to figure it out together. But let me be clear about something,” he said, positioning himself directly in front of me. “We are not here together simply to understand Mary’s story. This is a place of destiny. There is a reason you are here—a reason beyond Mary, a reason you could even see this park without an invitation, a reason you bumped into me, and, somehow, a reason I felt deep down that I should help you. Everything happens for a reason.”

  “Why did you help?” I asked. “Betty made it sound like a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” he said, offering no further explanation. “Look, son, Mary asked you to come here to understand what she experienced. Fine. But you are also here to understand something about yourself. There are lessons for you here. I’ll be your guide—I believe I was meant to be. I’ve been here a very long time and have never heard of someone not opening their envelope at the end of their experience. There is unfinished business here. Our challenge in uncovering what happened to Mary is that this park works on you and no one else. So here’s my advice: Don’t try to understand what happened to Mary, because this experience will be more about you than about her. Trust that her story will unfold eventually along with your own, okay?”

  I nodded but didn’t really understand. I looked down, trying to sort it all out in my head. I felt helpless. I didn’t know what to do, or think, or say. I felt frustrated: this was all too crazy—I just wanted to know what happened to Mary and then get out of there, wherever “there” was.

  “It’s called overwhelm,” Henry said softly, picking up on my feelings. “You’re going to be dealing with some pretty big issues, and you’ll feel it more and more as we go. This experience will be unnerving. You may have to face some tough truths. Like I said, you’re just going to have to go along with this and figure it out piece by piece. And you’re going to have to have faith that there is a reason for all this—a powerful reason why you are here. Now, let’s get on with it.”

  He pulled back the Truth Booth’s curtain and motioned for me to step inside. I climbed in, took a seat, and looked around. I was sitting in front of a television screen with two credit card–size slots beneath it.

  As I stared at the blank screen, Henry said, “Get comfortable. This might not be easy. When I close the curtain, put your right hand on the screen in front of you. You’ll figure it out from there.” He gave me a last warm look from around the curtain. “You okay?”

  I looked back, unsure. “I don’t know. . . . This is all pretty wild. I just want to know what happened to Mary.”

  “I know. But think: Is it possible she wanted you to experience what she did? In fact, isn’t that what you told me she said to you?”

  “Yes, she said that.”

  “Okay,” Henry said. “You’re about to begin a similar experience. Yours will be unique to your life, but you’ll get the idea. I’m going to close the curtain now, okay?”

  “Um . . . all right.”

  He smiled in approval. “Now, just be honest, son. Be totally, completely honest. It will help.”

  He swept the curtain shut. It was pitch-black inside the booth. I reached forward and put my right hand on the tiny television screen, as Henry had told me. It quickly grew warm. Then it started to glow a light pink. Warmer. Then red. Warmer. Then purple. Hot! I pulled my hand away. The screen faded to black; then a small, gray, fuzzy image appeared. The image seemed far away. It started to come into focus . . . closer. . . . It looked like the outline of someone’s head . . . closer. . . . It looked like a face . . . closer . . . clearer . . .

  I shot backward in surprise, slamming my head into the wall.

  It was my mother’s face in black-and-white. She looked exactly as she had the last time I saw her alive, when I was seventeen.

  My mouth hung open. I leaned forward and touched the image of her face.

  The image came alive. She spoke. “Hi, honey.”

  I pulled my hand away and slammed back into the wall again. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest. I could hear my pulse in the dark booth.

  She was so real. She blinked, looking at me expectantly.

  I shook my head. She couldn’t be real. “Mom?”

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “I’m here to ask you some questions. We don’t have much time, and I love you, so let me begin straightaway. Are you happy?” Her voice sounded soothing and soft, as it always had. Her eyes were kind and engaged.

  I shook my head in disbelief at what I was seeing. “Mom? It can’t be you.”

  “It’s me. But let’s hurry. . . .”

  “Mom, I . . .” I felt silly talking to the screen, but the words tumbled out anyway: “Mom, I miss you, I miss you so much. . . .”

  Her face took on that knowing, patient look. “Don’t cry, son. I miss you too. But please listen—we really don’t have much time together. I have to ask you some questions. Tell me: are you happy?”

  Through my tears, I saw a sense of urgency in her face.

  “Yeah, Mom . . . I’m . . . I’m doing good. . . . You know you never need to worry about me.”

  She smiled and gave me her don’t-even-try-to-fool-your-mother look. “That’s what you used to tell me when you were a boy. You and I both knew it wasn’t true then. You never wanted me to worry; you’re a good son for that. But I need you to tell me the truth. Is your life going the way you expected? The way you dreamed?”

  “Mom, why are you asking me these things? Why is this happening?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But you need to tell me: is your life what you dreamed it would be?”

  I paused
and looked away, not wanting to answer. Besides, this isn’t real . . . right?

  “Son?” she asked.

  I looked back at her, and her kind eyes pulled a response from deep within me. “No, Mom. It’s not what I dreamed of. . . . Life has taken some unexpected turns.”

  She nodded, brushing her dark, softly curling hair off her face. Smiling, she said, “Well, you were always good with directions. Where’d you get off track?”

  “I don’t know. . . . A lot of places, I guess.”

  “Where?”

  “A lot of places. It’s not that my life is bad. It’s just . . . I know there’s more.”

  “Let’s pinpoint where there could be more. Work?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Maybe?” she said, arching her brow.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes maybe?”

  “Okay. Definitely. I’m restless at work. . . . I could do better, something more me, something more fulfilling.”

  “There you go,” she said. “If work is one of the unexpected turns you mentioned, then it’s time to turn it around by admitting it. The truth is always a good turning point. What else isn’t going well?”

  I could hardly think how to tell her about Mary. I always wished they could have met.

  “Are you in love?”

  I looked at her in surprise. She seemed to read my mind. The thought of talking about Mary created a heavy lump in my throat.

  “Yeah, Mom . . . a great lady. Her name’s Mary.”

  “How’s your relationship been with her?”

  My eyes started to sting again. “Uh, well, you know, it’s been—it was . . . a little rough.” I didn’t know how to tell her that I had pushed Mary away and that it was probably my fault she got into the accident.

  “Has she been good to you?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice trembling. “Always. She was always good to me. She was always patient, always trying to help me be better.”

  “Have you been good to her?”

  The memory of screaming at Mary before she disappeared burned in my mind.

  “Have you been good to her?” Mom asked again.

  I doubled over in my seat and did my best to hold back tears. “I tried! I tried to be a good man. But I don’t think I was.”

  A few moments passed, and I looked up to see Mom sobbing softly too.

  “I’m sorry this is so hard. I know you always do your best.”

  I couldn’t look at her. “Mom, I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

  “Sure, you do. You always do, and you always did. Just be a good person, like you’ve always been.” She paused until I looked back. “Listen, you were always a strong boy, a smart boy, a caring boy. Don’t let what happened between you and your father convince you otherwise. Don’t you dare settle for anything other than the life you want to live. Look at your life. Look at every area. See what you need to stop doing and what you need to start, and do it while you still can, no matter how hard it is. Do what your grandpa always told you: ‘Just keep learning and living.’”

  A minute passed as Mom waited for me to regain my composure.

  “It’s time for me to go now,” she whispered.

  “No, Mom! Not yet. . . . I have so many questions.”

  “I’m sorry, son, I’ve got to go. But let me say one last thing. You can be whoever you want to be, and you can do whatever you want to do. I always told you that, and I know you used to believe it. It’s time to believe again, son. Promise me you’ll keep that in mind?”

  Tears flowed again as soon as she said the word promise. I had made two promises, to the two most important women in my life, in less than a day.

  “I promise.” I paused, floundering for words. “Mom, I wish you were really here,” I said slowly. “I love you so much.”

  Her image started to fade. She smiled. “I’ll always love you. . . .”

  “Mom! No, don’t go!”

  “. . . Remember your promise. . . .”

  “Mom! Don’t go!”

  The screen went blank.

  Henry led me across the square without saying a word. The night was cooler than before but still comfortable. The faint hiss of the Victorian gaslights filled the air. When we arrived at a tent on the other side, he pulled back the entry flap and motioned for me to enter.

  “What now?” I asked quietly, still choked up.

  “Now we see the wizard.”

  4

  THE STAGING TENT

  I pushed through the tent flap and stopped in my tracks. The outside of the tent couldn’t have been more than thirty feet by thirty. Inside, though, a different view made me blink in disbelief. I was standing at the top of an immense underground cavern.

  I turned to Henry, and gasped.

  He chuckled. “And you thought Betty was big.”

  The cavern opened out like a large concert hall. I looked down on what looked like a hundred rows of stadium-style seating, squinting to see the stage at the far end. The space was dimly lit, with hundreds of bare lightbulbs along the sidewalls. Limestone formations rose from the ground here and there and hung from the ceiling. The air was musty, but charged with excitement and the clamor of voices.

  “Let’s hurry up and go down front,” Henry said and began descending the stairway.

  How can this be possible? I turned around and pushed the tent flap back open. Cool air breezed in, and I saw that the lights illuminating the open square had been turned off. The stillness seemed dreamlike. I took a step outside to examine how a small tent could hold such a massive cavern.

  “Believe me,” Henry called from behind, “the show is in here.”

  He waved me toward him with a childlike smile. Dropping the flap, I started toward the stage. The stairs seemed larger than normal, and I felt like a kid climbing down boulders. The noise in the cavern grew with anticipation. I passed rows and rows of people. Many of them smiled at me as I worked my way down. Some talked excitedly with one another, while others just sat quietly, in awe at the grandeur of the space.

  When we neared the bottom of the cavern, I turned around to see its true expansiveness. I whispered, “There must be two thousand people in here.”

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Henry smiled broadly and gestured to me to sit in one of two open seats next to the aisle, about five rows back from the stage.

  As I sat the lights suddenly turned off, and the crowd hushed.

  Moments passed, and a soft blue spotlight beam illuminated a stool. I heard murmurs from the front and could just make out the dark outline of two people climbing the stairs at the right of the stage. A small girl and an old man wearing a hooded white cloak came into view as they neared the spotlight. The girl helped him forward, eased him onto the stool, pulled back his hood, and then ran offstage.

  I shifted in my seat to get a better look. The old man looked like a stereotypical comic book wizard: long, flowing white hair and a long white beard. His cloak was tied in the middle with a simple gold-colored rope and fell over his feet. The wrinkles on his face said he was old; his hunched posture and inability to get to the stool on his own said he was really old.

  He sat, eyes closed in silence. An entire minute passed, then another . . . and another. The crowd began to mumble. The blue spotlight gave him an eerie cast, as if he were cold and dead. Another minute. I turned to say something to Henry when the wizard raised one gaunt finger. The crowd fell silent again. Another minute.

  Then he opened his startling blue eyes and sat straight up. His face grew animated, as if he had inhaled life itself.

  “Friends,” he said, drawing out the word, “welcome. Everything you have ever experienced in your life has served a purpose: it has brought you here, to this exact point. Your struggles and your survival and your tragedies and your triumphs brought you here. To this night. To this hour. To this moment.” The wizard’s rich, deep voice resonated throughout the cavern. The slight echo and the silent beginning brought
a sense of importance and occasion to his words.

  “You have come here because you received an invitation. You are all the same. You all surely felt your mother’s embrace as a child. You all played with toys. All saw fireworks. Felt the nervousness of a first date. Heard the sting of criticism. Shrugged off conformity, then embodied it. Took a job. Sought love, gave love, lost love, sought it again. Grew stronger, wiser, more cynical. Cherished the glory days, bewailed the gloomy days, prayed for better days. And now you are here. And I am here to guide you through the next moments.”

  The wizard seemed to become younger with every word he spoke. His physical frailty was overshadowed by the power of his voice.

  “Now, friends, to the question that was in your head when you arrived at this magical place, the question that echoed in your mind as you stood in line outside. The question that flashed across your eyes when you saw this cavern and sat on its cool stone, anticipating what might come next. The question of all humanity . . .”

  “. . . Why . . . am . . . I . . . here?”

  As he spoke the question, I felt myself release a breath that I hadn’t even known I was holding. A collective sigh rose from the crowd.

  The wizard’s eyes sparkled as he heard recognition, and a lively grin stole over his face. “Oh, good. With all the buildup, I was hoping to get that right.”

  The crowd erupted into rolling laughter. The wizard practically glowed onstage.

  “I have wandered this park for decades,” he continued. “I know that everyone who has ever entered its gates has asked, ‘Why have I come here?’ And after all this time I have come to realize that the answer to this question, like all great questions, lies in the question itself.”

  He paused and leaned so far forward that he looked as though he might fall off his stool. “Listen closely, for I am but a weak old wizard,” he said, as if about to tell the greatest secret in the world.