What Dreams May Come (10 page)

“Mostly because I was convinced there was no more to existence,” he said.

I recalled that, as I died, I’d become conscious of what was happening in the next room. “Who was that old woman?” I asked, making use, again, of his awareness of my thoughts.

“No one you knew,” he answered. “As your physical senses faded, your psychic senses grew acute and you achieved a brief state of clairvoyance.”

Memories of the death experience started flooding back to me. I asked him what the tingling sensation had been and he answered that it had been my etheric double disengaging itself from the nerve ends of my physical body. I didn’t know what he meant by my etheric double but let it go for then, because of the other questions I wanted to ask.

Those noises like the breaking of threads, for instance. Nerve ends tearing loose, he answered; starting from my feet and working upward to my brain.

The silver cord connecting me to my body as I floated above it? A cable connecting the physical body to the etheric double. An enormous number of nerve ends joined at the base of the brain, interwoven through the matter of the brain. Filaments gathered into an etheric “umbilical” cord attached to the crown of the head.

The sack of colors drawn up by the cord? My etheric double being removed. The origin of the word “body” is the Anglo-Saxon “bodig” meaning abode. Which is what the physical body is, you see, Robert. A transient dwelling for the real self.

“But what happened after my death?”

“You were earthbound,” he said. “That state should have ended in approximately three days.”

“How long did it last?”

“In earth terms? Hard to say,” he answered. “Weeks, at least. Maybe longer.”

“It seemed endless,” I remembered, shuddering.

“I don’t wonder,” he told me. “The agony of being earth-bound can be indescribable. I’m sure the memory still haunts.”

Memories somehow shadowed

“WHY DID EVERYTHING look so vague?” I asked, “and feel so … wet; that’s the only word I can think of to describe it.”

I’d been in the densest part of the earth’s aura he told me, an aqueous region which was the source of myths about the waters of Lethe, the River Styx.

Why hadn’t I been able to see anything beyond ten feet after I died? Because I’d seen no further than that when I was dying and carried that last impression with me.

Why did I feel sluggish and stupid, unable to think clearly? Because two-thirds of my consciousness had been inoperative, my mind still enveloped by etheric matter which had been part of my physical brain. Accordingly, my responses had been confined to the instinctive and repetitive reactions of that matter. I’d felt dull-witted, miserable, lonely, fearful.

“And exhausted,” I said. “I kept wanting to sleep but I couldn’t.”

“You were trying to reach your second death,” Albert told me.

Once more, I was startled. “Second death?”

Achieved by sleeping and permitting the mind to re-experience its life on earth, he told me. I’d been kept from that sleep by Ann’s extreme grief and my desire to comfort her. Instead of purging myself in that “approximately three days” I’d been held captive in a “sleepwalking” state.

The fact is, Robert, that a person newly deceased is in exactly the frame of mind he was at the moment of death, accessible to influences from the earth plane. This condition fades in sleep but, in my case, memories were renewed and kept vivid by my twilight state. This was complicated further by Perry’s influence.

“I know Richard only meant to help,” I said.

“Of course he did,” Albert agreed. “He wanted to convince your wife that you’d survived; an act of love on his part. But, in doing so, he was, without knowing it, instrumental in delaying further your second death.”

“I still don’t know what you mean by my second death,” I told him.

“The shedding of your etheric double,” he said. “Leaving the shell of it behind so your spirit—or astral—body could move on.”

“Is that what I saw at the seance?” I asked in surprise, “my etheric double?”

“Yes, you’d discarded it by then.”

“It was like a corpse,” I said, with disgust.

“It was a corpse,” he told me. “The corpse of your etheric double.”

“But it spoke,” I said. “It answered questions.” “Only as a zombie might,” he explained. “Its essence was gone. The astral shell, as it’s called, is no more than an aggregate of dying molecules. It has no genuine life or intelligence. The young man didn’t know it but it was his own psychic power which animated the shell, his own mind which fed it answers.”

“Like a puppet,” I said, recalling what I’d thought at the time.

“Exactly,” Albert nodded.

“That’s why Perry couldn’t see me at the seance then.”

“You were beyond his psychic sight.”

“Poor Ann,” I said. The memory was painful. “It was horrible for her.”

“And could have done her harm if she’d pursued it,” Albert added. “Contact with nonphysical states of being can have a peculiar effect on the living.”

“If only she knew all this,” I said, unhappily.

“If only everyone on earth knew it,” he replied.

The attitudes of people toward those who’ve died is vital, you see, Robert. Since the consciousness of the deceased is so vulnerable to impressions, the emotions of those left behind can have a powerful effect on it. Intense sorrow creates a vibration which actually causes pain to the departed, holding them back from progression. Actually, it’s unfortunate that people mourn the dead, prolonging the adjustment to the hereafter. The deceased need time to reach their second death. The funeral ceremony was meant to be a medium of peaceful release, not a ritual of grief.

Did you know, Robert, that, in extreme unction, the seven centers of the body—covering the vital organs—are anointed to assist the dying person to withdraw vitality from those organs in preparation for complete withdrawal through the silver cord? And absolution of the dead was established to make certain that the silver cord is severed and all etheric matter withdrawn from the body.

There are so many things which can be done to make the death process easier. Pressures on certain nerve centers. Certain tones sounded. Certain lights utilized. Certain mantras chanted softly, certain incenses burned. All designed to help the dying person concentrate his senses for departure.

Most importantly, remains should always be cremated three days following death.

I told Albert about my body in the cemetery; of that hideous moment in which I’d seen it.

“She didn’t want your body burned,” he said, “she loves you so, she wants you down mere so she can visit and talk to you. It’s understandable—but regrettable since it isn’t you at all.”

“What does cremation do that burial doesn’t?”

Frees the departed from a tie which has a tendency to keep it near the physical body, he answered. Also, in extreme cases, where there’s difficulty in breaking the cord even after death, the fire severs it immediately. And, after the astral shell has been discarded rather than it decaying slowly along with the body above which it hovers, cremation disposes of it quickly.

“This tie you mention,” I said. “Is that what made me feel compelled to see my body?”

He nodded. “People can’t forget their bodies easily. They keep wanting to see the thing they once believed to be themselves. That desire can become an obsession. That’s why cremation is important.”

I wondered, as he spoke, why I was feeling more and more upset. Why I kept associating everything he said with my troubled thoughts about Ann. What was I afraid of? Albert had reassured me constantly that we would be together again. Why couldn’t I accept that?

I thought again about my frightening dream. Albert had called it a “symbolic left-over.” That made sense but still it disturbed me. Every thought regarding Ann disturbed me now, even the happy memories, somehow, shadowed.

Losing Ann again

UNEXPECTEDLY, ALBERT SAID: “Chris, I have to leave you for awhile. There’s some work I must do.”

I felt embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “It never crossed my mind that I was taking up time needed elsewhere.”

“Not at all.” He patted my back. “I’ll send someone to continue walking with you. And, while you’re waiting—you asked about water—take my hand.”

I did as he said. “Close your eyes,” he told me, picking up Katie.

The instant I did, I felt a sense of rapid motion. It was over so quickly it might have been imagined.

“You can open them now,” Albert said.

I did and caught my breath. We were standing on the shore of a magnificent, forest-rimmed lake. I looked in wonder at the huge expanse of it, its surface calm except for tiny wavelets, the water crystal clear, each ripple refracting light into spectrum colors.

“I’ve never seen a lake so beautiful,” I said.

“I thought you’d like it,” he said, putting down Katie. “I’ll see you later at my house.” He gripped my arm. “Be at peace,” he told me.

I blinked and he was gone. Like that. No flash of light, no indication of departure. One instant, he was there, the next, he wasn’t. I glanced down at Katie. She didn’t seem at all surprised.

I turned to gaze at the lake. “It reminds me of Lake Arrowhead,” I said to Katie. “You remember the condominium we had up there?” She wagged her tail. “It was nice but nothing like this.” There, browning foliage was always visible among the green, debris marred the shoreline and, at times, a mist of smog hovered above the surface of the lake. This lake was perfection and the forest and air, perfection. Ann would love this, I thought.

It disturbed me that, surrounded by such beauty, I should still be conscious of distress regarding her. Why was I unable to let go of it? Albert had told me repeatedly to do so. Why, then, did this anxiety persist?

I sat beside Katie and stroked her head. “What’s wrong with me, Kate?” I asked.

We looked into each other’s eyes. She did understand; I could doubt it no longer. I almost seemed to sense a wave of understanding sympathy from her.

She lay beside me and I tried to will distress from my mind by thinking of the times we had spent at Lake Arrowhead. Weekends during the year and, for as long as a month at a time during summers, we’d go there with the children. I was doing well in television at the time and, in addition to the condominium, we owned a speedboat, keeping it stored at the North Shore Marina.

Many a summer day was spent on the lake. In the morning, after breakfast, we’d make our lunches, put on bathing suits and drive to the Marina, Katie with us. We’d speed to a favorite cove of ours at the south end of the lake where the children—Richard and Marie, Louise when she and her husband visited—would put on water skis and be towed. Ian was too young at the time so we’d bought him a ski sled which he’d christened Captain Zip. Ann liked to ride it too because she had trouble skiing.

I thought about the sight of Ann lying on that sled, laughing breathlessly as she bounced across the dark, blue waters of the lake. I thought about Ian riding it, grinning with delight, especially when he was able to stand up on it.

For lunch, we’d anchor in the cove and eat our sandwiches and chips and cold soda from the ice chest. The sun would be warm on our backs and I’d take deep, unspoken pleasure watching Ann and our lovely, tanned children as we ate and talked and laughed together.

Happy memories weren’t helping. They made me feel more melancholy knowing those tunes could never be recaptured. I felt an aching loneliness inside me. I missed Ann so; missed the children so. Why hadn’t I told them, more often, how I loved them? If only we could share this lovely place. If only Ann and I—

I shook myself impatiently. Here I was in heaven, mind you—heaven!—and still brooding. I’d survived death; all my family would survive it. We would, all of us, be together again. What was the matter with me?

“Come on, Kate,” I said, standing quickly. “Let’s take a walk.” More and more, I was beginning to appreciate what Albert had said about the mind being all.

As we began to hike along the shore, I wondered, momentarily, if Albert had meant for me to stay where he’d brought me so this “someone” could locate me. Then, I realized that, whoever the someone was, he’d find me by thinking of me.

There was a beach before us and we started to walk along it. The sand was soft underfoot, no stones or pebbles anywhere in sight.

Stopping, I knelt and picked up a handful of the sand. It was without grit, firm in consistency yet soft to the touch; while undeniably cohesive, it felt like powder. I let some run between my fingers and observed the delicately multicolored granules as they fell. I lifted my hand and looked at them more closely. In form and color, they resembled miniature jewels.

I let the rest fall to the beach and stood. The sand didn’t stick to my palm or knee as it would have on earth.

Again, I had to shake my head in wonderment. Sand. A beach. Deep forest encompassing a lake. Blue sky overhead.

“And people doubt there’s afterlife,” I said to Katie. “I did myself. Incredible.”

I was to say and think that last word many times again; and not only with pleasure.

Moving to the edge of the lake, I stared at it closely, watching the delicate purl of surf. The water looked cold. Remembering the chill of Lake Arrowhead, I put my toes in gingerly.

I sighed as I felt the water. It was barely cool, emitting pleasant vibrations of energy. I looked down at Katie. She was standing in the water next to me. I had to smile. She’d never gone in water in her life; she always hated it. Here, she seemed completely content.

I walked into the lake until the level reached my shins; the bottom as smooth as the beach. Leaning over, I put my hand into the water and felt the energy flowing up my arm. “Feels good, huh, Kate?” I said.

She looked at me, wagging her tail and, once more, I felt a surge of happiness seeing her look as she had in her prime.

I straightened up, a palmful of water cupped in my hand. It shimmered with a delicate glow and I could feel its energy pulsing into my fingertips. As before, when it ran off my skin, it left no dampness.

Wondering if it would do the same with my robe, I submerged until the water was up to my waist. Katie didn’t follow now but sat on the beach, watching me. I didn’t get the impression she was afraid to follow, simply that she chose to wait.

Now I was immersed in energy and kept walking until the water was up to.my neck. It felt like a cloak around me, vibrating subtly. I wish I could describe the sensation in more detail. The best I can say is that it was as though an invigorating, low-watt electric charge were soothing every cell in my body.

Leaning back on impulse, I felt my feet and legs buoyed up and lay in the water, rocking gently, looking at the sky. Why was there no sun? I wondered. It didn’t disturb me; it was more pleasant to look at the sky without a glare to bother the eyes. I was just curious.

Another curiosity struck me. I couldn’t die; I was already dead. No, not dead, that word is the prime misnomer of the human language. What I mean is that I knew I couldn’t drown. What would happen if I put my face beneath the water?

Rolling over deliberately, I looked beneath the surface. It didn’t hurt my eyes to gaze through the water. Moreover, I could see everything clearly, the bottom immaculate, unmarred by stones or growths. At first, restrained by habit, I held my breath. Then, prevailing on myself, I took a cautious breath, expecting to gag.

Instead, my nose and mouth were bathed by a delicious coolness. I opened my mouth and the sensation spread to my throat and chest, invigorating me even further.

Turning onto my back, I closed my eyes and lay in the cool cradle of the water, beginning to think about the times Ann and the children and I had enjoyed our pool together. Every summer—especially on Sundays—we’d enjoy “family days” as Ian used to call them.

We had a slide and Ann and the children loved to come hurtling down it, crashing into the water. I smiled, remembering Ann’s hoot of half-scared delight as she shot down the curving decline, holding her nose, her legs and body arcing out into space, landing in the water with an enormous splash, her bright face surfacing.

We had a floating volleyball net and played long games, lunging and splashing, laughing, shouting, kidding each other. Then Ann would bring out dishes of fruit and cheese and a pitcher of juice and we’d sit and talk, then, after a while, play volleyball and slide again, dive and swim for hours more. Later in the afternoon, I’d light the charcoal in

the barbecue and grill chicken or hamburgers. Those were long and lovely afternoons and I remembered them with joy. I recalled that Ann had been unable to swim for a long time after we were married. She was afraid of the water but, finally, braved enough swimming lessons to get herself started.

I remembered the time she and I were in the Deauville Club in Santa Monica; we’d been members for a while. It was Sunday afternoon and we were in the basement, in the huge, Olympic-sized pool, Ann practicing.

It had been a terrible month for us. We’d almost gotten a divorce. Something to do with my career, Ann’s anxiety not permitting me to travel. I’d lost a sizeable screenwriting assignment in Germany and been more upset than I should have been. Financial insecurity had always been a dread to me; something from our past, Robert—Dad and Mom separating, the depression years. Anyway, I overreacted and Ann overreacted, telling me she wanted me to leave.

We actually went out one night to discuss the details of our separation. It seems incredible to me now. I remember the night vividly: some French restaurant in Sherman Oaks, the two of us sitting and eating dinner, both getting indigestion as we calmly sifted over the particulars of our divorce. Item: would we keep the house in Woodland Hills? Item: should we separate the children? Item: no, I can’t go on. Even as I transmit these words, I feel the crushing nausea of that evening.

We came so close; within a hair’s breadth. Or so it seemed. Maybe it had never been that close. It seemed inevitable at the time however. Until the penultimate moment. The moment past the calm discussion, the moment to actually separate, me packing clothes and driving off, leaving Ann behind. Then it collapsed. Literally, it was inconceivable to us; as though, by divorcing, we would voluntarily permit ourselves to be torn in half.

So this day at the Deauville was the first day after we had reconciled.

The pool seemed enormous because, except for us, it was unoccupied. Ann started across the width of it near the deep end. She’d done it several times already and I’d hugged her when she’d made it, congratulating her—no doubt ten times as effusively as I might ordinarily have done because of our reconciliation.

Now she was trying it again.

She was halfway across when she swallowed some water and started to choke and flounder. I was with her and grabbed her quickly. I had flippers attached to my feet and, by kicking hard, was able to keep us both afloat.

I felt her arms go tight around my neck and saw the expression of fear on her face. “It’s all right, honey,” I said. “I have you.” I was glad I had the flippers or I couldn’t have supported her.

Now memory went wrong again. I’d felt a bit uneasy at first but basically confident because I knew, somehow, that this had already happened, that I’d helped her to the side of the pool where she’d clung to the coping, frightened and breathless but safe.

This time it was different. I couldn’t get her there. She felt too heavy; my legs were unable to move us. She struggled more and more; began to cry. “Don’t let me sink, Chris, please.”

“I won’t, hang on,” I said. I pumped my legs as hard as I was able to but couldn’t keep us up, We both submerged, then bobbed up again. Ann cried out my name, her voice shrill with panic. We sank again and I saw her terrified face beneath the water, heard her cry put in my mind: Please don’t let me die! I knew she couldn’t speak the words but heard them clearly nonetheless.

I reached for her but the water was becoming murky now, I couldn’t see her clearly anymore. I felt her fingers clutch at mine, then slip away. I clawed at the water but couldn’t reach her. My heart began to pound. I tried to see her but the water was dark and cloudy Ann! I thought. I thrashed around in desperate anguish, feeling for her. I was there. That was the horror of it. I was really in that water, helpless and incapable, losing Ann again.

An end to despair

“HELLO!”

I RAISED my head abruptly, shaken from the dream. On shore, I saw a nimbus of light by Katie. Standing, I gazed at it until it faded and I saw a young woman standing there, wearing a pale blue robe.

I don’t know why I said it. Something about the way she stood, the color and shortness of her hair; the fact that Katie seemed so pleased to see her. “Ann?” I asked.

She was silent for moments, then replied, “Leona.”

My eyes saw then. Of course it wasn’t Ann. How could it be? I wondered, momentarily, whether Albert had sent this woman because she might remind me of Ann. I couldn’t believe he’d do that and decided that the thought was unjust. Anyway, she didn’t look like Ann, I saw now. The dream had made me see her as I’d hoped, not as she was.

I looked down at myself as I walked onto the beach. The water was flowing from my robe. It was dry before I reached the woman.

Straightening up from stroking Katie’s head, she extended

her hand. “Albert sent me,” she said. Her smile was very sweet, her aura a steady blue, almost the color of her robe.

I gripped her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Leona,” I said. “I guess you know my name.”

She nodded. “You thought I was your wife,” she said.

“She was in my thoughts when you came,” I explained.

“A pleasant memory, I’m sure.”

“It was when it began,” I answered. “It soon became unpleasant though.” I shivered. “Terrifying really.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She took hold of my hands. “There’s nothing to be terrified of,” she assured me. “Your wife will join you before you know it.”

I felt a flow of energy from her, similar to that of the water. Of course the people would have it too, I realized. I must not have noticed when Albert took my hand—or else both hands had to be held for the flow to function.

“Thank you,” I said as she released her grip. I had to try and think more positively. I’d been told by two different people now that Ann and I would be together again. Surely, I could accept it.

I forced a smile. “Katie was happy to see you,” I said.

“Oh, yes, we’re good friends,” Leona replied.

I gestured toward the lake. “Quite an experience being in the water,” I said.

“Isn’t it?” As she spoke, I wondered, suddenly, where she’d come from and how long she’d been in Summerland. “Michigan,” she told me. “Nineteen fifty-one. A fire.”

I smiled. “This reading of minds will take some getting used to,” I said.

“It isn’t really mind reading,” she responded. “We all have mental privacy, but certain thoughts are more accessible.” She gestured toward the countryside. “Would you like to walk some more?” she asked. “Please.”

As we started from the lake, I looked back. “It would be nice to have a home overlooking it,” I said. “I’m sure you will then.” “My wife would love it too.”

“You can have it ready for her when she comes,” she suggested.

“Yes.” The idea was pleasing to me. Something definite to do while waiting for Ann: the preparation of our new home. That plus working on a book of some kind would make the time pass quickly. I felt a rush of delight. “Are there oceans here as well?” I asked.

She nodded. “Fresh water. Calm and tideless. No storms or heavy seas.” “And boats?” “Absolutely.”

Another rush of pleased anticipation. I’d have a sailboat waiting for Ann too. And maybe she’d prefer a home on the ocean. How pleased it would make her to find our dream-house waiting for her on the coast, a sailboat for her pleasure. I drew in deeply of the fresh, sweet air and felt immeasurably better. Her drowning had only been a dream—a distorted leftover from an unpleasant incident now long past. It was time to begin concentrating on my new existence. “Where did Albert go?” I asked. “He works to help those in the lower realms,” Leona said. “There’s always much to do.”

The phrase “lower realms” evoked a sense of uneasiness again. The “other” places Albert had spoken of; the “ugly” places—they were as real, apparently, as Summerland. And Albert actually went to them. What did they look like?

“I wonder why he didn’t mention it,” I said, trying not to let myself feel anxious again.