Tag: Dead son

All Souls’ Day

The father thought about Ward 3C, the last place he had seen his son alive before the boy’s suicide.

His thoughts turned to the time his watch — an expensive gold Seiko his second wife had given him a few months earlier — stopped at 10:52 p.m. on Wednesday, November 2.

It was the day after Will’s funeral. His father was in a hotel room in Toronto, yelling in his Xanax and beer bewilderment that he was going to “get” the psychiatrist who had released Will from Ward 3C, perhaps before he should have.

In a black notebook in which he’d been keeping a record of past events the father angrily wrote: AINSLEY! THURSDAY! Apparently to confront the psychiatrist the next day and — do what? Threaten him? Kill him?

And that’s when the sweep second hand on his Seiko stopped dead. The batteries were supposed to last up to four years — he had been guaranteed this — and yet they gave out at that precise moment. Why then, at that very second?

The father considered the possibility that Will or Will’s spirit had stopped the watch because of what he had been yelling about the psychiatrist, knowing, as Will now possibly did, that he was on the wrong track, that it wasn’t Ainsley’s fault, or anyone’s fault.

The next day the father put the question to his ex-wife. She was a Catholic and had a belief that he envied. “Do you think Will stopped the watch because I was threatening to do something to the psychiatrist?”

“That’s possible,” she said. “But more likely, 10:52 p.m. Wednesday was the moment Will ascended to Heaven.”

The father was about as irreligious as you could get, but he liked the way his ex-wife’s mind worked.

“That was All Souls Day,” she said, “when Christians pray for the souls who are being purified in purgatory so they may enter Heaven.” The funeral had been held the day before, so it made sense, even to a pagan.

The father never got his watch fixed. It was a valuable clue, a historical artifact. He’d never tamper with stuff like that. It was found in his apartment after his own death, still frozen at 10:52.


Excerpted from original story:

Permalink: https://billmichelmore.com/a-place-to-heal/


 

The afterlife: Riding the wave

One man’s incredible communication with his dead son

The man is alone in bed when his cell phone rings. He flips it open. “Don’t freak out,” a voice says, “I’ll explain.”

Good advice from the get-go because the man thinks he is going mad. He sits upright in bed. His heart suddenly goes into overdrive. It’s his son’s voice on the phone. His son died eighteen months earlier at the age of twenty-three.

The man is going into a state of shock. His heart races. His face feels like it’s on fire. He’s either having a panic attack or a heart attack.

“Will?! This can’t be happening! Who the hell is this? Is this a gag?” And then more to himself: “I must be going insane.”

”You’re not going insane,” his son’s voice says. “Just listen to me, please, I’ll explain.”

“You died, I was there, you’re dead.”

”Yes — and no. Listen to me now.”

”Where the hell are you?”

”Certainly not in hell.” His son rapidly explains that he is using an undiscovered wave in the electromagnetic spectrum to tap into his father’s phone.

“This is madness—“ his father starts to say.

“Dad, please, I don’t know how long I can keep this connection. Let me say this as fast as I can. As to where I am, that’s a difficult question. I’m not even sure myself. I call it a state of wave-being—“

“What are you talking about?”

“Let me get this out. Think of waves in the electromagnetic spectrum. Over the years, humans have managed to capture some of the invisible waves — radio and television waves, microwaves, ultraviolet, x-rays, gamma rays, but there are immeasurably more out here that humans can’t see or catch. I’m one of those waves. Call it yet another undiscovered wave.”

“Jesus Christ,” his father manages to say.

“No Jesus Christ so far,” his son replies with a little laugh. “No sign of anything like that, just an incredible cerebral sensation of being part of the universe. Like a dream. I can see it all…“

Sudden static on the line. “Will,” his father says, “are you still there?”

”Barely,” his son’s voice crackles back. “Losing this connection. Dad, you remember my favorite song in those last days?”

”I’ll never forget — ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ Blue Oyster Cult.”

Static increases. “Dad, real quick, I’ve got to tell you. We will be together, riding this wave.”

Static gets worse. “Will?”

”Losing it. Dad, one last thing.”

”Yes?”

”Don’t fear the reaper.”

Line goes dead. “Will? Will, are you still there? Have I lost you? Hello? Will?”

The man keeps the phone pressed to his ear and listens to the silence.

Don’t Fear the Reaper

EARLIER STORY HERE

Indestructible atoms

A man lives alone in northern New Hampshire. He is seventy years old. His second wife died two months ago. They had no children. A son from his first marriage died many years ago at the age of twenty-three.

Chest pains wake him at four in the morning. He sits up in bed and looks out the bedroom window. It’s a picture window with no blinds. Moonlight illuminates a grassy slope leading down to a river. He can hear the sound of the river through the open window. Beyond the river, a woodland of birds, quiet now, and beyond that, two tiers of mountain ranges fading into darkness. It begins to rain.

During the day he sits in front of the window and watches a variety of birds flying in and out of the trees down by the river. Squirrels venture close to the house. An athletically beautiful doe often crosses the river and approaches the house. Once he saw a fox run along the bank of the river. He loves living here.

The nearest neighbor is three miles away. The nearest hospital is fifteen miles away.

The pain in his chest is severe. Is this it? he says to himself. It occurs to him that he should at least have a dog or a cat.

He gets out of bed and goes into the living room—the irony of living room amuses him—and fills a shot glass with Jack Daniel’s. Down it goes. A biting shudder to be followed by a smoothing calm. He pours another shot and sits in an armchair and watches the rain. He’s not worried about his fate.

He misses his wife—she wasn’t a great conversationist and she drank and smoked too much but she was good company—and always, every day, he misses his son. His son would be forty-eight now. Hard to believe. Twenty-five years of life he didn’t have.

When he saw his son’s body in the coffin all those years ago he touched the young man’s chest. It was as hard and hollow as a barrel. This is not my son, he said to the funeral director. I don’t know where he is, but this is not him. The funeral director nodded politely.

The man talked to an Indian guru about his dead son. “Don’t worry about your son, man, your son’s all right.” The guru told the man he would see his son again. “Imagine both of you walking along together, totally happy, knowing and seeing all, and that walk will last five minutes or five thousand years.”

The man didn’t understand what the guru was saying but he would love to take that walk. In reality, though, he doesn’t suppose his son is anywhere. So what he wants to know is: How do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death—No, that’s not it, that’s e.e. cummings—what he wants to is, what happens to the billions of indestructible atoms that make up the human body and mind?—Indestructibility must count for something.To put it bluntly and simplistically, he wonders if, in fact, or even in fantasy, he will “see” (an ambiguous word for some kind of reunion or communication or sense of presence) his son again. His head and all the science say no, but his screaming heart says yes.

During these reflections his chest pains subside. Half the whiskey has gone and now he has a taste for coffee. It is five in the morning and the rain has stopped. If he sits up for another hour he will see the sun rise over the furthest mountain range and he will see the birds and the squirrels begin their day. Perhaps today he will see the fox again.