The Afterlife of Billy Fingers: How My Bad-Boy Brother Proved to Me There's Life After Death

by Annie Kagan

  Over the last few years I had done everything I could to help Billy: hospitals, rehabs, psychiatrists, methadone clinics. Nothing worked. His struggle became a black hole that sucked me into his chaos. I came down with a different ailment every other week and saw one doctor after another. Finally, I pleaded with him, “I can't take this anymore! Please stop calling me!” But he didn't. He couldn't. Then, instead of talking, we were mostly crying and screaming at each other. One day he did stop calling. And now he was gone.

  Three weeks of post-death misery and selfrecrimination later, it was my birthday. Just before sunrise, as I was waking up, I heard someone calling my name from above me.

  Annie! Annie! It's me! It's me! It's Billy!

  It was Billy's unmistakable deep, mellow voice. I was startled, but not at all afraid. In fact, I felt comforted.

  “Billy?” I said, half asleep. “You can't be here. You're dead. I must be dreaming.”

  You're not dreaming. It's me! Get up and get the red notebook.

  Suddenly, I was very much awake. I'd completely forgotten about the red leather notebook Billy had sent me last year for my birthday. I was touched that he had made the effort to send me a gift even though he was becoming overwhelmed by his addictions.

  I jumped out of bed and found the red notebook on a shelf in my bedroom closet. The pages were blank, except for an inscription written on the first page.

  Dear Annie,

  Everyone needs a book dedicated to them.

  Read between the lines.

  Love,

  Billy

  What a strange thing for Billy to have written! Read between the lines? I ran my fingers over the familiar handwriting. Then I heard him again.

  It's really me, Annie. And I'm okay, it's okay because . . . I grabbed a pen and wrote what he was saying in the red notebook.

  The first thing that happens is bliss; at least it was like that in my case. I don't know if it's that way for everyone who dies. As the car hit me, this energy came and sucked me right out of my body into a higher realm. I say “higher” since I had the feeling of rising up and suddenly all my pain was gone.

  I don't remember hovering over my body or looking down on it or anything like that. I guess I was pretty anxious to get out of there. I knew right away I was dead, and went with it, more than ready for whatever was waiting.

  I wasn't aware of traveling at any particular speed. I just felt light and unburdened as the sucking motion drew me up inside a chamber of thick silvery blue lights. People who have near-death experiences sometimes say they went through a tunnel. I'm using the word “chamber” because a tunnel has sides, but no matter what direction I looked, there was nothing but light for as far as I could see. Maybe the difference is I had a one-way ticket and theirs was a round-trip.

  And even though I didn't have my body anymore, it felt like I did and that it was being healed. The lights in the chamber penetrated me and made me feel better and better as they pulled me up. It wasn't just the wounds from my car accident that were being healed. In the first nanosecond that the lights touched me, they erased any harm I suffered during my lifetime: physical, mental, emotional, or otherwise.

  Soon, Daddy appeared right there beside me, young and smiling and handsome as ever. He was making jokes and asking, “What took you so long?” It was so great, seeing Daddy, but I'm guessing he was there to be a familiar landmark in foreign territory. I'm saying that because he was only with me for part of the ride and Daddy definitely wasn't the main event.

  The main event was the silvery lights and their party atmosphere. Those healing lights had a festive feeling, like they were cheering me on, saying, “Welcome home, Son.”

  I can't say how long I was floating up the healing chamber, because I no longer have a sense of time. But I can say that chamber was some kind of cosmic birthing canal that delivered me into this new life.

  I want you to know, darling, there's nothing hard or cruel for me anymore. I glided from the chamber right out into the glorious Universe. I'm drifting weightlessly through space with these gorgeous stars and moons and galaxies twinkling all around me. The whole atmosphere is filled with a soothing hum, like hundreds of thousands of voices are singing to me, but they're so far away I can just barely hear them.

  And although I can't exactly say anyone was here to greet me, as soon as I came out of the chamber I felt a Divine Presence; a kind, loving, beneficent presence, and really, that was enough.

  In addition to the Divine Presence I also feel beings around me—Higher Beings, I guess you would call them. I can't explain why I'm using the word “beings,” and not the singular; I just know there's more than one. I can't see or hear them, but I can feel them moving about, swooshing by, doing different things that concern yours truly. And although I haven't got a clue what these things might be, I'm guessing that floating out here in space is euphoric instead of terrifying because I'm being attended to by this celestial crew.

  I'm looking down on the earth, and it is down. It's like there's a hole in the sky, a hole between our two worlds, I can look through and see you. I know how sad you are about my death. Sad is too small a word. Bereft is more like it. But death isn't as serious as you think it is, honey. So far, it's very enjoyable. Couldn't be better, really. Try not to take death too seriously. As a matter of fact, try not to take life too seriously. You'd enjoy yourself a lot more. That's one of the secrets of life. You want to know another secret? Saying goodbye isn't as serious as it seems either, because we will meet again.

  As suddenly as it came, Billy's voice dissolved. I was sitting on my bed, the red notebook resting against my knees, its first pages filled with Billy's words in my handwriting. Had I just imagined his voice? Maybe. But where did these words come from? They definitely weren't mine.

  Inside the front cover of the notebook I found a card my brother had sent along with it—a cartoon of a big orange tomcat hugging a girly little purple kitten. The card's message was uncanny. Are you real or am I dreaming you?

  Was I having some weird dream-like grief reaction? How could I know? I couldn't, and at that moment I didn't really care. For the first time since Billy's death I felt happy . . . more than happy. Billy was okay. And as he described floating blissfully through the stars, the atmosphere of his world had somehow flowed into mine. I was almost euphoric.

  And all of a sudden I was hungry. I got out of bed, went to the kitchen, and made a pot of tea. As I sat at the table gorging myself on biscuits and marmalade, I opened a magazine. Staring at me was an ad for White Cloud bathroom tissue. It featured a cloud with a piece cut out that made it look like a hole in the sky. Hadn't Billy just said he saw me through a hole in the sky? I got chills. Maybe the ad was some kind of sign.

  “That's ridiculous,” I told myself. “I really am going a little mad.” But some part of me wondered if there really might be a connection.

  Are you real or am I dreaming you?

  Everything was so strange but it all fit together— Billy's appearance, the forgotten red notebook, its inscription, the card's message, the picture of a hole in the sky. And before I heard from Billy, I was so depressed I could barely raise my head off the pillow. Now, I felt completely serene.

  Had Billy appeared just this one time to let me know he was okay? Was that the end of it? I hoped not. If he visited a second time, I would be ready. I would be objective and alert so I could figure out if he was real. I decided to lure him back by keeping the red notebook and a pen with me all the time.

  TWO

  Still Billy

  I decided not to tell anyone about Billy. Ten years ago, when I was taught how to meditate on the light within, my teacher instructed me to keep my spiritual experiences to myself; otherwise, I might lose them. Hearing from Billy in the afterlife was a spiritual experience, wasn't it? If this was real, it wasn't something I wanted to risk losing.

  Five days after my birthday, as the sunrise cast my white bedroom into shades of rosy pink, I heard Billy's voice aga
in. Blurry-eyed, I reached under my pillow for the red notebook, propped my head up, and started scribbling.

  Hey, Princess. Good morning.

  When Billy was alive, his calling me “Princess” was never a compliment. From the beginning, my life seemed charmed compared to his, and he held that against me. Billy was a “problem child”—and I was a “little angel.” I sang and danced in school plays— he tried to sing in a band but couldn't carry a tune. Billy flunked out of high school—I was a straight-A student. The better I did, the worse he looked, and felt. Feeling guilty, I tried to win his affection, but that was something I couldn't succeed at.

  Was Billy now using the nickname “Princess” because he was still holding a grudge? It didn't seem like it. The light that came along with his voice filled me with love.

  I like the idea of you, or me, writing a book. I think maybe I should get permission, but I'm floating in space and there's no one to ask. No one, that is, except the invisible Higher Beings I mentioned before, and I don't want to disturb their benevolence by asking for favors too soon [laughs].

  I never got permission for anything in life. That's because it was a different deal. Those in power here should be in power. Not like on earth. There's such a lack of kindness on your planet.

  It's hard to be kind all the time where you are, because if you don't toughen up, you go under. The nature of existence there is harsh. You fix one hole and another pops up. It's supposed to be like that, though, so don't be too concerned about it.

  I was done with my life, Annie. I paid my debt, although it's not what we usually think of as payment. It wasn't some price for my so-called sins. It was more a learning thing.

  How do I know my life wasn't some punishment for my past transgressions? Well, because there's no such thing. You're not on earth to be punished. It's not about sin and punishment. That's a human concept. Something man made up. Humans make up stuff and then they believe it.

  Sure, there's a lot of pain in life, but not because you've done anything to deserve it. Here's another secret for you, baby sister. Pain is just part of the human experience, as natural as breath or eyesight or blood moving through your veins. Pain is part of the earth deal, so don't be overly concerned about it. Although I admit I wasn't exactly fond of pain myself.

  And how do I know all this? Honestly, I don't know. All of a sudden I know a bunch of things I didn't know when I was alive. When you're born, when you pop out, that big pop gives you a kind of amnesia. One of the main things we're doing when we're alive is trying to remember the things we forgot.

  There's a different kind of knowledge here. You're really understood, and what a relief that is. So many problems in life come from not being understood or known. People on earth sometimes get glimpses of each other's souls, like when they fall in love. The difference is, here, I am my soul. I'm still Billy but without my body.

  I imagine it could be hard for some people, not having a body. When you realize you just died, with all the mumbo jumbo you've heard on earth about what might be waiting for you, I guess you could be feeling apprehensive. Not me. I dove into being dead. Felt right at home.

  I know, my sweet sister, you're wondering if all this is just a figment of your imagination, something your mind made up to help you feel better about my recent departure from earth. How will you know the reality of this? Well, because I will give you evidence—let's call it proof—so you will know for sure this is not your imagination and that it's really me, Annie. It's Billy.

  And do something for me, Miss Greta Garbo. Give Tex a coin.

  While Billy was speaking, I understood everything he said. But after his voice faded, I couldn't remember a single word. Once again, Billy had put me into a state of euphoria. Communicating with his soul had caused my own to open up, and the whole world was changed. I no longer cared about being objective. Billy had returned. That was all I cared about. I lay down for a while to concentrate on my breathing and ground myself a bit.

  After that, I went downstairs, lit some logs in the fireplace, and tried to re-orient myself. My mind threw out a barrage of questions: Was this really happening? Why was I able to hear my dead brother speaking to me? Had I just gone through some kind of out-ofbody experience? I didn't think so. I hadn't traveled off somewhere. The somewhere had come to me.

  I opened the red notebook and read over what I had written. It sounded like Billy, at his wise and charming best—Billy when he was clear and sober.

  And he seemed to be able to read me. He knew I doubted that he was real.

  Suddenly, it didn't seem logical that I was having delusions. Delusions don't acknowledge your doubts. Maybe the Billy phenomenon was like a phantom limb, something that seemed as though it was still there even though it wasn't. Or maybe I was hearing his voice inside my head, like when someone says, “I can hear my father's voice in my head telling me . . .”

  Only this voice wasn't inside my head—it was outside, and it sounded as if I was standing at the bottom of a long staircase and he was at the top. Both times I'd heard him, he was above me and to the right.

  Even more strange was that he had told me to give my friend Tex a coin. Why? How did he even know her name? He'd never met Tex. And now he wanted me to tell her about him. All my life I did things for Billy I didn't want to do—lie to my parents, give him money, let him crash on the sofa in my tiny apartment for weeks at a time. Did I still have to do what he wanted now that he was dead?

  The thought of telling Tex about Billy made the magic of his dimension fade. As my mood fizzled, the mundane world seemed even more mundane than before. But still, something exciting had happened. Something way beyond my routine, everyday existence.

  Three years before, I'd come down with a bad case of world-weariness. Maybe almost a decade of serious meditation had made me too detached from the highs and lows of normal existence. From the outside my life looked pretty good—a successful career as a chiropractor in New York City, a husband who was a partner in a law firm, and a songwriting collaboration with a talented music producer. But in a matter of months, everything fell apart. My husband, Steve, suddenly seemed like a stranger, working with patients gave me migraine headaches, and I hadn't sold a single song.

  The only thing I was sure I wanted was solitude. Hence, Billy's nickname for me: Greta Garbo. So, feeling as if I was jumping off a cliff, I separated from my husband, sold my practice, left the city, and moved to an old house on the tip of Long Island.

  I bought some used sound equipment and put together a music studio. I'd written songs since I was a teenager and had come close to selling a few to major recording artists. It seemed far-fetched, but if I devoted myself to music, maybe I could make a living as a songwriter.

  For six months, alone by Gardiner's Bay with my two cats, I made demos of songs that no one bought, meditated three or four hours a day, took long walks by the water, and sometimes saw no one but the postman for days.

  But even solitude has a way of getting to you. After a week of not wearing anything but pajamas, and letting my hair get so dirty it looked like a tossed salad, I decided to join a local writers’ group. Maybe I had a novel in me. I didn't believe I was suddenly going to become a bestselling author, but it got me out of the house.

  That's how I met Tex, the leader of my writing group. She had published a memoir and written some episodes for a popular cable TV show. We liked each other from the start.

  But why had Billy told me to give her a coin?

  I took out the manila envelope Sergeant Diaz had sent me after Billy's death. It contained his few remaining possessions: a beat-up address book, a key card from a Ramada Inn, two pairs of dirty glasses, a torn leather business card holder, and seven dollars and change. Was this all that remained of my brother's life?

  I spread the change on my kitchen table. What coin was I supposed to give Tex? A quarter, a nickel, a dime? Just then, I heard Billy's voice.

  Find . . . my . . . car.

  That shook me up. This wasn't
like hearing Billy's voice while still in bed, half asleep—I was in my kitchen in the middle of the day. And his voice was louder— robotic and commanding. I got scared. This wasn't something I could handle by myself anymore. Even though we were separated, I called my husband, Steve.

  “I have something really weird to tell you.” I took a deep breath. “Billy's been talking to me.”

  “That's wild! What does he say?” I could tell by his tone he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

  “I've been writing it down.” There was silence on the other end. “You don't think I'm crazy, do you?”

  “No.” Steve assured me. “People don't go crazy all of a sudden. Something's going on. Fax me the pages.”

  That was Steve. Get right down to business.

  “There's more,” I said. “Just now I was in the kitchen, and I swear that Billy told me to find his car. Did he even have a car?”

  Steve was able to answer that question because he was the only one who'd stuck by Billy until the day he died. Whatever my brother needed—money, advice, friendship, compassion—Steve always came through.

  “Billy had an old Mercedes he was living out of,” Steve reported. “But he drove it into a tree a week before his death. It's probably in some junkyard in Florida.”

  So Billy did have a car! “I'll call you back,” I told him, and hung up.

  Even though I was shaken, I needed to know if Billy was still around and if he'd answer my questions. I looked up at the ceiling and asked out loud, “How can I find your car, Billy?”

  My . . . card . . . holder.

  Barely breathing, I pulled the cardholder from the manila envelope, and found a business card from a Mercedes dealer.

  Get . . . the . . . things . . . from . . . my . . . car.

  “What things?” No answer. “What things, Billy?”

  He was gone.

  Trying to sound composed, I called Hans, the Mercedes dealer whose name was on the business card I now had in hand. I almost fell down when he told me that he did have my brother's wreck! Either I had suddenly become psychic or Billy actually was communicating with me. When I asked Hans to send Billy's things, he said he'd do it right away.