I looked at Peter, still puzzled.
“Eve,” he continued with more enthusiasm, “do you recall what time it was when you woke up this afternoon?”
“Yeah, it was a little after two o’clock.”
“The alarm clock was clear across the room from your bed. How did you see what time it was without your glasses or your contact lenses? How are you seeing things so clearly right now?”
“I … I don’t know.” Huh. Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t wearing my contacts.
“And how did you get from your bedroom to the kitchen?”
“I don’t know … I just assumed I must have … blacked out or something while walking down the stairs,” I mumbled.
“Eve,” Peter said, smiling as if he was about to reveal the secret behind his trick. “You don’t need glasses anymore because you’re no longer handicapped by any of the physical limitations of your former human body. Likewise, you don’t need to walk down the stairs—or anywhere for that matter—because you are no longer bound by human legs. You were in your bedroom because that’s where you wanted to be. When you wanted to go to the kitchen, your mind simply created the illusion of your kitchen and, like magic, you were there. Allow me to demonstrate.”
He turned his attention to the wood-burning fireplace at the east end of the living room. I followed his gaze. It wasn’t long before I saw something flicker. Then, the entire east wall started to fade into the night sky; it was actually disappearing right before my eyes. I blinked a few times in disbelief.
“How are you doing that?” I asked in awe.
“It’s quite easy, really.” He looked thoroughly amused and pleased with himself. I could tell these parlor tricks never got old for him. “I am simply interfering with your thoughts by adding one of my own, thereby altering your illusion. We all can do it. We can block these intrusions from happening as well, as you soon will learn. For the time being, however, you’ve been inadvertently allowing me to interfere with your thoughts all afternoon. That’s why I can be … well, sitting here in this room talking to you. But this place,” Peter explained, holding his arms out for emphasis, “is all in your mind. I’m just freeloading, as it were, on your journey.”
“So let me get this straight … I’m not in Michigan?” The words slowly tumbled out of my mouth. I already knew the answer to my question, but I needed to hear Peter say it again.
“Technically, you’re not even on Earth,” he clarified. I began to feel a little lightheaded, but, glutton for punishment that I was, I pressed on with my questions.
“And … I’m not sitting in this chair right now?”
“No. That chair doesn’t really exist.”
“And I’m not really drinking this water?” I muttered, holding up my glass of water. I remembered how thirsty I was earlier.
“You no longer need to drink.”
“And,” I inhaled deeply, “I’m not really … breathing this air?”
“Eve, you no longer need to breathe.” As I heard Peter say the words, I instinctively inhaled again. It certainly felt real. It felt like my lungs were filling up with air. He laughed at my reaction, and I shot him a grimacing look, which only made him laugh harder.
“And you don’t need this house because you don’t need to have a roof over your head any longer,” he threw in. “Just like you don’t need water or air because you no longer have a human body that requires these things.”
Peter glanced down at his watch and smiled at me curiously.
“Eve, how much time do you think has passed since I introduced myself to you?”
“I don’t know—forty-five minutes, an hour, tops.”
“It’s been exactly sixty-two minutes, which on Earth is just over twenty-four hours.”
“Excuse me?” I looked at Peter, stunned. “Are you seriously telling me that we’ve been talking for an entire day?”
“On Earth—yes.”
I’ve been dead for nearly a week. I cringed at the thought. My mind was on overload; it started spinning out of control. I felt the cup of water slip out of my hand and heard the sound of glass breaking as it hit the floor.
* * *
When I came to, I was lying on my back, stretched out on the sofa in the living room. Peter was still sitting in the same chair.
“Did I faint?” I asked embarrassed.
“Well, your mind certainly made you think you did,” he said, trying to fight back a smile.
“How long was I out?” I was worried that I had been out for another hour or so.
“Not long.”
“According to whom?” I asked alarmed. “Has another day passed on Earth?”
“No—just over an hour has passed down there,” Peter clarified, trying his best not to chuckle as I attempted the math in my head.
“Don’t worry, Eve, it will all be explained to you during your training.” He extended his hand to help me sit up, and I accepted his assistance.
I looked around the room. The same white beadboard in my bedroom covered the living room walls too. Wide wood planks, also painted white, created an arched ceiling more than two stories up. The east wall of the living room was now intact; it was no longer the image of the starry night that Peter had conjured. The artwork, the photos, all of it was there. Peter was right—everything was in its place, right down to the last detail.
My mind created all of this? I thought, mystified.
“Why would my mind go through all the trouble if none of this is real?” I asked. “I mean, isn’t there an easier way for someone to transition into the afterlife?”
“Not really,” Peter responded. “In fact, over time we have realized that those of us who keep our spirits and our souls in the afterlife make the transition from life to death much more smoothly if our minds are grounded in a comfortable, familiar setting while the transition occurs. Your mind has employed its self-defense mechanisms by creating a mental and visual buffer that it will continue to use until it has had enough time to absorb the shock of your demise. The need for such defenses is particularly strong for those who have been ripped so suddenly and prematurely from their lives—like you.”
“So why no people?” I asked. “If my mind can recreate every detail of my parents’ home, why aren’t my parents here?”
“That is a question I cannot answer,” he replied.
“Cannot or will not?” I didn’t try to hide my frustration.
“I cannot answer your question because, quite frankly, I don’t know the answer to it,” Peter stated humbly. “We simply do not understand all of the detailed inner workings of the human mind. I will say that it is highly unusual for others like us to create, in death, the illusions of those humans to whom they were the closest during their lives. I suspect it’s because human relationships are so complex and multi-faceted that the mind would quickly realize any misstep or mistake in its own re-creation. The mind can fool itself only so far before it realizes its own trickery. And, right now, your mind wants to remain ignorant for as long as it needs to so it can process your untimely death.”
“Ignorance is bliss,” I mumbled under my breath.
“When you fully accept your death,” he continued, interrupting my train of thought, “your transition will be complete, and you won’t need the illusion of your home anymore. You’ll be ready to put it behind you. You’ll be ready to put everything in your past behind you. And, once you complete your transformation, you will no longer remember your family and friends—or your life. Even your face will be new to you.”
Whoa! Back up. What did he just say? My mind did a double take.
“I won’t remember my life?” I asked out loud, aghast.
“No,” Peter confirmed. “Of course, you will retain the essence of who you are—the sum of your personality, emotions, values, knowledge, and so on. But your actual experiences and the relationships you formed during your life will be erased. You would likely compare it to a state of amnesia.”
“Why?�
�� I demanded in alarm. “Why must my mind be erased?” I didn’t want to forget my life. My memories were the only thing I had left, and now they were going to be taken away from me too.
“Eve, it’s necessary. It’s easier on you … and on them.” Peter eyed a framed photo hanging on the wall of my mom, my dad, and me. It was taken last year at the top of the Warren Dunes. It was a family tradition ever since we moved to Michigan—our annual family picture.
“I know it might seem unfair, and even extreme, but as Shepherds we have a crucial function. We cannot be distracted by our pasts. We cannot afford to make a single mistake when we are protecting humans from harm. Mistakes made by us cost mortals their lives,” Peter said soberly.
“So what about my parents? Can … can I at least see them … you know … before I forget them?” I asked Peter, choking back the anguish welling up inside me. The thought of no longer being able to see or remember my parents made me miss them even more.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he replied. “Your parents are grieving over your death, which they need to do—something that you have yet to do, I might add. Watching them, seeing them, will not help you; it will only make things harder on you. You will only be reminded of things left unsaid and undone. Your transition will be delayed because you will be stuck in the past.”
Stuck in the past. The words echoed in my ears. I was reminded of my last conversation with Quinn, and I swallowed hard.
“Did my parents already have a funeral for me?” I asked, trying to shift the focus of my thoughts. A chill ran through me as the word “funeral” left my mouth.
“Yes.” Peter offered no other information.
That’s it? Just a generic “yes”? That’s all I get? I wanted to know more about my funeral, but what was I supposed to ask? “So, did it go well?” “Was there a big turnout?” “Nice eulogy?” “Were people crying?” Each question seemed more ridiculous and inappropriate than the last—like I was trying to satisfy some morbidly narcissistic curiosity of mine.
What did it really matter anyway? Peter was probably right. What good would it do me to think about people I’d never see again, a life I would never have again, or a situation I could do nothing about? Still, there was one thing I had to know.
“How are my parents handling all of this? … Will they be okay?”
“Your parents will be fine; they will get through this. Understandably, no parent wants to outlive his or her children. And they will need time to deal with their loss, but they will rely on each other for support. Eventually, they will grow stronger together as a result of the tragedy of your death.”
Despite the reassuring tone in Peter’s voice, his response gave me neither the closure I needed, nor did it put me at ease. In fact, it made me feel quite the opposite. I felt horrible leaving my parents.
No! my mind cried out. I refused to allow myself to feel guilty. I didn’t leave my parents; I was stolen from them. How could this have happened to them? How could their only daughter—their only child—be taken away from them? I was growing angrier and angrier by the minute, thinking about the pain and suffering my death had caused them.
Not to mention me. How could this have happened to me? I would never see my parents again. I’d never be able to apologize for disobeying them and driving to Champaign. I’d never again be able to hug them or tell them that I loved them. I’d never see my friends again. I would never fall in love again. I would never get married or have children. I was robbed of my life. I was robbed of my future.
Suddenly, I was back in my bedroom—by myself.
“Screw you!” I shouted as loudly as I could up into the air.
I fell forward onto my bed and buried my face in my pillow to muffle my tortured screams. I wanted to cry. I wanted to sob uncontrollably. But I couldn’t. No tears would come.
That’s just great! I can’t even cry! I slammed my fists into my mattress. Rage filled me. I jumped off my bed, ripped all the linens off of it, and threw them in a pile on the floor. It felt good. I looked around my room and leaped over the pile to my desk, which I summarily flipped over. Then I turned over my bedside table. It wasn’t enough. I was still fuming. I stormed over to my dresser and launched the drawers across the room, welcoming the sound of the splitting wood as they hit the opposite wall.
I paused for a moment to survey the damage; it looked like a tornado had whipped through my room. I laughed. If only my mom could see this; she would have a fit of epic proportions.
My mom. My dad. I would’ve given anything to be with them right now, but I had already given my life, and there wasn’t anything left. An unbelievable sadness washed over me. I had never felt so alone in all my life. I sank to the floor shaking.
I was dead.
9. Hindsight is Twenty-Twenty
I opened my eyes to see the light of the full moon casting shadows across the walls of my room. I was curled up on the floor in a pile of blankets, sheets, and pillows from my bed. I rolled over, only to bump into the side of my flipped-over desk. Ouch. My body was aching all over; I felt like I’d gone ten rounds in a boxing match—or like I’d been in an awful car accident.
Could it have all been a bad dream?
I slowly sat up and scanned my room. It was trashed. I closed my eyes hoping for the best but fearing the worst. When I reopened them, I knew I was in serious trouble. My room was now in perfect order—not a thing out of place.
And, instead of moonlight streaming through my windows, I saw the early morning rays of the sun. I heard the birds outside chirping excitedly. I blinked a few times in hopes that my eyes were playing tricks on me, but each time I opened them, my room was still clean, and, apparently, it was now morning.
I was too exhausted, too confused, and too upset to try to figure it all out right then. All I wanted was a long, hot shower. I stood up and dragged myself into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the water. It wasn’t long before the bathroom was filled with steam, making it difficult to see anything clearly. I sighed with relief. I didn’t want any more clarity today.
I peeled off my clothes and stepped into the shower. I closed my eyes and let the jet stream of hot water massage my sore muscles—or at least, it felt like my muscles were sore. Whatever the case, the water felt good. I opened my mouth and let the water overfill it, run back out of my mouth and down my chin. I leaned back against the shower wall and sunk down to the shower floor as I watched the steam rise up to the ceiling; it reminded me of my breath on a cold winter’s day.
I desperately wanted to go back in time. I wanted to be back in Bloomington. I wished I had changed my mind about driving to Champaign. I wished I could go back to the evening of the party with Quinn. I pictured him kissing me. Then I thought about Ryan, and rage stirred within me. Knowing then what I knew now, I wondered if I would’ve said or done anything differently that night with Quinn at the party or in the days that followed.
Random scenes from my fatal accident began flooding my mind against my will. I saw flashes of the car crash with the drunk driver, followed by the bright lights of the pickup truck that slammed into me. The accident had taken my life. I didn’t want to believe it, but I had to accept the truth.
I took a deep breath, sighed. The dead breathing. If that wasn’t an oxymoron, I didn’t know what was. My mind started firing off question after question as I slowly began to accept the reality of my new “existence.” I had to get some answers. I had to find Peter.
* * *
Instantly, I found myself back in the blue-and-white striped chair I had sat in earlier that day, dressed in the same white T-shirt and jeans I'd been wearing then. Peter was sitting in the chair opposite me. It was as if mere seconds had passed—like I had never left the living room.
If Peter had overheard my little episode upstairs in my room, he didn’t mention it. And for that I was grateful. I was feeling more than a little self-conscious about my tantrum, and I didn’t want to have to explain myself.
“So
let me get this straight,” I began. “I died and ended up … here, wherever here is, because I am now one of you?A Shepherd?
“In the oversimplified version, yes,” Peter responded.
“Why me?”
“Truthfully, Eve, I’m not sure why you were selected to become a Shepherd—we rarely ever are. I suspect it’s because you met certain criteria. The first of which,” Peter noted, “is something that I mentioned to you already. You are one of a very small group of humans whose spirits and souls have been fused. This condition is a prerequisite that must be met in order for any mortal to be considered eligible to become one of us. It’s a job requirement, so to speak.”
“This … spirit-soul fusion thing—how does it happen?” I inquired.
“Again, we’re not really sure how or even why it happens. We do know that some humans are born with a fused spirit and soul—they are the true ‘old souls’ of the world, wise well beyond their years, even at birth. These humans are blessed and burdened with the secrets, the insights, and the wisdom of the many generations that have come before them. The term “old soul” has lost some credibility over time as it has been casually tossed around and overused to describe people. But, trust me, you will know immediately when you meet a true old soul. You can see it in their eyes—there’s something deep, almost haunting about them.
“As for most other mortals who meet this prerequisite, their spirits and souls are fused permanently after a near-death experience. As the body begins to die, the spirit and the soul begin to stretch away from the body like stones in a slingshot, ready to be propelled outwards with the last physical breath. But then something happens to jolt these humans’ bodies back to life and their spirits and souls are catapulted back into their bodies with such force that they are irreversibly intertwined and bound along the way.
“And then there are those rare humans whose spirits and souls are fused together through some type of external interference. These humans’ fates have been manipulated or changed at some point during their lives.”
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