Finding Shamoo: A Novel, With Illustrations

A novel, with illustrations

By Patrick Beacham

Thorco Publications, LLC

Copyright © 2016 All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally.

Smashwords Edition

We are not souls but systems, and we move

In clouds of our unknowing

like great nebulae.

—STANLEY KUNITZ, The Science of the Night

About FINDING SHAMOO

We nearly all of us would like to believe that we will go to heaven. And if we have a dog or a cat, we hope our dog or cat will go to heaven too.

Finding Shamoo is the story of Pat Conway and his dog Shamoo, a black and white Australian Shepherd.

When Pat dies of a heart attack and much to his surprise awakens in heaven, he starts on a journey to find Shamoo.

But if heaven – and whose heaven has he been assigned to? – is essentially benign, it is not without its own agenda for a chosen few.

At first, however, Pat feels less chosen than unfairly persecuted.

For what possible reason does heaven seem at every turn to thwart his efforts to locate Shamoo?

He only gradually realizes that there are certain obstacles within himself – why was he never able to make lasting sense of his relationships of with Chelsea, Penny, Carol and Heather? – why could he never summon the strength to set aside his fear of rejection in order to learn how to write, or to write as others thought he should write? – that he must first overcome.

‘Shamoo is waiting,’ I wrote on the sheet of paper.

CONTENTS

Earth

Prologue

I. Early Encounters with Death

II. Three Pillars

Last Day on Earth

Heaven

I. First Impression

II. Upper West Side

III. The Weight of Ages

IV. I Begin to Learn

V. The World Book in Heaven

VI. Mom Leaves a Letter

VI. My Journey Begins

VII. I Play the Fool

VIII. Take Off the Red Shoes

IX. The Adopted Son of God

X. The Return of Chang

XI. Talking Dogs

XII. Old Girlfriends

XIII. One More River

Fathers and Sons

Excerpt from OLDER MAN SEEKS LOVE, RATHER RICH, LIMITED LIFE EXPECTANCY

EARTH

PROLOGUE

That Dark Good Night

Joe knew that until today his doctor had been growing increasingly bored with him. He could read the frustration in her face. Joe had been subjected to eleven Near Death Experiences and afterward, in describing to Joanna what he had seen, felt and heard, he had never progressed beyond a certain point.

But this session was different.

As soon as he returned to consciousness and the mask was removed from his face, Joanna began the interview process. She never waited, though NDEs were not like dreams: they did not fade from memory; however, he had been warned that certain other people working in the same hospital, so-called experts, and one in particular, were capable of corrupting what a patient remembered, in order to prove or confirm their own dearly-held beliefs about near death. But Joe had agreed not to allow himself to be interviewed by anyone else.

What did you experience?

Her voice sounded weary. Joe wondered briefly if something else were troubling her. He had come to know Joanna quite well, but certainly not well enough to know every detail of her personal life – if she had a personal life, which he somewhat doubted.

Something more, Joe answered.

Something more? Joanna repeated, her tone slightly more interested.

Yes.

Joe was fully aware that Joanna did not permit herself to ask leading questions.

You say something more. You mean something more than last time?

Yes.

And the times before?

Yes.

Yes, Joanna mimicked. You’re going to make this hard on me, aren’t you?

Umm – I think you kind of deserve it, don’t you?

Hmnpf, is all Joanna said.

Then Joe began to feel sorry. He respected Joanna; he knew how hard she worked and he was not a mean person. Quite the opposite, or so he liked to think, and liked others to think as well. Indeed, it was true. On the whole, he was a very nice person.

I was no longer simply a point of matter in a timeless void. I began to take form. It’s difficult to explain. I wasn’t just rematerializing. It was a harder, slower process, as if I were being re-built, put back together. And I could finally tell where I was. I was in a long room.

But not a tunnel, Joanna interjected.

No, nothing like that. Not the tunnel thing, thank God. At first, the room felt distinctly familiar. There was a sense of déjà vu. Then not, and it felt like a room in a private club, the kind I’ve only read about in English novels. The exclusive province of the very rich. Beautifully appointed. All leather, polished wood, thick carpet and old, old books. Supremely cozy.

You’re embellishing.

Only a little. Which was true: only a little.

Try not to.

I can’t help it; I’m a writer.

Still. Were there other people in the room?

No. I was completely alone.

But you were standing? You had a body?

A kind of body.

What do you mean?

"It was a body, but a very creaky body. I couldn’t do much with it. Like the Tin Woodman. In the Wizard of Oz."

He imagined her asking if Dorothy then appeared holding an oil can.

Then what happened? Joanna asked.

I realized there was a window. To my right. Perhaps three or four windows, running the length of the room. There was light coming in, but it was night. I thought I could see trees. I started walking toward the windows, toward the one closest to me.

So now you could move?

Yes. Dorothy had finally oiled all my joints.

What? Joanna said, clearly startled.

No. Sorry. Just a joke. Then, from a very long way off, I heard barking.

Toto.

No, not Toto. To tell the truth, more like Nana. Deeper. Gruffer.

Joe, I appreciate your sense of whimsy, but I’m not sure if it’s doing us any good.

It was Shamoo.

Joanna did not reply for several moments.

You mean Shamoo, your dog?

Yes, my Aussie.

Joanna seemed to wrestle with this.

"But you still have Shamoo; Shamoo is still with you, right? Shamoo is still living?" Joanna said, at last becoming more direct.

Yes.

And you’re absolutely positive it was her?

Everything in my being told me it was her.

"Then why would she be in an NDE – your NDE?"

Exactly, Joe answered.

•               •               •

Joe had first encountered Joanna quite by accident, after a visit to his doctor whose practice was in the same hospital, Harborview Medicine.

The evening before, Joe’s wife had been out and Joe was with his son when he began to experience symptoms of a heart attack, numbness in his left arm and pain in his chest. By the time his wife returned he had gone to bed and his symptoms were starting to subside. He did not want to confide in her: he did not want her worry and he did not want her advice: it was during a time in his marriage when he distrusted his wife’s love. While pretending to sleep, he made a vow to see his doctor the next day: he knew from his mother that his father had experienced the exact same symptoms but had failed to see his own doctor until it was too late: he died of a massive coronary when Joe was 27. Joe did not want to visit the same event on his son, who was only 12.

His doctor listened very carefully, then called his nurse to administer an EKG. When Joe’s doctor returned to the examination room, holding a sheet of paper, Joe was prepared for the worst and was already contemplating some harrowing, extremely painful procedure, the very thing his father had most feared.

The EKG showed nothing.

But I want to run some more tests, his doctor said.

Of course, Joe said. I want to get to the bottom of this.

Have you been under much stress lately? Stress can do this sort of thing.

Joe answered quickly:

No more than usual. I don’t think it was stress.

His doctor regarded him kindly; they had known each other for some years.

Well, in the meantime, try not to worry too much about it – unless of course the symptoms return. Talk to Martha before you leave; she’ll set up some times for you.

They shook hands and the doctor left the room. Joe buttoned his shirt and followed the doctor out.

He spoke to Martha: the doctor had ordered five additional tests. Still slightly dazed as he left the office, he turned left instead of right. He always turned right. It was the only dependable route and a route, out of sheer necessity, he had committed to memory, as, quite literally, a map inside his head. There was no other way, no other good way, to his knowledge, of reaching the outside and the parking garage; the hospital, as he had learned to his severe consternation many years ago, was an intricate maze, worthy of Alice in Wonderland. He continued walking until he gradually realized that he should have reached the two elevators – the two ancient landmarks he always looked for – several minutes ago. However, the solution was easy: turn around and retrace his steps.

Almost at once, nothing looked familiar to him; his doctor’s office did not appear; the elevators did not appear. He stopped at a reception desk.

I’m a little lost. I usually come in at the side but I’m trying to find my way down. The main entrance would be great.

The woman at the reception desk furrowed her brow in sympathy but her reply was not helpful.

You say you came in at the side. But there is no side entrance. Not in this wing. Are you sure you didn’t come in at the south wing?

This is the south wing, isn’t it? Joe said.

"No, this is the north wing. My, you are lost."

Holy fuck, Joe thought. You’re not just kidding.

I’m in the north wing? But I don’t remember going across.

It can happen. If you’re not paying attention.

I should have brought my compass, Joe said.

The woman smiled.

That’s what I used to think, but you get used to it. Listen, don’t worry, I’ll tell you how to get back.

Or maybe just the main entrance, like I was saying. Once I get outside, I think I can find my way.

Well, you do know, there are two main entrances: one faces west and the other faces east.

Joe calculated for a moment.

I think I need the one facing west, toward downtown.

Okay, the woman said doubtfully. But I always use the other one, because it lets out onto 9th, where the buses are.

In years past, before he had discovered the wisdom of entering at the side, Joe had seen and used both main entrances. Ironically, the east main entrance, the one used by the receptionist, was the least trafficked; the west main entrance was the true main entrance: the east entrance was completely devoid of hospital personnel, dark and cavernous, as if at one time it served a purpose almost archaeological in the mystery it evoked – perhaps in 1930 it had been conceived as a glorious and lasting monument to the hospital’s construction, but this was merely a guess – archaeologists were always being forced to guess; however, like the exterior of the building, it was in every particular a superb example of art deco and therefore well worth preserving; the west entrance had come into being at a much later date and was in every regard a doleful example of pitiless anonymity and therefore destined to be torn apart and thrown back together a dozen times; at any time of the day or night it was a beehive of activity, but people, alas, are not bees, and so, upon entering, would immediately grow confused, even if they had been there before – where to go? – a hundred desks, a hundred receptionists, a thousand bewildered junkies milling aimlessly about. How do you like our new re-model?

… however, like the exterior of the building, it was in every particular a superb example of art deco.

The secret is finding the elevators, said the receptionist.

They’re hard to find? said Joe.

Well, not if you know where they are. What floor did you come in on?

The fifth.

His new-found friend looked slightly abashed.

But this is the seventh.

Perhaps he did need those tests, Joe reflected.

I certainly don’t remember going up, Joe said.

The receptionist laughed uneasily.

Maybe it happened at the crossover, said Joe. Maybe it happened twice: the first time when I was going from the south wing into the main building and maybe a second time when I was going from the main building into the other wing – this wing.

Maybe, said the receptionist.

It’s possible, said Joe.

Anything is possible, said the receptionist.

Those ramps, Joe said.

Those ramps, echoed the receptionist.

The original art deco building did not exist in splendid isolation. In the 1950s the hospital added two wings, the first at the beginning of the decade and the second in 1959. From the outside, they closely resembled each other, but were not identical. On the inside, they were nothing alike at all. Moreover, the architects had been unable to the resolve the seemingly impossible puzzle of how to properly connect the two new wings to the main building. The undulating ramps and walkways that were created for this purpose had always felt strictly temporary and as people were fond of saying half-assed. Then, as a result of the 1962 earthquake in Seattle, the two wings had sunk, but they sank disproportionately, so that one was higher than the other and both tilted slightly outward from the main structure.

The tilting was repaired, at a cost far exceeding the two buildings’ construction in the 1950s, but it was deemed unnecessary to once again make them level with each other. After all, it was only a matter of a foot or two, barely noticeable unless you looked very carefully. But the ramps and walkways did gain in elevation.

What you need to do, said the receptionist, is go back the way you came but turn left at the fourth major intersection. You’ll still be in the north wing, but you only have to go about a hundred feet and turn right; that will take you down across the wing into the main building and from there you can get to the elevators – and the restrooms, if you need one.

Joe reviewed the instructions in his head.

Okay, he said, I think I’ve got it. You’ve been a big help. Thanks.

He set out down the wide corridor and turned left at the fourth intersection. This newest hallway was surprisingly narrow. He had expected a series of wide boulevards but proceeded according to instructions. After a hundred yards he stopped. A doctor in the usual white coat and stethoscope around his neck was hurrying past, going in the opposite direction.

Say, could you tell me –

Without pausing or looking back, the doctor said, You missed it just a minute ago. It’s on the left, through the double doors. You’ll see it when you get to it.

Great. Thanks, Joe called after him, and the doctor briefly dipped his head.

Beyond the two doors Joe was certain that he had finally found his way. He crossed over into the main building and continued walking for two or three minutes.

The restrooms at last came into view, on the left, but the elevators, it quickly passed through Joe’s head, had made themselves invisible. They were nowhere in sight.

Joe was the occasional victim of severe anxiety; later in life, he would start taking Xanax. As he stood looking at the restroom doors, still, after sixty some years, labeled Gentlemen and Ladies, he could feel his heartbeat begin to quicken and knew from a slight breeze coming through an open door down the hall that a chill, mild sweat had materialized on his forehead and upper lip. Recalling his experience from the night before, his anxiety only grew worse.

The placement of elevators is one of the few constants in life. The placement of restrooms next to elevators is another. Elevator shafts cannot be moved on a whim. Neither can restrooms.

Where the fuck were the elevators?

He only discovered that he was leaning against the wall between the two restrooms when a young woman, who from her white coat and name embroidered in black script above the pocket Joe assumed must be a doctor, emerged from the ladies room. She glanced rather furtively to her left and right before looking squarely at Joe.

Are you okay? she said.

Fortunately, Joe’s panic attacks were generally short-lived and he was already feeling better.

Yes. Thanks. Just a little dizziness; I should have had more to eat this morning. It happens like this.

You’re hungry? the doctor said, with a strange note of empathy in her voice.

Yes, Joe replied, and I’m also trying to figure out where the elevators are so I can get out of here.

I’m sorry to tell you, but the elevators are far, far away.

‘First star to the right and straight on till morning,’ Joe quoted, beginning to warm to the doctor, who was both nice and vaguely pretty, and whose black, horn-rimmed glasses made her even more appealing. He guessed her age at 35 or so.

"Peter Pan, the doctor said, and old favorite of mine. By the way, I’m Joanna. She pointed to the name on her coat: Joanna Sanders, Psy.D. On staff here."

I’m Joe, very pleased to meet a staff member. Unless you were born, raised and live here, and have never left the building, you must know the way out.

I do know the way out, but I was on a very different kind of mission. You said you were hungry.

Hungry? Yes. A little hungry, Joe temporized.

I was going to the cafeteria. What time is it?

Joe glanced at his watch, wondering why Joanna didn’t look at her own.

A little past eleven, Joe answered.

Damn! said Joanna. That means the cafeteria’s closed.

Closed at eleven? said Joe.

It’s always closed. Closed so that it can re-open later. At least that’s the theory.

Couldn’t make it sooner?

"No, Joanna replied, somewhat icily, I couldn’t make it sooner. And I’m starving."

Sorry, Joe said, adopting a sheepish expression.

Oh, it’s not your fault. I was trying to avoid someone. He always manages to get to the cafeteria just a few minutes before they stack the chairs. It’s uncanny.

So at this time of day you have to get there in that brief interval after he departs, but before they lock the doors?

Joanna looked at him appraisingly.

Joe was flattered. He was 55. Women, these days, seldom looked at him appraisingly.

Tell you what, Joe said, if you can help me get the hell out of here there’s a Starbucks down the street and I’ll buy you a latte or something. How’s that?

Well, it better be more than just ‘something,’ Joanna said, and they were both suddenly embarrassed. She could appear to be flirting, and flirting was neither desirable nor appropriate. For Joanna because she was much younger and a doctor; for Joe because he was much older and a husband and father. Or so it very quickly, reflexively, and rather nebulously occurred to them.

Poor woman, Joe thought, but Joanna was the first to recover:

Okay, you’ve got a deal. Follow me.

We’re going to the elevators? asked Joe.

No, the stairs. Much quicker.

The stairs are here?

Just around the corner.

Then the elevators should be here too – that’s the way it works – they put the stairs next to the elevators.

Joanna looked at him.

Do I get that latte or not?

‘Lead on, Macduff,’ Joe said.

They found an unmarked doorway around the corner and started down.

But it didn’t say anything, Joe commented.

I stopped worrying about those things a long time ago, said Joanna, remember, I was born here.

Joe gave a low chortle.

You like to quote from Shakespeare? Joanna said as they reached the sixth floor stairwell.

Was that from Shakespeare? Never even knew it.

Hmnn, Joanna intoned.

No, no, really – Joe began.

‘Methinks thou dost protest too much,’ Joanna let fly.

‘Hoist by my own petard,’ Joe countered.

We shouldn’t being having this much fun, said Joanna. There’s still the issue of Musgrave.

Musgrave? What’s a Musgrave?

Musgrave is the person I’m trying to avoid. He also uses the stairs. In fact, he’s an expert at close quarter combat on the stairs. Wait – I think I hear something. Let’s hurry it up.

Joe thought about his heart; he was very glad they were going down. The stairs, old and uncarpeted, were noisily clattering as they descended.

So what do you do here? Joe said, trying to make himself heard.

Shhh, not so loud, replied Joanna. I’m working on a special project.

You’re a psychiatrist, Joe said, more softly.

I’m a psychologist. Very important distinction.

And for some reason Musgrave is your nemesis. Is he on the same project as you?

They were at the third stairwell. Or possibly the second. Joe had lost track and there were no numbers at the landings.

"Musgrave is not on the same project as me, Joanna said, with emphasis. He is attached to the project, but he isn’t part of the project. Or he is, but he shouldn’t be."

Is he a doctor? Joe asked.

No, he’s a self-styled ‘scientific spiritualist.’ And a distinguished author. At least according him. He’s written a book about NDEs.

What’s an NDE?

An NDE is a ‘near death experience.’

•               •               •

Breaking out of the building was an immense relief.

A little to Joe’s surprise, they exited through the mysterious and funerary east entrance. However, it was the logical choice. Never used, it nonetheless did let out onto the main thoroughfare, as the receptionist had told him.

The Starbucks was a little way down and across from the hospital. Joanna outpaced him by a step or two as they dodged through ambulances and police cars to reach the other side of 9th. Joe had seen the Starbucks many times while driving by but had never stopped to go inside. His Starbucks habit had ended some years ago when the pumpkin scones had lost their allure.

•               •               •

What kind of scone is that? Joanna asked, as she bit into her sandwich.

A pumpkin scone, Joe said.

I thought they only had those in the fall or something.

It’s become a year round treat. Apparently, Joe answered.

So why were you at the hospital? Joanna asked, and it seemed to Joe that they had somehow reached a much higher plateau in their relationship if Joanna were able to ask this, in view of policies about privacy. Instant friends? Joe, who was a good deal more reserved than he appeared, had very few friends. Which he deeply regretted.

Joe sipped his coffee before answering.

I was seeing my doctor. He paused. Last night I felt as if I might be having heart attack, he continued. But I wasn’t. The EKG confirmed that. But they’re going to do more tests, which is good. I want to make sure for my son. My father died of a heart attack.

It was more than he had intended to say.

You did absolutely the right thing. Coming in to see your doctor. Was anyone there?

Just my son. His name is Tom.

How old is he? Could he have helped?

He’s 12. But I didn’t tell him what was going on.

So you live alone with your son? Joanna asked, but her tone was more strictly conversational now.

No, no. I’m married. But my wife wasn’t there.

Joanna wiped her lips with her paper napkin, glancing up at him, but didn’t pursue the matter.

Well, I’m glad everything is okay, she said. But get those tests.

I will. So what is this mysterious project of yours? Joe said.

She considered him again, very briefly.

So you’ve never heard of an NDE? said Joanna, with a slight challenge in her voice. And perhaps something rather defensive as well.

Joe smiled.

No, that was just me being dense. Until you said the actual words. I think probably everyone has heard about NDEs. I might even have ended up having one last night. Joe wondered if that had already occurred to her. Not a nice thought.

So you know what ‘coding’ means? Joanna asked.

I work at Microsoft, but I don’t think that’s the kind of coding you’re talking about. He only later told her about his writing, which was far more important than his job at Microsoft.

When a person has coded, their heart has stopped beating and unless they can be revived, they are, for all and intents and purposes, dead.

And so it’s during that interval that the NDE takes place: when the patient is dead, but before they might be brought back from the dead.

I guess you’re not so dense after all, Joanna said.

I have my moments.

There followed one or two seconds of silence.

What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential.

Then why tell me, Joe thought. Joanna must have very few people she can open up to.

Instant friends? Instant confidantes? Instant lovers?

What a pleasant, stupid thought. And how pathetically like a man.

Joe was nothing if not self-critical.

My work at the hospital has fallen into two phases: the first was to interview people who had experienced real NDEs and to record what they thought they remembered; the second includes the first, but the first has assumed a lesser importance – or at least, emphasis.

The words were not dramatic, but the ensuing pause, longer than the first, definitely made them seem so.

Joe looked at her, as she stirred her coffee.

Then someone knew came along; I wasn’t even aware that he was at the hospital, a neurologist, and that he was conducting his own research program, along somewhat different lines.

You mean he was studying NDEs as well?

Yes. And he heard about what I was doing and recruited me to help him. You see, he isn’t a trained interviewer.

So what was he doing that you weren’t?

He had received permission – and a small grant – to administer something called dithetamine to volunteers. Dithetamine is a drug that affects temporal lobe activity – you know, in the brain.

Don’t worry, Joe said, I know where the temporal lobes are – I even know who the first president of the United States was.

Sorry, Joanna said.

That’s all right, Joe replied, you know what they say about people who can’t tell their elbow from their …

Precisely, Joanna said, but again sounded the wrong note.

. . from their temporal lobes – just to get us back to the human body, said Joe, their words overlapping.

Then they both started to say something again. Finally, Joe said:

Dithetamine.

Yes, dithetamine. When you administer dithetamine to a patient – really, a volunteer – and then take a picture of their brain, their temporal lobe activity looks exactly like someone experiencing a real NDE.

Okay, said Joe, now you’ve lost me. When you say ‘take a picture,’ you’re talking about an MRI?

No – actually, it’s called a RIPT scan.

And so you’re also saying that someone who coded just happened to be undergoing an RIPT scan at the same time: that’s how you got the ‘picture’ – the original picture.

Yes, and it’s happened more once, and so now we have quite a few pictures of real NDEs.

That’s incredible. So what you do, in your study, is make the brain believe that it’s dying.

No, said Joanna, her voice rising just a little. That’s a basic misconception. If that’s what we were doing, I very much doubt that anyone would volunteer – and we already seem to have enough trouble getting volunteers. Dithetamine is a psychoactive drug that merely causes the brain to appear as it does when it is experiencing a real NDE.

So the brain doesn’t panic?

Panic? No … Joanna replied, as if the thought had never before occurred to her.

But it causes the patient to experience … it produces – I’m sorry, I’m kind of at a loss for words here – it produces in the volunteer a – a simulated NDE, is that right, is that the bottom line?

Yes, Joanna answered.

"So your people see what other people see when they’ve just died – really died? And after you wake them up, you interview them. "

Yes, Joanna repeated.

You’re trying to prove there’s an afterlife?

No. We’re not trying to prove anything. That would be like saying, ‘Okay, we believe there’s an afterlife and the purpose of our findings is to confirm what we already think is true.’

Not the scientific method.

No, not the scientific method.

And this nemesis of yours, Musgrave, who exactly is he?

"He’s someone who does believe in an afterlife and has been given permission – free rein, actually – to interview the same patients I do. He encourages people to remember what he thinks they should remember. Often before I can get to them. And so I get the same stories over and over again."

Tunnels of light? Fathers, mothers. Dead sons or daughters. Angels from on high. Dogs.

Exactly, except maybe not so much for the dogs.

Pity.

Joe weighed his next words carefully, although, as he continued, quickly abandoned his original intent. What began as a small, innocent confession became a prolonged outburst.

I’m afraid I’m a little obsessed with death myself. Have been, ever since I was a kid. I think I’d like to die of pneumonia. They say it’s the best way to go. Fred Astaire died of pneumonia, in his wife’s arms. I’d also like to die at a memorable age. I mean one easy to remember. Like 75, or 80. Big, fat number. I can’t imagine making it much past 80 and I really don’t want to. 80 always seems to be the turning point. And so a very sudden, painless death at 80 while I’m still feeling hale and hearty would be just the thing. But I can’t make up my mind between cremation and burial. Cremation is cheaper – so much better for those left behind. But I like the pomp and ceremony of burial, and for some strange reason, I even enjoy the thought of festering in the ground. An afterlife of sorts, speaking of afterlifes. Lives. No, lifes.

Joanna was a psychologist, but she was not a clinical psychologist. She had never treated patients in the cozy, costly setting of an outside office. Nor even within the snug recesses of a well-appointed Starbucks. But she knew she should give an answer.

I’m not quite sure what to say, Joanna said.

Oh, no answer needed. It was just nice to get it out. Crazy, I know. I’m sorry. This probably happens to you all the time.

No. It was very enlightening. Almost like a pre-NDE.

Joe smiled wanly.

No – I’m serious. I’m not sure, but I don’t think I’ve ever asked anyone how they felt about death before having an NDE. I mean in the terms you described.

My impression is that not very many people think about death. Which is healthy. Unlike me, Joe concluded.

So I guess I’m not very healthy either, Joanna thought.

She started to gather together her things to take to the disposal area.

Listen, I need to get back. I’m surprised I haven’t received a million phone calls by now. But thanks so much for the coffee and the snack. I think I can survive the rest of the day.

She began to get up.

I’d like to volunteer for your program, Joe said. You said you were having trouble finding volunteers, and I’d like to volunteer.

Joanna abruptly sat down again.

I’m afraid it isn’t quite that simple, said Joanna.

Forms … tests … interviews, Joe replied.

Among other things. And your heart, of course.

My heart is fine. The doctor said so.

Joanna considered a moment. It had been hard to find volunteers. And all too often, even the qualified applicants proved to be very poor subjects.

Tell you what, Joe, – it was the first time she had used his name but Joe wasn’t certain if it was flattering or merely condescending – tell you what, if you pass all those other tests your doctor ordered, we’d be glad to start the process.

Let’s shake hands on it, Joe said, and took her much younger hand in his.

•               •               •

Joe passed his tests, underwent the so-called process, and began as a twice-weekly volunteer. He did tell his wife what he was doing, but not his son. His wife was concerned, but did not disapprove.

Then, finally, came Shamoo.

•               •               •

Joe had told Joanna about Shamoo during the interview process. In a way, it was a funny story. How they got Shamoo. Many years ago, in the first one or two years of their of their marriage, Joe’s wife had volunteered at a humane society and had encountered an Australian Shepherd named Bonnie. She was really the perfect dog. Affectionate, well-trained, never pulled on her leash, hardly ever required a leash. Joe’s wife had wanted to adopt her. But instead, Joe had insisted on adopting an English Springer Spaniel named Serena, because Joe’s father had owned a Springer as well. Serena was, in most regards, a disaster. Later, after Serena was gone, Joe’s wife would occasionally bring up Bonnie. If only … But it was more a joke than anything else. Not a rebuke. Then, after their son was born and in the natural course of events began asking for a dog, Joe said, Why don’t we get an Australian Shepherd? To his credit, Joe was always trying to rectify past mistakes, when he recognized them. Thus, Shamoo, whom he quickly came to adore.

•               •               •

All right, concluded Joanna, after his most recent NDE, perhaps you’ll see Shamoo again in our next session and we can try to figure this out. Maybe it’s a form of pre-cognition. I need to review my records and see if there are any other examples.

Any flirting – serious flirting – that might have taken place at the outset of their relationship had long since ceased. But they had become friends and their thought processes were often in close alignment.

When do you want me back? Joe asked.

Let’s see. Today is Friday. Why don’t you come on Tuesday. Same time. Can you make it?

Don’t worry, said Joe, I can make it.

Great, said Joanna, and Joe returned to the lab area’s tiny dressing room to change back into to his street clothes.

•               •               •

But it didn’t work out that way. Joe got the flu the next day and was out of commission for two weeks. When he finally called Joanna’s number to re-schedule his appointment, the voice that answered was not Joanna’s: it was the hospital switchboard and when he asked to be connected to Joanna Sanders, the voice said: Could you hold just one moment please? When the voice returned , it said: I’m sorry, but Dr. Sanders is no longer with us.

What do you mean, Dr. Sanders is no longer with you? Joe said. Did she quit?

I’m sorry, the voice replied, and the voice did sound genuinely unhappy.

Was she fired?

I’m sorry, just a moment please, but he was not put on hold; it was if the operator had merely placed her hand over the receiver; he could hear a muffled conversation in the background. Finally, she came back.

I’m sorry, sir, but we are not allowed to give out personal information about hospital staff.

Let me speak with someone else, said Joe.

The voice went dead, but a moment later a second voice picked up the line:

This is Denise Keeling. I’m the charge nurse here on Six North. How I can help you?

"I’m looking for Joanna Sanders – Doctor Joanna Sanders."

What is your name?

My name is Joe Conway. Do you know Dr. Sanders?

"I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Conway, very sorry, but Dr. Sanders is dead. She passed away ten days ago."

Passed away …

You didn’t see the story, about her death here at the hospital?

"I saw a story – I didn’t read it – I deliberately avoid stories like that."

It’ll still be around. Please read the story. Joanna was a friend of mine.

Joe thought he heard a catch in her voice.

I’m sorry – that’s all I can tell you. Goodbye.

It took Joe only a moment to find the story on his laptop.

Joanna had been stabbed to death while visiting a friend who worked in the ER. The murderer, a teenage boy on angel dust, had been shot and killed by the security guard. Joanna had bled out before she could be stabilized.

Joe found a new physician for his heart trouble and other healthcare needs and never returned to the hospital.

•               •               •

Joe was sitting in his favorite chair at his favorite table in his favorite outdoor café in Varenna, Italy, sipping at a large, bulbous glass of red wine. A cobbled pavement continued its scenic journey just beyond the café’s tables. Beyond the pavement, Joe gazed out on Lake Como, blue and glistening in the afternoon sunshine. He lifted his glass, tilted the glass slightly toward him and peered at the lake through the wine. His dog, Shamoo, lay next to him, her tri-black head lodged between her two front paws. But Shamoo was not asleep. She was wide awake and fully alert. The fat round ducks searching among the tables for scraps of food were an almost irresistible temptation.

Joe was sitting in his favorite chair at his favorite table in his favorite outdoor café in Varenna, Italy, sipping at a large, bulbous glass of red wine.

Joe had put his hand down to scratch behind Shamoo’s ear when he noticed the young, stylish woman coming toward them down the pavement. Now Joe, like Shamoo, was immediately on high alert.

Shamoo raised her head.

Do you know her, master? Shamoo said.

"I’m