Afterlife Conversations: A Sequel to The Book of What If

Prologue

October 2, 1981

How could it ever have come to this? I found myself alone in a dismal, Cimmerian place, the empty parking lot of a bar to be exact. It was quite out of character for me to visit a bar, but frankly, I needed a drink or two or three…

What was I doing in such a place late at night? Well, my greatest friend and once in a lifetime love walked out of my life that day. I was in shock over it and very confused. He was confused too when he left me standing alone by my door. It hurt knowing we’d likely never realize the full potential of our relationship. Moreover, it hurt to know we’d never live out my dream of our life together. It just plain hurt!

Ten sheets to the wind, I sang an impromptu song that popped into my head from nowhere.

I drowned the sorrow of this plight tonight. How will I fare in the stark morning light?

My survival instincts commanded me to remove myself from that parking lot. After all, I’ve always had a target on my back labeling me the victim. That time, it seemed as if I’d asked for it. At any rate, loitering in such an area late at night was a very foolish endeavor, especially so considering I was a girl twenty-two years of age, five foot six in height, and one hundred thirty pounds soaking wet.

On the far side of the lot, I saw this guy named Mitch standing by his hog. He’d been drinking at the bar too. I knew Mitch, somewhat. I went out with him a few times. We dated—I guess you could say. Actually, I’m not sure why I’d gone out with him. He was a downright blithering idiot and not my type. To be honest, the only reason I went out with him was to get the guy who walked out on me jealous. Great plan, huh?

It was too late to catch a bus—cabs were scarce too. I figured catching a ride with him on the back of his Softail would be better than hanging around like a fool in who knows where. The idea of me, a cultured and educated person, alone late at night in a bar’s parking lot ready to beg a ride from a complete moron with a Harley, what had my life come to?

I strolled over to him and said hi. He was thrilled to see me and asked if I needed a ride. Unfortunately, I accepted.

Wait a minute, I thought. I recently had a nightmare about this very scenario. What in the world am I doing?

I did have a nightmare about riding with Mitch; it had tragic results. But there I was prepared to put my life in the hands of someone two sausages short of a barbeque. Given the circumstances, I saw no other alternative.

Riding on a motorcycle was out-of-character for me also. Normally, I was a very cautious person when it came to motor vehicles, especially the two-wheeled kind. But that night, the thought of riding on the back of his loud, unwieldy contraption felt adventurous, dangerous, and bold. It must’ve been the one, two, three or more drinks that had negatively influenced my better judgment.

Risk taking was out of character for me too. That night, I was out of character thrice.

I took one more gander around the parking lot. My friend Lindsey and everyone else I knew had flown the coop; I was all alone.

I looked at Mitch. The drunken fool wore his usual vapid stare. His mouth hung agape like the mouth breather he was.

Oh brother, I thought, this couldn’t be good!

Smugly, he hopped atop of his bike and donned his ridiculous looking helmet: the kind with a point on top. I reluctantly slid on behind him. I could smell the foul odor of marijuana and beer waft back from his breath; it sickened me. A kick of the starter pedal sealed my fate.

With a loud belch, snort, and blast of the engine, we pulled onto the road. Halfway down the block, directly in front of us, someone opened a car door. Mitch was too drunk to veer away; he crashed into it. The sounds of breaking glass and crunching metal were deafening. Inertia took hold to catapult me off the disintegrating motorcycle.

It’s true what they say; my life flashed before my eyes. A violent impact followed my life’s review as my unhelmeted head met the pavement. With an overpowering crunch, I felt my back impact the ground just as harshly. I saw a flash of light while feeling excruciating pain. The suffocating blow knocked every molecule of air from my being. Then thick, warm, sickly moisture drenched my hair. I didn’t realize it was my own blood.

Street lights danced—then became a blur. More bright flashes of light lit up my injured brain. I tried to speak, but my voice faltered—I didn’t give up. I coughed and gagged as blood gushed from deep within my throat to choke me. Convinced it would be the last sentence I’d ever speak, I struggled with all of my might to get the words out.

God, please give me the strength to say it, I prayed.

I had to say the simple, quintessential transformative sentence—the sentence that might’ve been a complete game changer had I said it before he turned from my door.

I’ve said it to him many times before, why didn’t I say it before he left me? I wondered.

I found enough strength to whisper. I managed to say what I desperately needed to say.

—John, I love you!—

Metro-West Hospital

Somewhere between wakefulness and eternal rest, I found myself in an unfamiliar place. It felt as if I was floating, and everything was fuzzy. The only discernable feature I could make out was a bright tunnel of light. From the tunnel, I saw a figure glide toward me. She came into focus.

My God, she looks just like me! I screamed from inside my head.

Catherine, what are you doing here? It’s not time yet! she exclaimed.

What do you mean, what am I doing here? Who are you, exactly?

I am you.

What? I’m in no mood for any doggone bullshit mind games! I raged.

No games. No bullshit. Let me ask you this, who do I look like? my double questioned.

Me… Me in a silvery gown. So what? Where did you get the dress, at the Goodwill? Wait a minute; I know what’s going on. Don’t start pulling some jive, cosmic crap with me. It’s the accident that has me mixed up and is making me hallucinate. You’re a hallucination!

I recalled a line from a poem I’d read. A chimera in my brain, troubles me in my prayers.

I began to pray hoping the unwelcomed chimera would stop troubling me.

Always the analytical one, aren’t you? the specter questioned.

Just who are you anyway? Tell me! I demanded.

Do you believe in angels? Perhaps better put, your own soul?

Don’t give me that doggone nonsense! Who the hell are you? I repeated.—Frankly, I was getting annoyed with the imposter.

I expected this sort of reaction from you should we meet face to face. I feared you’d be nihilistic.

Nihilistic? I’ve never considered life to be pointless! I fumed.

Good. I’m glad you said that because you’ll need to exhibit some faith.

Faith? Faith in God? I’ve always had faith in God. You are not God!

You’re right; I’m not God… I’m imperfect just like you. But considering that I am you, you’ll need to have faith in me.

Don’t fence intellectually with me, sister. You’ll lose out every time!

Ha! Do you think you’re talking to Lindsey now? Be assured, we are equally matched intellectually…, sister. I thought you believed that everything, including matter, is a possibility of consciousness. Isn’t your ontological belief in line with physicalist reductionism? I thought you believed in the multiverse and that all possible alternate histories and futures are real. That’s what you’ve vociferously debated with others, the angel declared.

Yes, those are my beliefs, but I’m in no mood to debate scientific philosophies.

Okay, be a bore. But here’s the deal, you and I are the same. As such, I’m here to tell you that you have a decision to make. You can wallow in self-pity, or you can march your ass through that white tunnel. Only then will you encounter a divergent worldline. Only then will you experience a better possible alternate reality.

Look, I told you that I’m in no mood to debate. Ha, next thing you’ll tell me is I’ll have a dang judgment awaiting me on the other side of that tunnel, I mocked sarcastically.

My, you are mighty pugnacious today—awfully flippant and snarky too. There’s that nihilism again. Maybe you need a doggone judgment.

Shut up and leave me alone, I demanded.

You don’t want me to do that, the would-be angel insisted. What you need is to have your dream further elucidated.

"You know about my dream—the dream?"

I’m the one who put it into your head in the first place. That cold night, after you and Lindsey visited Greg and Brian, I put that vision into your head. But it was more than a vision; it was an actual, possible alternate reality—a divergent worldline.

An alternate reality? I’m lying here dying! Lindsey told me that my dream was random. I suppose she was right for once in her cotton pickin’ life. He shattered my dreams when he walked out of my life into the drenching rain, I bemoaned.

Who? You mean, John? Our good ole Johnny Juanny-boy… I’ve already dealt with him. He’s squared away with a good outcome, the gown clad charlatan claimed.

Yeah? Good outcome all right! Look at me… The only dream come true was the nightmare of getting tossed off of that nitwit’s hog.

What about the many worlds we both subscribe to—the power of consciousness? the silvery phantom persisted.

Who are you, anyway? I repeated, this time with a hint of actual curiosity.

I told you, I am you—the angelic version of you. You’re very heart and soul—your true guardian angel. Elucidation of your dream is what you need, Catherine. You need to witness alternate future events.

I’m severely injured and very tired… I’m dying. Most likely, I’ll have no future events to witness. I doubt my beliefs at the moment. Please, leave me alone.

"We’ve covered this territory already. You must allow me to touch you."

What for?

Please, the mysterious angel insisted. We have much material to view. I need to share my book with you. I can share it with a simple touch. It will help you to make decisions—decisions about the future of your consciousness.

A book? Your book, you say? What’s it called? I demanded.

"It’s called The Book of What If. May I share it with you?"

With that, the angel glided nearer. I was still mighty skeptical of her, but I figured, hey, it’s worth a shot. I couldn’t have gotten myself any deeper down the freakin’ rabbit hole, now could I? I was reluctant to the extreme until she extended her arm and touched my forehead with her finger. A blue spark arced; I felt encompassed by its charge. I hadn’t a clue why, but I went with it, nevertheless. Suddenly, a dizzying array of images flashed through my mind. It all went too fast; I couldn’t make sense of it. Finally, the cavalcade of phantasmagorias slowed down enough for me to get my bearings. Amazingly, she took me to a different place and time—a place in another realm.

Part One

Afterlife Conversations—an Alternate Reality, a Divergent Worldline

One

Grant’s Pass, Oregon

2004

Adorned in his dogi, obi, and hakama, traditional garb worn in Japanese martial arts, John looked proud and strong as he led our Aikido class through various techniques. His rank was godan, or fifth degree black belt. At his high rank, he was well qualified to take a leadership role in our dojo. Sadly, he had to. Our beloved sensei passed away a year earlier. Being the highest ranked Aikidoka in our school, John took on his responsibilities. Even with his active touring and recording schedule, somehow, he managed to spend lots of time practicing and teaching the art.

Remember to move from your center, not in a straight line. Greet the attack by getting off of the line; then turn… John instructed.

"Ai dozo!" he commanded as we prepared to practice a technique that involves a powerful wristlock. Ai dozo, or by all means—blend, was a fitting and proper way for our sensei to commence practice.

Huh, Sensei. Inside the dojo, that’s how I’d refer to him, but in all other aspects of life, he was my husband, father of my children, and my good ole Johnny Juanny-boy.

It was rare for John and me to team up and practice together. Usually, the two of us helped the beginners in class or walked the mat to observe our students’ technique, but not this time. I’d been getting a weird vibe from John for the past several weeks. He’d been off somehow, and I needed to get to the bottom of it. I figured I’d get a better feel for his energy through some vigorous practice. We bowed to one another and said, "Onegaishimasu."

Me, the pass-a-fist, would never pull a punch while practicing with my husband. He would’ve been offended if I had. I lunged at him with all of my might and grabbed him, hard. On the other hand, he blended with my attack—careful not to harm me. I rolled out of it light as a feather.

While practicing with him, I recalled how I got interested in the art. I first realized its power when John defended me from the cowardly bastard, Brad Snetram, my boss back in the old days. That sonofabitch, Brad, surely didn’t know what hit him when he grabbed John’s collar. All of a sudden, sankyo!—Another of Aikido’s powerful wristlocks.

Brad, the dang no account peckerwood, yelped like a duly whipped dog, and I was duly impressed. That sparked my interest right quick. I began to study the martial art in earnest immediately after completing medical school and my residency. Since then the likes of Brad Snetram never dare abuse me. If anyone tried to mess with me, the queen of pugnaciousness, they’d be in for a heaping helping of whoop ass!

As we continued to practice, I noticed he felt off-balance. For the lack of a better term, the boy’s technique felt lackluster—it was unheard of. His heart wasn’t in it. His usual spirited technique fell a little flat. What is wrong with him today, I wondered. Hmm, maybe his medical problems are bothering him.

We continued to practice as I reflected on how much we loved the art. After all, Aikido interested me because of my heritage. Although I was an all American gal—and tomboy as evidenced by my persiflage and eccentricities—I was actually of German/Japanese descent. I was the product of an affair my mother had with a Japanese man. Unfortunately, her peccadillo turned into our family’s dirty little secret. I suffered various degrees of rejection from my clan and became the lightening rod of their cruel indifference. I was referred to by my kin as hafu—a term that implied one’s intrinsic racial impurity. Ironically, they learned the insult from the Japanese themselves. I’ve never much cared for the pejorative or being considered impure. Unlike some of my mentally deficient family, I’d always thought of myself as being whole and wholesome. The fact is, I felt smart—smarter than most of my kin. I became a physician, mother, and a dad-blamed second degree black belt. I felt pretty doggone accomplished, thank you. As for the rest of my tribe, they were blue collar workers, drunks, and druggies.

If people only knew how I’ve secretly suffered from my family’s abuse, I mulled. I’ve never come to terms with my Asian eyes—the eyes that betray my ethnicity. But John does his best to help me with that. Rare, priceless gems, that’s how he always describes my eyes.

It was the boy’s turn to attack me, so I worked with his energy. I turned and guided him into the technique. Whoopsy daisy, I thought as I sent him soaring.

Thud—he fell awkwardly. It was highly unusual for him to fall like a brick. I feared that I might’ve hurt him. What is with the boy, I wondered. I’ll have to kiss and make him feel better when we get home.

He lifted himself from the floor, brushed himself off, and offered me a muted smile. Something was on his mind—had been for a few weeks at that point. Being married for twenty-three years, I could read his emotional state like a doggone book.

Sitting in front of the kamiza, two claps and a bow to Ōsensei, the founder of Aikido, signified the end of class. We wished our Aikido friends good night and prepared to go home.

We held hands as we walked to our car, and as he opened the car’s door for me, he gave me forlorn look. What is with him, I continued to wonder.

I was confused because, all in all, we felt pretty darn lucky. John and David Parker, the leader of their band, were going full tilt with their musical pursuits. Their fourth CD won a Grammy. They were also very excited to learn that they’d been chosen to score a feature film.

As for me, a humble physician, I was very happy with my job. Plus, the board game I invented ranked amongst the top ten perennial favorites like Monopoly and Scrabble. To think, the doubting Thomases never imagined I’d succeed. Boy oh boy—were they ever proven wrong.

Our two children, Catherine and Daniel, were extraordinary kids. Although they were a bit childish and raucous for their ages, we viewed their vivaciousness as an outlet for their precociousness. Well—John and I may have sheltered them a smidge. Be that as it may, they proved themselves to be self-starters—driven and motivated. That was a fact.

Daughter, Catherine, took after her father. At seventeen years of age, she was a ravishing, exotic Sicilian beauty. I often considered posting armed guards around her for that very reason. But beauty wasn’t her only trait. As a junior in high school, she aced all of her classes; she always did.

Daniel was an extraordinarily handsome young man who took after my Eurasian looks. He inherited my eyes and hair. He also inherited my drive. He liked to build stuff, so engineering and industrial design became his calling. He had just finished his first semester of college and was already on the dean’s list.

Having two bright, self-motivated children allowed John and me to pursue our life’s passions with fewer worries. But we also spent lots of quality time with them. We were able to strike a good balance. I believe that balance became the key to our family’s success. We couldn’t wait to get home and see what our adorable offspring were up to.

We arrived home to witness a commotion between our daughter and son.

I’m gonna get you, sucker! daughter Catherine shouted.

Daniel blew by us in the hallway with Catherine in hot pursuit.

I didn’t know it was the last yogurt cup, honestly, pled Daniel with a cheesy grin like the Cheshire cat who ate the dad-gummed cheese. He ran around the house like a chicken with its head cut off.

You goofball, Danny-boy. You mutton munching glutton! Catherine roared.

Sis, it wasn’t mutton, it was yogurt.—They continued to race through the house.

John’s first reaction was to put an end to their nonsense before they destroyed the place, but I intervened.

Let them get it out of their systems; let them be kids for just a little bit longer, I pled before their father had a chance to be a party pooper. Instead of stopping them, we stood back and observed. We couldn’t help but remember our youth and all the times we playfully chased each other around.

I’ve got you now, boy, daughter Catherine promised.

Nearly knocking over a lamp, she launched herself upon her brother tackling him to the carpet. We threw our palms up to our foreheads in unison and gasped.

Strong tomboy that she was, daughter Catherine roundly pinned her brother down. Then she proceeded to tickle his ribs and beneath his arms, mercilessly. Daniel flailed as he convulsed with laughter.

I give up! I give up! I’ll never eat yogurt again! Honestly, I didn’t know it was the last cup. I would’ve gladly saved you some, Daniel claimed amongst his mad cackling.

Humph, Catherine snorted. I’ll let you off the hook this time, but next time, I’ll have your head on a stick, boy! she growled.

Catherine, Daniel, is all of your homework done? I probed.

Absolutely, Catherine replied. Danny-boy helped with my AP work.

I did, Daniel claimed. As far as my homework, I’m on break, remember?

Dishes are washed and we only spent a short time online. Everything is hotsy-totsy, Mom, Catherine added.

Lovingly, John gazed at our children. Bright, beautiful, and impish—he loved how much they had in common with me. He wrapped his left arm around Catherine and his right around Daniel, drew them near, and gave them both a peck on the cheek. The two of them looked a little squeamish at his show of affection. After all, they were big kids.

As if on cue, they brushed off Dad’s kisses and went on their merry way. We could hear them plotting and giggling about something. Certainly, they were making big plans for the long weekend break. The two of them disappeared into the den, chose a movie on TV, and quietly enjoyed the rest of their evening. They were good together and good for each other—the best friends brother and sister could possibly be.

What about those two? John asked.

What do you mean, dear?

Our kids. I mean, look at them. Although they’re a little rowdy at times, they’re completely well-adjusted. Was it luck or good karma? he asked.

Maybe a combination of the two, I shrugged.

I drew John near to me for an embrace and kissed his cheek, tenderly. He held me and sighed. I felt his odd, dejected energy return; it deepened my concern.

Although John and I had happy and productive lives, there were dark clouds brewing. His dilemma arose from a medical issue having to do with a musculoskeletal disorder that plagued him his entire life. Hip dysplasia, a congenital misalignment of hips, wore on his joints. Although my medical specialty involved infectious disease rather than orthopedics, I knew what it meant: the end or, at least curtailment, of John’s Aikido practice. I was also concerned about his concertizing and studio work; both activities were physically demanding. If his condition grew to become full-blown osteoarthritis, it would’ve put a hulking cramp in his style. X-rays were done; we awaited the orthopedist’s opinion.

Certainly, his recent moodiness is a by-product of his health worries, or is it? I wondered.

As for my dilemma, it was all in my head. It all went back to the miserable secret my family harbored. I didn’t know my birth father. He returned to Japan by the time I was a one year old. Ever since I could remember, my curiosity drove me to find him. Recently, I’d done some research on the Internet. I had some leads, but I felt ambivalent about them. Part of me wanted to delete the search from the computer. Another part of me wanted to rush to Japan to hunt him down.

Did he have feelings for me as his daughter or was I simply a mistake? If for nothing else, I needed to have my questions answered. I needed to fill the deep aching pain I’d carried in my heart. John didn’t know about my search, but it was due time to tell him.

Two

Metro-West Hospital

1981

I don’t understand, I proclaimed to my angelic counterpart. I mean, you’ve thrown a lot at me all at once. I marry John, become a physician, have the children I’ve dreamt about, and study martial arts, how? And what’s with this bombshell about a search for my elusive father? What’s this Internet thing? And why is John so sad? It’s too much to digest!

Things are different in the future. You go on to achieve excellence. And, due to the Internet, your ‘elusive father’ isn’t as elusive; no one is. The future offers you greater access to your wishes and dreams. Those were your wishes…your dreams, were they not, Catherine? As far as our Johnny Juanny-boy goes, we’re getting to that.

What…? Wait, I know what you’re doing; you’re being cruel and mocking me. I could have had this rich life and experienced these exotic things, but…

Yes, you could—just as you did in your fondest dream.

But now I’m lying here… I wept.

No self-pity, please. I have much to show you… Although there are difficulties ahead, there’s much to rejoice about as well. When the proper time comes, I’ll open the door…

No! You’re teasing me now. You’re so cruel! I cried bitterly.

Please, don’t be troubled, Catherine. Let’s continue with our book.

With that, she placed her finger back to my forehead. A blue spark arced, and I was swept away.

*     *     *

Grant’s Pass, Oregon

2004

I came home from work early to go with John to his orthopedic appointment. As I made my way down our long driveway, his recording studio came into view. It was a two thousand square foot building built to David and John’s specifications. The studio was complete with acoustics, state of the art computers, and every musical instrument the boys needed—clear down to the