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October 27, 2006
Appointment with death BY JACOB SHAFER
I had never been to a séance before (unless you count that one time with my cousin and the Ouija board). I had never really wanted to. When it comes to speaking with spirits, you might call me a “scaredy-cat skeptic.” Skeptic, because I have a hard time believing that, if there is an afterlife, dead people are just waiting around for some freelancing psychic to call them up for a chat. Scaredy-cat, because, if I’m wrong and all this stuff is for real, I want no part of it. But, being the intrepid scribe that I am, I did not retreat when duty called. With Halloween on the horizon, my editor asked me to commune with an individual whose mortal coil has been—how shall we say—unwound and to write a snappy 1,000-word story about it. And, come heck or high water, that’s what I was going to do. Finding someone willing to accommodate my needs was more difficult than you might think. A few folks, whose numbers I found in the yellow pages, flatly refused, perhaps sniffing a hard-hitting investigative piece a la 20/20’s John Stossel. Others strung me along but ultimately declined. Said one woman: “I just don’t feel that journalism and reaching out to our spiritual counterparts are necessarily compatible.” Fair enough. In the end, I had to venture up Sonoma County way to meet with a medium willing to dial up the deceased. (She agreed, but only on the condition that her name and the name of her business not be used in this story. So for our purposes, she’s going to be referred to simply as Madame M.) I told Madame M over the phone that I wanted to contact my father’s father and asked her what I should bring (A photo? A piece of his clothing? A major credit card?) She said all I needed was “an open mind and a willing heart.” I brought along my Visa just in case. Like most people, I came into the experience with my fair share of stereotypes: Dimly lit rooms, crystal balls, scented candles, Whoopi Goldberg and Demi Moore dancing to the Righteous Brothers. Most of these preconceived notions went by the wayside the minute I walked into Madame M’s domicile (she operates out of her living room). Yes, we entered “the work space,” as she called it, through a beaded curtain; and yes, before the session was over some sage had been burned. But there was no magic sphere, no garbled chanting and certainly no “Unchained Melody.” For her part, Madame M was just a regular lady—clad in billowy clothing, with bright blue eyes, shoulder-length silver hair and a warm, reassuring smile. The only hint of eccentricity was her bare feet, replete with toenails painted to match the colors of the rainbow. Pretty tame stuff. After introductions and a businesslike handshake, she led me to a round table in the corner of the room. A large window looked out on her garden, which was overflowing with sunflowers. She handed me a piece of paper. I half expected some kind of long legal disclaimer (“In the event that he/she is demonically possessed, the above signed irrevocably assumes all liability...”), but instead found nothing more than a few bullet points outlining the process in brief. While I read them over, Madame M closed the blinds (goodbye, sunflowers), dimmed the lights (one stereotype upheld) and we were ready to begin. Sort of. Before she attempted to contact my grandfather, Madame M had a few questions. I answered carefully, trying to be cooperative but at the same time not wanting to give away any specific details. After that, she reached out her hands—which I correctly guessed I was supposed to clasp—and closed her eyes. We sat that way for an uncomfortable minute or two. Then she spoke. She told me she was picking someone up, but needed to make sure it was my grandfather. “Did he serve in the military?” she asked. “Yes.” “World War II?” “Correct.” “And his work...something in the social services?” “Yes, he was a clinical social worker.” “I think I have Carl,” she announced. I had already told her his name, so this came as no great surprise. “The connection isn’t very strong,” she warned. “We probably have only a few minutes to communicate. Is there anything of particular urgency you want to know?” Lots of possibilities flashed through my mind: Is there a God? What does it feel like to die? Met any celebrities up there? Feeling a little uneasy about the whole thing, I settled for: How’s it going? She told me Carl was doing well. His spirit had successfully crossed over, so he wasn’t caught in limbo. He had died happy and content and was not bound up by any “unresolved energy.” I asked if he could watch me, if he knew what I’d been up to (a scary thought in more ways than one). She said that he could not—that spirits who’ve crossed over have little or no ability to look in on the lives of the living. (Whew.) “Carl wants to know about your life,” she said. “About what you’ve been up to.” I told her (him) that I was married, working as a writer and generally staying out of trouble. (No felony convictions...that counts, right?) She said he was proud of me, and that he was happy I had chosen to pursue a more practical career. This was the only big “wow” moment. My grandpa died when I was 16. At that point, drunk off my success as the leading lad in our high school production of Arsenic and Old Lace, my sole ambition was to go to Hollywood and become a star (or, failing that, an overly enthusiastic waiter). I told Grandpa I was glad he approved of my choices. The session ended soon after that. Madame M lost the feed, and let go of my hands. She sat silently for a few minutes, rubbing her temples. Unsure of what to do, I rubbed mine. An hour later, back on 101 and across the Marin County line, I sat alone with my thoughts. I was very close to my Grandpa Carl and I think of him often. Why then did this communication, real or imagined, stoke virtually no emotions? I didn’t feel particularly sad, contemplative, drained or elated. If anything, I felt rested—like I’d just had one of the easiest work days of my life (which was true). Whether Madame M’s services amount to a full-blown spiritual miracle or a hill of metaphysical beans, I can’t say. What I can say is that the experience didn’t change me for the better—or the worse. Tired of listening to the droll voices in my head, I flipped on the radio again. This time, the oldies station was playing “Daydream Believer.” Winking at Carl, wherever he was, I turned it up and sang along. ILLUSTRATION OF GRIM REAPER BY JING JING TSONG THE DEATH ISSUE:
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 THE DEATH ISSUE: Movies to die for Nothing sends chills down your spine like a good old-fashioned film about death Burying the past Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you have to take your burial lying down |
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While driving up 101 toward a date with my dead grandfather, I flipped on the radio and scanned over to an oldies station. After the obligatory Stones song and a couple Motown ditties, the Beatles’ “Cry Baby Cry” came wafting through the speakers. I didn’t pay it much mind until John belted out these prophetic lyrics: “At 12 o’clock a meeting ’round the table/For a séance in the dark/With voices out of nowhere put on specially by the children for a lark...” |
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