Killjoy…we’ve all heard the term, but have we ever really thought about what it truly means?

I grew up with a killjoy—a destroyer of happiness—but at the time I didn’t recognize her for what she was. After all, she was my mother, so I loved and trusted her, as most children do their parents.

It wasn’t until I was older, and had left home, that I finally recognized the negativity that my mother created around her, especially in response to anyone’s happy news or accomplishments.

Here’s an example of what I mean: when I was about 9 or 10, the local paper ran a contest. You were supposed to write a story about your pet, and why they were the best pet in the world. The first prize was getting your story printed in the paper and a plaque. Well, my mother proceeded to tell me how stupid I was to try and win; how I was only going to get hurt when I lost; how no one in our family ever won anything; and how I shouldn’t come running to her when I lost and so felt miserable.

Despite her constant doom and gloom, I wrote my story and sent it in. I tried not to wish too hard to win (some of my mother’s naysaying having rubbed off on me), but, of course, I did anyway. Believe it or not, I did win, and even then, my mother couldn’t (or wouldn’t) be happy for me. No. Instead, of congratulations, I got a lecture on how I was probably the only one who spelled everything correctly; how now she was going to have to drive me down to the newspaper office so I could get my plaque; how inconsiderate I was being for interrupting her day by winning this contest; and how it was probably just a big mistake.

Well, the story was printed, and I did get my plaque, but I never got a congratulations from my mother.

As the years went by, my mother’s behavior never changed. If you had some happy news, she made sure that you felt absolutely miserable, depressed, and regretful about it. Therefore, I learned never to share my happy news with my mother until long after the fact. That way, she couldn’t destroy that first flush of euphoria when you initially receive the news about whatever “it” is—a promotion, an engagement, a new couch, or just having a great day.

When my mother died, I really never expected to encounter anyone like her again—someone who could spoil any happiness—a killjoy. Boy, was I wrong.

I had finally gotten my books published (by the e-publisher IM Light Publications) and was working like crazy to create a website on which to make them available to people. I had spent several months designing, coding, and testing my website, and when it was truly done I couldn’t wait to tell everyone I knew about it. It wasn’t just that the books (which I was also proud of) were now available (though that was a big part of it), but it was also the fact that I had worked so hard on putting together the website itself. I was proud of all that I had accomplished and I wanted my friends to know it and share my happiness with me.

So I scribbled out an email and sent it out to everyone I knew, telling them all about my great accomplishment and inviting them to come and check out my new website. Most of the responses were positive and encouraging, but one wasn’t. One person just had to be a killjoy.

He just couldn’t let me be happy. This killjoy had to do his best to destroy my moment; to take away the happiness and pride in my accomplishment that I had. What was even worse than his snide and nasty comments that he sent to me, was that he also sent emails to many of our mutual acquaintances and friends saying unkind (and untrue) things about me and my work.

He not only took away my happiness, but he killed it publicly, and, at the same time, he tried to destroy the respect my friends had for me. Now some of my “friends” believed him and his negative, killjoy attitude, but many of them didn’t, and I’m glad.

For him and those who wish to believe his killjoy attitude, I can only say, I’m sorry—because it must be hard to live with such negativity and fear. But at least now that I know what type of person he is, I can avoid him and his disparaging remarks and poor attitude.

To me, there is enough negativity in the world already without adding to it. So, I’d rather interact with those whose attitudes are a bit more upbeat, a bit more supportive.

I realize and recognize that this type of negativity is created from one of two causes—either the person is acting out their negative poles, or they are afraid. Now, fear can cause someone to momentarily act out of their negative poles, or they can simply be “stuck” in their negative poles. My mother’s energies were primarily in a negative “spin”, which means that she was always going to be contrary to what most people considered “normal” or positive. It wasn’t something she could really help, although, she could have chosen to overcome this negativity instead of giving in to it. But it was a choice she made, just as I made a choice not to let my accomplishments or my happiness be “killed” by her.

As for this second killjoy—I think his response was more of a fear-based reaction (see my article on bullies). Because like the bully, he was jealous of what I had done, and rather than let me enjoy my moment of happiness, he allowed his fear (jealousy is the fear of not measuring up or the fear of failing) to rule, which meant he had to kill my moment of happiness in order to feel better about himself.

If someone is jealous of something you’ve done, it’s usually because they’re too afraid to try to do it themselves—they’re afraid that either they’ll fail, or that what they’ll accomplish won’t be as good. Either way, the only way they can feel good about themselves then, is to belittle what you have accomplished. Now, most people may do this once or twice, and that’s how you can tell that it’s a fear-based response. However, if someone does it all the time, you need to look and see if perhaps they’re energies are in the negative poles. If so, you may find yourself feeling uncomfortable due to abrading energies, or you find that no matter who the person is that has done something good, or what it is they have done, this person is going to run the person or their accomplishment (or both) down.

Now, if the remarks are a one-time occurrence, you can probably write it off as “sour grapes”, a bad day, or a fear-based reaction due to jealousy, and let it go. But if the person reacts to all your happy moments with negativity, then you’re probably better off avoiding them—unless, of course, you like the challenge of overcoming someone’s negative remarks about you.

I was holding Boxer in my lap and thinking about how astral plane guides used dreams to communicate with those that looked after, when an idea occurred to me. I lifted Boxer and stared into his eyes (really my mother’s eyes since she was using Boxer to watch over me).

“You sent that classroom dream, didn’t you?” The enigmatic smile and the quiet mrow told me what I already knew. My mother had been trying to help me connect the clues by sending me that dream of the classroom with all the seemingly disparate objects on the desk.

“Sometimes I can be so slow,” I said, Boxer again sitting in my lap with my hand absently petting his smooth fur.

A deep meowr-rowr told me that Boxer (my mother) agreed. “So, am I on the right path now?” I asked the cat.

Boxer looked up, his amber eyes meeting mine, and another mrowr grumbled through his chest. I gave the cat a hug, and then carefully placed him in one of his boxes to lounge in the last slanting rays of the sun.

I still didn’t completely understand all of the clues from that classroom dream, but at least now I knew I was headed in the right direction—back to the radio station tomorrow. Tonight, though, I was headed back downstairs to fix dinner.

In the kitchen, I glanced at my watch and realized that Dave would be home any moment. I grabbed some stuff from the fridge and put together my version of a Cobb salad, then sliced some French bread and put it into the oven to warm. Dinner would be light tonight after our celebratory luncheon at Berghoff’s.

* * *

The next morning found me back on the train headed for Chicago. It wasn’t the same train as Dave, though. Since I wasn’t doing a show, I hadn’t needed to be at the radio station so early, so I was enjoying a second cup of coffee as the 8:00 express sped its way down to the Loop.

The morning walk to WKRV was brisk. I was glad I had worn my heavy wool pant suit, with the nubby, burnt-orange sweater underneath. The sun had not yet to found its way out from behind the gray-garbed clouds, and the wind, which whipped out at me from its hiding place behind the buildings, held a hint of winter.

When I entered the lobby for WKRV it was full of visitors, business types, and even a small mob of school kids who were waiting for a tour. I hung around the fringes for a few moments trying to identify any recognizable energy patterns, but the mix of people was too over powering. I couldn’t really identify any individual energies with the swirl of emotions and I didn’t feel any pings from anyone in the mess of people, so I moved around the edge of the lobby heading for the offices.

I paused at the doorways of the various offices. Some of the offices were unoccupied, so I passed them by. Other offices were occupied, but had the door closed, which made it a bit more difficult to reach out and “feel” the energies of anyone inside. Some of the occupied offices had several people inside, so it took several minutes of hanging around and trying to appear innocuous while I “felt” the energies of each person to see if they were the person I was looking for.

By the time I had wandered past nearly all of the offices, the lobby had quieted. A moment later, I saw that the receptionist was eyeing me in between her brief bursts of conversation with the package delivery man. She’s probably wondering what I am doing, I thought somewhat guiltily.

I put on my best smile and started toward her desk. As I watched the package delivery man put the stack of parcels and envelopes on her desk, I realized that the energy I had been looking for was hers.

I stopped halfway to her desk and, closing my eyes, I reached out with my energies and touched her aura. I focused on the pattern I had searched for from the email, and knew it was a match. As I thought about the nightmares and the person who had created them, I saw that it was also part of her energy pattern.

So, the pinging I had felt each time that I had left the radio station had been her. When I opened my eyes, she was staring at me.

“Are you all right? Do you need something—water, a chair?” she asked a worried frown on her face.

I blushed as I realized how odd I must look standing in the middle of the lobby with my eyes closed. I shook my head to her questions, and stammered, “Uhhh, no, I’m fine.”

I walked to her desk, and gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Hi, what I need…”, I paused and searched the desk for her name plaque, “Rose…”. I stopped again. I could hardly blurt out that I had been looking for her, that I knew she was the emailer; the one who was worried about someone trying to take advantage of her father, or that she kept dragging me into her nightmares. Somehow, I was going to have to approach her with a little more finesse than that. So, I finished my sentence by saying, “…is to see the station manager for a moment. Tell him it’s Psychic Annya.”

I refreshed my smile, and showed her the agreement with my signature on it. She returned my smile, although I could feel her emotional energies wavering.

She’s probably wondering just how dangerous I am, I thought.

“Just a moment. I’ll see if he’s available.”

She picked up her phone and touched several numbers, then spoke briefly with the person at the other end. As she hung up the phone, she said, “He’ll be here in a moment.”

I nodded, and then walked toward the area where I knew the station manager’s office to be. A minute later he popped out and waved me back toward his office.

I showed him the notations that the lawyer had made; he signed the agreement, and then he made copies. As we shook hands and agreed on a start date, my mind kept wandering back to Rose McAndress, the receptionist. I had several ideas on how I could handle this situation, but I really wanted to speak to Katie first. Sometimes I think something is a good idea, but it takes talking it out for me to really see all the problems with it.

Katie was a great friend that way. She’d let me bounce any number of ideas off of her, and she had no qualms about telling me when she thought they were utterly stupid ideas. Nor did she have any qualms about telling me how stupid I would be to follow through on any of those dumb ideas.

Yep, I really needed to meet and talk with Katie.

I finished with the station manager, and then headed for the door. When I reached the lobby, Rose’s desk was completely surrounded again, and she didn’t even notice me leaving. Probably a good thing, I thought.

As I headed for the library to do my research, I called Katie. She agreed to meet me at a place near the train station about 4:30. So, I called and let Dave know that I would be home late (no, I didn’t know how late, but I was meeting Katie so that should give him an idea), and though unhappy at having to get his own dinner, he said he would survive. I smiled to myself, yeah, he would survive; he’d probably order something from Pizza Hut, knowing him.

The day was still gray and the wind was still cold, so instead of walking to the library, I decided to grab a cab.

I had set a plan of action for tomorrow: I would go to the radio station and see if I could determine who there was pinging my energies since I was almost positive it was the same person who was dragging me into their nightmares on the transitional plane.

When I turned toward the stairs to the bedroom, I nearly fell over.

“Oh, Boxer,” I huffed, and bent down to pick up our gray, box-loving cat who had been twining himself around my legs.

As I petted him, his purrs filled the house. I went upstairs to the bedrom and plopped down in the rocking chair in our sitting room. (Dave had helped design our upstairs addition, which consisted of an oversized master bedroom, a master bathroom, and a sitting room/sunroom overlooking the views of the creek on the south side of our property.)

I held Boxer, who was hanging limply in my hands, so that we were face to face, and I started telling him about my day. When he blinked his big amber eyes, I realized it was no longer just Boxer in my hands.

“I see you’re back, Mom,” I said to the gray cat.

Boxer mrowed and seemed to smile at me.

“How did you know?” I questioned.

Of course, Boxer didn’t respond, but that enigmatic smile remained, as did the look of intelligence beyond that of a cat’s in Boxer’s eyes.

My mother, who had died two years earlier on Halloween, had always had an affinity for animals when she was alive, and now that she was deceased, I found that she still did. She had a habit of using the family pets to check up on her kids—oh, not that any of her kids besides me (and maybe my older a brother) really believed it.

She and I had shared more than just our unruly red curls, we also shared a gift for the paranormal. However, when she told me that she would be around, I thought she meant something more like a ghost. Of course, knowing her love for animals, I should have realized sooner what she really meant.

Soon after my mom died, I used to see her intelligence, her being, behind Boxer’s amber eyes all the time. Now, though, she only seemed to show up when I really needed someone to talk to—someone who really understood about the paranormal. Dave is great, and I don’t want you to think otherwise, but he’s never planed (in fact, he claims he never dreams), so sometimes it’s hard to explain to him just what exactly I’m going through, feeling, or thinking.

And lest you think that seeing my mother in my cat’s eyes is wishful thinking on my part, let me tell you, that my brother (a hard-headed, down-to-Earth, doesn’t-believe-in-anything-he-can’t-touch, see, or feel kind of guy) has mentioned several times that he thought his dog was acting oddly.

He described one instance when he was in the garage working on his motorcycle. He said the dog was lying half in the garage and half on the driveway, and seemed to be asleep, but when he reached for a cigarette the dog came running in and took the pack right out of his hand. The dog then shook the cigarettes out onto the garage floor and stomped and chewed all of them to pulp.

He says that when he grabbed the dog to stop him, it wasn’t the dog’s eyes he saw. He swears it was mom looking out at him. It made him feel so guilty (he had promised mom when she was dying that he would quit with the cigarettes) that he hasn’t smoked since.

As I said, she always had a thing for animals, so when I looked at Boxer and saw my mom looking back at me, I didn’t doubt for a second that she was keeping an eye on me, just as she had been watching out for my brother by using his dog Bruiser to keep him from smoking.

It’s not unheard of, or so I found out. Evidently some people want to maintain a contact with the physical plane so they project a piece of themselves into Earthly animals. According to my sources, doing this helps the discarnate person find closure, finish lessons, or fulfill tasks (such as acting as a guide or guardian to someone who is still incarnate).

That fit my mother all right—still trying to to guide her wayward kids, especially me. She knew how difficult my “job” of transitional guide was, how much trouble someone could get into on the transitional plane, and she had chosen to take the time between incarnations to help me (and my brothers) out.

That’s why I was never too surprised when she’d pop up inside of Boxer. She’d observe and listen, and then she’d give me insights through my dreams. Dreams are one of the easiest ways for the discarnate to communicate with the incarnate. That’s because when awake, the incarnate have all sorts of barriers that they put up. People don’t want the world to be any different than “normal”, whatever they have decided their personal “normal” is. So, if something happens that is outside of their “normal”, they either fit it in (somehow) or they refuse to acknowledge it. You might be surprised by how much goes on in the world that most people refuse to acknowledge.

For instance, there’s a man called Derek Browne who shows people over and again that they don’t perceive what they don’t expect. Of course, one of the things that most people don’t expect (so don’t perceive) is that beings without physical form or substance actually exist. Therefore, guides from the astral planes have a heckuva time getting people like us, people on the physical plane, to listen to them.

Now, artists of all venues—that includes not only the usual ones, such as writing, painting, sculpting, and music, but also some of the venues that other people wouldn’t think of as artistic, such as religion and science—are usually a little more flexible in how they perceive the world, and so they are (usually) more willing to acknowledge information gleaned from the not-so-usual sources.

Dreams are a common way that people can gain insights and information, although many folks will tell you that dreams are simply left overs from the day just past or worries of the day to come. But I know differently. Dreams carry all types of information. Some dreams come from yourself, sure, but a lot of dreams are actually communications from astral guides or other discarnate entities (like a mother who has died but still wants her children to know how much she loves them). And despite what some people say (like Dave, my husband), everyone dreams, whether they remember them after awakening or not.

Sometimes you’ll get a dream communication without even remembering it. It then percolates in the deep reaches of your mind until suddenly one day you have a stupendous idea, a virtual breakthrough on some issue, problem, or challenge that you’ve been working on.

Oh, that’s not to say that all inspirations come from someone outside of yourself, but some of them do, because we all look out for each other. We’re all connected, so what hurts one, hurts everyone, and a triumph for one is a triumph for everyone.

So, next time you wake up from a strange little dream, instead of ignoring it, maybe think about it, and see if maybe there are any answers to your life hidden inside. Some of the nicest surprises have come wrapped in dreams.

You might think that I’m all about the money, seeing how excited I got at being paid for two radio appearances, and now with my excitement at making buku bucks just for doing one show per month, but that’s not true.

It’s just that Dave and I have plans, dreams, hopes of being independent in our chosen fields, but lately life has been putting some mighty big financial roadblocks in our way—the roof of the house started leaking, and we had to borrow from our 401Ks to get it patched (patched, not even replaced); the washer and dryer had died and so we had to replace them (I mean, c’mon, they were only 10 years old, what’s with that?); and the mechanic said that my car (which was only 9 years old) would cost more to repair than the it was worth, so now we had a car payment that we really couldn’t afford. So, when a chance to get ahead a little on the bills presents itself, well, we tended to get a bit happy and carried away.

I had gotten to Dave’s office with the radio’s offer and instead of trying to explain my elation, I simply handed him the document. As he read it, his eyes grew larger and the look of shock was soon replaced elation almost as great as mine. After some whoopying and hugging, which garnered quite a few stares from a number of co-workers, we escaped his office for a celebratory lunch at one of our favorite little restaurants, Berghoff’s on west Adams.

“So you think I should go ahead and take the deal, right?” I asked as the waiter took away our dirty dishes and left the bill.

“I think it looks good,” he said signing the bill and handing it back to the waiter. “But it wouldn’t hurt to have Bill check it over.”

I nodded. Bill, our neighbor and friend, was a lawyer. He handled primarily wills and probates, but I reasoned mentally, that a will was a type of contract, so he should be able to advise us on this.

Dave walked with me back to his office, and then he went upstairs to his round of meetings. Meanwhile, I continued walking to the train station. Using my cell phone, which I carry only for emergencies (such as when I get lost—and I get lost a LOT—and I need to call Dave so he can help me figure out where I am, and then get me where I’m trying to go), I called Bill. He agreed to see me, saying that he could squeeze me in between Mrs. Camden at 2:30 and Mr. Rowr at 3:30. Bill has an office in downtown St. Charles, so once I got off the train I would only have to walk a few blocks from the train station to get to his place.

The train got to the St. Charles stop a little after 2. Since I had some time before my meeting with Bill, I wandered around the town square park admiring all of the scarecrows that had been created for the annual scarecrow festival. Closer to 2:40, I went over to Bill’s office and let the receptionist know I was there.

The meeting with Bill was quick and relatively painless. He adjusted a couple of minor statements and had me sign the document with his receptionist and him as witnesses. We then agreed that Dave and I would host him and his wife to dinner at a restaurant of their choosing to pay him back for his service, and I was on my way back to the train station.

The first train, the commuter express, zipped past. Ten minutes later the next commuter train pulled in and I hustled on board as everyone else tried to get off. There were no seats available on the car I had gotten on to, so I stood in the aisle with one hand braced against the back of a train seat.

As I stood in the crowded train swaying with the movement, I wondered who at the radio station could be the person who was pinging my energies. There were a number of offices opening right off of the reception area, and several more off of the two hallways at the back of the reception area. Yet, both times I had been toward the front, so it had to be someone in one of those offices, or so I surmised.

I was trying to remember which of the offices had had lights on in them and so were probably occupied when I had arrived this morning, when a particularly tight corner caught me unawares and I overswayed. My hand knocked into the back of the head of the passenger in the seat and the woman turned to glare at me. I gave her an apologetic look as the conductor announced my stop.

I jostled, pushed, and finally shoved my way through the crowds and onto the train platform. I tend to get a bit rude when getting off the train, but then I’m always so afraid that the train is going to start up again while I’m still onboard and trying to get off. I know the conductors are watching and trying to make sure that everyone gets where they need to, but I also know that with the mobs of people on these commuter trains that the conductors can’t see everyone or everything. So, I always have this little panicky fear pushing me forward sometimes to the point that I’m standing at the door to the car two stops before I need to get off. Dave just laughs at me, but then he’s not as short as I am and no one is going to overlook him in a crowd.

Back at home, I was again looking at the deal from the radio station, when I decided I would go down there personally tomorrow. I could fax or mail the agreement to them, but if I went down there to deliver it in person I just might be able to find the person whose energies were pinging mine; the person who just might be responsible for pulling me into their nightmares.

And, just so Dave wouldn’t think I was wasting the entire day, I could go to the library and finish the research I needed to complete that article my editor had asked me to write. Having a plan of action made me feel better, and I turned toward the stairs for the bedroom and nearly fell over.

A Winkling Wuggley walking by

gave a shiffling, smuffling sigh.

When I inquired as to why;

he shiffled and then merely said,

“Today I should’ve stayed in bed.”

“But it’s a most beglairigan day,

why would you want to hide away?”

“This morning started out just fine,

‘til my sollstippers slipped in the surpen’s tine.

And, as if that isn’t enough,

the neighborhood Crunkers began their miss chuff;

gavelloping me and my property,

and gerwayling my new bents geewee.

Then I sprung a leak in my grizzly grumptures,

from, what are commonly termed as, punctures.

Next, I had to replace the gonns,

but I couldn’t remember if it was three or one.

And when I arrived at Alfawaire’s,

he told me gonns came only in pairs.

Are these reasons enough to answer your question?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied, with a sympathetic expression.

“Then, my good sir, let us part, say goodbye.”

And as we parted, he winked his eye,

and gave a shiffling, smuffling sigh.

I had stayed too long out of body when trying to help Donnie, one of my charges, and had ended up feeling as awful as when I had had the flu last winter. And like the flu, it took several days before I felt normal again. Several days of moving slowly, getting plenty of rest, and absolutely no planing.

Now it was Thursday and I had to do my second appearance at the radio station. Although more aware of how things worked there, having already done one show, I was still dreading this appearance. My body felt normal, but my energies still seemed a bit off, so I really had no idea if I’d be able to do any readings or not.

As the train pulled into the Chicago station, Dave and I prepared to disembark. I gave him a smile feigning a joi de vivre I didn’t feel. Sensing my discomfort, Dave said, “Do you want me to come with you? I don’t have any meetings until the afternoon.”

I did; I really did, but I knew I was being selfish and childish. On top of that, once the show started, there wasn’t anything he could do. He wouldn’t be allowed in the studio with me and AJ, the disc jockey; he’d just have to sit around waiting in the break room or lobby, and that was just silly. So, I hugged him and shook my head against his shoulder.

We stood like that for some moments on the train platform, people struggling to get around us, and some being downright rude about it. Finally, I pushed back from Dave, but without completely breaking the embrace, and said, “You better get going, Sir, or my husband will begin to suspect that we’re up to something.”

I gave him my flirtiest smile, and with a rueful grin he gave me a quick kiss; then we went our separate ways.

I wasn’t quite as early this time when I arrived at the radio station. This time, the receptionist was already ensconced at her desk, her phone ringing, and several people vying for her attention when I stepped inside the lobby.

I was headed her way when the producer for AJ’s show intercepted me. I felt a brief tingling on my energies, as depleted as they were, and my arms were suddenly covered with goose pimples as we passed close by the receptionist’s desk, but before I could really register this phenomenon, we were strolling toward the coffee room and the producer was telling me the plans for the show.

Most of the producer’s chatter faded into the hubbub of the station’s general noise, and my mind wandered back to the strange tingling of my energies and what (or who) might have caused it. This was the second time that something like this had happened here, and I was beginning to suspect that perhaps someone at the radio station was the sender of the email that I had tried to locate, or the creator of the nightmares…or maybe even both? Hmmm, that was a possibility I hadn’t considered before, but now, it seemed more than just possible.

As that thought flitted through my head, the producer’s voice broke through to me, “So, are you okay with all of that?”

Having no idea what all I was supposed to be okay with, I simply nodded in his direction. My mind was still trying to chase down the idea that someone here at the radio station was the one who had been dragging me into their nightmares.

A moment later, the producer and I entered AJ’s studio, and soon afterward the show started. Just like last time, AJ fed me the question in a yes/no format, but unlike the last time, I managed to answer them without fumbling. I even managed to add some insights and advice to at least half the answers. So, all-in-all it was a much smoother and easier time than my last appearance on his show. The last call came and went, and the whole show completed without any surprises.

As AJ’s theme song played, the station manager appeared in the door and signalled that he wanted me to folllow him to his office. Reluctantly, I nodded and followed him through the maze of offices and studios. I really wanted to get out to the lobby and see if I could sense anything. I was really hoping that my guess was right, and that the nightmare creator or emailer (or both) was someone here at the radio station. If I could find them, then just maybe I could clear up some of these issues that were interferring with my own life.

However, I curbed my impatience and followed the station manager to his office. He offered coffee, which I declined, and then he got to the point of this meeting. Evidently, the listeners liked me, or so he said.

“They find you sympathetic; someone they can relate to,” he said.

I was floored. I had been sure I sounded more like a fool or an idiot with all of my erms and ums, but he said the numbers didn’t lie (although who had ever really talked with the numbers to be sure?).

“I’ve spoken with the owners and we agree; we’d like you to do the show with AJ at least once a month,” the station manager continued. “So, what do you think?”

His round, pink face was awash with smiles, as if he were offering me the most fabulous prize in the world—and, come to think of it, he sort of was. For several hours of work a month they were offering an obscene amount of money; money that Dave and I could really use.

I was too surprised to think straight, though. I really needed Dave’s calm reassurance and insights. (Don’t let anyone kid you, for all that I might be able to see the “future”, I have no idea what is going to happen in my own life, and I rarely have the type of knowledge or insights that can help me make decisions like the one I was being presented with.)

Flustered and thinking that the whole offer was some sort of cruel hoax, I finally managed to mutter something about needing to speak to Dave about it.

“Please let us know by tomorrow noon if you will be accepting our offer,” the station manager said as he handed me a copy of the contract.

I nodded dumbly, and in a haze of disbelief I left the radio station. My desire to stay and discover if someone there was responsible for the nightmares was completely forgotten in my rush to see Dave and share the news.

I was in an out of body state and hanging around Donnie’s apartment (Donnie is one of my charges). I had to make sure that he was safe. You see I wasn’t the only one hanging around. Death was also here, and that was the issue.

Before Lawrence, Donnie’s companion, had gotten home and called an ambulance, Donnie had tried to commit suicide. That had triggered our mutual connection, mine and Donnie’s, which was why I was there. But that didn’t explain how Death had known about Donnie; and it especially didn’t explain how he had known before I had.

Death’s usual notification process was usually a little more direct. Most times someone either jumped from their physical body to avoid the pain and while wandering the transitional plane would run into Death; or they would remain in their body but call for Death to take them so they could avoid any more pain. But this was different—strange different—and different with Death made me very nervous.

After all, Donnie had been unconscious, he hadn’t called out to anyone, and he wasn’t out of body (I checked first thing, because the last thing I wanted was one of my charges wandering around lost). Therefore, there was no way that Donnie contacted Death; so how did Death know to be here?

I was exhausted—physically and spiritually—and I just couldn’t wrap my mind around this puzzle. I really wanted to go home and let my body get some real sleep, something I hadn’t been able to do for several nights now.

I could feel the remains of my energy flagging, and I forced myself to remain where I was. The pull from my physical body was getting stronger, indicating that I really need to plane back; however, I couldn’t do that; at least not until Death left and I was sure Donnie was safe.

The EMTs wheeled Donnie, who seemed to be breathing without assistance now, to the ambulance. I hung back as Lawrence followed. I was waiting to see what Death was going to do.

At the sound of the front door closing, Death turned to me, his smile still just as smug as before, and he touched two fingers to his forehead and disappeared.

Not knowing whether he was giving up or tagging along hoping to grab Donnie either on the way to the hospital or once at the hospital, I had no choice but to follow Donnie. So, using the last bit of energy I had, I forced myself to follow the link I shared with Donnie.

I ended up in the back of the ambulance, and it was everything I could do to keep a presence there. Although, I didn’t see Death, I still wasn’t completely reassured that he wasn’t at the hospital waiting, so I clung to the link between myself and Donnie using that to keep me anchored with him.

The EMTs rushed Donnie into the emergency room, and I hovered in the background as they got him stabilized. The first hints of daylight were creeping over the horizon outside as the hospital staff moved Donnie to a room.

I was becoming a shadow of myself, literally. I was barely able to continue my hold on this out of body existence. My body needed me and the pull to return was tearing at me. I had to leave. I hadn’t seen Death since leaving Donnie’s apartment, so I was hoping he was back on the transitional plane where he belonged.

Lawrence was sitting next to Donnie’s bed, stroking Donnie’s hand, when I finally let go of the link between us. I let the connection to my own body pull me down and I fell into myself with a horrible, gut-clenching feeling. I sat up with a start, completely disoriented. I had expected to be in my bed, in my bedroom, with Dave by my side. Instead, I was in the den on the couch, and it took me several moments to remember why.

I swung my legs over the side of the couch, and bit back a cry of pain. I felt as if I had run a marathon, and my head was pounding—I think it was beating in time to one of Gloria Estafan’s songs. I really wanted to just go back to bed and curl up under the covers for a month. I pushed myself to my feet, and wished I hadn’t.

The room whirled around me and I thought I was going to topple over. I dropped back onto the couch and put my head between my knees. When the world steadied, I stood up again, but this time much more slowly.

I toddled to the kitchen in an old lady style shuffle, and sort of clung to the door jamb while I looked around. The coffee had been brewed and a half a pot still sat on the warmer. There was also a note next to the coffee machine, so I continued into the room and picked it up. It was from Dave, and it just said that he hadn’t wanted to wake me, and he’d see me tonight.

I looked at the coffee, but opted for a large glass of water and several ibuprofen instead. Then I climbed the stairs (trying not to moan with each step), and went to our bedroom. There, I crawled between the covers and was instantly asleep.

I woke to the jangling of the phone, but by the time I realized what the noise was, it had (thankfully) stopped. I glanced at the clock on the bureau and saw that I hadn’t slept all that long. Although my body felt like it needed about 10 more hours of sleep, my mind was already chasing itself. Knowing that I wouldn’t get back to sleep again, I disentangled myself from the bed covers and stumbled into the bathroom.

I wanted to soak under a super hot shower for as long as I could stand it. Maybe that would help me overcome the groggy, muscle-cramped feeling that I currently had. As I started the shower up, I realized that I hadn’t felt this awful since I’d had the flu last winter.

While walking in the dovey dark

I heard the song of the wooden ark.

 

Then gazing up at the pecan pie

I saw some lisping crowds go by.

 

The blowing of the knobby knees

started swaying the cheddar cheese;

 

and as the perfect pun slipped west

I headed for my comb to rest.

Despite my trepidations, I had gone to ask Death for information regarding the person whose nightmares I kept getting dragged into. I had expected him to ask me for some of my life—a week, a month, a year—but he had surprised me by saying that he didn’t want any time from me. But now I dreaded to hear what it was he did want.

“Give me the names of the next 10 people you are to escort to the transitional plane,” Death said as he reached out and flicked a finger across the cords that tethered me to the people I was assigned to help within the next few months.

An icy jolt flowed through me, and I backed up a couple of steps. Faces flew across my mind: Ruthie, whose dementia was so bad that she wouldn’t know whether she was speaking with Death or her long-dead husband; Richard, whose heart was so weak now that he could no longer do much of anything for himself but who loved his wife and grandkids so much that he continually overextended himself; Debra, whose lung cancer had spread but who refused to give up hope that a cure might be found; or Donnie, who had just found out he had AIDs and was convinced it would be a horrible death so was contemplating suicide.

I stared at Death as if he were nuts. If I told him about Ruthie, Richard, Donnie and all, he would try to manipulate them into giving up their remaining time. But it would be a lie. He wouldn’t tell them the truth. He would never explain to them that if they left early to avoid the pain—real or imagined, physical or emotional—that they would end up having to face it in another life.

Everything was about experiences and lessons, choices and balance. You could make any choice you wanted, but if your choice created an imbalance (with yourself or someone else) then you had to put things right, you had make choices that would recreate balance. It’s just how it worked.

If you decide to experience the angst of unrequited love, but Death comes along and convinces you that he can help you overcome that pain and you go with him, you’ll just have to live that life at a different time; experience that unrequited love another time.

If you pick a life where you’re dying of cancer, but you decide to end your life early because you can’t stand the pain, then guess what? In the next life or the one after you will have to face a similar death scenario, and if you opt out early again, then you’ll just keep repeating things until you stop doing that. Eventually, you’ll have to experience the whole thing—the pain, suffering, and the eventual enlightenment that comes from them. Ain’t that a kick in the head?

Choosing Death is basically choosing suicide, and while suicide is a valid experience, if it isn’t the experience the soul wanted, then it leaves you out of balance with yourself.

I knew Death wouldn’t bother to explain all of this to my charges, and I couldn’t—it’s one of those things that each person learns at their own pace in their own way—I did the only thing I could, I shook my head and turned toward the door.

My hand was on the doorknob when he gently took my shoulder and turned me around.

“What I do is not hateful, you know. I save them from suffering, is that so bad?” His expression actually looked caring and concerned.

I jerked away from him, and gave him a scathing look. I opened the door as I replied, “It is when you lie to them. When you don’t tell them what they’re really getting from you.”

I then stepped back out into the gray nothingness of the transitional plane.

I was just getting ready to plane back home, when I felt a tug on a cord from one of my “clients”. Although I knew I would be exhausted in the morning, I followed the cord’s pull.

I walked through the building’s wall into a very modern, very comfortable living room. I knew this room, I thought, it was Donnie’s living room.

I heard (sensed) a noise from one of the other rooms, and I headed toward it. When I got there, I stopped in shocked surprise. Donnie lay sprawled across the gorgeous muted brown and purple cover on a rather large mahogany bed, and Death sat on the edge of the bed near one of Donnie’s outstretched hands an empty pill bottle in his own hand.

Overcoming my surprise, I asked angrily, “What are you doing here?”

Death set the pill bottle on its side on the bedside table, before answering me. “I came to see if Donnie here wanted my help.” He stood and fixed the crease in his pants before continuing, “Isn’t that why you came?”

Donnie spasmed and it looked as if he were having problems breathing. It was then that I saw that he had vomit down his front

“He’s having respiratory difficulties,” I said to no one in particular.

“I believe he is, yes,” Death responded while leaning over and studying the now still Donnie. He reached out as if to touch him, and I leapt forward grabbing Death’s hand.

“Leave him alone,” I looked down at the hand I held and noted the beautifully manicured nails, and smoothness of this skin. There were no lines on Death’s hands, because Death had never lived—not in the physical sense, anyway.

A door slammed and a voice echoed through the apartment, “Hey, Donnie. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad.”

Footsteps came down the hall toward us. “Donnie, are you there?”

A face appeared in the doorway, “Oh my god, Donnie!”

Lawrence, Donnie’s housemate and current live-in rushed over and tried to rouse Donnie. Seeing the empty pill bottle and unable to rouse his friend, he quickly reached for the phone and dialed for help. He told the 911 operator what he needed, and then set the receiver down without hanging up. He then tried to give Donnie CPR as he waited for the emergency team to arrive.

I stood back, a smile on my lips, but Death was also smiling. “It’s not over yet,” he said smugly.

I wasn’t sure what Death was up to, and because I couldn’t trust him I decided to hang around. I could have left. I knew Donnie would be okay now—I had felt the tingling in the connection between me and Donnie fade away, and that usually meant that there was no longer a need for my services. But with Death still hanging around, I wasn’t all that sure that Donnie was safe—he was okay, but not safe.

I backed away into the hallway, as did Death, when the emergency response team arrived. As we stood and watched through the doorway, it suddenly occurred to me that Death had been here before me.

I stopped watching the EMTs and stared at Death’s profile and wondered: How had he known? It wasn’t as if Donnie had come to the transitional plane. In fact, Donnie hadn’t left his body at all. So, how had Death known that Donnie had been close to ending his life? How did he know before me, when we were both on the transitional plane and I had the direct link?

Something was wrong with this situation, I thought, and a shiver ran down my spine.

My mind kept wandering to the crazy idea I had gotten while out digging in the garden. Evidently I wasn’t so distracted that Dave noticed, though, or at least he didn’t say anything.

We ate the reheated stew, and watched TV, though I have no idea what we watched—even if it had been one of my favorite shows, I don’t think I could have concentrated on it because my mind was like a dog with a bone, and just kept gnawing on the idea of making a deal with Death.

That night my thoughts went back and forth. Yes, no, maybe. I tossed and turned, until worried I was keeping Dave awake; then I finally got up and went downstairs to read. Only instead of reading, I ended up staring into space or out the window. I needed to make a decision if for no other reason than I was killing myself with all this worrying.

The next day I worked on my writing (or at least attempted to). Mostly I drifted through the day trying to do the things I do on a normal day-to-day basis. All the while, I struggled with the idea of calling Death and striking a deal with him. One minute it was a horrible idea, and I wasn’t going to do it; the next moment, I was folding the laundry and wondering just how bad it could be—I mean, how much time could he possibly want for some simple information?

I got no where with my decision making, and that night, although exhausted, I couldn’t get my mind to shut up. Knowing I wasn’t going to get any sleep again, around midnight I finally decided that it couldn’t hurt to at least ask. If I didn’t like the deal I could always just leave. With a finality and determination I didn’t really feel, I planed to the gray nothingness of the transitional plane.

I stood there, the calming fog-like nothing swirling around my ankles and wondered how I was going to contact Death. I mean the few times I’d had to deal with him, he usually just showed up. I’d never had an occasion to want to seek him out.

I thought about going to the waiting room and leaving a message for him, and then it occurred to me. To get to the waiting room, you just thought about being there and you were. So, what would happen if I thought about Death? Maybe that would be enough to bring him to me? What the heck, it was worth a try.

I closed my eyes and concentrated on the being I knew as Death, the one who had taken me to dinner, and who had tricked me into marrying him. I did that for what felt like several minutes, and then I opened my eyes. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I saw when I opened my eyes.

It had worked, but not the way I had thought it would. Instead of bringing Death to me, I was now standing in a very luxurious, if rather austere office. The floor was a black and gray marble, the walls were covered in a deep cherry wood paneling (except for one wall, which was covered floor to ceiling with heavy satin draperies in a gray and burgundy stripe), and smack in the center of the room was an oversized desk made of carnelian marble and rose wood. Sitting in a dark leather chair behind the desk was Death himself a cold smile tilting the corners of his lips up.

“How nice to see you,” he said pleasantly. “Please, have a seat,” and his hand extended in invitation toward the front of his desk where two chairs in a gray and burgundy silk stripe appeared.

Holding in my surprise and unease, I walked as calmly as I could to the chairs, and sat in the one to the right.

“To what do I owe this visit,” he gazed at me much as a cat eyes a mouse. “Though, I’ll admit just having you visit is a pleasure.”

“I need some information,” I paused, not for effect, but to quell the quaver in my voice. “some information about something going on in the transitional plane.” There I said it, I thought.

“And just what information do you need from me?” His voice was as smooth as black ice.

Swallowing my fear, I met his eyes, and replied, “I need to know who has been pulling me into their nightmares here on the transitional plane.”

Death sat there behind his elaborate desk with an enigmatic smirk on his face and his hands steepled. “That kind of information doesn’t come cheaply,” he said.

My lips drew inward, and my mouth became a straight line. Here it comes, I thought. I stared at Death wondering just how much of my life he would demand—a day (I doubted the information would be that cheap), a month (it would be difficult to give up, but I supposed I could make myself do it), a year (now that would hurt. I prized every moment of my time with Dave, and with our friends and families; I didn’t know if I could give up a whole year and lose some of that together time).

Death leaned forward, and placing his palms flat on the desk he said, “Don’t worry. I don’t want your time.”

The breath I didn’t realize I was holding whooshed out. For a brief fleeting moment I thought he meant to just give me the information, but then I knew he wanted something else. Probably something much more dear. But what could be more precious than part of my life?

He stood in one fluid motion and stepped around the desk. Leaning against the front of the desk, he peered at me. With nothing between us, I felt vulnerable, naked. I wanted to stand up and get behind the chair so I would at least have that between us.

His gaze was intense, and I fought my instincts to cross my arms.

“I don’t need any time from you. We’re married, remember?” and he leaned forward his eyes now level with mine.

He fingered a curl of hair off my forehead, and I refused to flinch. Instead, I tried to remain flinty and calm.

His smile grew, showing his perfect, white teeth, “I can call you whenever I want and keep all the years you had left.”

I was on my feet before I could stop myself. I could feel my face grow hot, but my smile turned icy and my reply was softly sharp, “You can call, but I choose whether to respond and you know it.”

I glared at him and he flipped his hand at me as if shooing away a gnat.

I calmed myself, refusing to succumb to his manipulations. “So, what do you want?” I asked stonily.

I watched his face as the corners of his mouth curved upward just slightly, like a cat that had just cornered a mouse, and my breath caught in my throat. I wasn’t sure how I had screwed up, but by the self-satisfied smirk on his face, I was sure I had. But just how bad was it?

Without realizing it, I held my breath waiting for his response.