The Afterlife of Billy Fingers: How My Bad-Boy Brother Proved to Me There's Life After Death (3 page)

I
decided not to tell anyone about Billy. Ten years ago, when I was taught how to meditate on the light within, my teacher instructed me to keep my spiritual experiences to myself; otherwise, I might lose them. Hearing from Billy in the afterlife was a spiritual experience, wasn't it? If this was real, it wasn't something I wanted to risk losing.

Five days after my birthday, as the sunrise cast my white bedroom into shades of rosy pink, I heard Billy's voice again. Blurry-eyed, I reached under my pillow for the red notebook, propped my head up, and started scribbling.

Hey, Princess. Good morning.

When Billy was alive, his calling me “Princess” was never a compliment. From the beginning, my life seemed charmed compared to his, and he held that against me. Billy was a “problem child”—and I was a “little angel.” I sang and danced in school plays— he tried to sing in a band but couldn't carry a tune. Billy flunked out of high school—I was a straight-A student. The better I did, the worse he looked, and felt. Feeling guilty, I tried to win his affection, but that was something I couldn't succeed at.

Was Billy now using the nickname “Princess” because he was still holding a grudge? It didn't seem like it. The light that came along with his voice filled me with love.

I like the idea of you, or me, writing a book. I think maybe I should get permission, but I'm floating in space and there's no one to ask. No one, that is, except the invisible Higher Beings I mentioned before, and I don't want to disturb their benevolence by asking for favors too soon
[laughs].

I never got permission for anything in life. That's because it was a different deal. Those in power here should be in power. Not like on earth. There's such a lack of kindness on your planet.

It's hard to be kind all the time where you are, because if you don't toughen up, you go under. The nature of existence there is harsh. You fix one hole and another pops up. It's supposed to be like that, though, so don't be too concerned about it.

I was done with my life, Annie. I paid my debt, although it's not what we usually think of as payment. It wasn't some price for my so-called sins. It was more a learning thing.

How do I know my life wasn't some punishment for my past transgressions? Well, because there's no such thing. You're not on earth to be punished. It's not about sin and punishment. That's a human concept. Something man made up. Humans make up stuff and then they believe it.

Sure, there's a lot of pain in life, but not because you've done anything to deserve it. Here's another secret for you, baby sister. Pain is just part of the human experience, as natural as breath or eyesight or blood moving through your veins. Pain is part of the earth deal, so don't be overly concerned about it. Although I admit I wasn't exactly fond of pain myself.

And how do I know all this? Honestly, I don't know. All of a sudden I know a bunch of things I didn't know when I was alive. When you're born, when you pop out, that big pop gives you a kind of amnesia. One of the main things we're doing when we're alive is trying to remember the things we forgot.

There's a different kind of knowledge here. You're really understood, and what a relief that is. So many problems in life come from not being understood or known. People on earth sometimes get glimpses of each other's souls, like when they fall in love. The difference is, here, I
am
my soul. I'm still Billy but without my body.

I imagine it could be hard for some people, not having a body. When you realize you just died, with all the mumbo jumbo you've heard on earth about what might be waiting for you, I guess you could be feeling apprehensive. Not me. I dove into being dead. Felt right at home.

I know, my sweet sister, you're wondering if all this is just a figment of your imagination, something your mind made up to help you feel better about my recent departure from earth. How will you know the reality of this? Well, because I will give you evidence—let's call it proof—so
you will know for sure this is not your imagination and that it's really me, Annie. It's Billy.

And do something for me, Miss Greta Garbo. Give Tex a coin.

While Billy was speaking, I understood everything he said. But after his voice faded, I couldn't remember a single word. Once again, Billy had put me into a state of euphoria. Communicating with his soul had caused my own to open up, and the whole world was changed. I no longer cared about being objective. Billy had returned. That was all I cared about. I lay down for a while to concentrate on my breathing and ground myself a bit.

After that, I went downstairs, lit some logs in the fireplace, and tried to re-orient myself. My mind threw out a barrage of questions: Was this really happening? Why was I able to hear my dead brother speaking to me? Had I just gone through some kind of out-ofbody experience? I didn't think so. I hadn't traveled off somewhere. The somewhere had come to me.

I opened the red notebook and read over what I had written. It sounded like Billy, at his wise and charming best—Billy when he was clear and sober.

And he seemed to be able to read me. He knew I doubted that he was real.

Suddenly, it didn't seem logical that I was having delusions. Delusions don't acknowledge your doubts. Maybe the Billy phenomenon was like a phantom limb, something that seemed as though it was still
there even though it wasn't. Or maybe I was hearing his voice inside my head, like when someone says, “I can hear my father's voice in my head telling me . . .”

Only this voice wasn't
inside
my head—it was
outside
, and it sounded as if I was standing at the bottom of a long staircase and he was at the top. Both times I'd heard him, he was above me and to the right.

Even more strange was that he had told me to give my friend Tex a coin. Why? How did he even know her name? He'd never met Tex. And now he wanted me to tell her about him. All my life I did things for Billy I didn't want to do—lie to my parents, give him money, let him crash on the sofa in my tiny apartment for weeks at a time. Did I still have to do what he wanted now that he was dead?

The thought of telling Tex about Billy made the magic of his dimension fade. As my mood fizzled, the mundane world seemed even more mundane than before. But still, something exciting had happened. Something way beyond my routine, everyday existence.

Three years before, I'd come down with a bad case of world-weariness. Maybe almost a decade of serious meditation had made me too detached from the highs and lows of normal existence. From the outside my life looked pretty good—a successful career as a chiropractor in New York City, a husband who was a partner in a law firm, and a songwriting collaboration with a talented music producer. But in a matter of months, everything fell apart. My husband, Steve, suddenly seemed like a stranger, working with
patients gave me migraine headaches, and I hadn't sold a single song.

The only thing I was sure I wanted was solitude. Hence, Billy's nickname for me: Greta Garbo. So, feeling as if I was jumping off a cliff, I separated from my husband, sold my practice, left the city, and moved to an old house on the tip of Long Island.

I bought some used sound equipment and put together a music studio. I'd written songs since I was a teenager and had come close to selling a few to major recording artists. It seemed far-fetched, but if I devoted myself to music, maybe I could make a living as a songwriter.

For six months, alone by Gardiner's Bay with my two cats, I made demos of songs that no one bought, meditated three or four hours a day, took long walks by the water, and sometimes saw no one but the postman for days.

But even solitude has a way of getting to you. After a week of not wearing anything but pajamas, and letting my hair get so dirty it looked like a tossed salad, I decided to join a local writers’ group. Maybe I had a novel in me. I didn't believe I was suddenly going to become a bestselling author, but it got me out of the house.

That's how I met Tex, the leader of my writing group. She had published a memoir and written some episodes for a popular cable TV show. We liked each other from the start.

But why had Billy told me to give her a coin?

I took out the manila envelope Sergeant Diaz had sent me after Billy's death. It contained his few remaining possessions: a beat-up address book, a key card from a Ramada Inn, two pairs of dirty glasses, a torn leather business card holder, and seven dollars and change. Was this all that remained of my brother's life?

I spread the change on my kitchen table. What coin was I supposed to give Tex? A quarter, a nickel, a dime? Just then, I heard Billy's voice.

Find . . . my . . . car.

That shook me up. This wasn't like hearing Billy's voice while still in bed, half asleep—I was in my kitchen in the middle of the day. And his voice was louder— robotic and commanding. I got scared. This wasn't something I could handle by myself anymore. Even though we were separated, I called my husband, Steve.

“I have something really weird to tell you.” I took a deep breath. “Billy's been talking to me.”

“That's wild! What does he say?” I could tell by his tone he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

“I've been writing it down.” There was silence on the other end. “You don't think I'm crazy, do you?”

“No.” Steve assured me. “People don't go crazy all of a sudden. Something's going on. Fax me the pages.”

That was Steve. Get right down to business.

“There's more,” I said. “Just now I was in the kitchen, and I swear that Billy told me to find his car. Did he even have a car?”

Steve was able to answer that question because he was the only one who'd stuck by Billy until the day he
died. Whatever my brother needed—money, advice, friendship, compassion—Steve always came through.

“Billy had an old Mercedes he was living out of,” Steve reported. “But he drove it into a tree a week before his death. It's probably in some junkyard in Florida.”

So Billy did have a car! “I'll call you back,” I told him, and hung up.

Even though I was shaken, I needed to know if Billy was still around and if he'd answer my questions. I looked up at the ceiling and asked out loud, “How can I find your car, Billy?”

My . . . card . . . holder.

Barely breathing, I pulled the cardholder from the manila envelope, and found a business card from a Mercedes dealer.

Get . . . the . . . things . . . from . . . my . . . car.

“What things?” No answer. “What things, Billy?”

He was gone.

Trying to sound composed, I called Hans, the Mercedes dealer whose name was on the business card I now had in hand. I almost fell down when he told me that he did have my brother's wreck! Either I had suddenly become psychic or Billy actually was communicating with me. When I asked Hans to send Billy's things, he said he'd do it right away.

The next few mornings, as I woke up, I whispered Billy's name, but there was no sign of him. In a way I was glad I couldn't conjure him up. He was in charge of this affair. He was the responsible one . . . for a change.

A
few days after Billy's kitchen visit, I saw Tex at my writing group. Every Wednesday evening, from seven to nine, a small group of aspiring writers sat around the huge gray stone fireplace in Tex's living room and read our new chapters out loud. Since most fledgling writers secretly believe they're writing the next bestseller, we were very mild and sensitive in our critiques. But after class, Tex and I sat alone and mercilessly dissected the readings of the night. We weren't being cruel. It was how she was teaching me to write.

After class that night, Tex, as usual, downed glasses of scotch. I sipped Pellegrino. When she was at the bottom of her second glass, I said, “Want to hear something outrageous? Billy's been talking to me.”

She blinked, but at least she didn't laugh.

“I'm not kidding. And I've been writing it down. Do you think I'm nuts?”

“So, that's it,” she replied. “You've been miserable since Billy died. But tonight you're lit up. Yeah, I believe it. Why not?”

“Billy said he wants me to give you a coin, but I have no idea what he's talking about.”

Tex smiled. “I like it. I like that he wants to give me something.”

I took out a photo of Billy I had slid into my purse.

“Dark and handsome,” Tex said, “He looks like he has a secret no one else knows. I'd go out with him. I mean, I would have.”

I'd heard that before. Women were charmed by Billy. It's not that he had to try; it was his special gift.

“What does he talk about?” Tex asked.

“Bliss, light, invisible Higher Beings.”

“I think you should read it in class next week,” she said.

“Are you kidding? I'm not letting people know my dead brother's talking to me. Besides, I'm not supposed to speak about my spiritual experiences.”

“Think of it this way. These are Billy's experiences, not yours. You should read it,” Tex insisted. “Pretend it's a new novel you're working on. Billy's the main character and he's talking to his sister from heaven.”

“I'll think about it.”

Maybe it was a leftover from when he was alive, but I didn't want anyone judging Billy and his new circumstance. Even though I was much younger than him, all my life I'd felt that Billy was a misunderstood child and I was his protector.

Maybe this time I was the child and he was the protector. Either way, it seemed too risky to read his
words to my writing group. I was afraid they'd all think I had flipped.

The next time Billy visited I planned to ask him if I could read his notes in class. Two days later, when he woke me before dawn, my question vanished into the light of his dimension.

Good morning, baby sister.

Even though I don't have my body anymore, I do still feel like an individual. So much for disappearing into a sea of bliss. Don't misunderstand. I'm deep into the bliss experience, but I definitely haven't disappeared.