Part of my worldview is derived from my religious background. I was raised, as many of my readers know, in a peculiar Protestant religion called Christian Science. I say peculiar not because of the practices but because of the theology: no Heaven, no Hell, no Satan, no Trinity, no transubstantiation, no separation between God and Man. Everyone is possessed of the holy spirit, everyone has the potential to heal as Jesus did because God is within. There is no sin, only greater or lesser degrees of error of thought. Because of this upbringing I do not fear heavenly retribution or expect spiritual credit for exemplary personal behavior. I don't think anyone's keeping track. Further, despite being assured from childhood onwards of God's existence and His beneficent interest in my well-being, I never bought it. In my heart of hearts I am convinced there is no Original Creator interacting with humanity, only a universal spirit inhabiting every living thing. This keeps me respectful, yet frees me of the paranoid conviction that everything I do is going on my permanent record.

Thus I'm inclined towards the rational, evolutionary explanation of life, utterly without faith, a secular soul on the surface and for a fair ways under it. Somewhat to my dismay I have a strong streak of mysticism and superstition to go along with that universalist conviction. I sometimes think of it as the Irish half of me, the Celtic pagan core that believed passionately in fairies until well into adolescence and still mourns the necessity of accepting a world devoid of them. This integral part of myself rose unbidden last year when I saw, to my terror and delight, a pair of tiny black hands gripping the grate of a sewer as I walked by with my dog. Chief among my emotions was a triumphant surge of vindication. I was only a little disappointed that it turned out to be a raccoon.

The downside of my superstitious streak is the fear of supernatural creatures. If fairies are real then perhaps ghosts are real, and if there's enough of an afterlife for ghosts then maybe there's a Heaven after all, and that would mean God, and won't I be embarrassed if that all turned out to be true along with golems and Ban Sidhe and poltergeists? I'm scared of that idea. I don't want to think of the dead as hanging around. But I can't pick and choose, it's fairies and ghosts or nothing. I'm not sure why I'm so frightened of the idea of someone communicating from beyond the grave. It's probably the same instinct that so vehemently rejects the idea of God (and Santa) knowing if I've been bad or good.

So I don't want there to be a self-aware afterlife. It's supremely untidy. However, I did once have a strange, apparently supernatural experience which I cannot quite dismiss as hokum. I sometimes believe it was my mind using a clever psychological trick, and at other times I am convinced it happened just the way I remember. Either way, it still shakes me. I don't talk about it to anyone. It was part of a painful situation that I try not to think about any more and I can't explain it without sounding deluded. But it came up last week when Tami Vining and I were talking about death and spirits, and it got me thinking about how long ago it all was, fifteen years ago this summer, and suddenly I feel like putting it into writing for the first time.

In the late 70's and early 80's I had a close friend named Dave Clements. He was a really sweet and smart guy who I met through friends in a band called Citizen Sane. We were both crazy about New Wave music, and science fiction, and movies. I had a tremendous crush on him which I dared not admit because I was pretty sure he had a crush on someone else, but I think he suspected. We spent a lot of time together listening to music, going to shows, running lights for the band, and driving around Seattle aimlessly in the time-honored traditon of youth. I introduced him to science fiction fandom where he was instantly popular. Everyone liked Dave. He was that kind of guy.

In 1982 I moved to San Francisco having decided Seattle was a dead end. Dave was sad, he didn't want to leave and he didn't want his friends to leave, but I couldn't see myself staying. We kept in touch, seeing each other at conventions and writing letters often. I went through a bit of a rough period with irregular work and moving around. I felt like an outsider for a long time, back when nice girls didn't have tattoos or wear black leather and live in funky communal housing in the Mission. It was very different from the way I was in Seattle, but Dave didn't care. He knew me. We were still close friends.

One day at work John phoned me in the middle of the day. "Dave Clements was murdered," he said with no preamble. It was like being violently punched. One minute the world was normal, the next everything had changed irrevocably. I went into shock, the only time I can ever recall such a thing happening. Dave had been shot in the face while making a night bank deposit. It was his job as manager of the movie theater he'd worked at for years. The kid who did it didn't even get the money, it had already been put in the slot. They caught him the next day.

I followed the story as best I could from California. I didn't have any vacation, and I didn't have any money to get to Seattle for the memorial service. For the next couple of weeks I spoke to Dave's parents often, talked to friends who had known him, tried to come to terms with the idea that he was gone. I couldn't, though. I was a mess. I have never known grief like that, a terrible, almost physical sorrow. I finally understood how someone could die of sadness. I felt like my insides were on fire every time I so much as brushed against the idea of Dave being dead. It didn't seem to get better at all. Every day was a slow, agonizing effort to keep going, to get through, to act normal. I was trying as best I could, but I just could not cope. I cried until my face was raw from wiping so many tears.

Finally, about three weeks after the phone call I was out in the office kitchen alone making coffee. I thought about Dave again, and the tears began streaming down my face. It felt like someone was squeezing my heart, the pain was so bad. I stood in the middle of the kitchen and wept helplessly, so sad, so grief-stricken, missing him so much. Suddenly I heard his voice in my head, as clearly as I heard the plane flying overhead just then. He said, "You must stop this now. I don't want you to do this. It's time to stop, Lucy." I stood still, frozen in place, deeply moved. It was him, not my voice but his. In the next moment the pain lessened, the pressure diminished. I let go of the grief even as I started trembling at the thought of what had just happened. And I didn't tell anyone afterwards.

I still don't know what happened in that kitchen. It was profound, and it was very different from any experience I've had before or since. I don't hear voices in my head regularly. I don't believe in ghosts, so how could I have heard one? But if it's true that the spirit lingers before dissipating or going on to some other form of existence, then perhaps intense emotions keep them connected to the living. Maybe Dave couldn't go on until I let him go. That isn't what I normally believe, but I don't quite believe it was just my mind, either. It was utterly anomalous. I don't know. I still haven't made up my mind, fifteen years on.

I loved Dave Clements, and I miss him. Since then other friends have died, and my mother, and both of John's parents. It has never again been so difficult. I hope after I pass away that no one suffers too long on my behalf. Such grief is terrible to live with. Let me go as soon as you can, and let the memories be fond.

Don't make me haunt you. I don't believe in it.

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