After Life-Chapter One
I wake up in a classroom. It’s like no other classroom I’ve ever seen. I know it’s a classroom, though, because there are rows of students staring up at an instructor. The students, dressed in nothing but white, sit at pure white desks that are camouflaged by the bare white walls that surround the room. The students’ heads look to be suspended in the air, their hands floating next to them like odd companions, the hue of their skin the only contrast against all the white.
This isn’t my normal I’m back in high school or college dream. I’ve had plenty of those over the years. I’m always back in school with some unfinished project or getting ready to take a test I’m sure to fail. I wake up from those dreams thankful that I’m years removed from my last days in college.
A couple of the students are school age, but most of them are my age or much older. I see the instructor’s lips moving but I hear nothing. And then the muffled sound of his voice breaks the silence and slowly becomes clearer. The faces of all the other students stare back at me.
“We have a newcomer,” the instructor says. “And looks like we’ve got an instant, too. Morgan? I’m going to need you.”
I’ve had some weird dreams in my life, but this one just keeps getting weirder. Now a man appears, who I assume is this Morgan character that the instructor is talking to and he walks slowly over to me. Apparently the Morgan he was speaking to is the spitting image of Morgan Freeman.
“Welcome,” Morgan says. He even sounds like Morgan Freeman. I did watch Shawshank Redemption recently for the fiftieth time so I guess it makes sense why he’s showing up in my dream.
“Come with me,” he says.
“Where?” I ask. “For a walk,” he replies. “You’re not ready for this yet.” “Ready for what?” I ask. He smiles and motions me toward the door out of the classroom. We make our way into a hallway and he closes a door behind him. It’s all white around us still. “Don’t worry,” says Morgan. “Things will start to fill in. Your mind still needs to adjust.”
“Adjust to what?” “What’s the last thing you remember?” Morgan asks. “Before you arrived here.” “I don’t remember,” I reply. “I guess it was the same old routine; get the kids to bed, kiss the wife good night.” Morgan grins and laughs a subtle laugh. “Be honest with yourself,” he says. “I honestly don’t remember,” I reply. Morgan suddenly looks puzzled, and he stares into the sky with a far off glance. He sighs. “I have to go. I won’t be long.”
“What do I do?”
“Face reality, Michael. Once you do that we can continue.” And with that he is gone.
I walk, but it seems pointless because nothing changes. It’s about time for me to wake up. I’ve had enough of this dream. I feel as if someone is following me, but when I turn around no one is there. Only the white nothingness.
There’s a knock on a door. Another knock. I slowly open my eyes and am comforted by the softness of my sheets, and the sight of the all too familiar dresser and mirror of my bedroom. Another knock.
“Come in,” I say. The door slowly opens. My wife peeks her head in. “Is it okay?” she asks softly. “Of course,” I reply. She walks in and sits on my bed. She takes her fingers and runs them through my hair.
“I hate when you do that,” I say. “I know,” she replies. “I don’t know why.” “Same reason you can’t stand the smell of bacon,” I say.
She shivers and distorts her face, “Eww.” “Who doesn’t love bacon?” I add. “Smelly swine. No thanks.” “I guess I’ll get up,” I say. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.” “I’m ready. Just having another weird dream, that’s all.” “You were talking in your sleep again last night,” she says. “Anything interesting?” I reply as I ease up out of the bed.
“Mostly gibberish like always. But it sounded like you kept saying, ‘press on, press him’, or something like that. I don’t know, whatever was going on in that crazy head of yours was making you very upset.”
“Spicy food,” I reply.
As I stare into the mirror, I notice for the first time that both my wife and I are wearing black. I don’t usually fall asleep in my clothes, and I’m having trouble remembering going to sleep at all. It’s a little disorienting. I think I need a cup of coffee.
My wife takes me by the hand and leads me out the door and down the stairs, and to my surprise, we are not alone. The living room is filled with people all dressed in black. All except my mother, who is adorned in a blood red dress.
The red dress. The red dress she wore to my father’s funeral. My father died when I was thirteen.
Before I can say anything each person gets up to greet me, one by one. Handshakes, hugs, kisses on the cheek, and finally my mother, the last in line, the little red caboose at the end of the train.
“He was a good man,” she says to me. “No he wasn’t,” I reply. “He did the best he knew how,” she adds. “Well, it wasn’t good enough,” I reply sternly. She slaps me and then storms off to the kitchen. “Looking forward to that meal,” says my wife. “She cooks best when she’s angry.”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I say.
“She’s waiting for you outside,” says my wife.
“Who?” I ask.
“Elizabeth, of course,” she replies.
I walk to the front door and open it. I catch a glimpse of my daughter flying back and forth on a swing, an empty seat swinging in unison to her left.
A flash of light, a light brighter than I’ve ever seen, suddenly blinds me and I’m knocked to the ground. A noise so loud I can’t place it fills my every sense.
It’s suddenly silent. The bright light has faded. I close my eyes, but they do not close. Still only the white. I scream out in frustration.
A door to my left opens. A man dressed in khaki pants, a brown button down shirt, and brown shoes appears. At least he’s not in all white.
“Hello,” he says. I nod a reply. “You must be lost,” he says. “I’m Felix. I’m an instructor here.” “Instructor,” I say. “You must be very new,” he says. “Probably an instant.” “That’s what I’ve been told,” I reply. “Whatever that means.” “Don’t worry, it will start to make sense soon. As much as it can, anyway,” he adds with a grin. “But in the meantime, if you could keep the screaming down I’d appreciate it. I’ve got a class in there.”
Felix is now wearing a sport jacket and wire rimmed glasses. And it’s almost as if he’s aged twenty years just in the time we’ve been talking.
“You’re changing,” I say.
“Everything will change,” he replies as he closes the door and disappears behind the white.
“Hey,” a voice whispers.
I glance around and see no one.
“Small, nondescript white man, wrinkly skin, receding hairline, small eyes,” the voice says.
A man fitting that exact description appears.
“How’d you do that?” I ask. “I didn’t,” he replies. “You did.” “This is the weirdest dream.”
“It’s not a dream,” says the man. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time here. My name’s Preston. I can help you.”
“Who says I need help?” I reply. “Find me when you’re ready,” he replies. “And why would I want to do that?” “Because right now, Mr. Black, I’m the only friend you have here.” “How do you know who I am?” “We’ll talk more later.” “But...” “Goodbye, Michael.” I feel like I’m in the middle of a boxing match, punches coming from all angles with no time to recover. Right to the head, left to the gut, kick to the groin. No one said they were playing fair. Whoever they are.
I’m doing everything to keep my balance and at least survive the first round. I take a deep breath and gather my thoughts, just long enough to get hit by a straight right to the nose, as I’m suddenly behind the wheel of a car.
Rain pounds my windshield as the wipers feebly attempt to give me some semblance of a view. The rhythmic, frantic beat of the wipers hypnotizes me. A cold chill covers my body. My heart races. 7:55 reads on the clock. I don’t know why I care about the time, but I do. I’m late for something.
Morgan Freeman’s voice reverberates in my head. Face reality. Face reality. I’m back in the hallway again, the white walls now brown. They lead down a never-ending path to nowhere.
“What’s your favorite food?” It’s Morgan again. He’s standing in front of me. “My what?” “Your favorite food,” he says. “Pizza, I guess.” “Pepperoni?” “Yeah.” “Can you picture a slice? Taste it?” “I’ll try.” Extra pepperoni, garlic butter crust stuffed with cheese, easy on the sauce. A steaming hot pizza, as fresh as if it just came out of the oven, appears before me. “That’s good,” says Morgan. “And on the first try. You’re a natural.” “Can I eat it?” I ask. “Technically, no. But you could trick yourself into thinking you’re eating it. Have a slice.”
I take a bite. I taste it. I smell it. But a part of me knows it’s not really there. “What is this place?” I ask. “It’s not really a place,” Morgan replies. I picture the barrage of raindrops on the windshield, hear the screeching tires and the screams. It’s 7:55 again.
“I’m dead,” I say.
“Yes, Michael. I’m afraid you are. Head on collision. You died instantly.”
“Instant,” I repeat under my breath. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Normally the transition is a little easier. But you kind of
dropped in our lap. It happens sometimes. It will get better.”
“Is this heaven?”
“No,” Morgan answers. “Some sort of purgatory?” I ask. “No,” he repeats. “It would be better if you dropped all of your preconceived notions of what this is. Blank slate. That’s why everything starts out so simple. We want you to fill in the blanks as you go.”
“This is a lot to process,” I say. “It is,” he agrees. “So what are you here for?” “I’m here to get you started on your journey. You see, Michael, you are now a level one facilitator. I know that means nothing to you now. But it will.”
“Am I an angel?” I ask.
Morgan smiles. “If that’s the way you wish to see yourself and others than you can, but most of us just like to be who we were.”
“And you wanted to be Morgan Freeman?”
“No, Michael, you wanted me to be Morgan Freeman.”
The slow burn realization that I’m dead and not dreaming makes me sick at my stomach. All I can do now is picture my two children and my wife huddled together in some room crying their eyes out at the death of their father and husband. I miss them already.
“How long has it been?” I ask.
“Time doesn’t matter here,” Morgan replies. “There will be no more days and nights, months and years for you. Only simple, singular moments.”
“So you either don’t know or you’re choosing not to tell me.” “It’s not important anymore. The more you understand that the better you will be.” “So what’s next?” I ask. “That’s up to you,” he replies. “Soon the world around you will look and feel as normal as it can. And then you can start your training.”
“Training?”
“I know It’s a lot to take in,” he says. “Just try the pizza thing a few times. Get comfortable. Make yourself at home.”
“Home,” I say to myself, thinking of my wife and two children.
The simple thought of home and I’m standing in my living room. The faint scent of boiling pasta escapes the adjacent kitchen. My daughter’s favorite princess doll sits at a miniature table awaiting her cup of tea. A few toy trains are strewn about the floor, having barely survived the wrath of my two year old son.
I stroll into my daughter’s room. Her favorite princess dress rests on the ground as if she has just thrown it off to move onto her next adventure. I listen for the pitter patter of my son’s feet in the hallway.
But there is only silence. On my way back to the living room the silence is overtaken with laughter. My son and daughter’s laughter.
“Time to go in!” my wife’s voice calls out. “Gotta make dinner.” “No!” my daughter screams out. “Daddy will be home soon,” my wife replies. “Daddy!” my son yells. My steps quicken as I make my way to the backyard. I can’t wait to see them. Kiss them. Hold them. When I turn the corner, Morgan is standing in my way.
“Move!” I command him, desperate to get by. He simply holds out his hand and I stop. “This won’t do,” he says. We’re back in the hallway again.
“You said to get comfortable,” I reply.
“That’s not comfort,” he replies. “That’s only pain. You won’t be able to breathe. You’ll drown in the loss. Look forward, not backward.”
“And what’s forward supposed to look like?” I ask. “That’s totally up to you. But it can’t look like that.” “Will I get to see them again?” “In a way, yes. But for now you need to make a home for yourself. Here. Not there.”
“The classrooms,” I say. “When I first arrived I felt like I was in a classroom.”
“That’s a good start,” he replies.
In a blink of an eye I’m back in the classroom where it all began. This time everyone is dressed as one would expect. The walls are covered with various educational posters, the desks are brown, the students all high school age. I’m back in one of my dreams again, but there’s no unfinished project, no test I haven’t studied for. This is my new reality. This is my new beginning. “Welcome back, Mr. Black,” says the instructor.
