For the past six months, I found myself looking at my son with sympathy. He had felt the loss of his mother, who had died in a tragic plane crash. But now, it was good to see him open up because I hadn’t seen him this animated and happy in a long time.
The disconnected cord of the plastic toy hung harmlessly as he talked. Funny how he tended to use his hands when he talked…just like his old man.
Actually, this Angel Cloud Hospice program called “Heavenly Connection” was for anyone who needed it. Even I could make use of it if I wanted to, but in reality, I thought I would feel pretty stupid talking into a toy phone with no connection.
This whole idea of the Angel Cloud was started back in 2010 in Japan, of all places, as a way to honor their deceased loved ones. They came up with the idea of setting up a toy phone on a small table next to a park bench or along a hiking trail or on church grounds…a quiet and secluded area for privacy and reflection so someone could express one’s feelings into the phone, by “talking” to someone on the other end… someone in Heaven. Take your time, gather your thoughts, and say everything you forgot to say or couldn’t say in life, maybe something as simple as “I love you.” Their motto was “Allow the breeze to carry your words.” Finding peace was the ultimate goal.
I don’t know if there were any “last words” I wanted to say to Joy. Maybe “Don’t get on that plane to Seattle!” Nothing was going to change and nothing was going to bring her back. If I thought of something more to add I could always say it at home, not here in the middle of our town park.
One day after about fifteen minutes of this nonsense -- ok, I suppose it wasn’t “nonsense” to Billy -- I gave him a “come on” gesture to wrap up his conversation because we needed to head home.
“So, how’s Mommy doing?” I casually asked as we walked.
“Good,” he replied assuredly. “I told her what I did in school last week and she was happy. ‘Don’t forget to do your homework!’ she said.”
“Well, Mommy was much better at helping you at arithmetic than Daddy is,” I admitted. “It was never one of my stronger subjects.”
“I know. She said that you stink at arithmetic,” my eight-year-old remarked.
“Not so,” I said. “I wouldn’t use the word ‘stink’. More like ‘underwhelming’.”
“That’s okay. She said if I ever need any help, I could bring my book to the park, and she would help me,” he replied.
When we started doing the Heavenly Breeze program, we agreed that we were only pretending to speak with Mommy. We had accepted the hard fact that Mommy now lived in Heaven and wasn’t coming back. So, as much as dear old dad “stinks” at arithmetic, he was the only help available now.
I noticed that my son’s “conversations” with his late mother had taken on a more everyday quality, more real-life, when things like homework, the latest Little League baseball game and icky little classmate Susie Tompkins were the main topics of discussion.
When Billy first started using the toy phone there was a lot of understandable tearfulness. Billy would ask questions like “When are you coming home?” and make simple, quiet statements such as “I miss you.” These emotional phrases lessened as the months passed. I noticed that he always ended their talks with “I love you TOO,” as if she had said it first.
As time went by Billy requested more privacy during his talks. I could understand how he wanted to act stoical and brave, and not cry, just like his daddy, or at least not be seen crying. So, I began to walk down the path, still keeping an eye on him yet giving him the distance he wished.
About a month later I met him one day like usual at the school bus stop down the block from our house, and he excitedly began to tell me that he got an A on his arithmetic quiz that morning.
“So, you don’t stink like your dad?” I teased. “I guess our lessons together must be paying off, huh?”
“No,” he yelled with glee. “It’s Mommy! Mommy helps me. Can we go to the park so I can tell her I got an A for the first time ever?”
“Saturday…like usual,” I said.
“Please? I know Mommy will be happy to hear this good news,” he pleaded.
“I can’t tonight, Billy. I still have work to do at home. And you promised me that you would clean that junky room of yours after school, remember? Plus, Mommy knows how you did.”
“Yeah, but I just can’t wait to tell her,” Billy replied.
“You’ll have even more to tell her on Saturday. Hey, what about your old man here? Don’t I get any credit for your improved grades?”
It didn’t matter. By that time, we had arrived home. Billy ran inside to “write a letter to Mommy” before cleaning his room, a letter which would remain on his desk, a letter about his arithmetic success.
Sometimes it felt like I was competing against a ghost. Billy always loved both of us but I’ll admit that he had a special love for Joy. It was my fault. I didn’t pay enough attention to my little son or even my wife. I allowed work to come between us. I regret that now, especially with the way things turned out.
I just wasn’t, nor will I ever be Mommy.
********
Billy’s time on the Angel Cloud phone was nearly twice as long that Saturday. I know he wanted to tell her the good news about his quiz but I couldn’t imagine what else they were talking about. When I walked back to the park bench to escort him home, he was still yakking on the toy phone; in fact, when he saw me approaching on the path, he held one hand over the receiver and started talking in a whispery, hushed tone so I couldn’t hear.
“Billy, let’s go!” I demanded. “You’ve been here long enough.”
Notice I didn’t say “You’ve been talking to Mommy long enough.” This entire charade was starting to grate on my nerves, so much so that I started drinking again, a habit I had given up after Joy died to help me cope with the stress of suddenly being a single-parent. This craziness with pretending to talk to a loved one who was gone was too much for me to handle anymore. I just wanted the two of us to finally get back to some kind of normal. To leave the fantasy of the toy phone in the past and move on with life. I made up my mind to start steering Billy away from Saturdays in the park. I was sure he wouldn’t like it at first, but I reasoned he will get over it, no matter what any psychologist, psychiatrist or social worker said.
“Billy,” I began, “Do you really think we need to come to the park anymore to talk with Mommy? After all, if Mommy is really in Heaven, which we both agree she is, then you can talk to her from anywhere. Doesn’t that make sense?”
“I guess,” he agreed.
“And you don’t actually speak to Mommy directly, do you?”
“What do you mean, Daddy?” he asked.
“Well, you don’t really hear Mommy’s voice, do you?”
He remained silent for a few awkward moments, his head down, his eyes searching the sidewalk.
“Well, you don’t really hear Mommy’s voice, do you?”
“Of course I do,” he said. “She wants to talk to you too.”
Now this was going way too far. Billy wasn’t going to get me involved in this charade. The hospice people had suggested that I try talking on the disconnected toy phone too, because it might help me to process my wife’s sudden death, and that perhaps I needed mental health counseling as well. Of course, I rejected all of those silly offers. Sure, I took her passing hard, just like Billy, but a grown adult doesn’t need to talk on a stupid toy phone to process his grief. I had come to grips with her death in my own way. If I chose to deal with reality through alcohol then that was my choice.
“Billy, I don’t know. I’m not ready yet. Maybe I don’t want to talk to her. Maybe I’m mad at her for leaving us alone,” I said honestly.
My son stopped walking, tears clouding his blue eyes.
“I’m sorry to put it so harshly,” I said, kneeling down and hugging him.
Ok, let him get it out of his system. Let him cry all night if he needed to. I would be there with him, offering hugs and support. At least he was able to cry…unlike his father.
“Son, we all process our grief differently,” I explained in a whisper.
“Talk to her…please,” he insisted.
I hesitated, not knowing how to answer. I wondered why this was so important to him.
“Ok,” I agreed.” Next time.”
********
The following Saturday we went to the park, as usual. Billy had his chat with his late mother. Then he handed me the toy receiver. I held the blue receiver to my left ear. What was I expecting to hear… a dial tone? A busy signal? Or perhaps a ringing sound?
I had decided, delusional or not, that the only way to help Billy accept his Mommy’s passing was to play along. I would make up a conversation if I had to. Anything for my son.
Needless to say, I heard nothing as I listened.
“Joy?” I whispered. “Are you there?” I wasn’t sure if I would hear her voice. I braced myself, just in case. It would’ve sounded good to hear her soft voice one more time.
“I’m going to assume that you are there and you are listening. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being angry. It’s not your fault that things turned out the way they did. I wish you had never gotten on that plane. I wish I would’ve been more involved with you and Billy instead of other things. I know now…a little too late…what’s really important in life.”
I looked at Billy, who patiently nodded, as if he were a psychologist, encouraging me to process my grief, to forget my guilt and my pain.
Believe it or not I actually waited after I spoke. I waited for an answer. Of course, I didn’t expect an answer. Still, I waited. Why did I hesitate? Was I hoping to hear her voice? I waited…and waited…and waited. I felt like a fool, sitting on that park bench, mumbling into a plastic phone.
There was no answer. No sound. Not a thing. Either there never was a sound or my dead wife no longer wanted to talk to me.
Billy gave me a quizzical look. I decided to improvise and make up a conversation. Should I play into his fantasy? Was it the right thing to add to his delusion? My son always had a vivid imagination but this was pretty extreme, even for him.
“Yes, honey,” I said. “I miss you, too. Everything is okay with me. Work is going fine. In fact, I just got a promotion. Isn’t that great? I couldn’t wait to tell you…”
This phantom conversation continued on for a few minutes. I started to run out of things to say so I made up stuff on the fly.
“So, what’s Heaven like? It must be beautiful,” I said, waiting a moment to allow her to “answer.” I asked my deceased wife anything that came to mind at that moment, like “How’s God?” or asking how other deceased relatives and pets were doing.
On the way home we did our weekly post-Heaven wrap-up.
“Wasn’t it good to talk to Mommy?” Billy asked.
“It was wonderful,” I replied.
“Did you really talk to her, Daddy?”
I wondered how to respond to that question. Was Billy still playing pretend or was he serious? What if I said I really had a conversation with his mother and HE was just pretending all along?
“Billy, remember when the nice lady from hospice told us about the phone in the park? And we decided to try it? We agreed that we were only going to pretend to talk to Mommy, right?” I reminded.
“I know,” he said. “I was only going to play pretend too. But then she answered me so I didn’t have to pretend,” he said.
Why wouldn’t my dead wife talk to me?
********
The following Saturday was going to be special: It was Joy’s birthday. All week I thought about what I should do or say. As my grief process continued, as I told myself that I was fine, just ignore my sadness, work, drink to forget, I realized that whatever I was doing was not working. Billy’s way to cope with Joy’s death was to imagine he was hearing her voice. I needed to try something different.
I did some research about the grief phones and found it was a growing phenomenon. Reading a few testimonials let me know I wasn’t alone. Granted, I didn’t find anyone who actually “heard” their deceased loved one on the other end as Billy claimed. I was beginning to believe that his vivid imagination was running wild or…the supernatural was happening.
This phone business did make me think of Joy more often. Instead of trying to forget her I found myself thinking of her even more. I remembered past birthdays since we started dating, and then after we were married and had Billy. Whether it was getting her a nice card, jewelry, candy, going out to dinner or just cuddling at home, one gift I never forgot was a single red rose. Roses were Joy’s favorite flower. A single rose always meant that she was the one and only. It was my signature gift to Joy.
Billy made his own birthday card and gift wrapped his most recent school picture. Truth be known, I’m not a bad cook…but I have never tried to bake. Billy suggested that we bake Mommy a birthday cake. Not wanting a fire in the kitchen, I voted for buying cupcakes.
We ended up buying three cupcakes with three candles and we celebrated Joy’s birthday on the park bench. Billy had his favorite, chocolate (with sprinkles on top), while I had vanilla and Joy’s favorite, pumpkin spice, we shared together.
What happened next cannot be explained. It was a mild, calm October afternoon. We lit the three birthday candles on top of each cupcake, sang a brief rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and proceeded to blow out the candles.
“Billy, you do the honors. Make a wish and blow out Mommy’s candle,” I suggested.
As hard as he tried, he couldn’t do it. It was as though we had purchased those fake candles from a novelty store, the kind that, no matter how hard you tried, the candle would not extinguish.
Billy tried and tried to blow out the candle, so much so that he began to laugh. There was more of Billy’s spit on the cupcake then air.
“My wish didn’t come true,” he sighed. “Mommy still isn’t here.”
Suddenly we heard a soft ringing sound from the toy phone on the stand.
Did I really just hear that? A ringing sound from a disconnected plastic toy phone?
“It’s Mommy!” he yelled, grabbing the toy receiver. “Happy Birthday, Mommy!”
I swear that at that exact moment a gust of wind extinguished her candle.
My mouth hung open for a second.
“Wait, Daddy wants to say something…”
Billy handed me the phone. The moment of truth had arrived. I no longer felt stupid. I believed with my whole heart and soul that my dear wife, on her first birthday away from us, was on the other end of the line…a heavenly connection.
“Joy, Happy Birthday, honey,” I said.
No response. “I brought you a rose on your birthday, like always,” I continued.
No reply.
“We love you and miss you, Joy,” I said.
Suddenly it happened.
“Thank you, sweetie. I love you, too,” she answered. “And you do stink at arithmetic!”
Maybe it was the rustling of the trees. Perhaps I really did hear Joy’s voice. Or maybe I heard her voice…in my heart. Maybe that’s how Billy heard her too.
Deep down inside I was able to process my own grief. I finally found peace.
And the man who never cries shed a tear.
I took Billy’s hand and we headed home, already looking forward to the next time we talk to Mommy.
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