The buzz of the neon lights on the ceiling changes in tone. What was it Sam said? How can he sense that Henri is very close, watching us and wishing to tell us something? It’s . . . like a needle coming down on a record. I know that feeling all too well. It’s as if the world were secretly catching its breath. It’s the moment when the eyes of the entire orchestra are trained on the tip of the conductor’s baton. But I cannot disclose it—not the dream in which I was making love with Henri. That was simply lust, no more than that.

But what if it wasn’t only that?

“I dreamed about my father long ago,” I reluctantly confess. “But only after he died. Often at first, then less and less frequently.”

Nurse Marion nods.

Whenever I see my father, I immediately know I’m dreaming. That’s what happens when we lose someone who meant the world to us. It tears a hole in our lives, and that hole sucks out our laughter and insouciance. The person’s absence crushes us, and all at once the distinctions between truth and dream appear to us with great clarity. It’s as if only death allows us to enter the world between the worlds.

Only occasionally do I hear my father outside of those dreams. One example was when Sam was lying in my arms in the hospital chapel and I picked up my father’s voice, loud and clear, saying, “Seek out a place and sing it.”

Twice I had an impression that he was me: once when I was riding my motorbike and the second time in Cornwall. The air smelled fresh and was still warm in spite of a first hint of autumn. The sea was singing, and everything was well with the world. It felt as if he were walking in my body and enjoying this unexpected opportunity to smell and feel the warmth of his own life, the tensing of muscles and the pounding of a heart. It must have lasted for four or five minutes. Yet despite their intensity I still regard those experiences as a successful piece of self-delusion. That’s how people are: they imagine the most outlandish things as solace and deem them true.

“Mrs. Tomlin, have you ever heard of after-death experiences?”

“I’ve heard of near-death experiences.”

“No, after death. You dreamed of your father. Did you also have the impression that he was there? Could you smell or hear him? After-death experiences are instances of interaction, experienced by people when someone they were very close to has died.”

That’s nonsense! I want to shout. That’s what I imagine Henri calling to me: Help me, Eddie! Sancerre-sozzled nonsense!