The Line Between Read online

  To Jonathan Rosenthal, who taught me the soul is immortal and love eternal.

  To Samantha Rosenthal, who taught me to face fear and push through it.

  To Janet Rosenthal, my best friend, my “Lizzie.” It would take another book to list all the things she’s taught me.

  “I couldn’t be here in spirit, so I came in person.”

  —Red Buttons

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Part I

  Chapter 1: August 21, 1987

  Chapter 2: Neil

  Chapter 3: August 22, 1987

  Chapter 4: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 5: September 1, 1987

  Chapter 6: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 7: October 17, 1987

  Chapter 8: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 9: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 10: November 9, 1987

  Chapter 11: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 12: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 13: December 13, 1987

  Chapter 14: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 15: December 21, 1987

  Chapter 16: Neil

  Chapter 17: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 18: January 11, 1988

  Chapter 19: June 6, 1988

  Chapter 20: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 21: August 5, 1988

  Chapter 22: August 6, 1988

  Chapter 23: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 24: Neil

  Part II

  Chapter 25: January 15, 1992

  Chapter 26: January 23, 1992

  Chapter 27: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 28: January 31, 1992

  Chapter 29: May 10, 1992

  Chapter 30: August 6, 1992

  Chapter 31: Neil

  Chapter 32: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 33: September 12, 1992

  Chapter 34: Neil

  Chapter 35: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 36: Neil

  Chapter 37: September 25/26, 1992

  Chapter 38: April 3, 1993

  Chapter 39: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 40: November 1993

  Chapter 41: December 9, 1993

  Chapter 42: February 1994

  Chapter 43: April 1994

  Chapter 44: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 45: July 8, 1994

  Chapter 46: August 6, 1994

  Chapter 47: August 6, 1994

  Chapter 48: March 1996

  Chapter 49: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 50: Spring/Summer 1997

  Chapter 51: August 5/6, 1997

  Chapter 52: The Astral Plane

  Chapter 53: Astral Plane

  Chapter 54: April 24, 2004

  Chapter 55: July 19, 2004

  Chapter 56: The Astral Plane

  Part III

  Chapter 57: December 27, 2004

  Chapter 58: Jonathan

  January 2005

  Chapter 59: January 2016

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  August 21, 1987

  THE FRAMED PHOTO of her husband, Neil, fell from the wall as Sophie Beaumont plodded down the steps, in her pajamas, still wiping the sleep from her eyes. Bits of shattered glass covered the wooden floor near the bottom step. She stopped in her tracks, wondering if it was an earthquake; after all, their house sat on the Rose Canyon fault. No, nothing was shaking. Seeing no reason for the strange occurrence, she continued down the steps, carefully avoiding the pieces of glass, surprised the noise hadn’t seemed to wake her sleeping husband. She decided to clean the mess up later, after her coffee, when she felt more awake.

  The night before, she’d filled the coffeepot with water and ground beans and set the timer to begin brewing at 6:30 a.m. She didn’t actually need an alarm, as she woke to the herbaceous scent of coffee permeating the house. She shuffled into the kitchen and fixed herself a cup with exactly one teaspoon of sugar and two tablespoons of cream.

  That was her typical morning ritual before work—she’d sit at the kitchen table, drink two cups of coffee, and read her horoscope.

  Sophie grabbed the newspaper off the front porch, shook the rain off the plastic wrapping, snapped open the paper, and turned to page four of the entertainment section to the horoscopes.

  Libra: A partnership demands attention. Proceed with caution as an imagined scenario may come to pass. Something may disrupt your domestic tranquility—be prepared for the unexpected. This is a good day to stay home. Count on friends for support.

  That sounded a bit foreboding. Maybe it wasn’t a bad idea to skip work. She hadn’t slept well the previous night, feeling on edge and restless. Not wanting to hassle with getting stuck in rainy-day traffic, she picked up the phone to call in sick—then hesitated, deciding she should go in. As she set the receiver down, she knocked her elbow into her full cup of coffee, smashing it on the floor. Two strikes in a fifteen-minute period. She hoped bad luck didn’t really come in sets of three.

  Sophie figured the signs were there that it wasn’t going to be a good day—some days are just like that. Hopefully, nothing catastrophic would happen. Her edgy feeling intensified.

  It took Sophie an extra hour to get home after work due to the weather. It was good to be home. Other than gridlock on the freeway, she was happy she’d had an uneventful day at work. She noticed a note taped to the refrigerator from Neil stating he’d be home no later than 5:30 for dinner. But it was already 7:00—and he still wasn’t home. Feeling concerned, she wondered if he was stuck in traffic. Sophie glanced at the clock every five minutes while listening for the sound of his car pulling into the driveway.

  At 7:30, she wrung her hands and paced the kitchen floor. Where is he? She hoped he hadn’t been in an accident. The local news had described a multitude of traffic collisions due to the heavy rainstorm.

  They say it never rains in Southern California, yet it had poured off and on for twelve days straight in San Diego. The night air even tasted wet. But once the howling winds of the latest deluge had died down about fifteen minutes ago, it grew calm. No sounds of cars driving by outside, no barking dogs, no noise from the neighboring children. The quiet seemed unusual to Sophie, almost haunting.

  An unsettling shiver traveled down her spine, making her feel something was not right. Something was amiss. She shook the feeling off. Maybe Neil was picking up something for dinner. Knowing he might want to house the car in the garage for the night, safe from the rain, Sophie decided she’d go out back and turn on the light for him.

  She stood in the backyard looking toward the detached one-car garage behind the house. The lawn was drenched. Pink rose petals, blown about from forceful gusts during the earlier downpour, floated in mud puddles.

  She thought she heard a faint sound from inside the garage—perhaps a raccoon seeking refuge. She felt uneasy and nauseous. Something beyond curiosity, beyond fear, spurred her to take slow, halting steps across her yard, barely avoiding a pile of feces from a feral dog. Her canvas shoes were already soaked with water, causing squishing sounds as she walked. She didn’t know why she clenched her fists tightly or why her lips were trembling. Her inner voice was screaming at her to turn around. She ignored it.

  The black color of grief tinted the night sky. The only illumination came from the yellowish glow of a neighbor’s porch lamp. Her left eye twitched as a sinking feeling in her gut diffused throughout her body. What’s wrong with me?

  A waxing gibbous moon, nearly full, showed between streaks of gray clouds, partially spotlighting the pale white garage. The garage door, like a barn door with two sides that swing open from the middle, faced a dirt alley that wasn’t visible from the backyard. The smalle
r side door, completely off the hinges, leaned against the battered clapboards.

  She stepped into the doorway. An unfamiliar creaking sound made her hair stand on end. Reaching into the darkness, she flicked the switch. As light flooded the garage, her worst nightmare flashed before her.

  It was too late to unsee the grotesque scene: Neil—suspended from a rope that was tied to the beam of the garage. It was a gruesome sight, a gruesome way to go.

  At first, Sophie refused to accept what she saw. Her eyes read one thing, but her brain wouldn’t compute. It was too repugnant. As though it required censoring, the image started out pixelated and blurry. Abruptly, it transformed into a well-defined picture with focused, distinct edges. The image, once fully developed, engraved itself permanently in her brain like an inscription on a tombstone.

  The beam continued to creak from holding the weight of his 175 pounds. Sophie’s mind went numb. Through suffocating gasps, she felt like she was breathing through a straw. Her abdomen tightened and her stomach heaved. Deep, guttural noises, which she didn’t quite recognize as her own, came from the back of her throat, followed by piercing screams, as though her skin were being peeled with a dull knife. Her heart seemed to stop until a rush of adrenaline flooded her body, releasing her from a temporary paralysis.

  What do I do? She wasn’t thinking clearly. The six-foot ladder Neil must have knocked over when he dropped was lying on the cement floor. Sophie set it upright near his body, climbed it, then frantically dug her fingers into the knot at his neck that cut deep into his flesh. It was too tight. As his limp body swung toward her, she lost her balance, toppled the ladder, and crashed onto the cold floor, hitting her head.

  She stood and regained her footing, then grabbed a saw that hung precariously on a cup hook on the wall above the woodworking table. She righted the ladder and climbed it again. She attempted to cut Neil down, but the never-sharpened teeth on the saw only frayed the rope and lacerated the web between her thumb and index finger. Blood spurted and pooled in the palm of her hand. The saw wouldn’t work. Unable to get Neil down, Sophie stared at him face-to-face—close enough to gag at the sight of the deep discolorations and red grooves where the noose dug into his neck.

  No. No. Oh my God … How can I save him?

  His tongue, swollen and dry, protruded at an angle from his slack lips, his face pale in color. The stench of urine permeated the air from his damp pants.

  Why? The word repeated in her mind. There was no adequate answer. Sweat poured from her hairline. Her heart raced out of control. She jumped from the ladder to race to a phone to call for help. As she landed, she twisted her ankle and cried out in pain. That’s when the horror of the situation sunk in.

  She couldn’t save him.

  She screamed for help, then black spots performed a macabre dance before her eyes and, mercifully, she passed out.

  CHAPTER 2

  Neil

  BY NOON, I’D decided to commit suicide today. It was an emotional struggle to get to that point, but once I’d made the decision, I felt detached about the process. I knew Sophie would be at work all day, so I had sufficient time. I just needed to get it over with and stop constantly thinking about it. I’d spent way too much time contemplating ways to kill myself over the years. It’s not like I hadn’t thought of it at least a hundred times before. I distinctly recall making the final decision to end my pathetic life after I realized I’d been in an endless loop of repeating the same destructive mistakes. I wanted out. It was a disturbing yet defining moment.

  I needed to die.

  So many decisions to make—so many things to consider. Pills, gunshot, or hanging. Rope or telephone extension cord. Slip knot or bowline. Three-quarter diameter or one-inch rope. To write a note or not. Hanging was my chosen method, but I even had to decide where to place the knot. I remembered reading somewhere that, for a successful hanging, the placement of the knot was very important. Although some people put the knot behind the neck, others have said it should go high, closer to the top of the head. I decided to place it underneath my jaw near my ear—the goal being quick constriction with a rapid loss of consciousness.

  The timing of the deed was my final decision. I needed to be sure no one would be around to interrupt the process, leaving me brain-damaged instead of dead. Being a fearful person by nature, I wondered if I could go through with it. Ashamed of my cowardice many times during my life, I’d taken ridiculous risks to prove otherwise. I couldn’t back down. I didn’t want to be a wimp. So I practiced making the noose a few times, and that made me feel more confident.

  After securing the rope over the beam, I downed a pint of vodka. My final drink. No profound, insightful thoughts drifted through my mind. All I thought was: Am I really going to do this?

  I climbed the ladder and positioned the knot. I kicked the ladder and swiftly dropped. Swirling colors of light sprang before my eyes like fireworks, and hissing noises buzzed in my ears—then, an explosive headache. Excruciating pain shot through every nerve fiber in my body. My muscles twitched and jerked. That very moment defined the word surreal.

  What a surprise when I released from my body as easily as a banana from its peel. An unseen power, a strong suction, pulled me out and up. The pain stopped, and an odd feeling registered—like I had become newly fallen snow: fresh, clean, pure, and light.

  I’m confused. How am I able to be aware of anything right now—unusually aware, in fact? My heart function and respiration have ceased, my reflexes are absent, my eyes are set, and my corneas are opaque. I’m dead. At least I think I am.

  But how can I be dead and still have thoughts? I’m afraid.

  I had the sensation of rising upward until I came to the top of the garage. Now I’m floating near the ceiling, looking down at a body that appears to be mine hanging from the beam, still jerking and twitching. Apparently, my inner self has separated from my physical self, and only my consciousness is still functioning—a shocking sensation.

  What I do know is that I’ve transitioned from my life on Earth. But to what? I always wondered about the afterlife, and here it is. I’m face-to-face with death. As a Catholic, an unconfessed Catholic, I think I might be going to hell. I haven’t been to confession for years.

  My last attempt at confession was at age fifteen. My parents had hosted a New Year’s Eve cocktail party. Hats, horns, and confetti were plentiful, and so were fancy bottles of wine, scotch, bourbon, gin, and vodka. Even then, I found the bottles tempting and enticing—they looked beautiful as the crystalline and amber liquids shimmered inside. I wanted to try some. People always laughed and had fun when they were drinking.

  When no one was paying attention, without a second thought, I grabbed a bottle from the bar and hid it under my shirt as I ran for my bedroom. There were so many bottles, who’d miss one? I was out of breath when I reached my room. Looking to see what treasure I had secured, I saw it was a bottle of vodka. Score!

  Like prospectors discovering gold, my brother and I had our own party while the adults were downstairs ringing in the new year. We drank enough to feel great without getting sick—a balance impossible to find later on. I relished my feeling of confidence, my insecurities dropping away sip by sip. Vodka, meet Neil. Neil, meet vodka, your new best friend. As a young, self-conscious boy, I’d found my panacea, my elixir to make me feel sociable and accepted. For quite a few years, I thought of liquor as my magic potion. Drinking it had been like casting a spell, instantly making me believe I exuded an aura of charm and charisma.

  I knew it was wrong to steal the bottle, but I didn’t get busted. When I went to confession, I couldn’t make myself tell the priest. I didn’t want to acknowledge the sin. I didn’t want to repent and ask for God’s forgiveness because I knew I’d do it again—and again. After that, I stopped going to confession.

  Quite a few creatures molt. Is that what happened to me? Did I molt? Looking down at my former physical body makes me feel like a tarantula after throwing off its skin. As I float, my
essence feels light and unrestricted. The hanging body looks like me, yet it doesn’t. I recognize my receding hairline, my wide-set eyes, my overly long nose, and my off-kilter jaw—even my gold wedding band with the lapis lazuli stone on my ring finger. My feet, in mud-covered shoes, are still twitching. It’s strange to view myself from the outside, to see my body as others saw me.

  I feel no attachment to my body. It served my needs while I played the role of Neil. But now, releasing the essence of me feels like coming home after a hard day, pulling off my stiff work boots, then kicking back and relaxing. Only it’s my body I’ve shed instead of work boots. The realization that I’m much more than my physical entity is a bit daunting.

  This floating-above-everything perspective gives me a much broader viewpoint, like looking at a landscape from an airplane window. To observe the world from a bird’s-eye view gives rise to a sense of omnipotence. Death provides a new, clearer perspective of life. Too bad this insight has come too late.

  Being free of the flesh feels invigorating. All of me, the essence of who I was—my consciousness, my thoughts, my memories—remains with me, not in that lifeless vessel. I wonder what will happen next. Will the dark people come for me and take me straight to hell? I saw them in a movie once, and frankly, it kind of haunted me over the years.

  Sophie talked of disincarnate beings from another dimension—good guys—who, before we were born, agreed to assist us to meet our missions and goals throughout our human lives and who would meet us when we died. She called them “spirit guides.” If they exist, where are mine now? I’d like them to appear and guide me out of this garage.

  I seem to be untethered to time, but I know Sophie will be home soon and wonder where I am.

  The horror of what I’ve done to her starts to sink in.

  The light switch in the garage flicks on and Sophie enters. I’m not happy to see her. If I still had a beating heart, it would be shattering as I watch her. I hear her thoughts, see her horror and fear. My decision to end my life came from a need to relieve my own agony. I didn’t think about what it would do to Sophie.