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Authors: Nancy K. Duplechain
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thing.”
We were quiet again and he returned his attention to the Tabasco sauce. I felt as awkward as he looked. He suddenly caught me off guard with his next question. “Do you believe in an afterlife?” He lifted his eyes from the bottle and looked at me with a little hope and caution in his gaze.
I thought for a moment how to phrase my answer so that I wouldn’t offend him. But I decided that the truth was better. “Lots of people believe that when we die, our souls continue on to some other place where we’ll see our loved ones again. It’s a nice thought, but during my time in med school, I’ve never seen some magical transition of a supposed soul leaving the body and moving on to some other plane of existence. I’ve seen a couple of people die on the table and I looked hard, too. I remember staring at their chests and eyes and hearts, looking for any kind of sign, maybe the torso lifting up briefly or some kind of mist or light or anything. Something. But I’ve never seen anything other than the end of a life. That’s all there is.”
He smiled a little sadly then. “I’ve seen people die, too. Once in my arms, in fact. A seventeen-year-old girl who was hit by a drunk driver who sped off after the accident. I was the first one on the scene, before the ambulance even. I could see she wasn’t going to make it, so I just held her and tried to comfort her as best I could. I tried to ask her questions, like her name, where she went to school and all that. She didn’t answer any of them, but she kept looking behind me and pointing. There was nothing behind me except an empty field. Then she said, ‘Lucas.’ I told her that was my name. She said, ‘Robert says he’s proud of you.’”
A rush of chills came over me when I recognized his father’s name. Captain Robert Castille was killed trying to stop a domestic dispute when Lucas was twelve. Lucas looked like he was trying his hardest to fight back a couple of tears. “When she died in my arms,” he continued. “I didn’t see any light, either, but I didn’t really need to at that point.”
The clacking of the balls was suddenly too loud in the new silence between the two of us. The jukebox started to play “Your Picture,” by Johnnie Allan, a Swamp Pop favorite in our area. After a very long moment, I said, “What did you find? After you investigated the strange incidents that were going on?”
He put the bottle back next to the napkin dispenser. “Things that we couldn’t explain,” he said softly, as he looked down at his bottle.
“Specifically?”
He took a deep breath. “Back in October, there was a murder in that apartment complex behind the mall. It was a college girl. Her roommate was just coming home from U.L. When she got to the door, she heard her friend screaming. She hurried to unlock it, and she opened the door in time to witness her friend being thrown across the room by something she couldn’t see. She dropped her book sack and ran up to her friend, who was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. Her head was bashed in and her abdomen was ripped open. When she told us what happened, she couldn’t stop shaking. She had to excuse herself to the bathroom twice to throw up.” He looked away toward the pool tables again, waiting for my reaction.
“What makes you think she didn’t kill her roommate herself?”
He stayed focused on the balls being knocked into the holes. “We couldn’t find a murder weapon, and she had no motive. She had just come from cheerleading practice and there wasn’t a drop of blood on her uniform. And …” he stopped again, trying to find the right words. “And, when I looked into the mirror over the couch, I could have sworn I saw a shadow moving behind me. When I turned around, I didn’t see anything. And it was cold in there, too. Really cold. The central unit wasn’t on at the time, and the weather was still warm outside.” He looked back at me
We were quiet again and he returned his attention to the Tabasco sauce. I felt as awkward as he looked. He suddenly caught me off guard with his next question. “Do you believe in an afterlife?” He lifted his eyes from the bottle and looked at me with a little hope and caution in his gaze.
I thought for a moment how to phrase my answer so that I wouldn’t offend him. But I decided that the truth was better. “Lots of people believe that when we die, our souls continue on to some other place where we’ll see our loved ones again. It’s a nice thought, but during my time in med school, I’ve never seen some magical transition of a supposed soul leaving the body and moving on to some other plane of existence. I’ve seen a couple of people die on the table and I looked hard, too. I remember staring at their chests and eyes and hearts, looking for any kind of sign, maybe the torso lifting up briefly or some kind of mist or light or anything. Something. But I’ve never seen anything other than the end of a life. That’s all there is.”
He smiled a little sadly then. “I’ve seen people die, too. Once in my arms, in fact. A seventeen-year-old girl who was hit by a drunk driver who sped off after the accident. I was the first one on the scene, before the ambulance even. I could see she wasn’t going to make it, so I just held her and tried to comfort her as best I could. I tried to ask her questions, like her name, where she went to school and all that. She didn’t answer any of them, but she kept looking behind me and pointing. There was nothing behind me except an empty field. Then she said, ‘Lucas.’ I told her that was my name. She said, ‘Robert says he’s proud of you.’”
A rush of chills came over me when I recognized his father’s name. Captain Robert Castille was killed trying to stop a domestic dispute when Lucas was twelve. Lucas looked like he was trying his hardest to fight back a couple of tears. “When she died in my arms,” he continued. “I didn’t see any light, either, but I didn’t really need to at that point.”
The clacking of the balls was suddenly too loud in the new silence between the two of us. The jukebox started to play “Your Picture,” by Johnnie Allan, a Swamp Pop favorite in our area. After a very long moment, I said, “What did you find? After you investigated the strange incidents that were going on?”
He put the bottle back next to the napkin dispenser. “Things that we couldn’t explain,” he said softly, as he looked down at his bottle.
“Specifically?”
He took a deep breath. “Back in October, there was a murder in that apartment complex behind the mall. It was a college girl. Her roommate was just coming home from U.L. When she got to the door, she heard her friend screaming. She hurried to unlock it, and she opened the door in time to witness her friend being thrown across the room by something she couldn’t see. She dropped her book sack and ran up to her friend, who was sprawled out on the kitchen floor. Her head was bashed in and her abdomen was ripped open. When she told us what happened, she couldn’t stop shaking. She had to excuse herself to the bathroom twice to throw up.” He looked away toward the pool tables again, waiting for my reaction.
“What makes you think she didn’t kill her roommate herself?”
He stayed focused on the balls being knocked into the holes. “We couldn’t find a murder weapon, and she had no motive. She had just come from cheerleading practice and there wasn’t a drop of blood on her uniform. And …” he stopped again, trying to find the right words. “And, when I looked into the mirror over the couch, I could have sworn I saw a shadow moving behind me. When I turned around, I didn’t see anything. And it was cold in there, too. Really cold. The central unit wasn’t on at the time, and the weather was still warm outside.” He looked back at me
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