the agreement
by catherine faherty

Early in college, one of my most favorite classes was Comparative Religions and at 18 years of age I was well into a personal study of diverse religious and spiritual traditions. Learning about differing views of the soul’s journey after death was (and still is) fascinating and important to me. Coming home from college that first summer, I approached my best friend with an idea. “Dad, let’s make an agreement,” I proposed. “Whoever dies first, you or me,… that person promises to contact the other person still here, from the other side.

“…if there is another side…” my dad added, not taking my proposal seriously. Finally, probably because he knew I wouldn’t stop pestering him, he acquiesced and we shook on it.

As the years rolled by, I reminded him about once a year.

“Dad, remember our agreement.”

“What agreement?” was usually his response, to which I would reply impatiently…”you know, you already agreed to it…the one that says that whoever dies first has to contact the other person!” He would laugh, gently protesting that if it were possible, it would be happening all the time, to which I suggested that it probably does but maybe people just don’t notice. At any rate, eventually he would consent. “Okay, okay...if it’s possible, don’t worry."

After one of these conversations, I had visions of waking up at night, seeing a ghost at the foot of my bed, which was definitely an alarming—rather than reassuring —thought. So, I began to add the stipulation to the agreement that the contact must be made in a way that does not scare the other person.

During these last few months when he was bedridden, I began reminding him of our agreement frequently. One time this summer, I noticed a twinkle in his eye when he asked mischievously, “What agreement?”

“Dad, you know, the agreement that says…” I began.

He patiently waited until I finished my explanation and then looking at me calmly and directly, said, “Don’t worry. I’ll remember when the time comes.”

The night before he died, my mom and I were sitting on each side of his bed. The Hospice social worker had told us that even if the person appeared to be in an unresponsive state, he probably could still hear, that we should talk to him if we had something to say. We did.

“Dad, remember our agreement” I said quietly.

My mom looked up at me and said “What is going to be the sign?”

“What do you mean?”

“The sign so you will know it’s him.”

I never thought of that. I guess I had assumed that the person (me) would just know when the contact was being made. But my mother’s idea sure seemed like a good suggestion.

I quickly searched my mind for what sign would be significant. When I was a child and teenager, we shared a love of sailing in our little boat on Lake Park in Des Plaines. He used to talk about his dream of someday sailing the Great Lakes.
“Well, okay, Dad, the sign will be a sailboat or an image of a sailboat.”

Lying still in a coma up to that point, he immediately moved his head and his eyes twitched as if in agreement. The social worker had said that the person often responds by moving in such a manner.

My mom added, “I want in on that agreement too! But Nick, the sign for me will be this (crossing her arms over her chest).”

My dad died the next day.

The following days were spent with family coming together, the wake, the funeral, and all that blessed business that helps you get through that first week. On the morning after the funeral my mom woke me up, excitement in her voice.

“I almost woke you up at 4:00 in the morning! I feel exhilarated! I know your dad is here! It was strange, I woke up several times last night (that was unusual enough with my mom’s reputation of being a deep and easy sleeper), and each time my arms were in this position (arms crossed over her chest). I know he is here! I don’t even feel like crying today!” We hugged tearfully.

Getting up from bed that same morning I went into the hall bathroom where I noticed that the medicine cabinet mirror door was ajar. In fact I had noticed that the last two days, it was slightly open each time I entered the bathroom. I figured something was wrong with it—maybe the magnetic latch had stopped working—but there had never been a problem before. Each time I would close it, checking to see that the magnet had made contact with the door. It was clearly fastened. No one used the cabinet; it housed my dad’s things. But this morning, after 2 days of constantly closing it, I opened it all the way to see if I could identify the source of the problem. With the door wide open, I saw at eye level a bottle of Old Spice aftershave, with the classic clipper ship staring at me.
“DAD! Is that you?” I exclaimed gleefully.

I brought my mom, John, and Niko into the room to witness the clipper ship in the opened cabinet. Later that evening when getting ready for bed, by myself in the bathroom, I faced the Old Spice and had a talk with him.

“Well, I want to believe it is you, and I think it is you, but I have to do an experiment to make sure. So Dad, I am closing the door right now. I am making sure it is latched tight.” Jiggling the door I tried to see if there was any give. There wasn’t. It was definitely closed and latched tight.

“Okay, Dad, if it is really you, the door will be open in the morning.

It was. And that was the last time it was.

Two weeks after Dad died, I traveled to Izmir, Turkey to speak at an autism conference organized by parents of children with autism. This trip was an emotional, wonderful, dreadful, incredible journey. I am the first member of the family to set foot on the homeland of my maternal grandparents who were ethnic Greeks from Asia Minor, from the city of Smyrna (the original name for Izmir) and surrounding area. The circumstances of their emigration is a historical tragedy, unknown to most Americans. Kemal Attarturk ordered a “population exchange”, driving out or killing the ethnic Greeks and Armenians. It culminated in 1922 when the beautiful port city of Smyrna was set afire by the Turkish army, forcing the refugees into the bay to their death. Flying in, I was in awe of western Turkey’s magnificent coast and thought of my grandparents and their lives, as the Aegean sparkled below. I wondered what it was going to feel like to be there.

In Izmir, I looked forward to meeting my close colleague and friend, Vaya Papageorgiou, child psychiatrist from Thessaloniki, who was also speaking at this conference. After our hugs and tears, we sat down for coffee to visit. I told Vaya about my dad’s last few months and as I told her about “the agreement” her eyes welled up. Giving me an artfully wrapped present, she said “This is for you.”
Unwrapping the present with its orange tissue paper, I felt a cold chill pass through my body. The hair on my arms raised.

Yes. It was a 5-inch tall sailboat with a blue and amber stained glass sail and pine hull held together by twisted wire for the mast which formed little cross at the top.
Vaya said that exactly one week before (which was one week to the day after my dad died) she went to her jeweler friend’s shop to buy me a pair of handmade earrings. Immediately upon entering the shop, her eyes fell on the little sailboat displayed high on the wall. “I have to get this for Catherine” and without a second thought took it off the wall. She said that a couple of times she wondered why she bought this item for me—but that it felt so right that she didn’t spend much time questioning her decision. In awe of the mysteries of life—and death —I thanked Vaya for being my dad’s messenger.

That night, alone in my hotel room with tears falling freely, I slept with the little sailboat clutched to my heart.

 

Catherine Faherty works with children and adults with autism, their families and teachers, with the TEACCH Program. She has lived in Western North Carolina for almost 30 years—the most recent 20 years in Asheville. She now lives with her husband, a local chiropractor, in their new “green” home in Alexander. She has a grown son (who was named after her father) and a grandson. Catherine’s book “Aspergers...What Does It Mean To Me?” supports self- awareness for young people on the autism spectrum as well as creating mutual understanding with family, teachers, and friends.