How did Christopher’s gift change my life? Pretty slowly. In matters of the spirit, I proved to be a very slow learner.
Direct knowledge of immortality robbed death of its fearsomeness. That was the first effect. Not that I became reckless. I didn’t ski over cliffs or bodysurf hurricanes or take nighttime strolls in Central Park. I simply lost all fear of dying. Instead of seeing death as the extinction of individual identity, I saw it as the liberation of the individual from the restrictions imposed by the physical body. Life itself was no less valuable. As the unique opportunity for each soul to transform itself, life seemed more valuable, with adversity enriching its value rather than detracting from it.
Not that I sought out adversity. There was enough of that in the requirements of daily living—raising a family, treating patients, coping with the medical-care bureaucracies and the noise, filth, and crime of New York City. Nor did I need to invent mistakes. I had made so many with no effort at all, in the same unconscious way that Christopher had broken Jon’s cuckoo clock. I reflected on the wisdom in his flat refusal to feel any regret: “No, Grandma, I’m not sorry. I had to do that. Because it was a mistake.”
If the essential purpose of life was spiritual growth, then making mistakes was a requirement. Christopher’s logic was inescapable.
His message was comforting, but it also imposed an immense burden: to confront anger, hatred, and pain and return love. I’d seen Christopher do it, over and over again. I searched for the strength to learn from him.
For the six months that followed Chris’s funeral, I curtailed all my professional activities. I continued to treat patients, but I stopped writing and giving lectures and spent more time with Christina and Jordan. Every night, we lit one of Christopher’s beeswax candles and together recited the Prayer of Saint Francis.
After several months, I returned to my research and teaching activities, with full support and much practical help from Christina and Jonathan. I continued to think about Christopher every day, and my memories of him were so sharp and clear that it truly seemed as if he were still alive. His awkward gait, his beaming smile, his joyful enthusiasm, his love of mischief, were as present as if he were still with us. But I had no further encounters with his Spirit. And I began to wonder where Christopher was now.
Christina, on the other hand, often felt Christopher’s presence. Sometimes she’d suddenly turn to me and say, “I really miss Christopher. I can’t stand it. I can’t believe that he’s dead. I will never get over it.” And then she’d sense him in the room. “It feels like Chris is here with us, right now,” she’d say. I’d try to enter into the spirit of those moments, which were fleeting and unpredictable. I was prepared to suspend my skepticism and believe that Chris was always with us, whether I myself could sense it or not, but for me, the feeling remained elusive.
Two years after his death, Christina and the boys were visiting friends in Italy. They had rented a small cottage on the grounds of a 17th-century castle in the hamlet of Montegufoni, about 12 miles southeast of Florence, a city we had visited many times because of our shared love of Italian Renaissance art. August 7 came, and to celebrate their birthday, Jon and Jeff gave a party for friends they had made on previous trips to Florence. There was champagne and pasta, salad, cheese, prosciutto, and focaccia. Music was supplied by Enya’s first two albums. A framed photograph of Christopher stood on the shelf of a small bookcase, smiling cheerfully at the celebration.
The small living room was filled with people. The Capelletti family had come up the hill from the nearby village of Baccaiano, where they owned a bakery. Two young men, Gabriele and Fernando, had come down the hill from the village of Montagnana. Nicoletta and Patrizia Corelli had driven out from Florence, where they owned a salon for cutting hair, bringing their boyfriends. Alessandro Boretti, a neighbor of the castle, brought his son Andrea, who was a friend of Jordan’s. Wine, music, and spirited conversation all flowed, mingling together. As for Christopher, his picture in its heavy silver frame kept jumping off the shelf of the bookcase and landing on the floor. Each time, the back would pop off the frame and the photograph would fall out. Each time, Christina would pick it up, place the photo inside the frame, replace the backing, and once more set it on the shelf. A few minutes later, it was back on the floor. Had there been a breeze, or dancing, the flight of the photograph could have easily been explained. But there was no breeze and no dancing.
Marta, the matriarch of the Capelletti clan, stared at Christina with a knowing smile. Christopher seemed to be announcing his presence and his desire to be taken off the shelf. It was his birthday too, after all, and he always loved his birthday party. When the photo was placed in the center of the dining table, next to the cake, it stopped jumping.
What Christina missed most about Christopher was the intensity, eagerness, and enthusiasm he brought to those things he loved. When Chris wanted something, his persistence in pursuing it was relentless. Mom, when we go to the beach could we take that tape? Could we take that tape when we go to the beach, Mom? I really like that tape. I wanna hear the part that goes, “Brothers and sisters, sisters and brothers . . .” When Chris was involved in something he wanted to be doing, he was totally present; he held back nothing. No vision and no memory could ever substitute for that.