MY DAD joins Sasha and me at the off-leash park the next morning. A walking encyclopedia, my father has become a handy reference for my historical, religious, philosophical and scientific questions. But his honesty and skepticism are really starting to piss me off.

“I can’t get it out of my mind,” I say, “that there has to be a reason for Sam’s tragic death.”

My dad doesn’t reply immediately. “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he finally says, “but I don’t think Sam’s death was a tragedy. I think it was an accident.”

I stop walking. “Pardon me?”

“What you do with your life from here on in, Adri, is what will determine whether Sam’s death was a tragedy or not.”

The gentle truth smashes against my forehead like a two-by-four.

“Fine,” I snip. “You might be right about that.”

“And at some point, you’re going to have to move…”

“But what you’re not right about,” I say, surprised at the clarity of my thoughts considering the psychological quagmire I’ve been in, “is using the term ‘accident’ to describe Sam’s death.”

“Oh?”

I make mock quotation marks in the air. “An accident is something that could not have been prevented—like getting hit by a meteor. Sam’s death was a case of cause and effect: no safety railing, no husband. I would appreciate you not using the word accident because it’s not only a misnomer, it’s a cop-out.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Calling his death an accident just gives people an excuse for their apathy.”

My dad doesn’t say anything, which is fine by me because I’m not ready to go down this road yet. We resume walking.

“You seem very interested in physics these days,” I say, redirecting the conversation. “Why is that?”

“I just find it a fascinating subject.”

“What are you reading about now?” I ask.

“Well, I don’t think this is up your alley, Adri, but…”

I stop walking and glare at him. “How do you know?”

The poor guy scratches his head. “I just assumed…”

“I’m not an idiot, Dad. I’m an emotional and mental basket case at the moment but at some point, I will get through this.”

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

We resume walking and I listen as he rambles on for twenty more minutes about time, space, energy, matter and light.

“Uh dad?” I finally interrupt.

“Yes?”

“In light of the circumstances, moderation might be prudent.”

He laughs. “You’re right.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just get off on these tangents…”

But I no longer believe in random conversations: if one is happening, there must be a reason for it. Although Christianity is currently blooming in the garden of my mind, I suspect the seeds of science are dormant, not dead.

ON THE last Sunday of November, I again find myself in the front pew of Sam’s church. His parents wanted me to come today because members of the Greek community are concerned about me. I bring Harry along for back-up.

I’m reading the English pamphlet that explains the service and I can’t help but notice that the content of the Orthodox service is basically the same as the Anglican one—it’s simply the means of delivery that differs. I have another moment of fury recalling the fuss made over our wedding. We’d wasted our engagement bickering over Orthodox regulations, particularly about baptizing children. The attitude of Sam’s church had infuriated me: nobody was going to tell us which religion to raise our kids. Likewise with the ridiculous notion that if we didn’t get married in the Greek Church, Sam couldn’t have an Orthodox funeral.

I lift my head and stare at the panel with Jesus hanging from the cross. We’d not produced any offspring and Sam had been handed an Orthodox funeral on a public silver platter, thereby making the stress of our engagement and subsequent strain on our marriage a complete waste of time and energy. Is all this water under the bridge—or am I supposed to be noticing that when religious beliefs take precedence over common sense, good people get hurt?

I look at the pamphlet again. The phrase “Pay Attention” jumps out at me.

I lift my head and meet the martyred gaze of Jesus. I am paying attention—but I seem to be the only one who is. Like a terrified kid on the first night at summer camp, wide-awake in the middle of the night and longing to be home in my own bed, all the other kids around me are sleeping soundly. But it’s been nearly two months: is everybody else really sleeping or just pretending?

After the service, Harry and I are in the foyer greeting Greeks when a voice rasps in my ear, “You’re going to hell if you haven’t been baptized!”

I whip around to see the speaker is an old lady, dressed all in black with a black kerchief on her head. I stare at her, dumbfounded, and she disappears into the crowd.

Then another woman kisses me on both cheeks. “God bless you, Adri.”

“And God bless you,” I say.

“You’re so strong,” another lady comments.

“We love you,” says the next. “Thank you for coming today.”

On the drive to Sam’s parent’s place, I tell Harry what the nasty lady said.

“Remember to use your bullshit filters,” he advises.

“I’m trying. But it’s getting kinda confusing. On the one side, I’ve got an atheist father telling me about the dual nature of light, and on the other, there’s a shitload of Christians who seem pretty damn sure of their beliefs.”

“And the truth,” Harry says, “is probably somewhere in between. Just because a person speaks with conviction doesn’t mean they speak the truth. Most of the time we say things because we want to believe them, not because we really do.”

“You sound like Dad.”

“Just be very careful about believing what you’re told because I highly doubt anybody knows what’s going on.” He glances over at me. “And your guess at this spiritual stuff is just as good as anyone else’s.”

I laugh. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

For lunch, we have fried chicken at Sam’s parents’ place. Sam loved the stuff, so I eat a couple extra pieces for him, in addition to my own three, potato salad, plate full of fries and two slices of chocolate cake. Being strong is requiring a great deal of fuel.

CASSIE, CAM and their daughter sleep over in my spare bedroom tonight. Just after midnight, I wake up to see the reddish-orange light again. But this time, it’s hovering to the left of my bed, above the miniature shrine to Sam. I blink to make sure I’m really awake and the light begins drifting toward me. This scares me, so I shake my head and the light slowly dissipates.

At breakfast, I tell Cam and Cassie about the light.

“Do you think it was the same one you saw right after Sam died?” Cassie asks.

I butter my toast. “Yup.”

Cassie nods expertly. Cam’s eyes expand.

“What light?” he asks.

“Adri saw a red light in her window on the morning of Sam’s surgery,” she says. “Right around the time his heart was removed.”

I nod. “And I had a dream the other night that I saw Sam in the operating room. It was just like in real life except that I stayed for his surgery and when the doctor made the incisions in his body, tiny particles of red light came floating up.”

“Wow!” is Cassie’s response as Cam gives us his rendition of the goldfish.

AFTER THEY leave, I call the Hope chaplain to brainstorm about the red light.

“What often matters most about our dreams,” he says, “is the feeling we have when we wake up from them.”

“First of all,” I say, “I was awake and secondly, it scared the crap outta me.”

“What did you do?”

“I shook my head.”

“And?”

“It went away.”

“Well what do you think the red light was, Adri?”

“Sam. But he knew it might scare me, so he chose a night when I wasn’t alone.”

Then the chaplain asks me what the colour red means to me.

“Anger.”

“What about passion?” he suggests. “Or love?”

“Or sacrifice,” I say.

After our conversation, I look around the living room. If the red light was Sam, then why was I afraid? Was it because a light in lieu of a husband is rather disconcerting—or was it because I really don’t want Sam to come back to me in any form? As in our marriage, I figure honesty is the best policy.

“If that was you, Sam,” I say to his nearest photo, “then you better find a new way of communicating with me because you damn near gave me a heart attack.”

“Or maybe,” I add, “just don’t come so close.”