Prologue

Railroad Lady

The early morning sun peeked through the windows of a small Key West apartment on Waddell Avenue, striking Lisa McGill right in the eyes and causing her to wake up. She turned to look at her boyfriend, the up-and-coming singer-songwriter Billy Bama, who remained undisturbed by the sunrise. They had closed down the Chartroom bar the night before, where Lisa worked and Billy played for free drinks and tips. Given the number of Planter’s Punches Billy had consumed, Lisa knew he would be sleeping them off for a while. It was better this way, she told herself; it made what she had to do easier if she didn’t have to see him.

Their romance had been a whirlwind. Lisa had been working at the Chartroom as a barmaid for a few months before Billy came to the island in 1983. Once they met, their relationship took off like a runaway train. She had arrived on the island for Spring Break from the University of South Carolina in 1982 and never went back, finding the island’s colorful characters and laid-back vibes much more suited to her personality than Columbia, South Carolina. Her parents were not supportive of her decision and cut her out of their lives out of spite. A year later, she met Billy Bama when he started doing gigs at the bar and fell hard for the fledgling singer. His popularity quickly surpassed the small island of Key West, and she found herself joining him on tours of the South, where he’d open for established acts including Jackson Browne and the Eagles before eventually becoming a main attraction in small clubs throughout the region.

On that day, May 30, 1984, about fifteen months into their torrid affair, Lisa was going to put an end to their relationship by leaving a Dear John letter for Billy to find upon waking. She truly believed that if you loved something, you had to set it free, and while she loved Billy with all her heart, something had changed in their lives. She knew she’d be no good for him or his career. So, shortly after sunrise on the day that would bring a solar eclipse to the northern hemisphere, Lisa drafted a short and not-so-sweet goodbye note to the only man she thought she’d ever love.

As she packed, Lisa paused, placing a hand gently on her stomach. There would be time to deal with everything later, once she was far away from the life she was leaving behind. He’d never know what hit him, she thought to herself, but was convinced she was doing the right thing.

All of her clothes fit into a small gym bag. Armed with her life savings of just under two thousand dollars, she hopped on a bus to Miami, where she’d pick up an Amtrak up the east coast. While she didn’t know where she’d wind up, Lisa told herself she’d make her way north until she reached a destination that felt right. For the time being, she was going to be a railroad lady.

As the bus pulled away, Lisa looked out the window at the fading silhouette of the island she had come to love. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them away, determined to keep moving forward. She had made her choice, and now she had to live with it. The road ahead was uncertain, but it was hers to travel, and she would find her own path, even if it meant leaving behind the love of her life. And whatever the future held, she knew she had to face it alone.

Chapter One

Second Wind

Frank Evans’ alarm had been going off for a solid five minutes without him stirring, leaving his golden retriever no option but to lick his face. Waking up had become an issue for Frank in the nine months since his wife, Allie, passed away—grief and drinking a vineyard’s worth of Chardonnay most nights made waking up a challenge.

After the dog’s tongue grazed his three-day-old stubble a few times, Frank woke up to hear Geddy Lee belting out the last few lines of "Time Stand Still" before silencing the alarm.

“You never were a Rush fan, were you, boy?” Frank said to the dog, which appeared to nod in agreement. “She wasn’t either,” he added, turning his head to look at a picture of Allie on the nightstand. She never understood his fascination with the band and often voiced her opinion, saying, “He sounds like an over-caffeinated feline in the throes of an existential crisis.”

That’s what you get when you marry a therapist.

Despite their disagreements about the band, Frank missed his wife every minute of every day and cursed the God he once believed in for taking her from him. Sensing his owner was lost in thought, Bogey, the dog, nudged Frank’s legs, signaling it was time to get his day started—and to relieve his bladder. If Frank didn’t hurry, there would be a problem.

“Let’s do this,” Frank said, getting out of bed and wondering what level of hangover he would have that morning. The answer came a minute later when he stood up and the blood rushed from his head to his feet. Not too bad, he thought, then took a long drink from the sports drink he’d opened the night before. The fact that he could empty a bottle and a half of wine before bed and not feel terrible in the morning should have been a sign his life was off the rails; instead, he saw it as a win.

He caught his reflection in the mirror, which told a different story from how he felt; he looked like hell. At thirty-nine, he looked much older. His brown hair, usually kept short, had grown past his nose, and gray streaks had replaced his natural red highlights. His eyes were bloodshot from excessive alcohol consumption and lack of sleep. Allie used to call them his Christmas eyes because the redness contrasted with his green irises, reminding her of the holidays. He splashed some cold water on his face and then walked down the hallway with Bogey in tow.

He opened the back door to let his non-judgmental companion out, admitting the blast of humidity felt good. That was another thing he and Allie disagreed on—she couldn’t stand the tropical South Florida climate, whereas Frank embraced it. After she passed, he needed a fresh start, so he sold their house in Connecticut and bought a place in Pompano Beach, just north of Fort Lauderdale. Frank had spent many summers in Pompano visiting his grandparents and wanted to move somewhere that felt like home. While he loved the house he built with Allie, every inch reminded him of what he lost. So, he sold their four-bedroom center hall colonial for a three-bedroom cape twelve hundred miles south. Bogey seemed to adjust well and loved his afternoon dips in the pool. Still, if you asked the dog, he’d prefer Allie back as she not only smelled nicer but also gave better belly rubs.

Frank’s coffee cup barely touched his lips when his phone erupted with Queen’s "You’re My Best Friend," announcing a call from Greg Michaels, who was, unironically, Frank’s best friend. The two met freshman year of college while pledging the Kappa Sigma fraternity and remained thick as thieves twenty-plus years later. In addition to being his bestie, Greg was also the producer of Frank’s highly successful podcast, Eccentric Encounters, where he profiled successful but quirky entrepreneurs.

The show started as a hobby when Frank was a full-time journalist for a men’s magazine. He became tired of writing articles on diet, fitness routines, and health. How many articles on hair growth, abs, and erections can someone write? Additionally, magazine sales were declining every year. Seeing the writing on the wall, he got into the podcast game early on when only a handful were profitable. Using his strong writing abilities, Frank took lessons from his guests and wrote a book called "Failing Harder: What I’ve Learned by Interviewing Eccentrics," which spent 25 weeks on bestseller lists and increased the podcast’s popularity. He never had to write another article on how guys could increase their penis size again.

“What up, G-Money?” As a rule, all fraternity pledges had nicknames, and Frank had given Greg his after they watched New Jack City following a tiring pledge event.

“All good in my hood, St. Francis.” Greg gave him that nickname because Frank would constantly invite friends to mass on Sunday evenings after chapter meetings. No one ever went, as church was the last thing on their minds, even though most could have used penance for sins committed over the weekend.

“How’s South Florida in October?”

“Hot and wet,” Frank replied, taking a sip of coffee.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to turn me on.”

Greg always knew how to make Frank laugh, but he hadn’t been in the mood for a while.

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t a call just to check in?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Totally.”

“Well, I do have an idea to pitch, but first, how are you?”

“On a scale of one to ten where one is blissful and ten is shitty? I’m at an eleven.”

“I suppose that’s progress. You were at sixteen last week.”

“The humidity helps. What do you got?”

Frank could hear Greg take a deep breath. “I know you wanted to go on hiatus, and our network is cool with that, but I have an amazing get for you.”

While Frank questioned whether he had the energy to interview someone, he had to admit that getting back to work was sounding appealing. Plus, his therapist suggested having something to write about might help process his grief and suggested a memoir. However, Frank didn’t know who he was anymore without Allie and doubted anyone would want to read his story.

“I’m listening.”

“Does the name Don Baxter ring a bell?”

Frank couldn’t believe his ears. Don Baxter was a real estate developer whose eccentricities made Lady Gaga look like Mother Teresa. Often compared to a mad scientist, Baxter’s latest claim to fame was Funkytown Estates, a retirement community with a disco theme, complete with glittering dance floors and mirror balls in every lounge.

“You want to take me to Funkytown?” Frank asked with a snicker.

“His office reached out yesterday. Don wants you to do an episode on him.”

This caught Frank off guard. Despite his eccentricity, Baxter kept his personal life private. Anyone who listened to Frank’s show knew it delved into personal territory—the kind of stuff Baxter had kept out of the media for decades.

“Is he aware of the type of show I do?”

“That was my first question,” Greg replied. “His people confirmed he wants to open up about his private life and only talk with you. They said he liked the episode you did with Howard last fall.”

In that episode, Frank humanized a notorious shock jock who had dubbed himself the king of all media.

“They said if you could make Howie look human, especially to all the people he offended, you’d do wonders with Don. What do you say?”

It was tempting, not least because it would take Frank’s mind off his grief, albeit temporarily.

“Did they have a timeframe in mind?”

“They’re expecting you at five o’clock this evening.”

“What if I had said no?”

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“I haven’t even unpacked my gear. I don’t know where my mixer and mics are.”

“Not to worry. They have their own radio station at Funkytown. You can record there.”

“Of course they do. I don’t know, I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

Greg knew it was just what his friend needed. “What did you tell me before I got engaged to Lynn?”

“That we are never really ready for anything. And that wasn’t me, that was Allie.”

“Well, it’s no less true. It’s time to get back on the horse, partner,” Greg said with a southern twang.

“Don’t do the cowboy voice. I hate it when you do cowboy voice.”

“I know. That’s why I did it. I wouldn’t have brought you this opportunity if I didn’t think you were ready. Plus, Funkytown is just west of you, outside of Plantation. You won’t even hit traffic because it’s not the season down there yet.”

Frank would later learn that traffic becomes a nightmare after Halloween, when snowbirds descend on South Florida to trade in their winter coats for sunglasses and ill-fitting Tommy Bahama shirts.

“Fine. I’ll do it, but if I don’t like how it turns out, it won’t see the light of day.”

“It’s time to make a move to a town that’s right for you,” Greg quipped, citing the lyrics from the 70s hit "Funkytown," then hung up before Frank could end the call. It was their standard way of saying goodbye without having to say goodbye.

Frank drained the rest of his coffee and poured another cup. Bogey barked, demanding relief from the hot Florida sun. After letting the dog back inside, Frank laced up his running shoes for his morning run. The dog looked at him like he was nuts for even thinking about running in the heat, but Frank paid him no mind.

“See you in a bit, buddy.”

The dog rested its head on the floor, secretly hoping nothing would happen to its owner, and within minutes, was dreaming of chasing tennis balls in his old backyard up north.

Chapter Two

Livin and Dyin in 3/4 Time

Billy Bama turned "Tequilatown," a four-minute song he wrote in the early 1980s, into a billion-dollar net worth by parlaying its escapist nature into a lifestyle brand that his fans couldn’t get enough of. First came the restaurants, then the retail shops. Later, there were resort hotels, a cruise line, and even a retirement community. Ironically, a line of tequila was the last business venture Billy extended his brand into.

While he didn’t need the money from touring, Billy felt he owed it to his fans to hit the road every summer, and he knew his band could use the cash. On top of that, he felt most alive when his feet hit the stage. Most people work all year just to take a few weeks off in the summer. Billy worked all summer to take the rest of the year off. Surfing in Hawaii, sailing in the Caribbean, snorkeling in Tahiti—Billy was known to do all three in the same week, flying himself to those exotic locales in his Grumman seaplane, Love and Luck. All the fun he had in the sun, though, was about to serve him a dose of reality that even he couldn’t escape. His almost sixty-year avoidance of sunscreen was about to bite him in the behind.

He entered the front door of a concierge medical practice located a stone’s throw from Broward County General Hospital in Ft. Lauderdale. While his doctor advised him to bring a loved one to the meeting, Billy’s closest companion at the age of fifty-nine was Birdie, his trusted Labrador retriever. Although he had made many friends all over the world, he couldn’t think of one he’d take to what he knew would be a life-changing meeting.

His ex-wife Flora lived in their home in Southampton, NY, out on Long Island. While they were still quite close, Billy didn’t think it was fair to rope her back into his life this way—he’d put her through enough strife when they were married. Plus, she was with their adult children in Key West for their annual October pilgrimage to celebrate Fantasy Fest. The Bama family made it a point to hit Key West every October for the island’s annual, multi-day event known for its vibrant and eccentric celebration of art, culture, and fantasy.

After navigating his way to his physician’s office, Billy checked in with Kim, the vertically challenged nurse at the front desk. What she lacked in height, she made up for in personality, always quick with a comeback to anything the flirtatious musician threw her way.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” Billy asked.

“I get paid to be here. What’s your excuse?”

“Following doctor’s orders,” Billy retorted.

“You don’t seem like the type who always follows orders.”

“Which is exactly why I’m here!”

Kim smiled when her crystal blue eyes met his, and Billy fought the urge to ask her out. He was always a sucker for a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl but had the emotional intelligence to know that the last thing she needed was someone more than twice her age hitting on her. Though, if he were honest with himself, the last thing he needed was to add any more complications to his love life. While pushing sixty, he was as virile as ever, and the women he’d been with this year alone could form their own large support group.

“Alright, follow me,” said Kim, who promptly ushered him and Birdie into an open exam room where she took his vitals, which all suggested Billy Bama was the picture of health. He wasn’t fooled by the numbers, though; Billy knew what was ailing him wasn’t something that could be caught by a blood pressure measurement, pulse rate, or height-to-weight ratio. Not too many people who did what he did for a living could say the same thing, though; most rockers his age were barely alive and looked three times older than he did.

While his outside persona was that of a hard-partying beach bum, early in his career Billy made two very important decisions which would pay dividends for years to come: he invested his money wisely, and he only drank in moderation. While recreational drugs were enjoyed from time to time, they never became a regular part of his life, and he never succumbed to addiction, like so many of his peers. His motto of “no pills, no powders” served him well, and he was healthier than men half his age—on paper anyway.

“Looking good, Mr. Bama,” the nurse replied, at which Billy laughed.

“I guess I can go then,” he scoffed in his Mississippi drawl. You can take the boy out of Pascagoula, but you can’t take Pascagoula out of the boy.

“But then you wouldn’t get to see your golfing buddy Dr. Nesta, whom I’m told you owe eighteen dollars and a Cajun martini.”

Billy was a big fan of golf and had a regular Wednesday afternoon game with his doctor when he wasn’t touring. They played for a dollar a hole, and during their last outing, Billy dropped all 18 holes to Dr. Nesta.

Kimberly smiled and offered, “Dr. Nesta will be in shortly. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

“A time machine?”

“If only.”

“I’m alright,” Billy offered.

“And you?” Kimberly said while scratching Birdie behind the ears.

“How come you don’t scratch me behind the ears?”

Kimberly rolled her blue eyes and said, “The dog doesn’t have fleas,” while walking out the door.

A moment later, the door to the exam room opened, and in walked Dr. Robert Nesta. A native of Nassau in the Bahamas, Dr. Nesta towered over Billy’s five-foot-eight-inch frame. At six feet six inches in height, the good doctor was recruited to play college basketball at the University of Connecticut, where he helped the Huskies win a national championship during his senior year in 1999. Instead of turning pro, though, like so many of his teammates, Nesta, who graduated with a degree in biology, opted to go to Yale Medical School. After completing his residency at Yale-New Haven, he accepted a hospitalist position at Broward County General because he wanted a climate more similar to his native Nassau. After a few years, he opened up his own concierge practice and counted many of South Florida’s rich and famous among his patients.

Dr. Nesta greeted his golfing buddy with his customary, “Hey mon.” Billy reached for his wallet to pay off his debt, but his doctor swatted his hand away. “You don’t owe me nuttin, mon,” his Bahamian accent in full swing.

“Now I’ve known you a long time, Robert, and you’ve never forgiven any of my golf debts. This must be bad.”

“Bad it be, my friend. Those moles on your back that I looked at last month during your annual physical, they be some bad juju.”

“Melanoma?”

Dr. Nesta just nodded, his dark face failing to betray the sadness it contained.

“Awe hell, can’t you just cut them off?”

“That we could, mon, but the cancer that started in those spots looks to have spread to your lymph nodes. The MRI we did earlier dis week shows a spot on your lungs, your femur, and your noggin,” Dr. Nesta said while tapping his own head.

Billy Bama felt as if he had been punched hard in the stomach after hearing what he knew was a death sentence. Almost forty years of touring under his belt and what would eventually get him was some irregularly shaped moles on his back. Hell, it’s not even a good story, he thought to himself.

“I’m going to set you up with the best oncologist in South…”

Billy cut the doctor off before he could say “Florida.” “Be honest with me, doc, what will that buy me?”

“At best, a year.”

Billy didn’t even think twice about it. “No way.”

“But if you don’t do anyting, you’ll be dead in tree months. Four at most.”

“Doc,” Billy replied while flashing a mischievous smile, “I’d rather die while I’m living, than live while I’m dead.”

The singer had hoped to make it to at least eighty, which was the age his father was when he passed. Looks like sixty will be his magic number, just three-quarters to his goal.

“I understand, mon, but at some point, da pain is going to be too much. When dat time comes, we will make sure you are comfortable.”

Billy had to chuckle. After nearly four decades as a touring musician, he knew how to get painkillers without a prescription, not that opiates were ever his scene. He saw what they did to some of his friends and never messed with them.

“Thanks, doc. I’ll let you know.”

“So what you gonna do now, mon?”

Billy’s mind immediately went to how he’d break the news to his family. While he’d been divorced for fifteen years, he maintained a friendship with his ex, who he felt should be sainted for putting up with his court jester-like persona and lifestyle for the twenty-two years they were married. And then there were his adult children, daughters Delaney, Janie, and son Marley, who, it seemed, had forgiven him for all the birthdays, holidays, and other key events he’d missed over the years while he was touring or running what they referred to as his Conch Republic empire. He knew they all deserved more than a phone call and made a note to hit the road and tell them in person.

He also had to call his personal lawyer, Zion Banks, and make sure all of his affairs were in order. The call he dreaded most of all, though, was to his band as they were an extension of his family. He’d been on the road with most of the current members for thirty years, and he felt a responsibility for their wellbeing. They were all about to lose the greatest summer job any of them ever had, and, for many, it was their primary source of income. Billy worried about what they would do without him.

“Did I lose you, mon?” Dr. Nesta asked as his patient had been staring into space.

“I’m here, doc. Just thinking about all the calls I have to make.”

“Let me give you some advice. Give dis news some time to sink in. No need to do anyting today. Maybe go to a favorite place, relax a bit, and just take some time for yourself.”

It sounded tempting, but Billy wasn’t one to follow sound advice all the time. There was someone he needed to speak with; someone closer to him than anyone else on the planet—his first cousin Don Baxter, whom Billy affectionately nicknamed The Lizard due to his cousin’s fascination with the minute reptiles common across the American south. The two grew up together in Pascagoula, Mississippi, and, as an only child, Don was the closest thing Billy had to a sibling.

“Copy that, Doc.”

“I tink I know the answer to dis question, but maybe you’ll prove me wrong. Do you want me to set you up with a therapist?”

Billy rubbed Birdie’s head, “This dog is a better therapist than anyone whose couch I’ve been on. I’ll be fine, Doc.”

Doctor Nesta shook his head and smiled, “You are a stubborn man, Billy Bama.”

“You don’t get inspired to write thirty albums worth of original music by always making smart decisions,” Billy retorted.

“No, I suppose not. So, where you gonna go now?”

Billy smiled, “I’m off to see the Lizard,” and then left the exam room with Birdie in tow after thanking Dr. Nesta for his services. A bewildered Dr. Nesta was left behind, unsure of whether he’d see his friend again. Billy Bama was not only his most interesting patient but a good friend whose presence could light up the darkest of rooms. The world was certainly going to become a bit darker with his passing.

Chapter Three

Lovely Cruise

Lola Garcia was holding ninety-one-year-old Amy Stemper’s hands, guiding her through what would be the final minutes of her life. Lola was a death doula at St. Peregrine’s Hospice of Pompano Beach, and she felt it was her calling to help the dying transition from this life to the next with as little friction as possible.

The room they were in was very comfortable, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a pristine view of the Atlantic Ocean. Noticeably missing from Amy’s room were any machines that made noise, as they were no longer needed. The staff knew their guest’s time was at hand—they never referred to them as patients—and Amy’s intentions were quite clear: there would be no attempts to save her life when death came calling.

While Catholic in name, the hospice wasn’t owned or run by the Church, which explained the prime piece of beachfront real estate the twelve-story building sat on. Although it employed multiple chaplains of various denominations, St. Peregrine’s wasn’t necessarily a destination for holy rollers, but rather a final home for anyone who needed its services and didn’t object to a combination of spiritual as well as medical treatment. Guests’ families never received a bill; their care was fully taken care of by an endowment from an unknown donor.

“Have your visions become more frequent?” Lola asked. For the past few weeks, Amy claimed to have been visited by her late mother, who had died over thirty years ago. At first, these visions scared her, but as they increased in frequency, feelings of fear gave way to feelings of comfort, and Amy wished to see her mother more frequently. Having witnessed this phenomenon hundreds of times, Lola knew that the presence of loved ones appearing before death seemed to help pave the way for the dying to accept what was to come and to reduce their fear.

“Yes,” Amy said with a smile. “This morning, she came to me and gave me a gift. She showed me a picture of her holding me as a baby tightly in her arms.”

“How did that make you feel?” Lola asked.

Amy’s smile grew wider and her eyes lit up. “Warm inside. Like I could feel the love she has for me radiating through me.”

Lola didn’t doubt it. Many of the guests she sat with reported feeling hot toward the end of their lives, which is why they kept asking to blast the air conditioning in their rooms. While no one would typically be seen wearing a sweater in South Florida in October, Lola always had one with her, as guest rooms were often very cold.

“Is there anything new that you learned that you want to share with me today, Amy?”

“Yes, that I am so lucky to have been so loved in my life. Before I came here, I was very depressed. I never married or had a family of my own and lived a very lonely life for many years. Since my mother has been coming to me, I don’t feel that way anymore. I feel loved and am so blessed to be able to feel that love burn through me, even as I lay in this bed.”

Lola smiled. “That’s beautiful, Amy,” she said, giving the old woman’s hand a squeeze. As she did so, a tear rolled down her own face.

“Why are you sad?” Amy asked. “Don’t be sad for me because I now know that love never dies. The love my mother had for me didn’t die when she passed away; I just didn’t know where to look for it.”

That tender moment was interrupted by a doctor who came in to check on Amy’s vitals. After listening to her heart, checking her blood pressure, and taking her temperature, he said, “You look like the picture of health, Amy. What are you doing here?”

“This old engine is slowing down,” she replied.

“Well, you’ve got plenty of gas in your tank. I don’t think you are going anywhere for a while.”

If the doctor had been looking at Lola, he’d have seen her roll her brown eyes. She knew that once end-of-life dreams and visions occurred with the frequency that Amy was experiencing, time was limited.

“How’s your pain level?” the doctor asked. “We’ve got some room to bump them up if you want to.”

“It’s fine,” Amy replied. While she was being made comfortable with painkillers, she was not on a high dose, certainly not at a dose that would cause hallucinations.

“Well, just say the word and we can put you into la-la-land if you want to. No shame in it.”

“Noted,” Amy said but had no intention of spending her last hours on earth strung out like a ’90s rock star or fashion model.

“Last thing before I go, do you want me to bump up the heat in here? You could hang meat in this room!”

“Funny, I just asked Lola here to blast the air.”

“See you during my rounds tomorrow,” the doctor said, and then turned around and left the room.

“No, you won’t,” Lola muttered inaudibly. Amy just smiled as she too knew her time wasn’t long.

Amy drifted off to sleep and Lola took this time to do some writing. Inspiration often struck while she was sitting with a guest, and given that she wasn’t going anywhere for at least the next hour, she decided to turn her attention to a talk she was preparing for a medical conference. As an expert on helping people transition from life to death, she was a highly sought-after speaker on the topic.

#

There is a thin veil between life and death. Life is not like a switch that can be flicked off and, poof, one is gone. Sometimes the mind goes first but the body is strong and needs time to catch up. So a person fights on until their body gives out. Other times, it’s the body that is tired but their spirit isn’t quite ready, so they hang on until coming to an agreement that it’s time to depart this life for the next. Many joke that Florida is God’s waiting room, and there is a lot of truth to that, but don’t expect the tourism board to put that in a brochure.

What I’ve seen in the space between dying and death can be described as nothing short of miraculous. These miracles don’t involve unexpected healings or remissions—no, 100% of the people I counsel die. And they all know they are going to die and they stay dead; there is no Lazarus rising from the tomb in my line of work. The miracles I see are the transformative experiences that patients have once they’ve accepted that their time is up. Their number has been punched and they are finishing up the back nine of their lives. And it may be those experiences that help them embrace that acceptance.

Many people ask me how I can do this job day in and day out. Isn’t it sad? They ask me. Well, yes, it is quite sad. But I’ll share with you one thing my Cuban grandmother taught me from a young age, sorrow in life is necessary for experiencing joy. Let me repeat that, sorrow in life is necessary for experiencing joy. How can you know what joy is if you do not experience the opposite? While watching someone die is not what you’d call uplifting, I often see guests transform with enlightenment in their final moments and become armed with the courage and belief that there is something greater waiting for them on the other side.

#

Just as she was about to start a new paragraph, Lola felt Amy’s eyes on her. She looked over at her guest and saw that her features had transformed. There was something different about her face and coloring, so much so that if Lola hadn’t witnessed this countless times before, she would have thought Amy had left and a new guest had taken her place. She referred to this as shedding density—Amy had been letting go of all the anxiety and fears that she brought into that hospice guest room and was now carrying the only thing she could take with her to the other side: love.

“Lola,” Amy said, her voice sounding stronger than it had in days, “It’s been a lovely cruise.”

Lola recalled a few days earlier when she entered Amy’s room and saw her putting clothes into the small suitcase she brought with her to St. Peregrine’s. At the time, Amy claimed that she was getting ready for a cruise that she was to take with her mother.

Lola smiled. “What was the best part?”

“Spending time with my mother again. It was something we always talked about doing when she was alive, but I never made the time for it.”

Lola moved closer to Amy’s bedside and reached for her hand. When she did, Amy’s breathing became noticeably weaker, yet this didn’t diminish the smile on her face.

Lola placed her palm on her cheek, the way a parent does to check the temperature of a sick child.

“You will stay with me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Lola replied.

“Keep hugging me tight, please.”

Lola was briefly taken aback, for she wasn’t hugging Amy at all. Then it hit her: that message wasn’t intended for her. While Lola couldn’t see it, she had no doubt that Amy’s mother was now in the room holding her in her arms the way Amy described the image she saw earlier of her mom holding her as a baby.

The last words Amy would speak in this life were, “Thank you for loving me,” and while Lola would have understood if they were directed at her, she had more than just a sneaking suspicion that they were directed at Amy’s mother.

Once Lola knew that Amy was gone, she wiped some tears from her eyes—not tears of sadness but rather tears of joy—because she knew that Amy felt surrounded by love in her final moments. She then pushed the call button on the wall and asked the nurse at the station to send Dr. Dickinson in, as only a doctor could legally pronounce someone dead at St. Peregrine’s.

The doctor entered a few moments later and was surprised at the sight that greeted him.

“But she was doing so well!” he protested, then noticed the smile on Amy’s face. “Of all the guests we treat here, whenever one of yours dies, they are always smiling. Why is that?”

Lola knew exactly why, but also knew that doctors tended to dismiss the spiritual side of her practice. “I suppose she died while enjoying a peaceful dream.”

“Best way to go if you ask me,” Dr. Dickinson said. “Say, are you free for dinner tonight?”

In Lola’s estimation, most men barely had the emotional intelligence of a teenager, but in her experience, doctors made most men look like emotional geniuses. A woman had just died, and he was trolling for a date. Unbelievable!

“I’m spoken for this evening, Dr. Dickinson.” It wasn’t a lie; Lola had plans with an oncologist from Miami that she’d been seeing for the past eight months. In her mind, the relationship wasn’t going anywhere, but Bruce didn’t need to know that.

“Bruce. Please call me Bruce.”

“Maybe another time, Bruce,” she said.

Dr. Dickinson started entering data into his tablet that would officially proclaim Amy Stemper, 91, formerly of Pompano Beach, dead at 1:37 p.m. on Friday, October 13th, 2023, just like the flick of a switch.