Big Mike: My Very Own Ghost

The Loved One is like a cat. She has a way of moving about silently that has led me to the brink of the heart attack that I deserve more times than I care to remember.

For instance, I’m washing dishes early in the morning, lost in solitary thought about the origin of the Universe, say, or even something important like the Cubs. And then – like that! – my reverie is shattered by a sound. “G’morning,” The Loved One says, innocent as a newborn.

“AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!”

She jumps back and stares at me. After a few beats, she ventures a question: “What’s the matter?”

“Jesus Christ! Where the hell did you come from?”

“I live here!”

“You scared the crap outta me! Don’t do that!”

“What do you want me to do, stay in one place all day?”

I wait for my pulse rate to settle down to a less alarming 190. I take a few deep breaths. Then I speak.

“Lemme know when you’re coming into the room. You know I have a bad heart. Y’wanna kill me?”

At which point, The Loved One promises to make noise before she comes into the room, but not before she chides me for being a hyperdramatic opera singer. For the next few weeks, she’ll announce in a sing-song voice “Here I come!” before entering the room. Then she forgets and we have to go through the same business all over again.

She pulled her patented stealth approach on me in public the other day. Every Sunday, we go to the Barnes & Noble cafe for coffee and the papers. I chew up a good three hours doing the puzzles as she clips coupons. Then she’ll browse until I’m finished.

I was laboring over the Quote-Acrostic in the Louisville Courier Journal. I only needed to answer the last two clues – Utah: 2 wds., and Peace Nobelist von Suttner. I was as focused as Benny Jay on an emergency mission in a New York City Starbuck’s.

Suddenly and without warning, The Loved One materialized next to me after a half-hour browse. I’d heard no footsteps, no rustling, no announcement. She simply appeared out of thin air. Naturally, I tailored my response to our environs.

“Aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhh!”

“Sorry,” she whispered. She seemed to be trying to conceal something. A book. After waiting for my vital signs to slow down, I tried peeking at the book.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Nothing.”

“Yes you do.”

“You wouldn’t be interested in it.”

After a little more give and take, I discovered it’s the new book by James Van Praagh, “Ghosts Among Us.” Now, The Loved one and I agree perfectly on politics, morality, ethics and even religion. The only real spot of contention between us (besides the height of the front lawn) is her belief that the dead are somewhow still available for metaphysical Tweets. She lost both her parents years ago and is convinced she can communicate with them if only she works hard enough to understand the process.

Ergo, she became a devotee of self-proclaimed facilitator John Edward. Now, it appears, she’s branching out into Van Praagh. Yet she’s embarrassed about it.

Can it be because I’m a devotee of the professional skeptics of the world? I loudly champion Richard Dawkins, James Randi, Elizabeth Loftus and the like. My home science library is filled with books like “The Demon-Haunted World” and “Voodoo Science.” I have bookmarks for Quackwatch and CSICOP on my Safari home page. I even keep the latest issue of The Skeptical Inquirer in the bathroom magazine rack.

When I discovered early on, though, that The Loved One liked to park herself in front of the TV on Sunday nights and watch John Edward tell his audience members how their recently departed loved ones were faring in the afterlife, I decided it would be best not to try to argue the point with her.

Prior to that I’d written off Edward-followers and their fellow travelers as mere saps. Now, how could I call the woman I’d committed my heart and life to, someone whose intellect I admire, a sap? It was a dose of humility for me. Perhaps I’d become as pompous and authoritarian as the priests, rabbis and imams I pooh-poohed.

Besides, I’ve seen a wraith materialze out of thin air time and again. Oddly, it usually wears pajamas, greets me with a groggy “G’morning,” and wants to fix itself a bowl of cereal.

So now I refuse to call all believers in the afterlife saps. I know at least one of them who certainly isn’t. The rest? I’m not so sure.