Before we go to the DMV I just have to mention that about six months before he died, Barrett gave me a book. He mentioned that his friend Maggie knew the author. He told me a bit about the book, which he had read and apparently enjoyed tremendously because he was foisting it upon me while I was saying, “No thank you, I really don’t think I will get to this book anytime soon,” and he was saying, "It’s ok, really, just take it and read it when you can…just take it!"
Fast forward six months, and Lily and I are packing to move from New Mexico back to Chicago after her dad died, and I give her an easy job: books. Most had already been packed and there were just enough on the shelves to make it not look bare. When I came in to check on her progress there were only three books left.
“These don’t fit in the box,” she said.
One was the book I had grudgingly accepted from Barrett. I looked at it for what I immediately realized was the first time. It was a book about life after death. I was stunned. Of all the books he could have given me—of all the books that could have been left on the shelf after packing hundreds. I had a sudden desire to actually read it. The author was, like Louise Hauck, a death psychic. In order to be of more help to her clients, she had asked the Universe for an experience of life after death, while she was living. The book is a description of what she learned on her adventure. It’s great! (Echoes of the Soul, by Echo Bodine.) Even though I cannot grasp “where” Barrett is, if he’s not in his body but he’s “here,” the book made so much sense and did not promote a belief system. It’s been the perfect guide to his death—and I can’t thank him enough for making me just take it.
So: I went to the DMV.
I needed an Illinois drivers license, and I needed to get Barrett’s car title and plates put in my name. He had no will, and I had filled out an affidavit saying that everything of his should go to Lily--but I needed his car to go to me because she was 15. I had neither my divorce papers nor my name-change papers from when I changed my first name, so my identity, for DMV purposes, was confusing.
Should I get my drivers license first? Or the plates? There was no right answer. I chose plates. I entered and explained what I needed and was handed a lengthy form to fill out. Armed with my envelope of important papers, I found a work station and sighed.
“Do you need help with that?”
“I’m fine,” I said, barely glancing up.
“If you need any help at all, that’s what I’m here for.”
I looked up. Who would even say that? He was, like many of the DMV employees, African American, but much older. And rather than having the feel of a civil servant, he was…well…elegant. He felt like a butler, or a history professor at Harvard; maybe it was the cardigan, or the wire-rimmed glasses. He seemed so out of place.
“Do you think I need help?” I asked. The six-page form was laid out before me and I was already confused by the first question: my address. I was living in Chicago but every bit of ID said I was living in New Mexico. I began to explain my situation.
“I’m sorry,” he said, about the death of Lily’s dad. “Let me help,” he said, taking the form, and began crossing sections out. Maybe he felt more like a musician. So polished, an older man, but apparently not old enough to retire. He gracefully cut my forms down to a manageable length and reappeared two more times over the course of my form-filling to soothingly ask how it was going. I wanted to cry in his arms both times, so grateful that he’d asked.
I was finished. I looked for him, so I could thank him. He took my hand in both of his and looked me in the eyes. The world around us stopped.
“We appreciate you,” he said, and walked off.
A wave of emotion moved through me.
Wiping tears away—yes--I proceeded to the next station where I was given a number: 92. Which is numerologically an 11. In my admittedly imaginative but at the same time validated-by-a-lifelong-death-psychic view of the world, Barrett had been present in that maître ‘d, DMV, helpful-greeter-guy. I had felt him.
Next stop: cashier. “Technically I should charge you $115, but I have a little leeway,” said the surely should have retired by now white guy behind the bullet-proof glass. “I’m gonna check this other box and charge you $15. You’ve been through enough.” This DMV was awash in empathy. And since when does the DMV have leeway?
After paying one more (larger and very unheavenly) fee at another window, I felt compelled to return to the nice old white guy. I felt like I was at a spiritual retreat and it was time to seek out those I’d had connected with.
“I just came back to say thanks,” I said. (Actually just I wanted to see if he was real.)
“That’s not why you’re back, I know why you’re back,” said his merry crony—another retirement-age guy behind the glass.
“Fine,” I played along, “I’m back because I think he’s cute!”
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