Answers From Beyond the Veil

There is a stretch of road on the Pacific Coast Highway where the veil between worlds grows thin. That barrier, typically a heavy, ever present velvet, is like tulle instead, sheer and pliant. There, it almost seems that you could reach out and touch the other side… Almost.

Nothing about this part of PCH is predictable other than how it rarely appears between the same crossroads twice. That and the timing. Because this stretch of road is just like any other until that unwavering darkness that settles after the moon has gone down but before the sun rises. I’ve come to believe it’s that piercing dark that causes the opacity of the veil to weaken.

How and where it appears are matters only important to those who seek answers from the other world. No one ever bothers to ask what lies beyond the veil. So I warn you now, as I wish I had been warned before, if you find that all the cars have vanished from your rear view mirror and the ocean breeze has ceased to blow through the open window, to keep driving.

I did not.

I pulled into the shoulder and flashed my hazards, the sands piled off the side of the pavement strobing in yellowed light. The waves barely whispered where just before they were crashing. It was just as I’d heard. Quiet. Impossibly still.

But not calm. Not peaceful or empty.

No, they were there too. Just beyond the muffled sounds of breaking waves were the ones with answers, waiting with impatient restraint.

So I walked to the water, my adidas sinking into wet sand, and asked, “Can I see her?”

By “her” of course I meant my aunt. The one that baked my siblings and me a cake each year on our respective birthdays. The one that comforted me after my prom date was found kissing my friend in the bathroom. The one that died of pneumonia a week earlier.

In my grief I sought closure. I needed to say goodbye to her kind eyes, not the ashes that remained. After six days of driving up and down PCH I found it, the place where the other side is closest. I asked for my aunt and suddenly the quiet was gone. The crashing of waves returned full force, soaking my sand-crusted sneakers.

I returned to my car feeling cold and stupid. Stupid for not noticing the water rushing in. Stupid for believing the stories of the veil. Stupid for chasing ghosts. When I got back to the road cars raced by, making it hazardous to get to the driver’s seat. It was difficult to notice anything other than the uncomfortable squish of my soles against the gas and my own self-loathing. My driving probably suffered from my foul mood so I decided to be forgiving to my fellow drivers, or at least as forgiving as anyone raised in the aggressive roads of Southern California could be.

The entire drive home cars honked as I waited for little old women walking dogs to cross the street. They honked as I yielded to teens in their over-capacity cars. I’m not sure I had ever heard such a violent array of horns as I did on that drive. By the time I walked into my lonely apartment my adidas were still wet and I had developed a headache from clenching my jaw. Carelessly, I flicked on the lights.

That was when I realized my apartment was not as lonely as I had thought.

There in front of the TV sat my aunt, laughing at some movie I couldn’t see from this angle. I rushed to her and threw my arms around her fragile shoulders only to hit the back of the sofa with enough force that I worried I might have rebroken my nose. Confused, I sat back on my heels.

My aunt continued to giggle soundlessly and hide her face behind her hands as she did when watching The Holiday. As if I hadn’t just passed through her. I turn around to see the TV dark, just as I had left it before I set out for my nightly drive. But my aunt sat on my couch, as she had countless nights before, laughing at a phantom movie that was, like her, inaccessible to me. The ones beyond the veil had answered my question but I received none of the closure I had expected. Instead, I was now cursed to live beside my beloved aunt without ever receiving acknowledgement of my presence. Living here, as my phantom aunt continuously played out an evening visit, I felt that I was the ghost.

It turned out that my aunt was not the only dead person I was suddenly able to see. Everywhere I saw people’s dearly departed, acting out their daily lives despite no longer living. I cannot tell the difference between the dead and the living at a glance, so I’ve become hesitant to interact with any person at all for fear they will ignore me. Every instance I misjudge the dead for the living leaves me feeling closer to a shadow than a person.

I no longer judge the drivers that impatiently blare their horns as I yield to phantoms that only I can see. These drivers at least prove my existence, they remind me I am alive. So I continue to take my nightly drives along PCH, like a phantom on its track. When people ask me how to find the place where the veil grows thin, I tell them.

I tell them the ones beyond the veil have answers and they might even give you the one you want to hear. They ask for nothing in return but it is not benevolence. I received my answer and now I will live the rest of my days questioning whether I am truly alive. So if you reach a deserted strip of road, somewhere on PCH, where the seagulls avoid and the wind doesn’t blow, I urge you to just drive by.