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©2008 Cynthia Polansky

Remote Control
ISBN-13: 978-1-59080-539-8
Echelon Press
Escape the ordinary!
(may not be reprinted without permission.)

www.cynthiapolansky.com
Cynthia Polansky

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 Remote Control

After all, if the spirit of a loving wife can’t

nudge her husband in the right direction, who can?

CHAPTER 1

I died on a Tuesday when I was thirty-one years old. In November,

my least favorite month in my least favorite season. Barenaked trees,
bleak skies, and twilight falling before the end of Oprah. Altogether a
depressing time.
Nothing good ever happened to me in autumn. It was September
when I got food poisoning at my aunt's annual Labor Day picnic and
spent the remainder of the weekend on my knees before the porcelain
god. It was October when I got so frightened by a plastic skeleton
dangling over a door at the second-grade’s haunted house that I started to
cry and all the kids laughed and pointed. And it was November when I
chose to shuffle off my mortal coil. I, Judith Ratner McBride, being of
sound mind and bod...make that being of sound mind…let’s just say I
died and leave it at that.
I was nobody extraordinary. Just a nice Jewish physical therapist,
happily married to a nice Jewish professional man with an unlikely Irish
surname who didn't mind that my thighs were chunky and my yellow-
brown hair was frizzy. I never won raffles or was the tenth caller with the
correct answer to the radio station's trivia question. So who would have
thought my end would come like this?
I know what you must be thinking, but I didn't commit suicide. Yet
I did choose to die on that day, in that month, that year. It was all part of
a plan hatched a lifetime ago, but I'll get into all that later.
Somehow I managed to fall into that minuscule percentage of
patients who experience one of those possible-but-improbable
complications during a routine endoscopy.
Anyone who has ever undergone any kind of invasive medical
procedure is familiar with those caveats we tend to gloss over on the
required waivers: This procedure can result in certain complications,
including death. When you really think about it, though, what purpose
does the warning serve? If the procedure is necessary, you're going to
have it done anyway. And when I died, it wasn't as though I said to
myself, "Well, I can't say they didn't warn me."
In fact, I wasn't even sure what was happening to me, though I did

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have the proverbial out-of-body experience. I had the sensation of

floating out through the top of my head and rising towards the ceiling,
watching as the medical team tried to resuscitate me. Staff members
began scurrying at once in different directions to their Assigned
Responsibilities in the Event of a Life-Threatening Situation.
“I’m not getting a BP, Doctor,” said a nurse.
“One milligram of epinephrine," Dr. Kreske ordered without
missing a beat.
The nurse prepared a syringe and plunged it right into my heart.
The team waited and watched as one-- forever, it seemed.
“Still no reading, Doctor.”
Dr. Kreske’s pucker factor must have gone into high gear when
epinephrine didn’t do the trick. He back-kicked a metal stool out of the
way; it rolled into the wall and toppled over with a loud crash, but no one
even blinked. “Begin CPR,” he ordered while the crash cart was readied.
Someone else yanked open my hospital gown to lay bare my breast.
Once upon a time, I had fantasized about some handsome Jewish doctor
doing just that, after which he would sweep me into his strong arms and
carry me off to Nordstrom.
Good Dr. Kreske, unmoved by the bosoms splayed over the sides of
my rib cage, situated the paddles and called out, "Clear!"
I arched an eyebrow at such a dramatic warning. It wasn't as though
they were standing in front of an airplane propeller.
The electricity made contact, jerking my supine body several inches
off the gurney. Five faces looked toward the heart monitor with
anticipation that turned to dismay at the persistent flat line. Dr. Kreske
once more replaced the paddles and gave his throttle-up warning. My
torso arched a little higher, thrusting my breasts upward in a macabre
imitation of the seductive pose tempestuous vixens assume while in the
throes of ecstasy.
I may have been tempestuous, but I was no vixen and nobody there
was ecstatic. About forty minutes later, the team conceded the battle.
Time of death was recorded as 1:17 p.m.
The whole situation had been so embarrassing from the start. It
wasn't humbling enough in the first place that I had to see a
gastroenterologist and describe in great detail my elimination patterns,
complete with illustrations. It wasn't sufficient that I, who usually
avoided doctors in general, subjected myself to undignified tests while in

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humiliating, butt-baring positions.

A couple of visits later, I left Dr. Kreske’s office with a prescription
for a type of laxative new to this child of Generation X-Lax. Oh, I was
familiar with over-the-counter pills and the fiber powders stirred into
water to concoct a gritty, citrusy beverage, but this stuff resembled
something in between bird seed and chocolate jimmies. While I was
tempted to feed it to the birds, I was not about to sprinkle it over ice
cream. So I did as the label instructed, swallowing a heaping teaspoonful
of the dry granules and chasing it with a full glass of water.
Once in the stomach, the granules were supposed to absorb the
water and spur the bowel into action. But the mission was sabotaged by
a condition I didn’t even know I had. A narrowing of my esophagus
caused the granules to bottleneck, unable to proceed to their final
destination. Gridlocked at this stricture, they absorbed the water I had
drunk until swollen twice their volume, blocking the passage completely.
It was like having a matzo ball stuck in your throat that you couldn’t get
down.
I could still breathe, so there was no need to panic. I phoned Dr.
Kreske's office, feeling silly and distraught as I explained the problem in
between dry heaves. The receptionist told me to have someone bring me
to the hospital where Dr. Kreske would “work me in between
procedures.” I knew what that meant. He was going to push the
offending stuff down with-- gulp-- an endoscope.
Reluctant to drag my husband Saul away from his office, I knew I
could count on my friend Micaela to drive me to the hospital. She had
the week off from work, anyway, and said she’d be happy to pinch-hit
for Saul.
I worked my way through the hospital's administrative cubicles:
one for registration, one for insurance information, one to find out where
to go to wait to be told where to go next. At each stop I was obliged to
repeat the mortifying explanation of my Ripleyesque problem until at last
I was escorted to the procedure room.
They gave me a lovely cocktail of Demerol and Valium which
promptly sent me into la-la-land, a desirable place to be when having a
large medical implement inserted in your throat. I was grateful for my
particular vulnerability to barbiturates (a single antihistamine could
knock me out cold), as I didn't want to be the least bit aware of the
unwieldy instrument about to send my gag reflexes into overdrive.

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When it was all over, the staff tried to rouse me but I didn't respond
to repeated attempts. The mood in the room immediately changed from
routine to tense. Dr. Kreske maintained an even strain, but I could
almost feel the prickle of anxious sweat starting under his arms. Losing
me would not be a feather in his surgical cap.
I'm sure no one anticipated such a virulent reaction to the narcotic
night-night. Or maybe the barbiturate barkeep was pouring just wee bit
too generously that day. Whatever the reason, the result was the same.
But there was a bright side: at least I didn't have to wake up to find a
jackhammer down my gullet. As the saying goes, I never knew what hit
me.
There was no mystical revelation that I was about to expire, no
defining moment when I came face to face with my own mortality. No
fanfare of choir voices came to accompany me to the Great Beyond. I
simply floated out of the body and rose upward like a balloon, observing
the scene below with detached fascination from a corner just a foot or
two below the ceiling, while the medical team worked on the body.
Notice that I said "the" body instead of "my" body because the
lifeless shell on the gurney with a sheet over its head wasn't me anymore.
The Me that is Judith McBride was still very much alive and aware,
encased now in another kind of body. Not flesh and bone, but something
lighter and more whole. A dead ringer, you should pardon the
expression, for the physical vessel my soul had just vacated.
My spirit body was as tangible to me as the earthly body had been,
yet there were subtle differences I noticed right off. I felt more vital and
energetic than I ever had on earth, alert to the slightest stimulus like I’d
just awakened from a thirty-one year nap. A sense of tranquility
banished any fears or uncertainties of the transition taking place.
Despite the rather odd circumstances surrounding my demise, I
didn’t feel angry or sad that I had died. Oh, a little annoyed, maybe.
After all, nothing got my knickers in a twist more than the best-laid plans
of mice, men, and Judith going astray. All through high school, Micaela
had teased me about being a control freak; she would go to town with
this scenario. Judith McBride, dying when she didn’t plan on it?
Unthinkable.
I took a moment to examine this etheric body of mine and check out
the new and improved me. I liked what I found. My hands ran over my
hair and felt a silky thickness I hadn’t known before. This wasn’t the

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turmeric chaff I was used to. I tilted a shiny auburn lock this way and
that, marveling at the color and texture. This was the hair I’d always
dreamed of having, much the way women with poker-straight hair get
perms and dishwater blondes go sun-kissed. Gone was the accursed frizz
I’d had to flat-iron straight every morning of my life. I felt like
Cinderella after the fairy godmother changed her rags into a ball gown.
My hands slid down the smooth skin of my abdomen to my thighs,
where they froze. I brought my hand back up to my belly. For the first
time in my life, I had a stomach so flat it was almost concave. I had
never been much of a fashion maven, mind you, but it would have been
nice to shop for anything that struck my fancy instead of ferreting out
styles to drape over the small pot that made me look like I’d swallowed a
papaya, whole. There is a God, and he’s a celestial plastic surgeon. I
wondered if they had bikinis in heaven ...
I turned to the nurses hovering near the mannequin-like corpse on
the gurney. “Hey!” I called to them. “What on earth happened?”
No answer.
I called a little louder. “Hel-LO-O! Hey! Over here! What went
wrong?”
No one looked up, and it finally dawned on me that they couldn’t
hear my voice. But I heard them keenly, even though they spoke in
hushed tones. I could even hear the staff in the next unit, and the
receptionist down the hall.
A nurse went out to the waiting room to tell Micaela that Dr. Kreske
wanted to speak with her. Micaela Pressman and I had been best friends
since the seventh grade. She was everything I never was: a blue-eyed
blonde who had never needed braces or control-top pantyhose. In high
school she had been popular with everyone from the artsy drama kids to
the cheerleaders. Her academic achievements landed her a spot at Brown
University where she drove her male colleagues mad when she studied in
the sunny quad wearing a Brazilian bikini. Micaela believed in multi-
tasking: no reason why you couldn’t get a tan while reading
Fundamentals of Microbiology.
Our relationship spanned decades, longer than many of our friends’
marriages. There were things Mic knew about me that no one else did,
not even Saul. We were truly a bonded pair. Now she had the
unenviable chore of breaking the news of my death to Saul. Poor
Micaela. There’s nobody on whom I’d wish this burden, but I hated that

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it had to be Mic. We hadn’t bargained for this when we’d exchanged

friendship necklaces in eighth grade. The silver pendant was half a heart
with a zigzag edge as if it had been broken in two. Each half fit the other
to recreate the whole heart. By these tokens we pledged unending
sisterhood, come what may. At the time, we were thinking along the
lines of major zit outbreaks and unrequited crushes, not untimely death
and notification of next of kin.
My next of kin and I had often dreamed about someday buying a
really big Airstream and touring the country at will. Now it looked like
my immediate travel plans were limited to this near-earth location where
newly-departed souls adjust to the afterlife. But how was I supposed to
get around? Fly?
I shrugged and put one foot in front of the other, just like on earth.
It worked. I was moving as though on a mechanical sidewalk through an
empty corridor that looked like a spanking new hospital before any
equipment was moved in. I wished there was someone to answer all my
questions, but I seemed to be all alone. I blinked at the light glaring at
the end of the corridor and kept walking. I had no idea where I was
headed; I just kept moving.
In short order I found myself inside a basement room at Goldblatt &
Sons Funeral Home, morticians of choice for upscale Jews, the Fendi of
formaldehyde. A radio was playing and Lou Goldblatt, Jr. was just
putting the finishing touches to my earthly toilette. Lou was short, fat,
and bald, hardly the sort of person you want doing your makeup. But
let’s face it, he wasn’t Monsieur Louis, Beautician to the Stars. He was
sweaty Lou, costumer of the dead.
Handiwork complete, he stepped away from the table and we were
both able to get a good look at the finished product. The makeup gave
new meaning to the term “matte finish,” but the hair was the real
problem. I looked like a flapper who’d danced one too many
Charlestons. I guess Lou’s wife Myrna hadn’t bothered to look at the
photograph Saul had provided. The wallet-size snap lay atop a
scrambled sheaf papers on the dusty Formica desk behind the work table.
She had fashioned a coif that only stick-straight hair could carry off,
certainly not my coarse mop. The result was Buckwheat meets Betty
Boop. I flinched at the spit curls on my cheeks, longing to brush out all
that Dippity-Doo and restore some semblance of me. What was Myrna
thinking?

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I gave Saul props for his choice of burial outfits: a five-year-old

Evan Picone suit, powder-blue and taupe hounds tooth checks with a
blue and taupe shell in a coordinating pattern. He knew it was one of my
favorites, even though for the past few years the skirt had been tight
around the waist and pulled slightly across the derriere. Guess I
wouldn’t have to worry about the ill-fitting skirt anymore. Lou left the
back zipper open and even ripped the seam a little to give the front of the
skirt a smoother appearance. In fact, the outfit had never looked better
on me.
The distant blaze of light flared once, beckoning me. I hadn’t gone
more than a few steps when I found myself in a field of headstones with
small rocks placed on top. Some had many rocks heaped on in a
pyramid; others had only a handful neatly arranged in a row on top of the
granite.
A cluster of people encircled an open grave. Muffled crying
provided backup for a familiar voice that rang in clear tones.
Micaela was reading something from a book that lay open in her
hands. I glanced from her to the plain pine coffin with a simple Star of
David affixed to the lid. The scent of new pine struck my nostrils with a
clarity that took me back to summer camp in the woods of Maine.
The surreal scene felt like it was a stranger’s funeral instead of my
own. My mother’s chin wobbled and Micaela’s voice quavered as she
recited the beautiful passage from Wordsworth’s Ode on the Intimations
of Immortality From Recollections of Early Childhood. It was one of our
favorite poems. ... though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor
in the grass, of glory in the flower; we will grieve not ...
Micaela finished the verse and folded the book closed, cuing Rabbi
Kalman to begin the mourner’s Kaddish. With each intonation, my body
was infused with a sublime rush that spread to the tips of my toes and
fingers, a rush that far eclipsed the giddy pleasure of being voted
Fraternity Sweetheart two years in a row, the euphoria of helping a
paralyzed patient walk again, or the dreamy elation of my wedding day.
I became an ethereal sponge, soaking up love until I thought I could hold
no more. If everyone on earth could know that each prayer, no matter
how simple, really does reach departed souls and help in their transition
to the other side, more people would pray oftener and with greater
feeling.
Saul took up a garden shovel and scooped a small mound of loose

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dirt that he tossed onto the casket partially lowered into the grave. As he
handed the shovel to Micaela, the sun’s rays bounced off wet paths on
their cheeks. The scene almost had me crying.
The graveside service concluded and the crowd dispersed to their
cars. I followed them back my mother’s house, where there was more
food laid out than I’d seen since last Thanksgiving. Food in mass
quantities is de rigueur on Jewish occasions, a kind of go-with-
everything accessory suitable for mourning or celebrating. Mom had
ordered some deli platters, but relatives, friends of relatives, and relatives
of friends also brought over briskets and roast chickens and desserts.
Grieving works up a big appetite. My mouth watered as Micaela placed
a cheesecake on the dining room table. I no longer needed to eat, but the
sensory pleasure of it wasn’t diminished by death. Happily, such
delights are only enhanced in the afterlife. I’d miss the aroma of fresh-
brewed coffee in the morning, the taste of chocolate-chip ice cream, the
feel of a cashmere sweater against my skin ...
People I hadn’t seen in decades were coming out of the woodwork,
murmuring platitudes to Saul. I know how you feel ... it’s God’s will ...
at least she went quickly ... now she can watch over you ... Poor Saul
looked stricken, more so than at the cemetery. This open display of
emotion was a rarity for my strong-but-silent man. Saul didn’t always
express his love in conventional ways, but I knew it was there. Now I
felt his love at its purest, magnified a hundredfold. In death I didn’t have
to regret leaving loved ones behind. I took their love with me; the rest is
insignificant.
Saul’s sister Jessica stood by the dining room table with our
accountant, a statuesque blonde named Mary Lynn Walker. There were
two constants about Mary Lynn. One, she was forever correcting people
who called her “Marilyn.” Two, she always managed to find us sizeable
tax deductions. I liked her, despite her drop-dead good looks.
Jessica was a different story. She was as pretty and innocuous as an
angelfish, but inside she was all shark. Five years older than her brother
and with a personality that came on strong, she had always tried to bend
Saul to her will. She never asked, she decreed. The word “please” was
not in her vocabulary, but somehow she got away with it. Accustomed
to people doing as she told them, Jessica resented the fact that she never
could manipulate me in the same way. We maintained an unspoken
truce for Saul’s sake, but our mutual dislike was undeniable. Saul was as

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blind to his sister’s true colors as he had been to my too-tight Evan

Picone skirt. I knew that, and Jessica knew that I knew it. This enabled
her to exploit his ignorance at my expense.
“So awful about Judith,” Mary Lynn tsk-tsked.
“Yes, Saul’s taking it very hard, though what he ever saw in her ... I
told him I’d take care of her clothes. It’s not healthy for him to hang on
to them. The sooner they’re gone, the sooner he can get on with his life.”
Mary Lynn flashed a Cheshire smile. “Why, Jessica, that’s so
thoughtful of you.”
“I just happen to wear the same size as Judith, not that I’ll find
much in her wardrobe worth keeping.” Jessica gave a resigned sigh. “I
tried for years to teach her how to dress, but she rarely took my advice.
Even when she did, she never could develop any real sense of style.”
Mary Lynn glanced across the room at the unmerry widower. “Poor
Saul looks like a lost puppy. I’ll see if he wants to come over for dinner
next week. He’ll need to get out of the house and be with close friends.”
A strange heaviness in my lower body stole my attention from the
conversation. I looked down at my stomach, but it was unchanged:
smooth and flat. Nothing about my spiritual body was different from a
moment ago, yet now I felt like I was trying to swim to the surface in a
waterlogged snowsuit, kicking and kicking but still dragged down. The
grey mist swirling around me had become dense and thick with
negativity from these two people pretending to mourn my tragic passing.
I bailed on the rest of shiva week, more than ready to move on to
whatever awaited me in the spirit world. In retrospect, overhearing the
Mary Lynn and Jessica might have been the best way-- the only way-- to
propel me forward to the next level of afterlife.
Don’t misunderstand me; I wasn’t completely cavalier about my
own death. I may have accepted the reality of it with good grace, but the
idea didn’t thrill me to pieces. I had a pretty nice life on earth: great
friends, a fulfilling career, and a husband who never left the seat up.
Chunky thighs notwithstanding, I still wore a size eight. All in all, I
didn’t have much to complain about.
But here I was, so I might as well make the best of it and get on
with this dance known as life after death. But before I left, I wanted to
say goodbye to Saul.
I found him alone in the bedroom of our house. I looked around as
an objective observer instead of a recent occupant. Everything looked

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the same: the muted cappuccino walls and carpet, room dominated by the
clean, spare lines of the Scandinavian furniture Saul didn’t like at first
but came to appreciate. He sat on the edge of the king-size bed, patting
our Rottweiler, Max. Ginger the mutt was lying on my side of the bed
with her head on the pillow where the last vestige of my scent remained.
Was it my imagination, or did she look sad? Ginger had very expressive
eyes that spoke volumes. I always knew what she was trying to say to
me.
Saul, on the other hand, never spoke volumes with his eyes or
anything else. Even in his solitude, his eyes were dry. But I didn’t need
tears to tell me what I already knew: that he was as devastated to lose me
as I would have been to lose him. I yearned to reach out and stroke his
hair, tell him everything would be okay. But I could only touch him
from now on in ways he may not understand. When a spring breeze
brushes his cheek, it will really be my caress he feels. When he smiles at
the framed wedding photo on the bureau, it will be my embrace that puts
the smile there. He wouldn’t know it was me, but someday he would
find out. He would just have to do it in his own time.
Of its own accord, my arm reached down to him. I cupped his chin
in my hand, feeling the fine stubble that never waited until five o’clock
to shadow his face. He reached up and brushed his neck with his hand as
if to swat away a pesky gnat. His hand slid behind his neck to massage
the knotty muscles. I took my own hand and placed it over his, sending
soothing thoughts of love and peace to blend with his own strokes.
With a final sigh, he slapped his palms on the top of his thighs as if
he’d indulged in self-pity long enough. He crossed to the door and
paused there, looking around the room as though he would never see it
again. The door closed behind him before I realized my hand was still
outstretched in his direction. I was the one who wouldn’t see it again.
Not the way the room had been, full of the four earthly souls that
occupied it. The life we knew together was over.
For now, anyway.

CHAPTER 2

I was never what they used to call “date bait.” In fact, I had pushed
the envelope of adolescent awkwardness to new lows. Even now, the
memories are painful enough that I will omit the ugly specifics. Suffice

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it to say that I didn’t have my first date until freshman year of college,
and even that was a blind date arranged through friends of my parents
with their pimply son.
In college I finally exited my protracted “awkward phase,” but
things in the romance department were as dull as ever. I whined on the
phone to Micaela in Providence about my dearth of dates.
“Good things come to those who wait,” she counseled. “The right
person will recognize your sterling qualities.” I had my doubts, but
Micaela’s motherly platitudes lightened me up about the whole thing.
She had a knack for showing me how to laugh at myself.
Senior year took a turn for the better one day at Healthy, Wealthy,
& Wise, a fast-health-food place near the urban campus that catered as
much to the student body as to the myriad law firms in the area. Soft-
serve frozen yogurt was just emerging as the new trend in lunch-on-the-
run for executives in power ties and secretaries in suits and Nikes.
Tables were always at a premium during the lunchtime peak
between noon and one-thirty. I stood clutching my tray, scouring the
crowded restaurant for an empty spot. For once, I was in the right place
at the right time and snagged a table just as two lawyers were vacating.
Their animated discussion was liberally sprinkled with terms like
discovery and deuces tecum, and I’d spent enough lunch hours here to
gain a working knowledge of attorney-speak.
I gloated over this serendipitous find and sat down to unload my
tray. Just as I stoked a well-laden spoonful of chocolate-vanilla swirl
yogurt with granola and wet walnuts into my mouth, a tall, skinny guy
asked if he could share my table.
“There isn’t another seat available,” he apologized.
“Oorff, eezhs mmp,” I invited as graciously as I could with a
mouthful of yogurt.
He sat down while my reddened face returned to normal. Peering
at the contents of my tray, he asked “What have you got there on your
yogurt?”
I hurriedly swallowed and croaked, “Wet walnuts.”
“And granola.” He calmly flicked a piece off his sleeve spewed
forth by my reply.
I laughed, discomfort dissolved. How can you possibly remain
uptight when you spit food on a perfect stranger? And, worse still, he
comments on it? I lowered my eyes and looked at him through my

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lashes. The knot in his solid navy tie was loose and his white shirt was
full of wrinkles. There was an awkwardness about him I thought kind of
cute.
I found myself wondering if he found me attractive and banished the
thought from my mind. I didn’t want to spend an otherwise relaxing
lunch hour trying to be personable and entertaining. Once I decided not
to view my tablemate with romantic interest, I was able to talk easily
with him. I even ordered a second yogurt, not caring what he thought.
At the end of lunch it was see you around, nice talking to you. At
the end of the week we had shared a table twice more and I learned a
little about Saul McBride. I found out that he was a Member of the Tribe
in spite of the name McBride, which had been changed from Mandelberg
by his anxious-to-assimilate grandfather. Why he didn’t just shorten it to
Mandel or even something ambiguous like Miller, no one knows. Maybe
he took a wrong turn at Ellis Island and ended up in South Boston instead
of New York’s lower east side.
Saul was twenty-five and a public relations consultant. He asked
what I did for a living and was surprised to hear that I was still in
college. He said I seemed more mature.
I considered this and decided I liked it. Mature ... rarely had I heard
a comment like that from my peers. Geeky, maybe. Certainly naive and
sheltered. But nobody had ever called me mature. Then again, perhaps
it wasn’t so much what was said as who had said it. Over subsequent
frozen yogurts with Saul, it occurred to me that maybe my lackluster
love life was the result of nothing more than having been around the
wrong people. I said as much to Micaela on the phone.
“I won’t say I told you so,” she sang.
“Thank you.”
“But I told you so.”
“Cute, Micaela.”
“Maybe he’s the one.”
“The one what?”
“The one I said would appreciate you. I bet you’ll end up marrying
this guy.”
“Come on, Mic, we just met!”
“I can tell from your voice. This guy is special.”
I blushed, glad that Micaela couldn’t see. Saul was special. He
accepted me for who I was. Not only did he accept me, he seemed to

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really like what he got.

Being with Saul was my emancipation. He didn’t deride my
preference for ballet instead of bong parties. While most of the other
kids at school were celebrating TGIF at the campus pub, I was at the
library on Friday afternoons to get my weekend studying out of the way.
He thought I was very practical.
The anti-Harrison Ford with whom I had shared my lunch table
became the boyfriend I initially disqualified. When we went to bed for
the first time, I found out that Saul wasn’t turned off by my papaya-
gourd belly. He planted a kiss on my elevated navel and said that pot
bellies are considered very sensual in Middle Eastern cultures.
This guy was a keeper.
By the time he gave me an engagement ring for graduation, I
noticed a definite softening to the acerbic wit that had been my armor
against a world in which I didn’t fit. Belonging to Saul gave me a heady
feeling of self-worth, and I came to believe in those qualities he and
Micaela had always seen. My parents threw us a big wedding that was
more lavish than I would have planned myself, but my mother was so
happy I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t really my taste. I
was an only child; she couldn’t help herself. It wasn’t easy to bite my
tongue, but I went along with garden hats for the bridesmaids. I drew the
line, however, at her plans for two wedding gowns, one for the ceremony
and a different one for the reception. I was most proud of my self-
control when she’d say for the umpteenth time, “I never thought we’d
see this day!” Thanks, Ma.
The early years of our marriage required the usual adjustment to any
give-and-take partnership, but Saul and I were content. One thing we
were together on was the subject of kids. I didn’t want any. Parenthood
was a serious responsibility and I was afraid I’d screw it up. I had
enough issues of my own; I didn’t want to pass them on to the next
generation. Saul didn’t care either way, despite pressure from his father.
“How can you deny me grandchildren?” he lamented.
“I think Jessica has made up the deficit pretty well the with four you
already have,” I said.
“Four Katzes. There won’t be a McBride left when I’m gone. Who
will carry on the family name, I ask you?”
“Family name? It isn’t even yours,” Saul pointed out. “Grandpa
Izzy changed it at Ellis Island.”

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“Yes, well ... your grandfather was afraid of sounding too Jewish.
But McBride has been the family name for three generations now.”
Saul and I looked at each other. “I’ll tell you what,” he said to his
father. “The day you change the family name back to Mandelberg, you
let me know. Then we’ll talk grandchildren.”
And that, I thought, takes care of that.

I blossomed in many ways over the course of our eight-year

marriage. Not only had I found true love, but life as a whole had taken
on new meaning. At Saul’s encouragement, I applied to graduate school
and got a master’s degree in physical therapy. He couldn’t have been
prouder or more supportive.
His own career flourished during this time. He landed a consulting
position at a new PR firm that came with a hefty pay raise. But the
money was of little consequence. Saul’s father had made a fortune
raising laboratory mice, an enterprise that didn’t exactly earn this animal
lover’s seal of approval. I was glad when he sold the business to a
pharmaceutical manufacturer, relieved of the burden of torn loyalty
between my husband’s family and my own principles. The sale brought
millions, which Saul and Jessica stood to inherit. My father-in-law gave
his two children sums of money just shy of the amount subject to the gift
tax, saying he didn’t want the government to get it all in taxes when he
died. We were grateful for the financial security but vowed that our
lifestyle would remain grounded. We had seen what happens to many
nouveau riche and swore that money would not become our god.
Saul’s new job put him on the road a good deal, but I didn’t really
mind. Much as I missed him, his absence afforded me time to indulge in
a private passion. My confidence hadn’t risen in all areas ... I was shy
about revealing that I dabbled in poetry, even to Saul. I was hardly any
good, but there was a certain satisfaction in putting down words and
moving them around like chess pieces until they harmonized just right. I
kept the poems in a spiral notebook that lived in isolation in the bottom
drawer of my night stand.
For a long, lovely while, the two of us had it all. Now Saul was a
widower getting back to the business of living. I hoped he would start
getting out a little. I wanted more for him than just Monday Night
Football and solitary breakfasts at the IHOP with the morning paper. He
deserved to experience the fullness of life, not just go through the

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motions of existing.
As they say, be careful what you wish for.

CHAPTER 3

“Welcome home.”
I jumped and spun around, coming face to face with a tall, reedy
man I didn’t know. He was smiling at me with the whitest teeth I’d seen
this side of Hollywood. The smooth skin that stretched over high
cheekbones made it impossible to guess if he was twenty five or fifty.
His mocha complexion gleamed in dark contrast to the long white caftan
he wore. A tightly woven white skullcap perched like a pillbox on his
close-cropped head.
The longer I looked at him, the more I felt that he wasn’t a stranger,
that I should know this Nubian Ultra-Brite model. At that instant, a
surge of energy passed through me like an electric current, exactly like
the one I felt while attending my funeral.
My eyes widened and I clamped a hand on my midsection. “Oh!”
came out like a hiccup.
The stranger chuckled. “Someone has just said Kaddish for you
again,” he explained in a lilting baritone with a trace of accent I couldn’t
identify. “Do not distress yourself; at first it is quite common to be
startled by the prayer surge. Recently-released spirits are not quite
accustomed to such abundant helpings of love.” His formal speech
seemed from another century.
He pressed his palms together lightly and made a shallow bow. “I
am Ashraf, your spirit guide. I know you have many questions, and I am
here to answer them for you ... and to help you find your own answers.”
“At the risk of sounding trite, where am I?”
We were inside a massive edifice as vast as an abbey. How I got
there was a mystery. One moment I was alone with Saul in my earthly
bedroom; the next I was in this strange building. Liquid sunlight seeped
into every corner, conforming to the building’s shape. I had no idea how
the light penetrated it; there were no windows. The milky walls
shimmered like a million opals, a fragment of light now and then
catching a spark of hidden orange or violet and creeping like a slow
flame along the marble surface.
The Pearly Gates?

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I squatted down to examine the floor, shiny-cold and laid out in a

single huge slab with no visible seams. I teetered on the balls of my feet
and steadied myself with a hand on each side. I expected to feel an
unyielding marble floor. Instead, my fingers met a warm, cushioned
surface with a plush-carpet resiliency.
Ashraf smiled at my childlike exploration. He gestured toward the
far end of the hall. “Let us walk and talk outside.”
He paused by the portal, allowing me to pass through first. I
stepped onto a landing and my breath caught in my throat at the beautiful
scene outside. Grass as lush as the Scottish moors spread as far as the
eye could see, dotted with pristine gardens. Flowers of a hundred
varieties bloomed in riotous color, more intense than the colors we see
on earth. As a breeze with the spicy aroma of poppies wafted over my
face, I thought this had to be the original Garden of Eden ... or at least
where all world-class gardeners go when they die.
Ashraf touched my elbow, breaking the hypnotic spell. He guided
me down the steps to a stone bench under the shade of an almond tree.
People strolled about in pairs and trios, deep in hushed conversations.
Ashraf noticed me noticing, and nodded toward them. “They are
also spirit guides, helping other newly arrived souls become acclimated
to their new environment.” He spread his arms wide in presentation.
“This is known as the astral plane, Judith, a kind of welcome center for
spirit orientation.” He regarded me closely. “I was somewhat concerned
that you had tarried too long in the etheric realm immediately after your
passing, but I can see now that you are transitioning well.”
I blushed and averted my eyes. Ashraf covered my hand with his
own. “Do not feel embarrassed. You are not the first soul to have found
closure by attending her own funeral. Very often a spirit does not accept
the reality of his death until someone or something confirms it.”
I wanted to dismiss the episode as a momentary lapse in judgment.
“You probably think it was petty and egotistical, wanting to hear people
sing my praises.” The words came out sounding more defiant than
nonchalant.
“I am not here to judge you, Judith. None of us are. The love we
have for you in the spirit world is unconditional. At this point in your
development, the only one who can judge you is you.”
I did feel love emanating from this curious soul who declared
himself my spirit guide. It was as absolute as my parents’ love for me, as

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deep as Saul’s, as steadfast as Micaela’s. Instinct told me that I could

trust him, that it was safe to lower the walls I had unwittingly put up.
In the space of seconds it took me to digest this revelation, Ashraf
intuited my acceptance. “You will find the astral realm identical in every
respect to the physical world you just left. This is where you will
undergo the next phase of your adjustment to the spirit world.”
“The next phase?”
“The rudiments of spiritual existence: transportation,
communication, your goals for soul growth.”
“But how is this place different from where I was right after I died?”
He used the same patient tone one might when explaining to a
young child where babies come from. “There you existed one step
beyond the physical world.”
That made sense. “I seemed to be hovering above everything.”
Ashraf nodded. “Here you will be in a dimension unto itself. You
will interact with others, much as you did on earth, but in a spiritual
environment instead of a physical one.”
“But if this astral plane seems no different from life on earth, then
what’s so special about it? Seems to me that heaven should be ... well,
heavenly.”
“That you shall learn for yourself, my dear. I cannot do the work
for you. One does not transform instantaneously from fallible human
into spiritual perfection. It is achieved over many lifetimes.”
On the subject of reincarnation, I wasn’t sure where I stood. I never
quite believed in it, but I didn’t disbelieve it, either.
“I am proud of your soul progression, Judith, particularly in the last
several lifetimes,” Ashraf continued.
The last several? “How many have I had?”
“Forty-nine.”
That got my attention. Forty-nine lifetimes ... the very thought
wearied me.
My spirit guide stood up and ambled down the path, the pace of his
feet matching his careful explanation. He didn’t have to ask me to
follow; I was a rat to his Pied Piper. “Soul progression is achieved
through reincarnation and the lessons one learns during that incarnation.
Some souls need only a few lifetimes; others need many more.”
“How many have you had?”
“I chose to work on my spiritual growth while remaining here in the

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astral world. It is another option for soul development, but it takes

longer to achieve.”
“But why would you choose the longer road? Wouldn’t you rather
speed up the process?”
“My choices are my own, Judith, as are the reasons behind them.
We can only do what is right for ourselves.”
I took the hint. “How long have you been my spirit guide?”
“Always,” Ashraf replied. “I even helped foster your penchant for
poetry.”
“What did you have to do with my poetry?”
“Remember when you would struggle with a verse, knowing what
you wanted to express but unable to release the proper words?”
“Do I. More often than I care to remember.”
“Then there were times when the poems flowed without effort; your
fingers could not keep pace with your thoughts.”
I nodded, eyes wide.
“That was I, giving you a gentle push. Your creativity was bottled
up, unable to flow freely. All you ever needed was someone to uncork
the bottle.”
Ashraf’s keen sensitivity caught the dejection on my face. “Celestial
guidance does not relegate you to mediocrity, Judith.” He bent his head
to look me in the eye, compelling me to do the same. “Do you know that
all the great masters of creativity through the ages received spiritual
help? Shakespeare, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Balanchine ... nobody does
it alone. Some souls are more receptive to it than others.”
I brightened a little at this. Even genius needs a little help.
On impulse I asked, “May I call you ‘Ash’?”
My spirit guide took both my hands in his. “Judith, my dear, to put
it as you yourself would, you may call me anything you wish ... as long
as you call me.”
For the rest of the afternoon, Ash filled me in on the fundamentals
of the spirit world. He was the teacher, I was the student, and the course
was Afterlife 101. He urged me not to feel overwhelmed, that I had all
the time in the universe to absorb everything.
There is no pressure here,” he said. “You will not be given a
written examination. You will find the spiritual realm a much kinder,
gentler place than the earthly world you recently departed.”

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I smiled at his choice of words. “You know, President George Bush

once used that very expression.”
Ash got a positively devilish gleam in his eye. “Where do you think
he got the idea?”

`````

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 Cynthia Polansky

Ready to read the rest of Remote Control? Find it:

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ISBN: 978-1-59080-539-8

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