Conversations with Chloe: A Mother and Daughter Dialogue across the Veil is an intimate conversation between Andrea and her daughter Chloe, that began six weeks after Chloe's death in February, 2016. Begun as a simple letter from a mother to a daughter to help deal with the loss, the first words of Chloe's response, 'Mom, you are so easy to find that it's a joke' jolted Andrea out of grief and onto a journey of healing, wonder and knowing that there is only life after life. This conversation, which took place over five months, reveals truths about the afterlife, the power of apology and forgiveness, and the reality that only the physical body is discarded. The soul lives, thrives, is close by and ever loving. May this uncommon dialogue offer hope and comfort and the knowing that all is as it should be. Conversations with Chloe A Mother and Daughter Dialogue across the Veil By Andrea Courey Balboa Press Copyright © 2017 Andrea Courey All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-5043-7239-8 CHAPTER 1 Letter to Chloe Hi, Clo. It's April 1, 2016. You would love this place. It would be your ideal spot, just beside the lake. The geese glide by, and I've been told there are beavers, but I haven't seen any yet. The ice is still jamming the banks. Things move fast around here — I mean things like water and ice. One minute, the chunks are all bunched up, jostling for position; the next minute, the lake is clear. You would love my wood-burning stove. It's small but powerful, and it heats my whole space with a furious crackling, threatening to bust out beyond the grill. It's not difficult because my whole space consists of one room, about 400 square feet. I never would have searched to rent in this area if I hadn't taken a leisurely drive along Lakeshore Road that wintery January day. I wouldn't have taken the leisurely drive if I hadn't been out in that neck of the woods. I wouldn't have been in that neck of the woods if I hadn't accepted an invitation to speak at the university's Faculty of Agriculture, which is out this way, on Wednesday, January 20, at 3:00 p.m. I almost backed out because it was the same day you went into palliative care at the hospital. I did honour the commitment, and I spoke about my favourite topics: entrepreneurship, single motherhood and how to survive it all. As I left the campus, I knew it would be a long night at the hospital, so I decided to wend my way back unrushed, slowly driving the 30-kilometer speed limit along the winding road that hugs the lake for miles. It brought me peace. It was almost 11:00 p.m. when I got back to my parents' home from the hospital, and I began searching Airbnb for somewhere to live. Not having a home of my own hadn't bothered me until now. When I'd sold my home a couple of years ago and left to experience life in another part of the country, I'd been happy to have no possessions, with nothing tethering me to anywhere. Now I realize that's not possible. Our past always calls us back. And back I came — to love and care for you. I knew your death was close, and I felt the need to stay close to home. I wanted a place to hang my hat, a place to help me heal, a place close to loved ones and close to water. At 11:05, I found this tiny cottage on the shore of a large lake. It was 20 minutes to downtown, 20 minutes to family and friends, and 20 feet from the water's edge. The lake is four to five kilometres wide in front of the cottage and is clean, full of fish, and swimmable. The farmers' market, the pharmacy and the grocery store are just minutes away by foot; so are the train and bus into the city. One email exchange, and it was secured for the whole summer. The owner of the property, John, lives in the big house 30 feet away. Both homes are tucked away from the street, face the lake and are surrounded by mature trees and gardens. Years ago, John had used this cottage as his office. Imagine that kind of commute to work — 50 paces and you're there! If I had been able to envision a place to live, and if I'd had the ability to imagine such a country setting only minutes from the downtown core, I would have imagined this. My precious 400-square-foot space contains a queen-sized bed at one end with two small night tables on either side; a simple, two-and-a-half-foot by four-foot table along a window that functions as my kitchen; a love seat; a solid-wood, round table with two wooden Windsor chairs; and the crowning glory of the place, my wood-burning stove. The "kitchen" consists of a two-burner hot plate, a toaster oven and a mini-fridge. That's it. The bathroom is literally my washroom. All washing — dishes, clothes and self — happens in there. I love it. The first thing I did when I arrived was remove all the blinds. John rolled his eyes, commenting that other tenants had complained of too much light in the morning. Imagine, Clo — is there such a thing as too much light? I have no complaints. John came for dinner the first two nights. I knocked myself out