~~ * * * ~~
When I woke, I expected disorientation—a feeling I knew well from my multiple surgeries. Instead, I was frightfully alert. I searched for the tangle of IVs and heart monitor leads, but they were not attached. I passed my hand over my chest. The staples in my sternum were in place, but the soft skin beneath was free of swelling and pain. To my surprise, I was able to sit up without the hint of dizziness.
I stared at an unfamiliar room. The walls and floors gleamed white, with surfaces as sleek as stainless steel. They shimmered as if they could take form or dissolve at a moment’s notice. The long, wide room contained straight lines of hospital beds, some empty, some occupied with other patients like me, in varying stages of sleep, waking, or confusion. I wore my hospital gown and a very impractical pair of house slippers, fluffy and warm, in a classic Burberry design. A mystery, as I had not worn slippers going into the surgery and could only assume my mother had put them on at some point.
My weak heart, long-protected from surges of strong emotion, pounded wildly in my chest. My breath came short and shallow. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. One of the orderlies, a gruff man of about fifty with dark silver-streaked hair and sharp gray eyes, passed the foot of my bed. He wore a white tunic with a peculiar feathery cape dragging behind him. I waved to capture his attention.
“Excuse me? Where am I?”
He halted, peering down at me, then at a chart in front of him. “You haven’t been checked in yet, have you?”
I spread my hands in confusion. “Checked in for what? Is this post-op?”
The man’s eyes widened before he burst into guffaws of laughter. “No, no, no,” he drawled. “You aren’t in the OR, or anywhere near where you’ve been before. You’re in The Waiting Room until we figure out where you need to go.”
“The Waiting Room? Am I in another ward of the hospital?”
“Hospital? No! Now pay attention. You’re in The Waiting Room. The. Waiting. Room.” He repeated each word as if I were hard of hearing. “Your kind might know it by the name of Purgatory.”
My confusion must have been broadcast across my face because he added, “Not particularly religious, are you, boy?”
Disbelief, then terror settled in my heart. Maybe I was dead, and I would finally get the reckoning I deserved after years of agnosticism or occasional outright atheism. “Not very.”
“It’s where mortals who aren’t quite dead or alive come to wait until their souls figure it out. Now let me get Ms. Betty. She’ll be able to check you in properly.” He searched the room and called out, “Betty! Here’s another one.”
A blonde woman in similar attire sashayed her way to my bed, gesticulating toward her clipboard as she spoke. “Viktor, I didn’t see this one come in.” She flicked her hand toward me with a limp wrist that she insisted on flinging about as she flipped through her chart.
“Oh, yes. Thiago Limeira, aged twenty-eight, came in during an open-heart surgery.” She wrinkled her nose and tutted. “Surgery. So barbaric!" Her agitation caused her “cape” to undulate of its own accord and before I knew it, a pair of giant wings unfurled behind her—broad, white, feathery wings that shivered the way a bird’s did when it ruffled its feathers before settling into place again. I stared, dumbfounded, as she waved her hand over my chart.
“I’ll have to ask you to follow me, Mr. Limeira,” she said as she floated away. I scrambled behind her into another room, just as white as the one I’d left, reeling in disbelief. Vaulted ceilings stretched high above our heads, buttresses soaring like enormous winged birds frozen in mid-flight. Gigantic windows stretched from floor to ceiling, outside of which was visible an endless panorama of blue skies and bulbous white clouds in every direction, as far as the eye could see.
Plush chairs and sofas formed a sitting area around small tables that were piled high with books and magazines. The most extraordinary feature, though, was a labyrinth of mammoth bookcases that towered up to the vaulted ceiling, stopping at the buttresses above, filled with every kind of book imaginable. The contrast in color of the various book-bindings and spines against the whiteness was shockingly vivid, mitigated only by the natural light streaming in from the large windows and the warm glow of strategically placed lamps.
“You’ll wait here until you are told which door you may pass through,” she said before turning to walk away.
“Wait!” I said. “I have no idea what’s going on. Doors and rooms and angel wings?” My voice echoed in the lofty space, shrill with panic. “Purgatory? I need to know where I am and when I can get discharged from here.” Fear cascaded through me, constricting my lungs.
Betty sat on a divan and pulled me down next to her. She flopped her wrist, patting my hand delicately. “At this very moment, you are experiencing a complication as a result of your surgery. You’ve entered into a semi-comatose state in which your soul has left your body but isn’t quite severed from the realm of the living.” She smiled, attempting to reassure me. “Your doctors are working very hard to revive you, and your body is not so far gone that it is willing to give up yet. If they are successful, you will leave The Waiting Room and return home through that door there.” She indicated with a tilt of her head toward an ornate white door on the opposite wall. “Otherwise, you will leave through the blue door and go on your way.”
I stared at the blue door with the large brass handle, shivering at the idea of what lay beyond. The concepts of heaven and hell played no role in my day-to-day decisions, nor did the general uncertainty of all things metaphysical interfere with the enjoyment of my life. However, this experience called into question everything I believed. I considered the possibility that I might be having an elaborate hallucination, as if I were watching myself in the highest resolution.
She stood, gathering her clipboard. “Now, you wait here. We’ll keep you posted on your progress. Feel free to relax or read a book from the library. Every piece of writing that has been written or will be written is on those shelves. Just think about what you would like to read, and it will appear.” She closed her eyes as if demonstrating the technique before her eyes flew open in excitement. “It’s the neatest thing!” She floated back to the anteroom to attend to other patients.
I swallowed down my panic, attempting to admire the books and dredge up some modicum of the joy I once took in their company. Under normal circumstances, finding myself before a collection of every book ever conceived or to be written would have been a temptation without limits, but my agitation prevented me from settling down enough to read. My mind struggled to comprehend this new reality, failing each time. I paced, pausing every so often to ponder the two closed doors and what lay beyond.
As I continued my pacing, convinced that my eternal punishment had begun through forced confinement in this infernal white room, I heard unsure footsteps behind me. I turned to see a young woman of about my age standing in the doorway. Rather than my hospital gown, she wore a pair of tight jeans, medium length boots, and a green cotton sweater that hung off her shoulder. She scanned the room. When her eyes fell on me, I nearly forgot where I was.
Her eyes were a deep violet color—a shade I’d never seen before, her irises rimmed with a solid dark outline that made the violet pop out. They contrasted with her olive-colored skin; waves of tousled brown hair tumbled over her beautifully shaped shoulders.
She tilted her head and we each stared at the other. I stared because she was striking, and she stared because there could be nothing more arresting than a man in an open-backed hospital nightgown and fluffy, plaid slippers. I resisted the urge to dive behind the settee. To her credit, she managed to keep a straight face.
“Excuse me, but is this The Waiting Room?” she asked, and I felt a furious blush creep over my skin at the shallowness of my previous thoughts. We both had more serious problems than my attire. I remained rigid, several seconds ticking by before I finally convinced my mouth to work.
“It is. I guess ... you’re waiting too?”
She relaxed, exhaling. “That’s what that Viktor guy ...” she pointed to the door behind her with her thumb. “That’s what he said.” I observed how the realization of this new state burdened her in much the same way it did me and was relieved that I was no longer alone.
“I’m Thiago,” I said, extending a hand.
“Clara. Pleasure to meet you.” Her hand rested, warm and silky, in my palm. What were the social conventions between two wayward souls in a place like this? Her touch aroused images of physical pleasure, the joy of skin against skin, reminding me that I was still alive.
“It would probably be a greater one if it weren’t for the circumstances,” I said, to which she nodded in agreement.
She lapsed into silence, lost in her own thoughts. Many minutes passed, though time was fluid and difficult to determine here. I was at a loss for how to proceed under such an extraordinary circumstance and nearly gave up the hope of conversation when she spoke.
“You know,” she said as she straightened her sweater, the smooth glow of her skin distracting me. “It’s kind of, I don’t know … anticlimactic, don’t you think?”
I smiled. “You mean the fact that there are no singing angels flying around with harpsichords, greeting us at the pearly white gates?” I chuckled and watched in amazement as her frown softened, altering the lineaments of her small face.
“Well, they got the white part down, I’ll give them that,” Clara answered. Her eyes fell on the towers of books lining the wall of the room. “I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library,” she said, almost to herself.
“Borges,” I responded. She was beautiful—breathtaking, even—and she could quote Borges. If I’d ever come close to falling madly in love with a stranger, it would have been for these reasons alone.
She turned toward me, smiling as she nodded, and my weak heart lunged in delight at the sight of her. I didn’t half mind being in this place if I could keep company with someone like her.
“How did you get here?” she asked, interrupting my thoughts.
I indicated to two plush chairs, inviting her to sit, pretending to be unaffected by her. “I’m being operated on as we speak. I guess the procedure … didn’t agree with me.” I smirked. “They’re trying to revive me. You?”
She sighed. “I was driving home from work. Running late, as usual, because I had to pick up cat food for Maria’s cat. Maria is my cousin, and I’m supposed to be housesitting. The last thing I remember is a semi and bright lights—”
“Car accident,” I interjected.
“A bad one, from what I gathered. At Christmas time, no less. I came to a few times, but then they put me under and I woke up here.”
I remembered the mask descending over my face, the slide into unconsciousness, the jarring confusion upon waking to the wonders of a working body, and an existential mystery. We were nothing but souls in transit, stuck at a waystation, moving neither forward nor backward. My fate, I had always believed, was mine to make. However, when it mattered most, such a consequential decision as life and death ultimately had nothing to do with me.
“I hope I don’t die,” she blurted.
“I know. I kind of enjoy living too.”
She chuckled, then grew sober. “It’s more than that. My parents don’t have anyone else besides me.” She rubbed her palms along the length of her thighs and my eyes followed the trajectory made by them. “If it was me alone, I could even resign myself to it. But children ... they should never leave before their parents.”
I leaned toward her as she shivered in fear. Seized with an unexpected boldness, I cupped her cheek, swiping at an escaped tear with my thumb. She didn’t protest, but instead, melted into my touch. “If we’re still here, that means there’s still some hope, right?”
She nodded briskly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. I let my hand fall away, the tear still dampening my thumb. “Do you have any family?”
I squeezed my thumb and forefinger together as if I could rub her into my skin. “My parents and two brothers.” I imagined the implacable way my mother was probably demanding that I live, my father’s tenderness, and my brothers hovering close, clueless as to what to do next. “But I have my writing, too.”
“A writer? Any famous works I should know about?” she asked with real curiosity.
“No, I’m no Updike. But I’d hoped, one day ... In the meantime, I work as a freelance journalist to make a living. I like it. I’m doing what I love, which is more than most people can say.” How to explain the acute sense of mortality that my art provoked: the understanding that now I might never have enough time to develop into the type of creator I wanted to be.
Clara stretched out her hand and showed me her calloused fingertips. “I teach, but I’m also a rock climber. I’m pretty good at it.” Despite their bumps and bruises, I admired their elegant strength. “I actually won a few competitions.”
“Impressive.”
“Impressive,” she repeated, glancing at me with eyes gone hard as flint. “I don’t want to be selfish. I mean, I’ve been lucky in a lot of things. But ... I’m not done with life.”
I reached out to take her hand, a move she allowed by unfurling her fingers and capturing mine in turn with a grip that spoke of both her determination and desperation. I understood because I felt this fear too, a paralysis that threatened to strangle me in its grip. I glanced at the blue door, which drew her eyes also.
She left me speechless with truth. I wasn’t ready either. This is what rendered life precious beyond measure, with its fragility and finiteness. We clutched at life as if clinging to fog, grasping at what we could never truly hold. I didn’t want to give up, but neither did I desire to drown in the fear of death.
I glanced around me, remembering the stacks that towered over us. “Books,” I blurted, pointing to the first giant bookcase with one hand, while grasping the opening at the back of my gown with the other as I stood. “I know we’ve only just met, but I feel I should confess that I had no say in the dress code.”
“Oh!” Clara noticed, perhaps for the first time, the predicament of my dressing gown. She dissolved into giggles low and husky until they grew so loud, they bounced off the walls and ricocheted against the buttresses, filling the empty, hollow space. A discharge of tension more than true mirth, the sound was lovely all the same. “That’s no way to meet St. Peter!” She laughed again; it was no longer laughter but music that met my ears, like the call of angels. I couldn’t help but laugh along with her.
“I bet you could change into whatever you want to,” she added, openly admiring my legs beneath the gown.
“It never occurred to me.”
She stood winking at me. “Let me try it.” She closed her eyes and, without warning, she shimmered before me, her jeans and sweater melting, replaced by a green and white polka dot summer dress, her slender arms revealed by spaghetti straps. The hem stopped just above her knee; long, shapely legs ended in simple white heeled sandals.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmured, unable to take my eyes off her. She looked down at herself and smiled in satisfaction.
“Now, you,” she said.
I shook my head. “I’m a putz at dressing myself.”
“Then, let me.” She stepped forward to take my hand. “I’m new at this, so if you end up in a potato sack, you’ll have to forgive me in advance.”
I shivered at her touch. “Anything is better than this getup.”
Clara closed her eyes again and my gown shimmered into non-existence, replaced by a light-blue linen dress shirt and cream-colored pants. She opened her eyes and stepped closer to undo the top button of my shirt. Her forehead was just at my chin, and when she lifted her eyes to look into mine, our noses were close enough to touch. I swallowed hard, and her eyes followed the movement of my bobbing Adam’s apple.
“Do you want to see yourself?” she rasped, her voice unsteady.
I shook my head. “I trust you.”
“Do you
?”
“Implicitly.”
Her lips parted, her breath fanning out over my skin. With a boldness I did not possess in my daily life, I lowered my lips to hers, brushing over the sweet, tender flesh. Her breath hitched but she pressed her lips against mine in one of those passes that was more a touch than a kiss before pulling away. In another context, my lack of restraint would have mortified me. But we were trapped between life and the afterlife, and so far, we’d discovered no impediments except perhaps death, which had, in both of our cases, decided not to come just yet.
I cleared my throat. “I bet I know what you like to read.” I turned toward the bookshelf. I closed my eyes, and as Betty had instructed, thought very hard of a book. When I opened them again, the spine stood before me. Soft, worn leather, laced in gold trim, the edges of the pages painted the color of tinsel. I pulled the supple volume from the shelf and experienced the pleasure of holding something hefty, finite yet so infinite, and I understood how men could go mad in a labyrinth of endless words.
I turned and handed the book to Clara. She took the tome carefully, her slender fingers gliding over the cover. She read the title and smiled, nodding in approval. I lifted the cover and flipped to one of the pages before reading aloud:
“The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me,
he complains of my gab and my loitering.
I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”
Moonlight, Monsters & Magic Page 17
