by Josie Brown
“What difference does that make? When she wakes up, she may not remember any of you,” Cheever retorts.
As if!
Before Jeff, Mary, and Trisha can pummel Cheever again, Evan steps in front of them. “Okay, enough! Look, why don’t I take you girls to grab some sandwiches in the hospital cafeteria? We can bring them back up here for the boys.”
Mary and Trisha nod reluctantly.
As Evan passes Jeff, he whispers, “Don’t let him get Mom upset, okay?”
“Got it,” Jeff assures him.
By the time the door closes behind them, Cheever has moved toward my bed. “Hey, do you think she can feel anything?”
“We hope so. The doctors think she can. They want us to touch her a lot—”
“Duly noted.” Cheever gives him a thumbs-up.
The next thing I know, his grubby paws are a mere inch from my breasts—
But Jeff grabs him before they reach their targets.
My son is pummeling his frenemy so hard that even I have to wonder if he’ll kill the kid.
Not that I’d blame him.
As Jeff’s hands become a vice around Cheever’s neck, his captive gasps, “Uncle! Please! Uncle!”
“I’m only telling you this once,” Jeff warns him. “If you dare touch my mother—worse yet, if you say that you did to anyone—I'll hunt you down like a dog.”
Like mother, like son.
Cheever nods slowly while he stumbles to his feet.
By the time Evan gets back with my girls, both boys are sitting quietly in their chairs. No one says anything about Cheever’s bruised fat lip.
And when Cheever begs to leave, no one encourages him to stay.
Evan offers to take Cheever home. “I’ll come back for you guys before they want to kick us out,” he promises.
I love my kids.
The girls have brought my hairbrush and perfume. After brushing out my hair and spritzing behind my ear, they each take a foot and paint my nails bright red while Jeff reads out loud from the L.A. Times. Apparently, the press has gotten wind of the terrorist attacks.
“What are ‘rolling blackouts’?” Trisha asks Jeff.
“It’s when the electricity goes off throughout the city. You know—like it did yesterday while we were in school.”
“Will it happen again?” she wonders.
“Maybe. The government thinks it’s an act of terrorism,” Mary explains.
Trisha frowns. “How do they know?”
“Because it’s happening all over the country, and the disruptions are hitting things that are important, like power plants, and all the things that make us safe. Even hospitals,” Jeff explains.
Trisha looks around the room. “But won’t that hurt the patients? What about Mommy? What if it happens here?”
“Yes to the first question,” Mary replies. “And we will always be here to protect Mom.”
Trisha yawns as she nods. It’s late for her: nine-twenty. Nurse Nancy has given them a reprieve to stay until ten o’clock, an hour past visiting hours. If they could, they’d sleep over.
I see their love and concern for me in their eyes. I can also feel their touches: their soft pats, their tender kisses. Jeff is kissing me now—
And then I am gone.
Darkness.
Did it happen? Am I dead?
Did my children watch me die?
I feel Satan beside me. My instincts are confirmed when I feel his noxious breath on my neck. “Miss me?”
“To be honest, your timing was less than desirable.”
“Too bad,” he growls. “The show must go on. Your old friend has been waiting impatiently for his reunion with you.”
“I can’t wait to see who it is,” I retort. “Speaking of which: why can’t I see?”
“Ah, you’ve noticed!” Satan crows gleefully. “It’s part of your trial. To be honest, it was Salem Rahmin al-Sadah’s idea. He felt that a game of Blind Woman’s Bluff would be jolly fun. I now see his point!” I feel his claw on my breast.
It takes all my might to resist slapping it away. “My competitor is Salem?” Dread charges through me. The sadistic Saudi prince was one of the Quorum’s money launderers. He was also Babette’s lover and the father of the child she will soon deliver.
It’s a small Netherworld after all.
I killed him on the eve of my wedding to Jack. I had good reason: he attempted to rape me.
“I’ve dreamt of this moment since you broke my heart—with a bullet.” Salem’s voice grates on me: fury leavened with lust. Then I feel it— his tongue rolling down my spine.
Satan laughs uproariously. “With what Salem has planned for you, not having to watch will be a blessing”—he pauses in thought—“which is non-existent here, as you can imagine.”
“When I break her, Dark Emperor, you’re invited to do more than just watch,” Salem declares magnanimously.
“A generous offer, but I don’t do sloppy seconds.” Satan’s tone could make Hell freeze over. “Should she fail, I have my own plans for the sumptuous Mrs. Craig. As your endgame is Purgatory, I suggest you keep your mindset in ‘slam, bam, thank you, ma'am” mode and move onto it as quickly as possible—”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I interrupt, “And I use that term lightly. If indeed this is to be a fair fight—rape, whatever—I find it most unfair that I’m to be blindfolded. For example, how will I choose my weapon?”
“Aye, and this is where you’ll have an advantage, Delicious Donna,” Satan assures me. “When you feel the time is right, just think of the proper accouterment and, voila! It will magically appear!” He leans in and whispers, “Fair warning—you only get one. And if your timing is off, Salem may benefit from it instead.”
“Duly noted,” I mutter.
“Then, let the games begin!” Satan declares.
I run—
But I don’t get far. I feel Salem’s hand go around my waist. He’s dragging me off to who knows where.
Since I certainly don’t want to find out, I lift both legs and kick behind me—
Into his gut. He grunts as he falls backward.
Unfortunately, I fall too, face down. I scramble to my knees—
Which is, apparently, the wrong position when a horny creep is after you. He crawls close enough to grab both my legs and pulls me toward him. But before he can straddle me, I twist around so that I’m facing him. My fist goes up, connecting with his jaw. He howls as he tumbles backward.
I leap up and run. But where does one go when one is blind?
Apparently, in the wrong direction because I bump right into Salem—
Whose fifth appendage is extended even beyond what I remember.
Salem laughs. “You’re making this much too easy for me, Donna!”
He throws me to the ground. In a second, he’s straddling me again. He’s already naked, so no need to unzip—proof positive that we’re in Hell.
I’m thinking…
Chainsaw.
Voila is right. I rev it up and swing it upward, in an arch.
Salem’s scream reverberates through hell.
“The bitch—she neutered me!” he howls. “Why you—”
This time when I swing the chainsaw it cuts through something thicker:
Satan’s sash falls from my eyes in time for me to see Salem’s torso and head hit the ground. His guts fall out. His angry eyes stare up at me.
His legs are running in circles, like a chicken whose head has been cut off.
“Here, enjoy this souvenir!” Satan picks up the object of my first successful chop and tosses it my way.
I let it fly past me. “Thanks but…no thanks.”
Laughter comes from behind me. It’s been a while but I still recognize him.
I turn to see Bobby Martin. He was my first crush—but the boyfriend of an older girl: CeeCee Connelly. When she found out about it, she ruined my reputation when, as a pre-teen, I needed friends most: as my mother was dying of breast cancer.
The extermination was carried out by my ex-husband, Carl, courtesy of the Quorum.
Yes, Catherine was elected president. And, yes, it made her indebted to the terrorist organization. But before she could take office, I exposed the plot.
Robert puts his hands on my shoulders. “Thank you for all you’re doing for Evan,” he says.
“He is so much like you,” I reply. Then, shyly, I add, “I miss you.”
Robert places a hand over my heart. “I’ll always be right here.”
An orchestra of violins plays around us. I recognize the tune: Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 35.
“Wah, wah, wah!” Satan pretends to wipe away a tear. “Very touching. But hey, I’ve got a lot happening here”—when he cups his ears, sinners’ screams of agony drown out the lush string symphony—“so let’s get this show on the road. Una pregunta, por favor.”
I lean into Robert and whisper, “How will Eric carry out his act of terror?”
Robert points to his left—high above the arena, to a clock tower. “The clock struck one—”
The top half of Salem chimes in: “And Lee was done!”
Startled, I stare at him, and then back to Robert. “What do you mean? And…what does he mean about Lee?”
Robert starts to reply, but I can’t hear him—
Because he’s no longer there. Off he goes in a white light—
And off I go, back into darkness.
My children are sleeping.
My kiss on Mary’s cheek brings a smile to her lips.
When I nuzzle Jeff with my lips, he actually touches his cheek and sighs.
I stroke Trisha’s cheek before leaning in. When her eyes open, I hesitate.
“Mommy, please—don’t stop,” she begs.
“I’ll never stop—either loving you or kissing you,” I assure her. To prove it, I kiss her again, very gently.
“I miss you,” she murmurs. “Please don’t die!”
“I won’t,” I promise. “You must never give up on me. Promise!”
“Cross my heart,” she mumbles. “Mommy…is this a dream?”
I shake my head. “No! I’m right here!”
She sighs mightily. “Will you be with us…you know, permanently, soon?”
“I’m trying my best,” I admit sadly. “I wish you could always be with me too.” Suddenly, an idea comes to me. “I know what! The next time you visit, bring Birthday Bear.” On the day of Trisha’s birth, Carl gave her a tiny white Steiff stuffed bear from Germany. He then went on the run. “If you leave him in my arms, I’ll always have you next to me.”
“I will,” she promises, but she is already nodding off again.
I place my cheek next to hers. My tear floats on her cheek for a moment before dissolving into nothingness.
Like me.
7
Don't Rock the Boat
Sung by American trio The Hues Corporation, and written by Wally Holmes. The song was first featured on their 1973 debut studio album Freedom for the Stallion and hit #1 on both Billboard’s “Hot 100” and Cashbox’s Top 100” lists.
Some music historians consider “Don’t Rock the Boat” one of the earliest disco songs. (That honor may actually belong to "Love's Theme" by Love Unlimited Orchestra, which was a chart-topper from earlier in 1974.) Others say no, but acknowledge the claim may have been made because “Don’t Rock the Boat” was the first disco song to hit #1 on the charts.
In any event, the song is still a favorite of wedding singers all over the world.
Everyone has committed at least one act of self-sabotage.
It might have been while going through the emotional turmoil of a relationship break-up. Or maybe it was a “Take This Job and Shove It” moment.
At the very least, your mother can attest to a few of the hissy fits you threw while in your Terrible Twos.
Should you now find yourself tempted to rock the boat in the placid pond of your lovely life, do this instead:
Take a walk around the block. It’s one way to cool off. (And if you’re still tempted to burn down the house, you can at least scope out someone else’s—perhaps one with less curb appeal.)
Talk it through with a friend. Your bestie may give you some sage advice—or at the very least a different perspective on the situation. (Tip: Do not take her advice while either of you is intoxicated! She may not remember giving it, and you may regret taking it.)
Never flip a coin! By tossing that piece of silver in the air, you might just be throwing your life away. Don’t be your own Judas!
One expects Hell to be hot.
Not wet.
When I walk through the door, I’m immediately immersed in water. Of course, I panic! First, I look behind me for Death—
But the coward is nowhere to be found.
I then take a second look—over my head, where water rises forever— and toward my feet, which have yet to touch bottom. Which way is up?
The fish swimming languidly around me are no help—
Until they scatter, panicked. Their flurry of activity has created a cloud of bubbles that makes it hard for me to see what has scared them away.
Then I see it: a large motor yacht above my head.
I kick my feet up so that I can meet it—
Only to have to duck again below its wake as it zooms right over me.
That’s okay. From what I saw, I don’t like what’s above the surface anyway: The sky is pitch-black except when etched by lightning.
The yacht, at least eighty feet in length, has Satan at the wheel. He looks quite jaunty in his double-breasted blazer and white slacks. A blood red cravat adorns his neck.
His horns, however, cannot be hidden by his jauntily tilted captain’s hat.
By the time it comes back around to me, he’s slowed to a crawl and I notice he’s not alone. A bevy of bathing beauties—all breathtakingly gorgeous, from what I see of their bathing attire from different time eras—coo in awe of his nautical skills.
They’re faking it. There's certainly no joy in their laughter.
There is also no plastic surgery in Hell. Everyone still carries scars from their mortal lives. One of his chippies has a hole where her heart should be. Another has a mangled neck. A third has a bullet between her eyes, emphasizing the deep sadness in her gaze.
“Ah, Donna, there you are!” Satan waves gaily. “I’ve got your weapons.” He reaches down into the hull and pulls out an ancient treasure chest—
Which he then promptly tosses overboard.
“Um…thanks,” I mutter.
He revs the yacht’s engine. “Remember, choose just one. Leave the rest in the box. I’ll pick them up later.” He waves as he zooms away.
I dive after it.
I find the chest directly under me.
It is protected by a lock. When I take a rock and slam it against the lock, it breaks into pieces.
Quickly, I open the chest.
Hmmm…
I’ve been given a flare gun and a harpoon. The rest of the chest is filled with gold doubloons.
As I try to sift through them with my fingers, I discover that it’s really a filmy gown covered in the coins—
Nothing else. Where is the third weapon? Damn Satan! He shorted me!
Calm. Down.
I’m still deciding which of these two weapons to go with when suddenly a school of fish flurry over the chest and me. I can’t see anything—
But I can feel something—
Ominous.
And I see its shadow on the ocean floor—
A shark is just over my shoulder.
I turn to it—
Only it’s not a shark. It is Sebastian Gillingham, a screenwriter who was also a Quorum operative. He passed intel to the terrorist organization through the dialogue in the scripts of his movies and internationally syndicated television shows. While we were on a movie set, he tried to kill me in the middle of a tumultuous coastal storm. Instead, he got washed out to sea.
No wonder the fish are frightened of him! Death has not been kind to Sebastian. The saltwater has peeled off several layers of skin. What is left is pink and puffy, like a flatulent balloon filled with gooey puss and water. His eyes, too, are bulging from their sockets. His appendages are twice the size of a normal human’s, and his fingers and toes are webbed. What little hair he has left is intertwined with long flowing waterweeds. All sorts of parasites cling to it. Those who feed on such critters swim in and out of it too.
When Sebastian sees me, he grins, revealing teeth as sharp as a shark’s. He dips down and around me. I figure that my best weapon against him is the harpoon, but I’m too late. He butts the chest’s lid closed. The lock’s pieces fly back together, snapping it shut again.
I’m left holding the coin-encrusted gown. A lot of good that will do me!
“How truly marvelous! The opportunity to take the Housewife Assassin to Hell is something one lives—or in my case dies for!” Sebastian’s purr is garbled by the bubbles blown out with each word.
I glance around. The bottom of the ocean is rough terrain. Should I head for a cave, or just hide between the peaks and valleys of jutting rocks?
Better to make my plan of attack on the run. “You’ll have to catch me first!” I shout. I kick off hard, heading for a ledge off to my right. I turn the corner—
And find myself face-to-face with a giant electric eel. Yikes!
I dodge its forked tongue, ducking into a cavern. The eel ends up electrocuting an errant clown fish instead. RIP Nemo!
I can barely catch my breath before I see Sebastian coming my way. He too seems keen on dodging the eel. Good to know he’s afraid of something.
