Be the Death of Me

by Rebecca Harris

  Time passes, weeks of what I would call near perfection. Winter rallies and fails, making way for the encroaching spring, and it isn’t until three weeks into the assignment, on a random, seemingly innocent Thursday evening that everything begins to change. I’m alone, once again left to fend for myself while my partner is off reporting to our superior. I don’t blame him for his absence, nor envy his task.

  Ford’s lies in bed, arm bent behind his head as a makeshift pillow while the actual pillow lies on the floor, unused. Deep, full breaths issue from his chest, his mouth hangs open. “You’re the worst fake sleeper in the world, you know that?” I call across the room.

  One chocolate eye opens against the darkness. Ford flips over on his back. “Damn,” he grins. “And I here I thought I was a shoo–in for Julliard.”

  “Well, I hear they’ll take just about anybody,” I say, taking a running leap at the bed and landing with a plop on my knees. The mattress doesn’t jostle in the slightest, completely unable to register my weight. I shift so my back is resting against his headboard and I’m able to look up at the dark expanse of ceiling.

  He sits up on his elbow and gestures to ceiling. “Is it like the movies?” he asks as I sink down beside him.

  “The movies?”

  “Yeah, you know. All this time, I’ve pictured you living in some big, fancy cloud condo. Stars for porch lights, an angel for a roommate.”

  I groan in spite of myself. “Ugh. Don’t even get me started on those guys. Bunch of sanctimonious old windbags.”

  His eyes light up. He shakes his mess of hair, sending it in waves across his forehead. “Elders and Angels and Guardians.”

  “Judges,” I add to his list. “Shepherds, Reapers. Not the most pleasant people, of course. Caretakers, Seers.”

  “So let me ask you something then,” he says, twisting to face me. His brown eyes shine ebony in the darkness. “If you and Tucker are the first Guardians to be seen by a living person, how did you do your job before? How do any of you do your job?”

  “You know on cop shows how interrogation rooms always have those one–way mirrors? It’s kind of like that. Just because you don’t know we’re there doesn’t mean we can’t do our job. You could have had a hundred Guardians before me, and you’d never once have known they were there. But you’re still alive, aren’t you?”

  His lungs fill with a shaky breath, and his ribcage expands against my body.

  “Imagine for a minute that you’re on your way to school,” I continue, lowering my voice to a tight whisper. “But your car won’t start. Maybe your Guardian figured it out and was trying to keep you from getting in a wreck. Or maybe you’re flying across the country, but your plane gets delayed, and you’re bumped to another flight.”

  “That’s the Guardians?”

  “Sometimes,” I shrug against his wiry frame. “But not every time. We’re never a hundred percent sure what we’re protecting you from, so every now and then we have to guess. We may be the little voice in your head, telling you not to cross the street. Or a whisper in the breeze persuading you to turn around for no reason whatsoever. But you do. And you live.”

  Ford stares ahead, seeing the unseen, buried in his thoughts. “What happened?” he asks, suddenly nervous. “To you, I mean. What happened when you died?” It’s obvious he’s trying his best not to overstep a line. It doesn’t matter. The lines have been blurred and what’s left between us is only foggy shadow.

  “I woke up,” I begin slowly, “with my face pressed against the floor and this girl standing over me. She was my age, but with curly red hair and freckles.

  “‘All new arrivals must report to room one–eleven,” I mimic the snooty, high–pitched voice I remember so clearly. “Of course I had no idea what she was talking about. I just assumed she was nuts.

  “‘All new arrivals must report to room one–eleven,’ she said again when she realized I wasn’t listening to her. She had a clipboard in her arms, and was dressed like a nineteen–seventies stewardess.”

  Ford clears his throat. “I think they prefer the term flight attendants.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I had no idea what was happening. And what was strange was I had just been through hell but I still felt fine. No broken bones, no cuts, no burns. I was for all intents and purposes completely unhurt. I kept staring at the girl. I rubbed my eyes, blinked, did whatever I could, but no matter what I did . . . she kept glowing. Her hair, her face, they just . . . glowed, bright, brilliant blue. But that would be crazy, right? So I told myself I had a head injury.

  “She kept telling me to go to room one–eleven, and I, of course, kept ignoring her. She wouldn’t answer any of my questions, no matter how many times I asked her where I was or how I got there. So finally, and I still maintain that none of this was my fault, something inside of me snapped. I lunged at her, grabbed a handful of red curls and pushed her up against the closest wall I could find. Cap says I was the first person to ever physically attack the hostess.”

  “I’d believe it.”

  “I held her against the wall, and yelled at her to take me home.”

  “‘You can’t go home,’ she said calmly. I remember thinking it was strange she didn’t try to fight back. I asked her why I couldn’t go home and she said something I’ll never, ever forget. She said, ‘Because the dead have no home.’”

  Ford leans forward, eager, anticipating, a child listening to a ghost story in every sense of the word.

  “I went into complete shock,” I continue. “And then I started screaming and screaming and screaming until someone finally took me by the shoulders and led me away. The room they took me to was pitch dark and empty except for a single, full length mirror. I walked over to it, not sure why it was there, or why I was there. But then I saw.”

  “Saw what?”Ford whispers.

  “The girl looking back at me wasn’t the same girl who for school that morning. The blonde hair was still mine, the blue eyes, but I wasn’t there. I had been swapped with someone who could never in a million years have been me. But most of all . . .” I let my voice trail off.

  “Most of all . . .” Ford says. His voice sounds strange. “Most of all what?”

  I let my eyes drop to the hands resting in my lap.

  “I was glowing.”

  Tucker

  Have you completely lost your mind?

  I shouldn’t have let her get to me. I shouldn’t have, but how am I supposed to resist? How when every fiber of my being is telling me to help her? It’s what it’s always told me. I’ve tried appeasing her. I’ve tried giving her the cold shoulder. I’ve tried completely shutting her out, but trying to keep Billie from my thoughts is as pointless as wishing for a second chance at life.

  I groan loudly as the elevator comes to an abrupt halt.

  “Nice to see you again, Mr. Reid.”

  Abby looks up from her work, and flashes me one of her million–dollar smiles.

  I grin back, showering her with a dose of irresistible Tucker charm. “You’re looking particularly radiant today, Abby,” I say as I approach her desk. I brush a tuft of hair off my forehead, completely unsurprised when it falls back into place the instant I move my hand.

  “MR. REID?” the Captain’s voice booms from the intercom. “MR. REID?”

  With a wink in her direction, I place a finger to my lips and pretend to make a beeline for the nearest exit.

  “DON’T PULL THAT CRAP WITH ME, TUCKER. GET IN HERE.”

  With a half–hearted chuckle, I trudge the long, chic hallway to his office with the enthusiasm of a man climbing the gallows. I knock once and enter, pushing the heavy, oak door open. To my complete and total astonishment, I’m not bombarded with the customary greetings of “Sit your ass down, Tucker,” or “Glad you found the stones to come back, Mr. Reid.” Instead, the dulcet tones of both strings and woodwinds, swelling violins, piccolos, and flute welcome me as I enter the open, stylishly–decorated office. The Captain stands at his “window,”
the mural of blue sky behind his desk I’ve never fully understood, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

  “Berlioz?” I ask, listening to the dull thud of the door as it closes behind me. “Un Bal, right?” The music grows and fades, grows and fades, grows and fades. The flutes, the strings, they serve as dialogue, speaking to one another through composition.

  “I’m impressed,” the man in black murmurs, finally stirring. His thick, auburn mustache twitches in amusement. “One of the lesser–known waltzes, but exquisite nonetheless.”

  “Do you want me to sit?” I ask, ignoring the tiny voice in my head telling me to make a mad dash for the door. “Do you . . I mean . . Have you figured out why Ford can see us yet?”

  He keeps his hands behind his back, his sharp, unwavering gaze never leaving my face. “We’re still looking into the situation. However, that’s not why I called you here.” He lets my question dissolve into thin air. “You’re clever enough to understand, Mr. Reid, just how pointless it is trying to keep things from me. Especially on an assignment as important as this one.”

  I focus very hard at the tile beneath my feet, counting them, numbering them, naming them, anything to keep from meeting the thunder clouds in the eyes of the man in front of me.

  “I want you to know, Tucker, that I am very pleased with the way you and Foster are handling this case.”

  My head shoots up before I can completely register what he said.

  “You’re practically Pavlovian when it comes to Foster,” he chuckles. “Listen, I know all about the close call that occurred in the grocery store parking lot. Foster pushing Mr. Ford out of the way of an oncoming vehicle? I almost didn’t believe it. Though I must say I am exceedingly pleased to be proven wrong. And for that, I want to applaud you.”

  “Me?” My voice involuntarily rises nearly three octaves.

  “Foster is finally living up to her potential,” he says, moving forward and unclasping his hands to pat me once on the shoulder. “She’s motivated. Focused. Everything a true Guardian ought to be. And I have to believe the sudden change of attitude is due, at least in part, to your influence.”

  “My . . . influence?”

  “I’ve told you before. You and I are very much alike, Mr. Reid. We’re different, special even. We’ve overcome personal tragedy to be elevated to higher stations because I believe we know how to remain steady when the rest of the world crumbles in chaos. Steadfast through and through. Not like Foster. No, she’s far too explosive for her own good. So I have to believe something you’ve said, or perhaps simply your general enthusiasm for the job, has had this remarkable effect on her. Why else would she take such a determined interest in this case?”

  His words dredge up images I wish my mind could erase. Billie and Ford laughing, his arm around her shoulder, her hands grazing over his, the smile she wears whenever they’re together. She thinks I haven’t noticed. She thinks it’s harmless. But she has no idea what that smile means.

  The Captain dismisses me as the symphony of violins and violas ends, letting me go with another clap on the shoulder. I get to my feet, feeling as if I’ve been dropped into an alternate universe. Truth be told, I find the new, even–tempered version of the Captain far more frightening than the original.

  “Oh, and Tucker,” he calls before I can put one foot outside the door, “I want you to have something.” He reaches into the far bottom desk drawer, pulling out what looks to be no more than a manila folder. From the file he withdraws a single sheet of paper before placing it, alone, back in the drawer. He then holds the folder out to me, thick and stuffed with mismatched papers, though missing the now–excluded sheet. I reach out to take it, approaching as one would a dangerous, feral animal. He smiles once more. “Consider it a gift,” he says. “I suppose I should have given it to you a while ago, but it took quite a bit of wheedling to get the Elders to allow it.”

  I stare down at the file in my hand, feeling my gut turn a somersault into my throat.

  “You may go,” he says once more, sitting behind his desk and diving back into his stack of paperwork.

  I nod and leave, wrapped in a tight cocoon of shock and confusion, unsure of what to do with the universe I’ve been thrown into.

  Ford

  Billie remains silent after she finishes her story; the quietest she’s ever been. I say nothing. I don’t think she expects me to. We sit, unmoving, still as statues in the solitude of our private world, content with the simple satisfaction of having someone to listen. My faithful owl sits on guard duty outside my window, hooting a cadence of peacefulness like he knows it’s only a matter of time before I succumb to sleep. I yawn against my will, and it isn’t long before my eyelids begin to grow heavy.

  “I want you to know that it’s okay, Billie.” I yawn deeply, allowing my eyes to close. I don’t even know what I’m saying; the words spill out without thought or consideration. “You’re a good Guardian, but it’s . . . too much. It might be easier if . . . yawn . . . you just let me go. Then I could be like you.”

  One lightning quick move is all it takes for her to have my ear as a hostage, twisting it painfully in her hand. “Don’t ever say that!” Her blue eyes blaze. “I don’t care how bad you think you have it. You wouldn’t say that if you knew what it’s like from my side. You think Tuck and I are lucky because we can disappear and walk through walls? There are so many things, hundreds of things, millions, that you do every day that I would give anything to do again.”

  She slips out of bed and crosses to the far side of the room, taking her comforting glow with her. “A word to the wise,” she says, turning back. “Appreciate what you have. Even the bad stuff. Because you can’t imagine how much you’ll miss it when it’s gone.”

  I creep out from beneath the covers, discovering the hardwood floor chilly against my bare feet. “So tell me,” I say gently, not wanting to overstep my boundaries. “What do you miss?”

  A bitter chuckle issues from her throat as she slides gracefully down the wall, falling like a stream of running water. She pulls her knees to her chin. I follow her example.

  “Weird things,” she answers finally, as if the words are being pulled from her like a string of taffy. “Things I never in a million years would have thought twice about when I was alive.”

  “Like?”

  “Promise you won’t laugh?”

  “Ever again?”

  “Ford.”

  “Okay, okay. I promise.”

  “Stupid stuff. Like . . . waking up after a perfect night’s sleep and laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I miss cheeseburgers and French fries and cherry soda. I miss dressing up and feeling pretty.” She tugs at the sleeve of the same black t–shirt I see her in every day. “I miss the way the scent of an orange would linger on my fingertips after peeling it, and stepping into a really hot shower, and brushing my hair, and how a kiss could make my lips tingle for hours.”

  She pauses for a single, heartbreaking second.

  “I miss crying.”

  Hidden grief echoes through those three simple words, piercing my heart with sadness. When I first met Billie, I assumed her general disdain for everything around her was an act, a defense mechanism set up in order to keep anyone from getting too close. I see now that the root goes much deeper. Maybe Billie did let someone get close once. Maybe she even loved someone and they loved her back. Perhaps being forced to protect people with lives like the one she used to have has made her this way, bitter and unstable and beyond anyone’s reach. I can’t fault her for it. It would be enough to drive even the strongest mad.

  “Do you know what happened after you died?” I ask when I realize she isn’t going to continue. “What happened to everyone else?”

  She leans to the side, resting her head on my shoulder. I feel her nod against the soft fabric of my shirt. “Everyone made a big deal out of my death. Stupid, really. Practically the whole school came to the funeral. My sister even went to counseling for a while. It didn’t last though. I
think one day everyone sort of realized that the world would keep turning even though I was gone. And that’s good. It’s exactly how it should be. My best friend, Maya. She works for the local news station now. She handles weather or something like that.”

  “Maya Rodriguez?” I interrupt with a goofy grin. “The WCYN weather girl?”

  Her face breaks into a sentimental smile. “That’s her. And Austin, my boy—” she cuts herself off this time, “my other friend, he went to college on a basketball scholarship. But he blew out his knee sophomore year, so now he coaches at a high school in Vermont . . . the same school where his wife teaches.”

  Is it my imagination, or does her perfect voice actually break?

  “My mom moved to Fort Lauderdale two years ago,” she continues as if nothing is the matter, always stronger than the rest of us. “She’s living with some guy named Franklin. She looked peaceful the last time I saw her. She and Olivia deserve to be happy.”

  “Olivia?”

  “My sister. Got married, had a kid, works as the head chef at Bonterra’s now.”

  “Café Bonterra? I love that place. They have the best shrimp capellini.” I look down at her to find her face turned to mine, staring at me with an unreadable expression. “Oh,” I say quickly. “Not the point.”