Gideon’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You thought Death Himself, the one who answers only to Azrael, would give an ounce of interest in you compared to the billions of souls he watches over every day?”
Well, when you put it that way …
But Gideon isn’t done. “You can’t possibly be that narcissistic.” I feel tears welling up in my eyes but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care, because he just keeps talking, his voice getting louder and louder. “I told you I would figure this out, didn’t I? I told you to keep your head low and not to make a scene.”
“Yeah, and then you left me,” I snap back. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Not run your mouth off to anyone in the Afterlife who can hear.”
Okay, he has a point. “If he’s so mad at me, why did he show up to my defense?” I ask.
My question is greeted with Gideon’s howling laugh. “That has nothing to do with your situation.”
“Of course it does,” I argue.
“You are delusional. He isn’t trying to save you. He’s trying to save me.”
I step back in shock. “Why you?”
“Because, princess, in your sad tale of woe, you name me as the Reaper who snags your soul.”
“Big deal,” I snarl.
He shakes his head slowly, tapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. “It’s a very big deal to me. Your story makes me look incompetent. Azrael doesn’t like mistakes. He brought the hammer down and ordered me cast into Hell.”
“You’re kidding,” I sputter. I hadn’t meant to get anyone in trouble. “But how does my case going in front of the Tribunal help you?”
Gideon lets out a weary groan. “Death Himself stood up to Azrael—said I was one of the best Reapers he had and that to replace me would be next to impossible. Azrael made him a deal. I can keep my position if we make you, and this whole situation, disappear in a way that makes everyone look good or …” his voice trails off.
“Or what?” I press.
“Or Death Himself will take the downward spiral with me, and his position will be reassigned to another celestial being.”
Understanding hits me like a brick wall. “Meaning Azbaugh?”
“None other.”
“So that’s why he wanted me stuck in the Lobby for the next seven decades.”
Gideon nods. “Azbaugh knew you would complain to any semiconscious person who arrived on the train and then word would spread like wildfire and before anyone could blink an eye, there’s a vacancy in the Death department. No one, well almost no one, in the Lobby is supposed to be able to hear you. But since you were able to wake up the biker, it’s possible you have the ability to communicate with the dead. Death Himself didn’t want to take any chances with you causing any more problems.”
“And that’s why he hates me,” I say, my knees buckling a little.
Gideon catches me by the elbow and leads me over to a chair. “He doesn’t hate you. To be completely honest, I don’t think he cares one way or the other about you. But he does want the best end result so he can prove to Azrael that he’s capable of solving problems on his own. For the entire span of human existence, Death Himself has run his department without anyone keeping tabs on him. He gets souls collected and transported here where he passes them off. When you showed up demanding to go back, a giant spotlight started shining on all of us. As you can imagine, he’s not too happy about it.”
“What does he mean about calling in favors?”
“You heard what he said about favors being currency, right?” I nod and he continues. “Clearing this up is going to make him, how do you say it, broke.”
I slump in my chair. “And the guides are going to cost him even more, aren’t they?”
“We can’t have angels or Reapers leading you through the tests. It would create all kinds of chances for biases. The only alternative is to use souls.”
A shiver goes through me. “But haven’t they already crossed over or whatever they do? Why would they help me?”
“Favors,” he says. “Who do you think picks the welcome committee for the new arrivals? Who do you think assigns souls to the different jobs up here? Death Himself is going to be in serious debt by the time this is over. That’s not a position he likes to be in.”
“This is bad, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s not good,” he agrees. “But the bright side is that you and Death Himself both want the same end, regardless of the reason. He’s going to do whatever it takes to help you succeed because it’s in his best interest to. But he can’t assign just any ghost to be your guide. It has to be one connected to your life. They need to have a vested interest in the outcome of your choice.”
“And that’s why it costs favors?” I ask.
“If they were just any random three spirits, it wouldn’t. My boss could snag them before they cross over. But since the request is specific, he will have to appeal to Saint Peter for the release of the souls and then convince the souls to take part.”
I brighten up at the idea. “Peter likes me. Surely he’ll help me out.”
Gideon snorts. “Peter likes everyone. It’s part of his charm. But no one does anything for free and three specific souls are going to have Death Himself owing Saint Peter for eons to come.”
“I didn’t mean to screw everything up,” I say, hiding my face in my hands. I wonder if he’s using some angel voodoo to make me feel bad. “I just want to go home.”
Gideon sits down on the arm of the chair with a long sigh. “I get it. And I think deep down, and we’re talking really deep down, so does Death Himself, but this is going to be a tough road, for us and for you.”
“What happens next?”
“When your first ghost arrives, he or she will escort you to the point in your past that you’re meant to change. You’ll get one shot at it. Each ghost can help you as much or as little as they want. We might be able to summon their souls, but we can’t control them. You’ve hurt a lot of people over your life, even if you don’t know it. There’s no telling how much they’ll want you to succeed. Some of them might even want you to fail.”
I take a couple cleansing breaths. “Any last words of wisdom you want to offer up?”
“Yeah,” he says with a snort. “Don’t be you.”
What am I supposed to say? He has a point, but he’s still a jerk. The lights flicker overhead and any witty comeback dies on the tip of my tongue.
“Looks like your first guide is here,” he says, standing to leave. “I better get going.”
Maybe it’s the not knowing what’s going to happen, but the words that come out of my mouth surprise even me. “Gideon,” I say, reaching out for his robe. “I’m really sorry about all the trouble I’ve caused.”
He smiles. “How did that word ‘sorry’ taste?”
“Like lemonade without sugar,” I admit with a grin.
He chuckles before adding, “Oh, and just so you know, the gypsy didn’t die from a falling piano.” He pauses and I stare back, waiting for the next bombshell he’s going to drop on me.
“It was a tuba.” And with that he’s gone, leaving me to wait for whatever happens next.
Chapter 14
I never understood how silence could be deafening until now. This is the first time since I reviewed my life that I’ve been alone and I don’t like it. Sitting back in the chair, I spin the ring, switching it from my right to left hand. I think back to Sandy and wonder if she’s still getting into trouble in the Lobby. When I try to picture her in my mind, the painful buzz starts up somewhere in the back of my brain and I shut my eyes, wishing for it to go away. I know better than to try to think about my old life, but I didn’t know the Lobby was off limits, too.
With no other distraction, I think about the ghost who should arrive and whisk me off to replay my life like some over-told Christmas story. Except it’s not a story. It’s real and apparently I’m not the only person who stands to lose everything if it ends badly.
No pressure or anything.
The mist around me begins to swirl as it takes on a slightly pinkish tint. I shut my eyes, then open them wide to make sure I’m not imagining the change. I’m not. In fact, when I look up, I see a woman with long red hair that falls in waves against her pale, radiant skin. Instead of a white robe like almost everyone else I’ve seen, she’s wearing a sheath dress that perfectly matches the hue of the air around us.
“Hello, RJ. It’s nice to see you,” she says as she approaches. “I’m Angelica.”
“Of course you are,” I mutter under my breath and her bright green eyes widen slightly. Remembering Gideon’s warning about souls being able to help me, I quickly add, “I meant hi.”
“Of course you did,” she says, and though her smile is perfectly in place, I can’t miss the slight hint of bitterness in her tone. She’s pretty in a willowy way and somewhere, in the far reaches of my memory, I know I should recognize her. I study her but just when I think I’m going to make the connection, the humming kicks in and I stop. That’s when it hits me that I’ve become the dog in Pavlov’s experiment.
An awkward silence follows as I wait for her to say something. Angelica, on the other hand, seems content to simply stare at me. I shift uncomfortably under her gaze before asking, “I guess you’re my first spirit guide?”
“Apparently.”
That’s all she’s got for me? Isn’t she the one who’s supposed to tell me what to do to fix my past so I can get back to my present? Where are the pearls of wisdom? Can’t she at least muster an inspiring “go get ’em, champ” speech? No. She just watches me, and while everything about her looks pleasant, I have this gut feeling that she hates me and has every reason to. Finally, I can’t stand it anymore and blurt out, “I’m sorry, but is something wrong? Have I done something to irritate you in the whole minute you’ve known me?”
My question is met with a cool smile. “Of course not, RJ.”
Even though she only says four words, I don’t believe any of them. I know passive aggressive when I see it. I’ve made it an art form. What I don’t know is why I’m on the receiving end.
So I say, “Fine, if there’s no problem, maybe you could fill me in on what I’m supposed to do next?”
She sits next to me, tucking the edge of her dress under her, and then stares off into the mist.
My faith in Death Himself’s ghostly selection is fading fast.
Finally she says, “The moments of your life are passing by us.” I expect her to pause so she can deliver her explanation in a flowery prophecy. Much to my relief, she doesn’t. “Eventually, it will slow down and you will be able to see the memory unfold. Be ready. Your soul will be pulled back into the mortal plane and you’ll only have a few seconds to figure out how you are going to respond. Your future will be entirely in your hands. I cannot interfere.”
“That’s it?” I ask, not completely sure she’s telling me everything I need to know. “No offense, but it sounds a little too easy. I mean, if I go back and do the opposite of what I did the last time around, there’s no way I will fail.”
“I wouldn’t make that assumption if I were you. It’s true you will want to avoid the same choices as before, but that may not be enough.”
“Why not?” I ask. “Doesn’t it make sense that the opposite action will result in the opposite outcome?”
“It can,” she begins, her voice soft, almost like a lullaby. “Or it can result in far worse consequences. It’s not enough that the end result is different. It needs to be better.”
“How am I supposed to know if it’s going to be better before I change the past?”
She lets out a long sigh and I feel a pang of sadness. It’s the same sound my mom gives me when her patience is running thin. “Everything you do has a consequence. Good, bad, indifferent, there is always a price to pay. The question is: who pays? Sometimes making the right choice means you might lose something that seems important at the time.”
She looks pointedly at me and I know she’s trying to tell me something.
“But what’s the point of doing all this if my life is going to suck when I get back?”
“Look,” she says, slapping her hands on her thighs. All evidence of her cool exterior is gone. “You’ve done some crappy things in your life—”
“Who hasn’t?” I counter.
“You’re right. Everyone has regrets. But you have been given the chance to go back and change them. These points in your life aren’t random. They mark a time where your selfishness and ambition were more important to you than doing the right thing.”
“I don’t need a lecture from some dead chick,” I mutter. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as the air crackles with tension.
“On that we will agree to disagree,” she says calmly.
And now the gloves are off. “Do I know you?” I ask, unable to figure out why she’s being so rude. “Seriously, Angelica, if I did something to you, tell me what it was so I can say sorry and move on.”
A hollow laugh trickles over her lips. “There is nothing you need to say to me.”
“Then why are you so angry?”
As soon as my accusation fills the space between us, I see Angelica regain her composure. “Anger isn’t something that lasts long up here.”
“Really?” I answer, unconvinced. “Because you seem to be channeling it pretty well.”
This time, she gives me a wry grin. “What can I say? I’m stubborn. That’s something we have in common.”
The wind stirs and the energy in the space changes once again. “It’s happening now, right?” A shiver runs down my spine. “Is it possible that I could screw things up more than the first time?”
“Yes,” she says, and I look up to see compassion in her eyes.
“So what do I do?” I ask, wishing I hadn’t spent so much time arguing with Angelica and more time gathering as much information as possible.
“This is your journey, not mine. I can’t tell you what to do. But deep down, there is good in you. Remember what I said about doing the right thing.”
“It’s not always the easy thing to do,” I repeat, letting the words wash over me as the mist in front of us begins to shimmer. Slowly, a familiar world begins to take shape. We’re standing in the middle of the playground near my house. It’s a bright morning and the place is packed.
“Can they see us?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“What’s happening?”
“Just wait,” she says, staring at the scene, her eyes searching for something or someone.
And then I see myself. I’m eight, and my family has just moved in to our new house. I don’t know anyone, but every day I come here, hoping to find a friendly face. That’s when I see Abby Richards, the first best friend I ever had. I watch her walk up and whisper something in my ear and the next thing I know, we’re catapulting ourselves off the swings and racing down the slides like we’ve known each other our entire lives.
Time speeds up a little and I watch the summer sun give way to the bright colors of early fall. Abby’s parents are sending her to the Catholic school across town, but every afternoon, at 3:15 p.m., we meet on the merry-go-round until the sun ducks behind the trees. On this particular afternoon, I meet my first mean girl. She’s a sixth grader named Claudia, and from what I remember, she did everything she could to make Abby miserable. No matter how hard Abby tried to stay out of her way, it didn’t work. I think the whole fight between Claudia and Abby began earlier in the day, at school, but now it’s about to make an encore performance at our sacred place.
A few minutes later, Claudia’s friends arrive. I was expecting this. Every queen of the playground needs loyal subjects to do their bidding and more importantly, they need people who fear them. Once she has an audience, Claudia begins following Abby, taunting her in a loud, cruel cackle. “What’s the matter, Blabby Abby? No teacher here to protect you now? Are you scared?”
I hear my voice rise a
bove the din of the laughter. “Ignore her, Abby. She’s just trying to make you mad. Come on, let’s go to my house.”
And then, like a roller coaster ride, time rushes forward before a jerking stop. It’s winter. The park is deserted. I’ve almost forgotten about Angelica, but when I glance over, her face is a tapestry of pain and sadness. I start to ask her what’s wrong, but the running footsteps crunching against the fresh snow stop me.
It’s Abby. She’s crying and looking down the street toward my house. She’s waiting for me and instantly I know what’s about to happen. I watch in silence as my child-self races to the merry-go-round. I wrap Abby up in my arms and she begins to sob. My face is easy to read: I have no idea what is going on. At least I didn’t. Not then. I do now.
I try to turn away, but Angelica stops me with a crisp, “Pay attention.”
Taking a breath of resolve, I turn back just as Claudia shows up with a dutiful lackey in tow.
Seeing her tormentor stomping toward her, Abby tries to hide her tears, but it’s no use. The tigress has found her prey weak and vulnerable, and she is ready to pounce.
“What’s the matter, Blabby Abby? Did you skin your wittle knee?”
“Leave her alone,” I say, but Claudia either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care.
“You know, Jenny,” she says to her follower, “we never really dealt with Blabby Abby after she got us busted for smoking.”
“Nope,” Jenny answers. “We never did.”
“I said leave her alone,” I repeat.
That’s when Claudia notices me. “Shut up.”
I watch the fury rise up inside me and I can see something in me snaps. I start to move toward her, my hands curling up, ready to strike. But Jenny, ever the bodyguard, pushes me to the ground.
“Stay where you belong, wimp,” Claudia says. “Try to get in my way again and I’ll ruin what pathetic reputation you have at your school with one phone call.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see two more figures enter the playground. Ah, there they are. The rest of the entourage.
“Hi, girls,” Claudia calls out. “It looks like we found our narc.”
It's a Wonderful Death Page 9
