“See, more proof you don’t belong here. You’re probably the only person who can get away with lying in this place.”
I just grin. After all, sarcasm isn’t lying. Not really. It’s more like my superpower. “Why are you being so nice to me? The last time we were in the same room, I thought you were going to rip my head off.”
“Two reasons. One, I’m no longer in the hot seat because of this whole mess, and two, you did good, kid. Better than I thought you would do.”
“You thought I was going to fail, didn’t you?”
“Let’s just leave it at this: there were moments when I thought locking you in a broom closet for the rest of eternity was a good backup plan.”
“Was I really that bad?” I ask, the sting of his comment hitting me in the gut.
“In the beginning, yeah, you were that bad. But you got better.” He grins at me and reaches out to tousle my hair.
“Quit,” I snap. “I hate that.”
“I know,” he says. “Some things never change.”
“Funny.”
“I thought so,” he says, turning to lead me away from the Hall. “Now, how about we find your Guardian and get you on a train back to your life?” I don’t follow immediately and he stops. “That is what you want, right?”
Of course it is. It’s what I did all this for, isn’t it? Then why am I afraid to put one foot in front of the other and leave?
Death Himself backtracks toward me. “RJ, we need to leave now. You’ll miss your window.”
I nod slowly, but still don’t move. For the life of me, I can’t think of any reason why I would want to stay, but I can’t leave. And then it hits me. All this time, while the battle to send me back was raging on, I got to spend a little more time with Grams and Madeline. I’ll even miss Saint Peter and Al and that smelly dog with three heads. I guess I like it here. It’s starting to feel like home.
As if reading my thoughts, Death Himself grabs me by the arms and moves me forward. “Go. Now. After everything I’ve gone through, you are not allowed to change your mind. Heaven and Earth have been moved and at no point will missing your friends and family be an acceptable reason not to return to the living.”
“But—”
“There are no buts,” Death Himself insists. He then softens his tone. “There is only the life you are meant to live. You have to go back now. Everything is ready for you. Once Marmaroth sets out on a mission, there is no stopping him.”
“What about them?” I whimper. “Grams and Madeline—”
“What about them?” he asks. “They were fine before you got here and they will be just fine once you’re gone. Let’s get moving. Yeats is waiting.”
As we near the train, my fingers begin to tingle and I start examining them.
“It’s the memory of being alive,” Death Himself explains.
“What?”
He nods at my hands. “That sensation. It’s your soul remembering what it feels like to be connected to your body.”
“Oh.” I look over my shoulder and think I see Madeline watching, but the more my eyes strain to see her, the more the wisps of air swirl around me, blocking my view.
“Yeats,” Death Himself says as we approach the train, “here she is, delivered safe and sound.”
“So it would seem.” My Guardian turns to me and motions toward the door. “It’s almost time to leave.”
I look through the window into the train. It is crowded like before, but unlike my arrival, which consisted of mostly old souls, this crowd is full of Guardians cuddling what looks like rolls of blankets.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Brand new souls,” Yeats says with a serene smile.
“Please tell me they aren’t going to cry the entire way there,” I say. “Because if they are, I’ll wait.”
“Just get on the train,” he says with a laugh.
And I do, without anyone forcing me. As the doors close, I turn to find Death Himself still standing outside the door.
“What?” I ask.
“Keep your chin up, kid. Who knows, you might be back here before you know it,” he says as the Soul Mover chugs forward and picks up speed.
I lean against the glass, but Death Himself is lost in the mist. I look at Yeats. “Hey, you don’t think that was some cryptic message about my impending death, do you? Because I’m fine with not seeing this place or any of you for at least seventy years, maybe eighty, with the right diet and exercise.”
Yeats shakes his head and lets out a deep chuckle. “It’s Death Himself, RJ. No one can know for sure what he means. My guess is he’s messing with you. You do kinda bring out the antagonist in him.”
“Yeah, but do you think he knows something about my new life—and my real death?” I demand.
“I doubt it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because your Records are still sealed. Until your soul reunites with your body, no one, not even Death Himself, can view them.”
Why do I get the feeling Death Himself can do whatever he wants?
“Maybe you’re right,” I say. Looking around, I notice the seats are white and pristine. “How come this train is so much nicer than the one we arrived on?”
Yeats glances up. “I don’t know. This is my first time on the outbound express.”
“It’s because these souls are pure. They’re clean and the train is a reflection of them,” a familiar voice explains.
Chapter 31
I spin around to find Hazel standing near us, complete with a swaddle of her own.
“Hi,” I say in surprise.
She smiles and I can see the change in her since she stopped being a Guardian. There’s a gentleness in her face that wasn’t there before.
“You look amazing,” I say. Do angels care about their looks? I mean, they’re all beautiful, but Hazel’s transformation goes beyond surface level.
To my surprise, Hazel blushes. “It’s less stressful delivering the souls than it is to watch over them and bring them back when their lifeline ends,” she admits.
“Hazel was once a human soul, before she was elevated to angel status,” Yeats says, taking both of us by surprise.
“Yeats,” Hazel says, shifting the future newborn away from him. “I thought that information wasn’t supposed to be discussed in front of the souls.”
“I was just explaining your unusual assignment,” he explains. “Besides, she already knows about the elevation process.”
“Who told her?” Hazel demands.
“Um, hello. I’m standing right here,” I remind them, but as always, they ignore me. I guess Death Himself was right. Some things never change.
“Sal did,” Yeats explains. “She was asking all kinds of questions about Madeline.”
“She knows about Madeline?” Hazel shrieks and every angelic face on the train turns toward her. She doesn’t seem to notice and I get a sense of satisfaction that I’m not the only one she ignores.
“Relax,” I tell her. “Apparently they have it set up so when I get back, I’ll think this is just some crazy dream and eventually forget all about it.”
And much to my surprise, she does seem to relax a little. “You know what? You’re not my responsibility anymore. I trust Yeats. If he, or any of the other angels for that matter, wants to take chances with what you will or won’t remember, that’s up to them.”
“Speaking of that, do you know who they’re going to assign as my new Guardian?” I ask Yeats.
“I don’t know yet,” he answers. “For now, you’re stuck with me. Just do me a favor and try not to cause too many problems when you get back.”
The train is beginning to slow. I watch as the black outside the window gives way to gray and then eventually white. When it finally stops, the doors open and the angels, in solemn reverence, walk single file out into the mortal realm. Hazel is the last to disembark.
“Good luck,” she says. “I knew you were redeemable.” She rushes out the door
to catch up with the others.
“Well,” I say, turning back to Yeats, “this is it.”
“End of the line,” he jokes.
“What happens next?”
“When the doors shut, the connection between you and the Afterlife will sever, much like it did when your first timeline came to an end.”
I nod. “And then what?”
“Hopefully, you’ll rejoin your life just after midnight on the day of your first death,” Yeats says, reaching out to place his hand on my shoulder. “With any luck, you’ll be asleep, giving your mind and body enough time to re-form the connection. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re still a little disoriented when you interact with others. There may be some residual interference from the first timeline, at least for the first day or so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some events will seem almost exactly as they did in the first timeline, but more than likely there will be some slight change. Those anomalies may take a little longer for your consciousness to identify and correct.”
“For example?”
Yeats shakes his head. “I don’t know. Like maybe when you go to open your locker, you’ll use the combination from the first timeline instead of the second.”
I think back to my locker. Before the collection, it was next to Felicity’s. I hope things change enough so I’m not in the same hall as her.
“Okay, I get that,” I say and then start to think about all the trouble this could cause if I forget who I’m friends with and, more importantly, who I’m not.
“You’d think, after all this time, I would get used to all your questions,” Yeats says, throwing his hands in the air. “We’re in uncharted territory and you hopefully won’t remember this conversation when you wake up, so—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You want me to get moving.”
“It’s time,” Yeats agrees.
I stand at the edge of the car, take a deep breath, and step onto the platform. Fear seeps through me and I spin around, yearning to get on the train and flee back to the Afterlife.
“What if I screw this up?” I ask Yeats.
“You won’t.”
“But how do you know?” I press. I take a step back toward the train but my retreat is cut short as the doors snap shut.
A slow smile spreads over Yeats’s face. “Because I can see your future,” he says before the door closes with a loud thud.
Chapter 32
I sit upright in bed, shielding my eyes against the bright sun. Is it morning already? I don’t remember going to sleep and when I try to think about yesterday, a distracting hum kicks in my brain. I pick up my phone to check the time just as the alarm blares the latest boy band chart topper. Hitting the snooze button, I pull the comforter over my head, vaguely aware of the phone falling to the floor as the humming grows louder.
“RJ?” my mother calls from behind the door. “Are you awake?”
“No,” I say, but the fabric muffles my response.
She knocks again.
“What?” I yell and immediately grab my head. “I’m up. Geez.”
She doesn’t answer, but I see the shadow of her feet from under the door disappear. Sitting up again, I yank back my hair in a messy ponytail, then lean over the side of the bed, searching for my phone. My fingertips graze the edge of the case. Just a little farther and I’m able to hook my pinkie around it. When I finally fish it out, a ring I don’t remember seeing before tumbles out from beneath the bed. I vaguely remember Mom telling me last week that she had some fake jewelry I could use for my Halloween costume, but the diamond in the middle of the leaping dolphins looks pretty real. At that moment, the alarm on the phone rings again. If I don’t get moving, I’m going to be late. Grabbing the clothes lying on the back of my desk chair, I plod to the bathroom and turn on the faucet in the shower. It isn’t until I step out of the tub and wipe the steam off the mirror that I actually look at the clothes hanging on the back of the door. Why in the world would I ever wear a yellow polka dot pleated halter dress to school? I double check the date on my phone. I thought so. It’s Halloween. What? Am I dressing up as Mary Sunshine?
A tap on the door distracts me and I wrap the towel around my body. When I swing the door open, my mom, who is also wearing a yellow ensemble, is standing in front of me. Usually, my mom only wears black power suits.
“How are you doing?” she asks, rushing to be the first to speak.
“Fine,” I say, drawing out the word so she knows how strange she’s acting.
I watch as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her eyes are misty and she looks like she’s about to burst into tears. “I just wanted to make sure you were ready for today.”
What is she talking about? Why would she care? It’s another crappy school day. A nagging feeling creeps in from somewhere deep inside. There’s something I should be remembering, but whatever it is, my mind is fuzzy. I look back at the dress. Yellow. That means something, doesn’t it? I’m drawing a blank and my head feels like there’s a cage match raging inside. “I think I’m good,” I finally answer, filling a glass with water and choking down two pain killers.
She gives me a quick nod. “I fixed your shoes up, just like you asked.” She pauses, waiting for something.
Why would I ask her to fix my shoes?
“Um, thanks,” I finally mutter.
Tears begin to well up in her eyes before they stream down her face. She reaches out and pulls me into a hug so tight I’m pretty sure at least one, if not both, of my lungs collapses. When she finally releases me, I tighten my towel and give her a little smile. What is her deal? Unless she … oh no … did Dad find out about the affair? Is that why she’s so weepy? Is he leaving her? Is he leaving me with her?
I watch as she wipes her eyes before giving my arm a light squeeze and whispers, “I love you so much.”
Crap. He knows.
“I love you, too,” I say. She smiles and finally starts to leave my room. “Do you want a ride to school or is Daniel picking you up?”
“I’m good,” I assure her, wondering why in the world Daniel would be picking me up. We haven’t hung out in months. Or have we? There’s that fuzzy feeling in my brain again.
Without warning, my head begins to spin and I have to sit down on the toilet to keep from throwing up. Once the nausea passes, I pick up the dress and consider hiding it in the back of my closet. The very thought conjures a strong negative reaction. For whatever reasons, I need to wear it. As the soft material slips over my body and the folds fall into place, so do my memories. I remember why I’m wearing yellow. My stomach lurches and I race to the toilet just in time for the pills to come back up.
Today is Madeline’s funeral. And the reason Daniel is picking me up is to take me to the memorial they’re having at school. The entire town will be there, including my mother. As for the unseasonable outfit, that was Madeline’s rule. Everyone attending her service had to wear yellow.
How could I forget? It’s not like every moment of the last four days hasn’t been spent planning her service. Or crying in private. Or hating God.
On the floor sits a pair of black heels with yellow daisy clips. Daisies are, or were, Madeline’s favorite flowers. After slipping them on, I finish getting ready in silence. Just as I’m putting the finishing touches on my makeup, the phone rings.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice echoing in my ears.
“Hey.” Daniel’s voice is flat without a trace of his trademark laughter. “You ready?”
“Yep.” And by yep, I mean nope. Who can ever be ready to bury her friend?
“Okay.”
I grab my purse and don’t even stop for one last look to make sure I appear perfectly composed. This day is going to suck and no amount of mascara is going to change that. As I walk out the front door, my mother calls out, “We’ll be there soon!”
I turn to answer but stop as I notice my father helping her with the clasp of her necklace. When he’s done, h
e kisses Mom lightly on the head and she turns around, letting him pull her into a protective embrace.
Maybe he doesn’t know about her betrayal. Or maybe he does and the thought of attending the funeral of his daughter’s best friend is making them push that aside for now. After all, they aren’t the ones putting their kid in the ground. This thought strikes me as ironic, but as soon as the idea enters my brain, the fuzzy hum starts up again. Whatever’s going on, I don’t have time for it. I shut the door softly, trying not to interrupt their moment, and walk to the waiting car at the curb.
I feel a familiar rush of comfort when I see Daniel. I know the weeks I was MIA in our friendship, the time I was hanging out with Felicity and her people, were hard on him and it’s always tense when we’re first around each other.
Daniel unlocks the door just as I touch the handle. I slip into the seat and stare straight ahead. There’s nothing left for us to say to each other that hasn’t already been said. We are beyond kind gestures and empty condolences. The only positive thing to come from Madeline’s death is that it has brought the two of us back together.
This morning, Daniel does what he does best. He distracts me from my pity by taking shots at the only person in the world I actually hate. “So,” he says as he pulls away from the curb, “what do you think Felicity is going to wear? Feather-skirted cocktail dress?”
I smile. It’s not quite a laugh, but better than I expect. “Don’t forget the plunging neckline and glitter stilettos.”
“Of course.” The corners of Daniel’s mouth turn up. Not enough to resemble a real smile, but enough to give me hope he will get there someday. “Did you know she actually called Madeline’s mom to see if she wanted her to speak at the service?”
My mouth gapes. Leave it to Felicity to think she could try to steal money from someone and still ask for a moment in the spotlight.
“You’re kidding,” I say in disgust. Then I remember how I almost became an accomplice in her scheme. How could I forget something like that? It must be shock.
“Not even a little. I was there when she called.”
It's a Wonderful Death Page 19
