‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: ‘we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’
‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.
‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’
My laughter begins with a sputter, building from sporadic giggles to uncontrolled howling. Tears begin to roll down my face as I slide to the floor in a hopeless fit. Clutching the book to my chest, I gasp for breath, which sets off even greater peals of hilarity. The idea of gasping for breath after you’ve died leaves me with no choice but to give in to the absurdity of it all. Standing up and pulling myself together is impossible.
Finally, my laughter slows to a wheezing cackle. My fingers wipe the tears from my eyes, clearing my vision.
I have a spectator.
He stands at the end of the row, watching me, the corners of his mouth turned up in a bewildered smile. I squeal like a boiling teakettle. My left hand darts up to cover my face.
He has jet-black hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s slim but not skinny, fit but not bulky. He’s perfect. Too perfect, so I have to assume he has some major character flaw.
“This the comedy section?” Mr. Perfect asks, looking at the call number on the bookcase next to me. “I can never find anything in here.”
I peek between my fingers, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. The book is my only defense, held up in the hand of my outstretched right arm. “It’s the Cat’s fault.”
His eyes scan the title. “Feels a bit like that, doesn’t it?”
“That’s exactly how it feels, but our friend Alice got to wake up at the end.” Caught off guard by his perfect smile, my leaden hand falls from my face and into my lap.
“Well, we’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.”
He seems mighty proud of that joke. Maybe he’s not quite perfect.
I roll my eyes. “Wrong book.”
“They made a book out of that?”
I stare at him, incredulous.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “Want a hand up? You look like you could use a friend.”
“We just met like a minute ago.”
“But we’ll be spending a lot of time together. May as well start now, right?”
“Wow, somebody’s pretty sure of himself.”
“I’m not going anywhere for quite a while. You just got here, so neither are you. It’s a safe bet we’re going to get to know each other. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re going to like me.” He grins.
“Why’s that? Because, to be honest, I’m not having much luck so far.”
“I take it you’ve met my roommate. Short kid, dark hair, crappy attitude?”
“Herc’s your roommate?”
He nods. “Lucky me, right?” He runs his fingers across a row of books. “He’s not nearly as bad as he’d like everyone to think.”
“If you say so. Just don’t let his charming personality rub off on you.”
“Me? Never. You ever hear of ‘Minnesota nice’?”
“You kidding me?” My thumbs point back at myself. “Wisconsin. Not nearly as nice.”
His laugh, carefree and life-affirming, is at total odds with this place and this situation. “It’s serendipity,” he says. “We were practically neighbors alive, and now that we’re dead, we really are.” He offers me his hand.
My hand slips into his. “Fine, you’ve convinced me.” He pulls me to my feet with ease. My heart flutters. My non-functioning heart is now fluttering? I really don’t need this.
“The name’s Charlie, by the way.”
“Dez,” I say as we shake hands.
“So I’ve heard.” He winks at me. My close proximity to Mr. Perfect Charlie and the fact he’s still holding my hand makes my face hot.
He looks down at our hands. He lets go and looks into my eyes. “Still getting used to things around here, huh?”
Trying to come up with a clever response, I’m struck by the obvious. I’m dead. Clever doesn’t mean much compared to that.
Our fingertips brush together again. Distracted, I drop Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and the book hits the floor with a resounding thud. Full klutz mode takes over. I put the book back on the shelf, but knock several more over in the process.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I cover my face again. “This really isn’t my day.”
“Well, yeah, it’s not every day you die. Welcome to life, A.D.”
I drop my hands, puzzled. “In the year of our Lord?”
Charlie’s face scrunches up into a bewildered expression. “Huh?”
“A.D. stands for anno domini. It’s Latin for ‘in the year of our Lord.’” I glance at the shelf, pondering this strange place. “This seems more like ‘In the eternity of limbo.’ My Latin’s a bit rusty, so I have no idea what the translation would be.”
“Oh.” He seems a bit bewildered. “Well, here it stands for ‘after death.’ As in, you’re on day one, after death.” He takes my hand and looks down at my bracelet. “Today is the first day of the end of your life. It’s pretty much assumed it’s going to suck.”
He turns our hands so his bracelet shows.
LEVEL 04-054-316
Although we’ve only just met, I can’t help but wonder what might have been. How would Charlie have fit into my life? Is it just the fear? Is the uncertainty of what’s ahead drawing me close? Is there more? I’ve never before entered any sort of meaningful relationship, friendship or otherwise, without the filter of family and, as I got older, friends. I’m completely alone, now. I’ve only been here a few hours, but I already miss them, and the day-to-day life I took for granted, so much.
Those awful plaid shorts Dad always wears when he grills out.
Summers lifeguarding with Ava at the water park.
Sledding down the rec park hill on trays we “borrowed” from the high school cafeteria.
Riding the Corkscrew at Valleyfair until we puke.
Canoe trips down the Flambeau River every Fourth of July weekend.
Tilting forward, my forehead comes to rest against a cool metal shelf. Tears sting my eyes, threatening to spill over and send me spiraling. “Not this again,” I whisper. “Please.”
“You okay?” He places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Just breathe.”
“What’s the point? Breathing when you’re dead?” Unable to stand still another second, I turn and walk away.
“It’s what we know,” he says, catching up to me. “It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t matter, if that makes any sense.”
“You sound like Crosby.”
“But Crosby’s a staff member, so he came back here by choice.”
“What? Why would anyone volunteer for this?”
He shrugs. “Maybe you’ll volunteer someday.”
“It’s a little early to be talking about someday, don’t you think?”
Charlie’s voice softens. “I spent my first week here curled up on my bed, crying like a baby.”
“You did not.”
“I swear.” He holds up his hand in a pledge. “When I finally got past the crying … ” He comes to a stop at a window looking over the park.
“What?” I ask.
His eyes darken as he stares out the window. “Let’s just say, I explored a number of creative avenues of escape.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, for starters, we’re on the ninety-fifth floor, and these windows open.”
“You jumped?”
He holds out his arms. “And not a scratch on me to show for it. Hurt like hell, though. Broke everything you can break, but it only took a week to heal. Soon as I was better, I went up to the top floor and tried again. Five hundred stories, and I’m still here.”
My legs go weak. I reach for the windowsill to steady myself. “Why? Why would you do that?”
“Same reason I went out to the tracks and stepped in front of a train. Same reason I tried to drown myself, suffocate, and hang. Even went so far a
s to try and choke on a piece of orange, down in the cafeteria. I wanted out.”
My head shakes in slow motion. “Jesus … ”
“Is nowhere to be found. Not around here, anyway.” He laughs, harsh and bitter. “You want to know a secret?” He taps his head. “Pain is all in here. Injuries, too. When you realize that, you can have a lot more fun around here.” He opens the window.
And he jumps.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I can’t look away.
“No!” I wail, helpless. Charlie plummets toward the ground, becoming smaller and smaller until he’s little more than a dot disappearing through the canopy of trees.
I sprint through the rows upon rows of bookshelves and back to the elevators. My palm slams against the call button on the wall. Come on. I urge the elevators to race each other to the ninety-fifth floor; my fists bounce off my thighs while I pace. Every few seconds, I stop to drum a staccato rhythm on the lit call button with a shaking index finger.
An elevator makes its way up from the lobby at a crawl, the numbers creeping upward until at last the chime of its arrival sounds. The doors part and I dash through, pivoting to the side to squeeze in before they fully open. I spend the ride down hopping on the balls of my feet and praying the elevator makes no stops, but like my other prayers today, this one is ignored. Six stops slow the trip to a snail’s pace. Residents I can’t bring myself to so much as look at come and go as we make our slow descent to the ground floor.
The doors open and I hit the lobby at a run, sick with fear and adrenaline. I round the reception desk and run flat into Charlie.
He grins from ear to ear as his hands land on my shoulders, stopping me in my tracks. “Where’s the fire?” he asks, laughing.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demand.
“Dez, I’m fine.” He takes a step back and turns around, arms out at his sides. “See?” He doesn’t have a scratch on him.
“Why, Charlie? Why would you do that?”
“I was just screwing around. I told you that pain and injuries are all in our heads, but it didn’t seem like you believed me.”
He reaches for me, but I take a step back. “That was a horrible thing to do. You have no idea what I’ve been through today.”
The smile falls from his face. “It was a joke,” he says. “Come on, lighten up.”
“If that’s your idea of a joke … ” I turn on my heel and storm off toward the elevators.
Charlie jogs to catch up to me. “Where are you going?”
“Away from the chaos.” I press the up button on the wall.
This time there’s an elevator waiting for me. The doors open and Charlie moves to follow, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “Elevator rides are bad enough. I don’t need an afterlife daredevil tagging along.”
“Dez—”
The closing doors cut off his words.
Flames flicker and bend as though reflecting the thoughts dancing in my head. The fireplace is a warm and welcome change, its heat a soothing respite from this nightmare of a day. I feel like a dandelion gone to seed and blown into the wind.
Was it really just this morning? I can still feel the cold steering wheel in my hands and the warmth of the heated seat; I can still feel the sleepy fog lifting from my mind. The day felt so promising. The universe gave me no warning, no hint at what it had in store for me.
“What happened out there?” Hannah asks. “Did Herc say something?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She moves from the recliner to the couch. “You’ve barely said a word since you came back.”
“I just wish this day would end.” I slip off the couch and onto the floor, moving closer to the fire.
She glances down at her wrist. “It will. Just another hour and a half to go.”
“How can everyone be so focused on time when it’s meaningless? I mean, eternity trumps all, right?”
“We’re used to the passage of time. As hard as this all is, throwing us into a timeless eternity while we try to let go would be impossible. That’s why we’re on ‘living’ time, down to the millisecond. Besides, time’s a pretty effective motivator. If you know exactly how long you’ve been here, you’re more likely to work hard to get out. The staff wants us to move on just as much as we want to.”
“I doubt that. But say you’re right, and we’re dependent on the passage of time. What about the parts of the world where people are on a different calendar? What do they do?”
“Everyone is on the calendar they’re used to from life. The parks are kind of like the United Nations. They have us all divided up.”
“Interesting.” My fingers stretch toward the flames as I lean precariously close to the fire. My face stings from the searing heat.
“What are you doing?” Alarm lifts Hannah’s voice half an octave.
The heat becomes oppressive, but I hold my hand steady. The flames leap forward, licking my fingertips as though accepting the challenge. I yank my hand back, cursing the blisters appearing on my thumb and index finger.
“What did you expect?” Hannah furrows her brow and stares at me, shaking her head.
There is a soft knock at our door. “I’ll get it,” Hannah says. “It’s probably Franklin. He’s our floor supervisor.”
I slink back to the couch. “No more people,” I groan.
“Hey, Charlie,” Hannah says. “Wow, for me?” she asks, her voice sugary and warm.
“Uh … I … ” Charlie stammers. “Is Dez here?”
“Dez? Yeah, of course.” Her face reddens as she turns around. “I guess you two have met.” She leaves Charlie standing in the doorway with an enormous bouquet of flowers in his hands.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asks with a sheepish smile.
“Fine,” I say flatly. I cross the suite from the couch to the door in a few long, angry strides, and join him outside the room.
“What do you want?” I pull the door closed behind me.
He holds the flowers up. “I would have been back sooner, but it took a while to pick them.”
“I guess so.” I do a silent count. There are three dozen flowers in his hands. Tulips, roses, marigolds, daffodils, carnations, and a few others I can’t identify.
“There are more downstairs,” he tells me, a hesitant smile on his face. “I couldn’t carry them all, but there’s an apology for each floor.” He stares down at the flowers. “I really am sorry, Dez.”
“Tulips are my favorite,” I whisper, remembering the bouquet I carried last spring as a bridesmaid in my cousin Julia’s wedding. They’re still hanging, dried, on my bedroom door.
“You want ninety-five tulips?” Charlie asks, eager. “I’ll go pick them.” The hopeful look in his eyes is enough to melt the frosty edges around my anger.
I pluck a fiery fuchsia and orange tulip from the bunch and twirl the stem between my fingers. “No more windows, okay?”
“Scout’s honor.” He hands me the rest of the flowers. “Can we start over?”
“Deal.”
“I’m Charlie.” He holds out his hand. “I occasionally do crazy things, but I’m working on my not-terrifying-the-new-girls skills.”
I laugh, the final remnants of my anger vanishing. “Nice to meet you.” We shake hands, and a surge of electricity passes between us, making me shiver. That sick and nervous feeling I had when I first saw him is back.
“What are we going to do with all of those?” I ask. “I don’t think our rooms come with vases.”
“I know just the place. Follow me.”
He leads me into the library, scanning the shelves as we wind our way through the aisles. “Here we are,” he finally says. “Botany.” He grabs the flowers and shoves them onto a shelf near a book titled Ikebana Through the Ages: A Visual History of Japanese Floral Arrangement.
“Visual aids,” I say. “Nice.”
“I’m nothing if not thoughtful.” He looks me up and down. “You know what you need?”
<
br /> “To wake up?” One side of my mouth pulls up in a half-smile.
“Uh, you know what else you need? A patented Charlie Weimann butt-kicking in foosball. Guaranteed to make you forget your troubles.”
“Is that so?”
“How can you worry about being dead when you’re being annihilated by little spinning soccer men?”
I stand up straight, my chin in the air, feigning indignation. “You talk a mean game, Charlie Weimann, but you underestimate the competition. You happen to be looking at a foosball master, and the beating I’m about to lay upon you will make you regret such assumptions.”
He bows in a gesture of deference, one arm stretched out. “After you, milady.”
More one-on-one time with Charlie?
Yes, please.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Charlie moves to one side of the foosball table, his cheeks turning pink. “You look nice, by the way. Are those your clothes, or Atman’s?”
“Atman’s.” I hold back a nervous laugh and force myself to keep my expression even. “Buttering me up to get some sort of sporting advantage? That the best defense strategy you could come up with?”
“No need for strategy when you possess perfection. I’m flawless.”
“And modest, too.”
Charlie flexes his impressive arms in a show of manliness. He grabs the grip of the nearest rod on the table and spins it, sending the little soccer men into a display of acrobatics.
“Rotating any soccer figure more than 360 degrees is against regulations,” I inform him.
He stares at me, eyebrows arched, amusement dancing across his face.
“Just FYI,” I say.
He claps his hands together. “Okay, let’s go.” He looks down at the table. “Red or black? Your choice.”
“I’ll take red. Not like it matters. You’re doomed either way.”
“Not possible. You are looking at the master of all table games.” He spreads his arms out, motioning to his little kingdom in the game lounge.
“You gonna talk all day or are we going to play?”
He grabs a ball and readies it at the cup. “Brace yourself, Dez. Here comes the thunder.”
Life, A.D. Page 6
