by C. S. Wilde
“I’m sorry about your current condition,” I mutter. Giving my condolences to a dead man feels unnatural, but I hope it makes up for the fact that I was a total bitch to him.
He waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t be. Dying is a natural process. Accepting it is the key to a happy afterlife. Lots of people ‘round here don’t talk about it, and it’s no good to them.” Irving clasps his hands behind his back. “Do you know how I died? Old age,” he says with pride.
He’s messing with me. “You can’t be more than twenty-two.”
He shrugs. “Some people look like children even though they died old; others look old though they departed in their twenties. John here has an eternally wet suit. I think it’s safe to say we project randomly after we die.”
“That’s so odd.” I peer at him. “It’s hard picturing you as some old grandpa, Mr. Lennox.”
“You can call me Irving, lass. And nay, I was never a grandpa. Never married. The universe kept me company.”
John clears his throat. “Irving, any theories on the mirror?” John turns to me and whispers behind his palm, “Irving’s very good with theories, you see.”
Irving chortles and fixes his glasses up his nose. “It’s a sort of window.”
Crossing my arms, I say, “Yep, showcase to the world of the dead; we knew that already.”
“A world of the dead indeed, lass. We’re on a planet. We definitely have a sun, well, two.” Irving points up to his sky, but the suns are out of the canvas.
“Two suns? Seriously?”
Irving nods. “Being dead is nothing like the living imagine it to be, lass. I don’t know if we’re even in the same universe.” His eyes smile before he says, “Point is, the mirror could be a wormhole between our planes of existence.”
“You mean a portal between the dead and the living? A freaking portal. In my bedroom.”
He nods.
Oh boy, what did I get myself into?
“But Mamma Na Se said nothing can come through.”
Irving wrinkles his nose. “Mamma who?”
“A psychic I hired.” Although I technically didn’t hire her. She refused any sort of payment.
Irving rolls his eyes as if he thinks psychics are the stupidest thing on earth. Until a few days ago, I’d have agreed with him. “Yer psychic could be wrong or I could be wrong, or maybe we’re both right. It’s not an exact science, lass. Wormholes aren’t stable, and they shouldn’t look like mirrors either.
I hate not knowing for sure what this mirror in my bedroom is: wormhole, door, window, looking glass? There’s no point in trying to figure it out, is there?
Irving said Purgatory is a planet―Damn, that sounds crazy―but if it’s true, then what about…“Are Heaven and Hell planets too? Do they even exist?”
The boys exchange a meaningful look. Irving pats John’s shoulder. “This is all pretty new. I’d better go do some research.” He bows slightly to me. “Nice meeting ye, lass.”
“Hey, are you leaving because I mentioned—”
“No,” he cuts me short. “But may I offer some advice?”
I guess he’ll give it to me anyway, so I say yes.
“Don’t seek answers, not in this case.” He turns away and leaves.
Well that didn’t help at all. Here I stand, full access to one of mankind’s biggest questions, and I’ve got nothing. A bunch of people would give anything for this opportunity. Dad would go batshit crazy, that’s for sure. But what could John and Irving be hiding, and why are they hiding it?
After Irving walks out of the frame I turn to John. “Why won’t you tell me about Heaven or Hell?”
“Did you listen to Irv’s advice or do you have selective deafness?”
“Oh come on, what’s the big deal in telling me the truth about Heaven and Hell?”
“Santana, Heaven and Hell aren’t things that can be described.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
John merely shrugs and somehow I know I’ll never get an answer. But I’ve lived this far without believing in Heaven or Hell, so I can definitely drop the subject.
For now.
“Fine. Why are you in Purgatory then, I mean, Death?” I chide myself as soon as the question comes out. “I mean, Honest John should go to Heaven.” That did not make it better.
The last time I spluttered inappropriate questions like this, I was fifteen and with a monster crush on Eddie Trumple.
John looks at me intently and I notice that his deep blue eyes carry an etch of sadness. How didn’t I notice it before? I pray my stupidity didn’t cause that.
“I gave my turn away,” he finally says.
What? I realize I’m gaping. “Seriously?”
He nods.
This man is a saint. “Can I ask you why, John?”
He presses a smile that matches his eyes. “That, Santana Jones, is a story for another time.” Then he vanishes.
***
I’m relieved the next night, when John returns. And the nights that follow.
He doesn’t talk about the time he gave up on Heaven, but he tells me incredible stories from the other side. Like the little girl who was half Irving’s size and managed to humiliate him in every single chess match they played―he later found out she was none other than Marie Curie.
Or the fisherman who caught a whale in the sky by swinging a lasso―in all honesty, I had a hard time believing that one. Still do.
My favorite though, is about an old woman who knitted her whole life story in a colorful banner that went on for miles and miles. Last time John saw her, she was knitting an image of herself, sleeping peacefully in a rocking chair.
“What will you knit after you’re done with your past life?” John asked.
The old lady let out a friendly smile, her eyes turning into two sticks.
“The next one.”
It has been three nights since Mamma Na Se’s visit and I’m starting to think buying a haunted mirror was a stroke of luck rather than misfortune. I love sitting on the bed across from John as he tells me all about his wondrous world of dead people. Today is no different.
“Have you met someone you knew when alive?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Oh that’s…sad.”
He tilts his head right, peering at me curiously. “Why?”
“People look forward to seeing their loved ones again, the ones that died before they did. Are you sure you didn’t meet anyone? A grandma, an aunt?”
He shrugs. “No, not really.”
I realize I’m still in my work clothes, so I stand up and grab a nightgown to change in the bathroom. Having a master bedroom comes in handy when you want to continue a conversation with your dead friend. I keep the door half closed, enough so John won’t see me but still allowing us to hear each other.
“To be honest,” John says loudly so I can hear him, “I thought I’d meet my father, eventually. I hope he’s still alive.”
“I can check that for you!” I quickly put on my green silk sleeping gown and jump back into the bedroom, looking for my phone.
When I catch sight of John, standing in the midst of silver and white, rays of light shining on his hair and gray suit, I freeze. There’s something different about the image, it’s crisper now, clearer. But who am I kidding? I don’t care about the quality of the image. All I see is the Norse god standing on the other side.
John’s mouth is half-open as if he’s admiring something standing right in front of him. It can’t be me, can it?
He clears his throat. “Is that a new gown?”
My cheeks heat up and I lower my head, trying to hide my blushing. That’s when I notice that the cleavage in this gown is monumental. Damn! Panic takes over, and I try to cover the chasm with one hand, but it’s too late now. No use in crying over spoiled milk. So I lower my hand, and the strangest thing is that a part of me likes it.
Trying to clarify that my aim was not to seduce him, I say, “Hmm, the other nightgown,
” the proper one, “is in the washing machine.”
He looks at his feet, eyes closed for a second. “I, eh, I’ve been working on the link. It’s stronger now, can you see the difference?”
I brush a stray lock of hair behind my ears. “Yes. I definitely can.”
Shoot, am I flirting with a dead guy?
I rush to grab my phone and browse the Internet, trying to focus on something other than John and this growing need to be close to him.
Googling John Braver’s father, an Elliot Braver comes up. Dead three years ago. I don’t want to tell John, but when I meet his expectant gaze I know I have no choice.
“I’m so sorry.”
A long silence follows, the longest John and I have ever had; an awkward, never-ending time-stretch where he doesn’t look at me. I’ve come to care about John, more than I like to admit. Watching him like this is absolutely gut-wrenching.
“That’s okay,” he says with a low voice. “I still might run into him. This place is huge. Or maybe he went straight to Heaven. I wouldn’t doubt it.” He clears his throat. “I mean, I never heard of it, but going straight to Heaven must be possible. Right?”
Oh God, he’s trying to convince himself. I wish I could offer him the comfort of a hug. I hate being so close and so far from him. I can’t stand to see John trying to hide his desolation. It hurts, physically hurts, like the old lady’s knitting needle piercing my skin.
“I’m sure he’s in a good place, wherever he is.” I have to change the subject, otherwise I might start crying, and I hate when people see me cry. I have no idea why John’s situation rings so deep in me...perhaps it has something to do with Mother. “Have you met a lot of people there? Besides Irving?”
“Yes. Not all of them good, though.”
“So you’ve got bad people in there too?”
John lifts his brow as if I said the most obvious thing in history. “Lots of them.”
Now that I know that there’s an afterlife, I wonder what will happen to me when I die. Will I go straight to Hell or will I be lucky, spend some time with John and explore Death, this weird world we all go to when our validity dates expire?
“Why do you think that?” John asks.
“Think what?”
“Why do you think you’ll go to Hell?”
“How do you know that…” Shit! He can read my thoughts?
He smirks. “I can’t distinguish words because we’re so far away, but I can catch random things, like fear and a fiery pitch. The rest is assumption.” He furrows his brow. “I thought that was obvious? We linked.”
“I didn’t know this gave you a free pass to my mind!”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry all right? I promise I won’t check your thoughts anymore.”
“Senator, where I come from we like to play it safe.” I press my hands against my hips. “Is there a way I can block you?”
John thinks for a moment. “Try repeating the word ‘out’ to yourself as you think of something.”
Out, out, cars, out, out, birds, out. Blocking my thoughts feels weird, as if I’ve got two separate minds: one that thinks and another that restrains.
“When you focus on keeping someone out, you eventually do,” John explains. “It’s a basic mind trick. People use the same principle when they meditate.”
I wrinkle my nose. “That’s why they chant? To give them a little push toward a higher state of mind?”
“Exactly.”
“But how am I supposed to do this all the time?”
He shows that dashingly wide smile of his. “You get used to it.”
I sure hope so. Out, out, I pray that he didn’t catch me thinking how gorgeous he is, out, out, out, damn it, I’ve been thinking that quite often lately.
“Now why do you think you’ll go to Hell?” he insists.
“Why are you asking if you can barge into my head at any time?”
His face wrinkles as if I just hit him in the stomach. “You wanted me to stay away from your thoughts. I’m trying to respect that, Ms. Jones.”
Match point, Mr. Braver.
Letting out the infamous I-give-up sigh, I say, “Can you drop it?”
He shakes his head. Great. How can I put this in a way that won’t make John loathe me?
“If a lawyer knows the client is guilty, he should talk to his client and try to cut some deal with the DA. Often though, the lawyer will turn on a deaf ear and go for a full acquittal. That’s common practice.”
I eye John. So far so good.
“There were two men, two real-life psychopaths who walked, free as birds, thanks to me.” I scratch the back of my neck. “Two isn’t such a bad number, I mean, there are guys with higher weekly rates.”
John’s hand supports his chin. “Were they really guilty?”
“Yes.” It’s the first time I admit that out loud. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “They would spend the rest of their lives in jail, but I was stupid, and ambitious.”
He keeps quiet for a moment.
Please, please don’t hate me.
“Why did you do it?” he finally asks.
I shrug, walking closer to the mirror. I could tell him that it was part of my job. That nailing those cases would earn me junior partner status, which meant I could pick my cases and defend enough people to make up for all the bad karma I’d earned. But the simple answer still would be, “Those cases boosted my career.”
He walks closer to me, his right hand scrunching against the glass. “Don’t beat yourself over it. We all make mistakes so we can learn from them. You’re a good person, Santana.”
Good person? I don’t believe him. He shouldn’t believe himself either. Good people sleep well at night. They don’t fear a guilt that chews them slowly from inside, every day, until they’re nothing but bones. Good people don’t bury the guilt and try to move on.
John peers into me as if he’s peeling my soul layer after layer. I can feel a push in the back of my head. He’s trying to link with me.
Out.
“Sorry. But is that why you’re afraid to die?”
Yes, but I don’t say it out loud.
John stares at the floor, hands on his hips. “I lied. My father must be somewhere here because everyone who dies ends in Death. No one goes straight to the ending point. You won’t either.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I have my sources.” He grins. “Besides, Hell is full of bad people, but I don’t think any of them feel guilty about what they did.”
“Your point?”
“You have nothing to fear.”
John’s words are a balm in my conscience, but no matter what he tells me, I know damn well where I’m heading in the end. What I did is unforgivable.
He blows air through his lips. “You’re seriously hard to convince.”
Damn it, out, out, out!
“Fine. Good night, Miss Jones.” He bows, then begins to walk away.
“Wait, don’t go!” I notice my hand is frozen in the air, silently begging him to stay. Santana, seriously, how old are you, thirteen?
I put on my best no-big-deal face. “I mean, we could talk more.”
“You need to work tomorrow and I’ve noticed the dark circles under your eyes.” John approaches the mirror, looking down at me, a half smile on his lips. “You need rest.”
I take in his sweet smile and blond hair framing his perfectly squared lines. His eyes are a bittersweet baby blue, and his light stubble reinforces a carefree charm so natural to him. The guy should’ve been a model, not a politician. Out, out, I’d give anything to feel his warmth or his breathing, but he’ll never breathe again. We’re so close and so far away and it’s not fair.
“Thanks for saving my life. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that,” I mumble.
His eyes shine, locked on mine. “Anytime.”
And then he fades.
7
I’m lying down. The mattress feels prickly against my
back. Birds chirp everywhere in a thousand different tunes. Hold on. There are birds in my room? I open my eyes and there John stands, looking down at me with a boyish grin. The sky is blue above him and there’s no mirror between us.
What happened? Why am I here? Am I dead?
He helps me to my feet. “Calm down, you’re fine.”
The whitest plants, trees, and rocks surround us, glittering. It’s like standing in an albino, sparkling forest. Remarkable…The leaves and tree crowns dance as the wind softly blows, and when I take a deep breath, I smell the fresh scent of dew.
I’m in the Forest of a Thousand Tears, but how can I be standing here? “This is a dream, right?”
Excitement shines in John’s eyes. “It’s kind of complicated.” He gives me his hand and we start walking up a dirt road covered with silver powder. “I heard tales of spirits who managed to tune with the living, projecting our reality to them so they could visit our world. It’s all about creating a stronger link than the one we have been using, so I decided to give it a try.”
“You mean I’m walking in Death right now?”
John nods like some noble king. This suits him. “You’re here but you’re not really here. Make sense?”
Not at all, and frankly, I don’t need, or want, to understand it. I’m here with John, and there’s no mirror between us. It doesn’t get better than that.
Branches and leaves reach across the dirt road, brushing against my skin. It all seems so…real.
“Why did you bring me here?” I lift a big white leaf out of my way. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He pulls me farther through the glistening foliage, always climbing. His grip is firm and so warm…I don’t think I can ever let go.
From beneath the mix of silver, white, and beige on the tree crowns, I catch glimpses of a pale purple sky. The moon hangs on the upper left corner, a lopsided grin from above.
The foliage fades as we approach the top until we reach a cliff. Below, a pack of wild horses runs over a prairie; crystalline animals of color and light, moving in perfect synchrony. A lush, green forest blankets the prairie far on the left, while a full, round moon hangs high in the sky on the opposite side of the crescent moon.
Two moons. This place really is a planet.
