by C. S. Wilde
I fall to my knees, crying, and I can’t stop. I’ll endure years before I meet John again, that is if I ever find him. Who knows, we might end up on complete opposite sides of Death.
Dad gives me the moment I need, waiting patiently from the other side of the room.
Maybe it takes hours or minutes, I can’t say, but the sobs eventually fade.
“He told me to make sure you lived a happy life,” Dad says as he kneels close to me. “It’s what he wants.”
I let that soak in for a moment. I never stopped to seriously consider the fact that being with John meant dying: No more Dad and Mr. Baker, no more winning cases for decent people, and no more watching sunsets at Pier seven while eating a hot-dog with everything on it.
For a second, I’m glad John kept the sense I couldn’t. Still, being away from him hurts so damn much.
With a hoarse voice, Dad says, “Do you know how I picked myself up after Mom killed herself?”
Puzzled by his words, I listen. He has never said “Mom” and “killed herself” in the same sentence before. “Mom went away” or “Mom passed,” sure. “Mom killed herself”? Never.
He clears his throat. “I cherished the time I had with her, then I moved on. I had a daughter to take care of.” He sighs. “The man in the mirror is dead, sweetheart. You aren’t.”
I keep staring at him, unsure of what to say.
He’s right, of course. John is dead, he has been for years. But how am I supposed to get past that? The man I love is dead and gone. I can’t go on…but I’ll try.
I will pick myself up and move on with my life. It’s what John wants. Maybe it won’t be that hard, after all, I’ve been through Hell before.
***
I’m standing alone in Mr. Baker’s office. He’s in a meeting and his secretary says he’ll be there in a minute. She’s glad I’m all right, and she apologizes for the fuss Mr. Baker might have caused my family during such a difficult time.
Apparently Mr. Baker came to visit, despite the doctor’s ‘recommendations.’ I’m glad he did that before Mamma Na Se tied me to bed.
Dad said the first thing Mr. Baker shouted when he saw me and the IV in my arm, was that I should be in a hospital. Dad countered that we opted for a home treatment, at which moment Mr. Baker stared point-blank at him and called him a dimwit. He then called my name several times, shook me, but obviously I never answered. Mr. Baker said I must be in a coma and that he’d sue Dad for negligence; and God forbid I died, or he’d make sure to turn Dad’s life into a living bureaucratic Hell.
I’m happy I made it back before that.
Mr. Baker enters the office and traps me in the best definition of a bear hug. I can’t breathe properly, but I’m glad he cares so much for me. I give him the time he needs and enjoy the hug as long as my lungs can take it.
“Sir,” I gasp.
He lets me go, hands on my shoulders. “Sorry, kiddo. Just glad to see you well.”
I open my mouth to say something, but he lifts one hand to stop me.
“Look, take it easy from now on. No more long hours either, okay?”
“But, Mr. Baker,”
He doesn’t let me speak. It’s cute, this protective side of him. You don’t find it very often in this business. “If you want you can specialize in another area,” he continues. “I think you could make a brilliant divorce lawyer. What do you say?”
“I like criminal law, sir. I just got a little lost.”
Justice is not the lawyer’s responsibility; I’ve always known that and I should always remember it. Everyone deserves representation. It’s fair, and it’s my job. What’s not my job is lying in court to win the big cases, and because I broke that rule, I now have a lot to make up for.
“Thanks for this, sir. I appreciate it.” I take a deep breath. “But I have a proposition for you.”
Epilogue
I promised myself I wouldn’t become a nagging, crazy old lady. I’ve seen how they end up: staring out of windows until the day they die. Besides, being nice can come in handy, especially when a bit of senility starts lodging in the brain.
I never thought I’d make it to 110, but today I did. When people ask me how I made it this far, I say a healthy diet and sixty years of yoga, but I know better. I’m sure the almighties had something to do with it. Maybe they wanted to punish me, or maybe I needed this long to find my peace. I’m guessing the second, since it happened last week.
After I returned from Death, Mr. Baker and I opened an affiliate of Baker & Stats called Baker & Jones. We defended the innocent and the not so innocent—as long as they were fine with the best plea we could get. And we fought for a bunch of people unjustly convicted, and many more who couldn’t afford decent representation. Mr. Baker said he hadn’t slept so well in years.
Still, none of those cases made me more proud than Danny’s. He was a young man convicted for life, a kind soul who had been framed by a powerful CEO with too much to lose. I picked Danny’s case, worked my ass off, and won. As he left jail, Danny told me he would dedicate his life to undoing wrongs, fixing what needed to be fixed, just like I’d done. Forty years later, he became the best governor this city has ever had. He’s on his second term now.
Last week, at the NYC Lawyers Ball, Danny handed me the ‘life-time honor award.’ When he hugged me and thanked me for giving his life back to him, I cried. He said he hoped he made me proud, and I told him he was a fool if he thought he didn’t.
When Danny let me go, I heard a draw of breath around me as if the wind were sighing. Since then, life has been leaking from me, and I couldn’t be happier.
See, becoming old is a sad process. I watched most people I cared about die: Dad went shortly after my wedding, Mamma Na Se died some ten years after the birth of my second child, and Mr. Baker lived long enough to see me with gray hairs.
Craig, my husband, died forty years ago in a car accident. We were never soul mates, but we supported each other through the rough patches and celebrated the good ones. We built something special and to some degree, yes, we did fall in love. He gave me two beautiful children after all.
When he passed, I felt a big chunk of myself drift far away. Craig had been my companion for so long…but there’s no point in lingering in the past, is there? It can drive you mad, especially in an old people’s home.
Nowadays, I keep the smile and my smart—and remarkably lucid—old-lady comments, so that my family won’t leave me alone. The silence of happy memories is the true Hell I’ve come to dread. I’m pretty sure it’s what the nagging old ladies search for when they peer through the windows.
My boys—and the rest of my family—do visit, and they do bring gifts and ask me how I’m doing, but none like Jeanie. She’s the daughter of Tommy, my eldest, and a complete sweetheart. She comes by almost every day.
“You okay, Nana?” She asks as she rolls my wheelchair forward.
The squeaky sound of wheels sliding across the marbled floor irritates me like a toothache. I’ll never get used to being rolled instead of walking, but I don’t complain to Jeanie. “I’m fine, dear. How’s Mannfred?” I tap her hand. My touch is soft as a feather falling over concrete.
Jeanie seems surprised that I remember her boyfriend’s name. Her eyes shine and I realize that she’s inherited Craig’s sweet, deep brown eyes.
“Mannfred is great,” she says. “Just got a job at the DA.”
“Oh, I see.” I clear my throat. “He didn’t change that interesting name of his, did he?”
Jeanie giggles. I love to make my Jeanie laugh.
“No Nana, we just call him Fred.”
We cross the lobby until we’re waiting for the elevator. Nigel, the doorman, has come back from his break, and meets us with his usual bright smile. That grin can improve anyone’s day, and it helped me a lot after facing stressful days and lost cases.
“You do the best you can, ma’am,” he used to say. “The rest is not up to any of us.”
I don’t kno
w what Nigel is still doing here; his hair has become completely gray, for heaven’s sake! When he started, his hair was pitch black. He should retire, that’s what he should do.
He lifts his hat for me. “Morning, madam.”
“Madam? Thank you for reminding me, Nigel.” I crackle a laugh. “When you’re a walking corpse, you tend to forget.”
He laughs. “Ma’am, you’ll outlive us all.”
The elevator door opens and Jeanie rolls me in. She wishes a good day to Nigel, and I wave at him before the elevator door closes.
Bye, Nigel.
My reflection stares at me from the golden doors. I look sickly with the respirator by my side and this stupid tube going inside my nose. My hands are a wrinkled mess…but I bet I look fabulous for my age.
A cold wave spreads within my body, and my hands shiver, so I hide them below the blanket. I can’t let Jeannie know, not yet.
Jeanie presses the last floor and a mechanic woman’s voice asks if we want the panorama view, to which Jeanie replies “Yes.” The walls of the elevator disappear and we’re flying over Manhattan. “The Girl from Ipanema” jingles softly in the background as the ground below shrinks.
“I’ll never understand why you didn’t rent out your old apartment,” Jeanie says with arms crossed. She looks at the Manhattan sunset, orange and pink painting over her. “You could get a fortune for it.”
“I told you dear, you can rent it after I die.”
“I don’t want to think about that, Nana.”
“You should.”
Jeanie steps in front of me and crouches so she’s looking me straight in the eye. “We’ve always told each other everything. Isn’t it time to spill why you wanted to come here on your birthday?”
And tell her that my life has been ebbing away since the NYC Lawyers Ball? That my biological clock has finally started ticking and that I’ll probably be dead before the day ends? No.
Maybe I should tell Jeanie about John…but I can’t let her know that her grandfather wasn’t the love of my life. Craig knew this, naturally. I wasn’t the love of his life either: His first wife, his true soul mate, had died a few years before we met. But my boys and my grandchildren can never know. This secret I’ll take to the grave, like Craig did.
“There’s nothing to be said.” I breathe in. “I wanted to visit this place, that’s all.” I pat her shoulder with care.
Breathing has become harder. Inhale. Exhale. You’re almost there.
The elevator says we have reached our destination. Thick mahogany walls begin to replace the digital panorama, and I take a final glimpse at the landscape before it fades.
Perhaps I’ll miss Life more than I know.
Golden doors open onto a carpeted corridor. I’m rolled until number seventy-five. Jeanie twists the key and the door creaks open, revealing an empty apartment: no furniture, no soul, only dust.
Jeanie sneezes, wiping her hand in the air. “We really need to clean up this place.”
She rolls me to my old bedroom. A blanket hides the mirror-wall. She rests me in front of it, then pulls down the old, yellowing curtain, revealing my mirror.
“What now?” She puts her hands over her waist.
“Roll…me closer, please?” It’s hard to speak.
Jeanie runs to me. “You don’t sound very good, Nana. I’m gonna take you to a hospital, all right?”
I take her hand and I’m surprised to see how weak I’ve become. My grip might as well be made of jelly. My vision blurs.
“I’m so old,” I wheeze. “Let me go, dear.”
She runs a hand over her mouth as tears start falling down her cheeks.
I smile reassuringly as I caress her cheeks, trying to wipe out her tears. “It’s time, Jeanie.”
She looks at me for a while before she takes a deep breath and rolls me closer to the mirror.
I stare at my reflection, my limbs becoming numb.
Breathe in. Breathe out. My reflection breathes in and out.
God, I look like the crypt keeper.
Where is John? Where are Dad, Barbie, and Mr. Baker, and all of those who are long gone? I gaze into the mirror and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
“Can you see them, sweetheart?”
Jeannie’s voice is filled with concern. “Who, Nana?”
Never mind. I’m in John’s arms now.
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Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my husband. There’s nothing much to be said to him, other than I love you to the edges of the universe and back. Without him, this book would have never seen the light of day.
A gigantic thank you to Mr. Richard Sweeney, attorney-at-law, whose advice has saved this book from becoming a huge legal mess.
Enormous thanks to my fabulous critique partner and friend, Grace Campbell, and my editors, Laura Carlson and Nikki Busch. This book would be a much crappier version of itself if it weren’t for you.
Thank you to my friend Tanja Kaaria, who always believes in me even when I don’t.
Last, but not least, a huge thanks to you. Stories need eyes to be read and ears to be heard, otherwise they’re just words on a page. So thank you for bringing this story to life.
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Also by C.S. Wilde
FROM THE STARS
(Book 1 of the Dimensions series)
BEYOND THE STARS
(Book 2 of the Dimensions series)
SWORD WITCH
About the Author
C. S. Wilde wrote her first Fantasy novel when she was eight. That book was absolutely terrible, but her mother told her it was awesome, so she kept writing.
Now a grown up (though many will beg to differ), C. S. Wilde writes about fantastic worlds, love stories larger than life and epic battles.
A Rio de Janeiro native, she currently spends her days in Switzerland.
She also, quite obviously, sucks at writing an author bio. She finds it awkward that she must write this in the third person and hopes you won’t notice.
For up to date promotions and release dates of upcoming books, sign up for the latest news at www.cswilde.com. You can also connect on twitter via @thatcswilde or on facebook at C.S. Wilde.
A COURTROOM OF ASHES. Copyright © 2016 by Maria Clara Soares Waibel.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
