***
After my brief tour, Shana and I stand in front of the white, marble building where Rafael's office is located. “I have to go inside,” I say, remembering he wants to speak with me.
“Oh, right. See you later then.” She leaves reluctantly and doesn't seem happy to go back to the cottage alone. I feel sorry for her. I wouldn't want to be alone with Cinder and Deedre either.
With a sigh, I take a moment to prepare myself for the coming interview. What will Raphael want to talk about? Will he ask about my suicide? Will I have to explain? Can I request new roommates? That thought is enough to propel me through the double doors in search of his office.
He is all smiles once I enter, and he gestures to a chair across from his black desk, then moves to the other side and sits down. “How do you like your new place?” he asks. I have a feeling he already knows.
“Uh, about that.”
“I know, I know,” he says, raising his hand to stop me. “The beds are the most confusing. Why beds instead of tables and chairs? We get that a lot.”
“Um, it's not the beds. The beds are fine.”
“Oh. Good. Did you find the quilt inside the box I gave you?” A bright light radiates in his eyes and his lip twitches.
“Yeah. I got it. Thanks.”
Leaning forward and clasps his hands on his desk. “Did you notice anything special about it?”
I scowl, picturing the quilt in my mind. “It's like the one I have at home?” I couldn't care less about the stupid quilt, or The Spirit's Guide to Immortality book that was also in the box. If it had been my real quilt, that would have been something. But it's not. It's only a look-alike. A cheap copy.
“Yes!” he says, excited. “We do that on purpose, you know. To help you feel more at home here.”
It doesn't work. I don't feel at home. I feel lost, hovered over, and frustrated. Everything is different and weird, and a quilt doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. “Actually, it's my roommates I want to talk about.”
“Oh?” He leans back.
“Well, I wondered if I could get different ones. Shana is okay, but I really don't think I should hang out with Cinder or Deedre.”
“Really?”
“Deedre wants to kill me. That kind of bothers me even though I'm pretty sure she can't do it.”
Raphael sputters and coughs. I smile, because this is such a ridiculous conversation. I'm sitting in an office asking for new roommates, when I should be flying free through clouds of snowy white. Where is my harp? My golden wings?
With an exasperated sigh, I lean forward. “Listen. I'm not sure what I'm doing here, but I'd really like to get on with the rest of my life.”
After regaining his composure, he becomes serious again and leans forward until our faces are only inches apart. “This is the rest of your life.”
***
Needless to say, I feel completely disillusioned. All my dreams of rest and happiness have slipped through my fingers. Not only that, but the aching hurt of missing Natty and Gram is now replaced with missing everybody.
And now I have to go to school? My first session in class is one to be remembered though. The classroom is an expansive area with high windows. Bright light shines through the crystal clear glass, and I can smell that strange, musky aroma I associate with high school. Like old paint and worn carpet. It's funny how smells affect me here and bring back memories... good and bad.
The only thing to do is go along with their silly routine, to attend the classes—which let me just say—make me miserable. I hated school—well, at the end anyway—and now I have to endure it after death too? Sitting at a desk, listening to angelic teachers ramble on about things I'm not interested in, and living with depressing people, makes me think this isn't really Idir Shaol after all.
Make no mistake. It is hell.
Shana, who is with me on that first day of class, wants me to sit on the front row. Everyone stares as I step through the door, like I have a big, red “A” glued to my chest. They watch me with accusatory glances even though they're here for the same reasons I am. I sweep the room with a cursory glare, then turn and face the front. There are about twenty people in the class, and we all look pretty much the same age.
Our teacher stands before us, her golden hair falling over her slender shoulders in waves. The light around her is bright, and I find myself studying her pink robes. I was never a pink girl myself, but the hue, one I've never seen before, takes my breath away. Her small feet are bare, and her hands fly through the air as she speaks.
“Welcome to Idir Shaol, class. I will be your instructor during your brief time here,” she says in a lilting voice.
Brief? My time will be brief? Am I going somewhere else? Oh, I hope so. Thoughts of escape swirl through my mind until I realize I'm not paying attention, and the teacher has stopped talking. She looks directly at me, her gaze intrusive, piercing right through me. She can see inside me, I just know it—to my whole life, to my inadequacies. Right then and there, I don't like her, and I don't think she likes me either—even though I didn't do a thing to earn her disapproval.
Her eyes narrow and she frowns, and after a second she turns back toward the rest of the group. “I am Anaita. I will be your instructor for this course. This class may be the only one you need, as some of you will move on more quickly than others. As most of you know, Idir Shaol is a waiting place for those who need to redeem themselves in some way. A place for those who were too ignorant, stupid, or selfish to change during their mortal lifetime. Most of you took your own life. The reason you're here and not already in Soul Prison is because someone up here thinks you deserve a second chance.”
Her angelic appearance does not match her accusatory tone, and I wonder if everyone gets that same feeling.
She glances in my direction, her pretty pink lips pursed, her creamy skin resembling Raphael's. I'm willing to bet hers is a body of flesh and bone.
How do they get those?
CHAPTER FIVE
~The Funeral~
Alisa
At the start of my second day—at least I think it's my second day, because there are no clocks here—I receive my first assignment. It begins the next stage of my progression, but it includes doing something so terrible, so heinous, that I debate running away. I have no idea where to go, but there has to be somewhere to hide. It's not like I'm in Soul Prison... yet.
Up until the moment I see my grandmother at the entrance of Idir Shaol, waiting to guide me on this exciting adventure, I had decided to rebel. I don't need to move on, I don't need roommates and school, and I certainly don't need difficult assignments I can't pass.
“Hello, my sweet Alisa,” Gram says, cupping my face. “Are you ready?”
“No.”
Chuckling, she draws me close, and I smell the tangy scent of apple pie on her robes again. The taste of her pies coats my soul's tongue with longing for one bite of apple sweetness.
“I'll be with you every step of the way,” she says. “Everyone who takes their life has to do this. It's a requirement. Committing suicide is serious business, and can't be taken lightly. It affects everything and everyone around you. Forever.”
I know she's right, but dread fills me. Gram takes my hand and with a wink, we disappear from Idir Shaol—the waiting place of wounded souls.
***
An organ plays the familiar hymns I grew up with, and the unmistakable doors of my neighborhood chapel rise up before me.
I squeeze Gram's hand for support. With vast reluctance, I step through the entrance and feel the cool breeze of air-conditioning waft past me. Over a hundred people fill the benches, sniffling and dressed in black. Familiar faces sit in row after row of the little chapel, and the high windows allow rays of light to filter through onto the tear-streaked faces before me.
“Should we sit down?” I ask Gram in a terrified whisper.
The aroma of flowers fills the air. I can smell them but not in the same way I could smell th
e blossoms up in heaven. My senses here feel muted and slightly dulled. But for the most part, I can smell everything, hear everything, and feel everything.
I hate it.
“We can sit if you want to,” Gram answers with a pat on my hand.
I take a seat at the end of a pew just as the doors at the back open. Everyone stands. Gram takes hold of my arm and pulls me up too. For a spirit, she's pretty strong.
Three guys from my school, my two brothers, and two of my cousins enter slowly, carrying a gleaming mahogany casket. Clutching my throat, I freeze as it rolls by. I can’t stand seeing the tears that drip down my brothers' faces, staining their clean, white dress shirts, their red, swollen eyes and their white knuckles as they clutch my coffin. I try to turn away, but some unseen power forces me to watch.
The casket comes to rest before the pulpit. My family sits on the second row. Friends and relatives fill up the rest. I can't believe how many people have come; people who I didn't think even knew I was alive or cared that I had been.
Everyone carries an aching heart, and I feel it, heavy, like iron, weighing down my soul in despair. Their pain rips through me like a rusted, jagged saw, opening fresh wounds, slicing, slicing, slicing. I feel rent in two, and pulled into the depths of unexplainable misery.
I turn to Gram.
She puts her arm around my shoulders, and holds me. “I know, honey. I know. Let it out. Let it all go.”
I tremble in her arms as she leads me to the second row where my family waits.
“Sit down, dear.”
I lower myself into the space at the end of the bench.
“All these people,” Gram motions over the crowd, “are here for you and your family.” I see kids I knew from school, and I stare, shocked. Why are they here? They never cared about me when I was alive. I can't even count the times I walked down the hall at school feeling totally alone, no one talking to me. Maybe they just wanted to see a dead body roll by.
But their mournful feelings of despair wrap around me like a suffocating blanket, telling me otherwise. I can't even begin to understand their feelings. All this time, I thought I'd had no one.
Then, as if a dam has broken, memories of these very people come rushing to mind. A soft pat on the shoulder, a smile of sympathy. They had been there trying to befriend me. I just hadn't seen it, hadn't wanted to see it.
My mother's head bows as she presses a hanky to her eyes. She wears a beautiful black dress I've never seen before, and her makeup doesn't hide the paleness of her skin or her sleepy, red-rimmed eyes. My dad sits next to her, his face stoic, his eyes swollen too. My brothers, who are usually laughing or teasing each other, are silent, staring straight ahead.
I was sixteen years old, and now I'm dead. This isn't a dream. My brain isn't making this up. I'm really here, watching my family mourn over my wasted life.
A hard wrenching grips my stomach, and I feel sick, like I'm going to throw up, but I can't. I'll never be able to rid myself of the corrosion churning inside me. Emotion wells hot, black, and poisonous, fighting for a way out. I realize with horror how selfish I've been, thinking only of my pain.
Oh, how I want to turn back time—to go back to that moment in the car. I should have stuck it out longer. I might have been happy again, living the rest of my life, getting married, having kids. Now I'll never get the chance.
Wracked with guilt, I cover my face, hiding from the terrible emotions that overwhelm me. I don’t even try to be quiet as I sob. My shoulders shake as an agonized moan tears from my mouth. “I need to go.” My voice is raspy with desperation.
“It's not over yet,” Gram answers, staring straight ahead. Her mouth is in a tight, thin line, like a cruel taskmaster, and she makes me stay to witness the agony I've caused.
I groan again, glancing over to my mother. I can’t do this. I can't watch the people I love hurt so terribly.
Gram smiles sadly. “I'm so sorry.”
The minister stands, and the music stops. “My dear friends. I welcome you to the funeral services of Alisa Kristine Callahan.”
He goes on to tell stories about my life. Stories from my early childhood to my preteens. I'd quit going to church when I was thirteen, and I'm surprised he has any memories of me at all. I decided at a young age that since God didn't seem interested in me, I wasn't interested in Him. My mother tried bribery to get me to go, but she quickly gave up. She wasn't about to embarrass herself by dragging a screaming teenager through these sacred double doors, and I wasn't about to get dressed up for religion.
The minister continues. “I remember when Alisa was about ten years old. She came running in one Sunday morning and ran straight into my arms, begging me to perform a marriage ceremony between her and Stephen Keiths right away. She'd fallen in love and didn't want to lose him to anyone else. Poor Stephen didn't even know he was engaged.”
Stifled chuckles erupt from the audience, along with strangled sobs.
I remember that conversation. I also remember Stephen with his hazel eyes, his lovely smile, and sandy blond curls. Is he here now? Oh, I hope not. I turn in my seat and search for his face, finding him eight rows back. He's seventeen now and on the football team. He sings in the school choir, and is still as beautiful as ever. My chance with him is gone.
When the minister finishes, my aunt Karen stands and gives the eulogy. I haven't seen her in a long time, but I'm glad she's here today. She keeps her speech short and tells about my birth, about me growing up, and how much she loved me. She talks about my talent in music and how sad I'd been when my friend Natty died of cancer.
My mother sobs, and her shoulders quake as she hides her face behind her hanky.
I move over to kneel at her feet, gazing into her tired blue eyes. “Mom, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” I rest my cheek against her thin, cool fingers, and breathe in the smell of her. So familiar, so soft. Like lilacs.
She can’t hear me, but she lifts her head. Tears swim in her eyes, along with a look of surprise. She glances toward my dad, then back at her hands, and smiles through her tears.
“I love you, Mom,” I say fervently. “I'll fix this. I swear I will. Please don't be sad.” I place a kiss on her tear-streaked cheek. Her blue eyes sparkle, and I know that somehow she knows I'm here. I move over to my dad and do the same thing, getting a similar reaction. Then I kneel before my brothers.
I take Tyler's hand first. He's the youngest. Only twelve. Tears stream freely down his cheeks, and he doesn't bother to wipe them away. He's combed his dark hair neatly to the side, and his tie is remarkably straight. I wonder who helped him. That was always my job.
“Tyler, I love you,” I whisper. “Don't be sad.” I stroke his cheek, and memorize his face, the color of his eyes, the cowlick in his bangs. “I'm gonna miss you, and... and I'm really sorry I did this. I wish I could go back.” I kiss his head and squeeze his hand. He doesn't act like he senses anything, but I hope with all my heart that he does.
I take a deep breath and turn to my older brother, Derek. He's almost eighteen. A man. He and I look the most alike with his dark, golden hair and his chocolaty eyes. His mouth, set in a rigid line, doesn't even twitch when I touch him. He keeps his arms tightly crossed, his gaze hard.
I whisper that I love him, that I'm sorry, but he is totally unresponsive. I can't get through no matter what I say. Maybe it's because we always argued during my life. Maybe it's because I said hateful things to him the last time we were together, and he told me to quit being a baby and feeling sorry for myself.
The guilt is a hard, jagged rock resting firmly in the pit of my stomach, but I deserve that misery. I altered my family's lives, and I can never fix it, no matter what I promise, no matter how hard I try. I killed myself, and I can't go back.
I tell Derek goodbye then back away, my heart ripped, shredded, and lying at his feet.
A limo takes my family to the cemetery and I ride with them, holding my mother's hand. No one says a word. I stand by my grave. A dark, muddy gaping ho
le. Actually, it's covered in fake green grass, but I can imagine the dirt beneath where my body will lay forever. Cold. Alone. Rotting. I hate cemeteries.
Holding back a sob, I beg God to perform a miracle—to let me live again. I stand there—raw, open, bleeding, and no one can stop the flow. I'm forced to hear it all, feel it all, and experience it all.
Finally Gram turns to me, places her hand on my arm, and closes her eyes. Two seconds later, we stand before the entrance of Idir Shaol.
CHAPTER SIX
~Secrets~
Brecken
Brecken holds the phone to his ear. It's after midnight and he'd been asleep when his cell rang. Jill's voice pushes back the darkness of his basement bedroom. He isn't the least bit irritated at her call.
“I missed you, baby,” she says. “I had to call and tell you so.”
Brecken's eyes are heavy, and he is still half-asleep, so he answers in a soft whisper. “I always miss you.” He keeps his eyes closed and rests the phone on his pillow.
“I figured. Want me to come over?”
“Naw,” he says, rolling over on his mattress. “I'm too tired tonight. I'll see you at school tomorrow.”
“Oh, I won't be there.” Her voice dips and he can picture her bottom lip jutting out in a pout.
“Why not?”
There's a slight pause and then a breathy laugh. “Well, I'm going to a conference thing, but I can't talk about it right now. It's kind of a secret. It's supposed to be super cool though, so if it is, I'll tell you all about it when I get home.”
“Why is it secret?” Brecken asks, annoyed that he'll have to spend a whole day without Jill to distract him. “What's the big deal?”
“I don't know, silly, but I promised not to talk about it, so I'm keeping my promise. Well, I better go before my parents get home.” She kisses into the phone and tells Brecken she loves him.
Worlds Between Page 50
