by Terri Garey
A low hum and creak of machinery brought me upright. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Great,” I mumbled, raking both hands through my hair. I knew from experience that dark spikes would be sticking up everywhere anyway, so I might as well make it look like it was intended as a fashion statement.
“How are you this morning?” Dr. Bascombe picked up my chart and flipped through it. “Any chest pain during the night? Twinges? Weird feelings of any kind?”
I almost laughed, thinking of the weirdness of the last twenty-four hours. Those weird feelings weren’t the kind Dr. Bascombe was asking about, so I wasn’t going to mention them. I wasn’t quite ready to admit I was crazy. Yet.
“My chest feels tender, but only on the outside,” I admitted. “My ribs are sore, but I feel pretty good?almost normal, in fact.” Here I couldn’t resist a smile, but he thought I was just being friendly.
“You’re anything but normal, Nicki.” He returned my smile, and for a moment there was something in his eyes that was very undoctorly. Then he blinked, and the health-care professional was back. “You died, and came back to life.” Dr. Bascombe lowered the clipboard, holding it flat against him. “Anything you can tell me about the experience?”
Wary now, I hedged. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, and sat down on the foot of my bed, clipboard on his lap. “Many people have odd hallucinations and sensations during a near death experience that they recall in vivid detail afterward. Some even claim to remember their own death.”
“They do?” I couldn’t keep the hopeful note from my voice.
“It’s not uncommon to be confused after a traumatic event.” His voice was carefully neutral, raising my first inkling of suspicion. “If you’d like to talk about it, I’d love to hear it.”
“What did the night nurse write on my chart?” I could see the notes but couldn’t read them. Somehow I didn’t need to.
He paused, but had the grace not to deny it. “She noted you were talking to yourself for quite some time. Your vital signs are normal and your appetite’s good?so let’s talk about what’s going on inside your head.”
“Sorry, Doc, but I don’t let anybody inside my head without an expensive dinner and a bottle or two of wine,” I snipped, feeling like I’d been tattled on. “Are you a shrink, too?”
He rose, giving me a rueful grin. “Nope. But I’ll take you up on that expensive dinner after you’ve been discharged. You’ll have to go easy on the wine, though?doctor’s orders.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Did he think I’d been asking him out? Or had he been asking me out? My brain was fuzzy.
Dr. Bascombe went back to reading my chart, taking his time with it. There was something different about him today. He was wearing jeans, for one thing, stethoscope dangling against a faded blue sweatshirt instead of hospital scrubs. I sneaked a glance at his hand. No ring.
“Do you always start work this early?” I liked the way his dark hair curled against his neck. He needed a trim, but the shaggy length suited him.
“Depends on the shift,” he answered absently. “But I wanted to come in early today.” He glanced at me as though about to say more, then stopped as though he’d said too much.
“Can you sit all the way up? I’d like to listen to your heart and lungs.”
His manner was nothing but professional as he slipped my hospital gown from my shoulders and touched that cold stethoscope to my back and between my breasts. He was gentlemanly enough not to mention my nipple ring or the tiny tattoo of a broken heart, but then again, he’d seen them before.
“Sounds good.” This time he didn’t smell like hand soap. He was close enough for me to pick up his natural scent, warm and male. “I’d like to keep you one more day for observation, and assuming all goes well, release you in the morning.” He stepped back, recording his comments on the chart. The polite smile was the same one I’m sure he gave all his patients.
“And if I did have some kind of weird near death experience?” What the hell. “Hallucinations, even. Could it be brain damage or something?”
Dr. Bascombe’s gaze turned sharp. Green eyes, disconcertingly direct. “All your neurological scans are clear, but we can rerun them if you like.”
I shook my head, already regretting my big mouth.
“It really might help to talk about it, Nicki.” He smiled, eyes crinkling. “I’m bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. I can’t repeat anything you tell me unless you authorize it. As a doctor, I’m probably going to tell you it was all the result of chemicals flooding your brain, but as a person who’s seen far too much death?I’m fascinated. I’ve been considering writing a paper about NDEs for years, but E.R. doctors don’t have a lot of time for follow-up research.”
He seemed sincere, and he was kinda cute?did I mention that? Not my typical tortured poet type, but obviously open-minded. It made it a helluva lot easier to spill my guts. I told him how I’d seen myself on the gurney, seen him apply the paddles to my chest and how the nurses had worked frantically to save me. By the time I got to the part about the tunnel and the light, I couldn’t stop myself if I tried. I told him about the music, remembering again?with both awe and regret?the beauty of the sound and the incredible sense of total understanding. Then I told him about the voice.
“The voice said it wasn’t my time. I had to go back. Then I woke up here, in this bed.” I watched him nervously, certain I was talking myself into another wing of the hospital?where one jacket size fits all, if you know what I mean. “That’s when I met Irene.”
“Irene?”
“Irene Goldblatt.”
Dr. Bascombe frowned. He’d been nodding thoughtfully as I told my tale, but now he went still.
“Irene’s dead. Says she died yesterday?right here in this hospital. Choked to death on a matzo ball. She wants me to go tell her husband it wasn’t his fault.” I waited for the good doctor to call the guys in the white coats to take me away, but he didn’t move. “How’s that for a hallucination?”
“Epinephrine is a strong stimulant. It can spark vivid dreams.” His face was thoughtful, all trace of humor gone. “Logic impels me to point out that you might have overheard someone talking about Mrs. Goldblatt while you were in the emergency room. Just because you had a dream about her doesn’t mean she’s actually talking to you.”
“Who does he think he is, Dr. Spock from Star Trek?” Irene walked in, orthopedic shoes squeaking. Dr. Bascombe never turned his head or gave any indication he’d heard her speak. “‘Logic impels me’??ech.”
“So there really was an Irene Goldblatt who died yesterday?” I wanted my facts straight.
Dr. Bascombe looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Yes. Foreign matter aspirated into the lungs.”
“Which means?”
He sighed. “She choked on her food. By the time the paramedics got to her, she’d been too long without oxygen. It was too late.”
Irene gave me a satisfied smile, plopping herself down in the visitor’s chair beside my bed.
“Nicki? Are you all right?”
Dr. Bascombe was eyeing me warily, no doubt wondering why I was staring at an empty chair.
“I’m great, Doc.” I gave him the most insincere smile I could muster, taking my cue from the medical profession. “Just great.”
“So where’s your friend?” Irene had the decency to wait until Dr. Bascombe left to start talking again.
“My friend?”
“You know, the nice faigelah boy who was here yesterday. My friend Ruthie has a grandson he should meet.” She settled herself comfortably, as though planning to stay awhile.
“Irene.” I began carefully, feeling the need to take control of the situation. “I told you last night I’d help you. You don’t have to babysit me. I gave you my word I’d be at the funeral, and I will.”
She lifted her hands and shrugged, fake nails gleaming. “It’s not like you’ve got a crowd of relatives down here taking care of you, is it? What else have
I got to do, dear? Who else have I got to talk to?” Irene sniffed and patted her hair. “I thought it’d be nice to have a chat over your morning coffee, just like me and Morty used to do.”
I fell back on the pillow and closed my eyes.
“So what’s your friend’s name and where is he?”
I was drained. Why fight it? “Evan. His name is Evan. I imagine he’s on the way to open the store right now.”
“He’s a sales clerk? Ruthie’s grandson is in retail, too. I should give you his number.”
“Evan’s not a sales clerk. He’s my business partner. We own the store.”
“You own a store?” Irene sounded dutifully impressed. “At such a young age?”
I kept talking with my eyes closed, hoping she’d go away. “A vintage clothing store called Handbags and Gladrags. I bought my half with the life insurance money my parents left me. They died in a car accident six years ago.”
Irene made sympathetic clucking noises. “Poor dear.”
There was silence for a moment, and I began to hope she’d leave me in peace. Death has a way of rendering people awkward?it’s a definite conversation killer once the dutiful condolences are over.
But personal boundaries don’t seem to matter if you’re already dead.
“My Morty was a big believer in life insurance. Good man, my Morty?good provider, too.
I was the planner, the brains behind the throne, you know? I planned every detail of the funeral in advance?men are hopeless about that kind of thing.”
“Irene?”
I opened my eyes and looked at her, and she looked at me. It was on the tip of my tongue to say something inexcusably rude when I remembered the voice.
Do unto others, Nicki, as you would have them do unto you.
A sigh escaped me. I pushed the bedcovers aside and started working my way out of bed, feeling wobbly.
“Let me go use the john and splash some water on my face.”
There was no rule that said I had to be gracious, was there?
“Then you can tell me all about your funeral.”
CHAPTER 2
“Ech—can you believe that woman? As if my Morty would ever be interested in a skinny kvetcher like Gladys Finch.”
Irene and I stood in the shade of a large oak, watching as a simple pine coffin was lowered into the ground. “My Morty” was a chubby, balding man in his sixties who stood at the edge of the grave and wept openly, round cheeks wet with tears. Clinging to his arm, murmuring comfort, was a thin woman who couldn’t look more like her name if cliché were the rule.
There were no flowers, no songs. The turnout was decent, though, for at least thirty people were gathered to lay Irene Goldblatt to rest. All the mourners wore black, of course, stark figures outlined against the gray tombstones. They listened in respectful silence to a reading of Psalms, standing still as clothed statues ruffled by the breeze.
“She’s had her eye on my Morty for years,” Irene said. “Owns the condo next door.” Another sniff and pat to her hair. “But he’s tasted her cooking?she’ll never have my Morty.”
The Rodeph Shalom Cemetery was a peaceful place, a huge mosaic of green grass, stone and marble. The serenity invited you to stay and visit, to linger on shaded benches and listen to the silence.
“Don’t you want him to be happy again?”
Irene gave me a look. “Of course I do, dear. That’s why you’re here, remember? I don’t want my Morty to live with guilt on his conscience. But I know my husband?he’d never be happy with a woman who can’t cook and constantly whines about how her kids never come visit.” She threw up her hands. “Why should they come visit? So they can get stomachaches?”
Irene’s gossiping seemed out of place given the solemnity of the occasion, and besides?I didn’t care. This sweet little Jewish grandmother had been driving me crazy for two days, and I wanted my life back. “Shhhh. You dragged me all the way out here to see this. I wanna hear the rabbi.”
He’d lowered the Psalms and was reciting something from memory, eyes closed and face lifted to the sun. I didn’t understand the language, but the cadence of the words was beautiful.
“Kaddish.” Irene murmured. “A mourner’s prayer.”
We listened together in silence. Morty’s sobs, muted during the prayer, became sniffles as the rabbi finished his prayer and stepped back, away from the grave. Then the sniffles stopped, leaving only the rustle of wind in the trees, soft as a sigh of farewell.
Morty bent and scooped up a handful of dirt, tossing it into the yawning hole. One by one others came forward and did the same, touching Morty sympathetically on the shoulder or murmuring a word in his ear as they filed past. They moved in knots and clusters down the hill toward their parked cars, leaving Morty to stand, obviously grief-stricken, by the grave. Gladys tried to draw him away, but he shook his head. Whatever he said to the woman sent her trailing reluctantly after the others. He then stood alone, staring woodenly down at the coffin, as two men with shovels moved in to cover it forever.
“He doesn’t want to let you go.” I turned to Irene, expecting to see her cheeks wet with tears. Instead, I found her serene and smiling, eyes alight in a way I hadn’t noticed before.
“We’ll be together again soon enough,” she said, as though there were no doubt. “I’ll be waiting for him.”
Remembering the Light, it all seemed so clear, and so simple. I knew why Irene wasn’t sad. I swallowed hard, suddenly wondering who would be waiting for me when my time came.
“What do you want me to say to Morty?” The memory of the Light beckoned, drawing me as well as Irene. For the first time, I felt Irene’s impatience as though it were my own.
“You tell him that ‘the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.’”
“What?” Peaceful visions of everlasting understanding splintered.
“You heard me, dear. He’ll understand.” Irene wasn’t looking at me. She was watching her Morty. “Then you do this.”
To my astonishment, Irene recited in a singsong voice, curtsying midway, “Schlemeil, schlemozzle, Hahsenfeffer Incorporated.”
“You want me to sing the theme song from Laverne and Shirley?” I’d watched enough weekend reruns to recognize it. What she was asking was just too much. “He’ll think I’m a lunatic!”
She reached out to pat my hand, but stopped short. I wouldn’t have felt it anyway. I’d already learned that Irene could be seen and heard, but she had little or no influence on the physical world.
“Don’t worry, dear. It’s our little code. Just do it.”
“Oh, jeez,” I muttered.
“And by the way…” She smiled with such sweetness my heart clenched. “…thank you.” Irene faded, but I knew she was still there. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped from the shadows and marched toward Morty.
He didn’t notice me at first. The rhythmic sound of shoveling?scrape, plop, scrape, plop?had a hypnotic quality. Morty was crying again, silently this time, while the two men doing the shoveling stoically ignored him. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time they’d filled in a grave while family watched.
“Nice day, huh?” Oh, my God. Great opener there, Nicki.
Morty barely glanced at me before he went back to watching the hole fill with dirt. He didn’t answer, mopping at his face with a crumpled tissue.
“What I mean is, at least it’s not raining. You know, like in Spain.”
“Miss, I don’t know who you are, but I’m burying my wife.” Irene’s Morty had a voice like gravel, no doubt hoarse from weeping. His plump face crumpled, then steadied. “I don’t have any money, and I’d appreciate it if you moved along.”
He thought I was a either a hooker or a vagrant! That’s what dressing funky could get you ?totally typecast. Either my heavy mascara and dark red lipstick branded me a vamp, or my waifish build and vintage clothes labeled me a beggar. Which was it? Desperate to get Irene’s message over with, I blurted
, “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”
Morty’s eyes widened.
Now he thought I was a lunatic hooker/bum. Great.
“Mr. Goldblatt, your wife wants you to know that your matzo balls weren’t dry and that it wasn’t your fault she choked on one.” Morty’s mouth fell open. “And she said you’d understand if I did this?‘Schlemeil, schlemozzle, Hahsenfeffer Incorporated.’”
The rhythm of the shovels ceased as all three men gaped, but I didn’t care. It was done, it was over, and I was free.
“I’m sorry about your wife.” I started backing up, away from the grave.
“Irene?” Morty teared up again, the hope in his voice painful to hear. It was hard to watch a grown man cry. “You’ve talked to my Irene?” He took a step toward me.
I really didn’t wanna get into the whole story?I’d already acted like a lunatic, and I didn’t need to reinforce that impression by giving him the details. The two men covering Irene’s grave muttered to each other, eyeing me suspiciously. I’d done what Irene asked, hadn’t I? Turning, I glanced toward the spot I’d last seen her.
She was there, purple flowered blouse and brassy hair, gazing at her Morty with so much love on her face it made my heart twist. She was surrounded by light, an aura of brilliance.
Then she turned, still smiling, and took a single step away from us, into the Light. A quick flash, and both Irene and the Light were gone, as though a diamond sparkled and a door closed.
I gasped, feeling a rush of remembrance, and a tiny twinge of envy. Irene was going to like where she was going. But now she was gone, and there was nothing left but the quiet gray and green of Rodeph Shalom, each headstone and bench in sharper focus than before.
“Is she here?” Morty grabbed my arm, still crying. “Where is she?”
“She’s gone. She’s in a better place.” I was happy for Irene and sorry for Morty, but I needed to get out of there. This was way too heavy for me.
“How do you know that? Tell me what happened. I have to talk to her…can I talk to her?”
I pulled away, taking a few steps backward. No way was I even gonna go there. I was a business owner, not a psychic.