No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  I shrug. “He kicked me out for dropping the f-bomb.”

  “Yeah, he does that. He’s alright though, you’ll see.”

  “He says you’re a very slow Introducer.” I feel the need to be spiteful but Agnes just laughs.

  “I would encourage Cedar to accept me as I am,” she says. She takes out the pack of cigarettes and offers me one and I accept gratefully.

  “I’m so confused,” I say. “I want to know what happened to my husband.”

  “Can’t help you,” Agnes says blowing smoke rings. “What do you want to do now? There’s the Reading Room, if you like, or we could hit the Disco Room and boogie for a bit. I’ve got privileges, I could take you.”

  “Boogie? I wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type to boogie.”

  “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she tells me. “Anyway, disco was a very cheerful era. I’m going to paint my nails while I’m here.”

  She picks up a bottle of black nail varnish and starts to haphazardly paint her nails while I watch in horror.

  “Good thing you never applied for a job with me,” I comment. “A sloppy manicure is the sign of a sloppy mind.”

  “Were you a bitch to work for?”

  I laugh. “Yes, I was. Everybody in power is mean. You don’t get respect unless you act like a bitch. People expect it. My staff were instructed not to say good morning to me, unless I greeted them first. Oh my god, Agnes, come here, I’ve never seen such a botched job.” I pull her closer to me and scrub her nails with varnish remover until they are perfectly clean. I neatly apply a single coat, with precise little strokes.

  “Don’t move until they’re dry,” I say.

  “Thanks, Mom,” she says and the word “mom” triggers a nasty feeling in my gut and I shrug.

  “You ever had kids?” Agnes eyes me while she blows on her nails.

  “I don’t think so. I’d remember if I did, wouldn’t I?” I frown.

  “Sometimes it takes a while,” she says. “I didn’t remember stuff for ages and it was no party when I did, I’ll tell you that much. Stay ignorant for as long as you can, my friend.” She licks her freshly-painted fingernails.

  “What are you doing?” I grab her hand.

  “It helps it dry faster,” she says.

  “Yeah, by poisoning yourself,” I tell her and she laughs, a carefree, pretty sound at odds with her tough-girl appearance.

  “You should have seen all the drugs I took,” she says. “No one could party like me. I could drink a whole bottle of nail polish and my body wouldn’t notice.”

  “Is that how you died? Drugs?”

  “Drug related,” she acknowledges. “Are you going to do your toes?”

  I look down and shake my head. “No. Come here, time for a second coat. What do you do around here for fun?”

  “This is Purgatory,” Agnes says reprovingly. “We’re not here to have fun.”

  I finish her nails and apply some make-up to my face while we wait for her polish to dry. I style my hair and I start to look more familiar to myself.

  “Funny how much I know about this shit,” I tell Agnes. “The latest face creams, fragrances, eyeliners, you name it. I was wined and dined by the cosmetics industry, you’ve got no idea. I took bags of products home daily. I could have shared them with the staff, sure I could have but no, I took everything home. Chanel, La Prairie, Dior, Givenchy. I had more shit at home than I knew what to do with. I’d open a moisturizer that cost nearly $500, try it for a night and never use it again. And it wasn’t only product. I got cashmere blankets, towels, briefcases, purses, designer earrings, jewelry, couture, and shoes. And that’s not the end of the list either.”

  “How did they know what size your feet were?” Agnes asks, licking her black nails again.

  “Stop that,” I say. “They emailed and asked me. I got tickets to all the concerts. I got to see everybody. I saw Lady Gaga five times and Beyoncé more times than I can remember. Everybody. Even people I never cared about, or had never heard of.”

  I pick out a bottle of topcoat, sit next to Agnes, and apply the final coat to her nails.

  “My apartment is like something out of hoarders,” I laugh. “Only it is worth thousands, all the shit I have.”

  “You didn’t have a sister or mother to share it with?”

  I think hard. “I may have. Something about that feels familiar but I don’t know what. How come I can remember all the free shit I got, but I can’t remember who my family were?

  Agnes shrugs. “You will. It will come back to you. You’ll see. Like I say, be glad you don’t remember.”

  I look at her. “Why? Surely it’s better to know?”

  “Don’t call me Shirley,” she jokes. “Just trust me, it hurts when it starts to come back. Like getting feeling back when you’ve had bad pins and needles. It burns.”

  I nod, remembering the stinging burn of arriving in Purgatory.

  “Listen,” Agnes says getting up, “It’s time you met some of the other inmates, apart from me and Cedar Mountain Sage Brush. You ready?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Hey, where’s Intrigua? She was cool.”

  Agnes laughs. “Everyone loves her. But she’s only for emergencies and newbies who are freaking out. You were freaking out big time, that’s why you got her. You were lucky.”

  “I’ll never see her again?” I am disappointed.

  “Only if you have a major meltdown.”

  I pick up a bottle of Guerlain’s Habit Rouge and show it to Agnes. “This fragrance has the same notes as the one she was wearing,” I say, and I spray myself liberally while Agnes ducks.

  “None of that stinking crap for me,” she says. “Reminds me of my mother. Too rich for her own blood, stingy as a nun. Now, anything with roses, that’s what I like.”

  “Roses are for old ladies,” I say unthinkingly, and Agnes’s eyes fill with tears.

  “Exactly,” she says. She walks over to the fragrances, picks up Moroccan Rose, and sprays herself liberally, and this time I dive out of the way.

  “Now that you smell like a horde from an old-age home,” I say, “let’s go and meet some other fun people. Lead the way.”

  7. MY NEW CREW

  WE WALK THROUGH THE MAZE of wide hallways, past dozens of closed doors, and into the vast, nether regions of the building. Purgatory is like an endless airport hanger, broken up into dozens of tiny rooms, each housing a strange piece of the world we have left behind.

  I hear that crazy beeping and I jump out of the way just in time to let Shirley the Driver go by on her buggy, lights flashing. She is still grinning that horrible grin, teeth bared like a wolf under a full moon, her hands white-knuckling it on the steering wheel.

  I have, strangely, accepted my current life, such as it is. It would be fruitless to try and smash my way out by denying its existence. Like a bad dream, I have to let it play itself out until I wake up and get my real life back.

  Agnes stops and reaches for a door handle. “They’re dying to meet you,” she says with a lopsided grin. “Or, should I say, they died to meet you?” She chortles and opens the door.

  “Wow, this is nice,” I say as I step into a small, boutique coffee shop. There are overstuffed leather chairs and a low, rustic wooden table. A bookcase lines one wall and there is a sideboard with milk and canisters of sugar, vanilla powder, nutmeg, and cinnamon. It’s a miniaturized Starbucks.

  “Special privileges,” Agnes says. “You are here as our guest. Samia was a barista back on Earth. She can whip up anything.”

  Samia is a short, strikingly lovely girl with a geometric sweep of dark hair pulled to one side and perfect eye makeup that meets my approval.

  “Not many people can do a cat’s eye as well as that,” I tell her and she thanks me.

  “Practice,” she says. “The one t
hing we have here is time. What can I get for you?”

  “Venti, non-fat, no foam, 180 degree latte,” I immediately reply. “That would be fantastic. I might even mistake this for Heaven.”

  The gathered lot don’t smile at my joke and I sigh. More humourless people. I am annoyed that they don’t appreciate my attempts at levity and I sink down into a chair and study my surroundings. I smooth my dress over my knees and realize I should take a shower soon in that awful washroom. Agnes hasn’t said anything about my needing to wash up so perhaps body odour doesn’t exist in Purgatory? I give my armpits a surreptitious sniff and things seem fine.

  “We don’t have the same needs as we did on Earth,” Samia comments as she comes out from behind the counter to give me my drink.

  I flush, embarrassed that she noticed my armpit sniff.

  “Don’t worry,” she smiles. “It’s what I do. I notice things.”

  She’s kind and gentle and I’m glad when she sits down next to me.

  “Where were you from, on Earth?” I ask.

  “Pakistan. Although I lived in Canada my whole life. But my family were originally from Pakistan.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five. And next, you’re going to ask me how I died. I went to a concert and took some bad drugs. It was the only time I’d ever taken drugs and I died. The newspaper said I had ‘ingested substances’ which would be one way to put it. I felt bad for my parents, though. I was an only child and now they are all alone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  “Julia doesn’t remember anything yet,” Agnes announces, having yet to introduce me to the others.

  “Lucky bitch,” one of the girls says. “Try not to remember,” she adds. “It’s much easier if you don’t.”

  “We have to remember,” Samia says. “It’s why we’re here.”

  The door opens and a tall elegant woman floats into the room. I sit up straighter. This woman moves like one of my peers and I can’t be found slouching with the teenage outcasts.

  I cross my legs and wish I had picked up a pair of shoes in the Clothes Room. This woman is impeccable. Narrow trousers, a businesslike blouse tied in an elaborate bow at the neck, high-heeled shoes, tinkly bracelets, and dark hair smartly fashioned in a chignon.

  “Hello,” she says holding out her hand. “I’m Grace.”

  “Julia,” I reply, but I am distracted. This woman is the most sensationally reconstructed Barbie doll I have ever seen. Huge, clearly fake breasts; pert, high, rounded buttocks; a nose that looks eerily similar to mine; the wide-eyed stare of a victim of a too-tight face-lift; squirrely cheeks plumped with implants; and strange, trout-pout, full lips.

  I immediately conclude that she must have died under a plastic surgeon’s knife, after one too many procedures. I am repulsed by her vanity and her greed for youth and beauty and yet, there is something very sad about her.

  “Samia dear,” she says, and it is painful to watch those swollen lips struggle to talk, “may I have a chamomile tea, no milk?”

  “Of course,” Samia darts back behind the counter.

  “Have you met everyone?” Grace asks, and I shake my head.

  “I was going to introduce her, but she was too busy grilling Samia about her life and death,” Agnes says.

  “I’m interested,” I say.

  “Curious,” Agnes corrects me.

  “Never mind,” Grace puts a stop to our bickering. “I’m Grace, You know Agnes and Samia, and this is Fat Tracey and Isabelle.”

  I look at Fat Tracey. Doesn’t she mind being called that?

  “Well, face it,” she says “I am fat.”

  It is freaky, the way some of them can read your mind. But Tracey is right. She is fat. Her eyes are deep-set raisins in a pretty pudding bowl face.

  “Yeah,” she says reading my mind again. “I’d be lovely if I lost about a gazillion pounds. But this is me.”

  Body shaming in Purgatory? This doesn’t sit right with me. I’ve always judged a book by its cover, yes, but never by its heft, or the lack thereof. Keep your manicures polished, but back off when it comes to body shapes and sizes. I have always been clear on this point and I’m about to say something else, but Fat Tracey holds up her hand.

  “Don’t,” she says. “Just drop it.”

  I try to focus on something else. “Nice setup you’ve got here,” I say, looking around. We are seated around the coffee table.

  “Had to get special permission from Beatrice, that bitch,” Fat Tracey comments, blowing on her hot chocolate. “And we had to ask her if you could join us.”

  “Beatrice is the Administrator,” Samia explains.

  “One of them,” Grace says. “She’s ours.”

  “Is an Administrator a Regulator?”

  “No,” Grace says. “No one knows who the Regulators are.”

  I give up. “What did you have to do, to get this?” I ask.

  “Time,” Grace says. “We did time.”

  Well, this is a fun lot. A laugh a minute. I cross my legs and look at my toes, figuring that right after this little coffee klatch, I’ll go to find some shoes in the Clothes Room.

  “I’m Isabelle,” a skinny little creature says, and I stop thinking about what I will do next and focus on her. She is birdlike and angelic, as delicate and ethereal as wild grass.

  “I liked having sex with strange men,” she tells me. “Men I met online. You know that website for people who are married but want to have sex with other people? I joined that one. Actually, my partner at the time made me join, but it turned out I loved it. It was a dangerous thing to do. I knew that, but I loved it and I couldn’t stop. I had sex all over the city: in parking lots, under bridges, and in cars, a lot of cars. The trouble with me was that I fell in love with the men I had sex with and I wanted them to leave their wives.” She sighs. “And of course they didn’t, which really hurt.”

  “Why didn’t you go online and look for single guys to have a relationship with?” This is a no-brainer to me.

  “Because I didn’t want a relationship. At least, I didn’t think I did. I thought I was just in it for the sex, but then I fell in love with whoever I was sleeping with. Well, I didn’t love all of them, really. I fell in love with about four. And they texted me and promised to leave their wives but they never did. I tell you, I spent a fortune on underwear. Good underwear is SO expensive and they like it, you know, the corsets, the bras, and little panties. I got into big debt from that. And I got a tattoo because men love tattoos. Look!”

  She jumps up and pulls her dress over her head. She isn’t wearing a bra and she flashes tiny little bud breasts. She is wearing a thong, a strip of lace between her perfect buttocks, and I am taken aback by her brazen exhibitionism.

  “You see?” she says.

  It is hard to miss. An intricately detailed dragon caresses the side of her torso.

  “The girl with the dragon tattoo!” I am amused, while she is less so.

  “I didn’t know about that shitty book when I got it,” she says and she pulls her dress back on and sits down, ignoring me. I must have offended her, but I can’t think of anything to say to put it right, not that I care overly much.

  The others are unsurprised by her behaviour or her revelations.

  “We must talk to Beatrice about Viewing privileges,” Grace says changing the subject.

  “What are Viewing privileges?” I ask.

  “It’s kind of like Google Earth for the dead,” Samia explains. “You can watch someone you loved, check in with their lives, and see how they are doing.”

  “Creepy,” I say.

  “I heard they can do it in Heaven whenever they want,” Samia tells me.

  “You’ve spoken to someone in Heaven?” I am skeptical.

  “You hear things,” Samia says. “I can’t reme
mber from where exactly but that’s what I heard.”

  “I wouldn’t have anyone to watch,” I say.

  “Beatrice is such a bitch,” Fat Tracey pipes up. “She said flat-out ‘no’ the last time we asked her.”

  “That was a while ago,” Grace says. “You never know, now.”

  “What’s changed?” Fat Tracey counters.

  “Time.” Grace is unperturbed. “It’s all about time.”

  “No, it’s not.” Fat Tracey is angry. “It’s about fucking realizations.”

  I burst out laughing and they look at me.

  “I’m just happy to hear someone swear,” I say. “Cedar kicked me out of a session because I swore.”

  “Fucking Cedar,” Fat Tracey says cleaning out the inside of her mug out with her finger. “Thinks he knows fucking everything.”

  “Are there other Helpers?” I ask, and they nod.

  “Can you change Helpers, ask for a new one?”

  They shake their heads. So much for that idea.

  “What about sex?” I ask, thinking about the Train Room men and their absolute non-reaction to me.

  “Doesn’t exist,” Isabelle says and she sounds sad. “Not on the menu. It’s like it never existed at all. None of the men here even notice me.”

  “I know what you mean,” I tell her. “Me too. I’ve never experienced that.”

  “Bummer,” Fat Tracey says with a hint of a smile.

  After that the conversations picks up and Agnes fills the others in on what we did after I woke. “And she gave me an awesome mani,” she says, showing the others.

  They give me a rundown on their favourite fare from the canteen and for a moment, I forget where I am, and what has happened. But I need to ask another question. “How do we go outside?” I ask, and they all look at me.

  “There is no outside,” Agnes says.

  “The runways, the grass. The planes. How do we get out there?”

  “It doesn’t exist,” Grace says gently. “It’s like the backdrop of a movie.”

  “None of the doors lead outside?”

  “She’s like this a lot,” Agnes tells the others. “She asks you a thing in different ways, like that will score her the answer she wants. Julia, hear me loud and clear: There is no outside, there is no sky, there are no planes or clouds. There’s just this weird building we’re in, wherever it is, we don’t know.”