by Josie Brown
I try hard not to stare at my exposed body—not out of any false sense of modesty but because it’s tremendously disheartening.
“Giving up already?” I don’t recognize the voice, and I certainly don’t appreciate its hopeful tone. I look around to see who’s talking.
A black cloud has formed on the opposite side of the ceiling. As it deepens, I can make out the shape of a person (Man? Woman? At this point, it’s hard to tell) who stays aloft thanks to wings that span the full-width of the room.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Want to take a guess?” It asks. The voice is deep but friendly.
It’s a trite concept, but I’ll ask anyway: “Angel of Death?”
“Bingo!”
I can hear the apparition's chuckle ring through the room, but it has little effect on the surgical team other than to make one of the RNs attempt to scratch the wax from his left ear.
I’ve got to be dreaming, I think.
“No,” the apparition assures me. “You’re in the here and now—for whatever that’s worth.”
“So, you can read my mind.” I’m dismayed at what is now obvious to me.
“True. And you can read mine too.” To prove it, he shares the one bit of information I’ve been dreading:
My body is failing me.
This is validated by what is happening below us: Dr. McLanky is shouting directives to the others.
“Look at it this way,” the Angel of Death suggests. “You’ve had a longer life than others you know. Say, Catherine Martin—”
“Not necessarily. She was a few years older than me to begin with,” I point out.
He chuckles. “Okay, then. Your old friend and neighbor, Nola Janoff.”
Adamantly, I shake my head. “I’m a few years younger than her as well.”
Death pulls out a well-worn notebook from deep inside his wings. “It says here that your age is thirty—”
“Something. Thirty-something,” I insist.
Death rolls his eyes. “Okay, yeah, have it your way. Bottom line: considering your line of work, you’ve had a good run. Why not go out on a high note...”
He stops short when he notices something. Slowly, he extends a gnarled talon toward my face—
No, under my neck.
I freeze. What’s he going to do, I wonder—slash it?
Having read my mind, he chuckles. Instead, he taps the soft flesh under my chin. “As I was saying—”
I slap the talon away. “It’s not my time,” I growl.
“Oh, yeah? Well, it says so, right here.” Death points to the page he’s turned to in his little notebook so that I can read it for myself.
In a medieval script, it reads:
DONNA SHIVES STONE CRAIG dies on—
Below us, the trauma team is panicking. They shout at each other over the screeching monitors. I hear “losing her” and “crashing” and other phrases that give credence to Death’s declaration.
As my life force seeps away, what should be soon-to-be-made memories appear in my mind’s eye like a film on fast-forward. When it stops, I am with Mary on the last leg of a road trip in which the plusses and minuses of six colleges are being discussed. She and I laugh when it becomes apparent that, no matter which path she takes, her future is filled with promise.
A moment later, I watch as my Aunt Phyllis graduates from college—righting a regret she once divulged to me as we shared a bottle of wine. “It’s never too late,” I implored her.
“I wasted my youth on foolishness, and I’m too old now,” she insists.
“Pshaw, missy!” I retorted. She laughed at my audacity to use her favorite expression to shove her beyond doubt. I now know why she’s always busy on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She took up the challenge, even if she hasn’t yet admitted this to me.
I swerve further down into the world of What Could Have Been—this time to watch Trisha give the valedictory address at her high school graduation. My baby has grown into a tall willowy beauty. As her name is called, the thunderous applause of her classmates attests to their love of her sweetness and infectious smile.
Time leaps forward again. This time I find myself gazing at Jeff. His eyes are filled with joy as he watches his beautiful bride walk down a church aisle toward him.
The next time I find myself at the precise moment in which Mary puts my first grandchild in my arms. Jack, his hair now grayer and his fine wrinkles now deeper, looks on in awe.
Mary watches us with pride, her husband at her side. (Is it Evan? He stands too far away for me to make out his features…)
The faces of those near and dear to me flash before my eyes: Emma and Arnie; Abu and Dominic—
And, of course, Ryan.
When Lee’s face appears in my mind, his confident smile turns wistful at the thought of me.
Even as I die, I realize they will survive. Their lives will go on.
Without me.
I get that. But for it to take place now, like this—
No.
I have some unfinished business. I’ve got to find the son of a bitch who did this to me.
“Let’s make a deal,” I declare. My tone is devoid of any fear.
Death rubs his chin as if weighing the offer. But the fact that I can now take deep breaths proves that he is intrigued.
Finally, he asks, “What kind of deal?”
3
Don't Fear the Reaper
Recorded by Blue Öyster Cult. Released July 1976, the song spent fourteen weeks on the Billboard Greatest Hits chart, reaching Number Twelve.
Your worst blind date ever? Trust me—you haven’t had it yet.
Here’s the scenario:
He shows up early—or even worse, unexpectedly.
He's tall, dark, and brooding. You like your dates to have an air of mystery, but his vibe is sooooo dark.
He declares he’s taking you someplace new and exciting. But when you get there, it’s a living hell. All you can think of is how to ditch him and get home.
Aye, there’s the rub: you’re stuck there—thank goodness, not necessarily with him, but it’s not as if anyone else there is someone you’d want to hang with.
In other words, he’s made your life a living hell.
I mean for you to take that literally because he is the Angel of Death.
You know—the Grim Reaper.
Should he appear on your Tinder or Bumble feeds, swipe left.
“Ah! So, you want to make a pact with the Reaper!” Gleefully, Death rubs his hands until he notices that I’m wincing. “What? Too stereotypical?”
I sigh. “Let’s just say it doesn’t surprise me.” I roll my eyes.
“So, what exactly are you proposing, milady?”
“Some tit-for-tat. You give me back my life, and I do you a solid as well—say, take out a few of your harder cases.”
He snorts. “You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t decide fates. I’m just in the delivery business.” He points up, and then down. “Think of me as the UPS for Departed Souls.”
“Gotcha! So pitch my offer to the Powers that Be.”
Death nods grudgingly. “All I can do is try. Wait here.”
I look down at the surgical team trying to resuscitate me. “Yeah, well, I’ll do my best…”
He’s already gone—
But not for long. A moment later, he’s back. He gives me a thumbs-up. “Huzzah! What you’re proposing just got a green light from the Prince of Darkness. Good for you!”
“Satan? But…” Maybe I haven’t thought this through properly. “Why not the Good Guy?”
“Because the Man Upstairs goes strictly by the book.” He cups my ear in order to whisper: “Free will, yada yada. Those who commit a mortal sin”—he tosses a thumb backward—“are outta there.”
“Of course.” I frown. “Why exactly would Satan be interested in the deal?”
“Because of your chosen line of work. It’ll make things interesting.”
“I’m not following you. I mean, sure,
I kill, but my hits are only those who are evil enough to deserve it.”
“Says who?” he snorts. “Pray tell, who died and made you God?”
I wince. “You’re right. I’m the last person who should pass judgment.”
My declaration makes him smile. “Contrition? Now you’re getting the hang of things.”
“Okay, so the Devil it is.” Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. “How will he use me? Like for the assassination of someone who somehow keeps slipping your noose? Of course, there will be caveats. For example, no one who is innocent. It’s got to be a really, really bad guy—”
Death snickers. “Silly girl! ‘A’ bad guy, as in singular? One lousy trial won’t buy you five minutes, let alone the rest of your life!”
I look down at my crash team scrambling to resuscitate me. “Okay then, what will?”
“You know your Dante. Purgatory has seven circles—”
“Or toll houses,” I interject.
“A rose by any other name—yadda, yadda. In any regard, to get back to the living, you’ll have to face seven demons.”
“Demons? Seven?”
“More akin to a few reunions with some old friends.” Death winks. “To tell you the truth, they won’t be any happier to see you than you are to see them. A few of them may be downright ticked.” He shrugs. “Who can blame them? I mean, let’s face it, they owe their untimely demises to you. And what a lineup!” He raises a hand skyward as if pointing to a marquee. “Donna… Stone… Craig’s… Greatest… Hits!” Each word comes with a thrust of his palm.
“That’s ridiculous!” I point below. “Look! I don’t have time to fight seven dead assassins!”
“Au contraire, ma chére. You’ll have all the time in the world—if they stabilize you in time.” He gazes down at the triage team.
Just then, my body flatlines.
“The Devil’s deal is seven trials,” Death snarls. “Take it or leave it—but tell me now.”
McLanky shouts, “Code Blue!”
“Yes! Okay! It’s a deal!” What else could I say?
Suddenly, the monitors spring to life again.
“Thank God,” a nurse murmurs. “It’s a miracle!”
“‘La-dee-dah, it’s a miracle!’” Death mimics, and then grumbles, “I never get any credit for the work I do.”
“You would if you let a few deaths slide every now and then,” I point out.
“You’re not my first, you know.” His grin widens. “But if you succeed at this little bet, you’ll be plowing virgin territory. Let’s see, who’s jonesing for a rematch?” He flips open his little notebook and peruses the list. “Ha! Well, what do you know! Practically everyone you’ve killed curses your name. It looks like Satan will have to hold an auction.”
“Tell him to go for it.” I’m proud that my voice doesn’t tremble.
* * *
“You say that now, but you may regret it,” he retorts ominously. “Eternal damnation has a way of making one ornery.”
“Duly noted.”
He fades into nothingness.
Below me, my saviors are hugging and high-fiving. I float down among them. When I place a kiss on Dr. McLanky’s cheek, unconsciously, he rubs the spot. A trace of a smile rises on his lips.
It doesn’t stay there long. A nurse pokes her head through the operating suite door. “The husband is throwing a fit. He wants to know—”
“Tell him I’ll be right out,” Dr. McLanky says.
“Can I at least give him the news that she survived?”
“If you can call it that.” McLanky glances over at my pale body. The thick tubes connecting me to the life support machines bleeping out their dire warnings are crisscrossed with the thin catheters that feed me the sustenance of life: plasma, saline, and hope. “I’ll go with you. Her husband should hear the worst directly from me.”
He doesn’t know the half of it.
Seven assassinated beings wanting retribution. They may not be able to go home, but if I don’t beat them yet again, neither will I.
And yet, I’m hopeful. Whoever the Grim Reaper has in mind, the good news is that I’ve beaten them once. I can do it again.
I hope. I pray.
Because my future life depends on it.
I follow Dr. McLanky out into the hall. It’s worth hearing my plight from his perspective.
My friends and family are the best-dressed visitors in the trauma floor’s waiting room. If I weren’t already on life support, the looks of shock and dread on their faces would indeed break my heart.
It must be wearing on Dr. McLanky too because his explanation starts off with the good news first. “We removed the bullet,” he explains. “Luckily, it hit soft tissue as opposed to any major arteries or organs, although, a few millimeters lower and to the right and it would have torn through her stomach.”
He pauses in order to accommodate their collective sighs. “However, she’s not out of the woods by any means. In fact, she’s far from it. Mrs. Craig went into cardiopulmonary arrest. It helped that her husband came quickly enough to give her CPR, but the subsequent lack of oxygen has left her comatose”—he pauses before adding—“and possibly brain-damaged. We’re monitoring her brain activity.”
Mary’s lips tremble. “But—she won’t stay like that forever—will she?”
“It’s too early to tell. The medical term is anoxic encephalopathy,” McLanky explains. “Right now her heart is beating, but to be honest, it almost gave out.”
My loved ones are silent as they contemplate my reality.
Finally, Jack asks, “What can we do?”
“Talk to her,” McLanky suggests. “And touch her. Coma patients respond to voices and to tactile motion as well as heat and cold. But not all of the patient’s movements are voluntary,” he warns them. “I’m not saying for you to take it with a grain of salt. I’m just asking you to…well, not get your hopes up.”
Aunt Phyllis’s knees buckle. Ryan catches her right before she falls to the floor.
Trisha turns in order to bury her head in Mary’s chest so that the others don’t see her crying.
The sound of sobs comes from behind me too—
From the Grim Reaper. He wipes away a crocodile tear before blowing his nose in the sleeve of his monk’s robe. “So sorry! This is the part that always gets to me—all that false hope folderol.”
“But I’m coming back!” I retort fiercely.
“Sure—if you win all seven fights.” Suddenly, his robe changes its texture. It’s no longer sackcloth but satin. When he lifts his arms through his sleeves, I can see that his hands are in boxing gloves. He holds them out to me, flat-knuckled, so that I can read what is written on them:
Right hand: NUCLEAR Left hand: BOMBSHELL
He smiles. “Great fighter’s name for you, don’t ya think? My gift to you, along with these.” He takes off the gloves and tosses them to me. “Go ahead, try them on.”
I put my hand in the right glove—
Only to pull out a skeletal hand.
I’m proud that I don’t scream. Instead, I toss it back at him. “I think you’ll need this.”
“Nah. Believe me, there are plenty where that came from.”
Suddenly, there is a dark hole that has opened up in the floor. Flames flare from this smoky abyss. The hand of the Reaper, now floating, beckons me down.
His toothless grin sends a shiver through my soul. “Shall we?”
4
Stayin’ Alive
Written and performed by Robin Gibb, Barry Gibb, and Maurice Gibb. Released November 1977, this disco song was the second single from the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. It spent twenty-seven weeks at Number One on Billboard’s “Hot 100 Chart.”
The Gibbs had originally named the song “Night Fever,” but the movie producers wanted the word “Saturday” added, to match the movie’s original title, Saturday Night. Apparently, it wasn’t original enough for the Gibbses, who felt there were already too many songs
with the name “Saturday” in them. The movie’s title was changed instead.
Life is about the survival of the fittest, right?
Not everyone can be king of the jungle. Even if your sights are set lower—say, somewhere below the mighty Simba but above the lowly slug, here’s how to increase your chances of stayin' alive:
First, start out swinging: either to catch your opponent unawares, or vine-to-vine if you want to cut your losses and run (before you get cut instead).
Next, not everyone is your friend. Even if they gush compliments while in your presence, the real test of trust comes when you and they come face-to-face with wildebeests that show their fangs. If said friends turn tail, drop them as quickly as possible (which would be if and when you survive this primal dressing down). However, if your beastie-besties snarl back at this brat pack, chances are you’ll stay BFFs for life.
Finally, don’t presume anything. No circumstance is black or white. The gradient shades of life, love, and loss are etched firmly with each year and every tear.
Hey, I’m not being poetic here! I’m just telling it like it is. You don’t have to believe me. But if you’re smart, you’ll take what I have to say to heart—
Before yours stops beating.
Time stops when you’re in a hellhole.
Even as you’re dropping at the rate of a runaway freight train, it is a feast for the eyes, albeit less than palatable for those who never hunger for the punishment doled out to the Damned.
I look away at the cages that line the walls around me, where the inhabitants cry out as they are beaten raw, gurgle one last gasp while being disemboweled by a sword, or scream out the names of their mothers as they are burned alive. Each torture is as ingenious as it is unforgiving.
Death, now my constant companion, chuckles. “You’re taking note, I assume?”
Doing my best to keep things light, I reply, “Hey, you never know when a new technique will come in handy.”
“You’ll have to be cunning if you’re to survive here,” Death warns me.