Better Off Dead: The Lily Harper Series, Book 1

by H. P. Mallory

  “I don’t think you get it,” I snapped. The woman grumbled something unintelligible and turned the computer monitor back towards her, then opened a manila file sitting on her desk. She rummaged through the papers until she found what she was looking for and started scanning the sheet, using her fingernail to guide her.

  “Ah, no wonder,” she said, snapping her wad of gum. She sighed as her triangular eyebrows reached for the ceiling. “He is not going to be happy.”

  I leaned on the counter, wishing I knew what was going on so I could get the heck out of here and on with my life. “No wonder what?”

  She shook her head. “Not for me to explain. Gotta get the manager.”

  Picking up the phone, she punched in an extension, then turned around and spoke in a muffled tone. The fact that I wasn’t privy to whatever she was discussing even though it involved me was annoying, to say the least. A few minutes later, she ended her cocooned conversation and pointed to the pastel chairs behind me.

  “Have a seat. The manager will be with you in a minute.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” I said gruffly, trying to act out a charade of the fact that I was the master of my own destiny. “Didn’t you hear me? I have to give a presentation!”

  “The manager will be with you in a minute,” she repeated in the same droll tone and then faced her screen again as if to say our conversation was over.

  With hollow resignation, I threw my hands up in the air, but returned to the seat I’d hoped to vacate permanently. The plastic felt cold and unwelcoming. It creaked and groaned as if taunting me about my weight. I didn’t need a stupid chair to remind me I was fat. I melted into the L-shaped seat and stretched my short legs out before me, trying to relax, and not to cry. I closed my eyes and breathed in for three seconds and out for three seconds.

  Lily, stress is nothing more than a socially acceptable form of mental illness, I told myself, quoting one of my favorite self-help gurus, Richard Carlson. And you aren’t mentally ill, are you?

  No, but I might be dead! I railed back at myself. But if you really were dead, why don’t you feel like it? I reached down to pinch myself, just to check if it would hurt and, what-do-you-know? It did … So, really, I can’t be dead. And furthermore, if I were dead, where in the heck am I now? I can’t imagine the DMV exists anywhere near heaven. If I’d gone south instead … oh jeez …

  Don’t be ridiculous, Lily Harper! This is nothing more than some sort of bad dream, courtesy of your subconscious because you’re nervous about your presentation and your review.

  I closed my eyes and willed myself to stop thinking about the what ifs. I wasn’t dead. It was a joke. Heck, the woman was weird—anyone with musician cat statues couldn’t be all there. And once I met with this manager of hers, I’d be sure to express my dissatisfaction.

  You are the master of your own destiny, I told myself again.

  I opened my eyes and watched the woman click her fingernails against the keyboard. The sound of a door opening caught my attention and I glanced up to find a very tall, thin man coming toward the orange-haired demon. He glanced at me, then headed toward the woman, who leaned in and whispered something in his ear. His eyes went wide; then his eyebrows knitted in the middle.

  It didn’t look good.

  He nodded three, four times then cleared his throat, ran his hands down his suit jacket and approached me.

  “Ms. Harper,” he started and I raised my head. “Will you please come with me?”

  I stood up and the chair underneath me sighed with relief. I ignored it and followed the man through the maze of cubicles into his office.

  “Please have a seat,” he said, peering down his long nose at me. He closed the door behind us, and in two brief strides, reached his desk and took a seat.

  I didn’t say anything, but sat across from him. He reached a long, spindly finger toward his business card holder and produced a white, nondescript card. It read:

  Jason Streethorn

  Manager

  AfterLife Enterprises

  “We need to make this quick,” I started. “I’m late to work and I have to give a presentation. Can we discuss whatever damages you want to collect from the insurance companies of the other vehicles involved in the accident over the phone?” I paused for a second as I recalled the accident. “Actually, I think I was at fault.”

  “I see,” he said and then sighed.

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at him dumbly, ramming the sharp corners of the business card into the fleshy part of my index finger until it left a purple indentation in my skin.

  The man cleared his throat. He looked like a skeleton.

  “Ms. Harper, it seems we’re in a bit of a pickle.”

  “A pickle?”

  Jason Streethorn nodded and diverted his eyes. That’s when I knew I wasn’t going to like whatever came out of his mouth next. It’s never good when people refuse to make eye contact with you.

  “Yes, as I learned from my secretary, Hilda, you don’t know why you’re here.”

  “Right. And just so you know, Hilda wasn’t very helpful,” I said purposefully.

  “Yes, she preferred I handle this.”

  “Handle this?” I repeated, my voice cracking. “What’s going on?”

  He nodded again and then took a deep breath. “Well, you see, Ms. Harper, you died in a car accident this afternoon. But the problem is: you weren’t supposed to.”

  I was quiet for exactly four seconds. “Is this some sort of joke?” I sputtered finally while still trying to regain my composure.

  He shook his head and glanced at me. “I’m afraid not.”

  His shoulders slumped as another deep sigh escaped his lips. He seemed defeated, more exhausted than sad. Even though my inner soul was starting to believe him—that didn’t mean my intellect was prepared to accept it. Then something occurred to me and I glanced up at him, irritated.

  “If I’m going to be on some stupid reality show, and this whole thing is a setup, you better tell me now because I’ve had enough,” I said, scouring the small office for some telltale sign of A/V equipment. Or failing that, Ashton Kutcher. “And, furthermore, my boss and the board of directors aren’t going to react well at all.” I took a deep breath.

  “Ms. Harper, I know you’re confused, but I assure you, this isn’t a joke.” He paused and inhaled as deeply as I just had. “I’m sure this is hard for you to conceptualize. Usually, when it’s a person’s time to go, their guardian angel walks them through the process and accompanies them toward the light. Sometimes a relative or two might even attend.” His voice trailed until the air swallowed it entirely.

  Somehow, the last hour of my life, which made no sense, was now making sense. I guess dying was a confusing experience.

  He jumped up, as if the proverbial lightbulb had gone off over his head. Then, throwing himself back into his chair, he spun around, faced his computer and began to type. Sighing, I glanced around, taking in his office for the first time.

  Like the waiting room, there weren’t any windows, just white walls without a mark on them. The air was still and although there wasn’t anything offensive about the odor, it was stagnant, like it wouldn’t know what to do if it met fresh air. The furniture consisted of Jason’s desk, his chair and the two chairs across from him, one of which I occupied. All the furniture appeared to be made of cheap pine, like what you’d find at IKEA. Other than the nondescript furniture, there was a computer and beside that, a long, plastic tube about nine inches in diameter, that disappeared into the ceiling. It looked like some sort of suction device.

  With a self-satisfied smile, he faced me again. “We have your whole life in our database.”

  He pointed toward the computer screen. “My whole life in his database” amounted to a word document with a humble blue border and my name scrawled across the top in Monotype Corsiva. It looked like a fifth grader’s book report.

  He eyed the document and moved his head from right to
left with such vigor, he reminded me of a cartoon character eating corn. Then I realized he was scanning through the Lily Harper book report. With an enthusiastic nod, he turned toward me.

  “Looks like you lost your first tooth at age six. Um … In school, you were a year younger than everyone else, but smarter than the majority of your class. You double majored in English and Political Science. You were a director of marketing for a prestigious bank.”

  “‘Were’ is a fitting word because after this, I’m sure I’ll be fired,” I grumbled.

  The man paused, his eyes still on his computer. “When you were eighteen, you had a crush on your best friend and when you tried to kiss him, he pushed you away and told you he was gay.”

  I stood up so fast, my chair bucked. “Okay, I’ve heard enough.”

  The part about Matt rebuffing my kiss was something I’d never told anyone. I’d been too mortified. Guess the Word document was better than I thought.

  “It’s all there,” Jason said as he turned to regard me with something that resembled sympathy.

  “I don’t understand …” I started.

  He nodded, as though satisfied we’d moved beyond the “you’re dead” conversation and into the “why you’re dead” conversation. He pulled open his top desk drawer and produced a spongy stress ball—the kind you work in your palm. The ball flattened and popped back into shape under the tensile strength of his skeletal fingers.

  “I’m afraid your guardian angel wasn’t doing his job. This was supposed to be a minor accident—just to teach you not to text and drive, especially in the rain.”

  “I wasn’t texting,” I ground out.

  Jason shrugged as if whatever I was doing was trivial and beside the point. “Unfortunately, your angel was MIA and now here you are.”

  I leaned forward, not quite believing my ears. “I have an angel?”

  Jason nodded. “Everyone does. Some are just a little better than others.”

  I shook my head, wondering if there was a limit to how much information my small brain could process before it went on overload. “So, let me understand this, not only do I have a guardian angel, but mine isn’t a very good one?”

  “That about sums it up. Your angel …” He paused. “His name is Bill, by the way.”

  “Bill?”

  “He’s been on probation for … failing to do his duties for you and a few others.”

  My hands tightened on the arms of my chair as I wondered at what point my non-comprehending brain would simply implode with all this ridiculousness. “Probation?”

  He nodded. “Yes, it seems he’s had a bit of trouble with alcohol recently.”

  “My angel is an alcoholic?” I slouched into my chair, the words “angel” and “alcoholic” swimming through the air as I began to doubt my sanity.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  Jason parted his thin lips, but that exhausted look resurrected itself on his face. I was quick to interrupt, shock and anger suddenly warring within me until I couldn’t contain them any longer. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! Alcoholic angels? I didn’t even know they could drink!”

  “They can do everything humans can,” he said in an affronted tone, like he was annoyed that I was annoyed.

  I sat back into my chair, not feeling any better with the situation, but also figuring my outbursts were finished for the immediate future. Well, until I could come to terms with what was really going on. But flipping out wasn’t going to do me any good. I needed to stay in control of myself and in control of my emotions. Wayne Dyer’s words, “it makes no sense to worry about things you have no control over because there's nothing you can do about them,” floated through my head as I tried to prepare myself for whatever I had coming.

  Jason Streethorn, the office manager of death, folded his hands in his lap and leaned forward. “Since your angel, our employee, failed you, we do have an offer of restitution.”

  Apparently, this was where the business side of our conversation began. “Restitution?”

  “Yes, because this oversight is our fault, I’d like to offer you the chance to live again.”

  I had to suspend my disbelief of being dead in the first place and just play along with him, figuring at some point I’d wake up and Jason Streethorn, the orange-haired woman and this DMV-like place would be nothing more than the aftermath of a cheese pizza and Coke eaten too close to bedtime. “Okay, that sounds good. What do I …”

  He rebuffed me with his raised hand. “However, if you accept this offer, you’ll have to be employed by AfterLife Enterprises.”

  I sank back into my chair, suddenly wanting nothing more than to pull my hair out. “What does that mean?”

  He sighed, as though the explanation would take a while. “Unfortunately, AfterLife Enterprises is a bit on the unorganized side of late. When the computer system switched from 1999 to 2000, we weren’t prepared, and a computer glitch resulted in thousands of souls getting misplaced.”

  The fact that death relied on a computer system which wasn’t even as good as Windows XP was too much. “The Y2K bug didn’t affect anyone.”

  Jason worked the stress ball between his emaciated fingers, making multiple knuckles crack, the sound imbedding itself in my psyche. “On Earth, it didn’t affect anything, but such was not the case with the AfterLife.” He exhaled like he was trying to expel all the air from his lungs. “Unfortunately, we were affected and it’s a problem we’ve been trying to sort out ever since.” He paused and shook his head like it was a great, big shame. Then he apparently remembered he had the recently dead to contend with and faced me again. “As I said before, due to this glitch, we’ve had souls sent to the Kingdom who should’ve gone to the Underground City. And vice versa.” He paused. “And some souls are locked on the earthly plane as well. It’s been a big nightmare, to say the least.”

  My mouth was still hanging open. “The Kingdom and the Underground City? Is that like heaven and hell?” Why did I have the sudden feeling he was going to start the Dungeons and Dragons lingo?

  “Similar.”

  I rubbed my tired eyes and let it all sink in. So, not only were there bad dead people in heaven, aka the Kingdom, but there were good dead people in hell, aka the Underground City? And to make things even more complicated, there were bad and good dead people stuck on Earth?

  “Is that still happening now? Or did you fix the computer glitch?” I asked, wondering if maybe I’d been sent to the wrong place. I thought this place seemed like hell from the get-go. And though I was never a church-goer, I definitely wasn’t destined for the South Pole.

  “We fixed the glitch, but that doesn’t change the fact that there are still thousands of misplaced souls. And the longer those souls who should be in the Kingdom are left in the Underground City, or on the earthly plain, the bigger the chances of lawsuits against AfterLife Enterprises. We’ve already had a host of them and we can’t afford anymore.”

  I didn’t have the wherewithal to contemplate AfterLife lawsuits, so I focused on the other details. “So how are you going to get all those people, er souls, back where they belong?”

  “That’s where you would come in, should you accept this job offer.”

  “I would bring the spirits back?” I asked, aghast. “I’d be a ghost hunter or something?”

  He laughed; it was the first time he seemed warm and, well, alive. Funny what a laugh will do for you.

  “Yes, your title would be ‘Retriever’ and we have hundreds who, like you, are currently retrieving souls.”

  An image of the Ghostbusters jumped into my mind and I had to shake it free. Whatever this job entailed, I doubted it included slaying Slimer. “And if I don’t agree?”

  Jason shrugged and turned to the computer again. After a few clicks, he faced me with a frown. “Looks like you’ll be on the waiting list for the Kingdom.”

  “The waiting list?” I asked, shocked. “I think I’ve led a pretty decent life!”

  He
shook his head and faced the computer again. “I show three accounts of thievery—when you were six, nine and eleven.”

  “I was just a kid!”

  He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the Word doc. “I also show multiple accounts of cheating when you were in university.”

  Affronted, I launched myself from the chair. “I’ve never cheated in my life!”

  He frowned, looking anything but amused. “No, but you aided a certain Jordan Summers by giving him the answers in your Biology class and I show that happened over the course of the semester.”

  I sat back down and folded my arms against my chest. “I would think helping someone wouldn’t slate me for a waiting list!”

  “Cheating takes more than one form.” He glanced at the screen again. “Shall I go on?”

  “No.” I frowned. “So how long will I be on the waiting list?”

  He leaned back in his chair and resumed working the stress ball. “You’re fairly close to the top of the list since your offenses are only minor. I’d say about one hundred years.”

  “One hundred years!” I bit my lip to keep it from quivering. When I felt I could rationally conduct myself again, I faced Jason. “So where would I be for the next one hundred years?”

  “In Shade.”

  I frowned. “And what is that? Like Limbo?”

  “Yes, close to it.”

  “What would I do there?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing, really. Shade exists merely as a loading dock for those who are awaiting the Kingdom … or the Underground City.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s it like?”

  “There is neither light nor dark, everything exists in gray. There’s nothing good to look forward to, nor anything bad. You just exist.”

  “But if those people who are going to hell,” I started.

  “The Underground City,” he corrected me. “Those destined for the Underground are kept separate from those destined for the Kingdom,” he finished, answering my question before I even asked it.

  I felt tears stinging my eyes. “Shade sounds like my idea of hell.”

  Jason shook his head while a wry chuckle escaped him. “Oh, no. The Underground City is much worse.” He paused. “The good news is that if you do become a Retriever and you relocate ten souls, you can then go directly to the Kingdom and bypass Shade altogether.”