The In-Between was always different and that pleased her. And although she hated the danger her family represented when they appeared with their conversations about her soul, her quality of life, and how much less the insurance company was willing to pay, she had grown to look forward to the brief moments where she could see and actually talk to someone.
Even if he was Death.
* * *
On the first anniversary, Death said nothing, and he didn’t bother to present her with the In-Between. He sat wordlessly on a molded plastic chair, a black woolen cowl covering his features. His scythe leaned casually against the wall and his arms were folded across his chest.
It was all she could see in the tunnel vision that Death offered.
Voices from around the bed carried to her.
“She looks so peaceful.”
“I’ll wait outside, I need a cigarette.”
“Do you think she can hear us?”
“She’s in a coma. There’s always a chance she’ll recover.”
“It would have been so much more kind if she, well, hadn’t lived. You know, I’m just saying.”
“Look at all this equipment.”
“C’mon, Mom, let’s get a cup of coffee. I saw a machine down the hall.”
Trudy checked off the voices: Dr. De Roche, Dad, Mom, her brother Bobby, and Uncle Roy and Aunt Patsy Jo from West Texas.
At the far end of her tunnel vision, Death unfolded his arms and, with an ivory-boned finger, motioned her to follow him.
Come with me.
* * *
On the second anniversary of her accident, Death came as a life insurance salesman. Not a real insurance salesman, that’s just how he looked to Trudy.
Grey-haired, wrinkled, wire-rimmed glasses, kindly. Leather briefcase.
“Good afternoon, Miss Halloran.”
They were sitting in the reception lobby of a glass and steel office building overlooking a city she didn’t recognize. Workers hurried by, but never close enough to get a true glance at their faces.
“I thought perhaps you’d be more comfortable in an urban setting while we wait,” Death said.
For the moment, Trudy was speechless. It was eerily quiet, but she heard the murmur of distant voices.
“She looks so peaceful.”
“I’ll wait outside, I need a cigarette.”
“Do you think she can hear us?”
“No, the Doctor says it’s a long shot.”
“Can she recover?”
“Well, there’s always a chance. Did you read about that woman in Omaha?”
* * *
In her third year, Trudy learned French and by the time Death visited her, she was fluent. Nurse Delany had placed a CD player next to her bed and hour after hour the lessons looped until Trudy knew them by heart.
Trudy sensed the ribbon of light. Death approached and she floated out of her body. Sight flooded into her eyes and, as they adjusted to the darkness of night, she realized she was standing on a hillside path overlooking a rustic village. The air was warm and scented with lavender.
The night sky filled with swirling clouds, the stars blazed with their own luminescence, and a bright crescent moon cast a dim light across the countryside.
Below, warm yellow light poured from distant village windows. Remembrances of her childhood flooded through Trudy as the peacefulness of the scene filled her.
“You were an art student and now you’ve learned French,” said a voice. “I thought this place might be appropriate.”
She turned to face a fiery-eyed disheveled red-headed man with a goatee.
“Starry Night. Wow,” Trudy said in awe. “But Vincent Van Gogh wasn’t French,” she admonished.
“Close enough,” said Death.
A wind kicked through the trees behind them and the sound of rising voices edged to them on the breeze.
“Well, she doesn’t look any better.”
“She’s so thin.”
“Don’t they ever put lotion on her skin?”
“I’ll wait outside, I need a cigarette.”
“The Doctor says she seems more vegetative.”
“Don’t cry, Mom.”
Vincent touched Trudy’s shoulder.
“I thought we might have a glass of wine in the village. Despite the late hour, I happen to know a café is open and the noise of the crowd will obscure your family’s deliberations. Perhaps we could wait there, Miss Halloran?”
“Bien sur. But promise to call me Trudy, okay?”
She took his hand and grasped it tightly. It was the most alive she’d felt in a long, long time.
Hand-in-hand, they walked down the hill to the village. Their conversation carried on the flowered breeze.
“Perhaps someday I could paint you.”
Girlish laughter followed.
* * *
Death was a regular visitor in the fourth year.
In the spring, Trudy’s breathing became shallow and halting, her lips and mouth were scraped raw from the insertion of plastic tubes. She desperately needed to cough but couldn’t. The pain in her chest felt like fire as her lungs filled with fluid. Where the tracheotomy tube entered, her neck was infected and itched relentlessly. An itch that couldn’t be scratched.
Pneumonia had become a persistent companion.
Worse yet, her mind was growing dim and sometimes she didn’t know where she was. Or who she was. Long periods of time passed and then she would suddenly snap back to consciousness. In moments of clarity, she knew she was wasting away.
Dying.
Becoming a vegetable.
Hold on tight, hold on, hold on.
Her life was fading.
Hold on tight, hold on, hold on.
“Trudy?”
Somewhere, a ribbon of light approached and Trudy felt the relief of the In-Between.
“Perhaps it’s time for you to come with me.”
“No.”
An ocean wave swept onto a beach and receded. She recognized the shoreline as Malibu, a place she’d left a long time ago. Off the shore, the waves were barreling and the surfers were carving perfectly through the A-Frames.
She had grown up here, surfing and sunbathing.
Trudy watched for the longest time as the riders paddled for position and took the waves. She breathed in the salt air and curled her toes in the sand.
She turned to speak to Death and was surprised she didn’t know the human form he had taken. He appeared to be some surfer dude.
“Is it really you?” she asked. “I don’t recognize your form.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I had to come quickly, your vessel is failing, and we quickly picked something appropriate.”
A perturbed look crossed her face.
“Are there more than one of you?”
“There is only one of me but many of us. Countless guides are required for such a large endeavor.”
His hand swept to indicate the world.
She flopped onto the sand to rest and sat where she could talk to him and still watch the surfers.
“Then you must know what it all means. You know… life and death.”
“I’m sorry, Trudy, I don’t. No one knows what it means.”
“So where do we go when we cross the river?”
“Existence is permanent, form is transient. That’s all I know.”
A beep sounded on his waterproof watch.
“It’s a busy time, I have to go,” he said. “But I’ll be back if you need me.”
“Bring me back here again and I’ll teach you to surf.”
Death smiled.
Then she was trapped in the hell that was her body, hoping she could stay sane until he came again.
In the summer she taught Death to
hang ten, although the end was getting closer and closer and the Trudy in the bed hardly knew who or where she was.
* * *
On the fifth anniversary, Death appeared as Kurt Cobain. They were standing in In-Between Meadows, he a blond-haired God created to guide her.
Come with me.
She took a step backward from Kurt, he was too… luscious.
High on the craggy mountainsides, the sun glinted off sheltered snow. In the grassy meadow, the air was warm and fresh with no smells of antiseptics, floor wax, or hospital sickness. It felt wonderful to be whole again and she flexed the tattoo on her arm and drew a deep breath.
Girls Rock.
“I want to see you as you really are,” she said, and, after a pause, Kurt transformed to a floating golden orb.
The sounds of a lawyer reached her ears. “Pursuant to the laws of the State of Colorado…” but Trudy tuned him out. She knew what was happening. They were going to pull the plug. Other voices drifted to her.
“It’s for the best.”
“She’s going to a better place.”
“I’ll wait outside, I need a cigarette.”
“She’ll be with Grandpa and Grandma Billings, now.”
She felt the warmth of a hand on hers.
“We love you, Trudy.”
Mother.
“Me too, Truds. I love you, baby.”
Father.
The lawyer had finished and Doctor De Roche said, “Are we ready?”
“Yes,” Trudy heard her mother whisper.
The room became quieter as the machines were powered off until all that was left was the beeping of the heart monitor.
“I’m in love with you,” Trudy said to Death. “It’s crazy. You’re probably nothing but dying brain cells but you give me great comfort.”
“I’m as real as you, Trudy.”
Trudy stepped closer.
“Do you love me?”
The orb flickered, dimmed, then returned to brightness.
“I have grown attached to you. I enjoy our time together. I hate to see you suffer. If that’s love, then yes. I’m sorry, that’s all I am capable of. I wish it were more.”
Trudy reached and tentatively touched the orb. His energy flowed into her.
“It could be more, couldn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” said Death, “but I have hope.”
“You know I don’t want to die,” Trudy said.
“You’re so stubborn. I’ve told you death and birth are the same. There is no end.”
“But there’s an end for Trudy. I’m not done being Trudy. She deserves a life.”
“Indeed she does,” agreed Death.
“Will you wait for me?”
“Of course.”
The alarm from the heart monitor wailed as Trudy flatlined.
“Well, that’s it,” Doctor De Roche said quietly.
Trudy could hear her mother sobbing at the edge of the bed. She felt the cold press of a stethoscope on her breast.
Her fingers twitched.
Her eyes opened.
And a tear ran down her cheek.
* * *
Assembled from stolen body parts, R. B. Payne lives in the hope of being human. Meanwhile, he writes. His stories are in Times of Trouble; Chiral Mad, and a graphic dog-men novel from Island Tales.
That Brightness
by Mary E. Choo
It’s the dress I notice, at first.
On this bright summer day, it stands out with a creamy-white radiance. The swirls and drifts and shadowed folds fall to the woman’s ankles. Her back is to me, her pale bare feet motionless on the terrace stones; her equally pallid arms are poised and still.
Her long hair almost matches the color of her garment. One hand holds a red string, attached to a blood-red balloon that bobs high above her.
She crosses the terrace, descending the steps to the park lawn on the other side. The artist in me is fascinated, and I follow. My long skirt almost trips me as I grab the railing and navigate the shallow steps three at a time. She’s part way across the lawn, moving toward the dry fountain in the centre. A group of people is gathered there, and she stops, dead-still, at the edge. I approach slowly, angling to one side to see better.
“This is perhaps George’s finest work,” a woman facing the crowd says. “Regrettably, he assures me it’s his last.” She moves off to the side, gesturing at the middle of the fountain, where a large object sits veiled in a scarlet cloth.
George, a sculptor I know slightly, stands alone by the low fountain wall, looking rumpled in the heat. He isn’t old; his hair is only a little grey, and his body — the shoulders and hands particularly — appears strong and fit. Still, as I look harder, I see a pain on his face that’s out-of-place on such an occasion. I know that expression, the feeling it conveys. Nothing you do is ever good enough, no matter how people praise it; you have to prove yourself, over and over, and sometimes you get so tired…
He’s given up, I think.
George leans across the fountain wall. He pulls the red cloth away with the air of a blind man, revealing a classical male figure in bronze, with one hand held up to the sun. The fountain springs to life, water from the upraised hand spraying both George and the figure. The cloth trails in the pooling water, turning darkly scarlet. George addresses the gathering, squinting into the sun.
“I’m grateful to you all, for your kindness,” he begins. A surprising and chill gust of wind turns the fountain spray into billowing, rainbow mists.
There’s a piercing cry from the woman in white. She lunges through the group, the red balloon and string trailing and her hair and garment rippling about her. Drawing the string alongside her, she doubles part of it into a cord, twining it. She reaches George, and I’m stunned when she winds the string around his neck, forming a ligature and twisting it viciously. There’s a dazzling aura around the two of them. George paws and chokes, grappling with the cord as he sinks to the ground, his face contorting in terror. He starts to sway from side to side in some weird kind of rhythm, the woman moving her arms along with him, pulling. Fiery light flares from the cord, whirling about him. He shakes his head, as though denying something— people are shouting, hurrying toward them. The woman gives a final wrench, drawing blood before releasing her grip. She turns, and the face I glimpse through the shimmering hair looks terrible and hard, the dark eyes piercing. Clutching the cord, she takes several steps back, rubbing her hand on her neck and arm and leaving bloody patches.
“No!” Recovering, I rush forward to help, attracting the attention of George’s assailant as I pass. She glares at me and grabs my arm, her mouth twisting, but I pull free. George lies still. Several people are trying frantically to revive him, to no avail. I ask what I can do, but they wave me off. When I glance back, the woman in white gives me one last, ferocious look, then turns and starts away. No one seems to notice her. Light shimmers all around her as she twirls the cord into a string once more, the balloon floating above. I could swear I see George’s face in that bright red orb, pushing against the membrane, as if to escape.
“Did you see her?” I tug at a woman’s arm, pointing. “My God, isn’t anyone going to stop her?”
The woman shakes me off, looking me up and down. I’m badly dressed at the best of times — unkempt hair, worn clothes — and I can’t really blame her. She’s more concerned with George, and when I look for his assailant once more, I can’t find her.
The park police arrive, then an ambulance. I back away in shock and confusion. It’s all so appalling. Things could be over, for anyone, just like that! I don’t know George well, or if he’s dead or what, but I can’t believe he did anything to deserve this. No one could. Still, in spite of what I think I saw, there’s no blood left on him, no apparent mark, and the woman in white, well…
If I say anything, if no one else saw her — it’s so hard for me to speak out, and I’m so paranoid — maybe, this time, they’ll lock me away.
I turn and hurry from the park, taking a right along the sidewalk.
* * *
The irony is, I’m not on anything just now. I won’t even take medication, which makes my condition worse. It’s difficult to explain how terrible, how lifeless the pills make me feel.
Several blocks from the park, I cross the street so I’ll have to turn right three times to reach the studio: right and along the sidewalk on the other side, right at the main avenue and back across the road, then along the avenue and a final right into the building. What I saw in the park flickers on and off in my mind like a faded movie reel, and I make small, scared sounds of denial. I’ve been trying not to step on any lines or cracks, which is difficult, as the paving is old around here and laid in squares, and my legs are shaking. A man jostles me, scowling, and I land on a crack— an ominous sign.
Near the studio, the way is crowded and baking hot. The heat penetrates my sandals. A woman I’ve seen before sits on the sidewalk, hawking balloons, most of which are red. Today, a ragged shawl covers her head against the sun. I can’t see her face, and suddenly she seems sinister. As I turn into the studio stairwell I glance back at the doorway. I could swear I see the edge of a creamy dress, a bare foot…
Francis waits for me upstairs. The huge ceiling fan turns lazily, and it’s cooler. I need to tell him.
“I stepped on a crack,” I begin, as if to explain why I’m late. “You know, ‘step on a crack, break your mother’s—’” I pause, adding lamely, “Anyway, your message said someone was coming.”
“Jess,” Francis greets me, nodding; he inclines his head toward the back of the studio, where I paint. A man is standing there, studying my work. I have the sense to shut up, though when I look down at my hands, they’re trembling. My need to speak of what I saw is so strong, it takes all I have just to focus.
“I’m so pleased to meet you.” The man, youngish, pleasant, extends his hand as I approach, and I manage to shake it. I know of him, the family— they buy a lot of art.
He’s interested in one of my latest paintings — a raw explosion of color that looks like a fiery, sunset sea, scattered with hints of things — a wisp of a sail, a border of trees at the edge.
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