Expiration Date

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  “I’m saying that he had a harder time transitioning to his mother being a different person than to his mother being gone. Is there anything else you’d like to see?”

  “Ten years from my accident. What is my family like?”

  They walked out of the living room and into the hall where Keira, now fifteen, sat on the stairs. Voices came from the living room, Carissa and Kalan’s voices, but she couldn’t see either of them.

  “What do you want me to say, Carissa? That I still love you? I do! I never stopped. You stopped! You became a different person after the accident; you withdrew from me, from Jason and Keira, until we were left with a shell for a mother and wife. What did you expect?”

  “I expected you to stay with me, to love and cherish me through good and bad, sickness and health. That’s what we vowed. You vowed, Kalan. An affair? That is not loving me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kalan’s voice broke.

  “But sorry is a little too late and you love her. I’m not the woman you married anymore.”

  No sound reached Carissa’s ears but she could imagine Kalan struggling to find the words to fix what he’d broken while Carissa’s stare challenged him.

  “I want a divorce,” Carissa’s voice, broken by tears, uttered quietly, but not quietly enough for the eavesdroppers to miss.

  “What?”

  “Clearly you want out. I will not hold you back. Your poor, crippled wife will not stand between you and happiness with this other woman. Date her, marry her, I don’t care. You can abandon me but if you ever abandon Keira or Jason, I will never forgive you.”

  “Jason, our drug addict son,” scoffed Kalan. “He left us, Carissa.”

  “That doesn’t mean you should give up hope. He needs us now more than ever. I’ll call the lawyer tomorrow to start the process.”

  Carissa looked down at Keira, listening to her parent’s conversation. Tears stained her cheeks and shone in her eyes. Why must her family suffer so much? Keira should never have to see her parents’ divorce or her brother fall into a vicious cycle of self-destruction.

  “So, I divorce Kalan because he cheats, my son becomes a drug addict and my daughter watches her family torn apart. Is there anything else I should know about?” Carissa asked bitterly.

  Death’s smile was a grimace again, and Carissa was getting really and truly sick of that smile. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was more… condescending, as if she was an ignorant child that he was slowly, oh so slowly educating. “Do you wish to see Keira’s fate?”

  “Is it a kind one?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  Carissa shook her head. “The divorce… She doesn’t handle it well, does she?”

  Death shrugged. “What child does?”

  “I don’t want to see it, I can’t handle seeing any more, but can you just tell me?”

  “She has a series of unhappy relationships in an attempt to escape Kalan and his new wife. She gets pregnant at eighteen, marries the boy and divorces him a couple of years later. She marries the next man to come into her life, divorces him and the pattern keeps going; five husbands in all, a couple of them abusers. She has three children but they don’t have a great life either. She turns to alcohol to cope, but that doesn’t help.” Death lists off Keira’s life as a checklist of facts and nothing more.

  She turned and she nodded slowly, unable to say anything. She couldn’t bear any more.

  They were sitting in the car and Death turned to her. “I think you know that you’ve failed to convince me.”

  “I’ve failed to convince myself.”

  “Are you ready then?”

  She shook her head. “How can I be ready for death? Now I’m just… torn. How can I be ready to leave this life when I don’t even know what comes next?”

  Death laughed, an otherworldly sound. “I cannot answer those questions for you, Carissa. You must discover the answers yourself on your journey.”

  “You can’t even tell me who’s right about the afterlife? What’s waiting for me? Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Reincarnation, nothing? What?”

  Death shook his head, that smile playing at his lips. He would not answer.

  “Fine, but answer me this; is anyone ever truly ready for death?”

  “There are a few. The ones that take comfort in religion and think they know what comes next. There are others, like you, who are frightened and unsure. And still others that are never ready and I have to take them anyway. Their passing is often painful for the body and soul, and I’m not sure their souls ever truly adjust. You, Carissa, are ready. You’re just afraid. Do not fear the unknown. Many people have died well. Look at the Christians that Nero tortured in the arena. They suffered unspeakable agonies and yet they faced their journey with open arms and I was there, with them, showing them the way. I will do the same for you.”

  “They were dying for a cause. I’m dying for nothing. Nothing more than fate.”

  “Not everyone can die a martyr. Nor would I wish that death on anyone. It’s a hard path.”

  “Will it hurt?”

  “Every transition involves pain. You have seen it for yourself in your husband’s pain at your death. You have experienced it in childbirth and in growing from adolescence to adulthood. Others experience it in the transition to old age. Death is no different, but it, too, will pass.”

  “That isn’t very reassuring.”

  “Sometimes you have to go through pain to get the reward on the other side. I promise you that you will hardly remember it at your journey’s end.”

  “And you will be there with me?”

  For the first time Death smiled a warm smile that could almost be described as fatherly. It was as if he had transformed from foe to friend in the moment she had given in. “I’ll be with you to start you on your journey. The rest is up to you.”

  Carissa nodded and looked away. She stared at everything around her, this strange frozen world. There were vehicles behind and beside her. In front of her was the truck that would kill her. How long had she sat here with Death? An hour? Two? It seemed like an eternity grappling with fate but she felt oddly at easy, though not completely. She was about to die and leave her family behind. She had seen that her death was for the best, but that didn’t make it easier, it just made it right, and history had shown many times over that more often than not, the right path was the hardest one to walk.

  Death sat wordlessly beside her, as if sensing she needed time, but she knew that he would only wait for so long. Finally he said, “Are you ready?”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready.”

  “Be strong.”

  “You’ll stay with me?” she asked again.

  “Up until the moment you cross over, yes.”

  She smiled weakly as she held out her hand. “I need a little help.”

  He smiled gently as he grasped her hand. “It’s time.”

  She nodded, squeezed his hand even tighter, like he was a lifeline when in fact he was her line to death, and then she looked fate straight in the eye.

  The world slowly came alive. Rain drummed against the car, fast, then faster. Horns blared warnings. Tires squealed in distress. On impact, Carissa looked at Death and said, “Thank you.”

  She gasped as a flash of blinding light swallowed her. Whether it was the headlights, her mind dealing with an overload of pain, or her destination, she did not know. As the light faded, she found herself in a white landscape devoid of color, smell or texture.

  “Walk,” Death’s voice whispered in her mind.

  She wasn’t completely alone. Not yet.

  As she took her first hesitant steps, calmness washed over her. Her death wasn’t the end, it was the beginning. Looking back, she could see her old life fading, and there stood Death, smiling. He nodded and motioned her forward.

  There was
still something unsettling about him, but he had helped her and for that she was thankful. Suddenly, Death’s dark features faded to a wisp of smoke, and Carissa, sensing that there was nothing left for her here, walked until she was gone.

  * * *

  Christine Steendam has been writing stories since she could put pen to paper and form words. Now, fifteen years later, her debut novel, Heart Like an Ocean is available and she is working on her second book. Christine makes her home in Manitoba with her husband, two kids, and horse.

  Death Drives a Cordoba

  by Ryan McFadden

  When Connie Wilkerson received the latest text from her no-good ex, she wanted to whip the cell phone out her minivan window. He had a way of winding her up, seemingly now more than when they were married.

  She read it again. ‘I’m not signing off. Need second review’. She squeezed the phone so hard the seams made a popping noise and she lessened her grip. Her breath came in short gasps and tears welled in her eyes.

  She glanced up, corrected her direction, and eased off the gas as she turned into the parking lot.

  Don’t start crying now, you twit. She had always let him get under her skin. The more she tried to unravel herself from eight years of marriage, the more he threw up obstructions, not because he wanted her back, but because he wanted to punish her for walking out on him.

  He went after her personal assets, claiming he was entitled to half. Battling back in the courts was expensive. So expensive that it if she didn’t win, she’d be bankrupt. With her cash tied up, she’d fallen behind in her payments and now her creditors were knocking.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and began texting an appropriately acidic response.

  The little girl ran from between two parked cars, green dress fluttering like a petal on a breeze. Connie reacted too late. She hit the girl, the impact registering as a sickening thud.

  She slammed on the brakes and the wheels screeched.

  “No, no, no!” Connie cried, jumping from the minivan. The child lay in a tiny heap several yards back.

  You didn’t see her because you were busy texting. How many times have you admonished him for doing that exact thing?

  Connie’s senses crystallized: the sun’s brilliance reflecting off the surrounding windshields; papers blowing on the breeze; the warmth of the autumn sun even though the wind held the breath of winter. Then she focused on the fallen girl, and Connie knew she wasn’t going to be all right. Nothing moved except the rustling dress.

  “Tegan?” a woman called, hidden behind a row of cars.

  “Over here,” Connie whispered, then retrieved her voice. “Over here!” she yelled.

  The woman came from between the cars, holding her sun hat on her head. When she saw Tegan, her hand fell and the hat twisted away on the currents.

  Connie wanted to tell her not to touch the girl, but she knew, God, she just knew, that it didn’t matter. The mother scooped Tegan’s ruined body into her arms and wailed, the anguished sound sending goose bumps along Connie’s skin.

  Connie’s phone vibrated and she glanced at it, forgetting she held it. There was a text waiting for her, and while she could see the words, they weren’t registering. Instead, she hit the emergency-call button and dialled 911, told them that they were in the White Oaks Mall parking lot by the Wal-Mart.

  The mother’s cries drew a crowd. Connie stood in the middle of the chaos, shivering. She didn’t move as people pushed by her.

  Sirens wailed several blocks away.

  Tegan’s mom cradled and rocked the girl, ignoring pleas to release her. Connie gazed at the faces, wanting to tell them that she had done this, but that she’d make this right. Except there was no making this right.

  Connie noticed a man beyond the crowd. He was tall and slender and wore a long black coat that seemed a little too heavy for the temperature. She wasn’t sure why he stood out, maybe because he was calm as where everyone else was panicked. He stood partially in his idling car, one foot in the car and his hand resting on the open door.

  The car was a Chrysler Cordoba, mint green. She didn’t know cars very well, but she knew this one because her dad used to drive one. It was one of those large cars that no one drove anymore because they sucked down gas. Connie made eye contact with the man briefly before he looked away and slid inside. She couldn’t see past the glare on the windshield. The reverse lights flashed, as if he was shifting through the gears into drive, but the car didn’t move. Her phone buzzed again and she tucked it into her pocket. The Cordoba slowly pulled from its spot, the driver seemingly the one person who realized there was nothing that could be done and decided to leave. The car drove by them, and though there was no glare on the passenger windows, she didn’t get a good look at the driver.

  Then the car was gone, merging into traffic onto Southdale Avenue.

  When the police arrived, Connie finally realized what had happened.

  She had killed four-year-old Tegan.

  She remembered the police asking her questions, but she couldn’t remember how she answered.

  A flutter of green on the wind.

  The mother wailed, her cries intensifying when the Regional Coroner placed Tegan into a black body bag. The ambulance had left earlier, empty and with sirens silent, because ambulances were for the living. The Ontario Forensic Pathology Service was going to conduct an autopsy, as if the cause of death mattered. As they zipped up the black body bag, a different police officer asked Connie another round of questions. How fast were you going? Why did you wait to call 911? A vehicular-forensic team mapped the area, measured the skid marks, and documented the details. Connie wasn’t sure if they were going to charge her, but they never asked about her cell phone, and never said she was under arrest.

  You killed Tegan because you were texting.

  Grief wafted from Tegan’s mother in waves. Connie wanted to accept that grief, wanted to drink it in, as if it would absolve her of guilt.

  She sat on the curb, hands shaking, wishing she had a cigarette even though she’d quit two years ago. Within three hours the parking lot was cleared, and all remnants of Tegan had been washed away.

  Like she never existed.

  * * *

  That first night was unbearably long. Connie wasn’t accustomed to being alone yet and, in a crisis, she had no one to turn to. Days like today she wished she could call her sister Jennifer. But that hadn’t been possible in ten years. Instead, she tried calling her father, but he was in Latin America on business. She didn’t call any of her friends because what would she tell them? ‘I killed a little girl. Ran her over and now she’s dead.’

  Instead of sleeping, she paced her apartment, waves of emotion overwhelming her rational mind. She wondered about Tegan: her favorite food; whether she had brothers or sisters; whether she had acted like a brat that morning, throwing her food across the table.

  Connie tried self medicating with a glass of red wine to keep those images away, but the alcohol only heightened her anxiety until she felt like ants were crawling along her spine. When she finally slept, her dreams clogged with disjointed images of Tegan’s body bouncing off her bumper.

  In the morning, Connie considered calling in sick, but that meant she would end up home alone in her apartment. Instead, she was alone in someone else’s partially renovated apartment. She sat on the unfinished floor, surrounded by hardwood samples. Dark ash, red oak, white maple. Her cell phone buzzed on the crate near the door, as it had been doing all morning. She glanced over but didn’t move. Since yesterday, her ex had sent her twenty texts. She’d read some, but responded to none. It seemed all it took for her to rile him up was to simply stop responding. It was a hollow victory.

  Connie wanted to throw away her cell phone, but that was how her boss Sarah stayed in contact. The cell phone didn’t kill her. You did. Of course, Connie hadn’t answered when Sarah c
alled either.

  She rearranged several pieces of hardwood without focusing on them. How was this important? How did the color of hardwood make one difference in the scheme of life?

  Tegan smiled, then laughed as she darted in and out of the parked cars. Her mom chased her, her cries had become increasingly concerned as she lost sight of her daughter.

  Connie dropped her head into her hands as the memories expanded. There was no way she could’ve known that. This was just a trick of her grief-addled mind.

  The man by the Cordoba— Connie saw his face now. Rather, she didn’t see his features but she thought she recognized his expression. Sympathy. Because he knew what she had done?

  Around noon, Sarah came to retrieve her. Connie sat on the floor as if she had skinned her knee.

  “You forgot your phone?” It vibrated again. Sarah frowned. “What the hell have you been doing?”

  “I’ve been…” Connie gazed around her, trying to fit the pieces of her surroundings together.

  What have I been doing?

  “I don’t have time for this, Connie. This is a simple job. You know—”

  “I killed someone,” Connie blurted, and then she couldn’t hold it back any longer and she sobbed. Her boss was the last person she wanted to tell. Sarah watched her cry, and surprisingly, didn’t fire her, or even yell. She knelt, and waited calmly. Connie told a disjointed story when she managed to choke back sobs. Recounting the events relieved some of the pressure that had built inside, not much, but a little.

  Sarah put her hand on Connie’s knee.

  “Go home. Get some rest. Call your family.” Connie nodded, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Connie didn’t have much of a family. Not anymore. But she knew what Sarah meant. Go home and cry to your family because they know how to handle these things.

  She collected her coat, but decided to leave the phone behind.

  Outside, her skin tightened from the cold air and felt refreshing against cheeks swollen from crying. Many knew her in Old South so she kept her gaze low to avoid eye contact. She wanted to disappear. She dug in her purse for her keys so she could get out of here as quickly as possible.