by Gina Ardito
“An…eye-pod? What’s that?”
She giggled, a sound that warmed his human insides. That, in itself, confused the hell out of him. “I rest my case.”
A seagull swooped and landed near their feet, beady eye glaring with undisguised umbrage. Sean waved his arms, and the winged scavenger took flight to perch on the rail separating the boardwalk from the sandy beach below. Weird. In his bounty hunting days, only other phantoms could see him. Oh, sure he could make a cat raise its fur or a dog growl, but birds, like humans, never noticed him.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, refocusing his attention. “How come you look so normal?”
“It’s a perk in the Afterlife. You can manipulate your features to look the way you looked in your prime of life on Earth, no matter what age you were and what condition your body was in when you died.”
“Cool. I guess that means everyone’s pretty good-looking, huh? Like a Beverly Hills for the dead. No crooked noses or too many freckles or freaky scars, huh?”
Only one soul he knew bore scars in the Afterlife: Jodie. Her scars, a souvenir from burns she’d suffered in her earthly childhood, had given her courage when she faltered or lost faith in herself. Luc—perfectionist to the max—never understood her obsession with keeping her flaws when she could so easily erase them. One of their misunderstandings that eventually led to their mutual destruction...
“What’s wrong?”
“Huh?” He jerked his head in her direction.
“You got all stiff and angry just now. Why?”
“Just thinking about someone I lost.”
“Oh.” She stood, allowing her skirt to slink down her slender form. “I should wake up now, or I won’t fall asleep tonight.” As she strode away, she craned her neck to frown at him over her shoulder. “Will I see you again?”
“If it’s okay with you, yes.”
“Good. Tonight, let’s go out to dinner. You buy.”
She tossed him a saucy wink, and he laughed. The swish of her hips as she walked away rejuvenated parts of his anatomy he thought long-dead. Maybe this Probation gig wouldn’t be so bad after all. Yeah, sure, his boss had a bug up her ass, but if working with Isabelle meant spending time listening to her laugh and feeling her touch, the positives far outweighed the negatives.
When he blinked, he sat at his cubicle in the Afterlife, the clipboard displaying a grinning Isabelle as she rolled over in the Barbie bed. Stretching her arms wide, she woke.
~~~~
Isabelle stared up at the silken canopy. What a weird-ass dream. Probably some leftover side effect from the thirty barbiturates she’d swallowed.
Flipping off the covers, she clucked her tongue. She did like the dress she wore in the dream. She wondered if she could find its twin in real life. Maybe, as long as she had to stay here anyway, she’d haunt a few local boutiques. See if she could buy a dress like that one.
Thinking about haunting reminded her of that man. Sean. Too bad he wasn’t real. She could use someone like him around her these days. Someone who didn’t judge her, but showed his concern with every word, and his strength in every touch. Her phantom conscience. Pinocchio had Jiminy Cricket; she had a dead guy with soulful eyes named Sean.
Outside her balcony, the salmon-colored sun sank into the Pacific. Sunset.
Jeez, she’d been out cold for a good three hours! How had that happened? Did the sea air and nautical decor give her some kind of peace after all? Something else she had trouble finding in smoggy L.A.? Because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well.
In the silence of her room, her stomach’s sudden gurgle blared a fanfare, and she placed a palm flat against her abdomen. Bubbles fluttered through her flesh. No pain now. She was hungry. Go figure. Who would’ve thought, with all the abuse she’d suffered at the hospital, she’d regain her appetite after a nap? Too bad she couldn’t count on Sean to make good on his promise to buy dinner. That was the problem with dreams and dead people. Both were totally unreliable.
Finding her robe on the chair in the corner, she slipped her arms into the satin sleeves and wrapped herself in sleek comfort. She headed out of the bedroom and downstairs, reaching the first landing before Tony spotted her.
“What are you doing out of bed?” He stood on the first floor, fists planted on his beefy hips, a frown etched on his scruffy face.
“I’m hungry.”
The frown flipped to a hopeful grin. “You are? Really? That’s great.” He leaned into the hall that led to the kitchen area. “You hear that, Justin? Our girl is hungry.”
“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” Justin called out. “I’ll bring you up a tray.”
“I’d rather rejoin the living, if that’s okay with you,” she called back as she descended to the first floor.
“Good for you.” Tony winked at her. When she reached him, he pulled her into a bear hug and whispered, “I threw out my Marlboros, too.”
She squeezed his waist. “Good for you. And Justin.”
“We’ll see.” Releasing her, he crossed his fingers. “So long as I have you to keep me honest.” He flipped his hand to raise a solo pinky. “Secrets for life. Solemn oath?”
Secrets for life. Her heart cracked. How quickly would he reach for a cigarette when he learned her body lay cold and lifeless? She shivered.
Tony cuddled her close again. “You sure you’re strong enough to be down here?”
“Uh-huh. I need distraction,” she admitted. “If I stay upstairs with nothing but my own stupid thoughts…” No need for him to know where those thoughts might lead.
“Fair enough.” He drew her forward. “Come sit in the den. You can watch television while you eat. God knows, the idiot box always distracts me.”
She allowed him to lead her into the rear of the house where amber light spilled from patina-aged torchiere lamps decorated with Cupids. If her bedroom was the Barbie beach house, this den, with ornate antique furniture, pumpkin-striped wallpaper, and the sting of mothballs from the corner closet screamed, “Grandma’s bordello.” While she settled on the lumpy, satin-covered lounge chair, Tony picked up the remote control from a marble-topped round table and clicked the power button. The big-screen television, incongruous among the gilt and mahogany, sang to life, smearing a rainbow of pastel colors over the patterned walls. The familiar jingle for an entertainment news show erupted from the ceiling-mounted speakers, and Tony flicked the channel away.
“No.” She held up a hand. “Go back.”
“No,” Justin shouted. She turned to see him in the doorway, a tray filled with sterling-lidded dishes in his hands. His frown plunged the room’s temperature to arctic levels. “I won’t have that poison in this house.”
Yeah, right. Naked Cupids, swaths of silk, and ugly furniture were all welcome. But a lousy gossip show on television? Quick! Call the Good Taste Police! Swallowing the sarcasm took several huge gulps, but she managed to sound contrite when she pleaded, “Five minutes, please, binky? I need to see it.”
“No, you don’t. You know exactly what they’re going to say. And you don’t need that kind of bile right now.” Balancing the tray on one palm, he lifted the lid off the smallest plate to reveal a slab of sourdough bread slathered in herb butter.
If he’d hoped to distract her, he’d failed. “Oh, for God’s sake, who died and made you my mother?” she snapped.
“You did,” he replied, his tone blander than paste. “When you called me to come get you from the hospital.” After placing the tray on her lap, he lifted the second cover: pesto chicken with fresh zucchini and parmesan shavings.
She inhaled the aroma and let the bad humors melt away. “I only came here for the food, you know.”
“You came here because you had nowhere else to go.” He whipped the tray away before she could lift the fork. “And if you’re eating my food, you’ll follow my rules.”
Her traitorous stomach growled, and she folded her arms over her abdomen to mask any add
itional commentary elicited by her hunger. She glared up at Justin, who gave the stink-eye back. “You suck.”
“Only for Tony,” he replied sweetly.
“Eeeww!” She slapped her hands over her face. “I so did not need to know that.”
Both men laughed—Justin’s high-pitched, Tony’s deeper.
“How about we settle for a sitcom rerun?” Tony suggested.
“Goody. Maybe we can find an episode of ‘Shipp Shape,’ huh? Maybe the one where Rick shows up in Bethany’s room in his underwear.”
The barb struck its intended target. Justin winced, as she knew he would. Any reminders of his fifteen minutes of awkward fame gave him the cold sweats.
On a defeated sigh, he replaced the tray in her lap. “Fine. You can watch those cockroaches nibble at your soul. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She gave Tony the nod, and he clicked the remote back in time for her to see footage of her apartment building. Paramedics carried a blanket-covered lump on a stretcher out the front door and into the open ambulance while the white lights of television news cameras lit up the darkness.
“...Ms. Fichetti was found by a family friend who called 911. She was rushed to an undisclosed hospital and released sometime late this afternoon. Details of her condition were unavailable. Phone calls to Ms. Fichetti’s representatives went unanswered.”
Isabelle stared at the screen. “My representatives? What representatives? My answering machine?”
“Probably,” Justin remarked. “You know how this works. It doesn’t matter if they get a busy signal, a voicemail, or a hangup. Anything but an exclusive statement translates into ‘unanswered.’”
“We did manage to reach Ms. Fichetti’s estranged husband, Carlo Romanelli,” the talking head on T.V. continued, “who had this to say.”
Carlo. That bastard. The blood drained from her head. These vultures had tracked down Carlo to talk about her? Great! Now he knew about her attempted suicide. It would have been okay if she’d succeeded. But to have this become another failure for him to hold over her head? She cringed.
The studio scene cut to a rainy street in Manhattan, where her not-soon-enough-ex huddled with his latest blond bimbo under a black umbrella as he spoke into a microphone held by an off-camera reporter. “Well, of course, I’m dismayed to hear of Belle’s situation. I care very deeply about her, despite our pending divorce—”
“Fucking liar!” She scooped up the hunk of bread from her plate and flung it at the image of her smarmy ex on the seventy-two inch screen, smearing fancy herb butter across his weak chin.
“That does it.” At her sudden outburst, Justin grabbed the remote and turned off the television. “You’ve seen enough.” He gave a curt nod toward her tray as he bent to pick up her makeshift missile. “Now, eat.”
Rage sparked her nerve endings, but she picked up her fork and speared a piece of chicken with complete composure. “Yes, Mama. I’m sorry. You were right.”
“Of course I’m right.” He used a blue cloth to wipe the grease off the television screen before moving closer to crouch at her side. “You made a mistake, but it’s over now. You should be looking at this as a new beginning—the next chapter. You’re only thirty-five, chica. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
Yep. A whole year. Two, at most. Awesome. At least the press—and Carlo—wouldn’t have her to kick around for long. Unbeknownst to any of them, she had an expiration date. Her insides kinked up, blocking any food from moving down her gullet.
“I think I’ll go back upstairs,” she mumbled and pushed the tray toward her thighs. “I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”
“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” Justin clutched her hand and squeezed. “I didn’t mean to rush you. Take all the time you need to heal before we talk about your future. You know you can stay here forever, if that’s what you want. Tony and I love having you with us.” He cast a glance up at his partner. “Right, Tony?”
“Absolutely,” the big guy exclaimed. “You know we love you.”
Forcing a smile, she called on her all acting skills to lie outright. “I’m not upset, guys. I’m just more tired than I originally thought.”
Justin clucked his tongue. “I knew it was a mistake to let you watch the coverage.”
Hmm... Maybe her lack of work had rusted her acting skills. Still, no way would she allow him to hold, “I told you so,” over her head. Pulling the food tray close again, she replied, “On second thought, I am hungry. I should probably stick around for a while.”
“Christ, you’re stubborn.” Justin straightened and glared over her.
She speared a zucchini slice with the fork and slid it between her smiling lips. “Mmm…” The morsel lay on her tongue like a hot coal, thanks to the acid roiling over Carlo’s stint on the entertainment show. On a humungous gulp, she swallowed, then fought back tears when the vegetable tried to reverse direction in her throat.
I will not throw up, she insisted silently. I’ll keep this down if it kills me. “Delicious, as always. You know, binky, if you ever tire of the antiques biz, you’d make a great chef.”
His still furious expression communicated how little sway her compliment held with him.
Okay, now what? Maybe move on to a safer topic. “You’ll make a good daddy one day. How goes the baby hunt?”
Tony sighed with all the drama of a diva.
Justin’s open anger deteriorated into melancholy as he sank onto the sofa beside his partner. “We’re on a few waiting lists.”
“But let’s face it.” Tony’s expression contorted with misery. “We’ll be ready for the old age home before we ever see a baby.”
Justin patted Tony’s jean-clad thigh. “Then we’ll just have to spoil the nieces and nephews Belle gives us.”
In mid-swallow, she choked. Sputtering to clear her throat, she waved a frantic hand. “Boy, have you got the wrong girl,” she finally rasped.
“You’re just saying that because you’re still hung up on Carlo and your career,” Justin said with a know-it-all air that, under normal circumstances would have burned her. “Give yourself time. Once you begin a new life with smart goals, you’ll find someone who really loves you and whammo! The house with the white picket fence, kids, and requisite golden retriever will fall into your lap.”
Bitter regret tainted her taste buds, and she pushed the dinner tray away—for good this time. She’d never thought about having a family. But now, knowing her diagnosis made such a dream impossible, she allowed herself a few minutes to mourn the loss. “I’d make a lousy mother,” she told herself to stop the pity party in its tracks. “I didn’t exactly have the best example of stellar parenting.”
An understatement. Sophia Fichetti drank too much, smoked too much, slept around too much, and pimped out her daughter to foot the bills—professionally and personally, when required.
“All the more reason you’ll be a great mom someday,” Justin replied, his tone soft and soothing. “You know what not to do.”
Yeah, she did. She knew not to tell her friends the truth about her doomed future.
Chapter 6
Xavia entered the auditorium on trembling limbs, her chest tight. Receiving a summons from her Elder Counselor always meant bad news. The double doors closed behind her with the finality of a mausoleum seal. Rows of empty chairs lined the aisle on either side. She never understood why so many seats existed; no one ever sat in them. On the dais, though, the twelve sages of the Afterlife watched her approach from their chairs at the long, glossy ebony table—a ghostly jury of condemnation.
All for show, she reminded herself. For intimidation. To keep the restless souls of the Hereafter in line. Still, she admitted, the subterfuge worked too well. Her galloping atoms, in that core where her heart had once resided, confirmed the success of the Elders’ manipulations.
As she neared the sky-high stage, the council of twelve faded to one lone man, a Yul Brynner look-alike with shiny pate and fathomless almond e
yes, who could have stepped out of Central Casting for The King and I. On the heels of the remaining Elders’ disappearance, the auditorium melted away, revealing Xavia’s personal oasis. The air grew thick with humidity and the waxy scent of magnolias. Palmetto bugs buzzed, and Spanish moss dripped from the leafy branches of a gnarled but majestic cypress tree that shaded her grandmother’s porch from the brutal South Carolina summer sun. Every July and August, Xavia’s mother put her on a Greyhound bus to this backwater town an hour outside of Charleston, where she spent the happiest moments of her childhood. A pitcher of Grammy’s lemonade sat on the overturned milk crate that served as an outdoor table, condensation frosting the slender crackled green plastic. She often wondered if she’d actually taste anything if she dared to pour herself a glass here. Or was the lemonade, like everything else, a mirage intended to manipulate her into submission?
On the subject of manipulation, Uriah, her personal Elder Counselor, chosen at the time she arrived in the Afterlife, floated forward to join her on the fantasy porch, an ominous frown twisting his noble Egyptian features.
Shivers nearly broke her, but she kept herself together and perched on the edge of the wicker chair she’d favored in her earthly youth.
“Xavia.” Even the way Uriah said her name—with James Earl Jones depth and Darth Vader severity—ratcheted up the tension inside her. Clearly, his request to see her meant bad tidings. “Your son came through here. Again.”
She allowed herself to feel hope for the first time in eons, gripping the worn chair arms to keep her excitement in check. “When? Is he still here? Can I see him?” Maybe this time…
Uriah folded his arms over his gold-vested chest. “You know you cannot.”
Frustration reared its ugly head. Of course not. Once again, the Elder crushed her like an ant beneath his gilt shoe. “Then why tell me?” How long would they force her to do penance for one lousy mistake? Hands white-knuckling the chair arms, she glared up at Uriah. “Jee-zus, I get it. I screwed up. I couldn’t bear to live another day without my son so I offed myself, thinking we’d be reunited in death. My bad. And you guys saw that as a reason to punish me for eternity.”