Letting Go

by Carrie Lange

  Thu-thump…thu-thump…thu-thump…

  The faintest tremor of a heartbeat.

  Dan looked down at himself. Shouldn’t he be hovering, or invisible, or at least transparent, or vapor-ish? But he looked normal, whole. Chest, arms, legs, all the way down to his feet, which were planted firmly on the floor.

  Walking toward the phone, he watched his feet. Yes, they behaved just as feet should, one foot in front of the other. The vibration of each foot’s impact with the floor rose up through the bottom of his feet, and into his legs.

  He picked up the phone. The hard plastic felt cool against his ear. The familiar hum of the dial tone reassured him that he would find someone waiting on the other end. This was not what he expected. Maybe there was still time to save himself.

  He reached down to dial the numbers, 9-1-1, but the phone sat in the cradle. He looked at his hand. Empty. Grabbing the phone again, he slammed it to his ear. Hard plastic bit into flesh and slid over hot perspiration of fear and panic. Once again, he looked down to dial the number. Once again, the phone sat in the cradle.

  Several times he tried to use the phone, failing every time. It always ended up back where it had started - sitting in the cradle.

  “Damn it!” he shouted, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

  He walked back to the couch on weak legs, hands shaking. He kneeled in front of the body and looked at the pale face. All the pinkish color of life had drained out of it, and onto his couch. The arms and legs had stopped moving. The chest was still. The blood no longer flowed.

  Dan bowed his head and tears fell from his eyes as he tried to prepare himself for the end that he thought would come at any moment.

  This is my fault. I’m only getting what I deserve, what I wanted. How could I have been so stupid?

  Nothing happened.

  He looked up.

  No lights. No angels. No tunnels. No burning fires of Hell.

  The fear of imminent loss of consciousness began to subside. His cheeks puffed out as he released the breath he had been holding in a long, windy gust.

  Now what?

  Dan hadn’t believed in an afterlife before. Now that he was apparently here in it, shouldn’t he be moving on to Heaven…or to Hell…by now? Or was he to become a restless spirit, doomed to haunt the living?

  Maybe he should pray.

  He hadn’t prayed since childhood, and it felt awkward and insincere as he tried it now. Already kneeling, he clasped his hands together and closed his eyes in the familiar posture of a desperate man.

  “Dear God. It’s me, Dan. I’m sorry it’s been so long since I prayed, and I’m sorry that I haven’t believed in you. I’m sorry that I just killed myself…”

  This is so stupid, he thought, and then cringed. What if God could hear his every thought?

  “Wait, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that! It’s not stupid. It’s just…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I need help.” This must sound ridiculous, even if there is a God who can hear me.

  He looked at the body, surprised, yet relieved, that its brains hadn’t blown out. I guess it doesn’t always happen like it does in movies.

  The old revolver that Dan had snuck out of his parents’ house lay on the floor. It had belonged to his dad’s father, a cherished memento. Dan had wondered if it would even fire.

  The ancient gun didn’t have the power to send skull and brain fragments flying, although there was an awful lot of blood. It had flowed down his face in streams of crimson, settling around the body and in the crack between the sofa cushions. The small crushed bullet lay on the floor near the couch. I suppose it was my skull that crushed it.

  Imagining the trail of destruction the bullet had seared through his brain, Dan tried his prayer again, with renewed conviction. “God, please forgive me. I had no idea what I was doing.”

  But, that wasn’t true, and God would know it, wouldn’t he? He had known exactly what he was doing. Willfully and intentionally killing himself. Wasn’t that a sin? Was this his ‘Hell’? To stand here for all eternity? In Nashville?

  His stomach churned as he considered the possibility.

  A whisper of a voice floated through his thoughts, directionless. “I’m here to help you.”

  “Hello?” Dan looked around the room. “Is someone there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m here to help. Just stay calm and try to focus on the sound of my voice.”

  Dan couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman, or where the voice came from. But the cold, trembling fear that had been nestling in his stomach and chest was instantly washed away by a hot wave of relief. It coursed through him and stung his eyes, bringing tears of joy and the sudden, almost instinctual words of gratitude from his lips. “Thank God. Where are you? Am I dead?”

  “I’m here with you. Don’t worry, you’ll see me soon enough. And yes. You’re dead,” the voice answered matter of factly.

  “Oh my God, I can’t be dead! I don’t want to die!”

  While he had been alone, he had remained somewhat calm, able to distance himself from the reality of the situation. Now that someone else was with him, confirming his worst fears, the proverbial flood gates opened and a tide of emotions flowed through him like a battered cliché.

  “Oh, give me a break,” the voice said. “Just what the hell did you think would happen when you put that bullet through your brain? Didn’t you want to die?”

  Yes… I did want to die. But that didn’t matter now. He had made a mistake. “I-I…don’t want to die.”

  “Well,” the voice answered in a gentler tone, “You will find that in death, just like in life, you don’t always get what you want.”

  Chapter 2

  As Dan stood, staring at his own corpse on the couch in front of him, he tried to focus on the words of the newcomer. The voice was becoming louder, it sounded as if it were in the room with him now. Maybe it’s an angel, sent to help me.

  He thought about one of his favorite movies, ‘Dogma’. It perfectly reflected his own views on the absurdity of organized western religion. In that movie, Alan Rickman played an angel who had been both condescending and compassionate, just as this voice seemed. The more Dan thought about it, the more the voice sounded like that angel. It was a man’s voice. It sounded British.

  “I can hear you,” Dan said, “but I can’t see you. Where are you?”

  “I don’t have a body,” the voice answered, “so you’re going to have to picture me in your mind. Close your eyes, and try to relax.”

  Dan closed his eyes, and pictured the angel from ‘Dogma’ whom this voice sounded so much like. A middle-aged man with dark hair and eyes. A distinguished British look with a subtle, almost sneering smile.

  “Just listen to the sound of my voice, and imagine what I look like,” the distinctly smooth, rich voice continued.

  The image of the angel solidified. That can’t be right. Is he dead too?

  When he opened his eyes, Alan Rickman stood in front of him.

  Dan took a step back. “Oh my God, it is you!”

  Alan shook his head. “No, no, no! I assure you, whoever you think I am, I’m not. You don’t know me. You just thought of someone; put a face to a voice, and now – poof. Here I am.”

  He motioned to himself. “I don’t have a body, so I don’t really look like anything, and neither do you.”

  Dan looked down at himself.

  “Yes,” the man who was not Alan said, “you still see your body, but you are no longer attached to it. You’ve left it behind on that perfectly dreadful couch over there. You’re just seeing the memory of yourself.”

  “I-I-” Dan stammered, looking from himself, to the body on the couch, and back to the man standing next to him. “You really do look exactly like him.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it. You didn’t look anything like yourself when I first saw you, either.”

  “Oh yeah? Who do I look like?”

  “Well…like yourself now. I can see you over there.” He
nodded toward the couch. “But when I first saw you…you looked like someone else entirely.”

  The man walked over to the body and leaned in close to the head, examining the bullet holes. “What a mess.” Turning back to Dan, he shrugged. “Oh well, I’ve seen worse. I don’t suppose you bothered to call 9-1-1 before you did it?”

  Dan wilted. “Uhhh…” He had given no thought to what would happen after. There wasn’t supposed to be an ‘after’.

  The stranger cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a no. You know, it may be a while before anyone finds you.”

  Dan shook his head, attempting to focus. “So. Who exactly are you? Were you the one whispering to me before, when I was still in my body…uh…dying? Are you an angel?”

  The man laughed, and although he had always loved Alan Rickman’s voice, this sound had an almost magical effect on Dan. A tiny tickle of euphoria raced up his spine and spread across his face, curling the corners of his mouth into a smile. This wasn’t the voice of a mere human. This must be the voice of an angel, perhaps even the voice of God Himself.

  The stranger shook his head. “No, I’m no angel. I’m just a spirit, like you. I was once alive, and then I died. It wasn’t me talking to you when you were dying. I only came here just now because I heard you calling for help. Praying to God, I think. You can call me Tar.”

  “Tar? What kind of name is that?”

  “Well. I didn’t say it was my name.” Tar began walking about the apartment, casually inspecting the contents. He went in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door, leaning over and rummaging inside, picking up items, examining them, setting them back down.

  Dan watched him curiously, wondering if the objects really moved. He glanced at the phone momentarily, and shook his head, returning his attention to Tar. “Um … my name’s Dan.”

  He walked into the kitchen. Tar had closed the refrigerator door and now looked through the cabinets in a distracted sort of way.

  Dan shifted from one foot to the other, trying to remain patient, and cleared his throat. “Eh-eh-em… “

  No response.

  Tar grabbed a bag of cookies from the cabinet above the stove. He buried his face deep inside the bag and sighed with delight. Dan stepped closer to him, his patience wearing thin. Wondering if this...person…was here to help him, or not. “So. Is my body really dead?”

  Tar held the bag up to Dan’s nose. Dan looked at him impatiently over the edge of the bag for a moment and then shrugged. He inhaled deeply, the sweet, chocolaty aroma flooding his nasal cavity and mouth. An earthy, rich aura of taste and scent poured over his face, down his throat and into his lungs. It spread through his body and, as though traveling with it, Dan felt the sensation of movement until he could inhale no longer.

  Never had he experienced such a feeling, and like with Tar’s laughter, Dan could only describe it as magical. What was happening to him?

  A shake of his head, a sharply exhaled breath, and he pushed the bag away. “Is there a way for me to get back in there? Inside my body, I mean? People survive gunshot wounds to the head all the time, don’t they? I’m having an out of body experience, right? I’ve heard of people who see themselves die, but then they go back in their bodies and come back to life. Can’t I do that?”

  Tar put the bag down on the counter and sighed. “All right, stop right there. Look, I have absolutely no sympathy for you,” here he paused and gave a slight shrug, “well, maybe I have a bit of sympathy, and slightly less patience. But if you want my help, there are a few things you need to accept right away. Okay?”

  Dan looked around for the bag of cookies. “Okay.”

  He had seen Tar put them down, but now they were gone. He stepped back to see if they had fallen on the floor.

  “First of all––” Tar slammed his hand down on the counter with a sharp crack.

  Dan blinked and looked up at him. The cookies could wait.

  When Tar had Dan’s full attention, he continued, “No. People do not survive gunshot wounds to the head all the time. They almost always die … just like you did. Your body is completely dead. There it is over there.” He pointed to the couch. “And it’s already starting to decompose. Neither emergency medical personnel, nor God itself could get your spirit back into that body. You aren’t having an out of body experience. You don’t have a body anymore. And the only reason your body is dead, is because you killed it, so it’s your own damn fault. Now, I am here to help you, but I can’t help you get back there. That’s all over now. Okay?”

  They looked at each other, and Dan realized it was his turn to speak. “Okay. I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m scared and I don’t want to die.” He held both hands up. “I know, I know, I killed myself, and I know it’s my fault, but this just isn’t what I was expecting.”

  Dan did not understand his feeling of hysteria and fear. Why, when he had wanted to die for so long, did he now want to live?

  “It’s all right, Dan. I understand.” Tar’s voice softened along with the hard edge around his eyes.“I know you’re scared. But, there’s nothing here to be afraid of. And I know you don’t want to be dead. But you’re not really, you see? You’ve just moved on to a different kind of life. Only that body over there is dead, and that body isn’t you. Do you understand?”

  “Okay,” Dan answered, his hysteria subsiding. “I understand, thank you.”

  Dan did not, in fact, understand but he didn’t know what else to say. Nothing seemed real, although he knew it wasn’t a dream.

  “Tar,” he said, looking around the kitchen. “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “What happened to that bag of cookies? I know you set it down right here.”

  Tar smiled and opened the cabinet door above the stove. The bag of cookies sat right where Dan had left it – when he had been alive. Dan reached out to touch the bag. This would be different than the phone. He would get that bag. All else faded away. Touching that bag became for him like countless other times when, as a child, he reached for something new and exciting.

  The reaching out became a thing all its own. Not quite knowing – expectation, exhilaration, fear, wonder, and a certain kind of love for the object of his attention. Until he touched it, it had complete power over him. After he touched it, its power always diminished.

  His earliest lessons in disappointment.

  Just as it had been when he was a child, the tingle of excitement filled his lungs as he breathed. The feeling was so palpable that his hand trembled and slowed in an effort to prolong the sensation. His hand paused just before reaching the bag.

  Everything depended on touching it. That bag was a part of his life. The life that, until recently, he had been a part of also. Grabbing onto it would be grabbing onto life, and he would never let it go again.

  He pushed all expectation aside, and simply reached for it. A dull clunk echoed through the quiet apartment and a sting bit into the tips of his fingers as they collided with the closed cabinet door.

  A steady, but not unexpected, feeling of disappointment rose up and caressed him. The phone all over again. Had it all been illusion?

  The tingling in his lungs dissipated. His arm grew heavy. He lowered his hand and turned back to Tar. “So. What now?”

  Tar waited, letting Dan have this moment with his disappointment. Perhaps he understood what that moment was all about. “Well, that depends on you. What do you want to do? Are you ready to leave this place? Or do you want to stay here and see what happens?”

  To see what happens? Dan could imagine his parents’ reaction, not to mention his fiancée, Anne. A sinking feeling pulled at his stomach and throat. He suddenly wanted to sit down. Why had he been so blind before? And why did he see so clearly now? The weight of shame bowed his head. His hands covered his face, and a heavy sigh brought his head still lower. He could not face them again, even from death. “I don’t want to stay.”

  “Very well, “Tar said. “Let’s get
the hell out of here. I also have no desire to stay.” He turned and began walking toward the front door.

  Dan started to follow him when the phone rang. “Uhhh …”

  Tar continued walking, not looking back. “Leave it. You can’t answer it.”

  “Wait. Just let me hear who it is first.”

  Tar stopped, turned to look at Dan, and sighed. “All right. I didn’t really think it would be that easy anyway.”

  The answering machine beeped, and then, there she was. Anne. Her sweet voice filled his quiet apartment. So alive, so blissfully unaware. “Hey you, aren’t you supposed to be at work right now…? Dan...? Are you there...? Pick up the phone if you’re there...All right, well...I guess you’re on your way to work. I’ll try calling over there again. Talk to ya later. I love you.”

  “Well, fuck,” Dan said.

  “Yeah,” Tar replied.

  Chapter 3

  Dan thought he was doing Anne a favor. He thought she would be better off without him. Looking around his apartment, at the blood and the greying body, he realized that this was no favor. “Can we just stay for a little bit?” he asked Tar.

  “Was that your girlfriend?”

  “She’s my fiancée. We’re getting married at Graceland.”

  An uncomfortable pause settled on the air. The kind where one person looks at another person out of the corner of his eye, trying to determine if that person had noticed something, and hoping desperately that they hadn’t.

  “Well…I mean we were getting married at Graceland.”

  “Of course.” As if trying to divert attention away from the awkward moment, Tar seemed suddenly interested in the pile of junk mail sitting on the kitchen counter. His fingers slipped over the glossy surfaces. The edges bent. The paper crinkled. Dan’s ears tightened at the crackling sound. The pages moved.

  Or did they?

  As Dan watched, his sight became sharper. Like seeing through a microscope, each individual fiber of paper came into focus. But after the fibers he could see, almost feel, something else.

  What is that?

  He almost saw it––