by Boone Brux
No emotion played across Dr. Crock’s face. “My sleep is fitful and disturbed.”
Okay, no help from the help. I was tempted to say no but I’d already given myself away. Damn, I had to stay one step ahead of these questions or he’d think I was a nut case. “Yes.”
“I have a good appetite.”
“Yes.” The answer blurted from my mouth before I had a chance to think about it. “I mean it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
“Yes or no, Mrs. Carron.”
“Yes, definitely yes.”
He added another tick to his paper. “I believe in the afterlife.”
I stared at him for a second. “Are you serious with that question? You realize I’m a grim reaper, right?”
“I don’t write the questions, Mrs. Carron. I only administer the test.”
“Yes, Dr. Crock, I believe in an afterlife. I’ve actually seen what waits on the other side and it didn’t look all that great.” He scribbled a note on the edge of the paper. That couldn’t be good. I inhaled and mentally centered myself again. “Next question.”
“I have never been sorry that I’m a girl.”
For the love of God. “Seven days out of the month I’m sorry I’m a girl.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Those commercials of women riding bikes and roller skating—all lies.”
“Is that a yes then?”
I held up my hand. “Not necessarily. Other than the cramping and the irrational bouts of rage, I like being a girl.”
He arched a brow. “Yes or no.”
He was trying to trick me. I knew it. “What was the question again?”
“I have never been sorry that I’m a girl.”
After mentally repeating the sentence three times I smiled. “Yes.”
Tick.
“I sometimes tease animals.”
“No, well, my mom put a sweater on our bulldog once and I did make fun of him, but no, I don’t tease animals. That’s just mean.”
He gave a heavy sigh and marked the paper. “I do not like everyone I know.”
My mind raced through my list of people in my life. I didn’t hate anybody but I didn’t necessarily like everybody. Take my neighbor, Clare Goucher. The woman was pushing sixty and insisted on doing yard work in her bikini. Or my mom. I loved her but I didn’t really like her most of the time. “Yes, I do not like everyone I know.” Dr. Crock’s mouth pinched into a tight line. “It’s unrealistic to like everybody, isn’t it?”
“I’m not here to judge, Mrs. Carron.”
I bit back a sarcastic retort, not wanting another side note added to my file. Instead I focused on the damn clock. “Next.”
“I am neither gaining weight nor losing weight.”
“Another fat question, huh?” I drummed my fingers against my ribs. The tight waist of my jeans decided my answer. “No.”
Tick.
Bastard. I was really starting to not like Dr. Crock.
“Once in a while I laugh at a dirty joke.”
“Yes.” I kept my eyes on the clock. The sooner this stupid test was over, the better.
“I sweat very easily on cool days.”
What the hell? This test seemed to be skewed toward us fluffy gals and I didn’t like it. Most days in Alaska were cool, thankfully. “No.”
“I believe I’m being followed.”
That question gave me pause. Did ravens count? Because I was fairly certain that bird was stalking me. “Yes.”
Dr. Crock’s brows lifted in surprise. I could tell he wanted to ask who I thought was following me, but when I narrowed my eyes at him, he cleared his throat. “Peculiar odors come to me at times.”
I blinked several times. “What?”
“Peculiar odors come to me at times.”
“Dr. Crock, I have two eight year old boys. They produce odors no human should be subjected to.”
“That would be a yes, I assume?”
“Yes.” I’m pretty sure that’s not what the question meant. I’d read accounts where people swore they smelled their dead grandmother’s perfume. Nothing like that had ever happened so I stuck with what I knew. Besides, this test was pissing me off.
“The things that some of my family have done have frightened me.”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” There was a lifetime of therapy wrapped up in having a cop for a dad. Not to mention my brother, who I believe was dropped on his head as a baby. Though my mom denies it. “Definitely, yes.”
“I like or have liked fishing.”
I’m an Alaskan. Fishing is in our blood. “Yes.”
Dr. Crock pinned me with a stare. “I deserve severe punishment for my sins.”
Call me crazy, but the way he looked at me made me wonder if that question was even on the test. “We all sin, but I don’t feel I need to be severely punished for them.” He continued to stare at me, giving me the willies. “Do you?”
“Again, Mrs. Carron, not judging.”
Right. “How many more questions are there?” I glanced at the clock. We’d only been at it for ten minutes.
“Five hundred total.”
I groaned and let my head fall back on the chair. “Fine. Next.”
“I like to take a bath.”
“Yes.” I said to the ceiling.
“Horses that don’t pull should be beaten or kicked.”
I started to feel like one of those horses. “No.”
“I like mannish women.”
My head popped up. “What do you mean? As in friendship or like—like?”
“You must interpret the question yourself.”
“If I have to interpret the questions myself, what’s the point of this test? I might say I like mannish women because I’m a lesbian and like to feel girly. Or maybe my best friend is mannish and I like her despite the fact that she’s mannish. In each scenario the reasons are completely different.”
“You’re overthinking things. Just a simple yes or no.”
“Then yes, I like mannish women. I like feminine women. I like feminine men if they are a good person.”
He rolled his eyes as he made another checkmark on the paper. Was rolling eyes even allowed if you were a psychologist?
“I think Lincoln was greater than Washington.”
Propping my elbow on the arm of the chair, I stared at Dr. Crock. Did my answers really matter? I was beginning to think it was my reaction to this barrage of idiotic questions that GRS was really gauging. “Yes.”
“I have to urinate no more often than others?”
I kept my expression passive. “Yes.”
On and on the questions went. Did I like to play hopscotch? Was I opposed to every person on earth drinking alcohol? Was I afraid of fire?
Three hours later Dr. Crock looked up from his paper and smiled. “Only three more questions.”
My butt cheeks throbbed from sitting so long. The entire time, he allowed me only one five-minute break to stand and stretch. I straightened my legs and sat up straight, waiting.
“I prefer to wear black clothing.”
Easy. Any woman who struggled with her weight knew black was her best friend. “Yes.”
“I’ve contemplated suicide.”
I was taken aback. Never, not even in my most grief-stricken moment had I thought about killing myself. I had the kids. They needed me. No didn’t seem strong enough. “Never.”
He made his mark and then smiled at me. “Last question.” I saw he was just as happy to be finished with this test as I was. “I have a normal level of interest in death.”
Even though he waited for a yes or no, a lot of other answers came to mind. “I’m a grim reaper, so already my level of interest is higher than non-reapers. So who are we gauging this by? Overall humankind or just GRS workers?” He opened his mouth to give me what I was sure, some bland retort, but I cut him off. “On the other hand, you would think being a grim reaper would amp up my interest, but honestly, if I never ever saw another dead person, I’d be perfectly content.” I stood and picked up my pu
rse. “So you decide, Dr. Crock. Do I have a normal level of interest in death?”
I walked to the door but stopped. When I looked back, the good doc was jotting more than a quick note in my chart. Deciding silence was golden, even though that realization had probably come too late, I walked out. The questions he’d asked had been weird, revealing, and on the rare occasion thought provoking. I’d never contemplated whether dirt frightened me or if my hands and feet were normally warm. Now that he’d asked, I found myself thinking about just how unenlightened I was about myself.
The reality was I’d lost interest in the little things I once found fascinating. As a kid I spent hours watching the worms that surfaced after a rain. Now I didn’t even notice them. My head was filled with to-do lists and the needs of others. Somewhere along the line I ceased being Lisa and turned into somebody’s mom and wife.
In general, I thought the personality profile I’d just suffered though was crap, but I couldn’t deny some of the question sparked a desire to know myself again. Did I prefer mango over guava juice? Had I ever tried guava juice? Being a grim reaper may not have been my first choice of employment, but the fact I was one of the few on Earth gave me a shot of self-respect I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Maybe I’d pick up a mechanics magazine on the way home.
CHAPTER TEN
The gymnasium spread out before me with an obstacle course that ranged from reasonable to bizarre. I assumed I was supposed to traverse this bad boy. The track I could handle. It was some of the other areas I wasn’t quite sure about.
Nate stood beside me with a clipboard and a huge stopwatch. “You have ten minutes to make it through the entire course.”
I nodded as if that wouldn’t be a problem. “Gottcha.”
“Let’s walk the course first.” He started down the track, not waiting for me. “You’ll do one lap, then you’ll veer to this area.”
A pommel horse blocked our path. Luckily a springboard sat in front of it. I remember vaulting over one when I was in grade school. Of course I was seventy pounds lighter, but I think I could manage this. “I have to spring over this?”
“Yes.” Stepping around me, Nate moved to the next obstacle. “Here you need to climb the rope ladder.”
Ladder? It was more like a spider web of knots and rope spreading across one wall. Still, not impossible. I pointed upward. “What’s that?”
“Once at the top you’ll climb onto that ledge, crawl to the end, and slide down the rope.”
Resting in a deep hole in the floor sat a small trampoline. The rope’s end knot dangled several feet above it. Obviously, Nate expected me to drop onto the stretchy black surface. My aim would have to be good or I’d end up sprawled on one of the mats surrounding the trampoline. At this point my biggest fear was breaking a leg or pulling muscles I hadn’t used in years. “So drop onto that?”
“Drop, bounce a few times and transfer to the next trampoline.”
No problem—if I were an Olympic gymnast. The next trampoline was half the size of the other. I craned my neck to make sure there wasn’t yet another, smaller apparatus I’d be expected to rebound onto. Relief washed through me when I saw a balance beam. “Got it.” Boy I was being cooperative. Last night I decided not to whine if I could help it. “Next?”
“Climb onto the wide balance beam. Jump down.” He strode ahead of me, patting each wooden beam as he passed them. “Onto the next bar.” I noticed it was a bit narrower, only about three inches wide. “Down, and finally to the last balance beam.”
Was he serious? The piece was no more than a half inch across. “You expect me to walk on this?”
He stopped and looked me. “Actually I don’t think you’ll make it over the vault.”
Walked right into that one. I smiled. “So encouraging.”
He shrugged. “You asked.”
Note to self: Nate thinks you’re a doofus. Don’t give him ammunition.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Fine, what’s next?”
“Another lap around the track. The time will stop when you cross the finish line.”
“Perfect.” I screwed my determination in place. I might not vault over the horse like a gazelle, or gracefully scramble up the rope, but I sure as heck was going to finish this course in less than ten minutes. I yanked down the bottom of my sweatshirt. “Let’s do this.”
“Toes to the line.” Nate pointed to the yellow stripe running the width of the track.
I placed one foot against the starting line and then hunkered down into a runner’s stance, bouncing a couple of times like I’d seen the athletes do.
Nate cleared his throat. “What are you doing?”
“Getting ready to run? What does it look like?”
“You don’t want me to answer that.”
I twisted my neck and glared at him. “You got that right.” Setting up again, I leveled my gaze on the track in front of me. “I’m ready.”
“All righty, then.”
I heard the laughter in his voice. Eat my dust, Nate Cramer.
“On your mark.”
My body tensed.
“Get set.”
I lifted my butt in the air and ignored how much it hurt my fingertips to hold my weight forward. I—would—not—fail.
“Go.”
Though my intention had been to blaze down the track, leaving a fiery trail behind me, that idea quickly fizzled. Good God, when was the last time I’d actually run? I couldn’t remember. A better tactic was to set a quick jog. Weird things happened as I made my way around the track. Over the years my body had morphed into something I didn’t know. Areas of me giggled that hadn’t ever before. After the second bend in the track my muscles burned. Air fought its way into my lungs. The whole experience was pathetic.
With each step, more of the bravado I felt at the starting line evaporated. I veered off the track and jogged toward the horse. The thing seemed taller. Not sure I’d make it over, I gave an extra bounce on the springboard. I realized my mistake too late. My body pitched forward and smashed into the horse. Luckily I gained enough height to roll over the top in a tangle of arms and legs. As I dropped onto the opposite side, my hand snagged under one of the hand grips.
“Sweet mother!” I stumbled to my feet, twisting my ankle, and yanked my hand free. A steady throb took root below my palm. Rubbing the spot did nothing to physically soothe the injury, but it kept my cursing contained.
“You okay?” Nate walked toward me, but I stopped him.
“Fine.” I limped toward the rope ladder. Pain continued to ripple through my wrist and ankle, but I tried my best to ignore it.
You can do this. You can do this.
Surprisingly, the ladder didn’t pose much of a problem. My leg felt like they were on fire, taking a lot of my weight as I climbed, but at least I didn’t flop around like a salmon in a net. With relative ease I scaled the web. The next phase was a different story.
Once at the top, I flailed for the wooden platform. Even by twisting my body, I just brushed the scaffolding with my fingertips. The only answer was to climb as high as possible and get above it. Medical bills started piling in my mind. Broken wrist, sprained ankles, maybe even a broken back if I fell.
I glanced down. Nate stared at me, a hint of a smirk playing at his mouth. That was the motivation I needed. I gripped the top rope and climbed until my feet were level with the plank. Extending my leg, I eased my left foot onto the ledge. From below I’m sure my position looked ridiculous, but at this point I didn’t care. I’d finish this damn course or die trying. Okay, that was a little drastic, but the realization of how out of shape I was pissed me off. Just another thing that had fallen apart after Jeff’s death.
Overhead, I grabbed the handle protruding from the scaffolding and pulled myself onto the ledge. The ground twenty feet below wavered and I clung to the handle for dear life. I closed my eyes and waited for the world to stop spinning.
Note to self: Avoid heights if possible.
The ledge hadn’t looked so narrow from below. Reluctantly I released my death grip and crouched. A belly crawl seemed like the best idea. Safe, low to the board, less chance of falling. Inch by inch I made my way to the end of the ledge. The rope dangled in front of it and I latched on like a shark on a tuna. White knuckled, I stood.
Again, it had been my intention to ease onto the rope and lower myself to the trampoline. The second my full weight cleared the platform, my grip slipped. Fire race along the palms of my hands as I plummeted toward the trampoline. For somebody watching, I’m sure I looked like I knew what I was doing. My resonating scream however, quickly extinguished that notion.
My feet hit the knot at the end of the rope, cramming my knees into their sockets. Certain my hands were a bloody mess, I released my grip and dropped on all fours onto the trampoline. I bounced several times, biting my tongue. God, I hated this job. What was I thinking when I said I’d be a reaper?
After the momentum slowed, I struggled to my feet. Every part of my body hurt. If it hadn’t been for Nate watching me I would have lay there curled in a ball, whimpering. Testing my balance, I gave a couple of shallow bounces.
The smaller surface I was supposed to leap onto seemed a lot farther away than when we walked the course. Who designed this damn thing? Satan himself? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was almost finished. I could do this. My lids slid open and my gaze focused on the projected landing spot.
With cat-eyed concentration, I bounced and launched. It felt like I lifted ten feet off the ground. The truth was I probably just cleared the trampoline. But I made it. Like a real gymnast, I stuck my landing.
Nate’s brows lifted with surprise. Suck it, reaper.
Now pretty full of myself, I leapt off the trampoline, landing with a solid thud on the mat, and jogged to the balance beams. No problem. Hefting myself up, I skittered along the widest beam. I moved a little slower on the next one, but didn’t fall. Though lower to the ground, the last and narrowest beam required my undivided attention and best balancing skills. My ankles shook from the effort it took to remain upright. What happened if I fell? God forbid I’d have to start again.
At the end of the beam I gave myself a mental high-five and jumped down. It would have been impressive if I’d sprinted around the final lap of the track. Would have been, but I didn’t. As a matter-of-fact, I’m not sure I could have called it a jog at all. My quick walk was interspersed with a few sluggish running steps, but then I’d have to slow again. My lungs burned and blood pounded in my head. Sweat poured off me as if I’d been doing an hour of heavy cardio. It was embarrassing and rather humiliating.