“But can you really call it a demotion if I asked for the assignment?” I answer him quietly.
“I knew it!” he exclaims. “You think you are going to save Linda!” He leaps off the sofa and for a split second I honestly believe he is about to spank me like I am six years old again with my hand stuck in the forbidden cookie jar.
Fortunately he stops short and instead puts his hand on the side of my face, cupping my cheek. “Are you crazy, baby girl?” he says.
“Maybe, but I’m delusional. I know I can’t save her. I just feel better knowing that even though she’s there and I am here we can share the same space sometimes. The chance of me even seeing her is one in a million, and the chance of her seeing me is non-existent. It really is more about me than it is her. Understand?”
“Nope. But what else is new.” He sighs heavily. “Just promise me you will let me know if you get in over your head? If you begin to feel overwhelmed?” His concern is palatable. My eyes start to feel wet and my vision blurs. I blink quickly to stave off the tears. My love for this man is the only thing overwhelming me right now.
“I love you, Daddy, but sometimes I really feel like I need to introduce myself.” I laugh and give him a peck on the cheek. “I’m lazy, I have been known to be a mooch, particularly off of you and Mom back in the day, and I have been called a slacker more than once. But have you ever known me to get in over my head? Well, at least for me to admit it?”
Now he is laughing. “No. You have always been the bravest person I know.”
“Then give me a little credit. It is all going to be fine.” We embrace, and I rest my head on his chest. I imagine feeling his heartbeat, even though I know that there isn’t one. I take a deep breath and give him another squeeze. “Now I have to kick you out. Early day tomorrow!” I say cheerily.
“Good night, sweetie. And good luck tomorrow.” He walks out the door, and I close it behind him. There is no need to lock it. We don’t even have locks on our doors up here. No peep holes either. What threatening thing could be waiting outside a door in paradise?
I move to the bedroom and feel the temperature drop. Even though the space is open, the temperature in the bedroom is always freezing cold. I love to sleep in a cold room. Everything here is exactly how you want it to be. I get into my pajamas, which are also my ideal. Large and fleecy and soft. Then, almost out of habit I get on my knees by the bed and fold my hands in front of me.
I sit there and think for just a moment. Then I finally say, “Hello, Deedy. Not much too really say tonight. Guess I will see you bright and early in the morning.” Then I laugh and crawl into bed.
It’s funny, but in Heaven I rarely dream. If I were ever to have a gun pointed at my head, with some crazy person demanding that I must come up with one thing I miss about Hell, this would be the only thing I could say. In Hell, dreams were all I had. In Heaven we have everything we could possibly dream of, hence…no actual real dreams.
Except for tonight.
Tonight my peaceful slumber turns into a confessional of my true motivation for asking Deedy for the new job. I would be embarrassed if I were awake, but my subconscious apparently has no shame. In my dream I appear in Hell as a fearless and respected warrior. I fly through the streets on mighty wings. People scatter when they see me approaching. Sinners fall to the ground and weep when they see me, calling my name and turn to each other saying things like “She used to be one of us, but look at her now!” But I don’t have time to stop and bask in their adoration. I’m searching every face, looking for Linda. I call out to her as I swoop down corner to corner, through alleys and shops. Finally, I see her walking toward me. She’s young again, nineteen or twenty. She looks like she looked when we first met at a party so many years ago. At first she seems confused, looking at the people surrounding her with bewilderment. Then her eyes scan me, and recognition lights up her face. “Lou?” she cries. “Lou, I don’t know what happened. Please tell me you are here to save me!” she pleads.
“Of course I am,” I say in this weird, amplified voice. I land next to her and take her hand. “Did you really think I would let you stay here?” She smiles and gazes at me with pure admiration and gratitude.
“Come on,” I say as we rise together, my gorgeous wings strong enough to support us both. “Let’s go be happier today than we were yesterday, and make all our tomorrows wonderful.” And holding on to my best friend, I fly into the bright blue sky.
CHAPTER FOUR
Linda wakes to find herself in a strange hotel-like room. There is even a neon sign outside flashing the words NO VACANCY right outside her window, making the dark space seem like a slow motion video of a disco from the 1970s. She shakes the cobwebs out of her head and sits up. There is no TV, and she is not in her recliner. Then she remembers. She is not at home, and she will never be there again. “I’m dead,” she says aloud to the silent flashing. “And so is Hank.” She looks around, almost panicky, but registers a bit of disappointment too when she realizes she’s alone.
Everything in this room is gray. A washed out, colorless, threadbare bedspread thrown over an ancient mattress. Linda gets up and looks at it with disgust. This makes “Don’t let the bed bugs bite” sound like an actual threat. There is a small table in the corner with a dusty old monitor sitting on top. “Internet? Seriously?” There is also a chair, but it looks like it would collapse under the weight of a newspaper, let alone her. There is a closet and there seems to be something hanging in it. Linda looks down and realizes she is currently naked. Not that it is uncomfortable, since she has A) come to terms with her aged body and B) realizes that it has to be one hundred and twelve degrees at least in this miserable room, but she still pulls open the door and sees a dress made out of the same material as the bedspread. It is fantastically horrid. She looks at the size and it is at least four sizes too big. She stops to wonder what happen to Tara O’Fatass that she left behind her dress that she made from an extra blanket, one could only assume. Maybe her Clark Gable came and carried her away. Linda looks around one more time. “Yeah, probably not.”
She decides to stay naked for now and moves to the bathroom. The stench is so bad it is like an actual thing inside the room. She can feel it. She gags and flushes the toilet, which also had remnants of a former guest left behind inside of it. She searches for air freshener or at least soap to cut into the lingering stench. There is absolutely nothing in here. No little shampoos, no fancy soap, not even a free shower cap or one of those shitty little sewing kits with four pieces of thread and a single button too small to fit anything inside. “This place makes a roach motel look like a fucking Hilton!” she exclaims. “And why is it so hot?” With that she gets a flash of realization. She slides onto the floor and starts to cry. “Fuck me. I am in Hell,” she cries.
After about fifteen minutes of steady sobbing, she pulls herself together and gets up, walks over and rips a thin strip off of the remaining bedspread, and uses it to tie up her hair. Then she walks over to the closet, gets out the dress and pulls it over her head. There are combat boots at the bottom of the closet that she pulls onto her feet. For a brief moment she wonders where Hank is right now, and wishes he was here to provide her with some comfort in his familiarity if nothing else. But no, she is glad he isn’t here and hopes in her heart of hearts that he ended up somewhere better. She wipes the remaining tears from her face and walks to the door.
She flashes on some old movie she watched one night when she couldn’t sleep and is afraid that she may not be able to leave this room. But when she pulls open the door and enters the hallway, nothing pulls her back in. So, she continues down two flights of stairs and into the lobby.
Even through the dingy windows of the lobby she can tell that the air outside is kind of orangey. She wonders if that’s fire on the other side of the door. She stops at the front desk where a man of about forty is on the computer behind the counter. He is beating the side of it and cursing under his breath. She stands and waits patiently for a few
minutes, then with no sign of his personal battle ending any time soon, she clears her throat.
He looks at her with disgust. “What?”
She realizes she has no idea what she’s about to say. She just opens her mouth and waits to see what comes out. “I don’t know what to do now,” she whispers.
“You are the newbie in room twenty-four, right?” he responds, with no less disdain.
“Guess so,” she answers.
“Well, I suggest you get your ass out there and find a job. Because rent is due by the end of the week.”
“A job?” She is in wonder now. She has not had a job in years. She’s in her 80s for fuck’s sake.
“Yeah, like what I’m doing right now? You think I hang out behind the counter of a Hellion half-way house for fun?” She is really not liking this kid at all.
“Where should I go?” she asks, not really expecting any help at all.
“Anywhere but here, grandma,” he says with his eyes on the computer again.
With that, her last shred of doubt diminishes, and she knows this is it. It’s time to face her eternity. So she turns and walks out the door into the streets of Hell.
CHAPTER FIVE
My first thought is why does eight am come so damn early in the morning? Granted, I am not fully conscious at this point. But then I become fully aware and much to my own surprise, a little excited. Yes, I am headed to a scary new assignment. But it is also a new adventure. And of course, after last night’s dream, I can secretly admit that I am hoping to run into Linda once I get there.
There’s the rub. I can secretly wish whatever I want, but I can never speak that wish aloud. Of course Deedy and Gabby will know. Hell, they may have already known before I ever did. But until it is spoken and made real, it belongs to me and me alone. That is how things work both here and in the living world. Each of us is gifted with a sacred chamber deep within our spirit where we can run free. Free of judgment, free of criticism. No wish or thought can be held against a person while it is kept there.
Once you say it, or worse, act on it, do something to turn it into a thing instead of a concept, then and only then is Karmic Debt incurred. In other words, you can wish your lying, cheating, bitch of an ex-wife die a slow and painful death, but you ain’t allowed to kill her.
I hop out of bed and move to the bathroom where I take a moment to run a very hot shower. I like the way the steam rises and clings to the glass and chrome fixtures, coating everything with clean. I always enjoy this, but today in particular it is nice. Because today I won’t see fresh or clean for many hours.
I stand in the shower and let the hot water run over my body, my face, my hair. I enjoy the last real comfort of the day before I step out and wrap myself in a large, incredibly fuzzy towel. I make my way to my closet. In the last few years, me and my closet have developed a love affair. Every day I not only get choices, but they are amazing choices. Designer couture, long breezy maxi-dresses, full legged pantsuits in soft linen, intricately embroidered jackets. Yes, I have my own signature style in Heaven. And the shoes! The shoes alone are worth the price of admission. Peep toe stilettos, adorable kitten heels, soft buttery leather flats, like little pieces of art you can wear on your feet.
However, today our love affair turns into an ‘I think we should see other people’ kind of relationship. To be specific, I think my closet is fooling around with whatever supernatural power runs the closets in Hell. I look in dismay at my only choice for the day. To be fair, it is not as bad as the Hellions are finding in their closets right now, but it will definitely blend in with their daily punishment.
It seems to be a sort of uniform. Navy blue pants that are stiff with starch and have been creased to the point of looking like they have seams sewn down them. There is a light blue cotton shirt that looks worn at the collar and the bottom of the sleeves. While it is faded, it is also soft and looks reasonably comfortable. Thankfully, there is not a name patch above the front pocket. I put on the plain white underwear supplied for me and then the uniform. I tuck in the shirt and find a belt in the back that works well to separate the two blues if not to hold up the pants, that seem to fit me perfectly. I also find a pair of white tube socks that I put on, laughing because Bobby, the love of my life, would refuse to wear anything but these ridiculous socks. I didn’t even have to match them up after doing laundry. I would just open up a drawer and dump an entire basket of the same sock into the drawer. He claimed it was easier to get dressed every morning. I thought it was a fashion impediment. Today, however, I look at those socks and want to kiss them. Finally, there is a pair of boots at the bottom of the closet that are heavy and steel toed, but surprisingly supportive and even kind of bouncy under my feet. Okay, so it’s no white Chanel suit with a high neck and a pencil skirt, but it is still from Heaven after all. I run a brush through my hair, pinch my cheeks, glance at my reflection in the mirror—yes, mirrors work even though our bodies are kind of imaginary. I think the mirrors might be too, but that is just my theory—blow myself a kiss and walk out the door.
When I arrive at the Second Chance Temp Agency Gabby is waiting, coffee in hand, with a huge smile plastered across her face. It looks unnatural, like she is secretly Mrs. Potato Head and she has just picked up that smile and crammed it into her face seconds before I got there.
“Should I be frightened?” I ask.
“Why?” she answers sweetly. “I just figured you wouldn’t have time to chat while coffee brewed, since you didn’t arrive until two minutes to eight for an eight o’clock appointment.”
Good grief. I had forgotten about Gabby’s almost compulsive need for punctuality. “So that’s it? You are worried about my being on time?”
“Of course it is!” she says, and that smile gets even wider, against all biological possibility. Gabby is not being 100 percent honest.
Suddenly it strikes me. She saw my dream. My arrogant, ambitious dream that pretty much proves I was lying my ass off when I swore that was not why I wanted to go back to Hell.
“Gabby, I can explain my—”
“Inability to get up and moving on time?” she interrupts me gently. “Too bad, you’ll have to save your excuses for your next visit. You are officially out of time. The boss will be bellowing down the hall any second now.” Her smile is now kind, but her eyes are screaming at me. And I don’t need telepathic powers to get the message loud and clear. Shut up, Louise. Shut up now. Keep your secrets safe.
“I understand,” I say with gratitude. “Thanks for the coffee.” The delicious brew is halfway to my mouth when Deedy’s voice intrudes into our unspoken conversation.
“Where is that darling girl? I tell you something, Gabby, you are slipping. You used to be so much more on point, keeping my appointments running on time!” I can hear laughter in his voice. I think it is funny that Deedy has noticed her whole prompt issue too.
“Don’t let him get away with that, Gabrielle!” I say loudly, but also with humor. Then I storm through the door into his office and announce, “Honey, I’m home!”
Deedy laughs out loud. “My goodness, Ms. Patterson, you are in an awfully good mood, considering what is about to happen.”
“And what is about to happen?” I say eagerly, pulling up a chair across from his desk.
Deedy strides over to his desk and lets his long body fold into the chair. Then he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a file. I used to hate that when I worked here. Those file folders house every bit of information regarding a person’s life, death, afterlife, even dreams. When I was still under the false impression that Deedy was a weird temp agency owner, I was still very aware that he had some kind of access. He knew all of my baggage, some of it that was lost to me, in my remorse ridden brain. He now looks over the file in front of him, and I realize he is peering into the very soul of some poor schmuck who is as clueless as I used to be.
Deedy looks up and smiles at me. “You are assigned to be the guardian...” He pauses after saying the word guardian and
gives me a half beat to rise up and say that I’ve changed my mind. I look at him defiantly to let him know that is not going to happen.
“...of a man named Joe Watkins,” he continues. “Joe died tragically. He was very young. Thirty-five.”
“Wow, so this could be a cool assignment after all. Got a picture of the kid?” I say flirtatiously.
“He is older than you, Louise. And he has been in Hell for over seventy years. Believe me, he is not in the mood for a blind date with an ambitious little sprite who thinks she can talk her way through a keyhole.” He winks at me.
“You don’t mean that. You love me,” I say teasingly.
“I mean every word, and of course I love you,” he answers.
“So, thirty-five. What happened to Joe?”
“Car accident. Unfortunately, it was on a very bad day.”
“What happened?”
“Joe was a journalist, back in the day when print was king, no one had heard of the internet yet, and tabloid journalism was enjoying a certain amount of dubious prestige. Like a bastard son of an emperor suddenly coming into his birthright,” Deedy says.
“So he worked for the National Enquirer?” I ask and then tap on the lid of the curse jar expectantly, imitating the way Deedy always does it when I use a curse word.
“Actually, he worked for a small budget wanna-be tell all paper. And, Ms. Sassy Pants, I used the term bastard in its original, Germanic context. Not as a curse.” Deedy loves words, all words, even some of the worst ones. And he always knows where they came from and what they are supposed to mean. “Anyway,” he continues, “do you remember an actor named Tom Thomas?”
“Of course, everyone knew Tom Thomas,” I exclaim. “He was like, every girl’s dream man when my mom and her friends were teenagers.” I stop to reflect on when he died. “I was in my late teens when he passed. For a minute I actually thought he may have been a long lost relative, the way my mom reacted. And the phone was ringing off the hook with all her cronies calling to cry and sob and beat their chests over his death. Then I thought that maybe my mom had actually dated him, because my dad got all irritated at Mom and her friends, and walked around the house muttering stuff like ‘What kind of man has the same name two times, anyway.’ And ‘I hated him in that movie with the dog. The dog had more talent.’ Once I found out that he was just my mom’s favorite actor, I sort of thought she was being silly, but I also remember thinking that that was the closest I ever got to seeing my mother as a real person, not just a mom.” I smile now at that memory.
Remembering Hell Page 4