Divinely Yours

by Karin Gillespie

  “The craft lady will be in the activity room at one thirty. That’s two hours! A little bit after lunch! She’s having a bead blitz!”

  “I’d like to blitz your bead,” Caroline mumbled as she meandered down, the hall to the activity room, where the only “activity” going on was a speckled geezer snoring in front of The 700 Club on TV. That suited her just fine. She was grateful to have the computer all to herself so she could do some more research on Emily.

  A while back, Mona had taught her how to conduct a Bool­ean search, so Caroline typed “eye-tracking” and “persistent vegetative state” in the Google box. She was tickled silly when she pulled up an article from a medical journal that said, “Eye-tracking can be the earliest sign of recovery from a persistent vegetative state.”

  The article also warned that many patient responses, such as eye-tracking, hand-grasping, and smiling, were reflexive and not necessarily an indication of increased awareness. It continued to say that patients who’d been in vegetative states for more than six months had about a one percent chance of recovery. Caroline paid no mind to such doom-saying. She knew Emily was coming out of her deep freeze as well as she knew her middle name was Topeka. She had a sixth sense about it.

  However, much later that evening, Caroline wasn’t nearly as optimistic. She turned the radio dial to Minerva and lis­tened to the entire show. Then she sang three songs, rubbed Emily’s legs until her fingers tingled, and shook her tin of Christmas nuts near her ear like a tambourine player, but her roommate’s gaze was still stubbornly fixed on the ceiling.

  She yawned and looked at the clock. It was one a.m. No wonder she was so tired.

  “Don’t know what’s so interesting about that water spot,” Caroline finally said, her weariness making her cross. “Doesn’t even look like anything. Not a country, not an animal. It’s just a big fat nothing.”

  She scowled at Emily, who still hadn’t moved a smidgen. “Well, I’m fed up,” Caroline said, rising stiff-legged from her rocker. “Be standoffish if you want. I’ll just talk to the plastic plant on the windowsill over yonder. It’ll be better company.”

  Caroline reached over to pull the lamp cord when she no­ticed something gleaming on Emily’s face.

  “Good God Almighty,” Caroline said as her eyes blinked in disbelief. She squinted and looked again. There was no mistak­ing what she saw. Those weren’t bottled tears slipping down her roommate’s cheek like a string of seed pearls; they were genuine tears made by Emily’s own ducts.

  “My precious child.” Caroline grasped Emily’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m so sorry I got crabby with you.”

  Caroline’s knees went weak when she received an ever-so-faint hand squeeze as an answer.

  Ten

  Skye’s alarm clock rang louder than an air-raid siren. She seized the machine with both hands and fumbled with the buttons to make it stop beeping. When that failed, she smoth­ered it with her pillows.

  “It can’t be morning,” she moaned to herself, but the sun screaming through the windows and the cardinals scolding on the oak tree outside contradicted her statement.

  Last evening was her worst night yet. Skye heard angels and other high-level souls needed only an hour or two of re­juvenation, and that some people working in the Supreme Being Sector functioned with no shut-eye at all. But as a brand-new soul, she required at least five hours of sleep or she’d have concentration problems.

  Skye gave her head a cobweb-clearing shake. Last night she’d stayed up late watching scenes from Ryan’s life. She witnessed his conversation with Darcy. Then she heard his phone call to Minerva saying he was thinking of giving up on his mystery woman. The man was a complete paradox and yet she couldn’t stop obsessing over him.

  No time to sort it out. It was Monday—a heavy traffic day in the Hospitality Sector. But maybe she could afford to steal a minute to look in on Ryan Blaine before she left for work.

  The remote was on her bedside table, and she aimed it at the television. The screen filled with Ryan soaping his nude body in the shower. She watched mesmerized for a moment until her conscience caught up with her. It was bad enough she spied on him with his clothes on, but to gawk at him in the buff made her as bad as a common peeping Tom.

  I have to stop watching, she thought. It was ri­diculous to get so attached to someone she would never see again in the flesh.

  Skye arrived at work early and stopped by the break room to relax before her shift. Joy and Glory were hunkered down on the couch, staring at the television screen.

  “Not Earthly Pleasures,” Skye said, covering her eyes with her hand. “I promised myself I wouldn’t watch it anymore.” After a moment her willpower wilted and she parted two of her fingers. “So what’s he up to now?”

  “Kissing some starlet,” Glory said, watching intently. “Dang. You think those two will ever come up for air?”

  “What?” Skye said, dropping her hand. The screen showed an unfamiliar man kissing a tall leggy blonde.

  “Where’s Ryan?” she demanded.

  “Oh. Him,” Glory said with a shrug. “Ryan’s pretty much run his course. Time for some new blood. Everyone’s watch­ing Lars Landers and his latest fling.”

  “Yes. They bicker a lot,” Joy said, reaching into a box of Jujubes. “Then they make up. It’s nonstop drama.”

  “Skye Sebring. You have a guest in your office,” said a voice over the intercom system.

  Skye hurried down the hall to her cubicle. When she ar­rived, a busty black woman spilling out of a red latex dress greeted her.

  “May I help you?” Skye said. The woman was draped seductively in a chair.

  “Yo, shorty. What do you think of the new me?” The voice was childish and didn’t match the mature body.

  “Chelsea? Is that you?”

  The woman stood. She wore thigh-high vinyl boots and a too-tight dress that barely contained her curves.

  “I’m Lil Kim, a.k.a. Queen Bee, a.k.a. Miss Brooklyn, a.k.a.—”

  “Looks to me like someone has paid a visit to the Total Makeover Salon.”

  “I went yesterday. What do you think of my new pimped-out body?” Chelsea thrust her breasts and cupped them with the palms of her hands. “Aren’t these awesome?”

  “They definitely make a statement,” Skye said. Total Makeover Salon allowed Heaven dwellers to customize their appearance through the use of holographs. The attraction was very popular with newcomers, and it wasn’t unusual to see three or four Megan Foxes and a couple of Ryan Goslings strolling around ND quarters. The effect was temporary, lasting only about twelve hours. Even now, Chelsea’s provoca­tive look was beginning to blur around the edges.

  “Looks like you’re fading, Lil Gem,” Skye remarked.

  “Kim,” Chelsea said with a snicker. She was smiling, and Skye could see a few freckles through the disappearing holo­graph.

  “What are you doing here, Chelsea? Our outing isn’t until tomorrow.” Skye consulted her watch. “I’m due to get my first client any minute now.”

  “I want to watch you work. I thought maybe I could be a greeter like you someday.”

  “I don’t know, Chelsea. It might confuse my clients, and they’re already pretty confused as it is. Besides, how would I explain your presence?”

  “Say I’m a trainee. I see that in restaurants all the time where the new waitress shadows the more experienced one. Please?” Lil Kim had disappeared completely and Chelsea was sitting in Skye’s chair, wearing faded jeans and a Jeff Beck t-shirt. The red light had already started flashing on Skye’s computer. There really wasn’t time to argue with the teen­ager.

  “Okay, but I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.” Skye opened her desk drawer and handed Chelsea a pocket com­puter. “Key in a Hospitality uniform. Quickly. And get your butt out of my chair.”

  Chelsea made some hasty entri
es into the computer, and in a flash, a navy-blue uniform replaced her clothes. “Boring,” she said as she frowned down at her flared skirt and crepe-soled shoes.

  “Hush,” Skye said, pulling up the incoming file on her desk computer. “Mr. Barkowski is on his way, and he’s had a nasty accident with a power drill.”

  During the arrival of the first several clients, Chelsea was congenial and helpful. She curtsied when introduced as a trainee, and she handed clients their bags of orientation mate­rials with the flourish of a game-show hostess.

  But after they’d finished with the fifth client of the day and were on their way to lunch, the teenager had a bug-eyed stunned look about her. Skye decided it was time she went home.

  “I see dead people,” Chelsea said in an eerie voice as they traveled on the moving sidewalks crowded with newcomers.

  “Stop it,” Skye said with a gruff whisper. “They might hear.”

  “They know they’re dead,” Chelsea said as they passed a man riddled with bullet wounds.

  “Yes, but some of them are still sensitive about it.”

  “Did you know they have death-acceptance support meet­ings in the ND quarters? ‘Hello, my name is Chelsea, and I’m dead,’” Chelsea said. She stuck a finger in her mouth as if she were about to gag.

  “Have you been attending them?”

  “Just one.” Chelsea scrunched up her face. “Who wants to sit around talking about that dumb kind of junk? I prefer the nightly live chats with God. The Newly Dead can ask Her any question on the computer and She’ll answer.”

  “Did you ask anything?”

  “Yup. I asked her if Elvis was really dead.”

  “And?”

  “Yeah. He is. My aunt Bernice will be disappointed to hear that. She could have sworn she saw him buying a bag of pork rinds at the Circle K.”

  They passed a sign in front of a corridor that read “Special Cases Department: Authorized Personnel Only.”

  “What’s that?” Chelsea asked.

  “It’s a place for newcomers who can’t easily be processed by a Hospitality greeter.”

  “Like who?”

  “People whose bodies were severely damaged, very young children, people who are temporarily stuck in both dimen­sions.”

  “Creepy,” Chelsea said with a shudder. She eyed a frail el­derly man who was hobbling across the sidewalk in the other direction.

  “All of the guys here are feebs. Doesn’t anyone cute ever die?”

  They’d reached the end of the moving sidewalk, exited the building, and headed toward an outdoor lunch area frequented by Hospitality Sector employees.

  “You’re still in the newcomers’ quarters,” Skye said. “Once you get into Heaven proper, you’ll probably see some younger—”

  She stopped short when she spied the billboard across the street. Ryan’s photograph had been replaced with the pop star named Lars Landers.

  “What are you gaping at?” Chelsea asked, following Skye’s line of sight.

  Skye averted her eyes from the billboard. “Nothing.”

  “Are you hot for Lars?”

  “No,” Skye said quickly. “It’s pointless to have crushes on Earthlings.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “In theory,” Skye said, with a bob of her chin. She’d been avoiding Brock’s calls ever since Ryan Blaine had zipped in and out of her life. They reached the picnic area and took seats at one of the umbrella tables.

  “What’s his name?” Chelsea said.

  “His name is Brock.”

  “Will I ever get to meet him?”

  “I don’t know,” Skye said. Suddenly she felt a little wistful about good old Brock. Everything was so uncomplicated with him. Perhaps if the two of them got together again, he’d take her mind off Ryan.

  “Maybe you will meet him,” Skye said. “I’ll invite him to join us tomorrow, at least for part of the day. We could go to the zoo.”

  “The zoo?” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes upward so only the whites showed. “I hate to break this to you, but I’m a little too old to get worked up over a bunch of monkeys.”

  “This isn’t an ordinary zoo. They have every animal that’s ever lived on Earth, even dinosaurs. It’s one of my favorite places in Heaven.”

  “Dinosaurs? We could check it out, I suppose.”

  After lunch, Skye returned to her cubicle and left a mes­sage on Brock’s voicemail inviting him to their outing.

  Eleven

  “Welcome,” Dr. Mullins said, traversing the Earth 101 class­room in several long strides. He caught Skye’s eye and smiled as he made his way to the blackboard. “We’ll be covering two more lessons this period.”

  A television and DVD player were situated on a cart near the podium in front, and Dr. Mullins slipped a silver disc into the player. His limbs were a study in angles, elbows so sharp they looked like they’d pierce through the patches of his jacket.

  “I visited guardian angel headquarters a few days ago, and they granted me permission to film a few of the things I saw while I was there.”

  Skye put down her pencil and leaned over her desk with interest. Guardian angels were shrouded in mystery, and few people in Heaven knew anything about their methods of help­ing Earth dwellers. She always imagined it involved hours of pious praying and spiritual contemplation.

  Dr. Mullins turned on the television and the camera zeroed in on the face of a white-gowned angel who looked anything but serene. Her lovely features were tensed, and her tone was pleading as she spoke into a gold hands-free telephone mouthpiece. “If I have told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t tease the kitty.”

  The camera panned backward and showed hundreds of angels speaking into similar mouthpieces, some of them shouting.

  “Go back! You left the burner on.”

  “Slow down! There’s a bridge out ahead.”

  “Stay clear of that cheese tray. You know it gives you gas.”

  Skye had never heard such a roar of voices in one place. It reminded her of footage she’d seen of the New York Stock Exchange.

  Professor Mullins turned down the volume and faced the class. “On Earth, people talk about the ‘little voice in their head’ that helps them to make decisions. Some call it intu­ition,” he said. “But as you witnessed, it’s hardly a little voice. Most of the angels are screaming at the top of their lungs so as to be heard over their clients’ ceaseless internal dialogue. They’re competing with thoughts of self-doubt, worry, and judgment. When you’re on Earth, you must distinguish be­tween your self-talk, which is generally a lot of harmful nonsense, and the wise, persistent voice of your guardian angel, who’s there to guide you through life.”

  “What’s the song that goes with the lesson?” called out a dark-haired girl who was hunched over her desk, scribbling down every word.

  “Glad you asked,” Dr. Mullins said. “Are you ready for it?”

  Everyone in the class shouted “yes” and Dr. Mullins nodded and pulled up the boom box from behind the podium.

  “This will help you to remember to listen...” Dr. Mullins cupped a hand to his ear. “And pay attention to your intu­ition.”

  He adjusted a few buttons, and George Harrison started singing in a clear confident voice: “Listen. Do you want to know a secret?’’

  Once the song ended, Dr. Mullins pointed to the television screen again. Several angels were seated around a table, watch­ing a PowerPoint presentation.

  “This leads us to the second lesson of the day,” Dr. Mullins said. “Sometimes on Earth you’ll face dilemmas that seem insurmountable. You’ll find yourself not knowing what to do or where to turn. When this happens, just release your troubles to the angels, and they’ll devise a plan to help you. The key to this lesson is trust. You have to get out of the way so the angels have free rein
to work their miracles. Here is some valuable advice from the greatest musicians to ever walk the Earth.” He hit the button on the boom box again, and a song began. “Let it be. Whispered words of wisdom…”

  The class sang along, some of them swaying and waving their arms as if they were at a rock concert. After the number ended, Dr. Mullins switched off the boom box and said, “That’s all for today.”

  Twelve

  “It’s lunchtime, dearie.”

  Caroline heard the singsong voice inches from her ear. Her eyes snapped open and for a minute she had no idea where she was. A gently wrinkled face loomed over her, accompanied by the scent of rose water.

  “Mrs. Taylor,” Caroline said, blinking away the residue of sleep from her eyes. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a terrarium, and the wing chair she’d dozed in was damp from her drool. “Lunch already?”

  It had been eight a.m. when she’d decided to sit in the activity room and steal a catnap. The morning got away from her while she slept.

  “Yes, dear.”

  Mrs. Taylor was all snowy-white hair, blue eyes, and porcelain skin. She was eighty-nine and had been crowned Miss Magnolia Manor three years running. Caroline was amazed at the tenacity of her beauty enduring through wrinkles, jowls, and age spots.

  Caroline had been pretty once—for about ten minutes. A no-good husband and thirty-five years of feeding middle-school kids meat-loaf surprise had worn the good looks right out of her.

  “I’ll get up in a minute,” Caroline said. The aroma of pork chops reached her nose, mingled with the unpleasant undertone that always accompanied institutional cooking. The smell re­minded her of burned Brillo pads, and it clung to the cafeteria no matter what was being prepared in the kitchen that day.

  The call of sleep was stronger than that of food, and Caro­line was tugged back to her dreams. Such a pleasant place. She and Emily strolled along a sugary beach, strewn with shells pink as a baby’s ear. Emily smiled, and Caroline realized she’d never seen her roommate’s teeth before. They were white and strong, the one part of her untouched by illness.