Divinely Yours

by Karin Gillespie

  “I’m coming back,” Emily said. “Soon.” Suddenly she was far away, a speck in the distance waving to Caroline. Emily shouted something over the rush of the surf, and her voice had an unexpected querulous tone.

  “You’ve been in that chair all day,” it said. “And yesterday too.”

  It took Caroline a minute to realize the voice didn’t belong to her lovely dream world. It was gratingly real and accompa­nied by a sour odor.

  “I want that chair,” continued the voice, whining like a horsefly.

  The voice belonged to Hettie Phipps. Caroline tried to stand, but her body had been plastered to the bottom of the chair so long she felt like she was part of it.

  “Hold your water,” Caroline mumbled. She was still wedged in the gauzy world between sleep and wakefulness.

  Hettie wasn’t inclined to wait. “I need that chair,” she said loudly. She thrust her face closer, and Caroline could see gray whiskers sprouting from her chin.

  “Take the darn thing, then.” Caroline eased herself up, pins and needles pricking her backside as she surrendered the chair to Hettie.

  The evening news blared on the television, jarring her into full consciousness. Not only had she slept through lunch; she’d missed dinner too. Caroline walked stiff-legged to the dining room, knowing she looked a fright. Her dress was wrinkled and strands of hair had loosened from her bun and hung limply in her face. But her hunger pains were sharp, like a cat trying to claw its way out of a croaker sack.

  The dining room was empty; the dishes had been cleared away and the tables were already set for breakfast. Cardboard flower cutouts hung on the walls. In July there’d be American flags; Thanksgiving would bring Pilgrims and horns of plenty. The decorations were meant to be cheerful, but Caroline found them patronizing, more appropriate for an elementary school than an assisted-living center.

  She poked her head in the kitchen, hoping to get a sand­wich. The bare stainless-steel counters gleamed, and the place smelled more like Comet than food.

  Beulah, a big black woman, was rinsing a ten-gallon pot in the industrial-sized sink. She wore a hair net that sat like a blue mushroom cap on her bullet-shaped head. Caroline was all too familiar with the weariness in the woman’s wide round back and knew the cook wouldn’t be happy to open her refrig­erator, dirty a knife, and sully her clean counters with crumbs.

  She didn’t speak to Beulah, but instead headed to her room, remembering the Christmas nuts on the top shelf of her closet. A handful of cashews should quiet the beast in her belly.

  The nursing home was winding down for the evening just as Caroline was perking up. For the past three nights, she’d been as nocturnal as an owl, staying up until dawn. Emily was only active after midnight. Something was definitely stirring within the girl. Her eyes constantly followed Caroline, and she squeezed her hand sev­eral times each evening. Caroline couldn’t wait to see what Emily would do next.

  She ate a handful of nuts, licked the salt from her fingers, and tuned to the Minerva show on the radio. Alone in Atlanta was hogging the airwaves again; he and Minerva were in the middle of a conversation.

  “We did have a terrible argument before she left, Mi­nerva,” Alone in Atlanta said. There was an uncomfortably long pause. “She believed I’d betrayed her by sleeping with another woman.”

  “Aha!” Caroline said. “The truth finally rears its ugly head.”

  “And had you?” Minerva asked, her voice breathless with interest.

  “No. It was a misunderstanding.”

  “Well, Alone, maybe she’s out there listening,” said Mi­nerva. “Maybe she’s forgiven you and is ready to come back.”

  “I doubt it, Minerva. I’ve come to accept she’s gone from my life for good, just like she promised she’d be. I’ve decided this is my last call to the show. But I wanted you to know it really helped me to talk to you. Thank you so much. Believe me, there wasn’t anyone I could discuss this with.”

  “We’ll miss you, Alone. There are legions of listeners out there who’ve been rooting for you, but I understand your de­cision. You’ve never once mentioned your girlfriend’s name. Would you like to say it now? Maybe you could appeal to her one final time.”

  “I guess it won’t hurt to tell you.” He lowered his voice a decibel. “Her name is Susan.”

  “Susan? Okay, Susan, Alone in Atlanta hopes you’ll come back to him. Here’s a song just for you. Maybe you’ll wake up and realize how much you’re missed.”

  “Wake up, Little Susie. Wake up.” Caroline hummed along with the song until she noticed Emily shifting her gaze from the water stain on the ceiling to Caroline’s face.

  Caroline turned off the radio and smiled. “So you’re with me now, are you?” She reached for Emily’s hand and gave it a small squeeze. Caroline was thrilled but not surprised when Emily returned her greeting. “We’re going to let someone in on our secret.”

  Caroline knew Lydia Chance, the night attendant, would be making her rounds soon, and she’d decided to tell her about Emily. She’d been foolish to confide in Gertie, who only saw Emily during the day and wasn’t very bright to boot. Miss Chance would be able to see Emily’s progress for herself.

  At a quarter of one, the door creaked opened, and Miss Chance padded into Caroline’s room for her nightly check.

  “Mrs. Brodie, don’t tell me you’re still awake? That’s three nights in a row now,” she whispered. “Do I need to give you a little something to help you sleep?”

  Caroline ignored the woman’s question. She was far too excited.

  “Look at Emily,” she said quickly, pointing at her room­mate. “She’s staring at me. Do you see? And watch this.” She eased out of her rocking chair and crossed to the middle of the room, where Miss Chance stood. She was delighted the girl’s eyes were still on her. Caroline had been a little afraid Emily wouldn’t perform for an audience. “She’s tracking me wherever I go.”

  Miss Chance didn’t look a bit surprised. She nodded and said, “Like the eyes of a painting in a haunted house. Gave me the creeps the first time it happened to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Emily’s been watching me on and off now for months. She started it in January.”

  “Months?” Caroline said, scarcely able to find her voice. “Land’s sakes.”

  “You used to always be asleep when I came in, Mrs. Brodie.” Miss Chance was a woman in her fifties with a ghostly complexion and nearly invisible eyebrows and lips. The only color on her face was the red rims of her eyes.

  “She’s also been squeezing my hand,” Caroline said, fran­tically trying to save the situation. “Has she ever done that before?”

  “Can’t say that I’ve ever taken her hand,” Miss Chance said, facing Caroline as she stood by Emily’s bed. “But if she squeezed your hand it was likely just reflexes. Now if you told me Emily’s been reciting the Gettysburg Address, I would sit up and take notice.”

  “It has to be more than just reflexes.” Caroline’s voice trembled with disappointment.

  “I know exactly how you feel, Mrs. Brodie,” Miss Chance said gently. “A long time ago, I was a home health aide for a little boy who nearly drowned in a bucket of mop water. Peter had eyes big as half-dollars, and he’d watch me every time I came into the room. Sometimes he laughed right out loud, and I would have sworn on my mother’s grave he had some idea of what was going on around him. But after caring for him a few months, I realized every­thing he did was just a reflex. Sometimes he’d cry real tears, but not because he was sad. It was just something his poor empty little body did.”

  “I’m sure there are times when it’s not reflexes, when someone is inside, trying to get out,” Caroline said with an adamant whisper. “I think that’s what’s happening with Emily.”

  “Supposing it is,” Miss Chance said, resting a hand on Caroline’s shoulder, “how
far can we expect the poor dear to come after such a long time? It’d be a miracle if she regained even a tenth of her faculties. Would you want her to live a life where the only things she can do are track people with her eyes and squeeze their hands?”

  She stole a fond glance at Emily, whose gaze was still fo­cused on Caroline. “No, Mrs. Brodie. For Emily’s sake, pray what you’re seeing is just reflexes from a body whose soul was freed a long time ago.”

  Caroline felt as if a pair of icy fingers were walking down her back. Maybe she’d done a terrible thing by trying to rouse Emily from her nonresponsive state. Maybe Miss Chance was right, and Emily would never progress beyond the simplest of skills, and Caroline should have left well enough alone.

  “Better hop into bed, Mrs. Brodie,” Miss Chance said, heading toward the door. She paused when she saw the look of distress on Caroline’s face. “You shouldn’t fret over this. Emily might be too much for you. Maybe it’s time you transferred to another room.”

  “No!” Caroline shouted. An alarmed expression darkened Miss Chance’s face, causing Caroline to soften her tone. “This is where I want to be, where I need to be.”

  “All right,” Miss Chance said. “But I hope I don’t see the light under your door when I come back ’round this way.”

  After she left, Caroline returned to her chair, rocking in stunned silence. Her late husband had often accused her of meddling in other people’s business. Had she gone too far this time? If she’d done something to make Emily’s plight worse, she’d never forgive herself.

  “You stupid old biddy,” she said to herself as tears scoured her cheeks. “Should have minded my own business.”

  For a moment, Caroline thought she saw Emily’s eyes widen in sympathy. The whole situation was obviously taking its toll. She should listen to Miss Chance and crawl between the covers. She could use a nice long snooze. She was getting into bed when she heard a whisper.

  “She is…”

  Caroline’s chin fell to her chest. Could she trust her ears? Did the girl speak?

  “Wrong.” Emily gasped out the next word. Then her eyelids dropped like shades, as if the effort of speech had exhausted her.

  Thirteen

  Skye rode the elevator up to Chelsea’s hotel room in a woozy fog. She’d endured another restless night and was so tired she could practically sleep standing up. There were many times last night when she’d been tempted to check in on Ryan Blaine but willed herself to stay away from Earthly Pleasures.

  The teenager answered the door on the first knock, wear­ing an oversized Abercrombie & Fitch hoodie and blue jeans that threatened to shimmy down her slim hips.

  “Heaven is so boring,” was the first thing that came out of her mouth.

  “Boring?” Skye said, stepping inside. Chelsea’s bed was heaped with what looked like an entire Juniors department of clothes. An oversized flat-screen plasma television was tuned to a rap video, and there were dozens of CDs and DVDS piled on the dresser. A desktop computer blipped with the sound of an incoming instant message.

  “Looks like you’ve made a friend,” Skye said, eyeing the computer monitor. “There’s a Facebook message here for you saying, ‘Wassup?’”

  “It’s just a stupid message from the activity director on my floor,” Chelsea said with a frown. “She sends me one almost every hour because she feels sorry for me. I hate it when old people try to be hip. They always get it wrong. Nobody says ‘wassup’ anymore.”

  “She just wants you to feel at home,” Skye said. “I take it you still haven’t met anyone your own age?”

  Chelsea sighed. “There was this one girl who got here yesterday, but turns out she’s a Justin Bieber fan. Can you be­lieve it? She saw him in concert just before she croaked. That’s all I needed to know about her.”

  Skye wanted to suggest to Chelsea that maybe she shouldn’t be so picky, but she wasn’t in the mood for an argu­ment.

  “Well, summer vacation is coming up,” Skye said. “Sadly, that tends to bring in lots of bike accidents and drownings. You’re liable to have company soon. Are you ready to go?”

  The pair left Chelsea’s room and teleported to the zoo as planned, appearing in front of the dinosaur complex. Skye watched in awe as a fifty-foot Brachiosaurus lumbered about, devouring the tops of yew trees. A flock of leathery-winged pterodactyls squawked as they soared overhead.

  “Some pterodactyls have a wingspan of forty feet,” Skye read on a plaque outside the dinosaur pen. “Their bones are hollow, and they favor a diet of—” She glanced at Chelsea, who wasn’t listening or even looking at the dinosaurs. In­stead, the teen was absorbed in manipulating a miniature machine.

  “What are you doing?” Skye asked.

  “Playing Tony Hawk Pro Skater on my phone,” Chelsea said over the roar of a Tyrannosaurus rex. “Snap! You made me mess up my backside nose slide.”

  “What about all these incredible dinosaurs?” Skye pointed at the animals behind the fence.

  “They looked more realistic in Jurassic Park,” Chelsea said, her focus still on the game. “Besides, you’ve seen one triceratops, you’ve seen them all.”

  Skye chuckled to herself. “We should probably head over to the reptile house. I’m supposed to meet my boyfriend there in a half hour.”

  The game made an electronic dying sound and Chelsea glanced up. “Are you in love?”

  “That’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it?”

  “What’s his name again?” Chelsea asked.

  “Brock,” Skye said.

  “Rock? That’s a weird name.”

  “It’s Brock, and I think it’s a very nice name.” Skye pointed to a winding path that led to a circular building. “The reptile house is that way.”

  “What’s he like?” Chelsea asked, trotting beside her.

  “Brock is highly intelligent, thoughtful, and very nice.”

  “Boyfriends are supposed to be hot, not nice,” Chelsea grumbled.

  “I think you watch too many PG-13 movies. And besides, Brock is hot. Smoking hot, as the saying goes.”

  They crossed through the ancient gardens, lush with feath­ery ferns and horsetails, which brushed their bare arms as they passed.

  “Can I tell you something?” Chelsea asked. “And will you swear you’ll never tell a living soul?” She paused. “Or even a dead soul?”

  “I swear,” Skye said, crossing herself, amused by the seriousness of Chelsea’s request.

  “I’m a virgin,” Chelsea whispered. “Can you believe it? I died so young I never got to have sex.”

  “That’s hardly a shock,” Skye said, waving away a gigantic dragonfly that buzzed her ear. “You were only thirteen when you died.”

  “I was the last virgin in my class,” Chelsea insisted. “Sex starts early at my school. If you haven’t popped your cherry by the time you’re twelve, everyone thinks you’re a lesbian.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Skye said as they reached the edge of the gardens. “I’d be willing to bet most of the girls in your class are virgins. They just want people to think they’ve had sex.”

  “I don’t know,” Chelsea said, hands in pockets, tripping every few feet because the hems of her blue jeans were several inches too long. “I just wish I’d done it, but I was too busy skating. Now I’ll be a virgin for all eternity. It’s mortifying.”

  Skye stopped on the path. “Chelsea, you do know there’s sex in Heaven, right?”

  “There is?” She looked furtively behind her as if fearing somebody was listening in on their conversation. “Really?”

  “Of course. It’s Heaven, not Hell.”

  “I didn’t know. I figured sex was too naughty for Heaven. What with God hanging around and all.”

  “Only Earth dwellers see sex as naughty, particularly Americans. In Heaven it’s considered natural and beautiful.”<
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  Chelsea’s eyes gleamed. “I guess that means you’ve had sex with your boyfriend?”

  “Chelsea!” Skye said sharply.

  “My bad,” Chelsea said, flicking a section of her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “You were the one saying how natural it is.”

  “It is,” Skye said, quickening her pace down the path. “I’m just not sure it’s an appropriate topic for discussion with a young teenager.”

  “Let me just ask this,” Chelsea said as she struggled to keep up. “If you had sex with your boyfriend, and I’m not saying you have, but if you did, was it so romantic you felt like your heart would explode?”

  “The subject is closed,” Skye said. They had walked through the gardens and were now a few feet from the zoo’s arcade, which was next to the reptile house. “We have about twenty minutes before Brock gets here. Why don’t we see what’s inside?”

  The arcade was deafening with the bings and bongs from a riot of flashing games lining the walls. Just by the entrance there was a virtual-reality attraction called “Be an Animal in the Zoo.”

  “Look, Chelsea,” Skye said, studying the instructions on the machine. “This is fascinating. You can experience what it’s like to be any animal you want, from a tarantula to a giraffe. Wouldn’t it be a lot of fun to be an eagle?” She smothered a yawn. “Although right now I wouldn’t mind being a sloth.”

  She was talking to herself, because Chelsea had pushed past her to stand on a device that looked like an upright scale.

  “Past Life Detector,” Skye said, reading the lit-up sign. “Find out what happened in your last three lives.”

  Chelsea pulled down the arm of the machine to start it. “I bet I did some really amazing things in my past lives.”

  People in Heaven could usually remember only their last life on Earth, but a detailed summation of all of their preced­ing lives was available to them from the Reincarnation Ar­chives in the Supreme Being Sector. Skye explained all of this to Chelsea, saying, “This machine is a novelty. It probably just gives you the bare bones of each life.”