Divinely Yours

by Karin Gillespie

  “Go ahead, Mr. Blaine,” Dr. Carr said gently.

  “She doesn’t look the same. She doesn’t sound the same. She doesn’t eat the same foods and she doesn’t even have the same sense of humor. I’m constantly having to remind myself that she’s Susan, the woman I love…or the woman I used to love.” He covered his face with his hands. “I didn’t mean to say that.”

  “I think you did,” Dr. Carr said, her gaze steady.

  “But the point is I want to love her again,” he said, drop­ping his hands from his face. “I need to love Susan. After all, it’s my fault she’s the way she is. I’m sure she wouldn’t have crashed her car if we hadn’t been fighting. Sometimes I even wonder if she did it on purpose. She was such a good driver and then there was no explanation…” No, he couldn’t let his mind go there. The Susan he knew would never try to kill herself; he had to believe that. He swallowed and searched Dr. Carr’s face. “Do you think you can do anything to help me?”

  After his hour was up, he left the counselor’s office and sat in the quiet of his car for a moment to regain his composure. The session had taken more out of him than he’d expected.

  Dr. Carr had no magic answers, of course, but she did say that if he, indeed, wanted to love the new Susan, he would have to let go of his old version of her. He knew he was the one who had to change. He’d already been moving in that di­rection since he’d gotten home from the hospital.

  That meant there would be no more listening to the old Allman Brothers CDs, no more long sessions of thumbing through the photo albums, and definitely no more calling Mi­nerva.

  Minerva had served her purpose as one means to help him heal. He’d been allowed to talk about the pre-accident Susan, and recall his memories of her. Of course, there was no way he could explain to Minerva and her listening audience that the girlfriend who’d “left him” actually slept in his bed and had never gone away at all. It only felt like that.

  Nineteen

  When Skye entered Newcomers’ Quarters to pick up Chelsea, Rhianna stood waiting in the lobby, garbed in khaki clothes and a pith helmet as if ready for a safari. Skye smiled at her friend’s attire, remarking, “Dr. Livingston, I pre­sume?”

  Rhianna bowed from the waist. “At your service. Here to protect you from encounters with unruly natives.”

  The elevator door opened, and Chelsea emerged from the car. She wore the skinny jeans she’d purchased at the mall, a tummy-skimming t-shirt, a spiked necklace, and a pair of tennis shoes as big as a circus clown’s.

  “You can start with this one,” Skye said, tugging on the wire coming out of Chelsea’s ear.

  Skye made the introductions, not really sure what Chelsea and Rhianna would make of each other, but she needn’t have worried.

  “Those Vans are incredible,” Rhianna said as she no­ticed Chelsea’s shoes. “Can I try them on?”

  “Sure,” Chelsea said, slipping out of her clodhopper shoes. “Do you skate?”

  “Do I skate?” Rhianna said, kicking off a pair of red croco­dile cowboy boots. “Can Tony Hawk do a half-cab nose slide?” She put on the shoes and plodded happily across the marble floor of the lobby. “Want to switch shoes for the evening?”

  “Okay,” Chelsea said, slipping a skull-patterned-socked foot into Rhianna’s boots.

  The three made their way to the transportation concourse and boarded a monorail. They found seats on the padded benches running the length of the cars just before the pneu­matic doors slid shut with a soft swishing sound.

  “Welcome. I’m Velma, your electronic tour guide,” said a disembodied velvet-voiced female. “You are now leaving ND quarters. This train makes a tour of the Supreme Being Sector. Feel free to exit at any point of interest.”

  The monorail whooshed down the tracks leading out of the ND atrium and into the sunlight.

  “Straight ahead are the famed Pearly Gates,” continued the tour guide. “Will Saint Peter open them for us? We shall see.”

  The word “Heaven” was spelled out with thousands of pearls across the gleaming golden gate. At the last possible moment, a bearded gentleman in a white robe gave a thumbs-up and inserted oversized gold keys into the gate. It swung open, allowing the monorail entry. A sigh of relief passed through the car. The majority of the passengers were the newly deceased. Skye rolled her eyes at the cheesy tourist attraction. It got them every time.

  “We are now entering the Supreme Being Sector, called Mount Zion by many of its residents,” continued the guide. “As we crest this hill, you’ll be able to see the Capitol building on your right, headquarters for the Supreme Being and Her cabinet.”

  The golden-domed Capitol sparkled in the distance framed by a double rainbow. It took only moments for them to reach the tunnel, which plowed straight through the building. The passageway was painted a warm pinkish red, meant to resem­ble the interior of a human heart, and the sound of thousands of angels singing a single clear note of praise filled the car as they soared through. Some of the passengers wiped tears of joy from their eyes or wore expressions of complete and utter rapture.

  As they exited the building, the tour guide said, “Next stop, Sacred Creation of New Souls.”

  “Let’s get off here,” Skye said, rising from her seat and pressing a hand against the wall of the car to steady herself. “I want Chelsea to see this.”

  “I don’t know,” Chelsea said, her mouth twisting with dis­taste. “My dog Gypsy had puppies once, and it was pretty dis­gusting.”

  “There’s nothing disgusting about this,” Skye said. “It’s the most beautiful and moving thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “It reminds me of Frankenstein’s lab,” Rhianna said, stiff­ening her arms and legs. “It’s alive. It’s alive!”

  The monorail came to a stop, and the trio filed out of the car and followed a pathway that led to an in-the-round out­door amphitheater. A sign outside read, “Next birth in five minutes.” They took seats on the stone benches, which were swiftly filling to capacity. The Sacred Creation of New Souls was one of the most popular attractions in the Supreme Being Sector.

  In the middle of the amphitheater was a small oval pool filled with a gleaming silver fluid that looked like liquid mer­cury. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and an angel emerged from an arched opening and stood beside the pool. The thun­der grew louder and was accompanied by pale threads of light­ning, which scratched the sky. The heavens were bloated with blue-black clouds, and the air jittered with electricity.

  Lightning struck in the middle of the pool, momentarily washing the audience’s faces in an icy blue light. The pool, which had been placid only moments ago, now boiled with hundreds of silver bubbles. In the midst of the flurry was one oversized bubble. After a moment it became clear the large bubble was actually the head of a new soul, slowly emerg­ing from the pool. Soon shoulders, a torso, and legs could be discerned, all covered in the silver sluice of the liquid.

  The audience watched in silent wonder as the new soul rose to its full height and climbed the rounded steps leading out of the pool. As soon as the newly created being reached the stone tiles surrounding the pool, the silver coating slid to the ground like a discarded garment, and the soul, a female, stood naked, her flawless skin luminescent in the fading light­ning.

  Skye ventured a glance at Chelsea. Even the teenager was mesmerized, her mouth wide with wonder. The angel ap­proached the new soul and gently slipped a white garment over her head. Then she embraced the newly created woman and led her through the arched opening. The heavy clouds re­ceded and the pool grew still once again. There was a momen­tary hush over the audience just before they broke into enthusiastic applause.

  Chelsea let out a low whistle once the clapping died down. “So every single soul in the universe came out of that pool? Even me?”

  “Even you,” Skye said with a nod.

  “I don’t remember it,” C
helsea said.

  “You’ve lived too many lives since then to remember,” Rhianna said, getting up from the stone bench. “But for me it was only a year ago. I remember it perfectly.”

  “Rhianna,” Skye said. “Don’t tease her.”

  “What?” Rhianna said, a bewildered look on her face. “I’m not teasing. You remember it, don’t you?”

  “No,” Skye said, suddenly perplexed. “Nobody remembers it.” She paused. “Do they?”

  “I do,” Rhianna insisted, her expression earnest. “And why wouldn’t I? I was fully conscious when it happened. If you don’t remember being created, what is your first memory?”

  “Waking up in the New Soul Compound,” Skye said. The New Soul Compound was a large dormitory where all new beings spent their first week of existence. There they received their duty assignments and were oriented into Heaven.

  “I’ve always assumed new souls were in some sort of twi­light sleep when they were created,” Skye said. “I didn’t think anyone remembered it.”

  “I’m not the only one,” Rhianna said. “I’ve talked to Joy and a couple of the other girls in Hospitality about it, and they all remember.”

  “Maybe there was some kind of trauma when you were created, and it got purged from your mind,” Chelsea offered. “When I was born, I came out butt first and got stuck in the birth canal.”

  “Maybe,” Skye said, although she’d never heard of mis­haps occurring during the creation process.

  Rhianna slung an arm around Skye’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It wasn’t such a big deal. You climb out of the pool and all these strangers are ogling your naked backside. What’s memorable about that?”

  “Can we go to the amusement park next?” Chelsea asked.

  “I’d like to go to the Nocturnal Theater first,” Skye said quickly.

  “I love that place,” Rhianna exclaimed. “I have the most extraordinary dreams. Let’s go.”

  They caught the next monorail, passing by some of the SB Sector’s kitschier attractions such as Hall of Saints (much like Disney’s Hall of Presidents), Garden of Eden Water Park, Noah’s Ark River Cruises, and Wrath of God Miniature Golf. (The holes had wind, flooding, and locust hazards.)

  “Next up,” said the electronic tour guide, “the Nocturnal Theater, where you play the starring role in your dreams.”

  “What if your dreams are kind of, um, embarrassing?” Chelsea asked as the three females exited the monorail after it came to a stop.

  “Nobody sees them but you.” Rhianna skipped along the sidewalk leading to the Nocturnal Theater. “Everyone has their own viewing booth, just like the peep shows in adult bookstores.” She gave Chelsea a playful pinch on the arm. “What kind of embarrassing dreams?”

  “The kind where you go out in public wearing only your underwear,” Chelsea said. “Or dreams where kissing is going on.”

  “Tell!” Rhianna demanded. “Who would you kiss if you could kiss anyone in the whole universe?”

  “Living or dead?” Chelsea asked.

  “Either.”

  “I’ll answer that question if you answer it first,” Chelsea said.

  “I’ll answer it if Skye answers it,” Rhianna said with a wag of her brows.

  “Pooh,” Chelsea said with an indifferent toss of her hair. “I already know who Skye would kiss.”

  “Me too,” Rhianna said. “Mr. Newscaster himself.”

  “No,” Chelsea said with a shake of her head. “It’s someone else. Skye is in love with—”

  “Chelsea!” Skye said.

  “You’re not stopping now,” Rhianna said, her eyes practi­cally popping out of her head. “Who could it be? Don’t tell me. It’s your Earth professor. You’re hot for your teacher. How tragically quaint.”

  “Wrong,” Chelsea said, bouncing triumphantly on the heels of her shoes. “It’s Ryan Blaine.”

  “Who?” Rhianna said.

  “The Earthly Pleasures guy,” Chelsea said.

  “Oh, yeah, Ryan. The ex-president’s son,” Rhianna said, smacking her forehead with the palm of her hand. “He is so last season, Skye. Get with the program. Ryan’s out; Lars is in.”

  “No,” Chelsea said. “Skye’s still crazy for Ryan. She was watching him the other night.”

  “What are you, the town crier?” Skye said. She gave Rhi­anna a sheepish smile. “Ryan Blaine had a motorcycle accident and was my client for about ten minutes until he returned to his body. Yes, he was quite the tasty dish, but he and I can’t ever be together. End of story. Pass the tissues.”

  “She can’t stop thinking about him,” Chelsea said, clearly relishing her role as magpie.

  “Wait a minute,” Rhianna said, grasping Skye’s shoulders. “Look at me, Skye Sebring. Don’t tell me you have actually fallen in love?”

  “Admittedly, I’m intrigued by him. But how can I fall in love with someone I met once? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Love isn’t meant to make sense, silly,” Rhianna said.

  “I’m not even in the same dimension as Ryan,” Skye said. “My love for him is a waste.”

  “Love is never a waste,” Rhianna said, green eyes flashing. “What about the medieval troubadours who cultivated love for its own sake, never expecting its return? Love is an end in itself, igniting the senses, flowering the soul. Have you ever felt more alive?”

  “Wow,” Chelsea said with a sigh. “I wish I was in love.”

  “I should have guessed,” Rhianna said, tossing Skye a sly look. “You look more present than usual. Love wakes us up.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’ve been so tired lately,” Skye said. “Not only is it waking me up, it’s keeping me up all night.”

  “You know what I’m saying,” Rhianna said.

  Skye didn’t respond, but she didn’t protest either. Things had been different for her ever since she’d met Ryan Blaine. Her trouble-free world no longer existed, and yet she didn’t necessarily mourn it.

  The trio entered the Nocturnal Theater, a narrow room with a half-dozen curtained enclosures that looked like voting booths. The receptionist greeted them and explained how dream-viewing worked. Each of them would have her own private screening station, complete with a set of electrodes that would easily attach to the temples. The electrodes would retrieve recent dreams and project them onto the screen in front of them.

  “Each dream lasts about ten minutes,” said the reception­ist. “And you can choose the number you’d like to watch by adjusting a dial on the screen.”

  “If we want to go to the amusement park, we’d better limit ourselves to three dreams apiece,” Skye said.

  The receptionist directed them to empty viewing booths, and Skye pulled back the curtain and sat on the stool in front of a screen the size of a computer monitor.

  “Here goes nothing,” she said, wondering if she would see anything at all as she attached the electrodes according to the directions inside the booth. She touched the start sign on the screen, the device whirred to life, and the words “Retrieving data” appeared.

  After a moment the screen darkened, and Skye frowned. The machine didn’t seem to be working. Skye was about to summon the receptionist when she heard the soft sound of someone singing. She turned the volume button a couple of millimeters to the right until she could discern the words of the song.

  “Inky Dinky parlez vous.”

  She had to turn the contrast button all the way up before she could make out a couple of shadowy images on the screen. In the dim light she saw an unfamiliar elderly black woman rocking in a chair as she sang.

  The woman crooned several songs in an off-key voice that should have been grating but was actually pleasant. Who was this person, and why was Skye dreaming about her? Had she been a client? Possibly. The only old people she ever saw in Heaven were the newly deceased who arri
ved in her office. Still, even though Skye had dealt with hundreds of clients during her tenure at the Hospitality Sector, she felt certain she would have remembered this particular woman.

  “I think it’s time to hit the hay, Sleeping Beauty,” the woman said, startling Skye. For a second, she thought the woman was actually addressing her. But no; as she looked at the screen more closely, she saw a bed with a railing in the background. The woman was talking to someone lying in a hospital bed.

  How curious. There was no need for hospital beds in Heaven. Why would she be dreaming about a place she’d never been to? Was all of this somehow related to her recent viewings of Earthly Pleasures?

  The screen went blank before Skye could consider the implications of her dream. As the device called up another one, Skye hoped this dream would make more sense. But when the next image appeared on the screen, it looked identical to the first. Same dark room, same old woman. This time the woman was crying; her tears cut silver trails on her leathery cheeks.

  Skye felt unexpectedly moved by the woman’s sobs, as if they were her own tears being shed. She wanted to enfold the woman’s bony shoulders into her arms and comfort her, even though Skye had no idea why she was crying.

  Perhaps the person on the bed had died, the one the woman had been singing to. Skye squinted at the screen. There was a vague shape in the background, but the lighting was dim and the grieving woman was blocking much of the view.

  What could it mean? The device began to retrieve the final dream, and Skye had the urge to rip the electrodes from her temples. Get up and leave. This is a lot of nonsense. But she couldn’t. The previous two dreams, though disquieting, had captivated her.

  When the last dream came on the screen, it was obvious she was seeing the same room she’d seen in the first dream. This time the room was flooded with moonlight that reached the foot of the hospital bed and illuminated the white of the sheets. Skye’s eyes followed the light as it spilled over the bed and revealed the other person in the room.

  The pale face, much younger than the black woman’s, was distorted with pain. The eyes were swollen slits, the mouth a misshapen pink wound. Skye watched speechless, not believ­ing her eyes as the young woman continued to sob and cried out, “Call Lynn,” the very same words Chelsea said she’d been calling out the night before. But then, almost as if she sensed she was being watched, the woman’s eyes widened and stared out at Skye, with a pleading gaze.