The Best Things in Death

by Lenore Appelhans

  “I’ll just be a minute.” He exits and zips down the flaps behind him. Leaves and twigs crunch under his feet. His tread is heavier than usual with the weight of his exhaustion. There’s a pause and she strains to hear him. A small rustle of leaves. A crack of a twig. A gasp. A thud. An unfamiliar chuckle that freezes the blood in her veins. Purposeful steps headed her way.

  Libby stifles a scream and scrambles to grab her cell phone from her pocket. The screen lights up and she hits redial. Marie was the last number she called.

  A knife perforates the tent and begins to slash downward. Libby frantically stuffs the phone back into her coat pocket and yanks the sleeping bag up over her head. If she lies still, maybe she won’t be seen.

  “Where are ya, missy? Don’t play games with me.” The voice is rough and masculine. She doesn’t dare to breathe. The man rummages through Jeremy’s sleeping bag and grunts. Her heartbeat sings in her ears. Go away. Please go away.

  He shuffles his feet toward the opening. It’s dark, and he doesn’t shine a flashlight, so he might overlook her. What about Jeremy? Jeremy could stand back up at any second and come to her rescue. He has to.

  “Gotcha!” the man yells and all of a sudden her scalp is on fire. He’s pulling her out by her hair. Her hands grasp at the slick floor of the tent as he drags her, but she can’t latch on. As he propels her through the gaping hole he created, she manages to catch hold of the paper bag. She clutches it for dear life.

  The psycho digs his bony fingers into her shoulders and drags her through the dirt. Rocks grind and cut into her back. She can’t make out his features, only that he’s wearing a bandana around his face. He stinks of whisky and dirty feet.

  He pushes her against a prickly bush, lets her go, and raises his knife. She screams and rolls onto her side and then onto all fours, trying to crawl away. The knife tears at her coat and there’s a sudden chill on her back. He rips off the remains of her coat and her shirt and laughs suggestively.

  He flips her over and she spits in his beady eye. “Bitch!” he screams. He stabs her in the chest, but her adrenaline is pumping so hard, she doesn’t feel more than a single piercing pain as he removes the knife. She watches in horror as blood pours down her bra and drips onto her arm.

  The man slaps her, and her head slams onto the pocket of her coat. Onto her phone. “Libby?! Libby can you hear me? What is going on? Talk to me!” Marie is hysterical on the line. She must have heard everything.

  Her assailant kicks her in the side and then strides off, keys jingling.

  “Marie,” Libby gurgles. “Help me.”

  “Libby!” Marie’s voice is controlled and commanding. “Get the gun. Now!”

  Gun? What gun? Libby’s bloody fingers convulse as they scratch at the peace-sign sticker on Marie’s gift. With the last of her energy, she thrusts her hand into the bag. Her skin makes contact with cold metal and frilly lace. She can see a revolver and a blue garter belt, but she doesn’t have the strength to move them.

  She fixes her gaze up at the sky. How did she never notice before how beautiful the stars were? She draws in one last shallow breath. Marie shouts her name. And then Libby’s world fades to black.

  Sandoval, Brady. Memory #30127

  Tags: The Best Things in Life Are Free, Latte Macchiato

  The package of vending machine crackers snags on the end of the coil and hangs there, taunting him. Brady presses his palm against the glass and sighs. He can’t seem to catch a break.

  “You gotta show it who’s in charge.” Oliver walks up behind him and slams his fist against the machine. The crackers come tumbling down.

  “Oliver,” Brady squeaks. As incognito as possible, while Oliver is busy retrieving his purchase, Brady pulls the cuff of his sleeve over his plastic hospital bracelet. He should’ve cut it off as soon as Dr. Weber discharged him. Oliver practically lives in this cafeteria, or at least it seems that way to Brady, who has run into him here so often over the past few months that he’s as familiar as the olive-green-speckled tabletops and the forest of potted plants.

  Oliver hands over the package. “How’s your sister?” he asks.

  Brady clears his throat. “Um . . . she’s great.” That’s no lie, because his sister isn’t the one with a brain tumor, which is what Oliver assumes. His sister is at home and at some point, he has to call her and ask her to come pick him up.

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Yeah. How’s your sister?” Brady asks politely.

  “Not so great. The chemo, you know.”

  He knows far better than Oliver suspects. Brady has already been through multiple rounds of chemo, each round more torturous than the last. He’s in between treatments now and his dark hair has grown back. He came in last night because of the dizziness. Dr. Weber hooked him up to an IV overnight to pump him full of electrolytes to increase his blood pressure and get him back on his feet. “I’m sorry,” Brady says.

  Oliver shrugs, but tears gather in his eyes. “Yeah. Thanks, man.” He shuffles his feet. “Listen, Callie is going to be in for hours yet. Do you want to get out of here for a while? Go for a drive?”

  Oliver wants to hang out away from the hospital? Sure, their initial small talk has developed into a banter that Brady replays word-for-word in his mind after each encounter, but the idea of having somebody interested in maybe getting to know him better is so alien, Brady can only stutter. “Y-yeah. S-sure.”

  “Right on.” A smile lights up Oliver’s face that’s as bright as the silver belt buckle he always wears. It depicts a bucking bronco, and Brady has wanted to ask him about it since he met him, because with his skinny jeans, graphic T-shirts with quotes on them, and checkerboard Vans, Oliver doesn’t seem like the conservative cowboy types that populate the great state of Texas. Today, Oliver has got a thin sweater on, so his T-shirt quote of the day remains hidden for now.

  Oliver walks fast and Brady struggles to keep up with him. “Care for a cracker?” Brady asks in an attempt to get Oliver to pause so he can catch his breath. If he ends up fainting, the whole jig will be up.

  It works. Oliver stops and grins at him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Brady concentrates on breathing slowly. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He rips the plastic wrapping of the crackers and offers them up. Oliver takes two. “Thanks,” he says. They both chew in silence until they reach the doors leading outside.

  Exiting the hospital with Oliver is like entering a whole new universe where anything might be possible. The dry August heat wraps around him, instantly dissipating the chill of institutional air-conditioning.

  Oliver leads him to a monster pickup. It’s covered in peeling brown paint and rust and the bumper stickers are from several presidential elections ago. “It’s my dad’s,” Oliver says apologetically once they are seated inside. “I call it the gas-guzzling Republican truck, but it does the job of getting me and Callie to her appointments.”

  “It’s nice,” Brady says, wrestling with the seat belt. Then he feels like an idiot because it’s far from nice and he hopes Oliver doesn’t think he’s being patronizing. “I mean, it’s nice you’ve got the freedom to go wherever you want.”

  “Well, it’s mainly trips to the hospital and pharmacy and grocery store, and it gets hot as hell in here.” Oliver pushes up the sleeves of his sweater. He rolls down his window and then leans over Brady to roll his window down too. Oliver smells like cloves and something else Brady can’t place. The scent rushes through Brady like a drug, and when Oliver settles back behind the wheel, Brady finds himself wishing for another hit.

  Oliver pumps the gas pedal and turns the key in the ignition. The truck protests mightily, but it finally starts and they’re off on their adventure.

  “I do happen to know this great coffeehouse,” Oliver says. “Their latte macchiato will rock your world.”

  Brady has never tasted co
ffee, but he’s willing to try it. Right now, buckled into Oliver’s father’s truck and hurtling down the highway with the wind whipping through his hair, he might be willing to try anything. “I reckon we ought to go there and drink one then.”

  “Right on.”

  Oliver drums his fingers against the steering wheel while he drives. At a stoplight, he adjusts his belt and Brady finally works up the courage to bring up the buckle. “You wear that belt buckle an awful lot,” he says, and then flushes red-hot. Did that sound too critical? God, it’s like he needs a crash course in talking to people without embarrassing himself.

  “Oh yeah. Every day. And I’ll tell you why. These guys at my school were some real assholes. I mean, does anybody suck more than high school bullies?”

  “I’m homeschooled,” Brady blurts out.

  That admission stops Oliver’s story in its tracks. His forehead wrinkles. “Oh.”

  Brady rushes to clarify. “It’s only because my mom is crazy obsessed with alternative education. She says she wants to be able to take us to museums and give us learning experiences outside the strict public school curriculum. She’s Greek, so we even lived in Athens for a couple of years and had this total Greek language immersion. Not one word of English or Spanish allowed.” He’s babbling and interrupting and he ought to shut up now.

  “So you speak three languages?” Oliver asks with what seems like genuine interest.

  “Mainly English. I only speak Spanish with my abuelita. And Greek hardly at all anymore.” Actually, if he were completely honest, he’d say that nowadays he mainly spoke medical jargon, which is a whole other language entirely.

  “You’re lucky you don’t have to go to high school. These assholes enjoyed tormenting me in the hallways between classes. I kept my head down. Didn’t engage. But then one day, they called my best friend a faggot and I told them to go to hell.” Oliver laughs, but it’s a brittle, broken sound. “The leader knocked me down and started kicking me in the side with his steel-tipped cowboy boots, and the whole time, all I could see was his huge silver belt buckle. For months afterward, I had nightmares about it. The bronco trampling me.” He pauses, and his face twists, as if he’s reliving the nightmare.

  Brady’s heart bleeds for Oliver. How can people be so cruel? “That’s horrible.”

  “One day, at this truck stop, I bought this one which is really similar. At first I was going to take a sledgehammer to it, but then I thought, why am I giving these guys all this symbolic power over me? If I wear the belt buckle, I am the one in control. It can’t hurt me anymore and neither can they.”

  Brady nods. He’s flabbergasted that Oliver speaks so freely about his demons to someone he barely knows, but he’s also flattered that Oliver opened up to him.

  Oliver aims the truck at a parking space right in front of the coffeehouse, which is relatively deserted for this time of day. They go in, and Brady admires the plush cushions scattered around the cozy, whimsically decorated booths. The pretty waitress greets Oliver by name and leads them to the back corner. There’s a two-seater bench in a bow shape curved around one side of an oval table. Brady sits and Oliver scoots in next to him.

  “Two latte macchiatos, please,” Oliver tells the waitress. He peels off his sweater. His T-shirt says maybe one day you’ll escape your past.

  “I like your shirt,” Brady says. Brady’s T-shirts are all blank and boring, the epitome of function trumping form. His mother buys them in bulk off the Internet.

  “Thanks. I designed it myself. The quote is from the movie 2046. Have you seen it?”

  “No.” Brady doesn’t watch many movies. He has trouble concentrating for long periods of time and tends to lose track of the plot. In his house, it’s nature documentaries and sports and the occasional game show.

  ”You should definitely watch it sometime. It’s by a Taiwanese director, Wong Kar-wai, and there’s this place called 2046. People travel there in order to recapture lost memories, but only one man ever returns. I can lend you the DVD next time.”

  The casual promise of a next time makes Brady feel normal for the first time in forever. Since his life-shattering diagnosis, he reckons that this is only maybe his sixteenth conversation that’s about something other than cancer. “I’d like that. Do you design all your T-shirts?”

  “I do.” Oliver shifts on the bench and slides his cell phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. He sets it on the table in front of them at the same time the waitress brings the coffees.

  Oliver immediately takes a sip and then wipes the milk foam from his upper lip. “Good stuff.”

  Brady takes a sip too and then another. It tastes sweeter than he expected. He could get used to such pleasant surprises. “Delicious.”

  Oliver’s pleased expression betrays an endearing smugness. He fiddles with the touch screen on his phone until he opens a photo gallery. “You can flip through them if you want.”

  Brady moves his hand to scroll through Oliver’s designs and, in his eagerness, his fingertips brush against Oliver’s. “Oh, sorry,” he says automatically, and is immediately mortified. Does Oliver now think that he thinks accidentally touching somebody is a big deal? Why is he such a screwup?

  He concentrates on the photos, so he doesn’t have to look at Oliver’s face. Oliver’s T-shirt designs are impressively bold, juxtaposing bright happy colors with portentous words and vice versa. Oliver narrates for him, launching into a fascinating ministory behind each shirt. He has a jumble of influences, from history and pop culture to bird-watching in state parks and his monthly scavenger hunts in scrapyards. Oliver lives enough life to fill thousands of T-shirts, and Brady’s mopey, Spartan existence the past few years could barely cover a tiny fraction of that.

  “You’re so talented,” Brady says, finally sneaking a glance at Oliver.

  Oliver beams. “I’ll make you one! What do you want it to say? And I can make one for your sister, if it’ll help cheer her up. I’ve made a ton for Callie.”

  The mention of his supposedly ill sister turns Brady’s body to lead. He can’t keep letting Oliver think that he’s a regular guy who is going to live past his teens, since the odds of that miracle are criminally low. He braces himself for the most common reactions of pity or horror. But there might also conceivably be condemnation for his lies of omission.

  “It’s not my sister who has cancer,” Brady says before he can change his mind. “It’s me.”

  Oliver’s flinch is nearly imperceptible and his expression unexpectedly unreadable, but he’s not running away. “Then I’ll make a ton of T-shirts for you,” Oliver says gently.

  Brady’s throat tightens, but he manages to squeeze out a mangled “Thank you.” He’s definitely in uncharted territory now.

  Oliver fumbles with his belt, removes the buckle, and places it in Brady’s palm. “Here, I want you to have this.”

  “But why?” The buckle obviously means a great deal to Oliver.

  “So you can wear it, or put it on your dresser or, hell, hang it on a tree in your backyard and know that somebody’s on your side. Maybe it’ll give you as much strength as it has given me.”

  “Okay. But I’m awfully sorry,” Brady says, tracing his finger over the raised silver lettering that proudly shouts out the name of their home state. “I haven’t got anything to give you.”

  Oliver slants his body so that his shoulder brushes against Brady’s, and the intent in his eyes is clear. “Maybe you do. Maybe the best gifts in life are free.”

  Oliver is staring at him like he is a person worth getting to know—a person worth kissing—and not a diseased pincushion. He never thought he’d actually have the chance to kiss somebody. He’d come to terms with the fact that he was dying and that the milestones other teens took for granted—like getting a driver’s license, going to the prom, graduating—would never happen for him.

  But why should he be re
signed to death just because it is inevitable? He wants to fill his remaining time with moments like these. Moments worth commemorating on T-shirts. He wants to let go of all the pain and hopelessness that clog up his life, to make room for foreign films, and latte macchiatos, and rides in ridiculously large rusted trucks. And to make room for Oliver.

  So when Oliver leans in for a kiss, Brady closes his eyes and invites his life to really begin.

  Jones, Julian. Memory # n/a

  Tags: The Best Things in Life Are Free, Iceland

  Julian watches the pale December sun peek sluggishly over the horizon. This is his first time on Earth, and he allows himself to feel everything, even the bitingly cold breeze. He is amazed by the intensity of the sensations that wash over him. He has experienced winter wind a million times over, but only via the memories of humans, and he hadn’t expected it to be so sharp. His every cell pulsates with life, and he knows that he’d do almost anything to be able to stay here, to not have to return to the bleak monotony of Level Two.

  He pauses to clap the snow off his gloves before pushing open the weathered wooden door of the restaurant. Once inside, he’s greeted by an enormous crab plaque hanging on the wall. Like most places in Reykjavik, the ceiling is low, the room is cramped, and the decor is quirky, a mix of piscatorial trophies and brightly colored woven nets. He loves it beyond reason.

  “Table for one?” a man asks him in Icelandic. Julian nods. As an angel, he understands every language on Earth, but to be able to speak fluently like a native, he has to concentrate. His mind is elsewhere, though, and he can’t be bothered.

  The man snatches a menu from the stack under the crab. “Right this way.” As Julian follows him, he glances at the tables they pass, searching for Mira. It is early yet for lunchtime, but the place is nearly full.

  Then he sees her and his whole being is shocked into numbness again. Felicia sits with her father and a girl with shoulder-length blond hair. Her nose is buried in a guidebook. Though he has thought about her countless times—how could he not?—he hasn’t been this close to her since her all-too-brief visit to Level Two years ago. Now that fate has brought them together again, the air around him takes on a sweetness he never imagined possible. He wants to go up to her. He wonders if she’d even recognize him if he casually said hi. His appearance hasn’t changed, but hers has. He whistles under his breath. She is certainly not twelve any longer.