Death of a Kleptomaniac

by Kristen Tracy

  I open my eyes again. That’s when I remember it. The ladybug. I need to get rid of the air freshener. Nobody can find that in my pocket. That discovery would be the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Tate would learn that I was a thief. He wouldn’t like me anymore. He might even hate me. Or think I was crazy. He’d never trust me. I try to open my pocket. I can’t. Opening the zipper feels impossible. My fingers won’t bend. I can’t make myself move the way I need to move. Of all the ways to get caught. A ladybug air freshener? How humiliating.

  At least I’m not alone. I have a horse to keep me company. I look in Peppa’s direction. He’s eating a patch of grass. I sure wish I could’ve fallen in a soft patch of grass. My butt would feel a whole lot better. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something small and black on the ground. It’s near my face and moving closer to me. It’s a tick! Wait. It’s a beetle.

  I press my lips closed and feel it crawl across my mouth. I bet it has mandibles. Beetles bite, right? Indiscriminately? It walks right up to the cave of my right nostril. Am I going to have a beetle stuck in my nasal cavity? Is that even possible? It kills me to move, but I turn my head quickly and the beetle races away from my nose and traipses across my cheek, tickling me in a horrible way. I jerk my head the other direction. The blurred beetle climbs off me and crawls through the dirt, out of view.

  Unless Tate returns within the next couple of minutes, more bugs will be crawling on me. I need to come up with ways to keep them off. How? My mind isn’t able to think of any ideas. I close my eyes and open them again. The sun is up. At least I’m not cold. Wait. I think I have an idea. I will kill all future bugs by swatting them with the rock on my chest. I reach up and take hold of the rock.

  I notice that my fingers tingle. My toes too. Even my lips. And they don’t tingle like in the way when Tate almost kissed me. It’s like something is seriously wrong. I bet I’ve injured my spinal cord. I bet its juices are leaking inside of me and I’m going to lose feeling in all of my extremities. I’m going to be a paraplegic. Maybe even a quadriplegic. I never should have told Tate that I liked horses. I glare at Peppa like I want him to die. He doesn’t even look at me. Then he takes a foul-smelling dump downwind of me. Thanks.

  The Magic 8 Ball was wrong. I did fall off my stupid horse.

  I close my eyes and try to forget about the tingling and the bleeding and the awful smell of hot, fresh dung. I fall inside of myself to a place like sleep, but it’s not quite sleep, because I’m in constant pain. I feel other bugs tripping across my hands and face. I don’t have the energy to hit them with the rock. They feel small. I don’t think they’re biting me. Normally, I’d be freaked out, but it’s almost a relief, because at least I can still feel them.

  I hear an engine. Is it my imagination? No; why would I imagine an engine? I open my eyes, and the whole world, even the soft blue sky, is blurred. I don’t try to angle my head to see a truck. My head aches. Tate is at my side. I can feel him holding my hand. He’s with two guys I’ve never seen before, with puffy gray beards. Wait. There’s only one guy. I’m totally seeing double.

  “It’s not too bad,” he tells Tate. “We’ll drive her to the hospital.”

  Tate gives my hand three quick squeezes.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” the man says. “I’ve seen a lot of injuries over the years, and your head wound is small potatoes.”

  I feel a little offended by this comment. I mean, he’s marginalizing my head wound. Then this guy yells for some other guy named Darrell to take Peppa and get Wyatt and Denise. He tells Darrell to bring them to the hospital.

  “Don’t I need an ambulance?” I ask.

  My mouth feels different; it’s slick with spit. It takes effort for me to speak.

  “It’d take longer to wait for one,” he says.

  “Actually, I called 911 at your office. I gave them directions to the trailhead,” Tate says.

  I hear sirens approaching. I’m so relieved. I don’t know who this two-headed bearded guy is, but clearly he’s no medical doctor. I’ve only taken two semesters of biology and I’m certain my injuries aren’t “small potatoes.” Even the way the paramedics slam their doors and run to me gives me more comfort than my original rescuer.

  “What’s her name?” the first paramedic asks.

  “Molly Weller,” Tate says.

  “Molly, do you know what day it is?”

  I focus all my energy to answer. “Saturday.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  Again, an answer takes all my energy. “In the dirt.”

  “How did you get in the dirt?”

  I can’t keep answering these questions. “My horse dumped me.”

  “Does your head hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you hurt anywhere else?”

  I know I should say that my butt hurts, but I’m so tired. And that’s embarrassing. And really, isn’t a head wound far more serious than a butt wound? I don’t tell the paramedic.

  “My head,” I mumble.

  “We’re going to put you on this board and lift you into the ambulance. I want you to stay awake.”

  I blink, and hope that the paramedic understands that this means I heard him and will try to stay awake. I reach up and grab the note, and the rock tumbles off of me. When they roll me onto the board, I moan.

  “You’re okay,” the bearded man says.

  He has no idea whether or not I’m okay. I’m the one inside my injured body.

  The paramedics load me into the ambulance, and Tate tells me that he’ll be riding in front with the driver. He squeezes my hand.

  On the drive to the hospital, the medic spends a lot of time dealing with my head wound. He takes off Tate’s makeshift bandage and dresses it properly. After he’s cleaned my wound and applied fresh bandages, the medic sits back and takes a deep breath. There’s a lot of beeping machines back here. I feel like I’m tucked inside a metal lunch box. My fingers are so tingly that I loosen my grip on the note, and it falls. The paramedic picks it up and hands it back to me.

  “‘Love Tate,’” he says. “Sounds serious.”

  “It’s our first date,” I say. My voice is barely a whisper.

  “You’ll remember this one for a long time.”

  I nod. And close my eyes.

  “Stay awake, Molly,” the medic says. His voice is stern.

  I don’t think I can stay awake.

  “Does your girlfriend have any preexisting medical conditions?” the paramedic yells.

  He sounds so worried.

  “I don’t think so,” Tate shouts. “She might be recovering from the flu.”

  No, I want to tell them. That’s not right. Not the flu. Ruthann. I am recovering from Ruthann.

  “Molly, I need you to be a good girl and stay awake for me.”

  I feel the medic lightly slap my cheeks. He’s not trying to hurt me. He wants to reach me. I know this because I’m falling somewhere inside of myself again. Falling to a place deeper than I’ve ever fallen before.

  “Molly! Be good,” he says. “Stay with me.”

  Be good? Stay with you? I don’t think I can. Things feel out of my hands. The word good ricochets through me. I’m not good. Just ask Sadie. Or Joy. Or the ladybug air freshener. Be good? Stay with you? I haven’t been good for a long time. How can I start now?

  The paramedic may still be yelling at me, but I can’t hear him anymore. The sirens have faded away too. Maybe we’ve arrived at the hospital and everybody is being very quiet. But why would they do that? I’m on the verge of letting out a big breath. I don’t feel like myself anymore. My body feels light and feathery. Like I’ve been turned into air. I don’t think I’m even in my body anymore. It feels like I’m rising, floating above everything. Myself. The paramedic. Tate. The ambulance. Wyoming. Everything.

  Am I in the principal’s office? The painted wood paneling on the walls reminds me of Mrs. Milmer’s sparsely lit cave, where, depending on the student, she eithe
r doles out a punishment or reward. (My sophomore year, along with Sadie, I received a certificate for perfect attendance.) But I don’t see any pictures of Mrs. Milmer’s big-nosed, broad-shouldered, dark-haired family. And there aren’t any degrees from her alma mater hanging on the walls.

  In front of me is a large oak desk. It sure looks like Mrs. Milmer’s. A scattering of papers is flung across its surface. Clearly, whoever owns this desk is overworked and overwhelmed. The weird thing is, I don’t see a single pen. Only papers. I stand up and sneak a glance at the mounds of desk work. To avoid being intrusive, I don’t touch anything. I’m looking to see if my name is on any of them. I mean, why am I even here? The papers all look blank.

  I know I shouldn’t be snooping. I’m about to sit back down when I see the corner of a nameplate. The sign says LOUISE DAVIS. Do I know a Louise Davis? Is she my dentist? No, that’s Louise David, DDS. Isn’t it? None of this makes sense, and so I sit down in my wooden chair.

  I have no idea what I’m wearing. Is it a bathrobe? How did I wind up dressed in a bathrobe? I wouldn’t leave the house like this. Maybe if I focus on the last place I was I can figure out how I got here. My mind is blank. If I stay alone in this room without any answers for one more minute, I am going to lose my mind. That’s how panicked I feel. I need to see someone I know. My mother. I need to see my mother.

  I keep searching the wood-paneled walls for answers. There isn’t a single window in this room. And there aren’t any doors. No. This is impossible. Maybe I’ve already lost my mind. Maybe I’m in a lockdown area. A clock ticks behind me. I turn and look. Wow. It’s not one single clock. It’s a wall of clocks. Row after row of round ticking timepieces the size of dinner plates. There’s at least a hundred. They must be keeping track of every time zone on the planet. Maybe even beyond.

  “Molly, I’m sorry to leave you suspended.”

  A woman with dark gray hair stands behind the desk wearing a smart navy blue suit. She’s not my dentist. And she’s not my principal. Where did she even come from? Was she underneath the desk?

  “Are you Louise Davis?” I ask.

  Her eyes are gray too, and they widen in surprise when I call her by her name.

  “Oh, you found the placard.”

  I nod.

  “For a minute I thought you were already tuning in to all the frequencies now available to you. You have a lot of gifts to explore.”

  I look around the room, hoping to see presents. Maybe this is a surprise party. Except, my birthday isn’t until February. Wait, is it February?

  “Molly, please listen very closely to what I’m about to say.”

  She walks from behind her desk toward me. For her age, I think she’s quite slim and attractive, and I hope when I get older that I can look as good as she does.

  “I am Louise Davis. I will be your intake officer concerning all matters of the soul. You are in the process of crossing over. I will be with you for your entire journey.”

  This doesn’t make much sense to me. I’m not a soul. I’m a person. I’m in high school. Why do I have an intake officer? Wait, I remember. I fell off a horse. I’m in the hospital. Louise must be a nurse. I wonder why she isn’t wearing scrubs and a name tag. Maybe it’s common hospital lingo to refer to people as souls.

  “Please sit. Due to your sudden passing, it will take a moment for everything to catch up with you.”

  “I’m already sitting.”

  “Right, right, I’m running behind.”

  Great. She’s inept. I’m probably dealing with a flunked-out nurse. How can I tactfully get a different one?

  “Shouldn’t I be on a gurney? I have a head wound.”

  Louise reaches into her piles of paper like she’s double-checking something.

  “No, nobody crosses over on a gurney.”

  “How is that even possible? What kind of hospital is this?”

  I realize for the first time that my head doesn’t hurt. Or my butt. I mean, I’m able to sit in a wooden chair. To be honest, I feel rather pleasant all over. But I’m completely confused.

  “Molly, this isn’t a hospital.”

  “Then I’m in the wrong place. I was in an ambulance.”

  Louise shakes her head, and her no-nonsense bob swings a little.

  “If this isn’t a hospital, am I in some sort of clinic?” I shouldn’t be. My parents have good health insurance.

  “Molly, I’m sorry to inform you of this—it will most likely be catching up with you any second now—but you’ve died. You’re in the process of crossing over from life to death. I’m Louise Davis, your intake counselor concerning all matters of the soul. I’ll be helping you cross.”

  “You’re repeating yourself. And I don’t believe you.”

  Something is not right. Why is this woman lying to me? Oh my god. Maybe I’ve been abducted. I’ve heard stories about deranged infertile women who steal babies and children and teenagers. But never in a million years did I think I’d become a victim. How do I get out of here?

  “Sometimes repetition helps it sink in. And you need to stop thinking about escape. You are exactly where you are supposed to be.”

  As I keep looking around the room, I notice that some things do appear weird and maybe somewhat otherworldly. The clocks. The lack of an entrance. And windows. I mean, there’s no light source, not even a lamp, but the room is lit well enough for me to see. Both Louise and I do seem pale and so do the ivory sofa and pine desk. We look thin, too, almost transparent. It’s like everything in the room has been made out of thinly sliced pieces of bread. Even me.

  “Why am I wearing a bathrobe?”

  “I don’t know.” Louise glances down at the papers. “My mistake.”

  I look down again. I’m wearing black cotton pants and my favorite pink shirt. They were the clothes I was wearing during the accident. But I’m not wearing my borrowed boots. I just have on socks. This is so weird.

  “I can’t really be dead,” I say.

  Louise nods. “You are.”

  A variety of terrible feelings stampedes through me: panic, sadness, despair, surprise, alarm, confusion, denial. There is no way I’m dead. I don’t know what it means to be dead or cross over. I’ve never read the Bible or been to church. I’m sixteen. How can I be dead? I was in an ambulance surrounded by a medical team. I was on my way to a hospital. People were helping me.

  “But my head wound was small potatoes,” I say.

  “True,” Louise says.

  “So I might still pull through?” I ask, reaching for any thread of hope.

  “No,” Louise says in a very flat voice. “You died.”

  This answer triggers an even bigger stampede of terrible feelings. “Whoa,” I hear myself say. “Whoa.” Even though I really don’t believe what I’m being told, I try to pull myself together by asking logical, anxiety-calming questions.

  “Okay, Louise. Let’s say that I am dead. Is this Heaven?”

  Louise shakes her head. My mouth drops open, and if I had a body and was able to cry, I’d be openly weeping. This news is worse than being told that I am dead. Because apparently I didn’t make it to Heaven. Which means I must be in the other place.

  “No,” I say. “This can’t be happening!”

  I do not deserve to die or be sent to Hell. I’m certain.

  Louise jerks her head up and looks concerned. “Don’t overreact before you know what’s going on.”

  I walk to the clocks on the back wall. There aren’t any numbers. They have words written on them. Names. People I know. Henry Shaw. Melka Klima. Tate Arnold. My parents. Before I can move closer and read more names, Louise intercepts me.

  “Don’t worry about the clocks,” she says. “My job is to explain things as we go. We’ll get to those soon enough.”

  The clocks seem important.

  “Am I supposed to meet people at certain times?” I ask.

  “No. No. No. Stop trying to figure it all out,” Louise says. “Relax.”

  “Ther
e is no way that’s happening,” I say.

  “The first step in this process is that we must review your death.”

  “Review my death?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “We have a special projection system. Follow me.”

  Follow her? Watch my own death? “I’m not sure I want to see that, Louise.” I try to keep my voice polite, but really I’m shocked and disgusted by this arrangement.

  “You must. It’s required.”

  How can somebody force me to watch my own death? She can’t. “I’m not going.” I don’t refuse to follow rules very often, but my gut tells me that I should stay where I am. What I’m being told is insane. And I don’t have to follow insane rules. I just don’t.

  “Either you follow me right now, like a reasonable soul, or I will make you come.”

  Make me come? Who does this woman think she is? “Okay. You’re going to have to make me come,” I say.

  Louise sighs and looks disappointed. “You’re wasting time.”

  But if I really am dead, which I still don’t totally believe, isn’t time all I’ve got now?

  “Follow me to the viewing room,” she says.

  I plan to stand still and resist all forward movement. Instead, a rope of energy wraps itself around me, constricting my arms and legs, and tugs me against my will through a wall. Then I’m in a long white hallway being dragged to the viewing room.

  This must be a dream. There is no way this is happening. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! Maybe I was knocked out with some sort of anesthesia that’s making me dream freaky things.

  “Once you watch your own death, you’ll begin to accept that your life has expired and you’re about to start the next phase of your existence,” Louise says.

  The hallway goes on and on.

  She continued, “If you hadn’t resisted, and were coming along willingly, this would be a thrilling walk down memory lane. The hallway would illuminate important moments in your life. Have you heard the phrase, I watched my life pass before my eyes?”