“No,” Louise says. “Don’t worry about the clocks. You still have a huge majority left. You’re in great shape.”
“Why should I care about the clocks?” I say. “Do they come with me?”
I think back to the names of people from my life that are printed on them. Maybe something has happened to them. Maybe three people I love have died! “Did something happen on Earth?” I ask. My mind plays through the worst tragedies. Tornados. Bombs. Nuclear war.
“Other than your death, no grand tragedy has struck your loved ones.”
I approach the pieces on the floor and find three names: Deidre Dalton, Sissy Heston, Melka Klima.
“So none of these people are dead?” I ask. Even though I don’t know how I did it, I feel somehow responsible for the destruction of Melka’s clock.
“They are all alive. Melka, if she stays the course, will become an anesthesiologist.”
“What do the clocks mean? Can you tell me that much?” I understand that the clocks are important. But I don’t understand why.
“I can say this much. At the time of your death, these clocks represent the most meaningful connections you made while alive. They represent paths and connections still available to you. The more clocks, the more options you have when you pass. You want options. I crossed with about half of my clocks intact. And I was much older, so I had more clocks.”
“Is having half your clocks good?” I have other questions I want to ask Louise about the clocks and about her. But I’m not sure if she’ll answer any more. She’s vague as a counselor. Seriously. What exactly does she mean by “connections” and “paths”? And did she have a family? If so, where are they now? And how old was she when she died? And how exactly did she die?
“With half my clocks left, I was and am able to explore relationships with lots of different people. That’s all I can say.”
I feel like I’m getting somewhere and nowhere at the same time. It feels good to know there is a system, even if I don’t understand how it works. “So, what makes a clock break? What did I do to Deidre?”
“Sometimes it isn’t about what you did. Sometimes it’s about what they did. But anger often breaks a clock. So don’t get angry. That’s some advice I can give you.”
“Thanks,” I say. But I’m already getting a little mad that she’s not giving me more information. And I’m also not sure how to make myself feel less mad.
“We need to talk about something before you get pulled away by grief again. I’m a little surprised you’ve gone this long without another tug.” Louise says.
“You’re right,” I say. “Shouldn’t more people be grieving for me?”
“Sometimes it takes longer for news of out-of-state deaths to circulate. Don’t worry about that. You were loved. And those who loved you will seek you out. I’m certain.”
I like hearing that my intake counselor is certain.
“I have great news to give you. In keeping with a request you made in the preexistence, I am happy to inform you that you get to live three life moments over again.”
I wish I could remember making these requests.
“What kinds of moments?” I ask.
“Any moments you want,” she says.
As I flash through my sixteen years, I’m not sure which moments to choose. Happy ones? That makes the most sense. Then I think of something practical. “You should have told me about this before I walked down memory lane. That way I could have been looking for moments.”
Louise nods. “Good point. But memory lane is over.”
“Yeah, but in the future. Maybe the next dead girl, you could tell her before.” My mind goes back to some of the pictures. It will take me a long time to choose which moments to relive.
“Maybe this will help,” Louise says. “You don’t have to recall the exact moment you want to relive. You can simply request to relive your happiest moment. And you’ll be transported right to it. All memories are tied to emotions. You’re very lucky. Not everybody gets to relive three.”
I do not feel lucky.
“And all physical sensation returns when you relive them. You can’t change anything, but you’ll inhabit your body again. You truly relive the moment.”
“Cool,” I say. Except that I’m dead. And there’s really nothing cool about that.
“You have until your funeral, and it’s best not to put those things off,” Louise says.
“You just told me about it two minutes ago. You shouldn’t rush me. I’m going to really mull this over and choose wisely.” Before I died, I never used words like mull. My mother used words like mull. What’s happening to me?
“My best counsel would be to pick moments that help you move forward.”
But I don’t know if that’s what I want. If it’s the last time that I’m going to be inside my body, I should probably choose thrilling moments. Times in my life when I felt really powerful things. Before I can mentally sort through some of these, I’m struck by something. Grief! “Oh my god!” I say. “I’m getting pulled.” Just like before, it feels intense and awkward. “Do you think it’s my parents again?”
“Don’t speculate,” Louise says. “Just go with it. Somebody who loves you is grieving, and they need you.”
Everything is moving too fast. Gray tunnel. Open sky. The suburbs of Idaho Falls. A house. Too fast to tell whose. I’m drawn through a closed window. I’m standing next to a pool table. Who in my life owns a pool table?
“Joy Lowe!” I say her name as she enters the room. Just like Henry, she looks like she’s been crying for hours. I wonder who told her. It’s so sweet that she cares about me this much. I walk toward her. “It’s okay,” I say. I want to provide as much comfort as possible.
“This is still so incredibly unbelievable! It just keeps hitting me over and over,” a voice calls from the hallway. “I think I actually need a beer. I think I’m in shock. Do you want one?”
“No,” Joy says weakly. “And you shouldn’t have one either. My parents count them.”
Ruthann enters the room with a silver can in her hand. Her superficial wounds are plastered with Band-Aids and squares of gauze. Hopkins didn’t attack her that badly; she’s going for sympathy wearing that much bandaging. She flips the tab on her beer and a gasp of air escapes. “But we’re grieving.”
I cannot believe that I’m visiting Ruthann Culpepper before my grandmother. Something is definitely wrong. Didn’t my grandma love me?
“She was acting so weird right before she died,” Ruthann says. “It’s almost like she knew.”
Joy sits down on a big brown couch and shakes her head. “I don’t think she knew,” she says. “She seemed so happy. Really excited about Tate. Still super into Henry. Her grades weren’t as good as they were last year, but she was happy.”
Ruthann takes a drink and sits down next to her. “And she had the drill team. It’s actually really fortunate for her that she turned her life around in the months before she died and started doing more meaningful stuff.”
“I think she was on the brink of making lots of changes,” Joy says. “She was going through a growth spurt. I feel so bad that we were in a fight when she died. I wasn’t that mad at her. I wasn’t really mad at all. That night at the mall, everything just came out wrong.”
I never knew that Joy cared this much about me. She was a good friend. But we could have been—should have been—closer. That fight was so stupid. And while I’m glad she feels bad about it, I don’t want her to feel this bad. I sit beside her on the couch. “It’s okay. Forget about the fight,” I tell her. Joy turns toward me. She is genuinely sad that I’m gone.
“Roy has called me and left three really sweet messages,” Joy says. “He’s worried about me.”
“Ekles?” Ruthann asks.
“Yes. But I don’t feel like talking to guys right now. I feel fragile and sad and guilty.”
“Death is majorly complicated,” Ruthann says.
“I feel like I should call her friend Sa
die and talk to her,” Joy says. “That friendship was really important to Molly. And they were on the outs. I bet Sadie needs to talk to somebody. I bet she’s feeling a lot like I’m feeling.”
Ruthann leans forward and sets her beer on the edge of the pool table. Then she eases back onto the couch, nestling her head against Joy’s shoulder. “We’re all feeling terrible. But I don’t know that we need to hunt down Sadie. She never even liked us.”
“She didn’t like you because you were a jerk,” I say.
“I need to call her,” Joy says, standing up.
Ruthann shakes her head. “Not tonight. Let her pull herself together. The last thing she needs it to be blindsided by a late-night phone call she wasn’t expecting.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“You know who we should call?” Ruthann says, raising her eyebrows dramatically. “Tate.”
Joy sits back down. “No way!”
“I actually called him already, and I’m waiting for him to call me back,” Ruthann says. “I know some people might find it awkward to talk to somebody who recently fired them and then witnessed a fatal accident, but I don’t feel that way. I feel like talking to him now could really help us reestablish a friendship.”
“I bet Tate feels like total shit,” Joy says.
I haven’t thought that much about Tate. I bet he does feel terrible. I mean, he was with me in the ambulance when I died. He tried to save me. Why hasn’t he pulled me to his side? Maybe Louise doesn’t totally understand how the rules work. Out of everybody, Tate would be the one who would be reeling from my death with a painful intensity. Why hasn’t he wanted me to comfort him? It doesn’t make sense. I need more information. I was basically a good person. Shouldn’t my postlife experience feel better than this? I feel myself getting angry. Really angry.
“If you could see what’s happening to your clocks right now, you’d shudder,” a voice says.
I look and see Louise next to me on the couch.
“I’m dead and I’m angry,” I say.
“Move toward acceptance,” Louise says.
This is ridiculous. She must not normally work with teenagers who die tragically. Acceptance is going to take a while.
“This is very hard for me, Louise,” I explain. “Ruthann is awful. She wants to kill my cat. Plus, she’s not even properly grieving for me.” It disgusts me to admit this, but witnessing Ruthann’s reaction to my death hurts me. She isn’t genuinely sad.
“I am aware of the emotional limitations of Ruthann Culpepper. But remember, nobody is perfect,” Louise says. “For your sake, move past this.”
She makes it sound so simple that I get even angrier. “I’m not talking about being perfect. She’s really terrible! Look at her over there, decorated in bandages, drinking a beer and using me as an excuse to imbibe it.”
“You wasted time in your life with her. Don’t waste time in your death. And be nice!”
I get up off the couch. “Fine. I love everybody in this room. I love everybody in the world.”
“Maybe you should visit other family members,” Louise says.
“They can pull me when they need me,” I say.
“You can go find them,” Louise says.
“Maybe,” I say.
“And there’s still that matter of your three life moments,” Louise reminds me, following me out the front door of Joy’s house. I know I don’t need to use doors, but I like behaving the way I did when I had a body. It makes me feel normal.
“I know. I know,” I say. “I don’t want to choose wrong. I’m still figuring those out.”
“Well, then, I’ll leave you alone,” Louise says.
“Wait! Wait!” I say. “Before you go, could you tell me where to find my grandma?” I’m not sure how to track down people in transit. I doubt my grandmother is at her home in Utah. Am I just supposed to scan the interstate until I feel something?
“Every soul has two instincts. They are centered around your loved ones and your body. During this time, you will always be able to navigate the distance to find your loved ones. And your body.”
“My body?” I say. “That sounds so creepy.”
“Don’t think of it that way. Your body housed your soul for sixteen years. They’re connected. They’re still naturally drawn to each other.”
“I don’t want to go looking for my body. I want to find my grandma,” I say. I remember the story Louise told me about staying around her body and missing reliving her life moment and not comforting people. What if I became so overwhelmed that I did that too? I don’t need to see it. I don’t.
“I’m confident you can find her,” Louise says.
Fine. I’ll do it on my own. I stop thinking about everything and everyone, and focus on my grandma. “She’s not with my parents. She’s not at her house.” I concentrate on her face. Suddenly, I can see her. “I figured it out,” I say. “I can see where she is. She’s with my aunt Claire. I can really see them, Louise. They’re drinking tea in the kitchen. Can you see people like this? Wow. This is so weird. It’s like I have superpowers.”
“Not quite,” Louise says.
I don’t hesitate in leaving Ruthann and Joy. They have each other. Though I wish they’d leave Tate alone. He doesn’t need to be bothered right now by those two. I shouldn’t distract myself. My grandma. Focus. I’m going to see my grandma.
“I need a transport tunnel,” I say.
And it’s as simple as that. I make the tunnel appear and then I’m in it, surrounded by gray walls, racing toward my grandmother. Soon I see the city. It’s late morning and I’m dropping through a pink-lit sky. Falling with tremendous speed.
Slipping through clouds, I grow nervous about what awaits me. When I visited Henry, it was so painful. I hesitate.
And now, in midtumble, when I look around, the neighborhood doesn’t seem exactly right. I’m not in Blackfoot. This is Idaho Falls. I glimpse the Snake River. The airport. And then I’m pulled through a red roof. And then I’m underwater. This can’t be Aunt Claire’s house. There are legs all around me, kicking and thrashing. I let my soul rise to the surface, and I look around. Women decked out in swim caps, wearing leg weights, lift their arms in time to some rock music. I’m in what appears to be a hotel swimming pool that does not contain either my grandmother or my aunt Claire.
My hesitation caused this. I’ve run off course, and this feels exactly as it should feel: unsettling. I climb out of the water and walk through the hotel lobby. A large chandelier hangs over the registration area. People are checking out. Families. Businessmen. Vacationing couples. Their suitcases depress me. One woman is holding a map, tracing her finger along a river.
“We can rent a canoe here,” she tells her boyfriend or husband or fiancé or whatever.
I burst through the hotel’s large glass window and stand on the street. I will never stay in a hotel again. Or go on vacation. Or rent a canoe with my boyfriend. Or fiancé. Or husband. I will never attend an aerobics class in an overchlorinated pool. All of this has been taken from me. I look back into the hotel. I watch as a man pulls a red apple from a fruit bowl and bites into it. And I wonder how long that guy has left. How long do any of them have? They can’t all be healthy. Somebody in there must have heart disease. Or cancer. Or something. When I was hit by death, I had no idea it was coming. It was the most unfair way to die. Why couldn’t I have been sick? If I’d had time to prepare and wrap things up, I wouldn’t feel so cheated. I could have done a few more things. Settled affairs. Finished business.
I’m so jealous at the thought of somebody inside that hotel dying a slow death from a tumor, constructing a list of last things to do, and checking those items off that list, that I have to turn away. If I had a choice, I would stand here and pity myself for days. I’d pity everything I’ve lost. But I don’t have that kind of time. If I want to see and comfort people before I cross, I’ve got to do it now. Because if I don’t, I may never see them again.
The pull to leav
e the sidewalk is unmistakable. My grandmother’s grief is so powerful that it’s finally come for me. And I let it take me.
As soon as I surrender, I’m immediately yanked into the street. Something feels unusual and more intense than my other comfort trips. Is my grandma in traffic? I try to picture her and locate her, but it doesn’t work. I see myself. But not how I am now, and not how I used to be. I’m in a casket. Oh my god. It’s my body. I’m not being pulled by my grandma. I’m being pulled by it.
I try to resist going forward, but it doesn’t work. I’m being dragged through the street, tugged through a bread truck, and finally jerked through racks of pastries and doughnuts and snack pies. Then I’m on the road again, being pulled with an intensity that I’ve never experienced before. Through more cars. Over sidewalks. Under bridges. Around trees. How far am I going to have to travel like this? Will my body still be in Wyoming?
It must have just arrived. That must be what’s happening. My body made it to town and it wants to reconnect with my soul. No. I don’t want to see myself get made up by the mortuary workers. No. I can fight this. I think of something else. My grandma. For some reason, I can’t make myself conjure her up. I think. I think. Nothing happens. Block after block. I’m almost to the old part of town, which houses the two main mortuaries. There is only one thing I can think of that will stop my progress. Even though I don’t feel totally prepared to do this, I need to relive a life moment.
My mind races through my childhood and teen years. It saddens me that this doesn’t take that long. What should I experience again? Who do I want to see and feel? Everyone. But it was so rare that we were all together. My father worked so much. I’m running out of time. Then I remember that I don’t have to pick an exact moment. Instead, I can select a sensation. Luck. I want to feel lucky and be with my family. That’s the moment I want to relive. “Luck and happiness and everybody I love in one place!” I yell. “That’s the life moment I want to relive right now!”
All movement stops. The traffic-packed roadway disappears, and in front of me I see a carnival. And my family. And I even see myself. I look so young, dressed in a pink sundress. Nobody is moving. I walk into the portrait and approach my frozen self. My face is filled with joy. I am on the verge of tossing a ring onto the neck of a glass milk bottle. I don’t hesitate. I let my soul walk into my eight-year-old body, and the scene unfolds.
Death of a Kleptomaniac Page 12