One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

by Gail Bowen

  “There’s something you’re reluctant to share,” Dr. Harris says.

  “I’m not reluctant. You just motored in before I had a chance to finish.”

  Our guest expert raises a perfectly arched eyebrow.

  “Something about your mother’s death distresses you,” she says.

  Louise is a plainspoken woman with little patience for pretty words.

  “It doesn’t ‘distress’ me, Dr. Robin Harris. It pisses me off. As I was saying, I made sure Mother was clean and sprayed down with Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds; then I gave her permission to die. I used the exact words Oprah said to use. ‘Mother,’ I said. ‘Your work here is done. It’s okay for you to leave. I’ll be fine.’ After that, Mother’s eyes got misty and she raised her old arms and said, ‘I’m coming, Andrew.’”

  Robin Harris finds the low, smoldering notes of her magnificent voice.

  “And you were hurt that at the end of her life, your mother didn’t reach out to you. She reached out to your father.”

  Louise’s exasperation reaches the boiling point and spills over.

  “Doctor, I may not have degrees up the wazoo the way you do, but I know how to listen. My father’s name was Walter. Andrew was the name of the angel on that cheesy tv show, Touched By an Angel. You can catch it in reruns. Mother never missed an episode. Anyway, I’m sitting there bawling my eyes out, and there’s Mother on her deathbed, reaching out to this actor who is now doing a commercial for cat food.”

  “And you want to know how to deal with your anger toward your mother?” Robin says.

  Louise’s laugh is infectious.

  “I’m not angry at Mother. I just wanted to get that off my chest, and now I have. Jeez, Touched By an Angel. Thanks for being there, Charlie D. Dr. Robin Harris, I hope you learn a little something tonight about how to listen to people.”

  Louise’s imitation of our guest’s precise enunciation of her own name is deadly. As I take the next call, I see the pulse in Dr. Harris’s white throat throbbing with anger. It’s going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For a person with an extraordinary gift for using her own voice, Dr. Harris seems remarkably tone-deaf when it comes to the voices of others. Our next caller is Garnet from Saskatoon. He wants to talk about respecting the dignity of the dead. He’d been at a friend’s funeral the week before. The man was estranged from his family, and his ex-wife had arranged for an open-casket funeral with her ex-husband lying in state wearing his Ray-Bans. When Dr. Harris rattles on about King Tut being buried with golden chariots and a fleet of miniature ships, Garnet sniffs that she seems to have a special talent for missing the point. The good doctor is two for two.

  Louise and Garnet were strong enough to deal with Robin Harris’s empathy challenges. Our next caller won’t be. Danny is a sixteen-year-old boy who was in a car accident at the beginning of the summer. He was driving, and his brother was killed.

  Over the talkback, Nova warns me that because Danny is fragile, I must keep Robin Harris in check. There’s another cloud on the horizon. The caller following Danny is Dr. Gabriel Ireland. Today is his fortieth birthday, and it’s not shaping up to be a good one. Nova has decided against blocking his call.

  Danny has agreed to let me paint the broad strokes of his situation for our listeners. I explain Danny’s role in the death of his brother and his fear that he will never feel normal again. Then I turn it over to him. Danny waits a beat too long to begin, and Dr. Harris pounces.

  “You wonder if you’ll ever feel normal again, Danny,” she says. “Each grief has its own rhythm. In time you’ll…”

  I cut her off. “Why don’t we let Danny tell us how he’s feeling?”

  Danny is painful to listen to. He announces his problem right away.

  “I stutter,” he says. “I didn’t use to, but s…s…since the accident…I…I…I…Charlie D, I can’t do this…”

  “Sure you can,” I say. “Just imagine that you and I are-where’s your favorite place in the world?”

  As I wait for Danny to answer, I watch the second hand on the studio clock measure the silence. Thirty-five seconds of dead air-an eternity in talk radio, but Danny comes through.

  “The dock at our cottage,” he says finally.

  “Okay, good,” I say. “Imagine that we’re sitting on the dock at your cottage-just the two of us-and you’re telling me that since the accident…”

  His stutter makes listening to Danny’s story difficult, but he soldiers on.

  “Since the accident, it’s like there’s a plug in my throat, and all my words get stuck. I can’t say what I want to say.”

  “What do you want to say?”

  “I hate that Liam’s dead. I hate that it’s my fault.”

  “Accidents are no one’s fault,” I say. “They can happen to anyone.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. But it happened to me because…because… because…” Danny’s voice is thick with despair. “I can’t say the words, Charlie D…”

  “Danny, take a deep breath. Close your eyes. We’re on the dock-just you and me-shootin’ the breeze. Why did the accident happen to you?”

  “Because…because…” Suddenly the logjam is broken. The words pour out. “Because I loved Liam, but sometimes I wanted him to go away. He was smarter at school. He was a better runner than me. He didn’t have zits. Everybody liked him best…even my Dad.”

  Dr. Robin Harris leans in to her mike.

  “Rivalries between brothers are natural. Starting with Cain and Abel…”

  Danny has finally opened up. To be cut off just as he’s found his voice reduces him to tears.

  “I don’t know who Cain and that other guy are,” he says. “This is about me and Liam. Can I just talk to Charlie D? Please. I just want to talk to Charlie D. Why doesn’t anything ever work for me?”

  “We can make it work,” I say. “Stay on the line. My producer, Nova, will get your number. As soon as the show’s off the air, I’ll call you. We can talk for as long as you want. Off air. Just us. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good man. Later?”

  “Later.”

  I glance at the control room. Nova has the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder, and she’s keying information into her computer. I glance at my computer screen. Danny’s contact info is there. So is a single sentence. Sometimes we do good work. I look through the glass into the control room. When I catch her eye, Nova gives me the thumbs-up.

  “Time to regroup,” I say. “What tunes do you want played at your send-off? Some groups seem like naturals. The Grateful Dead? Undertakin’ Daddies? Cold Play? Choose carefully. Remember, you don’t get a second chance to make a last request. Give us a call at 1-800-555-2333.”

  Robin Harris is clearly not in the mood for fun and games, but I am conciliatory.

  “Dr. Harris, what’s your pleasure?”

  Her brilliant green eyes shoot daggers.

  “Verdi’s Requiem,” she says.

  “Ah, music as stately and regal as you are,” I say. “A perfect choice, but I suspect all your choices are perfect.”

  “I believe in a well-ordered life,” she says; then, suddenly mindful of the network executives who’ve tuned in to catch her act, she offers an on-air olive branch. “What about you, Charlie D? What do you want played at your funeral?”

  “Something tasty,” I say. “Maybe ‘Deep as Love’ by the Tord Gustavsen Trio. Let’s set a spell and listen.”

  Tord’s trio is soothing. Nova’s words over the talkback are not. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland is up next,” she says. “Charlie, I struggled with this one. We may just be getting dragged into an ugly game between Gabe and Dr. Harris, but I’ve been talking to Gabe. He’s going down for the third time. I don’t think we have a choice. If Dr. Harris gives you any static, tell her this is my decision. She can beat me up after the show.”

  “Nope,” I say. “All decisions around here are arrived at jointly. If
you get beat up, I get beat up. But stand in front of me. That caterpillar costume you’re wearing appears to be bulletproof.”

  Nova gives me her crooked smile, and immediately I feel better.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tord’s piano is sweet and tuneful, but Dr. Harris is not placated. “You don’t have the training to handle an adolescent as disturbed as Danny,” she says. “He needs a specialist.” She turns her face toward the control room to allow me to absorb her words. Her profile is classical, perfect and distant.

  Without exchanging a single word with Gabriel Ireland, I can understand why he is crazy in love with this woman. Luckily for me, I have never been drawn to ice queens.

  “Danny didn’t call a specialist,” I say. “He called me. Dr. Harris, we have a database with referral numbers for professionals in every area where we’re heard. When we have a caller whose problems demand the kind of help I can’t give them, I talk to them after the show and I refer them to a professional. I’m just Step One.”

  “You’re the wrong step,” she says crisply. “As long as you operate within your area of expertise, you’re amusing. But you’re out of your depth with someone as seriously disturbed as Danny. For him, this could be a matter of life and death.”

  Dr. Harris’s condescension raises my hackles.

  “That’s precisely the reason why I cut you off,” I say. “As Louise noted so colorfully, you have degrees up the wazoo, but what you did with Danny was just plain stupid. That boy is being eaten alive by guilt because he wanted his brother dead and he got his wish. But instead of letting Danny say the words he needs to say if he’s ever going to recover, you launch into a lecture about Cain and freaking Abel.”

  “Pointing out to Danny that his feelings are archetypal is accepted clinical protocol.”

  “He’s sixteen years old, and he’s disintegrating. He doesn’t need to hear about archetypes. He just needs someone to listen. By the way, Dr. Harris, we’re back on the air in ten, and get ready, because I’m going to give you a chance to strut your stuff.”

  “And we’re back,” I say. “Judging by the number of calls coming in on this, the Day of the Dead, a lot of you are haunted by ghoulies, ghosties, long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night. Luckily we have a pro to help us battle the ghoulies and ghosties. Tonight, I’m joined by Dr. Robin Harris, a thanatologist, a specialist in death. Dr. Harris, how did you get into your line of work?”

  “For me, thanatology has always been a journey in search of answers,” she says in her thrilling voice. “When I was seven, my grandmother died. My parents had pretty much abandoned me, but my grandmother had always been there. I was alone with her when she had her fatal heart attack.”

  “That must have been terrifying.”

  “It was,” Robin agrees. “But my grandmother always told me that whatever didn’t kill me would make me stronger. I realize now she was just repeating a truism, but I clung to those words. I was determined not to let my grandmother’s death kill me, and so I began to think seriously about what death meant. Even as a child, I knew that death was a natural phenomenon. I’d seen dead birds. I’d had pets that died. The principal of my school fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck. Death was all around, so I made a decision to understand what it meant.”

  “That was pretty gutsy,” I say.

  Glowing with the sheen of self-love, Robin continues her autobiography.

  “It was necessary,” she says. “I was a logical child, so I set out to find answers. After my grandmother died, I went to live with my mother’s brother and his wife. As fate would have it, my uncle owned a funeral home, and I spent hours with him, listening to his stories about how people reacted to death.”

  “And you were seven years old,” I say.

  “I wasn’t afraid,” she says. “My uncle recognized a kindred spirit in me. He told me that I’d been given a great gift. I was able to observe grief without being affected.”

  “That’s quite a trick.”

  “There’s no trick to it. Knowledge is power.”

  “So your knowledge of death gives you power over it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the fact that you’re not afraid of death gives you power over people who are.”

  “That’s a little simplistic, but yes.”

  I shake my head.

  “Whoa! Lady Death, you are a trip. Time to talk to a caller. Here’s one that should interest you. It’s from a friend of your daughter.”

  Robin laughs.

  “My daughter is six years old. Her friends are all in bed by now.”

  Gabriel Ireland’s pleasant tenor voice is ironic and resigned. I recognize the tone. This is a man who has nothing more to lose.

  “Not all your daughter’s friends are six years old, Robin. Kali tells me I’m her best friend, and as you well know, my dark star, today is my fortieth birthday. Since you’ve sucked the light out of every moment of my last year, it seems only fitting that I spend these last dark minutes with you.”

  Robin shakes her head in disgust, but I jump in.

  “Gabe, our show is pretty loose, but we have two rules: no straying from the topic and no hitting below the belt. So far you’re two for two.”

  “I apologize,” Gabriel Ireland says, and he sounds genuinely contrite. “I’m a hollow man.”

  “You’re a bore,” Robin Harris says sharply. “Gabe, hang up and let someone with real problems call in. I’m not here to deal with your adolescent angst.”

  “I’m aware of that, my dark star. I’ve been listening. As always, you established the boundaries brilliantly. You said your job is to help people deal with the day in their lives when they are most vulnerable-the day when they’re about to die or when someone they love is about to die. I qualify on both counts.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Robin flicks off her microphone. Her creamy skin is blotched with anger. “I told your producer this would happen if she put his call through. Gabe is hijacking your show, and he’s making me look bad.” Her eyes meet mine. “It’s either Gabe or me,” she says. “Cut him off or I leave.”

  Nova’s voice on the talkback is tight. “Stay with Gabe, Charlie. I know voices, and Gabriel Ireland is in real trouble. We have a caller named Boomer on line two. He thinks he can help. At the very least, he’ll give everybody a chance to take a deep breath.”

  I shrug. What the hell? It’s Halloween- the night for trick or treat. I switch my mike on.

  “Gabe, why don’t we chill awhile and listen to what another caller has to say.”

  Gabe laughs.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Charlie.”

  Robin takes off her headphones and starts jamming her notes into her briefcase. I give her an apologetic smile, open line two and glance at my computer screen.

  “Good evening, Boomer.” I say. “I see that you identify your hometown as wherever your Harley will take you. So are you on the road now?”

  “Nope, getting too old to drive in the dark.”

  Boomer’s rumbling bass makes me reach for the volume control.

  “My pattern now,” he says, “is to ride the Hog until sundown, pull into a motel, crack open a cool one and wait until you come on the air.”

  “Proud to be part of your day,” I say.

  “Thanks, Charlie D. Anyway, I just wanted to let Gabe know that I had a dark star of my own. I was with this lady for two years, and it was stellar-especially in the dark. This lady and I were cut from the same cloth. We both loved to ride our Harleys. We both loved the band Pantera and the Meatlovers Pan-Scrambler at Humpty’s. Most of all, we loved taking long showers together. There was a little place on my lady’s back that she couldn’t reach, and she liked me to soap the spot with Zest. She and I had a lot of fine moments, but there was something about the smell of Zest on that woman that was so good it made me cry.”

  Robin has put on her coat and is knotting her scarf. It appears that my apologetic smile has lost its charm.
r />   I keep my focus on Boomer.

  “I know the feeling,” I say.

  “I kind of figured you did,” Boomer says. “Anyway, long story short, my lady found a biker with a bigger Hog, and she moved along. For a long time, I was kind of where Gabe is now. After my lady left, I soaped a lot of backs, but none of them passed the Zest test. I was beginning to think I’d lost something I would never find again, then along came a lady with a bar of Dove.”

  “And soaping your new lady with Dove was good?”

  “Transcendent,” Boomer booms.

  I wouldn’t have figured Boomer as a guy who’d describe his love life as “transcendent,” but life is full of surprises.

  “So your message to Gabe is that somewhere there’s a lady with a bar of Dove that has his name on it?”

  “You got it, Charlie D.” Boomer’s laughter is as generous and enveloping as a bear hug.

  “Thanks for calling,” I say, and I mean it. The light on line two goes out, and I’m back to line one.

  “So, Gabe, think you can hang on until your Cinderella appears?”

  “I’ve pretty much given up on happily-ever-afters,” Gabe says. “When my radio came on this morning and I heard the announcer say that Robin was going to be your guest, I saw the shape of my day. I’d drive to the hospital, listen to jokes from my colleagues about turning forty, open a couple of gag gifts and pretend to be surprised when someone brought a cafeteria cake into the staff lounge. And that would be my birthday. At the end of my shift, I’d go back to an empty condo and life without Robin and Kali. I couldn’t face it.”

  Robin levels a last lethal look at me and walks out the studio door. She doesn’t wave goodbye.

  I turn my attention back to Gabe.

  “So you decided to call in to our show tonight,” I say.

  “Only after picking up the one thing I needed to make my birthday complete,” he says.