by Ann M. Noser
“Yes, sir.” The messenger dashes off with the note.
Steve turns back to me. “How’s Charlie coming along with my case?”
“What about Mike?” I ask.
“I told you—I’ll have someone look into it.” He leans back in his chair, a commanding presence. “Now, I asked you about Charlie.”
“You’re not my boss, Steve. Try to remember that. You’re supposed to be my friend.” But is he? I take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire in my belly. I want to slap him, not be treated like his employee. “All the leads went cold. Charlie had me rework the revealing spell. Then I died. I don’t know what happened after that.”
Steve taps his pen. “Have you seen Abby and my son?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.” Heat flushes my face. “I should’ve told you that right away. They’re doing great.”
“So he’s healthy?”
“Yes,” I assure him. Poor guy.
His face relaxes. He looks like the old Steve at last. “And Abby’s okay? She has enough help?”
“Of course. She has Claire and your parents. Maybe someday her parents will come around, too.”
“That’s good.” He puts the pad of paper and pen back in the drawer. “You know. I’d give anything just to see them one more time.”
Poor Steve. All this power and he still can’t have what he really wants. “Listen. I had a picture of Stevie in my pocket when I got here. If it isn’t ruined, I’ll bring it to you.”
“I’d like that. Thanks, Emma.” Now he sounds more like the Steve I used to know.
Someone raps on the door.
“Come in,” Steve commands.
Another imposing guard enters. The strange ogre of a man leans to whisper in Steve’s ear. I pick at the sleeve of my turtleneck. Suddenly, I feel very unimportant. Steve’s dressed like the President of the United States, and I look like I’m going to the mall.
“He’s here now? That’s wonderful.” Steve’s voice sounds angry rather than happy, despite his choice of words.
Steve rises and turns to me, avoiding my gaze. “I’m sorry, Emma. Something’s come up. We’ll continue this another time.”
I stand. “Let me know what you find out about Mike, and don’t worry about Abby and little Stevie. Claire will take good care of them.”
“I know she will. Bernard is content to wait for her until she’s no longer needed. Good-bye.” He dismisses me with a wave of his well-manicured hand.
His words strike me as peculiar. Does Steve have some power over Claire and Abby’s situation?
The big guy in a dark suit immediately escorts me out of the fancy office, down the hall, and outside.
“Wait.” I try to put on the breaks, but he keeps dragging me along. “I have another question.”
“Your appointment is over,” he snaps, as we reach the door and he tosses me out.
I spin around. “But how long does it take Steve to find out something? When can I come back?”
“The Boss will call for you when he wants you. Don’t bother him until then. He’s busy.” He closes the door in my face again. The bolt slides into place with a loud clunk.
andering alone on unfamiliar streets, I lose all sense of direction. Every curved stone alleyway appears the same. What should I do now? Where should I go? Since I appear to be stuck here—and I’m still not quite sure what “here” means—and Steve only seems to care about himself now, I’m not sure where to and who to go to for help. I pause at the intersection of two streets, biting my lip. Maybe that math professor Jake mentioned could help, but I’ve no idea where his office is. Too bad Jake didn’t tell me.
After walking a bit farther, I spot a corner kiosk with the word INFORMATION blazed in red letters across the top. I hurry over, searching for directions.
A college-aged woman sets aside her bottle of bright pink nail polish. “How can I help you?”
“Hi. I’m Emma Roberts. And I’m sort of lost.” My eyes are drawn to her fingernails. So, even though there’s no hair gel here, there’s still nail polish. I guess someone has their priorities in order.
Cari (or so her name tag reads, with a star over the “i”) peers at me as if I’m a curiosity at a sideshow. Or else she can see the extra spirits I still carry around. “Emma Roberts? I heard about you.”
“Great.” I clear my throat. “I have a reputation here already?”
“No.” Cari fidgets with her perfect hands. “Someone stopped by looking for you.”
“Who? Jake?” Maybe he can take me to the math professor.
“Nope.” She lowers her voice. “The Faded Witch. I don’t know her real name… nobody does. Except maybe Sam Metzger-he hangs around her like a little lost puppy.”
“The Faded Witch? Who’s she?” So I’m not the only witch here. Interesting.
Cari leans forward to whisper, “I heard she’s cursed.”
“Why?” Oh dear. Then I probably am, too.
“She threw something out of balance back on Earth. She’s cursed to grow ever more worn and haggard until the balance is restored.”
“How’s she supposed to do that?” Not that I’m here to help her. I’ve got enough on my hands already, right?
Cari’s eyes widen. “I’ve no idea. She’s never even talked to me before-that is, until she asked about you.”
Great. Another dead person with a problem I’m supposed to solve. Trouble is, I’m kind of a mess right now.
“Where is she?” I glance down the nearest alleyway to check for any crouching witches with green skin and a black hat. I don’t see any, but we’re not in Oz. At least I don’t think we are.
Cari shrugs. “Who knows?”
“I guess I’ll deal with her when the time comes. But for right now, I need directions.”
“I can help you with that.” Cari pulls out a shiny yellow notecard. “Where do you want to go?”
“The math professor’s office. Is there only one?”
She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Yep. That would be Professor Parker.” She turns the note card sideways and writes information kiosk #2 on the top, and Prof. Parker’s office along the bottom edge. Then she sets down her pen and waits. After a few seconds, the blank space in the middle fills with written directions in block letters.
Cari hands it to me with a smile. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I read through the instructions, then head down the road in the right direction. Professor Parker tutors in a building on the edge of “town.” His office is at the far end of a deserted hallway. Scratchy classical music floats down the hall, tinkling louder as I approach a wooden nameplate with Professor Parker printed on it in black letters. I stand in the open doorway and gawk at the mess inside.
The professor doesn’t notice me at first. He hovers over his disorderly desk, writing out equations on scraps of paper. Books are stacked haphazardly on homemade wooden shelving. A latch-hook image of a panda bear hangs on one wall. The elderly man wears a gray oxford shirt, sweater vest, and corduroy pants thinned at the knees. He takes off his glasses and leans back in an olive green metal chair, which groans in protest.
I step into the room. “Professor Parker?”
“W-what?” Startled out of his reverie, he tilts back too far. The chair slips out from under him, sending him to the floor with a bang.
I jump forward to help. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He chuckles. “Oh, don’t worry. Happens all the time.”
“Why don’t you get a new chair?”
He pats the chipped paint. “I like this one.” Professor Parker picks up his thick glasses and wipes them with a dirty cloth. “My daughter threw away all this stuff after I died. She thought it was junk, and I got to keep it.”
My gaze travels over the Professor’s prized possessions. “They always said that you can’t take it with you. I wonder if everyone’s idea of Heaven is wrong.”
He nods, a thoughtful expression on his face as he places the glasses
back on his nose. “That’s a good question.”
“I have about a million others if you’ve got time. I’ve lost a friend, I’m worried about my parents, and some Faded Witch person is looking for me. I’m not sure what this all means, or what to do about it.”
He smiles. “I think you’ll find that around here, every question has more than one answer, and every answer leads to more questions.”
Great. Not even professors up here can answer my questions. How disappointing. Then I remember my manners and extend my hand. “Hi. I’m Emma Roberts. I’m interested in a math tutoring job.”
His skin feels papery thin and his cheeks are pale.
“Are you sick?” I ask.
“I had leukemia, but I’m getting better.” Professor Parker glances at a big wristwatch. “In fact it’s about time for my supplement.” He slides open a narrow drawer filled with what look like individually wrapped Snowball cakes. The crinkly wrapper disappears into thin air after he opens it. He takes a large bite of the dessert and his face flushes with color.
He shows me the middle, which looks like red Jello. “I’d offer you a bite, but I don’t think you’d be interested.”
I grimace. “No, thanks.”
He gestures to a small wooden chair. “Have a seat. Let’s discuss a schedule. It’s nice to have some assistance, but there’s not a huge demand for our services.”
“But Jake said that lots of people here are eager to learn.”
The professor chuckles. “I’m afraid the fine arts folks are more popular than the math and science tutors, but that’s nothing new.”
“That’s just like regular life.”
“It certainly is.” He finishes up his supplement, then wipes his hands together.
“Except it doesn’t feel like regular life to me up here. People don’t act the same.” I think of Steve, so angry under the surface. “Do you like it here, Professor Parker? I don’t mean this in a bad way, but I expected something different when I died. I’m not sure what exactly, maybe a few clouds, or harps, or winged creatures.”
He smiles. “I haven’t spotted any flying horses or unicorns, either, if that’s what you mean. But to answer your question-I’m quite content here while I wait for my wife.” He glances around his office. “She’s going to throw out all this stuff once she gets here.”
“How long have you waited?”
He reaches for a framed family photo of him at a younger age, surrounded by a wife and daughter. Black electrical tape holds the frame together.
“Time isn’t important here.” He points at the wall in front of him. “Have you seen my clocks?”
I turn to look. There hang five dials, the hands all whirling and twirling back and forth. Below each clock is a rectangular silver box stating month, day, and year.
“What’s wrong with them?” I ask.
“They’re not broken, if that’s what you’re thinking. Look closer.”
I read aloud the small nameplates under each clock. “New York, San Francisco, Paris. The last two have question marks. What does that mean?”
“They’re yours to choose. Tell the clocks what you want to see.”
“Eau Claire, Wisconsin,” I say in a clear, loud voice.
The hands of the two clocks shiver, then spin wildly. The last clock on the right halts at 10:45 pm and a date that sends shivers down my spine.
I point, my hand shaking. “But that’s when I died.”
His eyebrows rise. “Is it? How interesting.”
The hands of second to last clock continue to whirl, moving forward through the next couple days, pausing, then rushing back to the exact time of my death, then forward again. The two clocks work in unison-one spinning ahead while the other twirls behind, over and over again, always pausing on the same dates and times.
I plop down in my chair, a sick feeling in my gut. “That’s creepy.”
“I’ve never seen them do that before.” Professor Parker taps a coffee cup.
I shudder to think what he must be drinking. I hope it’s not blood. I’m not sure I can work with a vampire. Wait, maybe that would be sort of cool.
“What do you think it means?” I ask.
He pauses. “Are you sure you’re dead?”
“I don’t feel dead.” I pinch myself and do feel the sting, so this can’t be a dream. “Did you?”
“Yes.” He gives me a sad, wise smile. “But before I died, I couldn’t even tie my shoes without losing my breath. I pretty much felt halfway dead long before it actually happened.”
“How dreadful.” I shudder.
He smiles brighter. “Don’t worry. I had a good life before that. And up here, with the help of these tasty morsels, I can even go hiking in the woods again. I missed that.”
He points at another picture of himself, with mountains in the background. The glass is cracked in one corner. “I just wish my wife were here to go with me.”
What a nice guy. “I’m sure she’ll be glad that you waited for her.”
“God said I could move on if I wanted, but I couldn’t do it. My wife will need a lot of help when she gets here. She forgets things. She’s got Alzheimer’s—or ‘old timers,’ whichever you what to call it. But she’ll get better once she gets here.”
“I’m sorry about your wife.” I’d hate to lose my mind—it’s all I have.
“Thanks. But let’s talk about you. Do you have any more questions? It can be pretty confusing here at first.”
I lean forward in my chair. “Is Steve Lawrence really in charge up here? I’ve got a serious problem and I want to be sure he’s the one to talk to. And do you know someone called the Faded Witch? And have you spoken to God already?”
He chuckles. “You do have a lot of questions. I’d have to say ‘yes’ to all three. Any concerns should go directly to Mr. Lawrence. He’ll take care of it, that’s for sure. I’m not sure I’d go so far as to claim the Faded Witch and I are friends. The best I could say is that she occasionally tolerates my presence. She’s an interesting woman, but she likes to keep to herself-except for that new protégé of hers.”
“You mean Sam?” I ask.
He nods, taking another sip from his cup.
“I wonder why she wants to talk to me,” I ponder.
“That is interesting. I know she’s been waiting for someone for a long time, but I got the impression that person was a middle-aged man, not a young girl.”
“Why is she cursed?” I ask, even if it’s none of my business. “Is it just because she’s a witch?”
“No. It’s some private matter between her and God. She claims she stole the apple from Eden, but I’m not sure I believe her.” He leans back in his chair, and I tense, waiting for him to fall again.
A knock on the office door interrupts our conversation.
Professor Parker waves. “Come on in, kids.”
Two young students linger in the doorway of the office, a boy and a girl, carrying notebooks and pencils. They giggle and lean into each other.
I smile at them. “It’ll be different tutoring non-college students.”
“I’ve found that college-aged kids often seem the least interested in learning,” the professor muses. “I look forward to your help, once you’ve settled in, of course.”
“I’ll be back. I promise.” I excuse myself from his office. The sun warms my back, but doesn’t do much to console me. I’m not sure Steve will do anything about Mike. I don’t want to do water aerobics. And I still haven’t figured out how to dispel my demons.
Questions bounce around in my head like wayward super-balls. Why won’t God see me? Is it the witchcraft thing? It can’t be the killing myself thing because God saw Sam right away, and he did it on purpose. If it’s because I’m carrying all these spirit-demon things inside me, then why doesn’t God want to help get rid of them? And who’s this Faded Witch person, anyway?
As I approach the kiosk, Cari smiles. “Did you find the professor okay?” Her glossy pink nails glisten.
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“Yeah, but now I’m looking for Jake Cunningham.”
Cari giggles. “He’s hot.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. People shouldn’t still be able to use the word “hot” to describe someone up here. “Yeah. Can you help me out?”
She whips out another shiny card. “I’m sure he’s at practice this time of day. He always is.”
Oh great. Jake’s got another fan. We’ll line them up in a row: Colleen, Cari, all the water aerobics ladies…
“Have you seen God already?” I try to sound casual, but I really want to know.
“Yes. Right away. She was beautiful. Her blue gown glittered like the stars.” Cari’s face glows with the memory.
“God is a She? Interesting.” And cool. “Anyway, thanks for the directions.” I grab the card and take off. Even Cari, the nail polishing queen, got to go right away.
Along the way, I find myself stopping everyone I met on the street. “Hi. I’m Emma Roberts. Have you talked to God yet?”
I question over a dozen people, and the answer is always “yes,” but Who or What they saw varies from person to person. Most of the older people met a tall slender man sporting a willowy long beard that glowed like a shiny pearl. Two kids talked to a wild lion. A man with long hair spoke with a giant elm tree.
How come people see different things? Maybe the better question is: why do some people all see the same vision? And how come I’m the only one not permitted to see God?
fter walking farther, I come to the end of the white stone buildings. The cobbled streets spill out onto a series of large grassy fields dotted with kids in baseball caps. Far to my right, a gradual slope leads to a distant beach. Sparkling sapphire waters stretch to the horizon. Warm, salty breezes caress my face.
My mom would love to be here. Or would she? My stomach lurches. How are they doing? What do they think happened to me? Did I just ruin the rest of their lives? My old friend, guilt, is going to have a party in my head for an eternity over this.