Her eyes rose to meet mine, a beautiful, cool wave crashing against my body, washing away all the heat and anxiety and nervous second-guessing—a cold drink of water to drown the lump lodged in my throat, toppling it down into my stomach in a torrential downpour of comfort and ease.
“I’m sorry, what?” I surfaced from that cool water.
“What do you miss the most?” she said, setting her book on the table. “Back then? Back home, or whatever. Before you were here. What do you miss the most?” Her narrow fingers tapped out a tune on the back of the book. The beats could have been interpreted as a nervous tic, if not for her aplomb.
“Do I have to pick just one?” I said. I spent the majority of my time here trying not to think about the past, but I fired off an answer from the tip of my tongue. “I miss the musty smell of old book stores. I miss food actually tasting the way it’s supposed to. I miss the greasy food-cart grub that tastes like the best thing you’ve ever eaten at two o’clock in the morning. I miss color—a lot. You sort of don’t realize it, but back then, you took for granted how vibrant things could be, even when they were bad. A rainy day here is the same as a sunny day—it’s all different shades of gray, but there? You could have blues and greens, whites, even yellow all mixed in with the grays. So, I guess that’s what I miss the most. Or sex. Or sandwiches.”
“Are you seriously telling me that I can’t get a sandwich here?” She raised her fists toward the sky, as if to warn whatever was up there that this atrocity would not fly now that she was here. “Are you really sure this isn’t Hell?”
“Of course you can get a sandwich here, but it’s not going to be anything like you remember. Unless you ate cardboard sandwiches before.” I reached for her outstretched arm and lowered it calmly to the table.
She grinned. “Do people have sex here?”
I nearly gagged. “Well I mean . . . Yeah, I guess they do. I mean, I haven’t,” I stammered, falling into the rabbit hole of realization that I had never been intimate here, and that I wouldn’t know what to do if the situation presented itself. I imagined my teenaged-self fumbling around under blankets, getting absolutely nowhere despite tips that were guaranteed to get the job done. My cheeks heated with embarrassment. “It’s just different. Like everything else. It’s not that common, I don’t think, although Michael tells me it happens all the time up there. I think everyone here is just busy trying to get out, so interpersonal relationships don’t often prosper down here. Besides, it’s impossible to get off.”
“So that’s the same, at least. Do you think maybe somehow I was cursed by this place before I even got here, or was I exclusively dating men that were already dead?”
I smacked my forehead, covering my eyes and the dull hint of red bleeding into my pale cheeks. I wasn’t sure whether to apologize or not, so I slipped my hand through my hair and scratched the back of my neck as she smirked.
My stomach sank as her eyes lowered to the serrated scar line on my forearm. I dropped my arm to the table.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I miss?”
“Oh, yeah, I just figured, you know, you haven’t been here too long,” I fumbled. I hadn’t even thought to ask her back.
“I actually kind of miss a lot already,” she corrected me. “I miss driving. There’s something very freeing about being in a car with the windows down, your music blaring loud enough for people to hear it the next county over. And you just don’t care. You’re happy, you’re smiling, the sun is bright, and you’re singing along to every word of ‘Stay’.”
“You say,” I mumbled, never one to be proud of my lack of vocal talent. Her smile could’ve prompted me on stage in front of thousands.
“I only hear what I want to,” she finished singing. “Oh my god, I’m going to miss all of my music if that jukebox is any indication.” She laughed so deeply that she snorted a little, muttering “teenage fucking wasteland” somewhere in that spirited titter. Her laugh, like her smile, was infectious—the kind you tell all your friends about, ad nauseam, either until they break down and believe it may be at least half as endearing as you swear, or until they tell you to shut the hell up.
“Don’t worry, the jukebox isn’t as bad as it seems. There are some decent ones in the city too, and occasionally, in the right spots, you can even pick up a radio station or two.”
“I also miss the beach,” she interrupted. “There’s something about the water that’s just as freeing, you know? Just out there, floating in this great expanse. You could swim away and never come back if you wanted to. Just sprout fins and swim down below. I used to love to take my dog to the beach. It made him almost as happy as he made me.”
Radiant wouldn’t have done her justice. It was as if sunlight itself sat in her corner of the booth.
“You had a dog? What kind? What was he like?” I was ravenous, thirsty for more knowledge, anything she had to give. “Did you live near water? Are we talking ocean beach or lake beach? Because there’s a huge difference. I always loved the ocean.” I was excited, but she seemed to close off a little, looking into the corner for a moment and then down again at her book—the clam was closing around this beautiful pearl. After a moment, her eyes returned to view.
“So, were you jousting?”
“Huh?”
“Your shoulder,” she said, pointing at the wet spot, an oozing glob of raspberry jam in the center. “I mean, it’s wet and it smells absolutely awful, and that looks a little like blood. Honestly, I’ve smelled city trash cans more appealing than that. I’m thinking it’s a spear wound, and in your spare time you probably do the renaissance fair thing. It’s really the only excuse I can think of.” She simpered before I could answer, and my return smile elicited laughter that warmed me like a shot of whiskey. “It’s cute. Maybe you can defend my honor some time.”
“I’d be more than happy to, m’lady.” I bowed my head.
We sat in the booth, talking like fools as strangers passed. As much as I needed it to last an eternity, it passed by in what felt like a matter of minutes. Jonas glared at me as he stacked the final chair atop the last table. I couldn’t begin to fathom where all the time had gone.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked, the fire ants resuming their slow crawl. I scratched at one of my scars.
“Well, apparently this nice little vacation is over and I get to start working.” She swallowed the last of her drink. “So that seems . . . fun, I guess?”
“Where were you assigned?” My scars were very visible with my sleeves half rolled-up, and she kept glancing at them.
“The Office of Records,” she said. “Sounds pretty official, right?”
“It is pretty official. They store everything there. I mean, the archives and all. Everybody’s story.” I moved my glass to my forearm, hoping the condensation would cool the fire emanating from my skin. I feared she might see the scars as a weakness, my inability to handle things. I was terrified she might think less of me for them.
“That’s absolutely fascinating! I’ll get in good with the boss and see what I can find out. Think about all the dirt you could get! All those mysteries solved! You could find out who killed Kennedy.”
“It was the CIA,” Jonas said nonchalantly, dragging a musty, soggy mop across the floor next to us. “Everybody here knows that. No one can keep a secret.”
Mia pondered this for a moment, looking deflated. I took my chance to strike. “Well, afterward, do you want to get out and do something for a while? I have tomorrow night off.”
“You practically had the night off tonight. Schmuck,” Jonas muttered.
“And I’d really like to spend it with you.” I rolled my sleeves down to cover my past.
She looked up at Jonas, then to me, and scooted out of the booth. The heels of her shoes clicked on the tiles as she walked toward the door. I grabbed the book she’d left on the table and rushed to meet her. Our hands brushed as she took it into her arms.
“I was hoping you’d bring this to
me. Since you’ve given me this lovely gift, I could probably let you show me around a little more.” And with that, she walked out the door. No goodnight kiss, no hug, not even a handshake, but I felt like a conquering hero.
Until I turned around. Jonas had crept up behind me. He was disturbingly agile for his age, and he forced the handle of his mop into my open hand.
“Do the dishes before you close. I believe I have earned a nice relaxing walk, since I have done the work of a much younger man all evening,” he said, following Mia out the door.
I didn’t mind. Something about the Depot at night was calming. The empty lanes, the dim lights, the lack of people. It was almost serene, a feeling hard to come by in this place. I took my time with each dirty plate and greasy glass, doing my best to scrub and clean in a basin that was more akin to a swamp than soapy water. Eventually, I settled for clean-enough and closed up shop for the night. I took the long walk home, thinking about Mia the entire time. I realized how comfortable I felt around her, even with the jitters. How understood I felt.
I tripped and stumbled over every crack in the pavement, jammed my thumb in the door to my apartment, and managed to fall asleep laying long-ways across my bed. I had it bad.
A blast of car horns erupted from the stagnant traffic infiltrated my sleep, waking me like a hard kick in the ear. I swatted at the air, desperate for some way to mute the insufferable noise, but the cosmic snooze button was out of my reach. It crossed my mind that once I left this place, sleep might get a little better. Here, it was the same as it was before I died. Whether ten hours or two, it was a means to pass the time; rest was never part of the equation.
I had been in an abusive relationship with my bed when I was alive. After a long hard day, I’d come to it with open arms, diving headfirst into warmth, comfort, and security. Giving all my trust, I’d fall asleep, yet I’d wake up drained, aching, and unrested. Still, I returned home every night, trusting that it would change. Our relationship was terminal.
After a prolonged but ultimately futile attempt to drown out the noise by burrowing my head under the stiff excuses for pillows, I swung my legs around the side of the brick bed, my eyes adjusting to the silver strands of sunlight peeking through the blinds. My usual morning thoughts involved vulgar tirades against the outside world—casual “fucks” and “shits” tossed at motorists and appointments and anything else standing between me and the repose that eternally eluded me. Occasionally, all I wanted was coffee, but with sleep still in my eyes, I couldn’t even get that thought across without a half-dozen curse words. Today, though, there were only six words. They popped into my mind like flashbulbs, one at a time, clear and bright, and without the slightest hint of vulgarity.
I could go for a swim.
Glancing up at the clock on the wall, I was filled with restless ennui. I had three hours to kill before I could steal Mia away for lunch. When I’d left my apartment a week ago, I hadn’t planned to ever step foot inside again, except to grab my suitcase. I’d read the three books in my apartment a dozen times at least, and every single one of them had words and pages blacked out, their real truths stripped away and tattooed over with the inky, black “art” of someone else. It was a selfish defacement of art, a flagrant act of delinquency and disregard for an established artistic statement. Apart from that, it pissed me off that I couldn’t quite remember Kerouac’s line about boys and girls in America. I sank into the couch—not out of comfort, but to evade the incoming cloud of distress that threatened to swallow me the longer I waited.
When I emerged from my cushion cocoon, the twitch in my eye and the quiet unease began to subside. I found my footing on the scuffed and splintered hardwood floors, walking past the suitcase and into the kitchen, where I grabbed the only food available—an unopened bag of pretzel sticks, guaranteed to be stale. I’d had worse breakfasts.
The bag crinkled loudly and opened with a dull, flat pop. I fished out a couple pretzels and tossed them in my mouth. My tongue greedily searched for the sparse salt crystals as my teeth ground the pretzels to paste with dismal, unsatisfying crunches. My swallow was dry, as if something in my genes staunchly opposed this shoddy excuse for snack food. It didn’t hit the spot, but then again, nothing ever did. Nevertheless, I reached into the bag again as I made my way back to the couch. Surrounded by the inescapable fog of monotony, I collapsed onto the gaudy floral-print couch that had clearly done residencies in both a nursing home and Hell itself. I devoured the entire bag, aided only by a glass of tepid tap water.
I glanced at the clock again, distracted by the gears grinding loudly inside as if to mock me. The minute hand sat in defiance, a giant middle finger that had only moved forward by a quarter of an hour. I was going to go bat-shit crazy sitting in this apartment, waiting for a reason to leave. It was so easy to fall back into old habits here, even with the guarantee that everything would actually get better. But I didn’t need that promise anymore. As I laced up my boots, only one thought ran through my mind. It drove me to comb my hair, straighten my shirt, and walk down a dozen flights of steps into the busy city streets of the In-Between.
I could go for a swim.
***
The wind’s bitter chill smacked against my cheeks as I marched down the sidewalk, numbing my face but failing to deter me. There would be no more sitting around the apartment, waiting for the next dull shift and counting down the days till the next case meeting, where Michael would request a pack of smokes, bullshit for a few minutes, tell a bad joke, and inevitably tell me that I was on the right path and I’d get out of here as soon as I’d done my time. Through a shop window, I watched morose consumers poking around at used guitars while the washed-up musician behind the counter zoned out, his face painted with complete and utter defeat. There was a lesson in all of this—at least that’s what Michael always said; in the end, I wasn’t quite sure I believed him. This place was nothing more than depression all over again, this time amped up to eleven, and devoid of therapy, medication, or a working eject button.
A customer shuffled toward a beautiful acoustic guitar, a smile spanning the width of his face as he brushed the smooth cherry finish. He tucked his hair behind his ears and took it from the wall, cradling it close and letting his hands find a familiar place. He strummed twice before attempting to tune, and after a few turns he smiled to himself, satisfied. He strummed twice again, and the contented smile quickly turned into a devilish grin. His fingers began to pick frantically, soft strums transforming into a flurry of cacophonous pangs as the strings quickly lost their tension. His final pluck snapped the bottom string with a discordant twang, cosmic salt being thrown right into the wound. He turned to the man behind the counter, who shook his shaggy hair. Like a child who knows he’s in trouble, the customer skulked toward the counter, tugging at what I assumed was the wallet in his back pocket.
I’d seen enough smiles fade in this place, and I wasn’t looking to see it again, so I hightailed it away from the window and toward the center of the city.
7
The Office of Records sat behind St. Peter’s. Where the courthouse was grand, warm, and inviting, the office building was stark, grim, and imposing. It erupted ten stories into the sky like some modern gothic citadel, black brick and gargoyles greeting anyone who walked by. It didn’t necessarily look out of place, there was just something unnatural about it. If you looked long enough, you could see how the angles were maladjusted, the celestial geometry off by just a smidge. It seemed much too small to house the heavenly archives, but who was I to question the logic of this place?
Seven stone steps led up to an ancient oak door. Inside, the sprawling mezzanine seemed about ten times too wide for the building. In its center stood an elaborate fountain that would’ve put the ones in Rome to shame—an expansive pool of water surrounding an island with a great serpent and an angel. The angel stood tall and proud, wings outstretched in grandiosity. The typical depiction of billowy, flowing robes and delicate, ornate harps couldn’t be further
from the truth conveyed by this sculpture. In the angel’s right hand, she held a flaming saber; in the left, the severed head of the serpent. The carving was nothing if not imposing. Clad in an impressive set of armor, long hair flowing in an imagined breeze, the angel looked triumphant and fearsome as the fountain water poured from the disconnected body of the beast. Fierce and beautiful, Uriel was cast like an Amazon, a radiant image of divine wrath—the fine art rendition of “Don’t fuck with the will of the Lord.” It wasn’t exactly the friendliest piece of décor to be greeted with, but it got the point across.
I asked Uriel about the statue in my first year. She’d made a habit of coming to the café at the Depot for lunch every so often, always raving about the quality of the food. By that point, I’d eaten Jonas’s cooking pretty regularly, and I didn’t understand how an Archangel could be convinced that he made “far and away, the best Jägerschnitzel on any plane, celestial or not.”
Sitting on a crooked bar stool and sipping on a pint of pitch black from tap number five, she was anything but fearsome. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and her glasses sat low on the bridge of her nose. Without the wings and the warm smile, she’d have passed for another lost soul in her late twenties. She chattered on about how many hours she put in, how she couldn’t wait for baseball season to start again in the land of the living, how she hated the sappy soft-rock tunes that Jonas was enamored with. When I broached the subject of the statue, she sighed. Carving into her cutlet, she replied monotonously without lifting her head.
“Let me guess, your question is something along the lines of, ‘Isn’t Michael the one who beheaded the serpent with an amazing display of pyrotechnics?’ Did I hit the nail on the head?”
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