In-Between Days

by Nicholas Desjardins

  I stared ahead, the pieces slowly coming together in my head. Leaning forward, my elbows found support on his desk, and I cradled my chin in my palm.

  “You were here not just because you killed yourself, and you know that. Nobody can hold that against you, not me, not God, not anyone. But you were impulsive. Thoughtlessly so. Even here. A little impulse is good, but it has to be balanced.” He took another long drag, exhaling toward the window as he ashed into an ornate goblet on his desk. “And I’m not saying you were wrong with Mia, that there isn’t something there. But this is eternity. Your time here isn’t quite as fleeting as it is on earth. Eventually, you two would’ve come around to each other.”

  He ashed his cigarette again before pointing at my file.

  “It’s all in there, kid. Everything that has happened or will happen, from your conception all the way to the end, when eternity blinks out and we’re all just stardust. You want to know what happens between you two? Go ahead and look. Page fifteen.” He pushed the folder toward me.

  I lifted my head. There was my name in big, bold red lettering. I placed my hand on it and it felt warm, as if this manila folder contained a piece of my soul, my very essence. My fingers crept along the cover, skittering toward the edge, eager to look inside. To know.

  I slid the folder back across the desk. The Archangel smiled at the gesture. I’d at least managed to pass this little test.

  “All right kid. So that’s that. Get your shit out of your old apartment, we’re putting you in the bowling alley now. I think you’ve met Jackson, right? He’ll be showing up there later. Guy’s built like a fucking brick house, right? But he’s got a mind for mechanics. Probably won’t help them pin machines you got, but hey, it ain’t always easy finding a use for these cats.” He took one last drag of his cigarette. “We’re adding a little more time to your sentence, but I think we might have you squared away. Now. Before I kick you out so you can get them lanes up and running, you got any questions?”

  A million. I had a million questions. I wanted to know everything he could possibly tell me. I wanted to know if I’d see her again. I wanted to know if Jonas had already gotten to his family. I wanted to know about my family. I wanted to know if I could have just a tiny peek into that folder without tacking on more time. I looked down, noticing for the first time that my scars didn’t seem so pronounced, as if someone had ever so slightly washed them away, just enough that I’d notice.

  “Just one,” I said, standing. “What the hell’s behind that door on the right?” I nodded backward to the twelve-year taboo across the hall.

  “Elevator, kid,” he chuckled. “That’s how I get home every day. I hate trains. Way too crowded.”

  I just shook my head and smiled, taking it all in—the past two weeks, how hard and how far I’d fallen, how I’d basically been used as a cosmic tool, and in a way, she had too. I wondered if that was the way it really worked around here. If it was closer to real life than they let on, and if we were all just fumbling and fucking and fighting our way to being the people that we’re meant to be.

  I waved, telling Michael I’d see him in a couple weeks. I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be staying here. I didn’t know if I’d ever see Mia again, but I understood that it wasn’t my place to save her. I didn’t expect to even be afforded the opportunity. I didn’t know how I’d get by without Jonas to talk to, but Jackson would probably make it a little easier. All at once, I felt just as lost as I was on my first day, and yet I was playing with a full deck. Michael smirked knowingly, lighting one more cigarette.

  And then I left his office, closing the door behind me. I took a moment to lean against it, looking across the hallway at Michael’s escape route, a way out. It didn’t even seem to have a lock on it. I could’ve escaped on the very first day. I could’ve run away with her the day she got here. I could’ve left right then and there. Instead, I walked down the hallway, out of the waiting room, through the courthouse, and out into the In-Between.

  Epilogue

  Light shone through the lone window, directly onto my face. I kept promising myself that I’d move the damn bed, but that was a lie. I stumbled out of from under the covers and across the floor, shuffling into the kitchen just long enough to put the kettle on. I yawned loudly and left the kitchen for the bathroom, where I took a piss that might actually have qualified for legendary. I wasn’t truly awake until I noticed, mid-stream of course, the gaudy wallpaper spreading like mold from the bottom corner of the wall. Just another thing I’d have to add to my to-do list. I washed my hands, remembering that it was Wednesday and that Uriel always visited for lunch on Wednesdays. If I complained, maybe she could get one of those cleaning crews in here.

  I wandered back into the kitchen just in time for the kettle to howl, a sound far too shrill for this early in the day. I poured the water into my mug and steeped my tea for longer than normal. It wasn’t that I liked it that way, or even that I liked it at all. The taste was still horrendous, and I’d have been much happier to drink the beer from tap four downstairs, but the tea comforted me. It reminded me of that night, nearly nine months ago, when I confessed to the girl how I’d gone. When I finally came to terms with it. The tea wasn’t her kiss, but it was all I had. I hadn’t seen her since the night before Jonas left. The night I ruined it. I tried not to dwell as I waited for my tea to cool, blowing at the steam as I shuffled around the little apartment that I’d inherited.

  I sipped the tea as I started gathering clothes—tugging at jeans, throwing on a plaid work shirt, affixing my nametag. I spilled the last bit on my denim while attempting to balance the mug on my knee and tie my boot laces. It was always something. I just let a small sigh slip out and placed the mug in the sink, wiping at the spot on my jeans with a mostly dry dishrag.

  Finally, I was ready to greet the working day, and I wandered down into the kitchen of the Depot. Jackson was already there, pulling pastries out of the oven like a barrel-chested baking wizard. He nodded at me as I descended. I’d grown fond of him over the past nine months. He hadn't been quite as exciting as Jonas, but he was stimulating enough all the same.

  He died tragically in the real world, a car wreck just as he was turning his life around. He’d been a deadbeat dad, and during his first few months he was very resentful of himself. I gave him free reign to help me run the Depot, and it impacted him tremendously. We were both surprised at how naturally responsibility came to him. He’d open earlier in the mornings, and I’d close later in the nights. We didn’t run as tight a ship as Jonas had, but we maintained our steady stream of lost souls looking for decent food and broken games of tenpin.

  “You sleep okay, pal?” he asked, placing his tray on the counter. He carefully grabbed each hot pastry, dropping them quickly onto a serving tray. I wondered if his calloused fingers even felt the burn.

  “Yeah, man. A couple of bad dreams, but I’m alive and well . . . err . . . dead and well, I guess.” I shrugged. “Nice looking pastries.”

  “Hey, man, thanks. That recipe book is pretty easy to follow. That Jonas guy knew what he was doing. You want one?” He extended the tray toward me, but I politely declined.

  “I’m gonna go ahead and turn the lights on. Let’s get the day started so we can get it over with.” I smirked and walked past him out into the Depot. Even in the dark, it felt like home, and there was something about flicking the light switch in the morning that was invigorating, as if in some small way I was giving life to something.

  I flicked each switch with practiced precision—first the main lights, then the café lights, the main power to the lanes, and finally, the outside lights. The routine was always punctuated with a twist of the lock, and then I scuffled over to the jukebox. I thought sometimes that maybe I’d picked up Jonas’s little frog-man step, but that may have been nostalgia—or wishful thinking.

  ***

  Most days were slow to start. Nothing ever picked up until lunch, but by then Jackson and I were in perfect tandem. He was the
Keith to my Mick, expertly whipping food out from the kitchen as I dashed food to customers, ringing up customers for a couple of frames while I dug out the perfect pair of shoes and turned on the scoreboards. Sometimes, in the rush of everything, I was almost certain that I caught faint hints of it, that saltwater sea-breeze smell, but she was nowhere around. For a long time after she left, I wondered if that scent was just natural to her, or if it was just something that stuck with all of the drowned, a signature like my scars. From what I could gather, they only carried a similar pallor and glassy eyes, and theirs were never quite like hers. I didn’t think that was even possible.

  It was almost ironic. I’d been dead for just around thirteen years, and here I was, being haunted by the ghost of a girl who had changed everything, my entire afterlife.

  I was always relieved to see the lunch crowd die down, because it afforded me a chance at the jukebox again. I pressed in the code that had meant so much to Jonas, one that I’d purposely neglected to share with Jackson, and in his honor, I punched in a K, followed by the inevitable 1 and 3.

  I was happy to hear the drums and synth kick in, but I was elated to hear the voice behind me. It was dry but wise, tinged with just a bite of cynicism.

  “You know,” Uriel called to me, “I thought when he left you’d never play this damn song again.” I turned around, all smiles for the Archangel and her messy bun. She greeted me with a grin warmer than her voice had ever sounded. I was proud to elicit such a reaction in her. I felt nearly as close to her as I did Michael.

  “What’s the matter Uri, don’t like piña coladas?” I laughed, moving behind the counter to grab her a menu.

  “Of course I do, I just don’t like bad music,” she snarked back before plopping down on one of the stools at the café counter. “And you know I don’t need one of those menus either.”

  “Right, fair point,” I said, elbows propped against the counter. Kicking my foot backward against the kitchen door, I called to Jackson that I’d need an order of Jägerschnitzel. I listened for the affirmative grunt from my brawny partner before closing the door and turning back to her heavenly presence. I pulled a glass from under the counter to pour her the usual. “Oh, hey, while I’ve got you here. There’s some of that wallpaper growing in my bathroom upstairs.”

  Uriel tensed up, her wings quickly stretching to their full span before shrinking inward again as color rushed to her cheeks. She plunged a hand deep into her shoulder bag and removed a small, leather-bound black notebook and a silver ball-point pen. She flipped the cover open, frantically turning pages until she found what I assumed to be a blank one, where she furiously scribbled the information that I’d given her, stopping only briefly to leer at her pen.

  “Fucking thing is running out of ink,” she mumbled angrily.

  “No rush or anything, just, when you can get around to it,” I said, trying to calm her down. She didn’t respond, instead flipping forward a few pages in her notebook, scratching things out and making notations in the margins. I idly counted coins in the till as she attended to her business.

  “Owen.”

  Thirty-seven big silver pieces.

  “Owen”

  Forty-two little silver pieces.

  “Owen.”

  “What?” I looked up from the register to see the Archangel staring at me, annoyed. I rubbed the back of my scalp out of nervous habit as I replied, “Sorry Uri, I got lost a little bit there.”

  “It’s fine,” she replied, a note of frustration wrapped like a bow around the terse phrase. I knew what she wanted almost immediately, so I turned my back on her and peered through the kitchen door at Jackson. He stood in front of the stove, dwarfing it like a cartoon gorilla, frantically shaking a cast iron skillet back and forth. I could hear the grease splattering, and I laughed to myself as he recoiled like a small child, rubbing at his arm like he’d dipped it into a vat of molten iron. I closed the door quietly to spare his feelings and returned to my guest.

  “It looks like it’s going to be a few more minutes,” I shrugged, pulling a golden pack of cigarettes from under the counter and offering one. She happily accepted, lighting the cherry with a quick snap of her fingers and sucking down the first drag, the furrow in her brow relaxing. “He hasn’t quite taken to everything in the recipe book yet, and we don’t get a lot of orders for Jägerschnitzel. Hey, speaking of, how is the old man?”

  Uriel returned to her shoulder bag, her arm somehow disappearing, reaching far deeper than should have been possible. She clenched the cigarette between her lips, and her eyes rose to the ceiling as she strained for something in that cosmic bag of wonder. A small hmmm clued me in that she’d found what she was looking for, and after an absurd amount of pulling, her arm emerged from the bag with a picture that I somewhat recognized.

  It was in a familiar, small golden frame, but the picture had changed. The handsome young man with the short, fair hair was still there, though his smile was bigger than I remembered. Sitting next to him was the beautiful young woman from before, but they were no longer holding hands. In her arms she was cradling a young girl in a dress, with curly wisps of blonde hair and a smile that could only have come from Jonas himself.

  “I—how—is this?”

  “This is a few weeks ago,” she said, sliding the frame across the counter and into my hands. “Jonas thought you might like to have it.” She wasn’t smiling, but her expression was warm and understanding.

  “But how—he’s so young?”

  “Things are different up there. You’ll learn that soon enough.” She rested her forearms on the edge of the bar, smoke trailing from the cigarette held between her fingers. “Word on the street is, you haven’t got much time left.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I shrugged. “Michael’s keeping his cards pretty close to his chest on that one.” I glanced back at the photo, happy that Jonas had finally gotten what he deserved, and that he finally had the chance to make up for lost time with his wife and daughter. But looking at the picture for too long gave me an uncomfortable, queasy feeling. The similarity between Anneliese and the girl I’d known was unshakable. It wasn’t necessarily the eyes or the smile, it was just this unnamable quality, some inherent warmth hiding in her frame. I slid the photo under the counter before my mind could wander too far. “Thank you for this.”

  Uriel nodded agreeably, puffing on her cigarette like she was trying to resuscitate it. “So how about that food, Owen?”

  I rolled my eyes before pivoting and prodding my head through the kitchen door once more. Jackson had just lifted the cutlet onto the plate, delicately moving it so that it sat at the perfect angle. He lifted a pot from the stove, carefully ladling out a creamy, brown sauce, making sure not to ruin his perfect image. I once again pivoted, eyes rolling even harder this time.

  “It’s coming. I swear, you’re the only one that ever orders it. You may be the only person who ever sat at this counter that actually enjoyed it,” I chuckled, grabbing a rag from underneath the counter and wiping down the spot next to her.

  “Mia didn’t mind it,” she replied blankly, taking another relaxed drag on her cigarette, as if she hadn’t just taken that flaming sabre of hers and cleaved my heart in two. This was the first mention of Mia’s name since that day in Michael’s office. Even when I told Jackson the entire story of what had happened—the first meeting, the work time wasted sitting across from her in the corner booth, the junkyard, the escape plan, and my one big fuck up—I managed to do it without saying her name.

  For nine months, I’d locked those three letters in the back of my mind and refused under any circumstances to let them escape and take that shape. I looked at Uriel, my eyes scrunched, my mouth agape, the corners drooping. Uriel straightened up as she noticed my devastation.

  “She still asks about you, for what it’s worth.” It came across as sincere and not just an attempt at placating me, but my mind was already racing, desperately searching for a response that I knew I wouldn’t find.
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br />   I nodded at Uriel, thanking her, before opening the kitchen door. Jackson arrived with her food, and once again pork cutlets got me out of an uncomfortable situation. I dipped through the swinging door before it could close, and sidled up to the sink and the murky water it contained.

  Like my predecessor, I dropped my hands in and began scrubbing, plate after plate, glass after glass. Nothing came perfectly clean. That was the nature of this place. But even with chips in the glasses and cracks in the porcelain of the plates, they were still perfectly good and useable, maybe even charming in their own way. The damage wasn’t damning; it was just a mar on something perfectly useable.

  I washed nearly every dish in the kitchen, keeping my hands in the water until they pruned, long after Jackson said his goodnights and locked up for the evening. For a moment, I was certain that I smelled that saltwater sea breeze, though I knew that she wouldn’t be there when I turned around.

  I slept well that night.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to John Köehler, Joe Coccaro, Hannah Woodlan and the rest of the team at Köehler Books for the incredible opportunity, the belief in this book, and for making it so much easier than my anxiety led me to believe was possible. To Richard Rowland, thank you for the leg up, the guidance, and taking a chance on a manuscript completely out of left field. A big thanks to Amy Tober, for providing a helping hand in German and Brittany Morris for the amazing artwork and design ideas she’s given me along the way. Thank you to Jeffery Everett for the incredible cover art and taking a chance on a kid with a dream. To Jen Mueller, a gigantic, eternal thank you for being the best front-line editor a fella could ever ask for, and polishing a sad Catholic rock and roll story into a diamond. Last but not least, thank you to Tyler Henry for picking me up and pushing me toward the finish line, and to my parents for supporting me through this, and every other, endeavor.