Better Off Dead (2 page)

“Time?” the woman repeated and then frowned at me. “Not my concern.”

I felt my eyebrows knot in the middle as I glanced behind me, wondering if there was a clock to be found anywhere. The blank of the walls was answer enough. I faced forward again, now more nervous than before and still at a complete loss as to where I was or why. “Um, what am I doing here?” I repeated, not meaning to sound so … stupid.

The woman’s wrinkled mouth stretched into a smile, which looked even scarier than all the grimaces she’d given me earlier. She turned to the computer and typed something, her talon-like fingernails covering the keyboard with exaggerated flourishes. She hit “enter” and turned the screen to face me.

“You’re here because you’re dead.”

“What?” It was all I could say as I felt the bottom of my stomach give way, my figurative guts spilling all over my feet. “You’re joking.”

She wasn’t laughing though. Instead, she sighed like I was taking up too much of her time. She flicked her computer screen with the long, scarlet fingernail of her index finger. The tap against the screen reverberated through my head like the blade of a dull axe.

“Watch.”

With my heart pounding in my chest, I glanced at the screen, and saw what looked like the opening of a low-budget film. Rain spattered the camera lens, making it difficult to decipher the scene beyond. One thing I could make out was the bumper-to-bumper traffic. It appeared to be a traffic cam in real time.

“I don’t know what this has to do
…”

She chomped louder, her jaw clicking with the effort, sounding like it was mere seconds from breaking. “Just watch it.”

I crossed my arms against my flat chest and stared at the screen again. An old, Chevy truck came rumbling down the freeway, stopping and starting as the traffic dictated. The camera angle panned toward the back of the truck. I recognized the load of chicken coops piled atop one another. Like déjà vu, the camera lens zoomed in on the blue tarp covering the chickens. It was just a matter of time before the wind would yank the tarp up and over the coops, leaving the chickens exposed to the elements.

Realization stirred in my gut like acid reflux. I dropped my arms and leaned closer to the screen, still wishing this was a dream, but somehow knowing it wasn’t. The camera was now leaving the rear of the truck and it started panning behind the truck, to a
white Volvo S40.
My white Volvo
.

I braced myself against the idea that this could be happening—that I was about to see my car accident. Who the heck was filming? And moreover, where in the heck were they? This looked like it’d been filmed by more than one cameraman, with multiple angles, impossible for just one photographer.

I heard the sound of wheels squealing, knowing only too well what would happen next. I forced my attention back to the strange woman who was now curling her hair around her index finger, making the Cheeto-colored lock look edible.

“So someone videotaped my accident, what does that have to do with why I’m here?” I asked in an unsteady voice, afraid for her answer.
“And you should also know that I’m incredibly late to work and I’m due to give a presentation not only to the CEO but also the board of directors.”

She shook her head.
“You really don’t get it, do you?”

“I don’t think
you
get it,” I snapped. The woman grumbled something unintelligible and turned the computer monitor back towards her, then opened a manila file sitting on her desk. She rummaged through the papers until she found what she was looking for and started scanning the sheet, using her fingernail to guide her.

“Ah, no wonder,” she said
, snapping her wad of gum. She sighed as her triangular eyebrows reached for the ceiling. “He is not going to be happy.”

I leaned on the counter, wishing I knew what was going on
so I could get the heck out of here and on with my life. “No wonder what?”

She shook her head. “Not for me to explain. Gotta get
the manager.”

Picking up the phone, she punched in an extension, then turned around and spoke in a muffled tone. The fact that I wasn’t privy to whatever she was discussing even though it involved me was annoying, to say the least. A few minutes later, she ended her cocooned conversation and pointed to the pastel chairs behind me.

“Have a seat. The manager will be with you in a minute.”

“I don’t have time for this,” I said gruffly
, trying to act out a charade of the fact that I
was
the master of my own destiny. “Didn’t you hear me? I have to give a presentation!”

“
The manager will be with you in a minute,” she repeated in the same droll tone and then faced her screen again as if to say our conversation was over.

With hollow resignation, I threw my hands up in the air, but returned to the seat I’d hoped to vacate permanently. The plastic felt cold and unwelcoming. It creaked and groaned as if taunting me about my weight. I didn’t need a stupid chair to remind me I was fat. I melted into the L-shaped seat and stretched my short legs out before me, trying to relax, and not to cry. I closed my eyes and breathed in for three seconds and out for three seconds.

Lily, stress is nothing more than a socially acceptable form of mental illness
, I told myself
,
quoting one of my favorite self-help gurus,
Richard Carlson.
And you aren’t mentally ill, are you?

No, but I might be dead!
I railed back at myself.
But
if you really were dead, why don’t you feel like it?
I reached down to pinch myself, just to check if it would hurt and, what-do-you-know? It did …
So, really, I can’t be dead.
And furthermore, if I were dead, where in the heck am I now? I can’t imagine the DMV exists anywhere near heaven. If I’d gone south instead … oh jeez …

Don’t be ridiculous, Lily Harper! This is nothing more than some sort of bad dream, courtesy of your subconscious because you’re nervous about your presentation and your review.

I closed my eyes and willed myself to stop thinking about the what ifs. I wasn’t dead. It was a joke. Heck, the woman was weird—anyone with musician cat statues couldn’t be all there. And once I met with this manager of hers, I’d be sure to express my dissatisfaction.

You are the master of your own destiny
, I told myself again.

I opened my eyes and watched the woman click her fingernails against the keyboard. The sound of a door opening caught my attention and I glanced up to find a very tall, thin man coming toward the orange-haired demon. He glanced at me, then headed toward the woman, who leaned in and whispered something in his ear. His eyes went wide; then his eyebrows knitted in the middle.

It didn’t look good.

He nodded three, four times then cleared his throat, ran his hands down his suit jacket and approached me.

“Ms. Harper,” he started and I raised my head. “Will you please come with me?”

I stood up and the chair underneath me sighed with relief. I ignored it and followed the man through the maze of cubicles into his office.

“Please have a seat,” he said, peering down his long nose at me. He closed the door behind us, and in two brief strides, reached his desk and took a seat.

I didn’t say anything, but sat across from him. He reached a long, spindly finger toward his business card holder and produced a white, nondescript card. It read:

Jason Streethorn

Manager

AfterLife Enterprises

“We need to make this quick,” I started. “I’m late to work and I have to give a presentation. Can we discuss whatever damages you want to collect from the insurance companies of the other vehicles involved in the accident over the phone?”
I paused for a second as I recalled the accident. “Actually, I think I was at fault.”

“
I see,” he said and then sighed.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at him dumbly, ramming the sharp corners of the business card into the fleshy part of my index finger until it left a purple indentation in my skin.

The man cleared his throat. He looked like a skeleton.

“Ms. Harper, it seems we’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“A pickle?”

Jason
Streethorn nodded and diverted his eyes. That’s when I knew I wasn’t going to like whatever came out of his mouth next. It’s never good when people refuse to make eye contact with you.

“Yes, as I learned from my secretary, Hilda, you don’t know why you’re here.”

“Right. And just so you know, Hilda wasn’t very helpful,” I said purposefully.

“Yes, she preferred I handle this.”

“Handle this?” I repeated, my voice cracking. “What’s going on?”

He nodded again and then took a deep breath. “Well, you see, Ms. Harper, you died in a car accident this afternoon. But the problem is: you weren’t supposed to.”

I was quiet for exactly four seconds. “Is this some sort of joke?” I sputtered finally while still trying to regain my composure.

He
shook his head and glanced at me. “I’m afraid not.”

His shoulders slumped as another deep sigh escaped his lips. He seemed defeated, more exhausted than sad. Even though my inner soul was starting to believe him—that didn’t mean my intellect was prepared to accept it. Then something occurred to me and I glanced up at him, irritated.

“If I’m going to be on some stupid reality show, and this whole thing is a setup, you better tell me now because I’ve had enough,” I said, scouring the small office for some telltale sign of A/V equipment. Or failing that, Ashton Kutcher. “And, furthermore, my boss and the board of directors aren’t going to react well at all.” I took a deep breath.

“Ms. Harper, I know you’re confused, but I assure you, this isn’t a joke.” He paused and
inhaled as deeply as I just had. “I’m sure this is hard for you to conceptualize. Usually, when it’s a person’s time to go, their guardian angel walks them through the process and accompanies them toward the light. Sometimes a relative or two might even attend.” His voice trailed until the air swallowed it entirely.

Somehow, the last hour of my life, which made no sense, was now making sense. I guess dying was a confusing experience.

He jumped up, as if the proverbial lightbulb had gone off over his head. Then, throwing himself back into his chair, he spun around, faced his computer and began to type. Sighing, I glanced around, taking in his office for the first time.

Like the waiting room, there weren’t any windows, just white walls without a mark on them. The air was still and although there wasn’t anything offensive about the odor, it was stagnant, like it wouldn’t know what to do if it met fresh air. The furniture consisted of Jason’s desk,
his chair and the two chairs across from him, one of which I occupied. All the furniture appeared to be made of cheap pine, like what you’d find at IKEA. Other than the nondescript furniture, there was a computer and beside that, a long, plastic tube about nine inches in diameter, that disappeared into the ceiling. It looked like some sort of suction device.

With a self-satisfied smile, he faced me again. “We have your whole life in our database.”

He pointed toward the computer screen. “My whole life in his database” amounted to a word document with a humble blue border and my name scrawled across the top in Monotype Corsiva. It looked like a fifth grader’s book report.

He eyed the document and moved his head from right to left with such vigor, he reminded me of a cartoon character eating corn. Then I realized he was scanning through the Lily Harper book report. With an enthusiastic nod, he turned toward me.

“Looks like you lost your first tooth at age six. Um … In school, you were a year younger than everyone else, but smarter than the majority of your class. You double majored in English and Political Science. You were a director of marketing for a prestigious bank.”

“
‘Were’ is a fitting word because after this, I’m sure I’ll be fired,” I grumbled.

The man
paused, his eyes still on his computer. “When you were eighteen, you had a crush on your best friend and when you tried to kiss him, he pushed you away and told you he was gay.”

I stood up so fast, my chair bucked. “Okay, I’ve heard enough.”

The part about Matt rebuffing my kiss was something I’d never told anyone. I’d been too mortified. Guess the Word document was better than I thought.

“It’s all there,” Jason said as he turned to regard me with something that resembled sympathy.

“I don’t understand …” I started.

He nodded, as though satisfied we’d moved beyond the “you’re dead” conversation and into the “why you’re dead” conversation. He pulled open his top desk drawer and produced a spongy stress ball—the kind you work in your palm. The ball flattened and popped back into shape under the tensile stre
ngth of his skeletal fingers.

“I’m afraid your guardian angel wasn’t doing his job. This was supposed to be a minor accident—just to teach you not to
text and drive, especially in the rain.”