Authors: Gina Ardito
Through the
milling crowd, a small man, only about as high as her shoulder and narrow as a
swizzle stick, strode toward her. He was garbed entirely in white except for
the gold studs winking in his earlobes. Despite the snow white clipboard he
clutched under one arm, he extended his hands in greeting. “Miss? My name is
Sherman, and I’m the spirit guide here. How can I help you?”
He had a face
like an apple left too long on a windowsill, ruddy bronze with sunken cheeks,
wizened to a state that made him appear ancient, yet ageless. Long white hair,
a lion’s mane, swept away from his high forehead and fell to his padded
shoulders.
“She doesn’t
have a reservation,” the woman said with a sneer. “At least not for her current
date of death.”
Understanding
dawned on his mushy face. “Ah. Miss…?”
“Devlin.”
Jodie’s reply sounded hoarse in her sandpaper throat. Swallowing, she tried
again. “Jodie Devlin.”
“Miss Devlin,
why don’t you step away from the reception desk so we can continue moving
others forward? If you’ll follow me, I’m sure we can straighten this out.”
Without waiting for her reply, he turned to head back into the crowd.
Sidling away
from the snotty clerk, Jodie hurried to catch up to Sherman. “Straighten what
out? What’s going on? Where are we? Is this heaven?”
“Please, Miss
Devlin. Follow me.” He led her beneath a carved marble archway to a set of
double-doors. As he approached, the doors whisked open on a sigh of air.
Inside, gold leather club chairs sat at each corner of an enormous white marble
desk. He pointed to the chair nearest the entrance. “Have a seat, please.” He
tossed his clipboard on the desktop and took up residence in the kingpin’s
seat.
Too antsy to
relax, she sat on the edge of the club chair, fingernails digging holes into
the supple leather armrests.
From the top
drawer, he pulled out what looked like a small hand mirror and passed it to
her. “Please focus your eyes directly in the two areas drawn on this device.”
Taking the
mirror, she noted twin dark circles in the center of the glass. “What is this?”
“An
identification scan,” he replied. “Now if you’d focus your gaze on those two
pinpoints and count to ten, please? Oh, and try not to blink until after you’ve
reached ten.”
She lined up
the two miniature circles with her pupils and counted. “One, two, three…”
By the time she
reached ten, the gentleman had turned his attention to the clipboard, which had
suddenly begun to blink with an increasing and decreasing purple glow. Strange
neon characters raced like ants across the clipboard’s face.
“Ah, here we
are. Jodie Rosalind Devlin. Only child of Rachel Andrea Gibbons Devlin and John
Michael—also known as Jack—Devlin. Both deceased during a violent political
coup in Central America. You were severely injured, but survived and returned
to the United States where you attempted to rebuild your life. And you almost
succeeded.” He looked up at her, brow steepled. “Your date of death should have
been June 26, 2068.”
The hand mirror
doohickey fell from her hands and splintered into shards on the marble floor.
“Wh-what?”
He shot a
glance at the shattered glass, frowned, and then reverted his steely gaze to
her. “Oh, yes. You heard me correctly. More than fifty years from your suicide.
Do you want to know what would have happened had you decided against designing
your untimely end?”
Nausea rose in
her throat, and tremors danced across her flesh. Too stunned to speak, she
nodded.
“According to
your file, which, of course, will now have to be updated, Jodie Rosalind
Devlin, only child of Rachel Andrea Gibbons Devlin and—”
“You said that
already.”
He waved a hand
at her. “Jodie Rosalind Devlin married Gabriel David Sachs on September 8,
2012. Subsequently, she gave birth to three children: Jacqueline Monet Sachs,
Iona Renoir Sachs, and Aidan Degas Sachs.”
An ocean of
self-pity threatened to drown her. Dear God, what had she done? Of course.
Gabe, the art historian, would insist on naming his children after the
Impressionists. She fisted her hand in her mouth to keep her agony inside.
“These three
children presented the couple with eight grandchildren,” Sherman continued
reading, apparently unaware of her turmoil—or else, he didn’t care. “Would you
like to know their names?”
She shook her
head, her tongue too thick inside her mouth to form words.
Folding his
arms on the desktop, he looked up at her, his agate gaze solemn. “You bore so
much pain after the loss of your parents, my dear. I felt your agony when the
fire ate your flesh in that explosion. I know the scars you try desperately to
hide. I have ached for your loneliness. I have seen you struggle time and again
to connect with someone in the outside world. Gabriel was your gift, your
reward for a life lived with so much suffering. Had you been able to withstand
this last test, you would have known a joyful life. Your choice to
self-terminate destroyed your chance at happiness. And such a selfish act not
only affected
your
future, but the future
of your husband, your children, their spouses, their children, and so on and so
on.”
Rubbing
fingertips over his eyes, he frowned. “Surely, then, you understand why we
become perturbed at those who end their lives precipitously. Your rashness has
disrupted the natural order we struggle to maintain here in the Afterlife.”
Shame forced
her head down, and she looked at the puckered pink flesh above her bare feet.
“I’m sorry.”
His sigh
communicated indulgent surrender. “We’re accustomed to these kinds of glitches
and will make the necessary rearrangements. However…” He paused to study the
clipboard again.
To keep from
biting her nails, she sat on her hands. The silence in the room became a wall,
threatening to suffocate her. “However?” she prompted.
He shrugged.
“Your rooms are not prepared because you’ve arrived long before your
reservation is due to be processed.”
“S-so…” She
tried to force a light-hearted tone. Her stutter and his arched brows suggested
she’d failed. “W-what happens now?”
“We have contingency
plans in effect for all untimely deaths, including suicides. You’ll be assigned
a job here until such time as arrangements can be made for you to be
transferred elsewhere.”
“Transferred?”
An icy hand clutched her throat. Shit. She’d totally screwed up. What would
happen to her now? “Transferred to where? Purgatory?”
His laughter
diminished her little spurt of curiosity, shrank her into the leather until she
felt as large as a hobnail. “There is no purgatory, my dear. Or heaven or hell.
There is only the Afterlife.”
“What exactly
is the Afterlife?”
Fingers tracing
the animated characters racing over the clipboard, he offered her a sideways
smile. “You’ll find out over time.”
Great. That was
helpful.
Out of thin
air, a musical interlude played. Jodie couldn’t place the melody, but it was
lyrical and sweet, like harps in heaven.
“Ah, look
here.” He tapped an index finger on the neon characters, now immobile on the
glowing clipboard. “The Board has found a job opening for you.”
She stared at the
purple geometric figures, recognizing nothing legible in the chicken scratch.
“What kind of job?”
He rose and
held out a hand. “Come. First we will review your lifetimes with the Council of
the Elders. And then you will meet your trainer.”
About Gina Ardito
Award-winning author, Gina Ardito,
is multi-published in hardcover, paperback, and digital formats. A native
of Long Island, she lives with her husband of more than twenty-five years,
their two children (and a host of friends who think the Ardito kitchen is the
best place to find good food and laughter), a bionic dog and two cats.
She also writes historical romances under the pen name, Katherine Brandon. In
2012, Gina launched Excellence in Editing, her freelance editing service.
Both Gina and Katherine love to hear from friends and fans. You can
visit them at their websites:
http://www.ginaardito.com
and
http://www.katherinebrandon.com
,
follow them on Facebook at
http://www.facebook.com/GinaArdito
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or on Twitter
@GinaArdito
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