So I go back to those questions I asked in the beginning: How much money makes you rich? How many friends do you really need in this world (or that world)?
Come to think of it, I think I've made the answers pretty clear.
Heaven Help Me
I need a break.
This is all getting to be too much.
Is this what they want to know? If they know my best friend was the big fat kid, will they really let me stay in seventh heaven?
What do they want from me?
I'm so stressed.
Ugh.
Maybe Peaches will go for a walk with me. Peaches has been totally ignoring me lately, now that she's got her new gang of dog friends and an endless number of dog toys. I feel so discounted. Even my dog thinks I'm a failure.
“Alex?” I hear from downstairs.
It's Adam. Ugh. This is all I need.
I throw the essay into my desk and look at myself in the mirror before heading downstairs and then remember, why bother? I'm perfect, though not in a vain way of course. I'm in heaven, I always look perfect.
“Hey, Adam,” I shout to him. “I'll be right down.” Before I can do that, Adam's in my bedroom, and if he doesn't look more adorable than he did the day before, I don't know what. He's dressed in distressed Levi's and a black T-shirt, and if I wasn't so beyond being in the mood, I would have jumped him already.
“Hey,” he says before giving me a prolonged kiss on the lips. “I haven't seen you all day, what have you been doing?
“Oh, I was just configuring this bedroom,” I lie. “I'm thinking about moving the bed under the window.”
“That might look nice,” he says. “You want me to help you move it?”
“Move it?” I ask him. “Do you forget where we are?” I state the words, “Move bed under window.”
Suddenly, the furniture in the room starts to move. The bed situates itself under the window.
“And while I'm at it,” I say aloud, “turn the mattress.”
The sheets lift in the air as the mattress flips over. The sheets and comforter set themselves back onto the bed, perfectly made.
“I feel like I'm stuck in an old episode of
Bewitched
,” Adam laughs. “All you need to learn now is how to wiggle your nose.”
I chuckle at his joke, but, as you know, I'm in no mood for laughing.
Adam plops himself on the bed.
“Hey, I was thinking, maybe tomorrow we should take my new Ferrari out for a test drive. I'm dying, no pun intended of course,” he chuckles then pantomimes a rim shot, “to see more of this place. I was thinking that we could pack some lunch or something and see where the road takes us.”
“You got a Ferrari?” I balk as I start to become even more miserable. In fourth heaven you probably get a Yugo.
“I didn't
get
it,” he says, recoiling. “It was sitting in my garage. Why, do you hate Ferraris or something?”
“Yes, I do,” I lie, though it's not so much that I like or don't like them. I'm indifferent on that matter. I'm just so stressed and glum that even the thought of taking an afternoon with a gorgeous guy and a Ferrari is not enough to make me feel better.
“Hey,” he says, putting his arm around me and sensing the glumness, “are you okay?”
“I'm fine,” I tell him, even though I don't want to lie. I want to tell him all that's happened to me. I want to tell him that I'll probably get demoted to fourth heaven because I didn't live a fulfilling life on earth. I want him to read my essays and tell me if they suck. I want him to tell me that everything's going to be okay and that even if I get sent to fourth heaven he'll visit me and bring me some of the new fashions. I want to cry in his arms and tell him that even though I've only known him a very short time, I think he could be the love of my death. I want to tell him everything, but I just can't. He'll think less of me. He'll think I'm a loser, a failure.
So I pick a fight with him.
“Look,” I say, “it's not that I don't think you're great or anything, because I do. I just feel like this is all too fast. You know, us.”
He looks at me like I'm crazy, which I very well might be.
“Okay,”
he sort of sings, and I just know he's gotten the point and is ready to leave and never come back, much to my deep chagrin.
“Look, I need some time to think about things,” I say, trying to let him off easy. “I did just die, you know. I've got to think about my future.”
Again, he looks at me like I've gone mad, which I'm now pretty much certain I have.
“So, let me get this straight,” he says. “You're not interested in spending any more time with me because you're in a weird place right now?”
“Exactly,” I concur, thinking his reasoning sounds good enough.
“Where do you think I am?”
I have no answer. He's got me there, and, thankfully, before I have to answer the question he poses another one.
“Is there someone else?” he asks.
“What do you think?” I shoot at him like it's the stupidest question I've ever heard, but it's exactly the question I would have asked had the tables been turned. “Do you think I went out clubbing last night and met some other guy?”
I'm being so mean. I hate myself right now.
“I just need some space, okay?” I shout at him like I can't stand the sight of him, when actually I want him more than I've ever wanted anyone. “Can't I just have some space?”
“Fine,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I won't bother you anymore.”
He walks out of my room and heads down the stairs. I want to scream, “Please come back!” I don't though. I just don't want to hurt him any more than I have. I want to tell him the truth, but I just can't. I don't want him to think less of me when I'm sent away. I don't want him to wake up a few mornings from now and see that I'm not there anymore. I don't want to have to leave him that note:
Dear Adam, I've been demoted to fourth heaven. See you around
. He'll get over me. He'll find someone else, someone better, some other more fabulous woman who led a more fulfilling life on earth.
I hate her.
I hear my front door shut. He didn't even slam it. What a gentleman. I love him so much. I'm watching him from my window as he goes into his garage. I wait as I see him pull out in his red Ferrari: damn, it's a convertible, too. I would have loved to have ridden in that. He's got such a pained look on his face as he heads out of his driveway.
Ugh.
I need to talk to someone, anyone. Should I call my grandmother? I can't call her. I know exactly what she'll say: “You picked a fight with the most perfect man in heaven? What the heck's the matter with you? Just tell him the truth. If he doesn't get it, he wasn't worth it.”
I don't need my grandmother right now. I don't know anyone else who's dead though. I'm the first of anyone my age I know who died.
I see Peaches running through the yard with the other dogs.
“Peaches!” I scream out.
Peaches stops and looks up at me.
“I need a hug!”
Peaches resumes running.
“Wait, I've got treats! I have enough for your friends, too! We can have a party!”
No luck.
Now I'm really pissed off at her.
You know, come to think of it, there is this one woman that died. She's my mom's age, but maybe she's good at listening.
My mom used to tell me about one of her best childhood friends. This girl, Alice Oppenheim, who died when they were sixteen. It was one of the saddest things I ever heard; that's why I remembered it.
It was right after Alice's sweet-sixteen party, and evidently the party was a really nice one. My mom had gone with Alice and her mom to get her dress, a pink ruffly number, which sounds revolting, but my mom said it was better than it sounds. The party was held at the Tavern Restaurant's party room, and my mom went with Sy Silverman, who later became really good friends with my parents. Anyway, as my mom tells it, Alice's family lived about two blocks away from my mom and grandparents, and in the middle of the night my mom woke up to hear all these fire engines. Evidently, there was some kind of short in the wiring in the house and the whole place caught on fire. Mr. and Mrs. Oppenheim had some burns, and Alice's brother, Butch, got really bad burns on his leg and chest. He was in the hospital for a long time, but he was fine eventually. My mom and I ran into him once at Famous 4th Street Deli. I had heard about the family so many times that seeing Butch was like seeing someone who had been in a favorite movie of mine. You know how that is? Anyway, when he saw my mom, he didn't start to cry or anything, but he said really softly, “She'd be married by now. She'd probably have a daughter like yours.”
Isn't that sad?
My mom put her arm around him. I was like eleven or twelve at the time. I just acted like I didn't know what was going on, even though I did.
Anyway, Alice died in the fire. My mom said it was the first funeral she had ever been to. She'd never known anyone else who died. Every now and then Mom would talk about Alice. They had this ridiculous ongoing feud about some crinolines that my mom took from Alice's house.
Come to think of it, my mom would probably want me to call up her old friend. She'd probably appreciate it.
I go into the kitchen, pick up the phone, and dial 411.
“This is 411 heaven connect, what plane please?”
What plane? It follows me everywhere.
“Uh, hi, I assume seventh heaven, the number for an Alice Oppenheim?”
I hear the operator typing.
“I have three Alice Oppenheims: one who died in 1482, another in 1823, and one in 1953.”
“Um, 1953.”
“Hold for the connection.”
That was kind of fun.
“Hello?” I hear the voice say.
“Uh, hi, is this Alice Oppenheim from Philadelphia?”
"Yes it is.”
“Hi, Alice, uh, you don't know me. I'm the daughter of a friend of yours. I'm Maxine Firestein's daughter, Alex?”
“Oh go away! No way! Maxine had a daughter? How fantastic! How's your mom?”
“Oh, she's great. She married my dad and they had me. I'm sure she's a little upset right now, you know, I died recently, but otherwise she's great.”
“She got married?” Alice asks like it's the craziest thing. “Who'd she marry?”
“Bill Dorenfield.”
“She married Bill Dorenfield, that lady slayer?” she laughs. “I remember him, what a player! He was friends with my brother, Butch. Not great friends, your dad was kind of a hard guy. Of course he married your mom, she's so his type. She's gorgeous. Is she still gorgeous?”
“Oh yes,” I tell her, but I'm still stuck on the fact that she thought my dad was a hard guy, too. Did that guy ever let up?
“Your mom was always the prettiest one in the class.”
“She still is.”
“Did she ever tell you about the time she stole all my crinolines?”
“Yes, she told me.”
“I'm sure she said that she left me one. That was always her excuse.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I'll have to hear your side of the story.”
“Oh, another time for that story. Let's see, I'd be about sixty-nine or seventy years old by now so, gosh, she's old.”
“She is, but she doesn't look seventy.”
“I hear that. Seventy is the new fifty, fifty is the new thirty, blah blah. I aged to thirty because I didn't want to stay sixteen forever, and I'm glad I did, but I didn't want to go beyond that.”
“I'm twenty-nine!”
“Get out! How'd you die?”
“Car hit me.”
“Oh, what a shame, sorry to hear that. Sorry for your mom.”
“Yeah,” I say, concluding the catching up. “So listen, I don't really know anyone here except my grandparents and my uncle. My mom always talked about you and what great friends you were and stuff, and I thought maybe you'd like to get together for lunch or something.”
“I'd love that! How does tomorrow sound?”
“Sounds great to me.”
“Great. There's a really good French place in town. When you get into your car, just say, âFrench place in town' and it will take you there.”
“Great, do we need a reservation or something?”
“We're in seventh heaven, we don't need to make reservations.”
“Oh, yeah,” I stutter.
“What, you're not in seventh?” she asks, sensing my glumness.
"Well, for now, but . . .”
“Oh, you're in one of those limbo things. Not to worry, we'll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Really? Don't worry? Because I'm worried,” I tell her.
“Really, don't worry. We'll talk about it. Your mother was one of my best friends. I'll take care of you. Listen, I'm just off right now for a tennis lesson, but I'll see you tomorrow. Let's say one o'clock and we'll talk. It will be so nice to meet you.”
“You, too, and one o'clock is good.”
“And, Alex . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Really, don't worry. I'm here for you.”
“Okay.”
“Tootles until tomorrow!”
“Bye.”
Tootles? Whatever. Well, that made me feel a little better, a lot better actually, sort of.
I hear Peaches's dog door rumbling as I see my little dog come through.