Grace’s family chose not to post an obituary in the local paper. She was merely listed as a death at the end of the lovingly written obituaries. The pain she’d caused, the shame brought to her family, again. They preferred she was forgotten.
Grace’s inability to deal with the pain of the living world, her blood alcohol was double the limit the day of the accident. She paid with her life, and killed a beloved schoolteacher, the day after her retirement. She now existed between the living and unliving worlds. Not able to fully pass to the unliving world, she was caught in the net of torment she caused. While her physical body was gone, the pain seared her heart.
She was given a choice, to stay in misery or to earn passage to the unliving world. Those who wasted their own lives or took another’s life carelessly were recruited for a kind of penance. Not the slippery kind of atonement that the misguided and treacherous espoused to the faithful in the living world.
She would be able to reach through the thin curtain between the living and unliving world, to those on a similar path as hers. Through their darkness she’d be the light of hope. Enough to bring them from the depths of their despair but they had to choose. Those able to sense the gift might respond and change course. But they could not be forced. If their spiritual deafness was too profound, the interference had boundaries. Her apprenticeship was conditional upon respecting that boundary. Grace would relieve the pain she carried by helping others. Some would still have more living to do, and her presence may change the course of their lives. For others, they needed her help passing to the unliving world.
Grace was drawn to the torment of a young woman whose trajectory was much like hers. Her presence made the summer sky grow darker. The humid was air electrified with the intersection of the worlds. Thunder rumbled nearby.
2
Liz and Chantal stagger into the daylight. A summer storm gathers. Hugs, air kisses, and tears ensue like long lost friends instead of account manager and client. They carry on far too long. Pedestrians give a wide berth. Two women leaning on each other weeping and laughing, tottering on their unbearable heels. Their coats askew and makeup melting like wax figurines too close to the flame. Finally, they break off and make their way in opposite directions.
Liz sends a garbled text to her assistant as she weaves down the street:
Hey Megs. Great lunch!!! not return to office ;0). To Meghan it seemed perfectly obvious given it was already 4:15 PM. Then: She’s on! Tx. Followed by a string of emojis from fireworks to Christmas trees.
Meghan replied with a ‘thumbs up’ and tossed her phone in her purse with an eye roll. She proceeded to cancel all of her boss’s morning appointments anticipating the request the next morning with a Not feeling well. :0( WFH today. Tx.
Meghan looked over at one of her cube mates and snarked, “I guess she got the account or at least a free liquid lunch and a hangover. Let’s see if they sign off on the contract. Now I get to deal with rescheduling her life again. At least I won’t hear from her tomorrow, I’m sure. She’s working from home,” she punctuated with sardonic air quotes.
Liz stood on the platform next to the yellow line, dangling her orange Kate Spade knock off purse from her upturned wrist. She thought lovingly of her client. The lunch meeting and a second bottle turned into post lunch cocktails at the bar next door.
Liz mused, “She’s no so bad, she’s sure can hold her liquor! Two bottles, whew! What a great lunch. She’s definitely going to sign. She loves me. I think she’s awesome. I hope I didn’t get too loud. So funny! She’s so funny. I think she’s gonna sign. No definitely. This is it. Scott can go suck it! He doesn’t know me, he doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know how to handle this client. She totally loves me. She’s my friend. I can do this. Did I tell her about my dad? Did I? Oh, maybe too much. Hahahaha… I wish I hadn’t cried so much but she was very understanding. She’s my friend, she was really understanding. Such a good listener. She listened to me about my dad. He’s SUCH an asshole. She’s really nice. Did I talk too much? Did I? Oh. But I listened to her too. She seems so nice. And I can handle this. For. Sure. She loves me. Yes. Where the fuck is that bus? Stupid bus. I shouldn’t have to do this. I should get an Uber. But they won’t pay for it, will they? Assholes. They would miss me. I have this account, not Scott. He’s such a dick. She doesn’t like him. If I left they would be totally screwed. They know it.”
(Ding). She glances at a text on her phone. And lifted her sunglasses to peer at the screen.
Chantal: “Heeeey Lizzie. Thanks for lunch. Ooof! That was a LOT of wine. Hope you get home ok. Worried about you. Let’s talk next week about contract. Been a tough quarter. We can do something. Hugs!”
Liz stood shaking. He heart throbbed in her throat. “What? WTF does that mean? A tough quarter. Do something? Nononono! OMG. She thinks I’m crazy. She said we’re good. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. They’re going to slay me. That bitch. She is so two-faced. I’m dead. I’ll never make my target. I’m fucked. I can’t lose this account. I can’t lose this job.
A bus roared past. And pulled at her slightly.
Teary streaks form on Liz’s face. She pulls at the brassy clasp on her orange purse looking for a tissue. She notices the frayed edges of her fake Kate Spade, a low-class impostor, obvious to all.
The whole lunch exploded in her mind. She was clownish in her dress-up clothes and too much makeup. Laughing too loud, talking too loud, too many personal stories and details. She didn’t listen, she just talked. Was Chantal looking at her phone? The second bottle came. Chantal covered her glass while Liz was saying “sure, fill’er up! Don’t wanna waste it!” Not sipping but gulping now. A thirst never quenched. Drowning those thoughts about worthlessness. It was time for the cheque. Did she leave a tip? Too much? Not enough? She hates math. She’s no good.
The next express bus approaches. It’s roaring into the station. It’s going to pass through. It blows its horn. Liz looks up, eyes watery, unclear. She feels the rush, drag of its speed. Her head throbs. She feels the darkness around her, she closes her eyes and steps.
The heel of her shoe collapses as she puts weight on it. Liz folds up and falls at the end of the platform, hitting her head on the wall, barely missing falling under the oncoming bus. The bus horn blares, screeching tires. Grace achieved her first intervention. Breaking the heel, a reasonable excuse instead of the ‘unseen hands’ that always raise questions. Others on the platform come to Liz’s aid.
Liz falls into blackness. Sound moves into her head like being underwater. Enclosed, wrapped in treacle, thick, sweet familiarity. Auntie Terri came to her. She stood over her, speaking her name. She couldn’t reach her. Auntie T was kind. She’s not here anymore. She was a misfit. She drowned. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, Lizzie.”
The paramedic leaned over her, saying her name, “Elizabeth, can you hear me? Elizabeth, stay with me. Elizabeth? We’re gonna get you to see a doctor. You may have a concussion. Let’s get you in the ambulance.” Unable to resist she was placed on the gurney and shuttled to the hospital.
“You were lucky. That bus just about got you.” The doctor flashed the light in Liz’s eye just about killing her anyway. Largely sober now, the hangover was setting in. An evil, yellow fog of nausea and jitters. “That’s a pretty nasty gash. You have a concussion. Have you had one before?”. “No,” said Liz. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? Have you fallen like this before?” asked the doctor observing Liz’s shakiness and the unmistakable smell of booze emanating from her.
“I said no. Well, I don’t remember right now," Liz sneered feeling haughty. "Why?”
“It’s not good for the brain to get these kinds of knocks. It has a long-term effect.” The doctor looked deeply at Liz and waited.
“I’m fine,” Liz mumbled. “I’m just tired. They should put guard rails at that station. Somebody could get killed.” Liz looked at the doctor with a slight air, her eyes falling on the unpronounceable name on his ID tag. “Who the hell does he think he is? Are you even a doctor,” Liz thought to herself, her eyes focusing now on a fuzzy woman in the corner of the examination room. Her vision was developing a shattered glass effect.
“Pardon me? Of course, I’m a doctor.”
Liz’s eyes shot back to the doctor. She stared at him. She’d spoken out loud.
“Madame, if you want to see another doctor, you’ll have to go back to the waiting room. I don’t have to put up with your racist remarks. And don’t bother with your apology,” cutting her off as she tried to speak. “Here’s a note for your employer. I suggest you sober up and take a good long look in the mirror to see if you like who’s staring back at you. Is there someone you can call? You shouldn’t try to get home by yourself.”
Standing at the curb outside of the hospital, Liz didn’t even pretend to be in control anymore. Hugging her shoes to her chest, her nylons shredded, she wept openly as the Uber driver rolled up and looked at the crazy woman standing there and debated whether he’d stop. She’d already seen him and waved. As she stumbled into his car, he prayed she’d just shut up in the back seat while he drove. Too many crazy bitches in his life right now. He kept glancing in his rear-view worried she’d barf in his car. The GPS directions droned over her snuffling and finally snores.
Liz tumbled out of the Uber, into the dimming evening light. She rummaged for her keys. The contents of her purse completely rearranged as perfect strangers tried to retrieve her belongings on the platform after she fell. Finding her keys, she struggled with the lock, finally bursting through the door. She dropped her shoes, purse, phone, coat and peeled off her nylons as she made her way from the door to the bathroom. She sat on the toilet unbuttoning her blouse and undoing her bra as she peed. Leaning forward on her arms she debated whether to throw up. She wiped herself and then curled forward, wrapping herself around the toilet. Her head resting on the cool floor. She woke covered in the chenille bathmat, wondering how long she’d been there. She dragged herself up and stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself. Her cream ‘pussy bow’ blouse undone and hanging, along with her bra, unclasped but still on. Her breasts hanging free. Mascara, red wine and tears streaked down her front like a tragic watercolour. Her skirt and underwear at her ankles.
“You’re a disaster. What the fuck is wrong with you? It’s not supposed to be like this.” The déjà vu of the words ringing in her head. The underwater sound returning, her head throbbing. She leaned forward, feeling like she would be sick. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this. I want to die. I should die. Nobody’s gonna care. They won’t even notice. Everybody wants me to be something I’m not. I hate my job, I hate my fucking life. That Chantal’s a bitch and I’m a fake. You’re a fucking loser,” she said looking at the pathetic picture in front of her.
She felt an icy draft pass over her. She reached for her bathrobe. She wriggled out of her blouse and bra and stepped out of her underwear and skirt. She wrapped herself tight in the robe. Her favourite Aunt came to her mind as she wrapped her arms around herself. She smiled at her memory. “I miss you Auntie T,” she whimpered. “You were the only one who got me.” She heard her Aunt’s voice in her mind, “You’re a tiger, Lizzie. You may have to fight your way through this world but you’re gonna be ok.” Liz looked at herself and thought about how far she was from ok.
“Is this it? Is this who you are? Is this how you want to end?”
She staggered to her room and fell on her bed. The pile of pillows and stuffed animals from her childhood scattered, falling to the floor. She crawled into bed still in her bathrobe. She gripped the bear she had as a girl and slipped into unconsciousness.
3
Chantal felt badly for sending the text. She wanted to make sure she had at least given Liz at head’s up that bad news might be coming about the account. She had tried several times during lunch to say something to her, but Liz seemed particularly out of sorts today. Chantal liked Liz but it was always an over-the-top display of bravado that turned into a puddle of tears. When Liz ordered the second bottle, she knew they were in for a long afternoon. The tears and sloppy farewell on the sidewalk wasn’t really Chantal’s style. Her mind was on the diagnosis and what came next. Chantal wouldn’t see Liz again, though she didn’t know that then.
Grace sat near Chantal in the doctor’s waiting room. Occupying a space, a reassuring stranger who existed for those who needed her. She was invisible to those who did not. She was never called by the nurse, she was a presence in the waiting room. Grace knew the results of Chantal’s biopsy and what she was about to hear from her oncologist. She smiled compassionately as Chantal wiped a fearful tear from her eye, and the nurse called her name.
4
Liz awoke with a wave of nausea. The room was spinning. She tried to lie still and focus on a spot but the room continued to move around her. She decided she would try to make it to the bathroom but she fell out of bed instead. Hitting her head again, on the corner of the nightstand, knocking over the glass of water she had remembered to put there. The lamp also went over crashing to the ground. The floor now covered with water and glass. Her head throbbing, she stepped over all of it to get to the bathroom in time.
She made it, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She was a wreck. Still. Again. How pathetic. As her head hung down, a warm voice asked. “Do you want to live or die? If you keep this up, you’re going to die. If not from this then from cancer or some disease that will kill you slowly, painfully. Is that what you want? Is this how it ends?”
“I don’t want to die.”
5
“I don’t want to die.”
“I’m sorry, I wish there was more we could do.” The oncologist had said that 3 times today already. The cancer was winning today. Some days there’s hope. Today, there was so very little.
“We have a counsellor on staff who can help you when you’re ready. We recommend that you speak to someone about what you’re going through, what you’re about to go through. They can help with the emotional and sometimes spiritual questions you may have. I’ll give you her card. Her name is Lalitha. She’ll help you prepare.”
6
Liz hung up the phone and cried. She had no idea what she would do next but quitting her job felt like a huge weight had been lifted.
She picked up the recycling bin full of empty wine bottles and took it outside. Dumping the wine down the sink had been hard but she knew she couldn’t have the stuff in the house anymore. She had to try to keep her mind clear while she figured things out.
7
“Do you have any implants?” she asked, her hands hanging in midair over the keyboard.
Chantal laughed nervously, shifting her sweater over her chest. “What do you mean?”
“Well, do you have any implants like a pacemaker or breast implants or other ‘augmentation’?” She chewed on the word and seemed to be searching Chantal’s face with a level of distaste mixed with well-practiced compassion. Chantal’s eyes passed over her nametag. Mercia. Mercia’s face was at war with her mind, her judgmental mind. Chantal imagined Mercia shared whispered stories in the pubs or cafes that she frequented. “You’ll never believe this one…”
“I… well… I have had some surgery, yes.”
“Yes – ”, Mercia urged. “Please outline what they are because we have to make sure they are removed before we can process…”
“All of them?”
“Yes, all.” Mercia seemed to lean in. Maybe she was collecting stories for her book club, Chantal thought. The cackling witches gathered around their brew of red wine all laughing at the expense of others, the book club merely a ruse to explain their meeting.
“Well, some of these were, um, medically necessary."
“I’m sure…” Mercia said dryly.
“OK well I’ll start from the top. I had my nose done when I was 21. I was then an adult so I could make my own decisions.”
Mercia typed furiously like Maggie Haberman from the New York times getting the big scoop.
“My cheeks were done in 2015, so much later. My face had started to sag and I thought it would help. At the same time, I did a brow lift and a neck tuck.”
Mercia stopped typing. “I don’t need to know about the tucks and lifts.”
Chantal looked crushed.
She went on, “We only need to know about things we need to take out – that weren’t there ‘originally’.”
Chantal rubbed her sweaty hands on her thighs. She felt suffocated, the air too warm. She looked about the room trying to hide her humiliation. The dark wood of the room communicated solemnity. It felt very masculine for a woman’s office. The heavy desk was clear of paper except for the folder of promotional materials that Chantal would presumably take with her. Perfect white flowers sat in a small vase on the corner of the desk. It was too tidy and impersonal save for a formal photograph in a silver frame of Mercia and her family on a shelf behind her. Her business cards facing out, McKenzie Memorial Services. Funeral Director, Apprentice.
“Next?”
“Oh sorry, yeah so implants. Well, there are my breasts. These are my second set." I said pointing at them. "Maybe it’s hard to tell.” Chantal felt like she was standing naked in front of her pointing to her various replacement parts.
Mercia listened as though taking confession. She didn’t move her eyes from the screen. She murmured and nodded a slight acknowledgement now and then.
“Yeah, so I got smaller ones put in for my 50th birthday the same day my divorce came through. I’m sure my ex planned it that way.” Mercia didn’t ask but Chantal went on to explain, “I like these better. These remind me of my original breasts before the double mastectomy.”
Mercia’s eyes flickered. She felt bad for Chantal, but she also wanted to register every juicy detail. She was new at recording these details for the report. She worked hard to keep her eyes level and her face immobile.
“Yeah, Roman, my ex-husband, urged me to get a nice pair. ‘Why not make the best of it, he said.’”
“I was pretty lost, and he just wanted me to feel good again. So, I didn’t argue. The plastic surgeon and my husband were having this conversation about the reconstruction and the option of augmentation like they were looking over a used car. The pros and cons, how things worked. My husband was looking to upgrade from a minivan to a little red sports car. He held the different implants in his hands, imagining, I suppose, what they’d be like. Kicking the tires, I suppose.”
“It was like I wasn’t there. He kept saying he wanted me to feel better about myself. I was happy to be alive. My breasts had betrayed me. I had no use for them anymore. I just went with what they chose. They were too big. Ridiculous for a woman at my age. So, after the divorce, I got this set.” Pointing at the orbs on her chest.
Mercia’s eye twitched. She had stopped typing. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Oh that’s, OK. He was an asshole anyway."
“No, about the implants, the cancer.”
“Oh yeah, well, that was ten years ago. I’m cancer free and asshole free." Chantal laughed, then teared up a little. Mercia smiled and produced a box of tissues.
“Is there anything else?”
“My husband liked my new look and liked me in a bikini. I kept the weight off after the cancer and he seemed to like parading me around, but I’d always had a flat ass. It wasn’t fashionable anymore and maybe it never was… anyway, he took me on a trip to Colombia you can get a really nice ass for not a lot of money.”
Mercia had fully stopped typing now.
“Oh, and I had to have my knee rebuilt after I wrecked it skiing in Aspen. That’s when I found out about my husband. He sent me off to the ski hill for a lesson while he stayed behind for a little après ski.” Chantal said making air quotes.
“I found them in our chalet when I came limping back with the ski patrol who helped me. It was pretty graphic. I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
Mercia was leaning over her desk staring at Chantal.
“What happened?”
“Well, I had to have surgery, and because of my age, they had to put a pin in, and…”
“No, I mean at the chalet.”
“Oh, I didn’t DO anything. I walked out and I called my sister who came to pick me up.”
“Oh, OK…” And suddenly Mercia realized she was beyond the bounds. “so that is…is that everything? Hips? What about your heart? Pacemaker?"
“No, just broken.”
Mercia nodded and closed her laptop. She pushed a pamphlet toward Chantal and asked, “Would you like to walk around to choose a place where you’d like to be interred?”
“Yes. I’d like to find a nice tree”.
Mercia smiled. “I know just the spot.”
8
Liz looked at the lilies in the flower shop display case.
“Can I help you with something?”
Liz looked up. The woman smiling at seemed familiar but she couldn’t place.
“Oh, I wanted to order some flowers for a friend. Um, for someone I know.”
“Great, I can help if you like.”
“Sure. She’s not well. Um, she’s not expected to live much longer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the woman said.
“Yeah. Cancer came back.”
“How awful. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, I didn’t know her very well. She was my client at one point. And, well, I thought I would send her some flowers, I don’t know to cheer her up?” Liz shrugged.
“I understand. It’s hard to know what to do or say in these situations. May I suggest these Dahlias? They are cheerful and last quite a while. They are in season. I can put something nice together for you.”
“Sure, sure. That sound fine. I’m sure you have to deal with this quite a bit in your business. Death, I mean.”
“Yes. It comes with the territory. Births, celebrations, deaths, memorials. I love what I do. Death is present in life. It can be a gift. It reminds me to cherish what I have. We never know when our time will come.”
“Yes. I’m learning um, I’m working on that. Thank you for your help, em… my name is Liz.”
“Grace. My name is Grace. Nice to meet you, Liz.”
END
B@GoE - Short Story
Please keep writing! You have crafted such an interesting story line. I can't wait for the next part of the journey.