“Oh,
no!” I wailed, covering my face in my hands. “What have I done?”
“There
there, don’t be so hard on yourself,” Creesie comforted. “It often requires more than one visit for the living to understand.
You’ll see her again, I’m sure of it, when she thinks you’re ready. For now,
she’s giving you some much-needed time to yourself.” Then, she added, “Well,
there’s that and she doesn’t want to interfere in your decision.”
“Decision?”
I moaned, sounding more like myself. I’d only just arrived and there was work
to be done? I sniffled a little as I said, “What kind of decision?”
“Oh,
you’ll know soon enough. We prefer to let life unravel in its own time.”
And then
it sort of slipped—not out of my mouth—into my head. Amora came to mind, and the question she’d asked at the hospital, and I felt stupid
even as I thought it.
In
response, Creesie uttered, ‘“Am I an Angel?’” She
snickered freely, her head thrown back, her mouth wide open. “That’s a
knee-slapper! Most of the Angels I know would laugh till their wings hurt if
they heard that one.”
I folded
my arms across my chest like a pouting child, waiting for her laughter to
subside. When it came to the topic of Angels (especially in this place), who
knew?
“Let me
try to explain.” Obviously, Creesie was eavesdropping
again. She tapped a finger to her lips. “Think of me as your travel agent. I’ll
be at your service anytime you require assistance with your . . . travels.”
Still
grumbling, I said, “So I guess you’re dead, too.”
“Oh,
very much so,” she replied. “This is my second time. Technically, I also died
three years ago, but it wasn’t my time yet. I was lying splat in a parking lot,
suffering from the agony of a heart attack, when a young girl saved my life.
She didn’t make a big deal of it, just did what she thought anyone should do.”
Again, I got the notion that she was hinting at something. Unfortunately, my
brain was on sabbatical. “Truly touching,” she went on. “And heroic! Just a
fifteen-year old girl trying to do the right thing.”
I closed
my eyes as another image came barreling back. But this time it was more like I
was there—reliving it rather than remembering it.
A
swirling pile of leaves stopped me dead in my tracks as I left Afton’s drugstore, a prescription in hand for Mom.
Although it had been only a few months since her breast cancer scare, she was
doing much better. After wiping the dust from my eyes, I spied an old lady at
the opposite end of the parking lot clutching her chest, her face screwed up in
misery. As I ran toward her, she slumped hard against her car door, then slid
from view. I reached her, seconds later, placed my hand near her mouth, then
pressed my head to her chest. Nothing!
Holy crap! What if she dies in my arms? I attempted unsuccessfully to recall our CPR lessons from Biology. What were those stupid counts again?
Telling
myself that I could do this—that I had to do this—I straightened her out, went
three fingers above her breastbone, and pressed firmly with both hands. I tried
not to think about what I was doing. Breathing into the mouth of a mannequin
was one thing, but this was something else entirely. The procedure was
deceptively simple. Thirty chest compressions followed by two short breaths . .
.
My eyes
flew open. I looked at Creesie —young, smiling, happy.
“You’re
Mrs. Brown?” I said, startled. “But . . . she had to be pushing eighty. And
you’re what . . . seventeen, eighteen—?”
“Nineteen.
Then again, I’ve been told I look young for my age.” Creesie patted her hair and smiled. “Souls, remember? You’re seeing the beauty of our
souls. Most of us didn’t die young, although some of us did. Ever heard the
expression, ‘you’re as young as you feel?’ It takes on a whole new meaning after
you’re dead. Of course, right before we visit, we have to
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