For Whom the Spell Tolls

  I finally reached my purse and then fingered my cell phone, pulling it out as I noticed Miranda’s name on the caller ID.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “I’m just calling to make sure you didn’t forget your dress,” Miranda said in her high pitch, nasally voice.

  “Forget it?” I scoffed. “Are you kidding? This is only one of the most important evenings of our lives!” Yes, tonight would mark the night that, if successful, Miranda and I would be allowed to move up the hierarchical chain of our medieval reenactment club. We’d started as lowly peasants and had worked our way up to the merchant class and now we sought to be allowed entrance into the world of the knights.

  “Can you imagine us finally being able to enter the class of the knights?” Miranda continued. Even though I obviously couldn’t see her, I could just imagine her pushing her coke bottle glasses back up to the bridge of her nose as she gazed longingly at the empire-waisted, fur trimmed gown (also historically accurate!) that I’d made for her birthday present.

  “Yeah, we’ll have way better costumes, that’s for sure,” I said as I nodded.

  “And maybe Albert will finally want to talk to me,” Miranda continued, again in that dreamy voice.

  I didn’t think becoming a knight’s lady would make Albert any more aware of Miranda but I didn’t say anything. If the truth be told, Albert was far more aware of the knights than he ever was of their ladies.

  “Okay, Miranda, I gotta go. I’m almost to work,” I said and then heard the beep on the other line which meant someone else was trying to call me. I pulled the phone away from my ear and after quickly glancing at the road, I tried to answer my other call. That was when I heard the sound of brakes screeching.

  I felt like I was swimming through the images that met me next—my phone landing on my lap as I dropped it, my hands gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white, the pull of the car skidding on the slick asphalt, and the tail end of the truck in front of me, up close and personal. I braced myself for the inevitable impact.

  Even though I had my seatbelt on, the jolt was immense. I was suddenly thrown forward only to be wrenched backwards again, as if by the invisible hands of some monstrous Titan. Tiny threads of anguish weaved up my spine until they became an aching symphony that spanned the back of my neck.

  The sound of my windshield shattering pulled my thoughts from the pain. I opened my right eye—since the left appeared to be sealed shut—to find my face buried against the steering wheel.

  I couldn’t feel anything. The searing pain in my neck was soon a fading memory and nothing, but the void of numbness reigned over the rest of my body. As if someone had turned on a switch in my ears, a sudden screeching met me like an enemy. The more I listened, the louder it got—a high-pitched wailing. It took me a second to realize it was the horn of my car.

  My vision grew cloudy as I focused on the white of the feathers that danced through the air like winter fairies, only to land against the shattered windshield and drown in a deluge of red. Sunlight suddenly filtered through the car until it was so bright, I had to close my good eye.

  And then there was nothing at all.

  ###

  “Number three million, seven hundred fifty thousand and forty-five.”

  I shook my head as I opened my eyes, blinking a few times as the nasal-toned voice droned in my ears. Not knowing where I was, or what was happening, I glanced around nervously, absorbing the nondescript beige of the walls. Plastic, multicolored chairs littered the room like discarded toys. What seemed like hundreds of people dotted the landscape of chairs in the stadium sized room. Next to me, though, was only an old man. Glancing at me, he frowned. I fixed my attention on the snarly looking employees trapped inside multiple rows of cubicles. Choosing not to focus on them, I honed in on an electric board above me that read: Number 3,750,045.

  The fluorescent green of the board flashed and twittered as if it had just zapped an unfortunate insect. I shook my head again, hoping to remember how the heck I’d gotten here. My last memory was in my car, driving in the rain as I chatted with Miranda. Then there was that truck with all the chickens. An accident—I’d gotten into an accident. After that, my thoughts blurred into each other. But nothing could explain why I was suddenly at the DMV.

  Maybe I was dreaming. And it just happened to be the most lucid, real dream I’d ever had and the only time I’d ever realized I was dreaming while dreaming. Hey, stranger things have happened, right?

  I glanced around again, taking in the low ceiling. There weren’t any windows in the dreary room. Instead, posters with vibrant colors decorated the walls, looking like circus banners. The one closest to me read: Smoking kills. A picture of a skeleton in cowboy gear, atop an Appaloosa further emphasized the point. Someone had scribbled “ha ha” in the lower corner.

  “Three million, seven hundred fifty thousand and forty-five!”

  Turning toward the voice, I realized it belonged to an old woman with orange hair, and 1950’s style rhinestone glasses on a string. A line of twelve or so porcelain cat statues, playing various instruments, decorated the ledge of her cubicle. What was it about old women and cats?

  The cat lady scanned the room, peering over the ridiculous glasses and tapping her outlandishly long, red fingernails against the ledge. Her mouth was so tight, it swallowed her lips. As her narrowed gaze met mine, I flushed and averted my eyes to my lap, where I noticed a white piece of paper clutched in my right hand. I stared at the black numbers before the realization dawned on me.

  3,750,045. She was calling my number! Without hesitation, I jumped up.

  “That’s me!” I announced, feeling embarrassed as the old man glared at me. “Sorry.”

  “Come on then,” the woman interrupted. “I don’t have all day.”

  Approaching her desk, I thought this dream couldn’t get much weirder—I mean, I was number three million or something and yet there were only a few people in the waiting room? I handed the woman my ticket. She scowled at me, her scarlet lips so raw and wet that her mouth looked like a piece of talking sushi. She rolled the ticket into a little ball and flung it behind her. It landed squarely in her wastebasket, vanishing amid a sea of other white, scrunched paper balls.

  “Name?” she asked as she worked a huge wad of pink gum between her clicking jaws.

  “Um, Lily,” I said with a pause, feigning interest in a cat playing a violin. It wore an obscene smile and appeared to be dancing, one chubby little leg lifted in the semblance of a jig. I touched the cold statue and ran the pad of my index finger along the ridges of his fur. I was beginning to think this might not be a dream, because I could clearly touch and feel things. But if this weren’t a dream, how did I get here? It was like I’d just popped up out of nowhere.

  “Last name?”

  I faced the woman again. “Um, Harper.”

  The woman simply nodded, continuing to chomp on her gum like a cow chewing its cud. “Harper… Harper… Harper,” she said as she stared at the computer screen in front of her.

  “Um, could you, uh, tell me why I’m here?” My voice sounded weak and thin. I had to remind myself that I was the master of my own destiny and needed to act like it. And that was when I remembered my presentation. A feeling of complete panic overwhelmed me as I searched the wall for a clock so I could figure out how much time remained before I was due to sway a panel of mostly unenlightened penny-pinchers on why we needed to invest nearly a quarter of a million in advertising. “What time is it?” I demanded.

  “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 s
carier 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 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. Suddenly, 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 as she 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. “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 a 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. A manager will be with you in a minute.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” I said gruffly. “Didn’t you hear me? I have to give a presentation!”

  “A manager will be with you in a minute,” she repeated and then faced her screen again as if to say our conversation was now 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 couldn’t be dead. And furthermore, if I were dead, where in the heck was I now? I couldn’t imagine the DMV existed 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 or something. 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. That woman deserved to be fired for freaking me out like this.

  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 accidents over the phone?” I paused for a second as I recalled the accident. “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 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 b
reath. “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.

  Jason 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 set-up, 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.”

  “Ms. Harper, I know you’re confused, but I assure you, this isn’t a joke.” He paused and took a deep breath, like this was as difficult on him as it was on me. “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 light bulb 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.