Chapter Three, Part 1

If you're new here, or just want to catch up, the everything that has happened up to this point is here.

Chapter 3 ~ A Life for a Life

My head bumped the cool window as motion resumed. I opened my eyes and wondered where I was. On a crowded bus, dressed in a nice suit, my purse on my lap. Uh-oh, where am I going? I noticed a small, folded piece of paper clutched in my hand. Unfolding it, I marveled at the thickness and texture of the paper, high quality, but such a little piece. In beautiful calligraphy, five little words “You do not choose how.” As soon as I’d read it, it disintegrated. Nothing fancy, just melted away. A little admonition from Death, I presumed, for my “helping” by taking the pills. Not my fault, I didn’t know there were rules!

Where should I get off this bus? Looking out the window, I recognized the street at least; back home, rolling through the streets in the middle of town. I decided to get off at the next stop, since I knew a little place nearby with great sandwiches, and I was hungry. I opened the purse, to see what information I could gather from it.

Score - day-planner! The old-fashioned “real paper” kind. I flipped to today and I checked my watch. A chuckle bubbled out as I read that I’d planned to have lunch at the same place I’d just decided to go. Some things don’t change, I guess.. Although the note, in my handwriting, stated “lunch with FM”. FM? I thought furiously, trying to match the initials to someone, anyone. I couldn’t even think of anyone with a first name starting with an F. Frank? Fred? Frieda? Fabian? Felicity? I sure hoped FM would recognize me; I couldn’t know if FM was male or female. It occurred to me the day planner might have an address book. It did, but I hadn’t put any names in it.

I ducked into the restaurant, and stood just inside the door, blinking, pretending to give my eyes a chance to adjust to the dark, longer than they really needed.

“Lynn – over here!” I heard, just as I began to worry I‘d been standing there blinking too long. The voice belonged to a vaguely familiar-looking man, but I couldn’t put a name with the face, even knowing his initials. He waved me over to his table and I sat down, smiling and trying to look normal.

“So, how’d your interview go?” He asked, looking hopeful and truly interested. I wished I knew what he meant, since I didn’t want to lie. Ah, well, don’t most interviews go about the same?

“I think it went okay, but I uh, won’t know anything for awhile.” That seemed reasonable. I hadn’t been sobbing or anything when I popped into this life, and interviewers usually don’t tell you anything right away. So, probably a true answer, anyway.

“Well, they’d be fools not to take you,” he concluded, “I’m sure it’ll work out.” We both smiled; I felt remarkably comfortable with him. I tried to surreptitiously check his hand for a wedding ring; he didn’t have one. He looked so familiar, I must have known him before this life-path, but who was he? No way I can ask him now! Whoever he is, he’d think I’m nuts. Especially if we’re dating!

We chitchatted about current events and things, which seemed mostly the same as in the previous life-paths. Apparently my life hadn’t had much effect on world affairs. A waiter came and asked if we would be having the usual, and assuming I have the same tastes in food from life to life, I agreed.

Hmm, the usual, so we come here often and probably together. This person is important in this life-path. Boyfriend? Just good friend? Ex? Co-worker? I surreptitiously checked my own hand for a wedding or engagement ring, just in case, but the absence of one only told me I wasn’t presently engaged or married. This guy’s not-bad looking, I could deal with him as the boyfriend.

Our food arrived and sure enough, it was one of my favorites, a philly cheese-steak, with red peppers instead of green, onions and extra cheese. I’d ordered that here before, in my original life-path, and apparently I ordered it here in this one often enough that my picky requests were now a “usual”! I dug in, hoping that while I ate, this guy would keep talking until I’d started to remember him.

He chatted about his job, some sort of psychiatrist or counselor for troubled teenagers. More power too him, I sure couldn’t deal with all those bratty kids. He mentioned a few kids he’d “told me about before” updating their situations, most of which sounded pretty bleak. Parents who didn’t care; cruelty from other kids; drugs, pregnancy, violence, but the stories also held hope. What a special man, to reach out to these drowning kids and try to be a lifeline!

While he talked, my mind drifted to a boy I’d known in high school, what was his name? Franklin! Yeah, Franklin. A weird kid who wore a dress-shirt, tie, jacket and spit-shined dress shoes to school every day. Carried a briefcase instead of a backpack. Got straight A’s. He wasn’t a total reject, though; he had a few friends, some of which were friends of mine. One morning, at the bus stop all the kids were talking about him, “So, you guys hear about Franklin?” “He’s dead. Killed himself last night – his mom found him in the garage, in the car. No note, nothing. Just a hose from the exhaust thingy to the window. “ I couldn’t remember the rest of the conversation, or if I said anything. I’d been thinking about the day before when he’d strolled into my math class, since the teachers mostly let him do whatever he wanted, he just walked in and told a joke, and left. I’d rolled my eyes. And now I couldn’t even remember the joke and he was dead. I should’ve said something. He had friends, why didn’t his friends know? Would someone like this guy have helped him?

I yanked myself back to reality and barely suppressed a startled gasp. The man across from me - Franklin! That’s why he looked familiar, why I’d remembered that day – I could see in his face the echo of the child he’d been. The teenaged boy whose face had been burned into my memory by pangs of regret. I used to think I could have done something – I should have done something. I should’ve paid more attention to him or something. And now – somehow he’s alive! An adult. A good friend, who I have lunch with, regularly, this long after high school! His closer friends had been crushed, confused, and filled with guilt and regret. They hadn’t understood why he’d hurt himself when he could’ve reached out to one of them. That was the big mystery – he’d had friends, why hadn’t he asked them for help?

Franklin stopped talking and gave me a quizzical look, and I realized not only was it obvious my mind had drifted off, but I also had tears in my eyes. No good way to explain that. I cleared my throat and forced a smiled.

“I . . .um . . .it’s just that I’m so glad you’re . . .” I stopped, realizing how bizarre it would be to tell a friend how I was thrilled to see him alive. Talk about thinking I’m crazy, that’d confirm it. “I’m touched by how much you care about these kids – how you reach out to them.” I knew it to be true, listening to him for just a few minutes told me that, and as the memories of this life started to fill out, I could recall fuzzy scenes of him worrying over some child or another, at a picnic with several kids gathered around him, at our high school graduation, hugging and thanking me with tears blurring his eyes. For what? I hadn’t known then, but learned later . . . . what? I couldn’t make my brain produce the answer.

“Someone has to.” He shrugged, grinning a self-conscious way, “but what brought all this on? We talk about these kids all the time.” I worried over whether or not to bring it up, but I had to know, and talking about things would clarify the memories that continued to form in my head.

“Just hit me funny I guess. Wondering if things would have been different if there’d been someone like you for um, . . . for us in high school.” I hoped he hadn’t noticed my little bobble and I pummeled my brain to find some more clear memories of the change that led us here. Fortunately, he filled in the gap for me.

“You know, in high school, you really saved my life. I know I’ve said it before, but I don’t know if you know how seriously I meant it,” he started, looking at the table for a long moment before meeting my eyes, “but there was one particular day, you really saved me. The part I didn’t tell you – well, you know that I’d been depressed. I mean, I didn’t know it at the time, just that I hated myself and I hated life and I didn’t know how to change any of it. That day, this one day when we were juniors, I,” he paused, gulped and looked down at his food again. “I decided I wanted to die. I had a plan and everything. I was going to, well, that really doesn’t matter. I was going to kill myself and was all set to do it.

“Marie . . . I don’t know if you remember her, Marie Sanchez? Kinda quiet, but also kinda pretty and with a great sense of humor?” I nodded, faintly recalling a girl who’d lived on the edge of my awareness. He went on, “The day before, she actually asked me out. We’d been having lunch eating that awful cardboard the school called pizza and she just looked at me and said, ‘Would you like to go to the movies sometime? Just us?’ I was so excited. I mean, I was a complete nothing, nerd, weird-o, whatever. And this pretty, bright, funny girl asked me out. I went home and I was so pumped about it, I told my mom. That was at the height of her drinking – right after the divorce. She told me there was no way I was taking out some trampy girl who was loose enough to ask a boy out. She’d almost finished raising Sandy and me, she said, and she wasn’t going to raise my illegitimate brat when I knocked that girl up. Well, that was it. The only thing that might make my life worthwhile and my mother took it away. I decided I would make her pay. She’d feel awful when she found me dead, and really, I didn’t think I was losing anything of value.

“My idea was to make sure I saw everyone that day, I didn’t want to say goodbye, to make anyone suspicious. I made a date with Marie for the next weekend, no reason to reject her. I walked around at lunch, poked my head into every class I had friends in, said hi, told a joke, then walked out. I planned to spend the rest of the school day composing my suicide note, then I’d go home and kill myself, and be dead long before my mom was sober enough to do anything about it.” Note? I thought there was no note “But when I looked into your class and told the joke, you giggled and told me another joke, and we both laughed. And then you said, ‘Franklin, you’re so funny.’

“For some reason, that just drained all my righteous indignation. Then you looked me right in the eye and said, “How are you?” We only chatted a few minutes, and I didn’t even tell you much of what was going on in my life, not until months later, when we really got close, but that one question, it. . .” He stopped, choked up, but no more than I was, “it just somehow made me realized that my life wasn’t worthless. That there were surprises around every corner, like a new friend.”

I sniffed, wiping the tears I hadn’t been able to stop. I couldn’t be bothered with what the busy lunchtime crowd around us was thinking. I reached out my hand and rested it on his, looking him in the eye. As he had told the story, my life-hopping-addled brain had played the picture, as clear as on a TV screen. And finally I remembered the joke that he had told.

The choice I made – just an impulse decision to tell some kid I barely knew a joke, and ask him how he was. And look at the consequences – a boy who hadn’t died too young by his own hand, a boy who’d grown into a man that made a difference in many other kids’ lives.

“I don’t know what to say,” I told him, looking into his eyes and not caring who saw the tears. “But I sure am glad that you didn’t, and I’m glad you told me.” This life-path isn’t lonely – and I’ve sort of saved a life by just being here. But then, selfishly, I wondered about myself. Where was I working; did I even have a job? Didn’t seem like Franklin was my boyfriend - did I have one? This time, I didn’t even know where I lived. Hope my driver’s license is current!

We finished lunch, talking about more mundane things, and as I put my coat on, I tried to decide how to find my home. Or should I be going back to work? This life-path hopping had its serious downsides. Fate again stepped in to save me.

“Need a ride back to the office?” Franklin asked, and I gladly nodded, mentally moving on the problem of how I would figure out which office was mine, which desk. When we got into his car, I sorted through my purse, pretending to be hunting for gum – actually looking for a business card, note, or anything else that might help me.

Clearly in my head, I could see my desk. A cubicle with the normal greenish-bluish cloth covered walls. A small potted plant with tiny yellow flowers and a gray chair on squeaky wheels, with armrests and one of those lumbar support things. Laptop open, resting on something to keep it at eye level with an extra keyboard in front of it. Yes, I could clearly see my desk. Too bad I had no idea where it was. What if Franklin dropped me off in front of one of those 27 floor office buildings? I couldn’t very well wander around every floor looking for the desk with the yellow flowers!

Victory! I found a business card! “Assistant Office Manager, Green and Co.” And the address, thank goodness! Just as I finished memorizing it, Franklin pulled over in front of a building, my building, I assumed. I checked the numbers, to be sure.

“No gum, huh?” He smiled, sympathetically and reached into his jacket pocket. He always had mints, I remembered, suddenly, and I could never find my gum. How funny! No wonder he didn’t think it was odd. He handed me the pack and I gratefully took one. “You’ll need it after those onions,” he added, with a sly grin. I giggled and punched him in the arm, lightly, which felt right and familiar
“Thanks for lunch . . . and everything,” I got out of the car and waved as he drove off. Then I turned to face the towering office building before me. “Okay, Green and Company – here I come.”

More memories arrived as I walked through the lobby, checked the directory and took the elevator to 6. I easily found Green and Company, a big firm occupying 3 floors. I had gotten off the elevator at the receptionist’s desk, and returned her cool, polite greeting. I knew she didn’t like me. I couldn’t remember why. I also knew I didn’t usually walk around the office lobby, but how to get from here to my desk still eluded me. Let’s see, assistant manager, so I am guessing my desk is near the office manager’s, umm, Brad! Brad is the office manager, my boss! But that doesn’t help me figure out where his office is. Ohhhhh! What’s that girl’s name? Sally? Susy? Oh yeah -

“Sadie?” I asked, trying to sound normal, whatever that would be, “Do you know where Brad is?” Point to his office, point to his office, point to his office. My new mantra did not have the desired effect, especially considering her response.

“Ms. Ragasmort, he left for the day, remember?” Sadie gave me a look with a mix of contempt and confusion, perhaps she wondered if I was testing her. Would I do that? No, but Brad would. I nodded, trying for a sheepish grin.

“Oh, right, I forgot, I was thinking today was Wednesday! Thanks!” I rocked on my heals a bit, stalling, desperate to figure out a way to ask where my desk was without sounding like some sort of lunatic. Who goes to lunch and comes back having forgotten where their desk is? Also, my brain reminded me, Franklin had asked about an interview – am I planning to quit? Be fired? I decided to find my desk first, then worry about that.

A well-dressed man walked around the corner and looked relieved when he saw me. Uh-oh – he needs to ask me something and I am sure I don’t know the answer!

“There you are! Great! Brad left and I don’t have the numbers for the Birnly account!” Fortunately, that clicked.

“Oh, sure, I have those on my desk . . ..” I started, indicating he should lead the way. I remembered working on that account right before leaving for lunch, and now this nice man, whose name I couldn’t dredge up, would lead me right to it. He did, much to my delight. The office matched the picture in my brain exactly, and I slid into the chair as though I’d done it every day. Which I guess I have, in this life-path. After giving the still nameless man his information, I settled into my chair and kicked off my dress shoes.

Interview, interview – come on, let’s think . . . . I flipped open my day planner again and checked today – nothing there except my lunch with Franklin. Yesterday? In my handwriting, at 5:30 in the afternoon – “Johnson, 801 6th St, 3rd floor, 1 orig., 1 other”. Okay, so yesterday I had gone to meet Mr. or Ms. Johnson on Sixth St. I guessed that the “orig” and “other” were songs that I had gone prepared with, one original and one other– not unusual for a talent audition.

Wonder what I auditioned for. Franklin had said “interview.” Another mystery. Had he gotten the wrong word, not being into the arts? Or had I guessed wrong? Time would tell, I decided, and began poking around on the computer.
An instant message popped up, from Kent, a coworker according to my well-organized IM friend list. “Please bring any info on the Pierce account to my office”.

A few memories of this life had begun filling in the blanks, as I had hunted through the computer, updating myself on this life-path and job. But Kent triggered an odd one. A big blue couch. Big, blue couch? No face? No last name? Just ‘big blue couch’? Thanks a lot, brain! I selected the file from the cabinet behind me, amazed again at how orderly I was in this life-path, and headed in the direction I seemed to know would take me to Kent’s office.

His face rang a bell. Lots of them. Big, loud, scary, warning bells. His couch, the big blue couch aha!, sat along the far wall of his office and seemed ominous now. I’d been having an affair with Kent!

Kent, married for 15 years, had 5 kids, one with some serious health problems, and I’d been sleeping with him for more than a year, mostly on that stupid big, blue couch. Self-disgust filled me, both for what I had done and for the spineless way I’d let it continue, even though I’d wanted to break it off for many months. What a fool I had been. Like so many women before me, I fell for the tired old lines, “My wife doesn’t understand me,” “I am lonely and she just doesn’t care” and “I can’t leave her, because of the kids, but really, our marriage is over”. I had known, even as I had convinced myself otherwise, that they were outright lies. His wife attended company functions with him, and clearly adored him. I liked her, but convinced myself I couldn’t know what went on behind closed doors. I had been so attracted to Kent that I’d ignored the obvious, accepted what he said as truth and let myself be seduced by his lies.

And it made me hate myself. I couldn’t tell Franklin, my dad, Karen, or any of my friends, because they would be disgusted and ashamed of me.

Kent reached for the files I brought, and gently lifted them from my hand. I wondered if I looked as horrified as I felt, and how he would interpret it if I did. Was that a ruse, just to get me here? Does he really even need the papers? Oh, guess not. The last thought came as he chucked the folder onto his desk and grabbed my arm, just above the elbow. I knew the look on his face, and that in no way I did I want to experience what would follow. I remembered being in love with this man, and I also knew that I no longer was, not in this life-path or any other!

“Look, Kent, I, uh, I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Yeah, I know,” he rolled his eyes and then continued in a high-pitched voice that I assume he thought sounded like me, “It’s wrong, you’re married, your kids need you, blah, blah, blah.” His voice returned to normal, “and I’ve told you, what my kids don’t know won’t hurt them, my wife wouldn’t care if she did know and how can it be wrong, when it feels so right?”

I almost gagged at his corny responses, humiliated that I’d believed them before, though I could remember nodding and falling under his spell. “No, this time I mean it! I don’t know how your wife would feel, but I don’t feel good about it anymore. I want a man of my own, not someone who has to run home to another woman, and their kids. Not someone who can’t take me places and introduce me as his girlfriend. And, besides all that, I don’t love you anymore.” I turned on my heel and started walking, almost seeing the wake of pride I left behind.
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“Baby, don’t say that, you know it hurts me. I love you, I just can’t get a divorce right now – my kids would be devasted, but in a few years, when they’re older . . .”

“You’ll still be making excuses.” I interrupted, turning around despite knowing I should just keep leaving, “and I’ll be older and like myself less. It’s over, Kent. I’m sorry.” I spun again. He grabbed my arm again, this time rougher, hard enough that I could tell it would bruise. I remember being terrified in the past, sure he’d hit me, but now I could tell just looking at him that he wanted to intimidate me, control me, but knew better than to really injure me.

“Look, babe, I have told you before, you can’t leave me. I can make sure you never get another job in town, and I will not give you up that easily.” His face was just inches from mine as he growled his threats. He tried to look furious, but anyone could see the terrified child behind the angry mask – a child afraid of losing his favorite toy, of not getting his way. I gently moved his hand from my arm and stared directly into his eyes, narrowing mine to my “scary look.” It worked because he blanched and took a step back.

“No, you look, ‘babe’. I’m leaving this office and I’m never coming in here again as anything but a coworker. If you accept that, we’re fine, this is over and no one will know anything. But, I swear on every fiber in my being, if you so much as think about laying your sweaty hands on any part of my body ever, ever, ever again, I will not only tell every person I know about our affair, I’ll call your wife and offer to testify in her divorce proceedings and I’ll file the biggest, nastiest, longest, ugliest sexual harassment suit this country’s ever seen and not only will I tell the world how you abused your position to convince me to date you, I’ll make sure every camera from every channel gets a shot of me saying ‘and really, he was a horrible lover – I mean, small is one thing, but most guys make up for that with good moves.’ So it’s up to you – over? Or just beginning?”

He’d been visibly deflating while I talked, shrinking away from the horrors I promised, and now stood dejected and slumped, looking somehow older and weaker as I waited for an answer. I wondered that he didn’t even seem to weigh his options, didn’t ask if I’d be willing to be made out to be the whore who went after married men, and I knew in that moment that I must not the first woman who’d stood here and told him the affair was over. This pathetic man, a manager over a small department in a big firm, had flings with young, naïve employees to convince himself he had worth. If he did answer, I’ll never know, because the moment I recognized his impotence, I finished my exit.