What Happened Before . .

This post will be updated to always have the beginning of the story, up to the last post in one place. Currently this contains the Prologue through the beginning of chapter 3.

Death In the Mirror

Prologue - It Begins
Death has always stalked me in mirrors. If I have learned one thing from horror movies, it's that you never, never look into a mirror after dark, or if you're home alone and something creepy has happened, or if you're in a public bathroom and no one is around. That's when the person or thing bringing your death appears. Either right when you look, or as soon as you turn around after looking. So, for as long as I have been watching scary movies and TV shows, I've seen death in the mirror, every time. Little hints of unexplained movements, shadows that don't look right, a flicker of something that doesn't belong. And then, there's nothing and I go on with my life, the incident forgotten in moments, until the next time I see a mirror, and death is there.

I guess that is why, when I actually did see death coming for me in the mirror, I wasn't surprised. Scared as hell, but not surprised. Death has always been in the mirror.

But let's go back a little, and catch up~


Chapter One ~ A Life Worth Living

First, a little about me. My name is Lynnette Ragasmort. Awful name, I know. I'm 27 (and a half) years old, and I’m a singer. Or, maybe I should say I want to be a professional singer. I have a boring day job, but at night I sing anywhere I can. I write and play all my own stuff, on my poor battered guitar that was a gift for my 10th birthday. Soon, I hope to be able to afford a nicer one.

My songs are kind of folkish, just me and my guitar telling the truth, and that is just something that people don't want to hear right now. The pop stuff on the radio is so far from what I do, I couldn't sing it even if I wanted to, and I sure am not going to dress like some of the harlots who do sing it. So I play here and there, and a few people like me enough to let me play their bars or local festivals or whatever.

I have one close, true friend, Karen, my roommate from college. Most other people are too sensitive or something. I am opinionated, and I have no qualms about sharing my observations. Too many people just want to make small talk or "chit-chat" which I hate. Karen understands, and Karen listens.

I have no husband, and no boyfriend at the moment, though I have had my share of dalliances. I like men, but again, too many are turned off by my forthright attitude. And always, they want me to be dependant, and I am not dependant; I refuse to be. I need no one but me.

My family, such as it is, consists of my father, his awful wife and their children. My mother died from complications due to my birth, leaving me an only child to be raised by my dad. I loved him and everything was great until he met Shelly. I told him from the first time I met her, when I was twelve, that I did not and would not ever like her, yet he insisted on marrying her when I was 13, halving my importance in his life. And worse, unforgivably, they had children, one when I was 15, one when I was 18. Suddenly my dad had a new family, and I knew he no longer needed me.

I have blondish, brownish hair, brown eyes and skin the color of the “flesh” crayon they used to make. Average, normal, boring.

BUT, onto my story:
I was sitting at my desk, printing pages and pages of reports, as I do all day every day at the world's most boring job. I print reports all day, and carry them around to the various people who are supposed to receive them, who sometimes throw the report I give them in the trash before I even leave their office. Sales reports, productivity reports, personnel reports. All day long I update, reformat, print and deliver reports. I get a half hour lunch, which I usually take at my desk, anyway, since the closest place to get lunch is a 10-minute walk. I hate the people here, I hate this company and I hate my job, but since I am a singer who hasn't made it yet, this is what I do. I'm the "report girl" as the obnoxious salesmen generally refer to me, at a company that sells plastic that other people make into stuff.

But I digress, as I said, I was sitting at my desk printing reports. The one being printed was 8 pages, and the copier, not the latest model by far, was slowly chugging out page 2. Three other reports were waiting the queue, and I had to go to the bathroom. So, I rushed past the nosy office manager, who always wants to talk and slid into the bathroom. There are only 3 stalls, and all were empty, so I chose the closest one; I heard they are the cleanest.

I did my business and was washing my hands, when, as usual, even though I didn’t want to, I glanced up in the mirror and thought I saw something behind me move. Just a little flash of something, and I whirled around, wet, soapy hands up, ready to fight the monster. But nothing was there, of course, nothing ever is. I rinsed my hands and dried them, studiously avoiding eye contact with the mirror. I headed back to my desk.

Needless to say, the printer had jammed in my absence, and I spent the next 10 minutes wrestling crumpled bits of Sales Report A-2, pages 4 and 5 from its clutches. Having ascertained that all the little pieces were free, and the printer was cooled down, I started it up again. One more page printed out, before it informed me that it was out of ink. I knew that couldn't be the case, because I had replaced the ink cartridge the day before. I fiddled with it, tried it again, and finally called the IT guy, Butchy.

Butchy hates people. I can't really blame him - the only time people here talk to him is when something breaks, so all he ever hears are complaints. Maybe he hates people because they call him "Butchy”; I sure would. But that is how he was introduced to me, and I don't even know what his real name is. I have found that he can be funny, with a quick sarcastic wit that rarely shows. To me, anyone who disdains the general public and hates this company is a comrade in arms.

Butchy lumbered up to my desk, panting. He's a big guy, which I am guessing comes from sitting around all day at his desk, playing computer games and waiting to be complained to.

"What's the problem, Lynette?" He huffed at me, glaring as though I had purposely messed up the machine so as to interrupt him. I have a theory that working here makes people less pleasant. Perhaps he hasn't recognized our comrade status.

"The printer says that it is out of ink, but . . ."

"So put a new cartridge in!" His eyes rolled so far I feared they'd pop out.

"BUT", I continued, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "I changed the cartridge yesterday before I left, and I've only printed about 20 pages. It had jammed right before that, so I thought that might have something to do with it." I rushed to get all of that out before I was interrupted again, and was rewarded with a grunt and the almost obscene slogan on the back of Butchy's T-shirt as he began fidgeting with the stubborn printer. I leaned against the wall of my cubicle, while he made an adjustment, tried to print, and began the process over again. After several unsuccessful attempts, he began taking pieces of it out and setting them on my desk, which is when my boss arrived and my phone rang simultaneously.

I mumbled an "excuse me" to my boss since the red button on the phone indicated an internal call. Someone missing a report? I picked it up - "This is Lynette, can you hold a moment please?" A male voice said yes and I set the phone back down and looked expectantly at Mrs. Cooper, my boss.

"Lynette, what is going on here?" She demanded, making a sweeping gesture to my desk. "People are waiting for their reports". In my head, my response went something like and that is exactly why I broke the printer you old bat! but, putting on my sweetest smile, I replied, "Butchy is fixing my printer" as any idiot can see!

"Hmph. Well. Try to keep this sort of thing to a minimum." She stalked away, before I could ask her exactly how I would keep the printer from breaking, since it was more than 7 years old and "there isn't room in the budget for such things". Butchy actually chuckled. I grinned ruefully, and said "Guess I'll have to do my 'printer health voodoo dance' tonight." He laughed again, and it made me feel a little better.

The feeling lasted about 15 seconds, because that was when he gave some piece of the printer a nice hard tug, and it broke with a sharp crack! Toner flew everywhere, especially all down my dress. Damn it!If only I hadn't answered the phone, I'd've been on the other side of the desk! Which reminded me, I hadn't picked up that poor guy I'd put on hold. The button still flashed, and knowing that a few more minutes wouldn't help my dress that much anyway, I grabbed the receiver and tried to keep a calm voice.

“I am sorry to have kept you on hold, how can I help you?” I tried wiping some of the toner up with a tissue from the box on my desk.

“Ah, Lynette, " the unfamiliar voice said, "I can see you're busy, I'll talk to you later." There was a click before I could disagree. Well, he's right, I thought and turned to head to the ladies room. Butchy offered what seemed like a sincere apology. I accepted, and started on my way.

Halfway there (just past the office manager's desk) I stopped cold. That man said he could see I was busy? But no one can see into my cubicle, I am at the very back, in a corner. The cubicle across from me, the only one someone could see into mine from without standing on a desk, was empty, filled with broken chairs and discarded computer pieces. Maybe he meant, he could tell I was busy. That made sense. But it still bothered me.

Assessing the damage in the privacy of the ladies room, I could see that no hope remained for this dress. Most of the front was now black, in an irregular, shimmering blob that still oozed a bit around the edges, growing slightly larger as I watched. Futile though it was, I grabbed a fistful of paper towels and mopped at it, succeeding only in removing the shininess, and leaving a dull, wet black spot.

My luck, in came Jeanie, the nosy office manager. She clucked and sympathetically asked, “Oh my, what happened to you?”

“Just a printer problem, Jeanie.” I scrubbed harder at the stain, wishing both it and she would just vanish.

“Well, you know, soda water works on red wine, or is that white? And I heard salt gets out stains, but I don’t really know about that. I use one of those spray-ons, myself, but, honey, I think that may not do it in this case. So, where you filling the ink or something?”

“No, Butchy was fixing it and something broke.”

“Well, Butchy isn’t the most graceful thing, is he?” She actually snorted in the middle of her snide chortle. “But he means well, the poor thing. He might get some self confidence if he went on a date now and then, but you know those computer geeks . . .” Her voice faded under my annoyed frown.

She must have taken the hint, because she went into a stall. When she emerged, she asked, “Do you want help with that?” I looked up. Ready to answer in my normal sarcastic way, but saw the sincerity on her face on swallowed my words.

“No, thanks, I think it’s a lost cause. I’m just going to wait in here until it’s at least dry.”

“Okay, then, sorry.” Jeanie walked out the door. And something in the mirror flashed. I looked up – nothing, again. Giving up with a resigned sigh I looked into the mirror to assess the damage.

This time there was something behind me.
Definitely something. Something large and transparent but with every color mixed in. It was moving, not going anywhere, just a fluid, natural flowing inside its constantly changing borders. I stared at it for a moment, before deciding that it had to be some sort of trick of the light, a reflection from the toner or something caught in the light fixture. I spun around to look behind me, hoping nothing was there, but somehow knowing it would be and when I did see it, hovering before me, I could feel my heart drop. I was trembling, not sure why I should be scared, except that nothing that appears in the mirror behind you can ever be good.

The thing itself didn’t frighten me as much as the fact that I could feel it. Every part of me could sense the presence of this ominous being. It pulled at me, drained something vital and indescribable from me, and I thought for a moment that I might faint. I wanted to touch it, but I couldn’t summon the strength, or maybe I was just too scared.

It spoke. A sound vibrating through me, coming not from the apparition, but from everywhere.

“Lynnette”. Just my name, and it terrified me as nothing had. There was no denying now that it was real, not some trick of the light. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I just stared, and trembled and vaguely wondered what would happen if someone came in.

“Are you ready for your life to end?” Not threatening. Just calm, matter-of-fact. I could barely process the words. When I did, cold calm dread filled me, and I stopped shaking. I could only assume that I was too terrified to even feel the fear any more. It was an emotion beyond the human ability to sense.

“What?” Not the most ingenious reply, I know, but it was the only word I could form.

“You must decide if you are ready for your life to end. We will meet again, and then you will decide.” The being flickered out of existence and left me alone, covered in toner, in a well lit ladies room.

I stood still for several long moments. I tried to convince myself that it had been a hallucination, perhaps brought on by toner-mixed-with-soap fumes, but in the deepest part of my soul, I knew it was not. Nothing had ever been so real in my life. Beside the sure knowledge I had indeed seen and heard what I just saw and heard, something else lay in my soul. Fear. Cold, hard, abject terror. We will meet again. The words echoed through me, and as terrifying as they were, they kept the bigger fear at bay - are you ready for your life to end?

Butchy had the computer fixed. How had I gotten back to my desk? Oh, I sort of remembered walking. He apologized; I nodded. The reports were printing out. People were waiting for their reports. I got back to work.

I went home. Took off my shoes, and headed up the stairs to change into sweats. As I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, I caught my reflection in the mirror.

Death was behind me. Again.

It hung before me moving and remaining exactly in place.

“You’re Death?” I repeated, for what had to be the tenth time. I began to formulate my arguments, almost hoping that I could free myself of this horror with logic and debate. “But how can you be Death? Death isn’t a person or a being or whatever, it’s a state. You can’t be Death. You can be dead, but not death. Just like you can be sleeping, but you can’t be Sleep.” I felt better, making my case. Somehow it brought measure of normalcy to the moment. Arguing, I am in my element.

It shimmered, almost happily. “How little you know, mortal. There is Sleep. And Love, and Faith and Hope. There is Joy and Pain and Sickness, Imagination, Pestilence, Fear, Cold, Calm, and many more.”

“So, what you’re all like some gang of magical beings? Just hanging around watching over your own domain? What if someone is supposed to be dying, right now? And here you are, floating in my bedroom, trying to scare me? Yeah, that makes sense.”

“FOOLISH MORTAL!” The words echoed around and through me. Never had the meaning of “mortal” been so real. “Cease this prattle. I am not here to scare you like some child’s ghost tale. I am here for your benefit, that you may choose to end this life.” I shook, dreading what would happen. My bravado now gone, I sank to the floor, and found tears on my cheeks.

“Please, I’m sorry. I don’t want to die”. I blubbered, hating the pathetic sound of my begging for a life I had been cursing for months. I could feel energy ebbing from me; somehow I knew Death was absorbing me and once I was drained I would be dead. Then, the energy pull slowed and stopped. Death shimmered in a way I could only say was by some means comforting, though I will never be able to say how.

“You misunderstand, child.” It said, beginning to change form. Before me stood a man, tall and strong looking, with a bit of a glow. When I looked at his eyes, I saw the constantly changing indescribable colors of the being that had been in his place. “Is this form more soothing?” He asked, in a voice I could truly hear, though somehow it still echoed though me as the being’s thoughts had. “I find humans to be more at ease with other humans, and, if you like, I can even assume the form of a loved one.” A thought of my beloved grandfather, my mother’s father who had passed away years before flitted though my head, and then he stood before me.

“Papa!” I called out my name for him, knowing what I saw was only his form, but unable to restrain my voice. “How did you know?” I asked him. In Papa’s voice the being answered, “You were thinking of him. You loved and trusted him.”
My fear momentarily forgotten I asked, “You can do that? Just go into my head and see what I am thinking?”

“I am Death.” That seemed to cover it. He went on to explain. “When dealing with mortals, I have found it is frequently easier to take an image from their minds than to let them see my form. You are one of few who has.” Despite the inherent bizarreness of the situation, I found myself flattered. It sounded like an honor.

“I, I think I would prefer your other form.” Papa standing there, this many years after his death was just too disconcerting. Not really him, but so much him, it hurt my heart.

He reverted to the amorphous, semi-transparent manifestation. “I am here not to bring you harm, but to offer you a choice. The choice”, he said, “is so easily explained, so hard to comprehend. Is this life worth saving, the life composed of the choices you have made, and perhaps a few made for you? I am offering you the chance to follow one or more of the paths not taken. The only problem is, it is a one-way road. Once the choice is made, it cannot be unmade. If you give up this life-path, then it is gone, and you cannot come back. You will die in this line of reality – but you have the opportunity to find something more.”

I stared, not able to grasp the meaning of this offer. I could die and be something else? Like reincarnation? I wasn’t that attached to much in this life, my one good friend, my dad. Who else would miss me, who else would care? Would anyone even notice until their reports weren’t there? Or even then? But dying? I don’t know about that.

Dying’s a scary prospect and never more real than when you face it - Death literally in the room.

“I . .. I don’t think I understand.” True, but also a stall for time. “You mean, come back as a baby and start all over? I don’t think I want to live through high school again – once was bad enough.” Death shimmered and changed colors, a little pinker on the edges, which I took to be a sort of chuckle; even Death knows how bad high school can be.

“No, in fact, you will not lose a day – not even a moment. You will not even lose your memory of this life, unless you choose for me to erase it. Each person makes millions of decisions in a lifetime. Each decision moves you to a new life-path, and the old one is forever gone. Some choices create many paths, and they can lead you in unexpected directions. You will die in this life and arrive at the same age, to the minute, in a life-path you lost when you made one decision. The longer you stay in that life-path, the more of those memories you will gain and the more they will feel real. You may even be able to figure out which decision you made differently. But no one else will have any memory of any other life, only you. And you can stay in that life-path as long as you like. If you dislike it, you can die again and start the process all over. You can sample as many of your own life-paths as you like, though remember, you cannot go back once you have left it. You are being offered a chance few mortals ever dream of. It is not even a hard choice. It is simply this – is this life worth living?”
The words rolled over and through me, almost too much to take in. A chance at another life that was still mine? To still be me, but to choose another, almost certainly better life? I looked at (and through) Death, wondering if I’d somehow created an elaborate hallucination to escape the drudgery my life had become. I was almost ready to jump in, hallucination or not, I still had one more question.
“Will it hurt, when I die?”

Death was silent for a long moment, and I could feel his scrutiny of me as clearly as I could see his form floating.

“That is the only concern you have, mortal?” The question sounded cold, somehow almost sarcastic.

“Well, no, I mean, I have lots of questions, that is just the first one.” I thought furiously, hoping my lie was not too evident. What else did he expect me to ask? The pain of dying seemed like the biggest deal I could think of. And then another thought began to percolate in my almost overwhelmed mind. “My dad, what about my dad?”

“What about him?” He asked, almost derisively. “I thought you wanted to know if it would hurt you.”

“I want to know what will happen to my father? Will he think I am dead?”

“Well, since you will be dead, in this reality, yes. He will think it, and be right.”

“But he’ll be crushed!” The picture of Dad, sitting alone at the table on a Monday, our usual night for dinner together, tore at my heart. If I die, he’ll have lost both mom and me. Of course, he’ll still have her and the children he had with her.

The moment stretched out an eternity while I thought of Dad. Dad, who had always been there for me, trying to be both parents to a small girl. He’d never had sisters, or any close female friends, and yet he had played Barbie and dress up and tea party with me when I was little. He’d been a PTO volunteer even though most of the others were women. He had taken me to get my nails and hair done before prom since I didn’t want her to take me and even managed to stammer his way through the “sex talk” when I was 11. And yet he had always told me that he wanted what was best for me. That he wanted me to have whatever I dreamed. And now, I could dream of another life. And I will have a chance most people don’t – to say goodbye, knowing it will be the last time. I won’t have to leave all the things unsaid like so many people do. I can say it all, wrap up all the loose ends.

I realized I’d been standing silent, staring for what must have been a very long time. I still hadn’t decided whether or not Death could actually read my mind, but I’d made my choice. This life sucked and I was ready to try again, even at the expense of my father’s feelings. He would want me to, I was sure. Dad would want me to have a better life.

“What do I have to do?” It almost sounded like a statement when I said it.

“You have decided?”

“Yes, I want a new life.”

“Life-path.”

“Right. I want a new life-path.”

“It will begin soon. Go about your business.” And Death was gone.

“Um, hello? Death?” I asked the air. No response. “Go about my business? I don’t get it. Don’t you have to do something? Schedule a time to kill me or something?” Ugh, that doesn’t sound good. “I mean, do a spell?” Still nothing.

Maybe I had just conjured the whole thing up in my head. Maybe I was asleep having an elaborate dream. “WAKE UP!!” I yelled, just to see if that would work. It would have in the movies. But nothing changed. I shrugged and went to the kitchen, “going about my business” as instructed.
* * *
After dinner, a couple of good stiff drinks and a large bowl of ice cream, the whole day seemed less plausible. Surely I had just had some sort of breakdown under the stress of my awful job. I should take a few days off, I thought, maybe I’ll just call off tomorrow, take a mental health day. I got up to get more ice cream, but the carton was empty, sitting on the counter where I’d left it when I got the last bowl. Oh yeah, ran out. I decided I needed more and went to get my shoes and keys.

When I bent over to tie my shoes, I wobbled and almost fell over. Too much to drink? Nah, just getting old. Only had a couple. Chuckling at my clumsiness, I grabbed the keys and my purse and headed out to the car.
At the end of my block, there’s a stop sign. I ran it. I know it’s there; I usually stop, but I was really intent on the ice cream. I was trying to decide what flavor I was going to get when I realized there was a car turning towards me. I swerved, going a little too fast, and as I started to sail from my seat, my last thought was “Hunh, I usually put my seatbelt on.” And then my head collided with the windshield and the world became dark, except my brief glimpse of Death.
And then I was sitting at a vanity, brushing my long, bleached-blonde hair.

Wait, what?

Chapter Two ~ A Life of Ease

I blinked, stopped brushing mid-stroke. Long, bleached-blonde hair? Not likely!

But I looked at the image in the mirror, and familiar eyes blinked back at me. My eyes, but lined in coal-black smudge, fringed with thick fake lashes and a small glued-on rhinestone next to each eye. I stared at them as they stared at me.

Where am I? How did I get here and am I going to a Halloween party or something? Never have I been so confused, but a flicker in the mirror reminded me – I died! This is my new life. Life-path, or whatever. This can’t be right. I looked around; Death was nowhere to be seen. I sat alone in what clearly could NOT be my life. Sure, this girl resembled me, but Whoa! Whose body is this?

I’ve never been fat, but this body put the “real” me to shame. I wore a skintight miniskirt and the smallest shirt I’ve owned since elementary school, but it sure did show off my fantastic abs. Perfect tone, not an ounce of fat, all tan – Tan! I have never been this tan! I also had never worn these colors, or so few clothes. I started to look around, trying to get my bearings and figure out what and where I was.

The first thing to catch my eye – two shiny perfect honest-to-goodness golden Grammy statuettes. I won a Grammy? Two? I ran eagerly over to them, “Best New Artist” and “Best Female Vocals”! I hated to set them down, but needed more information. All around me were photos of a rock star I slowly realized was me. Me, in front of a band, dressed much like I am. Me on the red carpet at the Grammies, me with various celebrities, me at concerts and one poster size album cover with my face splashed across it. Garish!

“Nettie Rags” I read, and it dawned on me that it was a shortened version of my name, but I couldn’t decide if I found it cute or dumb. I located a copy of the CD with the same cover, checked the song titles. Nothing I remembered writing; titles that hardly sounded like my style.

“Lick Me Once??? Ewwwww!!” But on the inside cover, “all lyrics by Nettie Rags”. I read the lyrics I’d supposedly written. Ugh, really? Oh no, I couldn’t have written that trash! Horrible rhymes about sex and drinking and doing what?? I don’t even know what that means!

I sat down at the vanity with the CD in one hand and looked over the case. For the first time I really looked at the room. This room, apparently my bedroom, could have held most of my old apartment. Shiny new technology glittered from every corner, and the rich dark colors of the room suited my tastes perfectly. As I fixed my gaze on various objects, vague pictures began to form in my mind. I must be starting to get some memories. A stuffed dog in the corner, a man gave that to me. His name was . . . is . . .uh . . . it’s on the tip of my tongue, it’s . . .

The falsely melodious ringing of a cell phone broke my concentration. It’s an odd feeling to not know if the ringing in your bedroom is your phone. I followed the sound to what could only be the very latest cell phone. I almost answered it, but thought better of it. I didn’t recognize the number and I still really didn’t know this me. I’d just say something stupid, make a fool of myself. The sound ended, as though my thought had killed it in my hand.

Standing alone in my unfamiliar room, holding the silenced phone, seeing me who isn’t me in the mirror, I longed for anything familiar and comfortable. Anything, anyone. I realized my eyes had closed, and I thought with all my might DEATH!!! Death, are you here? Hello? I don’t even know where here is!

Scared, confused, and surprisingly tired, I started sobbing. I’m generally not one to cry – it always comes off as so manipulative and useless, but I’d reached the end of my rope. I felt Death arrive before I actually saw him.

“Because this is your first alternate life-path, I choose to help you.” Who would have believed that one could feel such utter relief at seeing Death by your bed?

“Thank you, thank you.” I sniffled, trying futilely to stop the tears. A million questions rammed into each other in my head but none could find its way out of my mouth. Fortunately, I didn’t need to voice one.

“It is the same day and time you left.”which explains why I’m so tired, it must be after 2 a.m. “This is your room and your house, though when you arrive on a new life-path, that will not always be the case. Look for little clues to tell you about this path.”

“I know I’m a singer and I have two Grammies!” Exhausted and befuddled as I was, that still brought a smile to my face.

“Yes. Lovely.” Death is not impressed with awards, “You will probably also want to look for clues to more relevant things, like who is important to you in this life-path. No life-path is without strife, what are this life’s travails? You may take as long as you like to decide, but the longer you are in the life, the further down each path you move. As I told you, memories of this life-path will begin to grow.”

“Michael! That bear over there, a man gave it to me and his name is Michael. Oh, I think I loved him. Do I still? Are we dating?”

“I cannot tell you more than I have. Learn to discover things quickly. If you choose to leave this life-path, make the decision and tell the mirror. I will always hear what you say to the mirror. I will not always come when you call.”

“Thank you for coming this time. I, just. . . . I think I need to go to sleep.”

“I do not believe that is an option. Farewell.” Before I could ask what that meant, Death vanished, leaving not even a hint of his essence behind. It’s an option if I say it is. Now, where are my jammies?

I’d managed to root through 4 dresser drawers before finally finding something comfortable enough to sleep in. Seems in this life-path, I mostly sleep in trashy negligees or perhaps nothing at all. I pulled on what I could only guess were my workout clothes and began to climb into my ridiculously large bed when the cell phone started up again. Thoughtlessly I picked it up.

“Uh, hello?”

“Nettie, where are you? We’ve been waiting 45 minutes!” I knew that voice. A man. Not that Michael, I just sort of knew, but someone I talk to a lot.

“Waiting?” I hated to sound stupid, but couldn’t formulate any better response.

“Oh, hellfire, are you back on the stuff? Look, I’ve been sitting in front of your house in the car making excuses to the TV people for an hour and I know you’re walking around in there, I’ve seen you go by the window.” The voice belonged to . . . Victor! That’s his name. That guy that’s seen me in the bars a few times; said he’s an agent – he could make me rich. I guess he did. That didn’t explain why he was waiting for me this time of night, and for 45 minutes. Back on the stuff? The TV people? None of it meant a thing to me.

“I, uh, I’ve been, uh, getting sick!” I tried not to sound too triumphant – what a lame excuse, but the best I could do at the moment. I made the vilest retching noises I could manage. “Must have been some bad shrimp for dinner.”

“Oh, honey, tell me about it. Where’s Adrian?” That name evoked a very clear picture, my assistant. Oh no, is he here?

“No, it’s his night off.” The words popped out of my mouth before I consciously formed the answer.

“Poor, dear, I’ll cover for you with the TV people, just get better. Want me to send up Francesca?” His voice grated down my spine; the fake caring wrapped in self-concern. Instinctively I knew that he cared more about me as an investment than a person. And since I had no idea who Francesca was, I certainly didn’t want her around.

“No, thanks so much, Victor, but” I stopped to make more puking noises, “I think I’ll take a shower and hit the sack.” After a few more pleasantries, Victor rushed off. I peeked out the window in time to watch a long black car ooze carefully out of the gates at the edge of my driveway.

As I hung up the phone, I noticed the time – 11:32 pm. Again I felt the confusion becoming so familiar to me. Death said I arrived at the same time I’d looked at the display so long it had gone dark and changed twice when I finally figured out the answer – Pacific Time – I’m on the West Coast! Sounds so obvious in retrospect but when you’ve died, found yourself in a different you and it’s really 2 am, well, things aren’t as clear.

The bedroom boasted four closed doors, I couldn’t imagine what they might be. The first revealed a long door-lined hallway – intimidated, I closed it again. The second held a closet, larger than my car and organized like department store. I half-expected to see a check out counter. The third one was another closet, smaller, but all shoes. Well, that does seem like me, I decided, admiring the shelves lined with varying styles and colors, every height of heel and every material conceivable. Now this is a life!! I resisted the urge to take out armfuls of them and start trying them on. The last door led to a cavernous bathroom, which I gratefully stepped into.

Along the far wall a tub you could almost call a wading pool stood beneath a lovely frosted window. Beside it a glass door showed off a shower stall, large enough to hold a regular tub, and boasting a seat and at least 5 showerheads I could see from the entrance. I’d heard the term water-closet somewhere along the line, and so that’s what I decided the stall with the toilet must be. Two sinks lounged in a counter longer than I am tall, among a scattered selection of cosmetics, creams, a hairdryer, curling iron and a few appliances I didn’t recognize. “Takes a lot of stuff to look this good, I guess,” I said out loud, enjoying the faint echo.

I treated myself to a long, steamy bath, having found a book in my bedroom and some lovely scented bath beads. I could have used a cup of tea, but still couldn’t work up the courage to enter that daunting hallway in search of a kitchen. After the bath, I slipped into the bed and fell instantly into the deepest of sleeps. If I dreamt, I don’t remember.

I woke up feeling fantastic, better than I’ve felt in a long, long, while. The darkness in the room hid any evidence of the time, but it felt like morning. Emerging from my cocoon of somehow still fresh-smelling sheets, I located the clock near my bed – 11:02! I’d slept 10 blissful hours!

I could reach one blind and I allowed it to slide up enough to softly light the room. So much more familiar than the night before, it finally seemed to be mine. I knew where things were and managed to get myself dressed and ready . . . for what? I looked wearily at the door to the hall. I couldn’t really judge this life by staying in my bedroom forever, but I still worried about the mysterious world beyond the safety of that wooden guardian.
But I had no choice. Hunger finally drove me to turn the knob again and quietly draw the door toward me. A glance out confirmed the hall remained empty of any living souls, so I tentatively stepped out onto the sleek hardwood floor and turned to my left. The other way had only two doors; my new memories told me that one led to the plumbing and such for my bathroom, the other – the maid’s supply closet.

I easily found my way to my deck, glorying in recalling what each door I passed hid – the guest room, the gym, my study, the theatre room, the maid’s quarters (for changing, only), the room Adrian used when he stayed the night, the one I called the “music writing room” which contained several guitars, some recording devices, paper, a computer – no sound mixers or anything fancy, just a place for me to write.

The stairs led me to the entry hall, and I’d strolled through the richly, tastefully appointed living room (which I was certain I never used) and through the sliding doors to my outside haven – a dark-stained wood paradise surrounded by luscious exotic plants. Cool light furniture dotted the porch, a table with chairs, a few chaises some regular chairs turned toward the view off the back, and my favorite – a large, welcoming hammock. At the table, I slid into the chair that “felt like” mine and within a few seconds, a woman appeared in a crisp, white smock. She had a tray with fruit, tea and a silver-capped dish. To my utter delight, she removed the cover to reveal a perfectly baked Belgium waffle, with a small dish of whipped butter and another of warmed syrup, Because Wednesday is waffle day my mind supplied. I could really get used to this!

After breakfast, I wandered about the house for a while. Watched some TV on my giant television, flipped through the magazines in my spacious living room, appreciating this life-path more and more. Sure, I may have compromised my musical vision, but at least I’m making money with my music and look at all this stuff! Every luxury I could ever want I found somewhere in the enormous, perfectly decorated house. I’d encountered the woman who brought me my breakfast, and remembered that she cooked and took care of the kitchen while another woman cleaned the rest of the house. I had a chauffer, and apparently a gardener (or else a good neighbor who’d been out tending to my yard for a couple hours). I couldn’t dredge any of their names out of my memory, which made me feel bad, briefly, before I decided they might prefer it that way.

Finally Adrian arrived, letting himself in with his own key. I recognized him instantly and felt a warm rush of comfort when I heard his voice. Adrian will take care of it, I thought, and the statement had a familiar ring. Apparently Adrian takes care of a lot of things.

Finding me on the sofa with a book, Adrian immediately settled into the closest chair and took a PDA, a notepad and pen, and his cell phone out of his briefcase. I could see the corner of a laptop peeking out of the open zipper and marveled at his mini-office. I knew that anything I needed, he’d use these tools to secure; it’s why I adored Adrian.

“Now, Nettie,” he started in a calm, almost placating tone, “I heard you missed the meeting last night. It was important.”

“I was sick, Adrian, I promise!” Oh, I sounded so whiny, like a petulant child caught cutting classes.

“I know, hon, I know, but you seem fine now.” He shuffled a few papers in a folder still in the briefcase, while I wondered how much to tell him. Without a word from me, he continued, “And it’s okay, Victor was able to reschedule and they weren’t too upset. These TV people really love you, Nettie and they really want this deal.” I felt so dense, having no idea what deal he referred to, but I desperately wanted to please Adrian. I also felt stupidly flattered to hear someone loved me and wanted me so much.

“They do?” I couldn’t stop a pleased blush from warming my cheeks and I wondered if Adrian noticed.

“Yes, they really think you’d be perfect for a part on this show. Like we talked about, it would mean you’d have to give up touring for awhile, but you could still write. Victor said he’d bet they’d even let you sing on the show, you know, write in some reasons for you to be performing. You’d get to make the soundtrack and all, and think of it – no more living out of busses and hotels. You could stay right here in town.” I could hear the relief in his voice and for a moment wondered if Adrian talked up this deal so much more for his own benefit than mine, but no, I couldn’t believe that about Adrian. He always takes such good care of me I remembered thinking it hundreds of times Adrian loves me.

We sat in the living room sipping delicious herbal tea brought in by the kitchen lady while Adrian laid out the rest of my day for me. Trainer coming at 11am, photo shoot for some magazine at 2, dinner with someone I couldn’t recall at 9. One of the guys from my band wanted to use the music room next week to work on some stuff for his solo album, if I wanted to do a radio interview next week Adrian would set it up. Adrian would get the date and time of the rescheduled dinner from Victor.

Since the day I started school, I had never felt so safe, protected and cared for. Kindergarten had been the first time my father hadn’t been by my side and the world had gotten scary and cold. I’d adjusted, but always longed for those days before school, when running out of cookies seemed like a tragedy and my dad was never out of arm’s reach. I basked in Adrian’s care, and let the warm waves of his voice outlining my life wash away the hurt and the worry and the care. Adrian will take care of it.

The trainer arrived as scheduled. Adrian greeted him, fortunately, calling him by name, so I knew what to call the man. Robert seemed intent on making me suffer, yelling at me (he called it “encouraging”), belittling my efforts (“you call that a push up??”) and insisting I could go on when I knew I’d drop dead if I so much as twitched a single muscle. I didn’t mind seeing the back of him as he left, though I had to admit, exhausted as I was, and stinky, too, I did feel strangely good. A shower took care of the stink and took the edge off of the exhaustion, and I even squeezed in a brief nap before getting ready for my shoot.

The shoot turned out to be less fun than I’d hoped. They undid all the “getting ready” I’d done and re-did my hair and make-up, giving me a selection of outfits to wear. Then I’d spent what seemed like forever being posed and moved like a life-size doll, until I wondered if maybe I wasn’t a human after all. Oh, it wasn’t hard work, but it didn’t compare to the glamorous image in my mind of “photo shoot”. And what does “make love the camera” mean, anyway?

I went home, changed again, went to dinner in the car waiting patiently in front of my house. My dinner companions turned out to be some people from the studio, mostly there, it seemed, to be sure they were seen having dinner with me. We talked about inanities I’d forgotten by the time the check came and one of them swooped it up with a laugh – “expense account!” The others planned to hit a dance club, and it seemed they expected me to join them, so I did.

At first I felt ridiculously special, getting in ahead of the long line of revelers, being shown to a special alcove reserved for those who like their privacy and having my picture taken each time I emerged to dance or hit the ladies’ room. But all too soon it became just tiring. I love to dance, but the only people who danced around me made it clear they wanted to get “in a shot”. No man asked me to dance and meant it, once we started to dance, they mugged or posed, never saying another word to me. Sooner than I would have expected, I wanted to head home.

Back in my wonderful bedroom, in my lavish, perfect home with every toy I could ever have wanted, I curled up in my huge, fluffy bed, and molded pillows under me until I had the exact position I wanted. I’d asked the lady in the kitchen to bring me a snack, something salty, I’d told her, a cup of ice cold milk, and a carafe of hot tea. She arrived just as I’d figured out which button on the remote made the doors on my entertainment center slide open and the TV, positioned perfectly for my location, glided into place. She’d brought me a variety of chips, crackers, apples and pretzels, on a tray with two small crockery vats of melted cheese, one smelled spicy, the other more mild. “Perfect!” I’d exclaimed, eliciting the smallest of satisfied smiles from her, and I dug in with great enthusiasm, before she’d even managed to settle the tray on the side of my bed. “Thanks, uh . .” I hated not know her name. “Thanks a lot”. She drifted out of my room, shutting the heavy door behind her.

Eating my snack in my bed, I couldn’t imagine a single thing I’d ask for. Total contentment, I thought, dunking a pretzel into the spicy cheese, this life is everything I’ve ever wanted. Livin’ the dream, girlfriend, livin’ the dream.

Karen and I would jokingly say that when everything was going to hell around us, but now it really applied. Karen would so love this, and I realized I had been missing something. To make this picture complete, I needed to get her over here for some melted cheese and maybe a few beers. Careful not to bump the tray, I got myself out of bed and dug out my phone. Scrolling through the numbers, I couldn’t find Karen’s. There weren’t any K’s at all. And then I remembered.

My first album had just gone platinum and to celebrate, we all went out to the most expensive restaurant in town, me, Michael, Karen, even Dad and his wife. I’d been walking on air, having people recognize me and ask for autographs, it was still flattering and exciting then, not a bother at all. I toasted my friends and family, crediting them with my success and proclaiming it to be the beginning of big things for us, only the best for us, from now on! Alcohol had flowed freely and by the end of the evening, we all had left our sobriety well behind. In a dashing and romantic gesture, Michael stood up from the table, almost knocking it over, and announced “I’m gonna marry this girl! I’m gonna marry her!” We’d all laughed at his proclamation and I’d said something like “I might have to see the ring first.” Everyone laughed again, and then the subject had changed or another round of drinks arrived, or something else caught our drunken attention and the topic never came up again.

The next morning, waking up with a head that felt like construction was going on inside of it, I’d not realized for several minutes the bed was empty on Michael’s side. I stumbled into the bathroom of our shared apartment, not tiny, but just enough to make us feel successful at the time, took several aspirin and splashed water on my face.

I found Michael in the kitchen, eating cold cereal and drinking his coffee as usual. He looked different, though, unsettled or uncomfortable. “Morning” I said, reaching for the mugs. I usually hate coffee, but for some reason, when I’m hungover, it’s the only thing I can stand.

“I meant it, you know.” He didn’t even look up from his cereal.

“Meant what?” The pounding in my brain wouldn’t even allow me to try and figure out what we were talking about. I barely registered that it seemed like a fight, and I’d somehow walked into the middle.

“About marrying you. I meant it. I wanted to get married and you blew it off like a joke.” I’d never seen him too mad to look at me, but what other explanation could there be for him still staring coldly into his almost-empty bowl.
“I was drunk – YOU were drunk. I didn’t know you were proposing, you didn’t even ask.”

“Why would I when you shut me down like that?” He stood, poured the remaining milk down the sink and walked out. I sat at the table, sipping my horridly wonderful coffee and wondering what I’d missed. I told myself he’d get over it, and I called Karen, who I knew would reassure me. But she wasn’t up yet.

Later, when we’d both recovered and felt better, Michael and I sat down and talked. He’d been feeling left behind lately, it seemed, and in his drunken memories of the night before, he’d actually proposed. Once I started telling what I remembered, he turned red and apologized. He’d proposed for real, right there on the spot, and apologized that he didn’t have a ring to give me. He’d wanted me to pick out what I wanted. We left for the jeweler’s right then, and I’d called Karen on the way. She’d been as happy for me as I’d have been for her, and promised to be my maid of honor. Everything had been perfect.

But a year later, everything had fallen apart. Still unable to set a wedding date because of the touring and recording schedule I’d been on, Michael had been getting annoyed. He kept pressing me to tell Victor no about various things, to tell him I wanted to take some time off, so we could plan our wedding, enjoy it and have a honeymoon. I couldn’t do it. Victor’d been right about every decision, every call. If he said we couldn’t stop now, then we couldn’t. After a particularly nasty fight, I’d handed him back the ring and Michael had left. Really left and not come back.

Karen listened to me cry for awhile and then started sounding less sympathetic. Why couldn’t I tell Victor I needed some time? I was the talent, right? I’d gotten so mad – “You’re supposed to be on my side! You’re my friend!” I’d wailed, but she wouldn’t see reason. She told me I’d treated Michael wrong. That I’d become self-absorbed and different. And then she told me “I was Lynn’s friend. I never liked Nettie much.”

It had been more than I could take. I’d hung up on her without another word, and we’d never spoken again.

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t talked to Karen in 5 years. Usually one of us would finally admit she was wrong and call the other, but now, I didn’t even know where she was. I didn’t know her last name, if she’d married, or where to start looking for her. Or, if she’d even talk to me if I did call her.

I looked sadly at my phone and scrolled through the numbers again. There must be someone I can call just to chat. But each name in the list belonged to an acquaintance, an associate, or an employee. My chiropractor’s office, the trainer, the studio, the music supplies store that delivers, and then – Dad. Relieved, I almost called him but stopped myself. I didn’t know what to say. And what if she answered? No, I couldn’t bear the idea of talking to her now. I put down the phone and got back into bed. The food still waited for me, and my old friend, TV. Soon I’d put the whole ugly moment behind me, lost in my own world of melty cheese on salty snacks and a movie I’d forgotten how much I loved.

I must have fallen asleep watching TV, but the remains of my late-night snack had been cleared away at some point. I’d dreamt, because I could still feel the odd remnants of emotions unattached to real life, but I couldn’t recall a single one. I yawned and stretched, trying to decide whether or not to get out of the warm, soft cocoon of my bed. I knew that regardless of if I got up or not, sooner or later Adrian would appear, his warm soothing voice filling out my day for me, offering me my options and his opinion for any decisions which popped up along the way.

The next several days slid by in a contented haze. I often felt that I was on some sort of luxury vacation. Someone took care of every need and want I had, sometimes even before I realized I wanted it. I had time to think and write and play my music. I didn’t need to decide anything or ask for anything. I loved every minute.

Then I got a little restless. I was lonely and a little bored, even. Almost a week had gone by and I hadn’t done anything with friends. Because I didn’t have any friends. I had managers and assistants and a staff, but no one to confide in. I read a few journals that I’d started, but I hadn’t kept to one for more than a few weeks. One I’d apparently started while in rehab. I didn’t remember being in rehab, but I clearly had been. I wrote about how much I missed the pills and the blissful fog they created around me. “It protects me from the pain, of Michael and Karen and all the others who’ve deserted me.”

Instead of the fog, I remembered the safety I felt coming home after rehab. I recalled climbing out of the limo, clean but scared, and seeing Adrian come out of the front door to greet me. He’d been hired shortly before I’d gone into treatment, and I barely recognized him. But when he saw me, he looked so happy to see me and I’d almost cried with relief. Someone cared.

Before I went into rehab, I’d bought the house but not yet moved in. Adrian had somehow managed to get all of my things moved in and arranged. He’d decorated the rest of the house and hired a staff. I remembered how easily I’d slipped into his care, allowing him to make more and more of my choices for me, managing the disasters big and small. He’d never let me down, never said impossible, just taken care of it. The more he’d taken care of, the more I’d let him take care of until he basically just ran my life, and I got to enjoy it.

The journal from rehab indicated that I’d been feeling lonely, that receiving my first Grammy had been a huge let down, because I’d brought it home to an empty house, and my father had already gone to bed when I’d called. He’d groggily said something like “that’s great honey, but it’s 3 a.m. here and I have to work tomorrow.”

The thing I’d wanted most my whole life, a not a soul to share it with. I’d seen the pills still in my medicine cabinet from when I’d had dental surgery, and I’d taken one, then another and finally felt the pain ease. From there, I’d just started taking them more and more. After a long night at the studio recording my next album, and I felt too tired even to sleep. When I worried the next album wouldn’t sell. When I thought about Michael, or Karen. When I missed my dad or felt cheated out of a mom. Before I’d known it, I was addicted.

Soon I had three double-platinum albums, a huge pile of money, my face on every magazine I could think of, and no reason to live. I’d downed a whole bottle and chased it with tequila, which I don’t even like. The tequila had been the last lonely thing resting in the “Congratulations” basket from I-couldn’t-even-remember-who. I’d woken up in the hospital, Victor by my side (worried about his investment, I think now). He’d found a new house for me to buy, he’d hired a personal assistant to take the stress off of me, and he’d arranged for rehab. I’d nodded numbly; I didn’t care who sent me where or why. I’d been so disappointed to wake up.

Now I’d been clean a few years. Had another album and tour, and managed to keep away from pills of any kind and use alcohol in moderation. But I was still just as lonely. The friends I’d made in rehab slowly drifted off. Too scared to make new friends and too stubborn and hurt to call old ones, I found myself with everything I’d ever wanted, except loved ones.

Suddenly, the aching loneliness grew too large to bear. Desperate for human interaction, I almost ran to the kitchen. The Kitchen Lady stood at a counter, kneading dough with a practiced hand, a faraway look on her face. I cleared my throat, somehow suddenly shy. She spun around, and immediately her face turned professional.

“Good afternoon, miss, can I get you something?” Her polite query almost scared me off – but the emptiness creeping up behind me pushed me to overcome my fear of looking foolish. I didn’t realize how out of practice at talking to “real” people I’d become.

“I, uh, no. I just wondered – uh. Well, this is going to sound stupid, but I just wondered what your name is.” It took all my willpower to keep from digging my toe into the floor like a kindergartner while a blush crept unbidden up my neck.

“I’m Sasha, miss.” She smiled at me in a kind way, and for just a moment, I thought we’d connected.

“Call me, Lynn, please.” Sasha looked slightly perplexed; I continued, “Nettie’s just the stage name – my friends call – called – me Lynn.”

“Oh. Okay, Lynn. Is there anything I can get you?” Her smile never faltered, but I didn’t know where to go from there. I didn’t want her to make me something – that seemed like a step away from friendship. In my head, I pictured us in a few months, sharing a cup of tea at the cozy little table I don’t think I’d ever noticed before. Laughing, maybe even at an inside joke, talking about important things. But only if I said the right thing now.

“Uh, no, I uh. So, whatcha doing? Making bread?” Dork! I accused myself, Why not just command her to be my friend and declare myself the Queen of the Mayfair?

“Yup, I’m making that honey wheat bread you’ve asked for before. Should be done by dinner time.” Returning to her kneading, she threw a glance over her shoulder.

“Oh. Great.” A silence began between us and grew, almost pushing me out the door. When it got too big, I couldn’t stop myself. I called “Well, bye then!” as I fled, back to the safety of my music room, where my friend the guitar would talk to me for hours.

The next several days, I tried to make friends with the gardener, with Robert the trainer, with some poor soul who had the bad luck to be delivering groceries to my house. Each person was unfailingly polite, but it never went further than careful small talk. Deep down I knew, you can’t be friends with someone who you can fire. But I also couldn’t figure out somewhere to go where to go to find friends who weren’t employees or wouldn’t care about my fame.

I tried to bring the matter up with Adrian, since he seemed to be the one who solved all my other problems. During one of our daily discussions of my schedule, he asked, “So, anything else?” Stupidly, I blurted out that I wanted to make some friends. I must have turned seven shades of red; I could feel my ears burning, but I could only hope he’d be the one with the solution.

“Friends?” Adrian looked as mystified as if I’d asked him where I could find some authentic aliens, “What do you mean, ‘make some friends’? You have tons of friends.” I couldn’t bear to explain the whole thing to him, how none of the people in my life were friends.

“I just mean, uh, you know, someone to watch a movie with or, uh, go hiking with?” Hiking?? When have I ever even wanted to go hiking? Adrian must have been thinking the same thing because he barely controlled the incredulous look on his face. It flashed by before becoming his standard placating smile.

“You want someone to go out with?” I nodded. “I’ll call around a few agents, I am sure there are plenty of guys who need a little publicity boost and would be glad to take you out a few times. No sweat, honey, I’ll set it up for this weekend.” My spirits had just started to climb when his solution hit and they plummeted to the floor. I almost burst into tears and can’t say how I managed not to. Even Adrian doesn’t get it. I’d never felt so utterly alone.

That night I sat on the edge of my bed, with my luxuries waiting all around me. Nothing seemed fun or interesting; I wanted to do something, but couldn’t think of what. And I knew. I knew that this life-path had a bigger downside than I could have imagined. Everything you want is nothing when you have no one to share it with.. I considered adopting a child, weren’t single celebrity women always doing that? Then I’d have someone to love! But I also knew, even as I thought about it, that I couldn’t have a child just to heal my loneliness. It wouldn’t be fair – and what about when I went on tour? Maybe a dog? But I knew that wouldn’t be enough. Might assuage it for the short-term, but even the best dog is a bad conversationalist.

I walked into the bathroom, looked in the medicine cabinet, even though I knew there was nothing in it. Catching my own eye in the mirror, I steeled my nerves and declared, “Hey, Death? I want out. So, uh, I guess go ahead and kill me or whatever.”

Back in my room I dug around my closets and dressers until I found what I knew would be somewhere – a small, secret stash of pills. I downed them all and lay down on the bed, feeling my consciousness drift away.

A light hit my eye, bright enough to wake me and prevent me seeing anything else. Blocking the offending glow, I was surprised to discover myself in the same bedroom, same bed, wearing the same pajamas. I felt fantastic, the way you do when you wake up after a really good sleep. But I thought I’d die! I shrugged, if I’m not dead, I guess I might as well get up and have some breakfast. I wondered if I’d done it wrong. After breakfast, I’d try talking to the mirror again.

Robert arrived before I’d finished eating, though, and I rushed to my room and changed into work out clothes forgetting about making my second death wish. Actually, I thought as I got up to speed on my treadmill, I should wait until I get to perform somewhere. One really huge farewell concert, even though I won’t say it’s a farewell. I grinned to myself even as I huffed along on the increasing incline, picturing my final, fantastic performance, the one that would make me legend when I died too young.

A wave of nausea hit me and I stepped off the treadmill instinctively, but before I could tell Robert that I felt sick, an explosion of pain hit behind my left eye and the room tilted sharply. I didn’t realize I was falling until I hit the ground; I couldn’t think at all with the pain. Unconsciousness crept up me and I welcomed the relief.

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.
.
“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.

Back at my desk, I felt exhilarated. I’d figured out quite a bit, met a man whose life I’d saved, humiliated a lecherous pig and still had half the day left! Now, if I can just ferret out that interview thing, I’m set. The feeling gave me hope for this life-path. Better job than before? Check. Friends? Check! And only on my second new life-path. Wonder what the average is. I mean, if there’s an average – does Death do this sort of thing often? Probably wouldn’t tell me even if I did ask.

My computer beeped; an email had arrived. No sender name, no subject, just “Not often.” I looked around, but didn’t see any evidence of Death. I appreciated that he answered at least part of the question, though. To avoid wasting more time on pointless ponderings, I searched the computer in earnest, seeking more clues to what all I had done, needed to do, and would need to do.

An hour later, I’d managed to look up directions to my home address, and also the bus schedule/route, just in case. I didn’t have a bus pass, and I did have a car key in my purse. No image of a car to go with it came to mind, and I couldn’t begin to guess where I’d park. I could take the bus home, and then look around my house for clues to my car and try to make my brain remember where I’d parked, but worried if my car would be safe overnight wherever I’d left it. Well, not much I can do until it’s time to go home, and if I haven’t remembered by then, I guess I’ll just bus it.

I settled into my work fairly easily, a feeling similar to when a long-forgotten song come on the radio – as you sing it, all the words come back. By the end of the day, I’d actually accomplished several things on the day’s task-list, and felt good about the work I’d done. The clock on my computer showed 5:32, which seemed an appropriate time to quit for the day.

I’d just clicked on “Shut down” when a young woman poked her head into my cubicle and said “Oh, good, about ready to go? See you in the lobby!” and darted off. Guess I usually leave with her, I thought, glad that I could follow her to the bus stop or parking lot.

Even better, I carpooled with this pleasant woman, whose name rested just on the tip of my tongue. Begins with an M? but that’s all I could get. When we got to her car, she popped the trunk and waited for me, until I realized she expected me to put the bag in it. I did, relieved. Twice, today, I am saved by someone giving me a ride!. I slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door behind me. Molly that’s it! Molly chatted away about her day, her new boyfriend, the sweater she really wanted to buy, if it would only go on sale. I liked her in the way you enjoy a young cousin. Cheerful and full of energy even after a long day of work, Molly didn’t seem to notice that I barely said a word. Maybe this is normal for our ride home. I also wondered if tomorrow would be my turn to drive and how I’d figure out where she lived.

Molly dropped me off in front of a short, orange-brick building with “Blossom Avenue Apartments” in brown script letters over the door. Must be the place, I decided, seeing the number on the building. It looked clean and several balconies had flowerboxes, always a good sign. Molly smiled and said “Same time tomorrow?” to which I nodded and hoped that meant she’d pick me up then. Collecting my things from the trunk, I got a little excited to see my place. In each life-path, I got to start all over, and there’s always some thrill in that.

I strolled up to the building as Molly sped off. Fortunately, my driver’s license had the current address, apartment number and all, so I dug out my keys and tried each one on the locked glass door until one clicked and I could enter the lobby.

I don’t know why, but pretty much every apartment building I’ve ever been in looks the same – a gray entryway, with a couch or a couple chairs which have seen better days. A row of mailboxes - silver, a bulletin board with flyers all posted on top of each other and a door for stairs, or an elevator. Never any art on the walls, never an occasional table, a lamp, a mirror or one of those little plaques that says “Welcome!”. The sight always wearies me a little, and seeing no elevator wearied me further. Apartment 213, well at least it’s just one flight up.

I’d held the key from the front door, but it didn’t work in the lock of 213. The third key I tried did, and even as I let myself in and dropped my things by the door, my phone rang. I couldn’t help but smile remembering the loneliness of the last life-path and here, I already had a friend calling.

Predictably, the voice on the phone belonged to Karen, more of a relief to me than I cared to let on. She had called to hear all about my interview. Dang, dang, dang! How do I know how it went? Nice of her to ask, though.

“Oh, I think it went fine. I really don’t want to talk about it too much – might uh, jinx it, you know?” Bless her, she agreed, “But listen, I just wanted to tell you that I know I don’t say it enough, but I really treasure our friendship. It means the whole world to me, seriously.”

A long pause came after my little speech, which surely must have come as a surprise . “Uh, that’s great Lynn. Really, I mean it, I love you, ya know, but uh – what brought this on? You dying or something? Am I?” I chuckled at her humor.

“No, I just, well, let me tell you about today . . .” and I recapped for her the conversation with Franklin (Karen: “Wow. Dude. That’s. . . just. ..wow.”) and then admitted to her I’d been keeping a secret, one that had been eating at me. I came totally clean about the affair. I told her everything I could remember about how it started, every lie he’d told, every time I hadn’t been total honest with her so I wouldn’t have to admit what I’d been doing. By the time I finished, I assumed she’d hang up and have nothing to do with me ever again, but like the wonderful friend she’s always been, she didn’t.

“Geez,” She started, compassion in her voice I didn’t expect, “That’s probably been really tough on you, not feeling like you could tell anyone.” I almost cried at her kindness; thinking of my feelings first.

“Yeah,” I sniffled, holding back the tears, “I really hated myself for doing it and for not telling you about it. But I knew you’d try to talk me out of it.”

“I sure would have!”

“And you’d’ve been right. I didn’t want to see it, but I knew. I knew all along he didn’t love me and it was wrong, but I just, I don’t know, wanted to believe someone like that could love me. Someone smart and rich and powerful.”

“Of course, you did. And you know what, not him, but someone who really was smart would love you.” We talked for another 20 minutes or so, until finally Karen said “Hey, how about if I just come over, we’ll get a pizza, I’ll pick up some ice cream on the way and just hang out?” Karen always knew exactly what I needed.

“Sounds perfect!” I hung up and changed out of my work clothes into the fuzziest, comfiest pajamas I could find. My enthusiasm for “just hanging out” might have seemed odd to someone who didn’t know I’d spent the last few weeks with no friends. I wished desperately I could tell Karen about the life-paths, but not even Karen would believe that, no matter how good a friend, and I assumed Death wouldn’t approve of me blabbing about it all over the place. Having her coming over, seeing her in person and talking to her – that was enough.

As promised, Karen showed up with two gallons of ice cream, triple chocolate for her, vanilla with mini peanut butter cups for me, plus a jar of hot fudge to heat up in the microwave and even a shaker of sprinkles. Before long a large extra cheese pizza and some jalapeño poppers were on the way from the local pizza place. We popped in “Say Anything” and curled up on the couch with our feast of fattening foods between us. All the gourmet food I’d had while famous didn’t taste half as good as greasy pizza eaten while giggling with a true buddy.

While we ate and half-watched the movie, I rehashed my whole sordid story to Karen. I expected some sort of recrimination, some lecture – at least a short one – about how I’d known better, how I’d been an idiot to get involved with a married man, how we’d always sworn we’d never do that. But none came. Karen laughed at the parts I could laugh at already, nodded knowingly when I confessed how I’d let it happen, passed the ice cream when I admitted that even knowing about his wife, I’d let myself fall in love. that’s a friend I told myself, and that’s what makes it all worthwhile.

That night will always been one I remember, not so much the specific conversations, the movie or the food itself, but the feeling. The warm security of having one true friend, a comfy couch and way too much food. Karen ended up staying over. At some point, we’d gotten into the beer and it wouldn’t have been safe for her to drive. We giggled again as we set her up on the couch and hoped we wouldn’t have hangovers for work the next morning.

Fortunately, I woke up fairly clear-headed. I remembered, finally, where my car was, but that I didn’t drive the “carpool” until next week. I still didn’t remember what I’d auditioned for, but figured I’d know when they called me either way. I could bring up the names of several more co-workers, as well as some incidentals, like where the nearest grocery store was and that I’d run out of hair conditioner the day before and not purchased any.

Even with unconditioned hair, I had a great day, one of those sit-com kind of days when little things go your way. I think I’m going to like it here.

* * *

Days later, I woke up in my bed and thought about how much I’d been enjoying this life-path. While in ways it was very similar to my original one, the subtle differences changed everything. According to my day-planner, I played my guitar at a few of the same places, but only once a month or so. Karen had mentioned something to me about volunteering at a nursing home, and I conjured up a few memories of singing “oldies” to a small flock of gray-haired ladies in an overly-bright room at the retirement home where Karen worked as a nurse.

It occurred to me that in the last life-path, I’d had all that money, and I’d done no good with it or myself. All the times I’d daydreamed about winning the lottery and how I’d support this or that charity, and if I didn’t have to work I’d volunteer here or there, and there I’d been, wealthy and idle and lonely and it had never crossed my mind to do something for someone else. Not that it did me any good at this point, but maybe I’d have made friends if I’d have volunteered somewhere. Maybe I’d have felt better about myself if I’d given some of that money to organizations that could have put it to better use.

Well, can’t change it now, but lesson learned. Idly, I wondered if lesson-learning was the point of life-path hopping, or just an incidental. I’d learned easily enough in the previous one that fame and fortune weren’t going to make me happy, and in this life I’ve already corrected the biggest mistake I’d been making. I had friends, family and a decent life.

I got dressed and started breakfast; a few good days in a row combined with enough sleep had revved my appetite, for both food and life. I scrambled up several eggs listening to one of those weekend “news” programs that don’t actually contain any news. Plopping on the couch with my plate of hot food I pondered my options for the day.

I could go take in a movie, or just go window shopping. I don’t have any volunteering or playing today. Maybe I’ll just go get a few movies, change back into my PJs and have a “Me Day”. Do my nails. Give myself a facial. Take a long hot bubble bath. I decided on the Me Day, slid on my shoes, grabbed my purse and headed out into the world.

I decided to walk to the video store, since it wasn’t far and the sunshine and slight breeze made for perfect walking weather. Strolling along, I thought about how I wished all my days could be just like this one. I loved just breathing in the fresh air, and every person I passed seemed to be smiling.

The movie store practically pulsed with promise. I wandered among the neat racks, trying to decide if I wanted a comedy, a romance or something with all action and no thinking required. Each shelf appeared to hold something I’d meant to see but hadn’t, something I’d heard was good or an old favorite I hadn’t seen in much too long.

I finally settled on one romantic comedy, one sci-fi action flick, and season one of a sit-com that I never remembered to watch. I treated myself to microwave popcorn and a cold root beer.

On the way home, I realized the smile on my face probably made me look silly, but I didn’t mind if it did. This is how life is supposed to be, I thought, Fun, relaxed, carefree. I almost skipped, but reconsidered. You can take a good mood too far. Well, maybe I skipped a little.

I suddenly remembered what I’d auditioned for and it stopped me in mid-skip. I’d auditioned to be a wandering musician for the Disney Theme parks! What was I thinking? Giving up this great life to go live with strangers in and play music for tourists who just want to get to the next ride? But I knew why I’d done it; I’d wanted an excuse, a reason to leave Kent and my job. I’d even convinced myself that this gig would be “following my dream” – because I’d be playing music for a living. I couldn’t believe I’d told Karen and Franklin about it, even gushing to them about what an “opportunity” it could be for me. Did they really believe me? No, I decided, thinking back to their reactions, they knew there was a “real” reason, but they both humored me. I sighed. When, no, IF they called back, I’d thank them and politely turn it down.

Back in my apartment, I enjoyed ever moment of Me Day. I made the popcorn and watched the action movie while I munched away. I painted my nails and toenails and gave myself a facial while I watched the old favorite, then made a sandwich to watch the first disc of the series. I did some stretches, just because if felt good, and decided against doing any real exercising. Watching the romantic comedy, I felt a little pang at the happy ending. It would be nice to have someone to love, and who loved me. Not much was missing from this life-path, but maybe that. But that may be fixable, too.

The next day when I talked to Karen, I told her that if she knew of any one available, well, I wasn’t averse to being set up. I hinted the same to Molly in the car, wondering if she knew any men my age, or at least not too much younger. I even gathered my courage around me and posted a picture and a very bare-bones profile on a local dating website, my hand shaking as I clicked the final “Enter” to submit it.

Karen came through like a champ, not that I’d expected any less, and I had two blind dates arranged for the very next weekend. Molly mentioned that her cousin might be moving to town – her slightly older, successful, newly-single cousin. And when I’d had a stiff drink and convinced myself it didn’t matter if my dating profile had a single reply, I checked it to find the inbox teeming with messages from all sorts of potential suitors. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume, I called Karen over to help me go through them. Never underestimate the power of a best friend when trying to screen out the weirdoes on a dating site! We laughed so hard at some of the guys that I actually felt bad (well, for a little bit) and agreed on at least three that I’d respond to. Things were looking up.

A lunch date with my dad brightened another ordinary weekday, and I knew that he’d come into town to eat with me so I didn’t have to make an excuse to avoid Shelly. He had pictures of my half-siblings, and a few good stories. I felt quite a pang of guilt for not seeing them more, but felt like at this point it didn’t matter anymore. To them, I was basically a stranger who dropped in on holidays and left quickly. Seeing Dad really made me feel complete, even without a “special guy” in my life. I wished I could spend more time with him, but still, after all these years, just couldn’t face the evil step-mother. Okay, so she’s not really ‘evil’, but she still stole my daddy. I’d think of something. I’d make it better.

The blind dates went decently well – no major sparks, but enough fun that I gave both my phone number and did hope they’d call. Molly’s cousin still hadn’t materialized, but two of the dating website guys had engaged me in regular email conversations. I threw out all the junk food in my house and started taking long walks after work, figuring that getting back into the dating scene meant I’d better be at my best.

One evening the phone rang while I showered after my walk. I heard the machine pick up and a female voice I didn’t recognize. Probably the Disney people. I’d almost forgotten about the whole audition thing, but even though I didn’t want the job, I wanted the affirmation of being offered it. I hurried through rinsing my hair and skipped shaving my legs so I could find out.

The message hadn’t been from Disney. “Lynn? Are you there? It’s Shelly . . .” Ugh, what does she want? Is that .. . is she crying? “There’s um, there’s been an accident and your dad’s at St. Anne’s hospital and I’m on my way there now and I don’t know how bad it is but they said he’s not conscious and I don’t know what else to do or say.” I’m not sure if the message went on, because I’d already called Karen to come and pick me up. I couldn’t drive to the hospital; my hand shook so hard I could barely dial her number.

We sped to the hospital and somehow Karen managed to find where to go once we got inside. Shelly stood alone in a waiting room full of other waiting people, wringing her hands and chewing her lip. She looked so helpless, I wanted to hug her until I remember it was her, my life-long nemesis. Karen led me over anyway, and patted her shoulder. Details spilled out of her in almost random order. He’d been walking to the store. They needed milk and butter and she’d been planning to go the next day, but he wanted cereal for breakfast in the morning. Some kids had stolen a car, they were just joy-riding. Nothing malicious, they hadn’t seen him, hadn’t been looking or maybe they were drunk or something, she didn’t know. It wasn’t on purpose, no one would hurt him on purpose. No one would tell her how he was, or anything. The kids were with her mom – they’re old enough to stay alone, but not like this, not when this has happened. She didn’t know what to do. She’d called his brothers, too. Her sister was coming to wait with us. He’d been unconscious when they brought him in, that was all she knew, all they’d say. She didn’t know what to do. Did I think they’d tell me? Since I’m the daughter? They wouldn’t tell her anything, and she’s his wife. Her words finally dissolved into tears and soft weeping.

I clung to Karen, who lowered me to a chair. I wondered for a moment if I would throw up, or if my heart would explode. I didn’t realize for several minutes that I’d been crying, but I knew that no one had ever hurt this bad. Karen’s arm on my shoulder felt warm and heavy, and I noticed that I’d grabbed Shelly’s hand also. I just needed something, someone – without a word, she held onto me, too. Any animosity I had for her melted. Like me, she loved my dad. I’d never seen it. I hadn’t understood.

Waiting rooms have clocks, but somehow those clocks lie. You sit for hours and hours and hours and the hands move a few minutes. Then suddenly they jump ahead and the time is gone; endless, meaningless, fleeting. Shelly’s sister arrived at some point, and silently took the chair next to her. I struggled to remember her name, until finally she introduced herself to Karen, “I’m Lucy, Shelly’s big sister.” Even with my head down and my eyes filled with tears I couldn’t miss the look she shot me. I imagined all the horrible (but true, I had to admit) tales she must have heard about me from when I lived at home.

“I’m Karen, Lynn’s friend. We don’t really know much right now. We’re just waiting to hear more.” We lapsed back into the endless, painful silence of people in fearful stasis. Someone got coffees for us all. I went to the restroom, probably only because Karen suggested it. She told me that she’d left a message for Franklin, too.

After an eternal stay in the waiting room, a man in blood-spattered scrubs called out “Ragasmort?” I don’t know how I got to him, if I jumped up, or was pulled. I don’t know if I walked to him, the next thing I can remember is standing between Karen and Shelly as he said “I’m so sorry . . .” the rest of what he said are phrases in my memory – “did all we could”, “too much internal damage”, “unconscious from the time it happened, probably didn’t even know what happened”. There were papers to sign, arrangements to be made. Where should the body be sent? How do we order flowers? What about an obituary? I marveled that Shelly knew the answers, knew what to do. I hugged her over and over and told her how sorry I was. She seemed to know what I meant, I couldn’t say more. We’d both lost the most important man in our lives, and finally, I could see her for more than a father-stealer. I regretted how I’d been, but the words to say it eluded me.

Karen called me off work, spent days at my house, made sure I ate something, because even though I felt completely empty, the very idea of food made me nauseous. I wept and wept and wept.

Getting ready for my father’s funeral, I stood in front of the TV. Not watching it, I didn’t remember turning it on, but I must have, probably to combat the crushing silence. Karen showered while I dressed, after her third straight night sleeping on my couch. The perfectly calm anchorwoman started talking about a hit-and-run that had killed a local man and about the boys arrested for the crime. I froze, suddenly sharply focused on the television, hearing each word like a clear shot on a silent day. The “leader” the boy who’d driven the car, who – according to the other two – had been the one to suggest stealing it, who’d hotwired it, the one who’d run down my father in broad daylight - he had a record. They showed him being walked to wherever it is they walk criminals on TV, his jacket up around his head, but I knew him. I knew the customized leather jacket. I knew the hat. And in that one awful, disgusting moment I knew that it was all my fault.

That kid (later, when the police talked to us, they told us his name, minor or not) had been in trouble over and over. He’d done all the things you hear about out-of-control teens doing and he’d ended up in a juvenile facility. And Franklin had gotten him out. I remembered it so clearly; remembered Franklin showing me his picture, so proud of how he’d “saved him from an institution, when what he really needs is someone to believe in him”. He’d located a foster family, gotten him enrolled in a vo-tech school, even found him a part-time job. Franklin had a picture of this kid, this murderer, on his desk, wearing the hat and ugly, obvious jacket I saw on the news. If Franklin hadn’t intervened, he’d have been in the juvenile home. He wouldn’t have stolen a car. Dad wouldn’t be dead. And it’s my fault, really, because in this life, I saved Franklin. And it cost my dad his life.

I must have made some sound because Karen charged out of the bathroom in her towel, “What? Are you okay? What?” I could only point at the TV, which now ran a commercial for some amazing wrinkle cream. I struggled, “He . . . it... I know . . .”

“Take a deep breath and tell me.” Karen looked so scared I almost laughed, forgetting for a moment the horror. I breathed in and out a few times, clearing the shock from the edges of my brain and trying to form a coherent thought.

“The boy who killed Dad, on the news, they showed him, I know him. Franklin’s kids, he’s one of Franklin’s kids that he helps. Franklin got him let out and now dad’s dead.”

“Oh, oh my .oh ..oh no. Oh, that’s awful. Franklin didn’t say . . .” She trailed off. We both wondered if and when Franklin found out that the child he reached out to had killed someone, someone close to Franklin’s own friend. I didn’t know what else to do; I went back to getting dressed. Nothing would help now. Even if they gave him the death sentence, which of course, they wouldn’t for an accident, that wouldn’t make it better. Dad wouldn’t come back. My half-siblings would finish growing up without him. Shelly’s a widow, I’m an orphan. Just thinking it made me cry again. And I thought I was out of tears. Guess not.

The funeral went as planned. People said nice things, some minister read a few bible verses, prayed, gave a little sermon. A woman I didn’t know sang a lovely hymn. We filed out behind the coffin, road to the gravesite, said our final farewells. I can’t tell you if it rained or not, was cold or windy or sunny. I didn’t notice who attended or didn’t. My grief and guilt were blinders editing out all but my pain and the box hiding my father. People hugged me. I cried. I cried and cried and cried. And afterwards, we went to Shelly’s house and ate cold sandwiches and casseroles made by people who loved Dad.

I took each of my siblings aside individually and apologized for not being there. I told them how much I regretted the miserable teenager they’d known me as and that even though I complained for most of the time we’d lived under the same roof, that I did love them. I promised to do better by them. I meant it and I think they knew it. Both hugged me and forgave me and said they understood.

At the end of the day, I stumbled exhausted into my apartment, assuring Karen that she could finally go home. I needed to sleep, to heal, to start moving on. And I meant to.

But, when the darkness closed in, when I’d turned off the lights and the radio and climbed alone into my cold bed. When the shadows moved too much and the only noise was the pounding of my guilt in my ears, I couldn’t take it. I got out of bed and paced. I tried to watch a movie, but couldn’t follow it. I got out my guitar, but couldn’t find the solace in the music anymore. I started a journal entry five times and crossed out every word each time. I couldn’t read, didn’t want to eat, even showered in the hopes the hot water would relax me. Finally, I gave in to the one thing I knew would work, but didn’t want to use as a crutch. I knew how bad it could get. But I opened my medicine cabinet and dug around until I found an old bottle of sleeping pills. I carefully read the directions three times – take 2 tabs 1 hour before bedtime. One hour? What am I supposed to do for that hour? I took them anyway and checked the time. After fifteen minutes, I decided to try a hot bath. Even though I’d just showered, a hot soothing bath – well, that might be just the ticket to go with the pills. I started the water and went in search of a good book, an old favorite that I could “read” without really paying close attention. Heading back to the bathroom, I passed the fridge.

A glass of wine? No, probably shouldn’t with the pills . . . but really, it couldn’t hurt, and I need the rest, I need to sleep. Rationalizing away, I poured a half a glass of red wine and returned to the bathroom. Slipping into the hot water with my good friends “Book” and “Alcohol”, I started to feel just a little better. I sipped the wine, maybe a little faster than I intended. I felt warm and comfy.

The water began to cool. I checked the time on my cell phone, fortunately within reach of the tub. An hour and a half had gone by. And I’m still not sleepy! I drained some of the water and pondered. Turning the hot water on to refill, I climbed out of the tub, into my robe and went to the kitchen for more wine. Just a taste I thought, refilling my glass. Back into the tub. A half hour later, I did it again.

Hmmm, it’s nice and warm in here. I’m still sad. This book doesn’t make any sense. What was I doing? Oh. I was going to take some sleeping pills! Let’s see, pills, pills, where are the pills. Here they are. Take two every hour before bedtime. I’m sad. Why am I sad? Dad. My daddy died. Because of stupid Franklin. Stupid me.

“Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry, so sorry.” I sobbed to the mirror. I looked down at my hands. An open bottle of pills rested in one hand the lid in the other. Had I taken one yet? I decided I hadn’t and read the label. Take two . . . something something . .blah blah blah. “My fault, my fault. I just want to go to sleep and not wake up. I don’t want to be in a world with out my daddy.” I took two pills. Washed it down with a glass of wine. The wine glass looked so sad, empty and all. I went to refill it.

What was I doing? Oh, getting wine. Hmm, this bottle’s empty. I’ll just make something. What’s in a .. that thing I like? I don’t know. What do I have? Vodka? Okay, let’s have some of that. I’ll mix it with, oh, uh, here’s some OJ, that’ll do. Just a splash of the vodka. So I can sleep. Because I was going to take some sleeping pills! Yes, I needed the drink to take the pills. Where are the pills? Bathroom – get to bathroom. Oooh – dizzy. Get the pills, get into the tub. Water is warm. How many? Label’s too fuzzy to read. Probably two or three. I feel better. This is better. I’ll take a few more since I feel so much better. Warm. Fuzzy. So nice. Mmm, juice. Cool juice tastes so good. Finally sleepy. Just close my eyes. Bed’s too far. Sleep here. Warm. Comfy. Sleepy.

* * *
I woke up groggy and confused. I felt like puking, and my head pounded but I felt too tired to get up and do so. Pummeling my aching brain, I realized I must have overdone it a bit with the pills and alcohol. That was stupid, I could have killed myself! Wait a minute . . . how’d I get out of the tub and into . . this bed? This isn’t my bed. I opened my eyes. This isn’t my room! In fact, the room was moving – not spinning, like I’d been drinking, but definitely in motion. Turning my aching head to the side, I could see a window – and streetlights whizzing by! Even in my stupor, I deduced that somehow I’d gotten in a motor-home. I couldn’t make any sense of that, however.

What the . . .? I began to realize what I’d done. I’d thrown away a great life-path in the throes of my alcohol induced grieving. I awoken in a new life-path, and for some reason was in a motor home, sick and achy. Not fair, Death, I didn’t mean it! I was high or drunk or whatever. In pain!

Death formed beside my bed, driving out more of my stupor. “And how am I to know when you ‘mean’ it? You knew the deal. You put yourself in the position to make the choice.”

“But you can read my mind, you knew what I meant.”

“When you said it, you meant it.” Death left and I knew he wasn’t coming back. I rolled over and sighed, knowing nothing could be done except getting on with it. And then I saw it. The most horrifying, sickening thing I’d seen in a long, long time – a huge poster . . .

“Don’t miss Seduktra!! The naked guitar playing beauty! Which is more exquisite, her body or her music? Decide for yourself!” The text scrawled around a huge portrait of me! Nude as nude can be with flaming red hair, a strategically placed guitar and a playful smile.

“SEDUKTRA???? Oh hell no! I don’t care who is or isn’t alive in this life. Death? Hello?Is this some sort of sick joke?” I knew it wasn’t. I already started to remember appearing on the small rickety stage in the carnival that featured me, as part of it’s late night entertainments for “mature” guests. Money thrown on stage was all mine, plus a small living stipend, this motor-home, and oh – ugh – Billy Jon, my . .no, couldn’t be . . . a look at my left hand confirmed it. Billy Jon, my husband. I didn’t know or care how I’d gotten here. Or where Karen or my dad or anyone was. I had thrown away the last life-path carelessly, and sworn to myself not to do it again, but for this one, well, I didn’t think I needed much more thought. I grabbed a mirror, on the table near the bed. My stomachache and head-throbbings had returned with a vengeance. “Death, get me out of here!!”

An old-fashioned looking intercom sat next on the same table, unnoticed until it crackled to life. “That you, sweetie-ookums?” The words dripped with sticky sarcasm, making me sicker and somehow more tired. The intercom only works one way, I remembered, and I struggled to holler “Billy Jon? Don’t feel good.”

“Yeah, I know it, babe. You’re not gonna. See, I was gonna do it and not tell you, but that just didn’t seem right. I’m killing ya, honey. I know you done screwed Mr. Phillips” (funny, I knew he was right, even though I didn’t have a clue who Mr. Phillips might be) “And, well, I suspect there’s been plenty more. I love ya and all, but I ain’t gonna have a cheating wife. So, there was some wear on the exhaust pipe, you know under the RV here? And I just, well, I helped it a long and let’s say I also helped some holes in your floor. Your room’s just fillin’ up with that carbon and oxide stuff. “ Monoxide, you idiot, I thought. Not that it matters much to me at this point.

He continued, “And I’ve locked your doors and windows and all. Sealed ‘em up real good last week, remember how cold it was? That’s what I’m gonna tell ‘em. I’m gonna say ‘Dang it, just last week she asked me to seal up the windows, so drafty, ya know? So cold – it’s bad for her voice . .. ‘ And they’ll all feel so bad for me, driving along, with my window open and singing our favorite songs as my poor wife died right under my nose. So goodbye, there, Lynn, or should I say ‘Seduktra’, ya whore! See ya in hell, darlin’!” A burst of static followed his final pronouncement and I actually smiled as I felt myself slipping away. Billy Jon didn’t know he’d been helping me out.