asked.
She looked back at the screen. “Oh, crap, never mind. She was like eighty-four when she died.”
I looked at the screen as well, but the colors pixelated and made me dizzy.
“Damn, she looked good for her age.”
“Why can’t I see right?”
“You’re on a different plane,” she said, studying the screen. “Things don’t always translate well. How about Jennifer Sandoval?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” I said, shaking my head. “Do I look like her?”
“No idea. I’m on the police blotter, now. No pics.”
Another memory surfaced, one so unbelievable, so horrid I bit my lip to keep from gasping. I had to be remembering it wrong. That couldn’t have happened.
“I got nothing,” she said, refocusing on me from behind her cup. She took a long draw, eyeing me from head to toe. “Not to mention the fact that you could have died anywhere in the world and, quite honestly, anytime. I’m not really getting a read off your gown or hairstyle other than you probably died sometime within the last twenty years.”
“Twenty years?” I asked, appalled. “You mean, I could have been walking around for decades?”
She nodded. “But time doesn’t really work the same on your plane. It’s not as linear. But things are starting to come to you, right? Did you remember something else?”
It must have shown on my face, the horror of realization, the crackle of dread that rushed down my spine. “Yes, but it can’t be right. I just…It can’t be right.”
She cast a sympathetic gaze from under her lashes. “You can tell me anything. I have a very stringent confidentiality rule. Well, that and nobody would believe me anyway.”
I glanced down at my hands, or more importantly, my wrists, but they were unmarred. But I remembered falling. Maybe I’d jumped off a building or a bridge. “I think I committed suicide,” I said, shame burning my face.
“Oh. I’m so sorry, hon.” She put a hand over one of mine, and though I couldn’t seem to feel anything physically, I could feel warmth radiating off her, pure and inviting. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to cry. How could I do such a thing? I loved life. I remembered. I wanted nothing more than to live, to be healthy and normal.
“Wait,” I said, glancing back at her, “if I’d committed suicide, wouldn’t I have gone to Hell?”
She squeezed my hand. “It doesn’t work that way, though many religions would have you believe it does. Sometimes our physical bodies send us to a place we just can’t seem to crawl out of. It’s not our fault.”
I felt a wetness slide down my face, surprised that I could still cry.
“Can you tell me what you remember?”
I wiped the back of my hand across my cheek and took a deep breath. “I just remember deciding to die. It was a conscious decision.” I pressed my mouth together to keep from bursting into tears. How could I have done that? What kind of person did that make me? I took the sacred life that was given to me and threw it away. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
“Sweetheart, there are a hundred reasons why you could have made that decision.” She gestured toward my nightgown. “Again, you could have been sick. Sometimes…sometimes cancer patients will take their own lives, often for very unselfish reasons.”
I scrunched my brows together in thought. Cancer didn’t sound right, but I got the distinct feeling she wasn’t far off the mark. When she cast a quick glance toward my abdomen and turned away just as quickly, I looked down and noticed the soft fullness that rounded my gown. A gasp escaped before I could stop it.
“I was pregnant?” I almost screamed the question in disbelief. Both hands flew over my mouth as I looked at her. “Please tell me I wasn’t pregnant when I committed suicide,” I pleaded from behind them.
She put her coffee cup down and took both my hands into hers, and only then did I realize she could feel me. I was solid to her and yet I could
She looked back at the screen. “Oh, crap, never mind. She was like eighty-four when she died.”
I looked at the screen as well, but the colors pixelated and made me dizzy.
“Damn, she looked good for her age.”
“Why can’t I see right?”
“You’re on a different plane,” she said, studying the screen. “Things don’t always translate well. How about Jennifer Sandoval?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” I said, shaking my head. “Do I look like her?”
“No idea. I’m on the police blotter, now. No pics.”
Another memory surfaced, one so unbelievable, so horrid I bit my lip to keep from gasping. I had to be remembering it wrong. That couldn’t have happened.
“I got nothing,” she said, refocusing on me from behind her cup. She took a long draw, eyeing me from head to toe. “Not to mention the fact that you could have died anywhere in the world and, quite honestly, anytime. I’m not really getting a read off your gown or hairstyle other than you probably died sometime within the last twenty years.”
“Twenty years?” I asked, appalled. “You mean, I could have been walking around for decades?”
She nodded. “But time doesn’t really work the same on your plane. It’s not as linear. But things are starting to come to you, right? Did you remember something else?”
It must have shown on my face, the horror of realization, the crackle of dread that rushed down my spine. “Yes, but it can’t be right. I just…It can’t be right.”
She cast a sympathetic gaze from under her lashes. “You can tell me anything. I have a very stringent confidentiality rule. Well, that and nobody would believe me anyway.”
I glanced down at my hands, or more importantly, my wrists, but they were unmarred. But I remembered falling. Maybe I’d jumped off a building or a bridge. “I think I committed suicide,” I said, shame burning my face.
“Oh. I’m so sorry, hon.” She put a hand over one of mine, and though I couldn’t seem to feel anything physically, I could feel warmth radiating off her, pure and inviting. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to cry. How could I do such a thing? I loved life. I remembered. I wanted nothing more than to live, to be healthy and normal.
“Wait,” I said, glancing back at her, “if I’d committed suicide, wouldn’t I have gone to Hell?”
She squeezed my hand. “It doesn’t work that way, though many religions would have you believe it does. Sometimes our physical bodies send us to a place we just can’t seem to crawl out of. It’s not our fault.”
I felt a wetness slide down my face, surprised that I could still cry.
“Can you tell me what you remember?”
I wiped the back of my hand across my cheek and took a deep breath. “I just remember deciding to die. It was a conscious decision.” I pressed my mouth together to keep from bursting into tears. How could I have done that? What kind of person did that make me? I took the sacred life that was given to me and threw it away. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.
“Sweetheart, there are a hundred reasons why you could have made that decision.” She gestured toward my nightgown. “Again, you could have been sick. Sometimes…sometimes cancer patients will take their own lives, often for very unselfish reasons.”
I scrunched my brows together in thought. Cancer didn’t sound right, but I got the distinct feeling she wasn’t far off the mark. When she cast a quick glance toward my abdomen and turned away just as quickly, I looked down and noticed the soft fullness that rounded my gown. A gasp escaped before I could stop it.
“I was pregnant?” I almost screamed the question in disbelief. Both hands flew over my mouth as I looked at her. “Please tell me I wasn’t pregnant when I committed suicide,” I pleaded from behind them.
She put her coffee cup down and took both my hands into hers, and only then did I realize she could feel me. I was solid to her and yet I could
Similar Books
