The Damned by Andrew Pyper

Listen—”
    â€œWhat I’m saying is you’re free. Any promise you’ve made—any suggestion of commitment—it’s clear. We’re good.”
    Willa pursed her lips. Raised her eyebrows. Made an are-you-finished? face.
    â€œAre you finished?” she said.
    â€œI think so.”
    â€œOkay. I understand what you’re saying. But what you don’t understand is me.”
    Willa got up from her chair. Lay on her side next to me on the bed so that she could whisper what she said next into my ear.
    â€œI don’t run from things, Danny. And I don’t say things because they sound good at the time. I say them because I believe them.”
    â€œI love you.”
    â€œLike that, for example.”
    â€œNo. I really love you.”
    â€œDitto. So that’s all you need to know from me on this offer ofyours. You had to say it, you’ve got your answer. And you can never open that door again—not unless you’re the one who walks out of it. Got it?”
    She kissed me. And though I must have smelled considerably less than sexy, though I couldn’t get my lips to work right, it was a real kiss, not just a gentle deal-sealer. And when it was over and she started to roll away I pulled her back for another.
    O THER THAN L YLE K IRK, PRESIDENT of the Boston Afterlifers, who came by with a six-pack of Rolling Rock (“Not sure they let you have this in here, but you only go round once—or twice, or maybe three times—right?”), my only visitors were Willa and Eddie. If it wasn’t for them, I would’ve been alone in there with the nurses and doctors who came and went, taking blood and asking how I was doing in a way that made it clear the answer wouldn’t make a difference one way or another.
    The cardiac surgeon was the only other visitor I actually looked forward to seeing. I got the sense that he didn’t have to check on me as often as he did. He seemed to take a special interest in those near the edge, like me. Life and death. The inarguable line in the sand. It’s probably what brought him to the job in the first place.
    â€œDanny Orchard,” he announced as he came into my room once. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re famous?”
    â€œI’m not. Not really. D-list at best.”
    â€œModesty! Some of the nurses have told me you’ve been on TV, and they take TV very seriously. They’ve even brought your book to work but they’re too shy to ask you to sign them. So I volunteered on their behalf.”
    He produced three copies of The After from his satchel. Placed them on the bed beside me and slapped a ballpoint pen on top.
    â€œWould you mind?” he said.
    I asked for the nurses’ names and set to inscribing the title pages. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the doctor watching me with an amused stare. It’s an expression I’d grown used to over the years.The curiosity that came with being next to someone who may have a handle on Life’s Big Mystery.
    When I finished he continued standing there, nodding down at the books I’d returned to him.
    â€œI’m a man of science. Never seen a spirit in my life, holy or otherwise,” he said. “But I went to Catholic school growing up. I’m no stranger to what I’m supposed to believe happens to us after we go. And in my line of work, I’m often the last one to see them before they do. But I’ve got to say you’re a first time for me. You’ve come back twice. ”
    â€œThree times now, actually.”
    â€œSee! I’d think you were a nutcase if I saw you on TV saying that.”
    â€œI probably would, too.”
    â€œWhat I mean is that I know you, and take you as more or less sane. Which makes me want to ask: On this most recent occasion, do you have any memory of what you saw over there?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd how was it? Heaven, I mean. Have they done any