For a while she’s tried to act like she isn’t crazy, but with her hard stare, and her talk of Palm Beach and lagoons, she’s not even trying now.
“That should give you comfort. Think of Carla Jean and Pudge. Don’t be so selfish.”
I point to myself. “Me?” I drop my hand and continue down the hall. “It takes a real sick puppy to want someone else to have a bad life as long as you get what you want.”
“It isn’t like you’ve had a good life to begin with. You cut hair and paint toenails.”
“I’m not ashamed of what I do for a livin’.” I’ve never hit anyone in my life, but if I was to start now, I’d stomp her into a puddle of skinny bitch. “I’m a cosmetologist.”
“Girls like you are always cosmetologists.”
“You’re nasty as all git-out.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I bet you have.” I’d call her worse if I wasn’t a good Christian. The faster I walk, the faster she talks, and I can’t get to the Limbo Lounge fast enough.
“Your parents could hire around-the-clock care.”
“Go away.” I sprint down the hall to get away from her. It’s been a long time since I’ve run anywhere, so “sprint” might be an embellishment.
She sticks to me like white on rice. “You’re going to have a heart attack before we’ve reached an agreement. If I come out of my coma soon, it will be too late.”
For one, I don’t think a spirit can have a heart attack, and two, “That’s not my problem.” I’m not gasping for oxygen, which is a new experience for me.
“Let’s talk it out,” she says, as if there’s still a chance.
“I’d rather sandpaper a bobcat’s butt in a phone booth,” I say over my shoulder.
“Charming.”
“I wouldn’t trade my place in heaven with
you even if I could. So no. A thousand times no. With my dyin’ breath I’ll still be tellin’ you no.”
“Then die.” She stops and calls out after me, “You have nothing to live for anyway.”
I get one last glimpse of her as I rush into the lounge. She’s stopped stalking me, and I hope she’s drained her energy and has to recharge. That will give me a few hours (or however long it takes) of peace before I die.
Visiting hours are over, and I notice that most of the regulars are in the lounge. Clint is missing and the golfer has Señora Ana Marie Garcia Lopez all to himself. Tommy and the rodeo girls are watching Angels in the Outfield. Valentina is sitting alone with her clasped hands between her knees, looking dejected, and I sit next to her on the couch.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” she says. “Miz Jemma Jennie told me she saw your room light up, and I was afraid you’d gone to heaven.”
“Jemma Jennie?”
“The rodeo woman in the pink shirt and ugly gold fringe.”
Speaking for myself, I like the gold fringe and think the shirt would benefit from a few rhinestones. “No, but it won’t be long now.”
“How do you know?”
I shrug. “I just do.”
“That sucks donkey balls.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Big ones.” I don’t think it’s quite my time yet, but I look up at the ceiling just to be sure. The tile shimmers, but there’s no glitter falling on my head and no sign of lightning. The golfer laughs at something and I look over at him. He points his club to the big fish tank, where it looks like Daniel is stuck in the lion’s den. Clint has joined him and Señora Ana Marie Garcia Lopez, and the three of them shake their heads at the same time.
I can’t remember exactly what the golfer said about being near my body when it’s time. I’ve had several false starts, placed on my path only to be kicked back off twice, and I’m confused. I need to ask him what will happen if I don’t make it back to my room in time, but a familiar bolt of lightning shatters the ceiling above my head and I guess I’m about to find out. Bursts of glitter rain down, and I glance around the Limbo Lounge at the other patients. The cowgirls and Tommy look over from the TV, but the golfer and Clint are so wrapped up in their competition for Señora Ana Marie Garcia Lopez that they don’t seem to notice.