“That’s not for me to know.”
I roll my eyes. Of course not.
“I am just a concierge, is all.”
“A concierge?” That’s a new one on me. “Isn’t this an emergency room? In a hospital?”
“Most certainly.” Before he can clear things up, another bolt of brilliant lightning splinters the ceiling and blasts glitter all over the place. I hear the beep of my heart flatlining and I am pulled upward again. “Go with peace in God’s light,” the old golfer tells me.
“Am I dyin’ again?” I’ve heard of people dying and coming back, but I’ve never heard of them dying, coming back, and dying again. Maybe it’s one of God’s mysterious ways.
“Don’t get off the path.”
“What? Why?” That sounds like an important piece of information, and I push a hand against the ceiling in an effort to stop. “What will happen if I get off the path?” My hand passes through the tile and I yell down at him, “You should have talked about that instead of your dumb golf game!” I am yanked through the crack and it slams shut behind me with such force that sparks scatter beneath my feet. Just like before, flashes of silver and blue arc past my head, but this time they quickly dissipate into nothing. A pitch-blackness presses into me so completely that I see nothing. Where’s the white circle like last time? The glittery path?
Am I in hell?
“Whatever I did, I ask God’s forgiveness,” I call out, my voice shaking, but I’ve never committed sins that deserve hell. Maybe I’ve fornicated a time or two… or fifteen… but finding love in all the wrong places is not a big sin. Not like murder or devil worship or drinking on Sunday.
As if on cue, the glittery pink path lights up beneath my feet and stretches toward heaven. This time I am moved along like I’m standing on one of those walkways in an airport. I’m still confused about everything that’s happened to me, but a few things are sorted out in my head now. I’m fairly sure I’ve died twice. I think I wrecked Momma’s minivan and lost her dashboard Jesus. She can buy another bobblehead doll, but she doesn’t have the money for another car. I don’t know what she’ll do without her van.
I don’t know what she’ll do without me, either.
The last time I tried moving out of my momma’s house, she pitched a fit and fell in it. “I can’t stand the thought of you leavin’ me, Brittany Lynn. You’re all I got,” she cried. She kept it up until I couldn’t take it anymore and gave in, and that was just me wanting to move across town. Dead is a little further than Russell Street.
I’m only twenty-five. I have dreams for myself that don’t include dying. I want to open my own salon someday. One that smells like a spa treatment—eucalyptus and steam—instead of perm solution and Aqua Net. I already have a name picked out and everything: Shear Elegance Salon and Spa. I saw it on Pinterest and think it sounds real classy. I have my plans all figured out… except for how I’m going to afford it and how I’m going to get Momma out of Marfa.
The Do or Dye isn’t what I consider a high-paying career, and Marfa isn’t exactly what you’d call cosmopolitan. We do get tourists on the weekends, coming to gaze at stars or see where No Country for Old Men was filmed. They come to Marfa to view the ghost lights or look at Donald Judd’s art installation, but no one’s going to rush to Marfa for a cut and color or a deluxe pedicure.
I wish I was rich and Momma wasn’t so stubborn. I wish life was fair, but it doesn’t matter now. If life was fair, God would do something about famine, mass murder, and period cramps. If God was fair, bad people would die at twenty-five and good people could live out their dreams.
Wait, I hope God didn’t hear me complain about how he runs things, because everyone knows that God doesn’t like ingrates and whiners.
The walkway stops. Did God hear me? I clutch my chest above where my heart used to be. Am I going to get tossed out again? I guess I wouldn’t be mad about that. My path is still sparkly, but the brilliant gold light at the end seems to be fading.
The golfer said not to get off the path, but he didn’t mention anything about the path stalling on the way to God’s light. I don’t know if I should start walking or stay put. Should I hoot and holler like Momma on her cloud? I’m not sure, but if there is one thing that’s a calcified fact, it’s that if the path starts to reverse, I’m running like hell in heaven’s direction.
I look around for a sign or a signal or something. The harder I look, the more I think I can see outlines of other paths. Those paths aren’t as bright as mine, maybe because I can also make out the outlines of people. A lot of people. Those paths are crowded and I’m all alone on mine. “Can y’all hear me?” I call out, but I don’t get an answer. There’s one more big difference, too. Those paths are moving and mine is not.
Why? Did God change his plan for me? If that’s the case, he should take into consideration that I’ve been a good Christian all my life. Maybe I don’t get all hypnotic and speak in tongues. Maybe I don’t raise my arms in church and beg God to take me up right then and there. I’m just not that kind of person. I’m more the kind who watches it all and thinks that praying to get plucked up like a carrot is just plain stupid. And as everyone knows, you can fix just about anything but stupid.
Wait. Was that unkind? Did I just think that out loud? Did God hear me? Why is this happening to me?
Does he know about the bonus points?
3
I’m thrown out like a bad penny again. That’s twice now. The ceiling slams shut and that glittery stuff floats downward like before. I don’t know what happened. I was just standing on the path, waiting around for it to restart, and now I’m back at the hospital, but not in the emergency room like before. There are only two nurses with me now and the room is less chaotic. The only sounds are the beeping monitors and the rhythmic swish of a ventilator.
I stand at the end of a bed and watch as one nurse adjusts tubes sewn into my chest and taped to my skin. Another checks the web of wires attached to my body from the equipment keeping me alive. They talk about the hours I’ve been in surgery and how many times I died on the table. If that isn’t scary enough, looking at my body is terrifying. I want to curl into a ball and tell myself this is all a nightmare.
The blue balayage is gone and my head is shaved. There’s some sort of probe sticking out of my skull, which I don’t think is ever a good sign. My eyes and nose are so swollen and purple that I hardly recognize myself.
Just the tips of my blue fingernails show beyond the splint on my left arm and hand. Sutures close a horrific incision that runs from my sternum to mid-stomach. It looks like it hurts, but I don’t feel any pain. A white sheet covers me from navel to the tips of my toes, and the sight of my exposed belly and breasts upsets me more than anything else. I have struggled with my weight my entire life, and now this. My chest has been cut apart and sewn back together again. I am so broken that I hardly recognize myself. The least the nurses could do is cover me and give me some dignity.
“Welcome back.”
It’s the golfer, and I move to stand in front of him. “Get out of here. I’m practically nekked.”