She always said that she went to Espinoza’s Especiales for flautas. My soul relaxes into my body and I feel a familiar sense of being, of rest and comfort. I let go of the stress of living and dying, and I dream I order Jorge Espinoza’s tacos at the Dairy Queen. I dream of Daddy and his black Lab, Scooter, and I hear muffled voices like I’m underwater.
When I wake again, I know where I am. I know I’m in the hospital and I remember how I got here. I remember Nate the Tinder date; I remember I lied to Momma and fought with Lida, but I don’t remember much beyond leaving church.
I recognize the beeping monitors and whooshing respirator, and I recognize Momma… and Daddy. My instinct to mediate before things get ugly kicks in, and I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. They’re standing just inside the door, and Daddy has his arm around Momma. She’s crying into his chest as he talks with a doctor over the top of her head.
When my folks were married, I can’t recall them hugging each other very much. It’s uncomfortable to see them show affection to each other. I don’t like it, and I wish they’d go back to normal. I look around for Floozy Face to run interference but she’s not here.
I can’t hear what the doctor is saying, but I don’t need to. It’s written all over Daddy’s face. His eyes are red and pinched with sadness. He clears his throat and gives a sharp nod. “Thank you,” he tells the doctor. “I know you’re doin’ what you can for my girl.”
If you look up “good ol’ boy” in the dictionary, you’ll likely see a picture of my daddy. He loves cold beer, smoke billowing from the barbecue, and talking about the time he killed a wild boar with nothing but his pocketknife.
He’s a deputy at the courthouse and makes good money, which, according to Momma, always made him a target for floozies. He drives a pickup and follows the unwritten pickup rules: his truck has monster tires so no one will think he’s a wimp. There’s a hunting rifle in the rear-window gun rack, no matter the season, and he always travels with his dog and a toolbox in the back.
His belt has a rodeo buckle the size of a dessert plate and the leather says “Pudge” on the back. He moseys through life and nothing much gets him worked up. This is the first time I’ve ever seen him like this. He looks sad and tired and old.
Momma and Daddy move out into the hall as an X-ray machine is wheeled into the room. I follow them. Daddy steps aside and drops his arm from Momma’s shoulders. “What in the heck was my girl doin’ in El Paso?” he asks.
Momma shakes her head. “I have no idea. She said she was headin’ to Lida’s.”
“Did you get her cell phone? Maybe she called somebody.”
“Won’t do any good unless you got her passcode.”
It’s 5233. Same as my Visa pin number.
A tiny sparkle drifts downward and is followed by several more. I know what that means. Heaven is looking to take me up again. I don’t want to die in front of my parents. Please, Lord and baby Jesus, I pray, not right now. Momma will never get over seeing me die.
“Lida said she ain’t heard from Brittany in a few days,” Momma continues, grabbing a tissue from her purse. “She might be lyin’. She’s a Haynes and never got above her raisin’.” There are those who say the same thing about Momma’s people.
The sparkles stop; my prayer was answered. “Don’t matter now. Brit can tell us when she wakes up.” If I wake up. That’s what they’re both thinking but are too afraid to say out loud.
“Let’s find the cafeteria while all this is goin’ on.” Daddy motions down the hall. “When was the last time I bought you supper, Carla Jean?”
Momma’s brows lower and she opens her mouth to say something rude. Then she must remember her promise to God and says, “A while ago. I think the last time is when you drank too much and fell on your face at the Lost Horse.”
Daddy, being Daddy, laughs. “Are you sure I wasn’t on the ground kissin’ your feet?”
“I’m sure, Pudge.”
I don’t recall a time when they ever talked and acted like regular people. Other than dying a couple of times, this is the weirdest thing that’s happened today.
They walk away and I decide to stick around long enough to see my X-rays. It only takes a few moments for me to wish I hadn’t. I’m not a doctor or nurse or even a hospital volunteer, but I don’t need to be any of those to know that the cracks in my skull look bad and the tubes in my heart don’t look too promising either.
I don’t want to see any more and walk into the hall just as shards of silver and blue burst from the room a few doors down. I move toward the shattering sparks and take a peek inside at a small gathering of people weeping on each other’s neck. Miz Pearl’s frail body is laying on the bed, but her spirit is a few feet away, having a heated conversation with the woman in the blue slip who said Marfa was a hideous name. The blonde points to the opening in the ceiling while Pearl shakes her head. The blonde towers over Pearl but she doesn’t look a bit intimidated by the younger woman’s size or the anger in her voice. Pearl gestures to the door and I can see her say, “Out.” The woman in blue looks like she wants to keep arguing, but she tosses her hair and storms past like she doesn’t see me. As if I’m not even standing here.
The vital signs on Pearl’s heart monitor crash and a shimmery hole opens above her head. She turns to her family and whispers something to an elderly gentleman; then her soul is gently lifted toward heaven. Sparkles rain down on her upturned face and I raise a hand to wave goodbye.
“Go with peace in God’s light.” The golfer materializes beside me like he’s stepped through a gap in time and space.
The ceiling closes beneath Pearl’s feet, and the last bit of glitter drifts from above. “How’d you do that?”
“I’m the concierge.”
“You forgot to tell her to stay on the path.”
He smooths his big mustache with his thumb and index finger. “Some folks heard the hoot owl’s hoot.”
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